She was a tragic woman in a tragic place. People throughout time have always wondered about immortality and it‘s many…perks. They’ve set out to try and find it - murdered for it, to attain that which cannot be grasped in any human hands. At least, that was what people thought. In reality, it did exist, but it came at a great and terrible price, and no one knew this better than she did. On her face, I could see the sadness of many years. Decades or centuries? I knew not. Upon asking, she responded that she also did not know the true number of years in which she has lived and that she had given up counting many years ago. I had a feeling that was not entirely true, but the pain brought about those many years were all but visible in her childlike eyes when I asked. At first glance, I had been sure that she was still young, mortal even. Of course, it is the very nature of immortality and endless youth to preserve a woman’s beauty, should she receive the sad gift early enough in her life, but her…it wasn’t just her face that made her seem so childlike. Those big, grey-blue eyes that held such wisdom behind them - they also betrayed an innocence; somehow preserved over her long life. Through the dark clouds in her heart brought about by a painful life, bright rays of youthful hope and kindness shone in such a blinding brightness.
The others whisper of her often. It is because no one knows to much that they are curious, even though she is amongst those who have been in this place the longest. She was quiet and calm, and never spoke much about her past. Many say she was never human at all, but is really an angel come down from the gates of heaven to lead the immortals down their destined path which God has chosen for them. This, of course, was not true. She has assured me of that on many occasions with such confidence and sincerity that I can do nothing but believe her. Truly…she has never been known to lie, anyway. I am glad for that. For it would be God’s only sin to create a creature like herself as an angel - something so holy and free of evil, yet so tortured inside.
She was small and frail looking - amongst the youngest in physical appearance here. The angel of my heart carried the looks of a young woman no older than twenty-four at the oldest, one who never grew into a full set of womanly curves, but was still easy on the eyes without a doubt. Her hair was long and golden with an untamable curl and volume to it. I liked to look at that hair, and was very pleased to see that it was very rarely pulled back. It shone beautifully in any light, I have found. High cheekbones and a gentle brow and a smile that almost seemed happy, but never quite made it…I enjoyed staring at her from time to time. She notices me do this, and it annoys her. It only makes her all the more beautiful when she looks up at me with that fragile frown while her rosy cheeks blush all the more red in anger.
Often, when I look upon her face, I think of an old story. She was Little Red Riding Hood, and I was the wolf who wanted always to devour her…in a non-cannibalistic or sexual sense, of course. Well…ah…I shall not go further on that thought. It might be inappropriate, should there be younger folk reading this memoir.
She didn’t like it when I told her this, either. Nor did my face like her hand against it moments later. For such a little thing, she does know how to hit, I’m sorry to say. No matter. It only makes me desire her more.
Alas, I know I will never have her. There is a past she carries on her small shoulders always - one that she will never be willing to forget. It is that past that forbids her to live on with her life and to move on to me, or any other lover for that matter. It is said that she was once a young mother to a son who meant everything to her. Whispers that find their way to my ears tell me that the boy was conceived with an angel, or a devil, depending on who told the story and how one looked at it. Whatever he was, the father had wings as black as the night itself. According to the lore, his heart was even blacker. The creature used an innocent girl’s for a single night, a girl who’s heart he held in his hands in every way aside from the most literal one. She loved him, despite his dark nature, and she suffered for it. She bore him a son, but not before he would die at the hands of his own dark masters, leaving her with nothing to aid in the child’s raising.
Then, the boy died. He was different, after all, and mortals do not take kindly to things that are not like they are. She comes from a place where humans were not the only creatures to walk the daylight, but those like the boy - winged creatures - were not welcomed with arms wide open. The word “angel” did not hold the same meaning to them as it does to the people of this world. He was taken from her while he was still new to the world and she held him while he faded away. The girl, not yet even a woman herself then, was never the same. Sweet and happy became quiet and introverted. She vowed that she would take vengeance from those who robbed her of something so dear. That vendetta was never fulfilled, however. At that point in time, it was not within her nature to kill, but to give life and preserve it. She walked along the roads that destiny had set out before her into eternity and found a place amongst the ancients. She walked their halls and lived among them, but never quite belonged.
No story of immortality tells of the price ever lasting life brings about more than hers does. What does eternal life mean if you have no one to share it with? What good does it do if those you love betray you or die long before you do? It is an empty existence indeed, especially when one has nothing to fill eternity with. I often find myself wondering why I accepted such a curse, or if I might ever ease her own aching heart.
But look at me, musing on about silly little crushes. I am not usually the one to play the romantic role in life. I love women and their bodies, but it is very seldom that I fall so deeply for one’s heart and soul. She does not know what she does to me, and sometimes, I am thankful. I am no father or husband, nor am I suited to mend the pieces of her heart like I think about doing on many occasions. I am known throughout the order as a trouble maker and a fool and a skirt chaser. Indeed, I have a very bad name here when it comes to my social skill. At least my professional work for the order allows me to stay in this grand place. I do love it here.
Still, I can’t help but daydream about a day that I might outwit her and find my own destiny entertained with her own. I long for that day, even if it is only that long. For whatever reason, I would like to see her smile for real.
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