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| On The Wings Of A Dream; Arthur | |
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| Tweet Topic Started: Jan 24 2012, 11:58 AM (158 Views) | |
| Isabella Markham | Jan 24 2012, 11:58 AM Post #1 |
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February 1513 The dream had been so vivid. She had been strolling through the snow-covered gardens clad only in her nightdress. Her feet had been bare and her hair had blown gently in what should have been a frigid wind. Yet the cold had not touched Isabella, and she had strode with a purpose she could not comprehend until she came to a bubbling fountain that sparkled like diamonds in the ethereal light that surrounded it. A voice had spoken from the fountain a gentle woman's voice and had informed her that it was time she told Arthur of her feelings, that he was ready to know. It was true she had been holding her love for him bottled up in her heart for over a month, afraid that he might reject her if he knew, but the voice coming from the fountain was very compelling, insisting that he needed to know. I don't know how to tell him, she had confessed, and the voice had told her to consider what she did best and she would know what to do. Isabella had awakened and for a few moments had considered the implications of a dream that had seemed so real. What was it that she did best. A smile had turned up the corners of her lips when he solution presented itself, and she had risen and retrieved her lap harp. She had long since given up on the song that she had wanted to write for Arthur, but now the words and the music flowed through her mind easily and freely. A week later, it was complete, and now she sat in Arthur's chambers sharing breakfast with him, hoping he would not notice how terrified she was this morning. She was determined to sing it for him after they were done dining, and she was so afraid that he would think her silly and send her away from him forever. Her entire soul would be laid bare and he would know that her feelings for him had gone far beyond anything either of them had intended. Yet she could not help it. She loved him there was no way that she could deny it. Even simply looking at him across the table sent her heart soaring on wings of delight. His voice sent little thrills of joy shimmering down her spine, his handsome visage enchanted her, and his kisses completely took her breath away. When she was with him, she felt so alive and so wonderful, and she knew without a doubt that that elusive something she had been longing for most of her life was him had always been him even before she had known of his existence. It was confusing and she did not pretend to understand how that could be, but she accepted it for she knew it to be true and right, however impossible it seemed. But would he believe her? Keeping her feelings inside her was destroying her slowly, but his rejection could destroy her with a word. Would he think that she was an innocent young girl who simply fancied herself in love with him? Or would he acknowledge her feelings but pull away from her because he was still mourning for his wife and not ready to accept the love of another? The voice in the dream had said he was ready but how could she believe a mere dream? Isabella barely touched her food, and she remained silent throughout most of the meal. Her terror grew and her entire body began to tremble. If he rejected her, she would die, but it was a chance she would have to take. She could not hold her love for him back any longer. He had to know. She tried to hide her anxiety, but he probably noticed that something was bothering her. He knew her so well now that she could hide nothing from him anymore. Yet he said nothing. He was never one to push her or pressure her and perhaps he was simply waiting until she was ready to let him know what was on her mind. As soon as the servants had cleared away the remnants of their breakfast, and they were alone in the room, she took a deep breath and met his eyes. Reaching over the table, she took one of his hands and held it lightly, the nervous trembling in her own quite apparent. Was this the last time she would ever touch him, the last time she would ever look upon his face? Or would he accept her love for him as she desperately hoped he would do? Arthur, she ventured, her voice barely above a whisper. Remember when I told you I would write a song for you? I just finished it last night, and I wonder if you would like to hear it. |
| [align=center]Isabella's Bio >^..^< Plottage[/align] | |
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| Arthur Chamerlyn | Jan 28 2012, 02:42 PM Post #2 |
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Slowly but surely, Arthur Chamerlyn was going more and more accustomed to this new way of life. He seemed to hardly notice as the months passed, but one thing was for certain: the French were gone, Lent had arrived and... he felt better. As if more and more breath was being restored to him. He had gone a long time wearing his grief just beneath his sleeve, and perhaps how he was beginning to feel it slowly, gradually recede into only a scar. A scar he would hold upon his soul for eternity, but at least it was no gaping hole or endless void. No, an end to all his misery seemed to be coming steadfast, and the marquess was not going to think twice about embracing it. He knew Anne was still with him, if not physically then in their son, in Arthur's heart, and there she would forever remain. Where once that thought had been empty and unpromising, it was now almost the lifeblood of his recovery. Nearly as much as the young woman sitting across from him was. Isabella. Precious, darling Isabella. Arthur had not taken his eyes from her yet, slowly and smoothly placing bits of food into his mouth without letting the sight of her leave him. A small smile touched his lips as he chewed, swallowed, and went for another bit of firm, cooled cheese. He had watched her nearly the entire meal, noticing the way she ate quietly, reservedly, as if her thoughts were occupying the time she would have otherwise spent talking to him. Nevertheless, he did not prod or question her, and instead let the silence pass between them easily and comfortably. There were no demands between them, no expectations, and Arthur liked that. As much as their relationship was complex and defining, things were still simple and... natural. He did not feel as if a word had to be spoken to ease any suspicion or uncomfortable curiosity, and instead felt rather relaxed as they ate with only glances to share. Nevertheless, he made sure it was obvious that he would be waiting, and was waiting for whenever she decided to grace him with whatever was on her mind, and flashed her a subtle wink every now and then as they ate. It wasn't until they had finished and the remnants of both the food and the plates were gathered and carried out did Isabella seem to finally be willing to openly cooperate. He smiled the moment a long breath passed her nostrils, as if he knew any moment now she would relent and finally he would be held privy to what had kept her so quiet throughout the meal. His eyes followed the hand she'd slunk across the table to place it in his own, grasping it gently and harnessing whatever bits of his attention she didn't already have. Glancing back to her, he merely waited, a quiet breath going in and out of his nostrils as he gave her slender fingers an adoring squeeze. His ears pricked as his name fell past her lips, just above a whisper, and with a mild furrow his brows Arthur wondered what it was that seemed to be unsettling her so. Why was she speaking so quietly, why did she seem so hesitant... as if she were afraid of something? Or afraid of what could be? To hear that it was just about a song she had finished, he could not help but a slight breath of relief pass his chest and he relaxed ever so in his chair. Smiling, letting out a small chuckle, Arthur nodded. "Of course, Isabella," he replied, his expression no longer confused and worried but bright and mellow. "I had been wondering if I was ever going to hear it. I fretted you had perhaps forgotten about it." Flashing a subtle wink at her, he pulled his hand away and motioned to one of the servants, who came quickly with her lap harp and extended it with a bow to his master's most revered guest. "Wine," he commanded then, his eyes appraising the girl and her harp before he stood from the table, received the filled chalice, and paced quietly around the table to stand behind her. Touching a few fingertips to the top of her shoulder, he smiled and bent low at the waist, his mouth only inches away from the lobe of her ear as he placed a weightless kiss to the space where her slender neck and narrow shoulder met. Inhaling a silent breath of her perfumed aromas, Arthur turned his head and kissed her cheek, lightly and tenderly, before straightening back up and walking into the joined, furnished sitting room. Drinking from his chalice, he settled himself on a chaise lounge and plopped down upon it, stretching his legs down the length of it and crossing them at the ankles. Lifting a hand to rest it behind his head, Arthur sighed contently and looked into the fire smoldering in the mantel before him, waiting quietly for Isabella to follow and play him this quite allusive song she'd promised to compose for him. What could possibly be better than a cool morning, a full stomach, fire to warm by, wine to drink and Isabella's music to lull him into a nap he knew would only be indulging? But oh, t'was the perfect recipe for an aching heart, a heart that wanted so badly to heal, and he would protest not to the things that eased and, of course, pleased him. He had already lost enough. "Come, my dear. Sing to me." |
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| Isabella Markham | Feb 2 2012, 11:49 AM Post #3 |
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Isabella noticed the worried expression on his beloved face as she whispered his name. So she had been correct and he was aware that something was bothering her. He visibly relaxed when she mentioned her song, and one of those smiles that made her knees go weak turned up the corners of his lips as he professed to be eager to hear it. But would he change his mind once she began to sing? She squeezed his hand a bit tremulously while she contemplated his possible reactions. He probably thought it was just some frivolous composition that had been written for his pleasure, and would be shocked once he realized it was a confession of her feelings for him. And what would he do? The voice in the dream had said he was ready. But ready for what? Ready to accept another woman into his life, or ready to rebuff a silly girl whom he believed was too young to know what love really was? Yet she did know what it was. It was wanting the other person to be happy no matter what the cost to oneself. If her love for him aggrieved him, then she would rather remove herself from his presence than to cause him any distress. To lose him would be unbearable and it would tear her apart inside, but his happiness was more important to her than her own. She would probably have to leave court for her own sanity, for seeing him around and not being able to be with him would be far too difficult. Her father would most likely arrange some advantageous marriage for her which would make her miserable for the rest of her days, but all of that would be worth it just so that Arthur could be happy. Too nervous to speak further, she took her lap harp from the servant who handed it to her, noting how respectful. So much had changed since that first day she had come to these rooms and the servants had attempted to throw her out. It seemed that they considered her part of their master's life now, and she certainly hoped it would stay that way, even after her song. These last months with Arthur had been the most joyous of her life, even if they had begun with tragedy. Isabella loved taking care of him, loved entertaining him, and loved helping him learn to live again after his loss. Maybe that was all he really needed her for, as she had thought many times before, and he would discard her when he was fully recovered for some beautiful woman who was older and more suited to him than she was. And if that was what made him happy, then that is what she wanted for him, even if it meant that she would live the rest of her life in abject misery. That was what love meant. As he stood and moved behind her, kissing her softly on the curve of her shoulder and then her cheek, she wondered why she was focusing on the negative aspects of the confession she was about to make through song. That he cared for her deeply there was no doubt. He was always touching her and kissing her and doing sweet little things for her. She had become more than just a friend to him, more than just a young woman to protect and give advice to. He felt something for her, and maybe just maybe . he was as afraid to tell her as she was to tell him. Perhaps he also feared rejection and believed that she would think he was too old for her and turn him down for someone who was closer to her own age. It was difficult to believe that a wealthy and powerful man who exuded utter confidence would have such doubts, but she had sensed similar feelings before in some of his words and actions. At one time, he had even sounded jealous of the attentions she received from other men, but that had probably only been the vain hope of her own imagination. Or had it been? Isabella's nervousness increased as she followed him into the sitting room, her harp trembling in her hands. She would have liked to use the beautiful floor harp he had given her for Christmas and which was still in his apartments so that she could play for him whenever he wished it. But the lap harp would make the song more personal, as she could sit closer to him while she sang which was probably what he intended. Watching him settle onto a chaise lounge with his chalice of wine in his hand, she felt like reconsidering. He was looking forward to something pleasant, and the subject matter of her song might not please him at all. And there she went again ... thinking of the worst that could happen and not even considering the best. "Come, my dear." he said. "Sing to me." Smiling a bit wanly, she settled herself on a chair near him, both fear and anticipation flooding through her small trembling body. This was it. She had to do it. He had to know, for she certainly could not hide her feelings forever. And she wanted him to know. What he did with his new knowledge into her innermost feelings would be entirely up to him. It was impossible to predict how he would react, and that sent more fear racing through her veins. She did not want to lose what they had together. He was so precious to her. But keeping her love for him secret was like living a lie. She wanted to tell him that she hoped her song pleased him, but her heart was lodged in her throat and words would not come. Would she even be able to sing? For a few long moments, she fiddled with the strings, as if tuning them, but what she was really doing was stalling. How could she do this? How could she bare her soul to him? She was so afraid. Yet she could not put it off forever. Taking a deep breath, she plucked the first notes and then added her voice to the music. Hesitantly at first, she sang of what she had felt for him when they had first met, and how her feelings had deepened the more time they spent together, how he had gone from a mere friend and guardian to the most important person in her life. Isabella kept her eyes on the harp as if she had to study it in order to play the right notes, but in reality she was afraid to look at him, afraid to see what sort of expression graced his handsome features. But at least he did not stop her, and because of that her confidence grew her voice gaining strength as she sang of how alive she felt whenever she was with him and how his kisses made her feel as if she was breathing for the very first time. How her heart soared to the heavens whenever he smiled at her and how just thinking of him made her heart leap with joy. She loved him, she sang, loved him with every fiber of her being and when she was not with him, she felt as if the most important part of her was missing. Her clear soprano was now ringing through the apartments and as the song came to its natural end, she concluded it with a verse about how she now knew the identity of that elusive something that she had been longing for most of her life it was him. And it was done. Now he knew how she felt about him. As her fingertips stilled on the strings of the harp, Isabella kept her eyes lowered, staring at the simple carvings on her harp, afraid to look up at him afraid of what she might see in those expressive sapphire eyes she adored so much. |
| [align=center]Isabella's Bio >^..^< Plottage[/align] | |
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| Isabel Leigh | Mar 9 2014, 08:30 PM Post #4 |
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Virtue alone is invincible.
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10:58 AM Jul 11