Authors: Laura H
Disclaimer: The Mouse Owns All
"Art is born of the observation and investigation of nature." - Cicero
‘Twas the only word to describe him, though she’d frequently sought others. Brash, arrogant. He ascended the stairs like a king to his throne, bowed to his subjects, tilted his hips and posed, like Buanarotti’s naked youth, languid and exquisite. His grin remained as they bound his wrists, laid the hempen garland across his throat; pale against that slick, tawny marble.
Wood snapped and he dropped, no ardent blacksmith as saviour.
Twisted in shame-sodden sheets, she wakes, Will carved into her mind.
He escaped, she remembers. He lived. No guilt, no guilt.
In her mind, his hips tilt.
At the top of the stairs, he stops, eyes finding her immediately, like a peregrine upon a hare.
He knows what I am.
Eyes dance, reading the hues writ upon her skin.
Shall I draw thee? he asks. Shall I paint your light and shade?
Too late, she thinks, too late.
He falls, then flies. Wind-borne, his fair maid catches him.
Later, her fingers follow what paths his hands may have traced; she arches into the touch.
He was saved this time, but her lips still sting with want. Elizabeth welcomes the dark, and wonders how long he can escape.