Original Fiction: Heart Thief
Jul. 9th, 2007 04:48 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
libra_travellerA part of a larger story that I have in mind but this scene itself is complete. This is also the first story I completed in my fiction workshop class last fall.
Heart Thief
He stood outside her door, trying in vain not to feel lost and confused. He had snuck into her home, past all the servants, avoiding her father, who would have killed him if he had been seen. For a few moments he had been in her room, after she had shooed away her handmaiden. The room could not be described as anything but dainty. The pillows were of the purest white he had ever seen. Her desk was mahogany and he imagined how she might have spent countless minutes writing the letters she had sent to him.
Based on her letters, about the love she had for him, he thought she cared deeply for him. Now he was not so sure. Yes, she kissed him on the cheek, but her stilted speech she gave him was discouraging. She stood there in her undergarments, unembarrassed, while speaking of the differences between them. She was of a higher class, and he just a farmer’s son. The worse part was the piece of information about her marital status. She was engaged. Within her letters, she had forbidden him from ever meeting her parents, and from this he gathered that she might have some other man destined to marry her, but still, to know the truth had hurt.
He remembered that moment clearly: sinking down onto her bed, barely noticing the smooth sheets. She had gotten down on her knees and rested her head on his lap. He petted her hair, feeling the tears drench into his pants. She kept whispering that she was sorry and should have told him. Should have never written the letters and given him hope. In some ways he agreed, having his heart shattered into pieces could never be considered a good experience, but to have not had that joy every time a letter made its way to him, would have made his life seemed dimmer and more mundane.
She stood up and told him it was over, handing him one last letter, a memento of sorts. He clutched it in his hands after he stood up. He leaned down to give her a farewell kiss, at the last second placing it on her cheek, realizing if he had touched her lips he would never have wanted to leave. She looked him in the eye and that was it. Now he was outside her room, worried that he could still be caught, but still not wanting to move. He tried to listen to her movements from inside the room, but he could not hear anything, and he wondered if that was better than if he could.
Finally he decided to leave her home, and he did so carefully. For one moment he was afraid he would be found as he hid behind a door. When he was out of the house and making his way back onto the street headed to his home, he pondered what had happened. For months they had been exchanging letters, and now he realized though he may have had her heart, he had never had a chance to be with her. The potential for love that kept him waking up each morning was gone. What would he do now? Could he truly move on and take his father’s role? Would he always remember her as that great love never fulfilled? He hoped that he could still find someone to care for, perhaps not as much as he did for her, but perhaps enough to be happy. He wiped the painful tears from his eyes, and kept moving.
He stood outside her door, trying in vain not to feel lost and confused. He had snuck into her home, past all the servants, avoiding her father, who would have killed him if he had been seen. For a few moments he had been in her room, after she had shooed away her handmaiden. The room could not be described as anything but dainty. The pillows were of the purest white he had ever seen. Her desk was mahogany and he imagined how she might have spent countless minutes writing the letters she had sent to him.
Based on her letters, about the love she had for him, he thought she cared deeply for him. Now he was not so sure. Yes, she kissed him on the cheek, but her stilted speech she gave him was discouraging. She stood there in her undergarments, unembarrassed, while speaking of the differences between them. She was of a higher class, and he just a farmer’s son. The worse part was the piece of information about her marital status. She was engaged. Within her letters, she had forbidden him from ever meeting her parents, and from this he gathered that she might have some other man destined to marry her, but still, to know the truth had hurt.
He remembered that moment clearly: sinking down onto her bed, barely noticing the smooth sheets. She had gotten down on her knees and rested her head on his lap. He petted her hair, feeling the tears drench into his pants. She kept whispering that she was sorry and should have told him. Should have never written the letters and given him hope. In some ways he agreed, having his heart shattered into pieces could never be considered a good experience, but to have not had that joy every time a letter made its way to him, would have made his life seemed dimmer and more mundane.
She stood up and told him it was over, handing him one last letter, a memento of sorts. He clutched it in his hands after he stood up. He leaned down to give her a farewell kiss, at the last second placing it on her cheek, realizing if he had touched her lips he would never have wanted to leave. She looked him in the eye and that was it. Now he was outside her room, worried that he could still be caught, but still not wanting to move. He tried to listen to her movements from inside the room, but he could not hear anything, and he wondered if that was better than if he could.
Finally he decided to leave her home, and he did so carefully. For one moment he was afraid he would be found as he hid behind a door. When he was out of the house and making his way back onto the street headed to his home, he pondered what had happened. For months they had been exchanging letters, and now he realized though he may have had her heart, he had never had a chance to be with her. The potential for love that kept him waking up each morning was gone. What would he do now? Could he truly move on and take his father’s role? Would he always remember her as that great love never fulfilled? He hoped that he could still find someone to care for, perhaps not as much as he did for her, but perhaps enough to be happy. He wiped the painful tears from his eyes, and kept moving.