Last Rites.

This is from a few months ago and it could probably do with some work. But I can't change it, not one word! It's special to me and if not technically correct, it has a vibrant potency that I love. I woke up one morning, very early with the words streaming through my mind. I had to grab a pencil and write. What a way to wake up, sadly it has not happened again.

~

Moving her hands down the sweet muscled sweep of his back, she is reminded of his warrior strengths, his honour and victories on the battle field. She tips the rich amber liquid from the ‘ritual’ vial into her unsteady hands, sweeping them across his shoulders, down his arms; for the last time. Of life, he has been her sweetest taste! Minutes now and the men, his friends, brother warriors, will come to collect his body for burial. She will not allow the overwhelming sadness and grief, to destroy the precious memories of their shared passions, joys and sorrows. Gratitude will be her song!

Who is the warrior leaning against the wall? The broodingly handsome one, with the honey coloured skin and battle tattoos, his aura of strength bedazzles me, causing unbidden heat to my body and a fever to my brow. He is returning my gaze, assessing me boldly. I am virgin, but his eyes tell me it will not be long before passions secrets are revealed to me. Those eyes are travelling my body and I feel no shame or guilt, just impatience. How will he bring about our meeting? Please be daring, be as bold as you appear when you seek out my father.

His eyes portray his love for me and the longing. All the witnesses cannot deny the match we have made. His family, my family, watching, as the marriage blessing is bestowed upon us; happiness, fertility, health and a long life together. Everyone is joyful and the celebration is at hand, but my heart is pounding. This night I will be tried as a woman. I pray that I am the person to fulfil him, not knowing, is sending spiralling shivers along my spine. I long for his arms and lips to take their due, for his body to claim mine….soon, please.

He lay gently tracing the round of her breast, his fingers whispering across her nipple, thoughts wandering to the intimacies of their coupling, the tender exploration that lead to heated forays into her mouth and body. The sensual endearments shared amidst the passion, the promises of forever spilt into her ear, playful, silly secrets tumbling about in the abandonment. His fears staying hidden in the deepest chamber of his heart, he has to return to her. Duty and honour rule him, but she has brought him to his knees, taken him prisoner in the battle of love, taken him beyond reason to passionate sensual overload. She has become his all.

He has fallen in battle, wounded and unable to move, his life force draining from him as quickly as his blood covers the ground. There is madness on this field, this day. The screams of the injured and dying are fearsome. His senses are assaulted by the putrid smell of disembowelled bodies and the stench of blood, an arm lies inches from him. Horses and men are among the fallen in this horrible, useless charade of life. The noise is unbearable, screeching, yelling, battle cries and the moans of the wounded press in on him. Duty and honour have brought him to this living hell.

His wound is fatal, he is dying! Thoughts of the men, no longer of importance, she dances before his minds eye. What is she doing, who is she with, does she sense his death? Tears fill his eyes, his heart labours and his breath hitches. His eyes and hands will never trace the suppleness and grace of her body or beauty again. Those precious hands and kisses that incite such fevered passion will not touch him again. Her laughter, joy and even anger are lost to him, the most painful of all, the promise of forever is broken, shattered never to be realised.

The weeks go by and I live without living. I am listless, tired and everything is unbearable. The promise I made to myself of being thankful, seems but a whisper from another voice. I miss him, long for his touch, hear his laugh, even his growling would be welcome. Sobbing in the dark, night after night brings my grief to a crescendo of self pity, fingers of anguish crushing my heart. Enough of this, my salvation, our child, is growing in my belly, our love thriving in my body. A baby, with his eyes, his smile and love to share.

The women have gathered, with their prattle and chatter, to help me birth this babe. Oh…. my belly is in the grip of searing pain. I’m hot, covered in sweat and I want to scream, where is he when I need him; gone forever. Don’t dwell on that, keep breathing, think of the babe. The pains are longer, closer together, no break between some. I am crushing my mother’s hand, I cannot stop. What is happening between my legs, such pressure, burning, tearing, someone wants to see if the baby’s head is there; not likely. Ha! Too late! That’s my son, slippery and squalling, with his father’s eyes.