Tragic Love

With the silver candlestick in hand, she was slowly trotting down the road, she had traveled many times. The darkness of the night only emphasized the gravity of the situation. Her fluffy dress was laced with mud on the hem but she couldn’t care less right now, her hands shook and every once in a while, a lone tear would race down her face and its saltiness would touch her lips, only to remind her of the bitter taste of the betrayal. At the end of the dirt track was the man whose soul was smeared with the mud of treason.

He was like every other man, just using her to get what he wants, she was the princess and often perceived as fragile and soft when in reality she had fought with soldiers, lived in their camps, and had done everything to prove that she deserved the throne that she was about to be given. They often misunderstood her silence as her shyness, but she usually spoke back with actions, she didn’t believe in empty words but alas, she had been felled by those words, those soft, whispered, flowery words, that turned out to be daggers in her back.

Eyes that shone with love and adoration were lowered today as he didn’t even have ‘words’ to beg for forgiveness, forgiveness that she wasn’t about to grant him. Asking him for a reason was for her sanity, not that it would change her decision. So on the full moon, in that beautifully mysterious apple orchard, where they would love each other, where they would hold each other, where they would dance and sing and be happy, in that very same orchard, she came face to face with the man behind, the man who broke her, the man who wasn’t who he claimed he was.

So when she raised her arm to fire the weapon, he didn’t look shocked, or sad, he didn’t ask for a chance, he didn’t say anything. He just fell to his knees and finally, looked in her eyes, those red-rimmed eyes were speaking a different story, begging her to ask for his truth, but her own beliefs had clouded her judgment. Her soft sniffle was muffled by the loud sound of the rifle. She shot him right in his heart, where she was hurting, the only difference was that his wound was visible. Illuminated by the moonlight, a piece of paper flew from his hand, the wind carried it to her, hitting her face softly, for even in death, he couldn’t bear to see her get hurt.

“Soldier,

You have made your country and The King proud. Well done on infiltrating the enemy's camp and saving the lives of your fellow soldiers and countrymen. Upon your return, The King shall present you with the medal of honor.”

He had done the biggest service to his nation but at what cost. She was so lost in her ideas of being unlovable that she had murdered her love herself.