To Love is to Die

The heat from the fire place feels so warm against her smooth porcelin skin. This is the day she doesn't regret spending so much money purchasing the hammock; not to mention all the difficulties she faced trying to install it in her small country home.

The cottage has many windows, which today look like the inside of a waterfall. The curtains are all pulled open because Ammery loves the site of the rain. She has no television, because she is rarely home and when she is, there is no time for T.V. There is no music playing because nothing beats the sound of the rain pounding on the roof and windows.

She is urrounded by fluffy pillows and soft cotton blankets; their clean lavender scent mingles with the woody smell of the fireplace and the aroma of the musty paper back book in her hands. Every so often she catches the faint smell of her camomile tea or the fresh smell of the rain outside.

The sound of the storm with its wind pushing on the house in small bursts, the relentless battering of water against every surface around her, and the occasional rumble of thunder, all mixed with the crackling and sudden pops of the fireplace, adds the perfect ambiance to the story that Ammery holds in her hands.

She rubs her left hands in circles on one of the plush pillows as the lead character in the book gently strokes her lover's hair. They lay in the mud beside a riverbank, his feet in the cold water. The mud is cold and slick. She holds his head to her chest and wishes the rain would stop.

He found her alone and dieing, beaten and raped! She cowered, afraid of what he wanted from her. She had nothing left. He gentle scooped her up, his body so warm and strong. She remembers the sound of his heart beat. She wonders if the sound of her heart beat is as comforting to him in this moment as it was for her.

He is shaking now and his breathing sounds different; uneven and difficult. She is trying not to cry because she has to be strong for him.

"Please. Please! What do I do?"

There is no answer, only thunder. She is shaking now too and losing too much body heat. The rain is frigid and will not let up. She has to get him to shelter; someplace dry and warm.

She slides around in the mud trying to right herself. When she finally gets to her hands and knees, he hasn't moved at all, she sees the blood pool into the imprint her body left on the ground beside him.

"No." Ammery whispers barely audible against the tempest. She pulls the warm blanket up to her neck and takes a sip of her tea.

His face feels cold and he looks pale in the dark. She rolls him onto his back and starts to pull, holding under his arms. Her feet sink into the mud and his wet skin is icy and slick, so her hands keep slipping. She falls backwards into the mire. He is too heavy.

He had left her on a pile of straw with a quilt next to a fire. He came back with herbs and rabbit and made a hot stew that warmed her from the inside and gave her strength to sit up. He had bandaged her wounds and cleaned her body, washing away not only the blood and dirt, but the pain and fear as well.

She watched his muscles ripple as he worked, with skin that look clean and smooth, imperfected by random scares of varying lengths and shapes. His hands strong and calloused, yet graceful and gentle. His hair as silky and black as a ravens feather.

When he felt her watching him he looked up and held her gaze. She got lost in his eyes, with their layers of greys and greens. They held such intensity she couldnt look away. A shiver took control of her body.

Ammery shivered and took another sipped her tea remembering the beginning of the book when the two lovers met. How he had gentled loved her later in the story after she had healed.

"Get up. PLEASE! Help me. I can't do this! HELP! PLEASE!" She calls into the night, but only the rain and the wind responde.

She pulls herself back up and starts looking around. She doesn't know what she is looking for. She has to stop the bleeding. She grabs the hem of her dress and starts tearing and ripping strips and shreds. She rinses them in the rivers, which is rising and flowing faster. It is up to his knees. She needs to get him away from the water.

She rolls some of the fabric up and finds one of the gouges, the wound is deep and she can't tell if the bleeding as stopped or not because the rain is falling so hard. She stuffs the cloth into the would; he doesn't even flinch. She manages to wrap a long piece around his waste and tie it to hold the wad in place.

She stuffs four more stab wounds and ties the rest of her skirt around his abdomen as tight as she can. His body is so cold, but he isn't shivering anymore and his breathing sounds desperate and rough.

In her undergarments and the corset of her now tattered dress, she stands up and tries to drag him from the mud. He only moves a tiny bit before he says something, but she can't hear him over the wind and rain. Her hands slip again and she stumbles back into the mud. She crawls to his side.

The sun is shining and the birds sing while the bees buzz. The valley is full of wild flowers. He pulls her body to his with one hand on her lower back, and the other on her cheek and neck. He looks down into her eyes, she waits for his lips to dip to hers, her anticipation twisting her stomach. There was very little she enjoyed more than his kiss.

He kissed her as if he couldn't get close enough to her. Like he wanted to meld their lips together and never seperate. He tasted like honey and felt like velvet; soft and delicate, yet commanding and forceful. Everything else ceased to exist. She could only feel his body: muscles tense, skin warm and smooth, a hardness ready for her softness. She could only hear him: his heart pounding as fast and hard as hers, his deep breaths and subtle moans as if it was so good it hurt. She could only smell him: wood, smoke, pine trees, earth, and an aroma that was only his.

That was when he had first told her, "I love you." Then in the middle of that field he had knelt down and promised to avenge the bastards that had ravaged her. He admitted to knowing who they were and swore he would take everyone of their lives. He promised his heart and soul to her. Gave his life to her, to honor and protect and love her until the day he died. Then he had laid down with her in the middle of the wild flowers with the sun warming their bare skin.

Now, they lay in the mud and rain next to the three corpses of the bastard that stole her innocents. The knife still in one of their hands. Her knees sunk deep in the mud, the river up to his waste, she put her hand on his bare chest and placed her ear beside his lips.

"I love you." It's raspy and forced and hard to hear, but she knows what he says, and she saviors his warm breath on her cold ear, then she feels it. It was his last breath. She felt his heart stop under her palm. Then the river suddenly surges and the water rips him away from her, almost taking her with him.

"NO! No, please. Please! NO!" She yells as she tries to get out of the river; torn between not getting washed away and following him. She makes it to shore, choking on water and sobbing, her heart ripped from her chest, she whispers, "I love you."

Ammery closes the book and wipes the tears from her face. She uses a dish towel, which the teacup had been sitting on, to wipe the snot from her upper lip. The rain outside the window has slowed to a steady drizzle and the wind is no more. The fire is small and quiet, yet the room is still cozy.

"I'm afraid of love." Ammery says as she lays in her hammock, in her country cottage, alone. It is only day one of quarentine; the first day she gets to stay home because work is closed and people must stay in doors until the lockdown is lifted. She will spend her time living vicariously through characters in the pages of the books on the shelf next to her, wishing she wasn't afraid of relationships.