You Are So Very Beautiful

Looking out into the darkness, Rosamund leaned heavily against the chilly wrought-iron balcony railing, her fingers curling around its smooth surface. She felt a rush of inquisitive energy that accelerated her heartbeat. The air was cool and crisp, and it caressed her skin tenderly. It carried the earthy scent of pine mixed with the delicate moisture of the soil below. The moonlight, gentle and ethereal, spilled over the valley above her like a silvery, shimmering river, illuminating the surrounding area with a surreal radiance. She was surprised to find that her night vision was abnormally sharp—even clearer than during the day. She was able to discern the smallest details with amazing clarity: the thin, delicate cross atop the far-off church steeple, dimly illuminated by the moonlight; the thatched roofs of the village houses snugly tucked into the valley, their edges softly curved by the embrace of the night; and the magnificent wings of an owl as it silently sailed to perch on a distant birch tree, its feathers rustling faintly in the breeze, lit by the dim light.

Even though it was silent, the night was alive with tiny sounds that blended into a soft symphony that appeared to reverberate with the silence. A low, melancholy hoot that reverberated weakly through the air was followed by the gentle ruffle of the owl's feathers as it moved on its perch. As it darted before the moon, its silhouette a brief shadow against the bright disc, the sound of a bat's wings pierced the silence. With their leaves rustling in a chorus of whispers, the trees swung gently in the breeze, like exchanging old secrets in a language that only the dark could understand.

Rosamund had once shied away from the night, but now she was unable to summon that reluctance. Once looming as menacing dangers, the shadows now enveloped her in a cocoon of mystery and comfort, a gentle, even mother warmth. The moonlight swept across her, its soft glow calming her soul, as though inviting her to partake in its silent celebration. With a gentle, wonderful weight, she realized that this was her genuine domain—the night, the black. She had never thought that such unfathomable, breathtaking beauty could exist in the dark. It was as if the world had removed its façade of daylight to reveal a more private, concealed side—one that evoked a profound, unsaid chord in her heart.

The tall, slender figure of Count Ivar appeared a mere step behind her, and she hardly noticed his entrance. She wasn't startled by his appearance; rather, it seemed like a natural progression of the evening, unavoidable and smooth.

"So, you've learned that the night isn't as horrible as you thought it would be?" He spoke in a soft, melodious whisper that blended in well with the nighttime symphony all around them.

She said, "I just... didn't expect it to be so beautiful," her words coming out as a frail whisper, unwilling to break the exquisite peace of the moment.

When Count Ivar hesitated, Rosamund could feel the weight of his silent thoughts. She held her breath, waiting for him to close the distance between them as his contemplative stillness drew on.

In a cautious tone, he finally ventured, "Maybe in time you will find that I am not as vile as you think I am?"

The question stuck in the air like a thick fog, and Rosamund bit her lip. She was unprepared for the depth it conveyed, and she was at a loss for words to respond. Only the distant owl's cry and the gentle whisper of the trees swinging in the wind broke the stillness.

She had been steadied by the calm, sensual glow of the moonlight, so she wasn't surprised when Count Ivar's arms softly wrapped around her waist from behind. He touched her lightly, almost reluctantly, as if he was afraid she would vanish into the darkness. A chill ran down her spine as his cool air touched her skin, and then his lips touched her shoulder, soft and tickling, causing a spark of sensation to ignite. His kisses traced a route up her throat and the delicate hollow behind her ear, sending a peculiar, buoyant warmth that tingled across her limbs. Her senses spiraled in a dizzying dance of foreign feelings, and she automatically tilted her head back, letting out a tiny cry.

She turned her head and looked into his dark, penetrating, captivating eyes, which reflected the essence of the night. She could drown in them if she allowed herself to descend.

Her lips met his before she could think. Her senses were enveloped in a silver haze as the moonlight appeared to filter through her closed eyelids. Her shudder was caused by a complex mixture of doubt and want rather than dread. His arms closed around her, firmly but cautiously, as though holding back a surge of passion.

Her startled eyes searched his mysterious face as she drew back a little. His expression was calm, but his eyes were burning with a passion that made her heart race. She felt as though she had just woken up from a spell when a strong rush of panic swept through her. Her heart pounded against her ribs as she fled indoors, slipping from his grasp as the weight of her deeds fell over her. Her breaths were ragged and uneven as she collapsed onto the bed and buried her face in her hands.

"Rosamund! Rosamund! I apologize. The worried, regretful tone of Count Ivar's voice followed her, "I'm sorry; I never meant to upset you so."

However, his remarks were drowned in the pillow's embrace by her embarrassed cries. What had she done? She had given in to the same force she had pledged to always fight. Instead of being attracted to him like a moth to a flame, she was supposed to hate him. Her inner anguish raged unabated, a tempest she was powerless to stop.

He heard her worry and his voice raised alarmingly. With a hint of weakness in his voice, he replied, "I'm sorry, Rosamund, and if you don't want me to kiss you again, I will never do it! Just try not to cry. What is causing you such distress?

That's the problem! In the midst of the commotion, her mind screamed. The saddest part is that I did want you to! Even the unspoken confession was painful. She was overcome with shame since she had violated her own beliefs.

Her statements were incoherent due to the choking effect of her tears. He took a seat next to her on the bed, his presence a source of comfort and agony. Her sobs continued despite his reassuring murmurs, his voice a calm, steady thread. Her uncertainty was further twisted by the compassion with which his fingers ran through her hair as he gave her a gentle slap on the back. She refused to look into his eyes, keeping her face buried in the pillow out of concern for the truths that may be reflected there.

After a painful stretch, he finally bent down and kissed her hair tenderly, a move so gentle it almost broke her again. Ivar sighed with silent burdens, got up, and crept out, the door clicking silently shut behind him.