The Pathetic Lover

Four walls, a roof, a floor, a closed window, and a door. All surround what has once been a living man, and one who is alive, though he may not claim so.

Theodore did not particularly examine the Baron's body. Not anymore, for that body has spoken everything it could to him and has already gone completely silent. Theodore only sat on a chair in that room because he was welcome nowhere else. He found it amusing how life would rather put him next to the dead than with the upper class. Ironically, he would put himself in the very same spot had he owned the right to choose.

He did not wait long before Iris entered the room and sat on a chair facing the dead body. The room was so small that four people would find it challenging to fit in there at once, however, with Iris' small silhouette, and the dead body lying down motionless, the room was just wide enough for Iris and Theodore to sit next to one another and stare at the dead, but look at nothing; in no passive way, no, they actively watched emptiness, it moved, lived, grew and swallowed the very space that contained itself along the two.

"Why do you work here?" Theodore asked.

"Why do you think anyone would work?" she answered, her gaze never leaving what it was stuck watching.

"I feel like your reasons are nothing like the rest of the folk."

She paused, and paused, almost until it seemed like she would never talk; after all, she wasn't used to sharing, she would never willingly tell anyone who she truly is, not that doing it against her will was granted either… Iris was a box closed with a lock, one to which she herself had no keys. Yet she spoke.

"My mother…"

Theodore's thoughts raced, "Did she abandon you? Is she sick? Dead?" Many more thoughts crossed his mind, but her story was not close to what he expected, something he, just as usual, punished himself for.

"I wanted to leave the house." Then they were back to being silent. Tired of staring at a lifeless corpse, Iris stood and walked towards the not-so-far-away door. "I still have some work to do."

And she disappeared behind the creaking sound of the old door, leaving him, once more, alone.

And for a long while, there was nothing.

By that time, Eleanor had already regained control of the crowd, enough control to convince them they could get back to dancing and celebrating without fear of being stabbed in the back. The murderer waited for the Baron to leave the hall before assassinating him.

The lady of the manor –Eleanor danced as well, she jumped from hand to hand, like a butterfly that takes the nectar from many flowers, not loyal to any of them, only loyal to itself.

And just like every butterfly knows the flowers that face downwards are heavy with nectar, Eleanor had a gloomy flower of her own… but again, she was only loyal to herself.

The door of the narrow room was knocked on before she opened it, wearing her usual playful grin, "I see you're keeping Baron Greystone's company, am I interrupting something between you two?"

He answered, "No, you're right on time to hear his story on the day he got murdered."

"Well, that's a shame, the story will have to wait." She said while opening the door wider, stepping outside, her back facing the room. It took Theodore a moment to understand that she was inviting him to follow her.

Scared, he hesitated, tried coming up with an excuse, or convincing her to retreat, but he could not do miracles, nor could he perform magic. She ordered something, and she was ready to step on corpses to achieve it.

Hence, he stood up and followed obediently, his worry growing the closer they got to the ballroom, by the time they stepped in, his eyes were closed, perhaps he feared the expressions those in the hall will likely wear, he feared how he knew nothing of what Eleanor had in mind, that night was their first meeting in years, Theodore have been travelling ever since he graduated, and Eleanor was climbing the ladder of power. Theodore feared what Eleanor might have become more than anything else around him. Normally, there is a limit to how much one could fear such a person; people are sane, therefore limited. Unfortunately, Theodore Wycliffe did not sense sanity in her.

he just… followed.

Stepping into the hall, Eleanor left him standing alone, walked towards the musicians, and spoke what seemed like an order or ordination. Then, before the new music started playing, she was a couple of feet away from him, she stopped, bowed slightly, and stretched her hand towards him.

"May I have this dance?"

Theodore Wycliffe danced in his life fewer times than none, had that been possible. And Eleanor knew that for a fact, for that reason, amongst the endless thoughts that numbed his mind and body, there was one, perhaps too faint for him to consider, yet too frequent for him to ignore, "she can't be only trying to make a fool out of me, can she?

He held her hanging hand, and decided to go fully numb; he consoled himself thinking that it would be over before he'd realized what happened.

The music started, and the two moved along it like two leaves riding the raging wind of a tempest.

He was almost confident he could keep up so long he did not insert himself too much… that is, until she drew close to him, held the back of his neck, and whispered, "Where do you think you're going?"

She let go of him, despite her eyes never meeting his; she made his mind sail back from its not-so-long trip, and the way he moved suddenly got significantly more awkward, but she was never going to stop there.

She tightened her grip on his arm, she still managed to make his moves appeal convincing enough, to a keen eye however, that would have seemed closer to wrestling than it is to a dance, as it went on, Theodore finally found some stability in being controlled by her grip like a living marionette, but that was only great as it lasted, she followed the tempo of the music then she would step forward, forcing him to retreat, she would narrow the distance until there was no air to breathe between the two then she would fly away, almost leaving his ming aching and longing for her.

She was silent for what seemed like ages to him, but he heard her eyes speak as clearly as can be; they spoke, "It must have been so great to travel alone, how did you enjoy your freedom? Well, the moment you stepped here, you became mine!"

She kept stepping forward, and he backwards, her eyes ablaze, and his breath heavy and difficult. Her red cravat gave the impression that she was the flame itself, and that man was stuck in it, helpless, rolling and running, but as long as there was air he could breathe, she would take it from him, and make it fuel to her growth.

Theodore's back hit a wall, and so he could no longer step back. For a second, his fear climaxed, thinking his halt was not enough to stop her, but she did stop, she looked at him, tired, all red from either embarrassment or fear, simply vulnerable.

Then for the first time in years, he heard her voice, her true voice, not the mask she carefully wore and never dropped, not the tones of her wild eyes that he simulated only in the depths of his mind, no, it was Eleanor Thornwood, the woman he loved, she was wild, insane, and evil.

"How rude of you, Theo, staring at worthless dead meat when I'm around, do you not care about the feelings of a lady?"

He had many answers to that, none made it past his throat, that latter was drier than the desert, the moment she loosened up a little, he walked slowly away, facing her and walking backwards, trying to gain his mouthful of air, starting slow, then practically running away, he opened the main door, and disappeared behind it, as for her, that was the thing she enjoyed the most so far.

Outside, Theodore sat on the path of the polished cobblestone that reflected the light of the moon. It was cold, but he did not feel much of it; the heat of that moment had burned his skin.

He was left to his thoughts once more, with both more silence, and more thoughts to keep him busy, his urge to sleep there and then was interrupted by the opening of the door, to no one's surprise, it was Earl Whittemore, who stood and lit a pipe, he smoked it for a pair of minutes, before inevitably speaking.

"She's evil."

She was.

"I love her…"

The earl felt that was only the beginning of a longer speech, and refrained from talking; to his credit, he was almost right.

"She's frightening," Theodore paused in loss of words, "but I love her, beyond what my words can describe."

There was a long silence that stood on a narrow edge; it was expected to break at any time, but it just never did.

The Earl thought to himself as he went back in and closed the door, "Pathetic…"