Boethiah
Prince of Plots, Queen of Shadows
A happy anniversary to you and me ― at least we made it through January. The abbey walls are awfully terrible this time of year, I’d have wished for some more blankets if I had any idea how cold it would be. But at least, you have me, Sister, and the rest of the nunnery watching over you. I remember that weird dream which convinced me decades ago to devote myself to God, by God! ― if only I had known that I’d end up being devoted to you, huddling with you for warmth in the final hours of your wintry days.
We’ve been Sisters for so long, and it’s odd to think our ‘boyish’ and ‘irrational’ closeness has survived through it all, blooming under the covers. Our flowers, like Cupid’s arrows, shoot towards Heaven as proof of our everlasting commitment. I hope all of the bee stings endured have not all been for nought. I suppose we could be considered this convent’s resident Lilith and Eve. How cruel then, that you should be the innocent Eve led to freeze when I led you astray and betrayed our faith for both of us. I am the iceberg that sunk our vessel to Heaven. I am the iceberg that hid beneath innocent waves of women and pierced your hull. Perhaps the greatest betrayal of my life won’t be eschewing my vows, but covering up my feelings beneath this veil and counting rosary beads instead of counting the days that we could have been together. Another fortnight would have been ample time for us to feast upon the fruits of our affection.
I remember the head tilt and half-smile when I handed you the Eucharist wine so long ago. The Winter had passed that year uneventfully, and the gardens bloomed as usual, always well maintained by the nuns. Rosy cheeks were such a delight, and unexpected at first until they became part of my daily routine. The birds chirped poetry outside our windows ― they could see it all, so free and careless. No other nuns knew of it at the time, but a grand white whale had been born then, a green light in the distance of love that could never be. We tried to harpoon Cupid, but he had already trapped us inside a tumultuous typhoon.
With a matchstick burst a flame emerged, dancing, and soon to be dancing with its kin as they were born, lighting up the once dim abbey wall as a mural of racing red heat reacting to every flicker of every candle ― spirits freely dancing united in their unfortunate ceremony. I lit my votive candle for you that Sunday morning, and stared at it swaying freely for several hours. The other nuns let me be alone. I wondered if that inferno truly captured you. It captured me. Sometimes, it seemed that fate would write for me, just for the tragedy. I blew on the candles, and the thin abbey walls offered me their warmth.
"Hello, Eve".
We’ve been Sisters for so long, and it’s odd to think our ‘boyish’ and ‘irrational’ closeness has survived through it all, blooming under the covers. Our flowers, like Cupid’s arrows, shoot towards Heaven as proof of our everlasting commitment. I hope all of the bee stings endured have not all been for nought. I suppose we could be considered this convent’s resident Lilith and Eve. How cruel then, that you should be the innocent Eve led to freeze when I led you astray and betrayed our faith for both of us. I am the iceberg that sunk our vessel to Heaven. I am the iceberg that hid beneath innocent waves of women and pierced your hull. Perhaps the greatest betrayal of my life won’t be eschewing my vows, but covering up my feelings beneath this veil and counting rosary beads instead of counting the days that we could have been together. Another fortnight would have been ample time for us to feast upon the fruits of our affection.
I remember the head tilt and half-smile when I handed you the Eucharist wine so long ago. The Winter had passed that year uneventfully, and the gardens bloomed as usual, always well maintained by the nuns. Rosy cheeks were such a delight, and unexpected at first until they became part of my daily routine. The birds chirped poetry outside our windows ― they could see it all, so free and careless. No other nuns knew of it at the time, but a grand white whale had been born then, a green light in the distance of love that could never be. We tried to harpoon Cupid, but he had already trapped us inside a tumultuous typhoon.
With a matchstick burst a flame emerged, dancing, and soon to be dancing with its kin as they were born, lighting up the once dim abbey wall as a mural of racing red heat reacting to every flicker of every candle ― spirits freely dancing united in their unfortunate ceremony. I lit my votive candle for you that Sunday morning, and stared at it swaying freely for several hours. The other nuns let me be alone. I wondered if that inferno truly captured you. It captured me. Sometimes, it seemed that fate would write for me, just for the tragedy. I blew on the candles, and the thin abbey walls offered me their warmth.
"Hello, Eve".
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