Sweet, with a beauty that breathed treacherousness to the untrusting eye. Wise, dark, worldly. She was the dove with a sharp beak, the graceful feline with sharp claws. Breathing an atmosphere of bejeweled gaudiness around her, she glided upon slim soft feet, and the perfume of her presence lingered long after she had gone. The shadow of her majestic form caused man to catch his breath; it was mystic, womanly and sumptuous. And there was something so sensuous about the heavy-lidded eyes, clouded with the dark greens, blues and blacks with which she painted them. She was like a frighteningly real dream – a manifestation of the dark, concentrated beauty of the night.

And yet I held that midnight shadow in my arms, and I loved her as I had never loved woman before. Our love was forbidden, for she was of the immortal bloodline, the last of their race, whilst I was naught but a mere huntsman in the service of my tribe. We knew full well what lay before us.

“A curse,” she whispered to me, even in the midst of our kiss, “a curse will be upon the blood of the mortal who loves me…such does the law of my people decree.”

“Then we will love, and be cursed,” I whispered back, for I knew that she spoke the words only as a warning to me. As for herself, she spurned solitude, and would sustain our embrace as long as possible. At length, I laid my cheek over her hair. The smooth, gilded stones that hung in its thick masses felt cool upon my rough skin.

We were foolish then. Foolish and young, for we never thought to wonder whether that curse would be upon us, or, perchance, our offspring. As fate had it, it was upon both. I still remember that day so vividly…the dark, ebony eyes widening and the mouth gasping for air. Little moans and winces, emphatically unlike her usual mellow tones, fell from her panting lips. Droplets of sweat gathered on her smooth brow. Our child was born healthy enough; her mother was lost forever.

My heart was heavyas I approached the bedside and lifted the living child from the stiff arms of my dead, beloved spouse. The girl-child was beautiful, with black woolen hair covering her smooth round head, and feet formed of the most deep and lovely soil black. Her little lips were parted and her shut eyes were already thickly shaded with curly lashes. I touched those little features delicately – they reminded me so of her mother’s. My love had died, but she had left a bit of her behind in the child I now looked at with such reverent awe.

Strangely enough, though the child squirmed and kicked, she uttered not one noise. She wept as a new infant does, but nothing but silent tears and pants came from her crinkled face.

I swept my hand over the infant’s face. Tears welled into my eyes as I realized in what manner the curse had manifested itself upon my offspring. My child would never speak to me in the mellow tones of her mother. Never would she be able to mimic the songs and anthems of my tribe. Merry, childish babble would never spill from those perfectly-formed little lips. I would call her Infanta, for Infanta she was…the voiceless one.