Ave Maria

...

Never before have I seen him so helpless. Lying there in my arms, the breath of life coming ever shorter, I saw the surprise in his eyes. Roderigo, the love of my life, my father’s enemy. The assumed hate I made hard in my heart melted away, as it had wanted to do so many months ago. All of a sudden I did not understand why father asked me to perform such a vile deed. Murder – a crime difficult to forgive, even by heaven – made so much worse by the slipping away of a lover’s life.

Outside the bells for the six o’ clock prayer rung. Both of us heard it and for a moment forgot our differences. Roderigo brought his trembling palms together, and softly began to murmur, “Ave Maria, gratia plena...”

“...dominus tecum,” I joined in, clasping his hands in mine. Just a few minutes ago, his voice had been strong and reassuring, comforting me in the face of imminent death. Now he lies in desperation, turning dim eyes unto deaf heaven. Listening to his hoarse whisper of the Virgin’s prayer, I knew that I should not have done it. He had come in peace, pure in intention. But what have I done? In a nunnery where I should have been spending my last days of terminal illness in prayer and repentance, I brought in vile poison to put in his drink. Perhaps Papa had been right when he said that I was gifted with the uncanny power to delude. He wanted me to use it to protect myself, for the world was evil, he said, and blessed was the one who could outwit the great deceiver and his tricks.

“Roderigo.”

That was the one name he mentioned constantly while on his deathbed. Roderigo shamed your sister. Roderigo drove Gabriella mad. Roderigo snatched what was rightfully our wealth by taking for his sister’s husband Gabriella’s intended. Roderigo, son of the devil. Roderigo, the one you must inflict vengeance upon. Roderigo must suffer by your hand. Roderigo must die a hateful and horrific death. Roderigo this, Roderigo that.

I loved my sister Gabriella, the poor thing who hung herself out of mad grief. She was not her own murderer; but still the local padre refused burial in consecrated ground. Nothing we did could change his mind, so my sweet sister was buried in an obscure tomb, and no one was certain if she would ever find rest. When Papa was dying, I listened, because he was an old man. One had to listen to dying people, and promise them anything they wanted you to. Of that moment I remembered only one commission:

“Avenge your sister’s murder. Kill the one who dishonored her virtue, who took away the man she was to wed. He drove her insane. Gabriella is innocent.”

His grasp on my hand was so tight that it hurt. I nodded through my tears, reluctantly drawing away as the priests recited the extreme unction. When he was asked if he repented of his sins, Papa replied, “Except for the order I gave Isabella. I want her to take another’s life.” The witnesses burst into tears at this confession, certain that there would be no salvation for his soul. However, Papa only nodded, and then died.

Just like now, with the Ave Maria in the background, lending an air of holiness to the grim occurrence. It is near dark outside, and the sisters are just ending their lengthy prayers. The setting sun cast long, golden shadows in the sparse room. The poisoned wine, spilling from the fallen goblet, glittered, a few droplets staining the rough wooden floorboards.

“I should not have trusted you. A little trickster,” he smiled, though I thought he would be angry. “But man is foolish, Isabella. How true did your words prove when you said that no matter how titled, man will be man. He will maim if only to rise above others, destroy in order to possess. He is a horrendous specie, a terrible example of what should have been God’s noblest creation.”

“I do not want to believe you are so. Tell me Papa had made a mistake, and so have I.”

“A daughter must not talk of her father like that,” he let out a wretched laugh. “Remember, we are but the pawns of fortune. I am ready to die, happy that you are my executioner.”

I did not want to kill him, I realized at the last minute. Even though he destroyed my family, cursed though I be to say this, the desire to hurt was no longer there. The months I spent with him taught me to see that there was so much more to life than just hatred and pretension. Our acquaintance began with both wary of the other, but ended with trust, even to the point of death. After my sister, he was my first friend. I had learned to love him, but the promise to Papa lay heavy in my heart.

“Why only now, Isabella? Why did you wait? You might have killed me early on in our understanding, and then enjoyed the fruits of your labour.”

“My spirit was weak. I wanted to be assured that we would go together.” I just noticed that his dagger was actually of very beautiful make, gilt and curved at the hilt. “I do not want to die alone.” He did not stop me from taking the weapon, and even unsheathed it for me. “Everyone is afraid of that which is unknown, but a companion is a great comfort that abates the fear.”

“You would like to go together, then?”

The blade slid in very easily, so sharp that it did not even hurt. His head was settled on my lap, and upon it dripped tiny droplets of blood as red as the spilt wine. “We might sing a song to lull us into quicker sleep.”

“The sisters will be back before long.”

“No,” I replied, leaning my head against the bed frame. The last few words of the chanted prayers drifted to my ears. They had become so familiar in the course of the month since I had sought shelter in the convent. By and by, it became more difficult to breathe, and the pain now came sharply. I felt Roderigo’s hand slip from mine. When one of the novices comes with supper, the matter shall be known. What a scandal there will be. But it did not matter. Nothing mattered anymore.

The bells were struck again. I pitied the one assigned to the bell tower. No one would know how the accident had come about – whether or not we were really only victims. But perhaps the doctor would proclaim Roderigo murdered; in which case, the large mourning bells would have to be rung. The bell tower is a very pretty place for watching the city, yet even its charm is diminished by daily observation, so much the more when coupled with a dismal task.

...Sancta Maria mater Dei, ora pro nobis peccatoribus. Nunc et in hora mortis nostrae.

Will I be buried like Gabriella? Who will be left to bury me?

Now is no longer the time for earthly cares. I pushed these thoughts from my mind and instead watched Roderigo. He is still in the room. He will not leave without me. I heard him whisper, and he said that we were going to be free.

...

Hello there! Thank you for reading this little piece. It’s my first short story, so I’m still trying to get the hang of writing in this genre. Please REVIEW!!! All comments and suggestions are very much welcome.

Love lots,

springsummer :)