3. Prior d'Argo

Prior d'Argo

  • I

    With every step every patron took in synchronization, the chandelier of the room below vibrated with growing agitation. Prior glanced up in irritation, his tired, glassy eyes glaring at the trembling fixture. The masquerade ball continued upstairs, graceful figures twirling and laughing, necking and whispering - each man and woman consumed in the jovial atmosphere of the ball. At the head of an impressive, ornamental banquet sat the two thrones for the lord and lady of the house. The lord sat slumped in his chair, his stein of mead resting in his lap, fat and content. But none noticed the lady of the house, would-be dressed in her flowing, elegant gown, was missing - none but Prior.
    He looked back down to the bed he loomed over, the frail, gaunt body of Lady Grendle looking up at him with tired affection. A film of sweat covered her freckled skin, and she heaved with each breath she struggled to take. But she looked up at him with warmth. She hardly moved, her hands trembling, laying in her sweat-soaked nightgown. A single oil-lantern provided what dim illumination was available. Prior’s graying hair was tied back behind his head, and held between his hands a brown, unlabeled bottle with a plunger in it - his knuckles white. He wore a humble, brown robe, and his worn, medical bag sat on the end of her bed. For a moment his brow creased, and he reached into his coat pocket to reveal a crumpled letter. Fumbling with the bottle still in his hands, he opened the letter and scanned it’ contents studiously. The letter entailed his paid career as her personal physician, having spent days and nights in their manor, trying to coax the life into her with the many chemicals and medicines he’d developed through his primary motivation as an apothecary. It referenced all the details that her husband, the Lord, already knew. The addendum to this letter contained the secret, however: the affair that blossomed in each others company, the affection that grew between them. It even mentioned their rejected plans to move her, take her away from her chambers for treatment, and seemingly more importantly a life to call their own. Lastly, before both the apothecaries and the ladies signatures were neatly signed, the letter detailed the plans for her death. A ritual that would finally, silently release her from the mortal coil - A gesture of truth to her husband, to his employer, and the only document to confirm their affair.
    A jovial cheer sounded from above that shook Prior’s attention once more. The paper trembled in unison with his hand as he folded it again; dropping it pointedly on the bed she lay on. His solemn look returned quickly, and the sigh that would be was stifled when she uttered a near inaudible whisper. “Prior - I’m ready.” The words of assurance she gave him proved little comfort, and tears welled in his eyes. A weight stuck in his throat and he struggled to breathe without whimpering.
    She offered a sweet smile that clashed with her sickly appearance. “Remember what you told me, Prior. Take comfort in those words.” He nodded feverishly, his shedding tears falling down his face, but his face contorted and it was clear at this moment he doubted it. Her perspiration-caked eyelids slid closed a moment, and she frowned as she heaved another breath. “Death is to be respected,” she whispered, “and a lesson to be learned by all.”
    Prior was stilled. His frown slid away and though he still teared, his face seemed calm and content. She had learned what he had tried to convince her of all this time, warmth that existed in a religion of pestilence and depravity - another side to every coin. She offered another smile, and beckoned him with a gesture of her hand, though only barely. He knelt, and leaned in to her, clasping the bottle as if in prayer. She exerted what strength she still carried, and leant to his ear, whispering so quietly none would hear but him. Prior shut his eyes tight, his face blushing red as he clearly struggled to keep his cries within him. He wept, both silently and furiously, his hands still tightly clutching the maroon bottle. She hushed him and cupped his head with her slender hand. He was paralysed for a time, stuck in a cycle of snapped up breathes and hopeless whines, all juggled between the weeping that consumed him.
    Time had passed, the dance upstairs had changed. She lay still, her head tilted back towards the head of the bed. The maroon bottle lay spilled by her side, the plunger as well. Prior sat away from the bed with his back to the wall. His hair had been pulled out of its pony tail, and he sat staring at the ground, his hand gripping the length of his hair. His eyes were both tearless and glazed, and he stared at the ground with a stoic, borderline neurotic stare. Prior held his hands in front of him, the outline of his palms blurring. He was calm. Picking himself up Prior silently walked over to the bed of Lady Grendle, calmly collecting the spilled bottle and plunger, sealing the lid once more and placing it carefully away within his bag. He folded the leather over and strapped the bag closed, hoisting it over his shoulder and taking only a moment to gaze over his dead love before heading for the door.
    As he reached for the handle a spark lit in the back of his mind. It caused him to pause and frown with dubious consideration. A sensation spread through him that narrowed his eyes and let him turn from where he stood, glancing back and suspiciously eyeing the letter at the foot of the bed. His movements were quick, confident even, and in only a moment the letter was taken and the door slammed sharply behind him. The lantern blew out.


  • Locked, exp pending

    mnd