THE
UNINVITED GUEST
‘The Uninvited Guest’ by Eleanor Fortescue
Brickdale
H
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e was there again. As she turned
her head to glance back at Margaret, who was arranging her dress, she caught
sight of him. This time he was closer than before, seated at the foot of one of
the stone columns where he must have waited for her to pass by. So on this, her
wedding day, he had chosen to distract her with his unearthly presence. On this
most important day of her life, he was taking her mind off her flowers, her
dress, the ceremony... She pretended not to notice. The page preceding her
continued his slow march leading the newly married couple out of the church to
their celebrations and their destiny.
She had last seen him when they
read the banns. His expression was the same: desultory longing which he could
not conceal. There was an air of hopelessness about him. A lost soul, perhaps?
She knew, though, that he was watching her. No-one else. It seemed as though he
had unfinished business with someone. Was it with her?
She almost tripped, and her new
husband’s strong hand immediately took hold of her arm in a gentle, reassuring
grasp. She glanced up at him and met his proud, smiling gaze. The silk of her
dress rustled as it re-settled around her.
Another glance back confirmed her
suspicions: he was still there. He had risen to his feet and she saw the long
bow in his hand and the quiver full of silver-tipped arrows hanging from his
shoulder. His expression was both grim and sad.
She knew now that he was going to
kill her. She had recognised his identity. He was the Angel of Death about whom
so many stories were told. If only she
could have had a little more time. This was supposed to be the happiest day of
her life, not the last. Her husband was a good man. She did not know him very
well, but she had hoped for more time than this, for time to get to know his
body and his soul, to bear his children and perhaps even to love him...
She risked a final look, and saw
that he had fitted one of the arrows to the bowstring and was standing in the
classic manner of an archer, one foot forward, drawing back the string and
straining the curve of the weapon.
She stopped.
She closed her eyes.
She waited.
She alone heard the rush of the
arrow as it sped through the air towards her, its silver tip parting the molecules
of oxygen, its shaft vibrating.
As it pierced her heart she fell
against her husband and he took her in his arms. She felt the blood swelling,
rising in her body and falling again as it drained out of her face – yet not
out of her wound.
She opened her eyes as his lips
touched hers, and immediately realisation dawned. It had not been Death who had shot his arrow into her, but Love.
This little story was
inspired by the picture and written to submit to the Google+ Speculative Fiction
Writers community SFFFlash ‘Just For Fun’ weekly article. My thanks to them for
the inspiration!
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