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With Ribbons in her Hair
The moon was a constant presence in his life. A fat-bellied monster that hung lopsided in the sky, milky and pitted. In the evenings, when he pulled the feathers from his throat and loosed the black ribbon from his face it’s vibrancy at his balcony window mocked him in resplendency.
Jackal, he often raged, misadventure, temptress.
She came to him when he closed his eyes.
Days would pass, lingering, until he slept.
He kept a scrap of ribbon in his pocket; sky blue. Blooming like a summer’s day. It reminded him of her. He often wrapped it around his fingers to feel the silken thread. It was her hair, fiery locks, or the hollow of her throat which smelt of morning mists in the forest.
The scar on his hand burned.
Wake, she whispered. His eyes were heavy. His knuckles were violet from fighting.
The invitation had arrived weeks ago. A wedding. A sister he barely remembered. A mansion he had been forbidden to go to. His father railed, cursing any destiny that could bring a Merryweather and a De Noir together.
Wandering the woods at midday, his body hungry for midsummer madness, his footsteps would dog where she had once wondered. Hands ached to pull her close against him.
The ribbon, sky blue, pulsed in his pocket.
Her voice as all around him, urging him forward until the house, once so forbidden to him loomed like that same ugly moon. Moonacre. Secrets. Lies.
“Robin?” She asked.
He lingered in the trees, obscured. She came to him like the tide.
She met his eyes. He did not speak. She looked away. “Why did you come here?”
“My father—” he stammered. “—I cannot come any closer…”
“My uncle was married a fortnight ago,” she explained.
“Maria…” Her name on his lips was prayer.
She continued, unphased. “We sent you an invitation. We had hoped you and your father would come. Loveday had hoped…”
His hand reached out for anything that would steady him. Anything that would keep him tethered to the sanctuary of the wood. “I cannot go further than this.”
She took a few long strides until she stood before him. He could see the delicate lines of her face now. “I shall come to you, then.”
The ribbons in her hair were a creamy opalescent.
“Are you alright, Robin?”
He tried to explain. “I have not slept.”
She reached up to his face. Stroked his bruised cheeks. “How many nights?”
He swallowed hard. Her touch was a balm to him. “I have lost count.” He shakily stepped forward until his forehead touched hers.
“Is this why you stayed away?”
They breathed each other in.
“I’m, here aren’t I? I could not stay away.”
“I don’t want to fight.” She took another step toward him and her body melted against his.
“I can’t just forget,” he stroked her back, fingers tangling in her hair. Her skin soft like water against his body.
Her lips found his throat. “Don’t forget.”
His head fell back, accommodating her. “I can’t just forget about the history between our two families. You are a Merryweather,” he swallowed hard. “A Moon Princess.” She rose up on her tippytoes and took his earlobe into her mouth. He moaned. “I am the De Noir heir.”
“I know you care for me.”
He was unraveling before her. “I…”
“Nothing else matters but this.”
“…I”
She took his hand. Led him to the cool shade farther in the forest. The creatures of the woods delighted in her. Doves quieted in the trees. Far off, a white unicorn grazed.
“I’m sorry,” he told her, head hung low.
She pardoned him with her smile. “Someday you will take my hand…”
“Maria,” he pressed.
“… And you’ll follow me up the stairs into Moonacre…”
“Maria,” he whispered.
“Someday I’ll show you the tower, and,” her eyes darted away. “My room. Until then,” she sat upon the ground and beckoned him to follow her. Coaxing him until he stretched out against the grass and moss and laid his head in her lap. Her hands pulled his hair back; fingers massaging the ache at his temples. “Sleep,” she whispered. “You need to rest.”
His hands reached for the softness of her skirts.
“Sleep as long as you need.”
He fell asleep to her smile and the soft curling of ribbons in her hair.