The Pain that Made Her Beautiful

PMHB 40

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Marcus was not ready to be rejected. He ran after Nayeli, though if this was her answer to the question he had wanted to ask, he would not force her to go against her own will. He followed her, but she was fast. Her sandals were well made, of course, but they were not that easy to run in as one might think. He bounded after her as fast as he could muster. He went through the trees and, coming out on the other side, he saw Nayeli standing in the center of the meadow. Her hair was down, not braided, not in the fashionable hair-do’s of the Roman style, just plain, and extraordinarily beautiful. A slightly stronger breeze shook the branches, wild flowers, and blades of grass. The scene seemed so perfect it couldn’t be true: as the breeze came, the white fluffs on the white dandelions let loose and seemed to encircle Nayeli as she put her arms straight out to her sides and began twirling around, her face raised to the heavens, her eyes closed, and the most angelic smile he had ever seen in his life plastered on her lips. She looked to be as though she were a painting that danced, for only the artist’s skilled imagination could think up something so… perfect.

As the breeze began to die down, Marcus strode to the center of the glade and, to Nayeli’s obvious surprise, took her hand, and forced her to look at his eyes as he knelt on one knee. He had seen this done once before in the market place by a man to his lady.

Marcus lowered his head as he spoke, “Nayeli, I know that this has been an awful experience for you in the time that you have learned who you are and that the empire wants you more as an asset than a queen,” he raised his head and looked at Nayeli’s eyes, hoping to see just a small glint of affection, “Nayeli, I know that you know nothing about me, and I don’t expect you to want to agree to my acquisition, however I wish for you to be willing, of your own accord, in compliance to this arrangement. What I mean to say is, I, Marcus Jarlath Aloysius Vespasian, am formally asking, personally seeking, and hoping that you, Nayeli Francesca Caesar Isis Ammon, would accept my offer of my hand in marriage to be my wife.”

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Nayeli was speechless. It seemed as though it had been an eternity since she had heard her full name used. There was a so much power to be heard in one name. Her ancestors and relatives, Cleopatra, queen and last pharaoh of Egypt, and her lover and liaison Emperor Gaius Julius Caesar, both of their cultures highly present in her time defying name: her Roman roots with Julius Caesar and her Egyptian roots with Cleopatra. For Marcus to know her name, he truly must have delved deeply into her life’s history. There was little known about the girl named Nayeli, also called Rose. Most people just assumed that she was an unwanted child, and her birth came from a consummating action outside of wedlock. There was so much to be said of her dark hair that went past her waist, and her amber eyes, which seemed to glow in the process of defiance. These were some or the many things she heard whispered after her in the market place whilst she had still worked in the Deangelo household.

She looked into Marcus’ eyes and saw those gentle green windows to his very soul looking back at her. There was so much kindness and tender understanding within them that Nayeli knew immediately that she would be able to spend the rest of her life with him. This man would be—but, Nayeli, don’t forget, Thanos will always haunt you. You belong to him, you are his, and will remain such. It will not be Marcus’ face you will see on your wedding night, but Thanos’. You are his.