Rosalind - Amby Awards 2023 TOP PICK

29- Bird Song

Rosalind used to associate dawn with the song of birds. Larks would sometimes perch on the trees outside her bedroom feeding a melody to the new day as though the morning was a babe in need of nourishment. But ever since her arrival at the lord's manor, she had heard no bird song.

The day broke in clusters of gray over a struggling blue and orange horizon. Back home Rosalind would have been able to see the colors of the new day. She had to remind herself that she was no longer home.

The window of her room bore a grim painting of the outside. When Rosalind stood by it, she saw nothing but fresh white snow in her line of vision. Even the trees were covered from the continuous fall of last night. Brown bark and branches masqueraded as icicles.

There was a deathly silence inside the manor, even the flames in the fireplace created no sound. Rosalind felt as though she were in a crypt, hushed by the finger of death.

When Lord Caspian strode into Rosalind's line of vision, she turned her full attention his way. Her eyes narrowed as the beast walked with an air of arrogance. Upon his face was a look of perpetual anger, one Rosalind had seen up close. A shudder ran through her when the lord looked up and caught her gaze.

Caspian's long sword rested at his side. His black attire appeared to be painted on showing off whatever curve God or the Devil had gifted him. Through the shoulder blades of the black cloak dragging in the deep snow, his inky wings plumed forth then wrapped around his shoulders, the fine tips resting at wrist-length. Though there was little light to illuminate Caspian's hair, it still showed silver. The spikes on his head were a crown fit for a cursed king.

Agnes words hailed over Rosalind, words the maid had told her the day she arrived. "Some of us are made rotten, some are born. I do not know where he sits, but if being an aberration of God's good name was a throne, he would be king."

Caspian's eyes shone. They were gems conjured out of glacier's blue. Rosalind's jaw clenched when the beast did not break the gaze.

Caspian stood still. If he held breath in his chest there was nothing to show at that moment to make it rise and fall. Only when he reached for his sword and touched the hilt did Rosalind break the stare and look away. When she looked back up, he was gone.

Her breath came out rapidly on the glass. When Rosalind turned away, the name written the night before broke through the condensation and ghosted the window.

Tumbling to the floor, the butterflies in her belly came to life and flew around like caged lions desperately wanting to escape. Bile rose in her throat yet when she doubled over, nothing came out of her empty stomach. Trembling fingers gripped the stones of the floor, they curled around the slight anomalies in the cracks that fused them together. Rosalind's nails scraped the floor as she heaved again. Tears of frustration burned. And inside her brain, the sight of Caspian burned harshest of all.

In his own room, Troy began to stir out of sleep. His thoughts of Rosalind may have been a small seed last night, but by the morning they had grown. In his dream, he saw her come to him, a tangle of roses in her hair, the scent wafting over to him, driving him into a sensation he had never felt before. Troy knew of love and lust from the other boys he had as friends before the snowfall. The young lads had described their encounters, some in romantic and some in lewd ways. Though Troy never had any experience of either, the painful ache southward told him this was what they were talking about.

Troy groaned. The ache in his groin was painful yet not like the horrid torment coming from shifting from a wolf to a person. This was a welcomed pain.

Troy gripped the fur of his warm covers and buried his face in the lingering scent Rosalind had left behind. Rolling to the side, the young lord pulled the covers with him, cocooning himself within. His body was hot, burning. Clean sweat dotted his bare skin. Slipping one hand under the covers, Troy shuddered when he felt himself glide into his awaiting palm.

He squeezed his eyes shut. Small, feral sounds broke the otherwise silence of his room as Troy thrust into his hand.

Shaky, Rosalind stood. The cool water in the porcelain basin was welcomed. Soon, she began to relax, her breathing calming down, the tremble in her fingers subsiding. "God damned beast," she hissed. Grabbing the towel she dabbed the droplets of water away.

The eerie silence looked at her like a waif in the corner then shattered, it tore towards the sky like a hundred magpies when the sound of someone gasping broke through.

Curiously, Rosalind exited her room. Logic told her not to, but she headed towards the sound anyway, following the groans as though they were breadcrumbs.

Her hand glided over the stone walls, over the parts that had been made smoother by years of the lord's own hand.

Rosalind wondered if someone was crying or of they were being hit since the sounds alternated from whimpers to desperate moans.

Tiptoeing closer, Rosalind found herself standing outside of the violin room. The door was shut tight. Someone was inside so she dared not try and open it. The sound intrigued her so she touched her ear to the door and listened.

Troy's hand was slippery as he bucked within it. His other hand reached above and gripped the headboard so hard he heard it cracking with every jerk. Oblivious to the noises escaping his lips, his cries became louder until they trickled outside and found Rosalind's curious ears.

"He is not weeping, nor is he being hit," she said to herself. "He is..." Rosalind pressed her ear to the door harder, contemplating what was happening before she understood. "Oh, good God he is-" Her words and thoughts stolen away by the deep, guttural moan of orgasm.

The scent of roses grew around Troy as he came. A blissful, calming scent. Yet as he lay, sticky and wet, he felt an unbearable shame. His body shuddered as he curled up in a ball and began to weep.

Rosalind backed away from the door. The sound of crying putting confusion and shame in her own soul. "What am I doing?"

She turned on her heel and ran back to her room with her heart racing.

On the outskirts of the Borgo Pass a little lark perched on a branch and began to sing. But it was too far away for Rosalind to hear. All that echoed in her mind now was that of a private moment she had trespassed on, and sinfully enjoyed.  

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