Newgate Church and Cemetary, Winter 1851
Joshua, 2nd Prince of Cheville stood like a dark, silent, marble statue at the back of the room. His hands clasped together and his black, coal eyes were cast downward to the floor, unseeing. He was oblivious to the pompous old fool of the Bishop of Highcastle droning on about how special she was. As if he had any idea how special she had been. As if he had any idea. As if he had ever spent time with her. He didn't know her fears. Or her loves. What made her laugh. As if he knew who killed her.
The people in front of him were beginning to shuffle away. Quickly Joshua bent his head and slipped away from the crowd, careful to conceal his identity.
Every step he took away from that room, he drifted further away from his ghost, past self. He was no longer that bright, happy, golden prince that he had been with her. His hair, once a light, golden red had turned crimson, blood red and his eyes had darkened from a light oak brown to a bitter, dark black. His mouth was curved downwards in a permanent grimace.
His skin was paper white, a million shades from his formerly golden suntan from glorious days gone by, spent in the golden fields of Highgate. His expression was one of disappointment and grief. He carried himself like an old man, his lean shoulders heavily burdened.
His young, bruised hands were numb with the pain of smashing the palace mirrors in a fit of rage. He couldn't bear to look in the mirror and see his shadow of himself staring back at him. It was almost like he could see the cold, hard truth in his eyes and face. The truth. A palace without her. A world without her. A future without her.
Hurrying down the stairs, two steps at a time, he knew then and there he would seek his revenge. He would wreck havoc on whoever had caused him this unbearable grief and pain. He would unleash every power he had and he would seek revenge. He would get justice. For her. His brother would regret what he had done.
Obrigado pela leitura!
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