In Passionate Immortality Elisabetta and Abram come together in their rooms of splendor. After an evening of searching for their nightly need of orgy and blood throughout the country, the castle is their retreat. The room they are in drips with accusations, sarcasm, passionate hate, like the blood that drips from the ravaged victims they left to die in the dark.
“Generations, nearly seven centuries you have kept me in the realms of the undead, Abram. ABRAM! Is that not poetic and ironic? Did you know that Abram in Hebrew means ‘Father of Many’?” He sits calmly in a high backed chair of velvet, sipping his wine while she paces the room.
“And father of many I am, my dear,” he replies calmly in his eloquent voice. “They roam the hills and countryside, seeking their own way, existing because I saved them from the cruelty of life, Elisabeta.” She laughs hysterically. “And me? Why do you keep me around, FATHER?”
“You, my dear, keep me entertained, excited, vibrant, and alive with passion!” he heatedly whispers in roughness and tormented emotions.
“Alive!” Her shrill laughter echoes around the huge room and out into the halls, ringing off the cold stone walls of the ancient castle.
“And what does your name mean, my dear? Hmmm…? Elisabetta, ‘God is my Oath’, or ‘Pledged to God’. Now tell me how ironic is that? ME! You are pledged to ME, Elisabeta. You give your oath to ABRAM!”
He sips his blood-red wine, then studies his long, beautiful nails. A feeling he hates stirs within him, a feeling of love and memories. He gazes into the fire with black eyes that for an instant soften and turn blue, then with a burst of violence throws the wine glass on the hearth. He thunders out in pain, “Do you think you are the only one with regrets, with a life lost, with memories and hopes for love, REAL love?” He rises from the chair, his tall body shaking in rage as she shrinks back in fear. His voice softens and drips with sarcasm.
“Elisabetta, my dear, love is only for the ones who live in dreams of hope. PASSION! Passion is what we exist in and for. The passion of excitement, of the dark, the terror we incite, the creatures we create or the victims we consume, and the passion of FIRE in our bed of furs and silk. Enough! I am bored with this combat. Come to me, my dear, let us stir our passions together and let the fires burn within us.”
He holds out his hand and she almost reaches for him in a moment of compassion and an aching need in herself. Then quickly she turns away and stares at the shattered glass he threw down. She bends and starts to pick up the pieces and pricks her finger on a broken shard. She stares at the dark redness, then licks the blood that drips to her wrist. “I will sit here awhile and lament.”
“For WHAT? Why should you lament – for that handsome mortal of what you call a man of God? He is NOTHING! He will become nothing if I have my way.” Darkness of evil covers his face.
Passionate Immortality ~
She rises to her feet and approaches him so fast it throws him off balance. “NO! He is mine! Mikael is mine and you will not touch him, NEVER!” She snarls and hisses at him as he regains composure, his hand powerfully encircling her wrist as she was about to strike him with her sharp nails that could cut deep.
“Oaths!”, he hisses back. “We have our oaths and what is yours I will not touch. But, know this, Elisabetta, he will never be yours in love. Once he knows what you truly are he will flee in terror and disgust!” He pulls her close and covers her lips with his mouth. “Mikael is yours, YOU are mine”, he rasps with deep passion and desire.
The passion overcomes her and she frantically grabs his face for more kisses then clings to him and clutches at his clothes as he carries her to the bedroom.
© Copyright 2016 All Rights Reserved Phyllis Doyle Burns
Watch for the next showing of the passionate story of Take Me If You Will – Part Three, coming soon to The Creative Exiles.
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