The Bridge

Her footfalls were soft, barely audible beneath the numbing sleet that slay the surrounding streets and buildings; drowned out further by the occasional carriage wheels and horse hooves pelting against the sand embedded cobblestones. It was a bitter coldness that fell upon London this evening, and it came not only from the miserable weather. It emanated from something so innocent and fragile looking as a delicately built young woman, dressed in finery that indicated considerable wealth, striking in appearance when considered against the darkening, river misted dreariness of her surroundings.

During particular times in her life, this sort of behaviour, (that being, strolling unchaperoned through the streets after dark) had been unequivocally forbidden, but well, that had not always prevented her from covertly indulging in it anyway, and now…now who was going to reprimand her for it?

No one. That was who. No one.

Which brings us to the matter at hand once again, the bitter iciness of this seemingly benign young woman, who had craved so much, to shed the proper etiquette expected of her, break all the rules and just revel in the freedom of her rebellious antics, and yet yearned also, for the approval and affection of those masculine authorities that once laid down those laws she'd abided by. (When they were observing her anyway!)

Her newfound freedom didn't feel like freedom at all. What it felt like, was a wretched abandonment. The notion that she could have been so cherished and precious one day, and then thoughtlessly discarded the next…

Oh, at first, she had been stunned and confused, then the sorrow and self-pity came. Her lament so profound that it appeared fathomless as she drowned in it. Missing his stern and fierce dominance over her even, but mostly, the paternal way he often regarded her, and that strange, slightly arousing glance he would sometimes cast towards her.

Had she wanted him? Or been repulsed by him? Mayhap they were inexplicably intermingled, and it shall always remain as such…

Agonized, after flinging herself at her lord, Kephertheres, astride on his majestic stallion in desperation for him to stay, she had fled castle Teufelmont, (Which she always considered slightly vulgar despite its lavish, opulent, decor) in a bitter and resentful rage, and returned home, to London, to her father’s estate to which she still, after all these years, carried a key.

The estate looked exactly how she felt when she arrived there. Neglected, abandoned, run down; but she entered it anyway, if not for anything more than just simply to be among his things, to find something that smelled of him, to carry with her and remind herself always, of him.

And it was that thing, that very, simple, small thing…not quite a trinket, but beautiful and gleaming in her eyes nonetheless, that had snapped her out of her melancholy as rapidly as she had sunk into it.

And now the cold wasn't the only thing biting at her...

She had her keepsake with her now, clutched tightly in her little fist as she entered the North tower and began climbing the seemingly endless amount of stairs that would inevitably lead her to the top of the tower bridge.

It was a slight relief to be temporarily out of the weather, though, by now, she was drenched and probably appeared rather sad and pathetic; perhaps anyone who saw her might think she were intending to jump, or perhaps that she had lost her sanity in pursuit of a spectacular view of the river Thames, albeit during an inopportune moment indeed.

But that wasn't her intention at all.

Written by Karen J. R. Smith