On the Other Side

By Amber Michelle K.
myaru@etherealvoid.net

This is not meant to be taken seriously. That's why I wrote it this way. :P Inspired by 30_kisses, but dropped later because, while writing this, I found a theme I liked better.

She was a fair lady, and he was a simple servant at the manor next door. His work often took him to the west wall during the worst heat of the day, when the sun was overhead searing the garden with her gaze. It was his favorite part of the garden to tend because it allowed him a tantalizing glimpse of /her/ every now and again when her whim brought her out onto the balcony.

The /snip snip/ of his blade slicing through stem and branch, and the sharp, earthy smell of crushed leaves and newly cut stems were both oppressive and intimately familiar. His life had been confined within the walls of the manor and he wondered if the hanging vines and rosebushes of her garden would yield the same scents, should he work there instead. She seemed to prefer white blossoms and soft pinks, and yellow to match her hair. He thought they fit her, what seemed a gentle disposition to him when he peered over the wall, but he did not know why.

Strains of music drifted from afar. It was her hands at the keys, playing a melody as familiar to him as her pale face. He paused in the shade to listen, hidden in the far corner where he couldn't be seen idling, and fingered the flute tucked in his belt thoughtfully.

She hadn't always played this tune. It was his, he'd thought, something buried in the shadows of his memory, perhaps the legacy of the father he never knew. He gave it life with his flute on nights when the full moon shone and he could see his way to this end of the garden. It was after the first night he laid eyes on her, months ago, that she began playing it too.

He'd always believed in Fate. He also knew Destiny was a cruel mistress.

Silence hung heavily in the air, suddenly; she had stopped playing while he was lost in his thoughts. He scrambled up the tree, up to the first branch that arched over the wall, thicker than two men across, and waited there, hidden by a fan of leaves, eyes riveted to the balcony. He was afraid for a moment he'd waited too long, but no - she appeared a few moments later, fanning herself with a dainty thing of white lace, to lean on the rail and gaze down at her garden.

There was never anyone else with her. Though he'd watched, he had never seen anyone in the garden, and indeed it seemed to be in bad condition, wild in some places and longing for a caring hand. There were whispers and rumors as to why such a lady lived on her own, talk of curses and dark things. He couldn't believe them when confronted by such a lovely sight.

She would leave soon, when the heat became too much - she always did. And he had never said a word, though they welled up in his throat, damming up behind his closed lips whenever he watched her turn away and retreat into the house. He was a simple servant, and knew nothing of her but the music and her radiant countenance, but he did not want to remain silent forever. She had played his song since that night in the garden, and he believed in Fate.

He pulled the flute out with trembling hands and held it to his lips. There wasn't much time. He tried twice and failed to summon any sound, and it was only when she had turned her back, ready to disappear for the day, that he managed to play.

She paused, framed by the narrow doorway, only the edge of her white skirts still peeking into the sunlight. His perch felt unsteady, but he could only continue to play and hope it wasn't just a dream that had led him here, the hope of a lowly servant stretching his hand too far.

His melody faded slowly until there was only silence again. The lady didn't leave, which he took as a fair sign, but she was too still, too quiet. What else could he do but play? He watched, strained to see her face half-hidden by the doorframe, and she edged out.

"Are you... still there?"

This was the first time she had spoken to him and his breath caught in his throat, a shiver on his spine. It was new to him, and yet he was not surprised by the whispy quality of her voice, or the odd intonation of her words. Perhaps she had spoken before, and he just couldn't recall.

She bit a rosy lip, expression sliding into doubt, and withdrew a bit until only her eyes peeked out.

"I-I'm here." He cursed himself for a fool. Was she frightened? If she left, he would never be able to summon the courage to speak again.

Her eyes found his hiding place among the branches and searched. "Where?"

Dare he be so bold? Now that she had spoken to him it seemed the right thing to do; he shifted on his perch and slid over the wall, dropping to the wild grass below. The wall was high, but unkept on her side, and crumbling in enough places that he could climb back up. He straightened slowly and met her gaze over the rail, flute held tightly in both fists like an offering, proof of his identity. "Will you come down?"

She hesitated, still half hidden in the shadow of the doorway. "I really shouldn't."

There was a pang in his chest. He tried again, striving to keep his voice smooth. "Please? Only once." And perhaps again next time, he couldn't help thinking, should he have the courage to make himself known.

She was gone in a patter of footsteps, without a word. He couldn't swallow a sound of dismay but he waited, watching the door, and tucked the flute away so his grip wouldn't break it. It was a great risk he had taken, he realized now. If she was not alone, if the others found out he had climbed over the wall, it would not go well for him. He glanced at up at the branch and wondered if he should hurry back up.

His gaze was drawn back at the opening of a door, and the lady dashed to the shade of the tree he sheltered beneath, skirts held up to show her pale ankles, and paused at the edge to catch her breath. She hesitated to come close, and he kept his distance out of respect.

He bowed after a moment when words refused to come. It was fitting for such a lady, whose radiance was not dimmed at all by the loss of the sun.

"Have we met before?"

He lifted his head to meet her gaze, much too bold, yet unable to resist. Her eyes were the shade of wisteria blooms, her skin pale like the roses she favored - and as soft when he, bolder still, stepped forward and reached to take her hand. "I believe in fate." It came to him unbidden when he leaned to kiss her petal soft skin. She blushed a becoming pink. "Sarah."