STORY STARTER
Inspired by Emira
Two people from warring kingdoms have fallen in love.
If you've ever wanted to write your own take on a classic romance trope, now's your chance. Which elements of this genre will you explore to make your story unique?
Ribbon
Rosalin could hardly breathe, her heart felt as if it would beat out of her chest as she waited under the marble arch. Every sound set her on edge. The slightest brush of the wind against the stones or the flutter of a bird wingreminded her of the soldiers that had been marching through her village.
The war had started long before she was born—if one could call the endless slaughter of Tallians a war. She had long grown accustomed to the threats of the soldier’s that invaded the village.
She had never cared much for the pale faces of the boys and men that marched these streets but lately she had begun to hate them, to wring her hands and avert her eyes when they passed.
She kept her gaze alert, her fingers tangled in the dark fabric of her dress, twisting and untwisting.
The sound of steps crunching down the path toward her hidden spot under the arch had her heart sinking in her chest, but it once again rose when she saw the face peeking through the ivy, the emerald eyes that met hers.
Rosalind threw herself into his arms immediately clinging to the rough wool of his gray shirt and felt his thick arms wrap around her waist.
Her breath was a desperate sound, as desperate as she felt as he held her for a lingering moment longer in his warm embrace.
He was reluctant to let go and she could tell as she slipped away from his grasp. Her arms held still to the rough forearms, reluctant herself to let him slip away.
Gabreel held her gaze for a silent, aching moment. His emerald eyes, his pleated brow, his plush lips in a parted frown echoed the grief she felt in her own sinking heart.
“I can’t stay long,” he murmurs in a scratchy baritone.
“I know,” she says quickly, irritated at the state of their meeting, the futility of their inevitable separation.
He reaches out, his thumb brushing against the curve of her cheek bone as gentle as a flower petal in the wind. She sighs at his touch.
“I must leave the village,” he says softly. She knows that too, so she nods.
The mother superior at the temple had announced, by orders of the Prince himself, all Tallians who did not adorn themselves in the color and symbol of the Lady of Night would be persecuted and put to death in the morning.
Rosalin clings now to his arms, fingertips pressing in hard, pleading clear in her face. She looked over his face as if attempting to burn it into her very memory. The caramel colored skin, the dark waves of hair that framed his forehead, the thick shadow of his facial hair that carved away the shape of his hard jaw would remain an imprint behind her eyelids every time she blinked. She knew if she was cut open, the same image would etched across her heart.
She pleads with him through her sighs, through the slow tilt of her head, the soft press of her lips against him. He holds tight to her waist, sucking in a breath as he leans into her kiss.
The mark of the lady of night would easily accomplished with a dark ribbon around his arm.
She knew how this would play out. She would beg him to tie a dark ribbon around his arm, get on with his days. He would argue with her, that he would not forsake his people, he would not forsake the titans and their jagged mountain faces, that he loved her but he would much rather die.
She fought the ideas as he kissed her deeply, softly, with such grace and tenderness that did not match his rough, worker’s hands.
He would run and she would beg him to stay or she would beg him to let her leave with him.
He pulled her closer. She sank deeper into his grasp, into his kiss.
He would argue that a noblewoman like her had no business going where he went. She’d argue that she’d never truly life without him.
In the end he would stay in the village and she would return to her father’s castle. But no one would notice the torn fabric at the end of her dress, and no one would glance twice at the Gabreel as he got on with the frayed makeshift ribbon tied on his arm.