Isabella spoke in soft tongue;
she could lullaby the fiercest of predators.
Her words, however, could poison the last man's blood to fatal lengths.
Without her callous charm, her and I would have never been royal lovers.
"Cursed you - you wretched warrior - to the depths; to the abyss with you,"
she would reiterate to herself, as she stood in the shady corner of our bedroom.
I witnessed a glimmering tear, as she strenuously heaved her pride apart.
Isabella fell to her knees, incomplete.
What was I to do? Seek help, or let time heal all wounds?