Voiced // SHORT SERIES: Isabella V by Thomas Rivet [END OF SERIES]

I was slain.  It's simple, see -
the pain was very real, 
though the slayer mustn't have been, probably.
As I dragged my elbows across the castle yard, 
towards that who pierced me,
I discerned a silhouette,
it couldn't be my lady of the sunshine, could it?
Her stiff lips told more than it should.

She had debt, and then none,
as I was that which was to be let.
I and she had made few mistakes
in the last ten, maybe twenty years.
They were typically 'taken care' by me.
Then I weaved out of being wanted and unwanted;
by her, and our fortressed city.
Months and a dull decade until I was once more seen as city hero,
or even sober man. I wanted to leave it all behind, and start anew.
Isabella wanted to remain close to her Kingdom ... so do so, we did.

I owned a castle in the hills.  These hills were northerly, and 
farther than four by fourteen horizons, approximatively. 
It is 'yonder abode', see.

Regretfully, Isabella couldn't live with such an
unflattering man.
The sky was cloudy,
only the most determined beams of sunlight
made it through the wooden stables.
I tended to my steed, 
at which point, 
she must have seized my royal blade
in the armoury,
wandering and searching
for my head or knee, with killer prospects, 
she saw me, swung it self-indulgently
before my half-expecting eyes,
into my unprotected chest, 
inflicting a stream of red splatter
on the yellow hay bales nearest.

Isabella then traversed the varying landscapes
to mine fort; repressing her anger and anguish to detrimental extents,
provoking psychotic behaviour and a spiral of grief and denial. She regretted
doing the dirty deed. I nonchalantly noticed her transformation, 
typically twisting my see-through spirited self 
by path of gusts and gales
through the walls of 
my marvellous château.

An assassin
she has unintentionally become
and long denied to be ...
now I take fancy
in irregularly reminding her
what she did to me.

Voiced // SHORT SERIES: Isabella IV by Thomas Rivet

One evening, under a crimson skyline, Isabella ceased

her usual stroll from the muddy marshes.  Her movement
paused as she gawked at the two fungi-ridden towers

that stood at the entrance of our medieval-esque dwelling.
Isabella suddenly

felt disorientated - letting out a scream of agony,
as she pressed her fingertips

on her temples to alleviate the overwhelming pain.
She took the matter in her own hands; 

hurrying to our kitchenette -

stumbling and knocking herself against
the matured wooden stools and tables
that stood in her way.  Isabella fearfully
searched for any item or ingredient to
provide healing.
Isabella thought a ground-vegetable broth would resolve

the excruciating aching.  Despite her effort, it was of no avail.
She was overcome by her weakness ... and fell unconscious.

Days, weeks passed ...

Isabella rested - soon recovering from her
macabre fall, she then crawled to our bedroom after awakening, 
spending many fortnights under the bed sheets ...
thankfully, that is all it took to have her emerge, 
almost transcendently.

Particular events preceding our way to our yonder abode
were now carefully being pieced together, and
there were some discrepancies.