~Victorian Mirage~

Clouds brew masking the starless firmament in a telltale sign of storm promised unfold. A struck of lighting over the midnight sky followed by the roared of thunder so strident as if the heavens had ripped a hole through the blacken plane. The sound of hoofs drummed over the stone slab road, the creak of carriage wheels, the harsh cry of riders and the swish of whip cracked the air. The dark water over the arc bridge was still, flocks of birds fluttering their wings.

Pigeons cooed; the howl of dog waffled through the murky lane align along various antique brick houses which haunts the death of grisly wars mere decades agoHushed whispers among the living brought by the surprisingly obedient wind,sly twinkles mirrored by warm sallow light of lamps peer among charcoal bushes destined for curious eyes to see ,only to vanish afterwards, like in a childish game of hide and seek Haste tapping sounds made their way through the stifled foggy air, graceful silhouettes dancing on the silent of the night, completing the woeful pastel with bittersweet motion. Like in a dance of tango,where two share the same stage,everything is in its rightful place. Garment of Victorian fashion shields the tender flesh of those chimeras,of those delicate angels concatenated after so many years in oil paintings and marble sculptures. ..Its an era of remembrance ,Robin. Said Peterson leading his cup of tea ,ornamentally decorated with crystal glistening pearls and blood red dragons ,to his lips after finishing another long and interesting discussion with his stubborn companion. Said man made a subtle disapproving gesture with his left hand while with the other one moved the black bishop out of the rivals queen way,a strategy already forming in his mind.May it be my friend,He said with a start while retracting his hand at the owners side But what is the value of all those riches ,of those flabbergasting prices and possessions when the only ones who can ,or better said,have the right to enjoy the bittersweet taste of a better life are us,the rich men.He finished looking intensely in Petersons eyes,blazing unseen fury burning behind those ebony eyes sending a shiver down his companions spine. The fire was roaring in the background oozing sweet melodic lullabies while licking with hunger at the offered wood.Rain droops started falling on the window seal dirtying the fragile glass with its purity.The entire landscape gave an eery feeling of tranquility,however,hollow. Peterson was at a loss for words.The fiery and heavy stare his companion has giving him,measuring his every reaction,even his breathing had him fidgeting like an infant under his fathers scolding.This is what Robin is capable of.He thought with amazement.

Those beautiful mesmerizing eyes ,that had broken so many hearts along the way,were piercing him,crushing him,making him succumb in fear for his life.He was a devil and an angel ,life and death himself.Peterson didnt want to imagine what would be like to compete with such a powerful man. Swallowing the lump in his throat Peterson tries to form coherent words.However the raven haired demon beat him to it. " What do you think ,my dear loyal friend,everytime you see the hunger and discouragement in your slaves eyes? When you see how are treated such pitiful creatures.with so much hate and disgust.Or better asked,what would Sir Walter Scott, Emily, Anne, and Charlotte Bronte, Anthony Trollope, George Eliot, Oscar Wilde think of such madness?I wonder The oil lamp that hung loosely off the stone walls send its eery glow,tipsy shadows tremblind in her wake.Outside ,the heavens attack grew frantic, shadowed trees undulate under the winds force ,blurry figures appearing and vanishing at once making you, for once, doubt you sanity. Doubt is a pain too lonely to know that faith is his brother.( Kahlil Gibran)It resounded in the ravens mind the same way ink does on water.Where have I heard this before? It was time to head home. Peterson was still thoughtful over Robins words.However he couldnt find reason as to why he must feel pity over slaves.They were just some filthy workers from the proletariat,the lowest category that society has come upon.He was kind enough to take a part of them,who looked like they could still walk, from those undermines where they would surely have died, now he should show them pity too?Just what is in Mister Voldergons mind? Pity..Heh.What a joke.Peterson thought with disgust marring his pale features. Drinking one more time from his ,now cold, green Japanese tea, Mr.Voldergon stands up from