A New Romance!

irst, a note - I've got 12 days left in my writing marathon; I've written maybe 20,000 words since I started. And yet since last Friday, when our houseparty started, I've written close to 40,000 words! Unfortunately not all usable in the main story; though I've learned even more about Rose, Baha and Arcturus. It's such a freedom to write in a context and setting that's pre-defined, where all that's left is to throw your characters in with those of other writers (like Claire's!), and have them interact with each other. All sorts of adventures, brawls, tender moments and frightening scenes take place.

Speaking of romance, here's a scene from Rose and Lord Rochester's ongoing passion, which is going to be nipped in the bud soon. They have a few hours left together at the houseparty and then, as far as they know, they will be parting for the rest of their lives...

The garden was silent.
From beyond its edges came calls and shouts, the laughter of their friends, a shouted curse that sounded like Nathan's voice. Yet any sound that filtered through the rose bushes was muted, and no breeze stirred, leaving them in an arbour all their own. The two of them - and across the fountain, Laura Grace, with Austin and Kedi.
Each minute seemed to be an hour long.
One minute to memorise his features; the length of his nose, the dip in the centre of his lips, the lines around his eyes, the slight, very slight cleft in his chin.
Another minute with his lips resting on hers, no movement at all, and one shared breath between them.
One last minute with her head on his shoulder and his arms holding her up in the world.
Long minutes without words.
But then, he wasn't a man to be silent. His wit, his laughter; she needed his words as well.
"Tell me a story, please, John," she asked.

***

"What kind of story would you like, love?" He kissed her in the hollow behind her ear.
"One with sailing ships." She let her hands roam where they would, along his arms, across his chest; as though she had sculpted him and was now smoothing out the last lines.
He began, "Once upon a time, nearly a hundred years before my time and a hundred years after yours, there was a Queen on the Throne of England, Queen Elizabeth. The virgin queen, they called her."
Before she could frown or even blink, he continued, "Though I doubt that very much; I believe she must have had one man, one passion, so great that she kept it hidden from the eyes of the world, so that none should see her soul splinter when he left the circles of the earth for the last time."
His fingers stroked her hair, her jaw, her nape, as he told the story. "The Spanish, I'm afraid, as Catholics, considered the Protestant rule of England to be a heresy. It was her own half-brother Philip that launched a plan to overthrow her rule. He set an armada of one hundred and thirty ships to sail for England. The English navy fought them, on the beaches and on the landing grounds, they sent fire ships against them and harried them into the Northern waters, where storms raged and and the waves rose against them, and nearly half the ships were lost. Philip, when he heard of their fate, said only, 'I sent the Armada against men, not God's winds and waves'.
"Many men landed on the coasts of Ireland, Scotland, and the Isle of Man, their ships broken beyond repair. Bereft of aid, the men stayed behind, took up women among the villagers as their wives, and never saw Spain again."
"Saudade," she whispered.
"What does that mean?"
"My father - my real father - taught it to me. It's a Portuguese word."
She spoke as though reciting a poem:
"It means everything:
"A vague and constant desire for something that does not and probably cannot exist,
"For something other than the present;
"A feeling of loss for people and things whose whereabouts are unknown,
"A lost lover; a faraway place where one was raised; loved ones who have died.
"There's a rush of sadness and also of joy;
"When one accepts one's fate and knows that the object of one's yearning will never return;
"Yet hopes to recover - in the next world - or in the present, with wishful longing, that which is now missing.
"It is the love that remains when the loved one has gone."

He smoothed the frown from her eyebrows, wiped the single tear that threatened to fall from each eye. "My dear saudade Rose," he whispered, matching her intonation perfectly. He wrapped his arms about her and drew her ever closer. "Not with me you aren't."