Libertade, mi amor

| History is an ongoing waltz. And I tend to go backwards. |

Note(s): -This is a companion piece to 'Difficile est saturnum non scriber', -goes hand in hand with a historical background, -is an attempt at a possible introduction between dark! Spain and Belgium, -hopes to portray the characters correctly.

Warning(s): Hints at Catholicism, mockery and the premises that the lowlands became property of the Spanish Empire under Philips I and Joanna of Castile. Also time-jumps.

Summary: Upon their first encounter, he introduced himself as 'Lucifer'; historical in-the-progress-of Spain x Belgium

I hereby disclaim any rights. (Even for the indirect quote on the end.)

I.

They are skeletons, laced with vein, sinew, muscle and flesh, separated in social status by the fabric of their robes.

And seeing them now, occluded in their pas simples of their basse danse, they remind him of death in all its equality.

He revels in the repetitive tones of the cither, soft and melodic like the autumn breeze and brings the goblet, filled to the brim with velveteen burgundy wine, to his slightly-parted lips and takes a gulp.

She notices the fascination plastered upon his sun-kissed face, produces a good-natured simper in broad brushstrokes of feminine wiles and naiveté and stalks over to him, confident and oh-so-overjoyed in her bridal state of dress.

One soft touch, a hand settles upon the hook of his elbow, his emerald stones brighten, flare, and she hums, from the back of her throat, "Everything they said about him..."

His dark swan, muslin woven around her waist, neck decorated with foreign gold and gems, raises her chin, and he can't help notice the flimsy film of admiration glazing over her eyes when she stares at her husband.

"Ah," He smiles, the corners of his mouth twitching and curling, and remarks in a cloying molasses-sweet tone "Her Majesty is very much in love."

She nods, "Phillips is wonderful, my dear Antonio. You should tell him about Santo Domingo and the endless beaches and locals.. Oh," she coos and laughs and shakes her head in her simple silly manner, "can you keep a secret?"

Pressing his index-finger to his own lips, he inclines and leans in closer so he can smell the lingering fragrance of paraffin, mass and frankincense.

"We actually wedded yesterday, plucked a priest from the streets and received the blessing from our Lord..." Joanna bursts into girlish giggles, quaking her frame and allowing the jewellery to clank and jingle.

Antonio smirks confidentially and takes another sip, the rich taste swirling down his oesophagus.

II.

Ad te suspiramus, gementes et flentes.

In hac lacrimarum valle.

Tender underdeveloped voices, belonging to cherubic choir boys with their wheat-coloured tousled hair and their baby-blue irises, praise their secular queen, instead of their clerical one, and the chicory, high and honeysweet, rises above the nave of the St-Gummarus church in Lier and the echo crawls, hitching into the stone pillars of the apse, upwards to the arched ceiling.

O Clemens, O Pia, O Dulcis...

And a mysterious figure, at the last row of sturdy wooden pews, in a scarlet coat with golden epaulettes finishes the sentence of the antiphon with a resolving whisper, an annoyed sigh almost.

O Demens Regina Joanna.

This mysterious figure, a shadow of a bygone-present, disappears in the middle of the ceremony; his footsteps almost as audible as the maggots digging into the rotting flesh of late bishops, forming the literal fundaments of this building. He smiles when he imagines the pompous 'I do' swelling upon their lips.

(Funny, with how political marriages never last, they are always ushered so magnificently.)

III.

Antonio rebels with the colour red; he relishes scarlet robes, women behind garnet-tinged cheeks and crimson pools of victory on the floor. And in a flutter of eyelids; a frostbitten moment underneath the bleak rays of October's sun, she appears out of seemingly nowhere. He raises a chestnut-dark eyebrow at the sight: a not-woman (he knows) in vermillion, with golden-spun curls and inviting curves and he wonders, absentmindedly taking a sip from his refill of wine, whether her fingers were smooth like alabaster.

Antonio moistens his lips and decides he would investigate.

IV.

Upon their first encounter, he introduces himself as 'Lucifer': with a goblet of claret intoxication and a sway in his step reminiscent of predators in the dark. She, the not-woman, stares tentatively at the golden cup in his clutches and can't stifle an amused chortle, a humorous sound, an antiquity.

They converse in Latin, but he makes a mental note to tutor her in Spanish once Philips settles with his territories in the manor of Castile.

"Most people," she motions to the numerous guests traipsing around, "would've accused you of sacrilege, sir Light." She stresses with a jest, a soft lilting undertone.

He proceeds, and irony slivers in the ancient tongue, "And you?"

Her porcelain skin darkens, deepens in a lovely red –he allows his sneer to flex wider, more appreciative, and she replies in a dignity worthy of her age, "I am not entirely ordinary." Teasing, taunting, matched by a feral catlike smile and gleaming peridots.

Affirming her latter statement with a chivalrous kiss upon her bony knuckles-emeralds blazing from underneath their flesh half-covers, "Neither am I," and he continues, "but I do hope I may one day reach your level of extraordinary." And she couldn't help a flattered chuckle.

"Oh you devil," the lovely not-woman mutters in mockery and accepts his burgundy offering, rises the cup to her petal-pink lips and drinks steadily.

IV.

They wander.

They cross the stone bridge, a worm of labour lazily stretched over the river Nete; currently preoccupied by festive spectators of diverse nationalities. There is excess; gallons of sweet wine, the tangible taste of roasted pork hanging in the air and hems of rags and robes alike flutter over dirt. Gentle tunes ascend from a hooded flute-player, beckoning a pack of rats to flounder over the construction.

The not-woman involuntarily shudders at the grotesque displays of gluttony, it reminds her of tell-tales from beyond her conscience, of Mediterranean shores and kings who turn objects into gold.

He notices her impulse to shudder and envelopes the back of her hand, a charismatic sneer directed at her troubled features and she smiles warily at the ministration.

His lips nearly touch the coral shell of her earlobe as he leans closer-"Afraid to see a bull?" He whispers in innuendo to horns and divine creatures whose existence is doubtful.

She furrows her brow, chides softly, "Don't be ridiculous" and adds in continuation, the soprano falters in incredibility, "We know better, right?"

Lean mocha fingers intertwine with smooth alabaster ones; but she forgives him the audacity.

V.

"... How about Micheal?"

He shoots her a questioning glance; leering down upon the lovely not-woman seated amidst the multi-coloured scattered leaves.

"No? Urgh," she groans in childish frustration, "Your name can't possibly be Lucifer... Sebastian then?"

His amusement shines through in an eruption of chuckles, and he parries the question only to counterattack with one of his own, "Devils might prowl amongst us, even under the guise of a Christian name..."

Leaning with her chin upon bony knuckles, she merely replies, "Ah, but sir Light, how could I serve you properly if I can't address you properly?"

He leans in, a flurry of scarlet cape and chestnut hair and unclear intentions and the heat rises to her cheeks when they stare at each other from such a close proximity and his hot breath bounces against the tip of her nose-"is he going to ki...

"My, aren't you an astute little robin?" His grin blinds, confuses and dazes her for a moment.

She blinks.

"What?"

He guffaws, and the gesture, the shaking of his frame, reminds her of a starving raven, "I haven't mentioned I'd take control over your regions." His fingertip taps softly against her bulb cheek, glossed over with ruby dust.

"Oh.. Well.. It was rather obvious... I suppose."

The mysterious figure straightens his posture, "For now you will call me Lucifer, until you've correctly guessed my name." And he sinks back against the stem of the poplar, with the crooked branches and the talon-like twigs.

VI.

"Ferdinand?"

"Sorry, my robin."

"Alexander?"

"I find the comparison flattering, but no."

"How about Benedict?"

"Almost, dear robin."

"Clement? Desiderius? Dominic?"

"No, no and no."

She huffs and stands, almost stumbling until his appendage darts out to steady her.

"Thank you, Dominic."

"Thank you, who?"

"You are a dastardly evil..."

His teeth flash under the iridescent trickles light of the descending sun.

"Devil?"

"No, Jacob."

"I'm afraid you're mistaken, robin."

She grumbles as they continue promenading towards the bridge.

VII.

When they return, there are screams, there is horror, there is despair and there is death.

It looms over the remnants of the bridge, the rubble and the broken stones, some floating pieces are dragged forwards by the current.

It reeks in the breath of the surviving spectators, alongside the stench of generous amounts of wine, herring and loafs of bread. Some are stunned, some cannot comprehend the grief situation and some choke out strangled sounds, betwixt and between a sob and a laugh.

She shivers as she asks, the words a thin incoherent stream, "Devil? Nature? Who.. What? It hurts..."

He forcefully presses her against his chest and holds her close as she protests.

VIII.

"You know, Anthony... The greatest trick the devil ever pulled was convincing the world he didn't exist."

He snickers for more than one reason.

"And then he vanished."

I apologize for any possible geographical/political/historical inaccuracies :3

Penny for your thoughts?

-immerwennesdunkelwird