KNIGHTS-BANE

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(Written by SHEPHERD AKARA ©)

Founder of SKYBREED ENT ©

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Her face glared in the sunlight shimmer as she peered through the sunset. The magic of the setting sun synchronized ridiculously well with the climaxing beauty of the primadonna.

Pride emanated from her long wavy hair, highlighting it's auburn gloss, scaring away the lurking envious beauties.

One step at a time, the ginger heroine got out of the lengthy limousine, guards rallying around her back, young virgin nuns parading her, bearing blank expressionless faces.

Her eyes turned light green when they ran across the butterfly cresting on the limo and straight at the stupendous mansion of the reluctant Sicilian.

Her high cheek bones elevated the more when she grinned. The harshness of the weather tormented her pale skin.

People were compelled to stare at Isadora whenever she walked into a place and so, the primadonna was already getting accustomed to the gaping Italian eyes.

"I'm not of this world!" her pale skin, the complexion of snow, bragged. "Bow to me!" Those green catlike eyes that evoked jealousy as a wizard conjures magic lisped, one could hear their stinging cold whispers.

She licked her rose red lips, the cherry flavour of her priceless lipstick fresh on her tongue. The primadonna's catwalk was graceful, full of confidence yet encumbered with sobriety.

The helm of her flowing red gown swept through the gardens like a bride's. Her curviness absolutely defined in the splendor of her intricate velvet tubed gown.

That waist of hers, so slender, yet bearing a reputation twice its size, wriggled in some seductive way when she moved.

She was a complex woman, as beautiful as treacherous, as charming as dangerous with ravishing smiles that could persuade any man...or woman.

Her eyes met the dull gray of his. He limped absurdly, that gold walking stick of his was of no use, still he would glory in it, whether self righteously, Isadora wondered, or to flaunt his magnifying pride.

Soon, they met. The Don. A massive wall of a man, towering well above six feet. Age was too slow to catch up with this fella.

His broad shoulders, rumpled the pits of his tuxedo, his belt was scrabbled clumsily around his waist. His hair was receding, a great jet black, fading into gray strands of wisdom by the sides.

His mustache was turning silver and his beard was neatly trimmed beneath the sensual dimple of his butt shaped chin. "A fine old man" dressed in luxurious new clothes.

Isadora frowned at her blurry reflection on the gloss of the Don's Gucci shoes. A host of fury eyed men swarmed around him, and soon engulfed her.

The whole garden was covered with people and butterflies. Isadora felt her belly churn when the ageing Don fiddled with and smelled a rose flower so passionately.

She took a quick glance at the sigil of house Montovani, the blue rose;

it made her feel nervous.

But Isadora would always conceal her truest feelings, "for even if Jack was feeble, his adversaries must not learn of his weakness or they may use it to their advantage," her father's words rang somewhere deep inside her cerebrum.

The primadonna sighed deeply and clasped both hands together, her white gloves, stretching to her elbows, rubbed against each other.

"Don Di Mercurio Montovani," the primadonna muttered carefully. "Isadora Cavendish...daughter of Devonshire," the Don croaked, and then followed an awkward lengthy stare by both parties, reminiscing, drowning in seas of thoughts and mysteries.

He remembered her father's dear promise. He remembered the onyx eyes of his fine young boy.

He remembered their love, and he remembered the betrothal. "Your son shall have my daughter and both of us shall build a long lasting empire in the world of men",

Those were the words of the Duke of Devonshire, so the Don's Sicilian mind could recall from the fragility of his ageing memory.

Nero was a fine boy with a charming laugh and perfect teeth. Littered all around the room, those shattered teeth as Nero had panted for air, drenched in blood.

The Don remembered his boy's last words, "I don't want to go, father." The innocent lad, his hands were clean! So the Don had cried 20 years ago and sought revenge on the rivaling crime family that had taken his precious boy.

And eventually, the Don had quenched his bloodthirstiness in full by erasing a whole legacy, from grandfather to granddaughter.

Until then, had the pain eased but not completely. He knew Isadora missed her lover too. They had both outgrown the shock of Nero's death ever since, yet they could never outgrow the hollowness of his absence.

"It's been a while...say ten years?" Don Montovani croaked, his unforgiving Italian accent obvious and pronounced.

"Indeed, Godfather," she replied almost sacredly, letting out a rigid Southwestern English accent.

"And yet you remember me after all these years. My fragile old mind pains me to bother...if you are here for the courtesy visit of an old man...or...there is something your heart desires of this old Sicilian?" the Don stressed on his letter 'r(s)'.

"It pains me to say it, Godfather, but I didn't come all the way to London for a courtesy visit."

"So you haven't come to mourn your lover?"

"I miss Nero. May he continue to rest in perfect peace.

He was not like us, he was not full of sin. He was a saint, properly carved by the Lord."

"And yet, somehow, he died. We may never accept it but good men don't have durable lifespans."

"That's because this world isn't for the good."

Don Montovani sighed, he delved deep into the abyssal eyes of Isadora, reading her thoughts, sharing her pain, becoming one with her.

"You're here for an alliance, I perceive?"

"Don Di Mercurio, our adversaries rise against us as a sea of troubles.

We must stand together now more than ever if we wish to exist."

"Pulling me into your problems will bring you no good this time, Primadonna."

"I am not your enemy, Di Mercurio. Believe me. You have the resources, I have the perfect family name and genius plan. Let us unite as one like we were meant to be back in the days. We're family."

"Hmm. And your father's opinion on this?"

"Let's just say the old man is hindered."

Another gross silence invaded the garden, such that the fluttering wings of butterflies could be heard.

The Don felt a burning reluctance roaring within him. But Isadora was family, he wouldn't deny her his love. But the risk was high, the consequences were fatal.

And just then, as though to answer him, the random movement of a purple butterfly caught the attention of his swift eyes as it dilly dallied its way down to a blue rose and sipped of its nectar. It dawned on the Don.

"I consent," he whined, like a wounded puppy.

And the uproar of chants, of choruses and applause rang the garden as the fanatics from both parties heralded this great alliance.

The joy that blossomed in Isadora's heart knew no bounds. She walked majestically to the Don and kissed his left cheek gently,

the Don's young bride peeped through the crowd, nervously envious. The joint survival of the butterfly and flower, their co existence.

One cannot live without the other. The butterfly must kiss the rose's nectar to live, and pollinate its grains for it to live. And so it happened, the Nectar's kiss.