Marcus O! Marcus :) Hehe

Now, as I write, the many facets of Marcus’ character shape the flow of my hesitant thoughts. He who was my well wisher, friend, my infidel husband and then my most faithful soul mate. Was it a natural progression on the part of Marcus? Or was it that I had let him astray, that as a wife I did not provide him with the comforts of the home and hearth, and that had transformed Marcus from the incarnation of love that he was, to a betrayer. Indeed, I must hasten to admit that Marcus, save for his one philandering escapade was faithful. And if ever a marriage was so blest with tender and honest concern for the other, it was ours. That is the reason I bid him adieu with his newfound lover, many years ago, after I found them gazing into each others eyes and clasping hands. If Marcus found love better and more fulfilling than what my timid self could offer, I was only happy for him to savour it, I’m sure Marcus would have done the same for me. I let him go and he came back to me. It was then that I rained blows against his broad chest and his tears drenched my hair.

These memories come to me in disparate blotches, I must collect my thoughts and tell you about the wonder that Marcus was. I must pull myself together, else I fear I shall be doing great injustice to his sacred memories.

One aspect of Marcus on which my memory does not fail is the person of him. He was a tall man, muscular shoulders and arms that rippled underneath the fabric of his shirt as he moved them about. I fear I might not be quite capable of portraying his leonine nature, the quiet assurance about him, or the fluidity of his movements. He moved with the elegance of a cheetah on the prowl. A face chiselled by God’s own hands and of His finest marble. He was a vision that lifted the gloomiest of spirits, his flower-like irises specked with green flecks were absinthe. Of perfect symmetry and proportion, his forehead was of a King, broad and unlined, rising in the gentlest of curves just above the eyebrows, and the brows themselves lush but not crowded, well defined with not one stray hair marring their perfect lines, they were like the neatly trimmed hedges of palace gardens and I would tell him the same, he would arch one perfect brow at that and laugh at the childishness of such a simile.

Marcus can never be Ligeia

I cannot, upon my word, bring to mind how or when I first laid my eyes on Marcus. It has been a long time since, and my memory is not what it used to be. Perhaps, the fact is that the singular cast of Marcus’ beauty had crept upon me slowly, degree by pleasant degree and he had filled my heart without my realizing it. My recollections are not entirely accurate, but I suspect I met Marcus in a rather curious way. It was in the town centre, where I had gone to buy red bangles and bright yellow marigolds. Marcus was also there, I cannot bring to mind the exact details of our first encounter, but he quite definitely did not blend into the background. In fact I suspect he stuck out in a rather prominent fashion or else I would not have noticed him. Of his lineage, I had surmised before he told me; and that was one reason that even while Marcus consumed my thoughts with the intense heat of an inferno, I had kept a respectable distance from him, for as long as I could. Marcus! Marcus! The very appellation is indicative of all the majesty of his persona. He was an emperor. His pale skin was a fabric knitted of the sun’s rays and it set a definite contrast against my own swarthy one. By the whisper of his name alone I bring to my grey life a starburst of colour. The sibilance lives on my tongue long after the name is uttered, a whisper that lives for him who is no more, him who lay sleeping in the black coffin a few days ago, or was it months or years?

Sorry EAP. The title says it all.