Chapter 68: 55 - FRUSTRATION
The next morning, my chamber felt cold despite the rising sun.
A soft light danced on the edge of my wooden table, where a letter lay—inked in black, sealed in red. The insignia of the Kingdom of Etruria-Rassena was etched into the corner: a three-headed lion with frozen eyes.
My hands trembled as I broke the silver seal and unfolded it.
A single sentence stared back:
"For the crime of forbidden relationship, Arturo Dali Machiavelli is found guilty and sentenced to death under the law of the Kingdom of Etruria-Rassena."
My breath caught. The world tilted beneath me; my heart thundered in my chest. I read the words again and again, praying it was a nightmare. But the ink wouldn’t fade. I folded the letter, collapsing to the floor, my chest aching.
A death sentence.
This was the punishment for our love. Every lecture and promise now curdled bitter in my heart: even our affection had been sanctified as sin.
His father stood at the doorway, tears glistening in his eyes. He couldn’t speak—just as helpless as me. The first words I heard were a cold whisper:
"There’s nothing we can do."
Though my body and soul shook, I bit down my rage. Etruria-Rassena was ruthless.
They executed anyone seen as disrupting the order.
Arturo’s father had no qualms sacrificing his own blood for the crown.
I wept alone in the icy room, my hand clenching a scrap of cloth. Through the haze of grief, I rose unsteadily. All the lessons on courage and love dissolved like dust: I couldn’t imagine what came next.
* * *
As soon as I left Etruria-Rassena, my head pounded as I descended the palace steps toward the Lovecraft estate—the only family I had left. The front door of the Lovecraft manor glowed warmly under a kerosene lamp, a false comfort.
Azalea, my sister, waited for me inside with our parents. Their parlor was warm and stately: a gentle hearth burned, crimson silk curtains flowed, and grand portraits adorned the walls. As I entered, their eyes froze upon my sorrowful expression.
My father—a tall, dignified man with a white beard—stood behind his armchair, no longer seated. His usual warm smile had turned stern.
Beside him, our mother Milea approached with a silk handkerchief in hand.
I stumbled forward. My voice trembled as I knelt before them, sobbing.
"Father, Mother... please... don’t destroy Arturo. Please stop this!"
My tears overflowed. I couldn’t hold them back.
There was a brief silence. Then my father lowered his gaze. His voice was cold as iron: "Etruria’s laws are not negotiable, Helena." My mother stepped forward. Her lovely eyes were mournful. She gently wiped my tears and spoke softly,
"My dear, forgive us... this is beyond our power. The king’s orders cannot be defied."
Fury burned in my chest. I slapped the handkerchief away, shouting, "Are you all blind?!! He loves me! This is wrong!!!"
My cries cracked the air, echoing through the chamber. But noble pride shielded their hearts: in their eyes, their words were just, and Arturo’s only hope lay in prayers whispered to the wind.
Azalea suddenly moved beside me and embraced me. Her small shoulders quivered with sobs; our bodies, still chilled from the night’s despair, were now soaked with tears.
"I’m sorry, Helena..." her voice trembled, raw and broken.
"I’m shattered, too... I never wanted..."
"I didn’t even want this!"
Azalea’s embrace genuinely was reassuring, a balm for a shattered soul, but it did little to quell the raging storm within me.
The anger, the betrayal, the unbearable pain – it all coiled in my gut, a venomous serpent demanding release. They both sobbed, two wounded girls, united in their misery, pouring out the exhaustion of their spirits.
Our world truly felt like it was crumbling, yet a faint, almost agonizing warmth pulsed in Azalea’s arms. But that warmth wasn’t enough.
It was a flimsy barrier against the inferno consuming me.
I need more.
As Azalea held me, whispering apologies and shared heartbreak, a raw, primal instinct seized me. This wasn’t just about Arturo; it was about the crushing weight of our world, the suffocating expectations, the betrayal of my own heart.
In that moment, something snapped.
When Azalea finally pulled back, her face streaked with tears and a look of profound sorrow, I didn’t pull away completely.
Instead, with a sudden, desperate lurch, I crashed forward, my lips finding Azalea’s in a bruising, unexpected kiss. It was a desperate, chaotic expression of everything I couldn’t articulate – my rage, my frustration, and my deep, agonizing pain.
It was a twisted sisterly love, a desperate plea for understanding, a scream without sound, a raw, almost violent outburst of shared grief and the incomprehensible devastation that had just engulfed their lives. The kiss was harsh, unyielding, a collision of their shared heartbreak, a testament to the fact that even in the face of utter ruin, our bond, however fractured, remained.
* * *
"Helena, stop!"
My protest was a muffled whisper, a plea lost against her fierce lips.
She was beyond me, a force unchained. Her agony, every shattered piece of her heart, poured into that desperate kiss. It was pure pain, a primal scream against a world that had stolen everything from her.
Shock faded, replaced by aching empathy.
I felt her tremors, tasted our mingled tears, and understood.
This wasn’t desire; it was survival. A desperate catharsis.
If this raw, chaotic outpouring of grief was the only way for Helena to find a moment’s solace, to escape the crushing weight of reality, then I wouldn’t mind.
Not at all.
My hands, which had pushed against her shoulders, softened. My fingers tangled in her hair, pulling her closer, no longer resisting.
Let it be.
Let Helena find whatever fractured peace she could in this agonizing embrace.
Her hands, trembling, moved from my face, then slid down my neck. I felt the light brush of her fingertips against my collarbone, a hesitant touch. A broken whimper escaped her, vibrating against my lips, her tears soaking my cheek.
She wasn’t aware of her actions.
This wasn’t intimacy; it was unbridled emotion, a desperate reach in the dark.
Helena’s breath hitched. Her clumsy fingers fumbled with my dress buttons.
I could have stopped her. I should have.
Every instinct screamed to pull away, to regain control, to assert our boundaries. But her ragged sobs, her trembling body against mine, held me still.
How could I deny her this, when she was clearly drowning?
Her touch, though born of distress, was gentle as she unfastened a few buttons, exposing the skin beneath.
A gasp escaped her as her fingers brushed my chest, an involuntary reaction. It was raw emotion, not pleasure, a continuation of her inner storm.
Her hands pressed flat against my skin, seeking an anchor. Her forehead rested on my shoulder, tears soaking my dress. Her body still shook. The kiss softened, a desperate clinging now, a shared space for heartbreak.
Her fingers, with renewed urgency, slipped under my chemise. Cool against my warming skin, I felt the soft brush of her knuckles against my breast. A shiver ran through me, a response I tried to suppress, ashamed of any sensation that wasn’t pure empathy. I held still, my mind racing, trying to process this raw grief, what it meant for us.
Helena’s trembling thumb brushed my nipple, a tentative, almost accidental touch. A faint shiver, quickly suppressed. Her head lifted slightly, her swollen, bloodshot eyes met mine. I saw no desire, only profound confusion, a desperate plea.
In her eyes, she wasn’t seeing me as a sister.
Instead, it’s rather to be a canvas for her pain, a vessel for her unbearable grief.
Then, with a shuddering breath, she closed her eyes.
Her lips found my neck, a soft, desperate press against my skin.
Her touch shifted from furious exploration to a desperate seeking of comfort, a primal need to feel something, anything, beyond crushing loss.
Her hands, which had fumbled at my clothes, now simply clung to my waist, pulling me impossibly closer. We stood, swaying, two broken figures in a crumbling world, held together by fierce sisterhood and shared tragedy.
My own tears fell, mingling with hers, silent witnesses to a moment that defied words, a raw, painful, profound expression of love, grief, and desperation. The world outside had ended, but in this desperate embrace, something undefinable was forged between us.
The raw storm subsided, leaving behind a chilling silence in the shattered room
.We lay tangled, naked, in the stark aftermath.
A tableau of pure agony in the lingering afterglow.
"Azalea... I’m so sorry,"
Helena whispered, her voice raw, fractured by the tremors that still wracked her body. She buried her face against my shoulder, her tears wetting my skin once more. I stroked her hair gently, the motion instinctive.
"It’s alright, Helena,"
I murmured, my own eyes burning. This was our pain, shared and heavy. I lifted her chin, meeting her gaze, and offered a kiss—soft, genuine, and utterly empathetic.
"I love you and will give you everything you need, sis,"
