The Light From Her Eyes

The Light From Her Eyes


Gilbert Sopakuwa

Photo courtesy of Google images

Reine Navarro Hilfiker

I was happy at that moment, even though I was on a date with such a bitter memory. For many she was a leader, but for me she had been a friend. She wore a long plum colored dress that flickered deep shades of purple in the warm candlelight. Her head rested on her standing hand, and her fingers curled in that elegant manner she had. Her soft black curls reached her jawline and her dark skin was as neat and glimmering as ever. The sight of her was much more appeasing when I wasn’t her prisoner anymore. They called her Queen of the Masks, but her name was Maeika Enakt, she told me when we were still lovers. But that was a long time ago, “It was a different me.”

     The chair and table wood matched the floor of the stage they were on. The air in these rooms always smelled of some iron foundries a few floors below, but the heat made the rooms cozy, and if you made an effort the smell turned into a nice coal stove. Though past the edge of the stage and the dimmed stagelight was not quite as modest, as the walls were gold plated and the rugs were a burgundy red. The Great Theatre of the Scraplands wasn’t as much of a spectacle with the lights off and without the people and the murmur. But when I peeked at her brown eyes the band was still playing a lively tune. I could hear the happy chords and the ground tremble with the sound of the drums. I forget exactly if it was still love I felt. But I was just happy I was able to see her again.

     “The show is about to begin,” she said, as her voice and subtle smile melted me into warm honey. We had been at each other’s throats for so long I forgot that her voice, housed deep within her throat, was in fact my only weakness. I was simply thankful to share a glass of wine with such an old friend. My admiration for her I’d say had only grown. Plus, there is no more romantic story than two lovers from rival scrapper bandas. If only we had talked for longer before the show started… but I guess I had brought my sciabola for a reason.

     That was when the hundred candles lit, ten for every one of the ten bandas, scattered around the seats of the theater. From the eight galleries somersaulted the cavalieros of the scrapper groups, unsheathing their swords. I looked at her eyes for another short moment and then stood on my chair, then jumped and stood on the tips of my high heels, balancing on the rows of seats, and I presented my own Blacksteel sciabola. But as I stood gallantly in a small flicker of the candles I had found a small cut on my cheek. As a single drop of blood flew in the air I looked behind me to see her blade, tipped with my blood, and a hint of a smile on her lips. I had forgotten the speeds we used to fight in.

     I was grateful to see us in action again, I could feel her love sting, a light glimmer from her eyes. And I knew: the show had begun.