You never knew that it would happen one day. You never even thought that it would happen one day. That one day, you’d stand over a dead person and not scream, Emilia.
There you were, over his dead body, above the moor where he lay, looking upon him coldly instead of the usual cries you often let out. There you were, looking upon his blood that surrounded him and was slowly turning dry. You had not wept, you had not cried, you had not screamed. It was first time disobeying your usual work and probably the last.
For he was the only one.
It all happened so fast that it ran through your head again as you looked through his dead eyes. You had heard the moaning; the soft moaning that your ears became used to hearing and you flew through the trees to reach its source; through the darkness you prepared your tears.
Those tears that you had gotten used to prepare, those tears you cried over people you did not know – never met before. Your life – if it could be called a ‘life’ – had nothing but weeping, crying and screaming.
“Emila…Emila…! Oh, Emilia!”
You heard your name being called but you did not care. It was the same moaning sound that called; what was so special? Probably just a dying man who was murmuring the name of a beloved, a daughter or a wife in his death. Her name was the same as yours; a normal coincidence.
You approached him after you had found him, lying in the middle of the wide moor, his blood surrounding him and a sword drawn right into his chest, his hand over it, holding tightly.
A suicide.
Nothing new, you had cried over a couple of those before.
At least, nothing would have been new.
Had you not seen those eyes.
Those hazel brown eyes of his, looking so sad, so upset, so regretful-why else would he be committing suicide? And again, once again, he murmured,
“Emilia…Oh forgive me, Emilia…”
That voice; so similar. Those eyes; familiar! You looked at him and observed, forgetting about your job that you had come to do. Short but attractive brown hair, its bangs falling handsomely over his face but not hiding those beautiful eyes, tan skin that matched the hair perfectly but was looking pale then, and a strong-built man overall.
Jake Lidenfield – his name.
Your past lover, Emilia.
He looked in your direction and his eyes startled; he could see you, he could see the banshee that you were – that you had become.
“Oh Emilia…is it your ghost? Have you come to comfort me in my death? Or have you come to blame me again, to torment me with your eyes?”
You closed your eyes then, it all went through your head; those two memories. You were such a beauty in your days; blonde hair that reached down to your waist, a pair of attractive blue eyes, a most gorgeous body. Right in that moor you recalled your memories in, was where Jake first confessed love to you, but you gently let him down, unable to return his affections. Mad with grief, it was also where he killed you, twenty nights after, through which he had always told you of his love and you always let him down.
In that very same moor.
You opened your eyes again, looked at him with your eyes; deadly looks. That man who lay in front of you; the cause of your misery between the cries and screams. There he lay; weak and piteous – just the same you were when you were between his hands, begging for mercy, begging for him to spare your life and youth.
“Oh, Emilia…is it really you? I am sorry, forgive me…the man who killed you will die now.”
You looked sharply at him when you remembered what you were there for – to scream over his death, to cry and weep. But the tears wouldn’t trickle – those tears you prepared back on your way to him – didn’t want to go down.
For the first time, you stood over a dying man and refused to cry.
“You…” for the first time, you talked, “You killed me, you murdered me, and you made me who I am now!”
“Still beautiful though,” he replied, his voice confident but husky, his eyes full of love, but what could love do then? Wasn’t that love the reason of your death, and your becoming a banshee? Wasn’t it?
“I was madly in love with you; I still am. I love you with every fiber of my heart. In life or death, I’ll always love you.”
“That’s why you killed me, murdered me, and made me who I am now,” you replied, both sarcastically and truthfully. It was true – it was true that the man who lay beneath you, Jake, loved you more than life, than truth or honor, than anything in the world. It was also true that his love was what killed you, murdered you, made you who you were then.
“Exactly why,” he replied, his voice becoming weaker and fainter as his soul was being lifted elsewhere – maybe to become a banshee too.
But no, that wouldn’t happen. In that cursed part of Ireland, only women who died became banshees. Men who passed away went somewhere else; you’d never know where.
“Oh Emilia…after you died, after you lay dead, killed, between my arms, I couldn’t believe it. I couldn’t take it, to live without you. I went madder and madder with grief over you, over my horrible killing to you. Nobody ever found out, but I knew it all and I buried it all in my heart till it almost burst. Oh Emilia…” his voice was becoming fainter that you could hardly hear it any longer, and his eyes – oh, those eyes – were slowly spacing out.
“Forgive me, I beg of you,” he murmured ever so softly, his pain increasing upon him and he groaned in agony, wanting his death to come closer, to take his pain away – once and for all.
And for some reason, you didn’t want him to pain. You didn’t want to see him groaning and moaning. You wanted him to die once and
for all, to go to hell or heaven; wherever he was going. Maybe you wanted him to disappear from in front of you as fast as possible, or maybe you just didn’t like seeing anyone in pain, no matter who he was, or what he did, to you or to anyone.
And then it dawned upon you, and you knelt down to be by his side. He looked at you faintly, lovingly but bewildered. You slowly leaned in, slowly, slowly, slowly, cupping his chin with your hands, until your lips touched his and you were gently kissing him.
He looked startled, surprised, astonished, but only for a moment. And before he could even think of returning the kiss, his grip over the sword loosened, his eyes closed, his breathes stopped and he was only a lifeless body.
Gone. Without weeping.
You broke the kiss off and there you were, standing over him in that moor. You looked around a minute, remembering the old days, remembering those twenty nights – those nights when Jake would hold you in his arms, declare the most romantic words of love to you, the most touching speeches of passion exclusively for you – only to be let down and heartbroken every single time. Oh how you wished that you had known your fate then, for you would have declared some words back at him – if only he had waited a night more!
And so, the tears still filling your eyes, you turned back and flew. You flew through the trees and away from that moor; never to return again. Then you began to sob softly, cry a little, then weep and wail uncontrollably.
Yet, another moaning.
And the cries continue.
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