The door of the cottage opened with a slow creak, lightning flashed in from outside, and a woman’s figure was framed in the doorway.  She closed the door behind her, shutting out the wind and rain, and removed her outer garments, loosening her flowing yellow hair over her pale dress.  Kneeling in the darkness, she fumbled at the fireplace for a few seconds and then stepped back, her perfect features illuminated by the orange glow.  She turned and saw a face at the far reach of the firelight, drawn and pale; wreathed in shadow.  A man sat on the bed in the corner of the cottage, watching her with searching eyes as she moved tentatively towards him.  His face lacked the strength to disguise his anger as he looked away when she sat herself next to him.

He felt her arm reach round him, her gentle touch as she rested his head on her shoulder.  He heard her whisper lovingly to him, her soft lips brushing against his ear as she murmured soothingly.  She loved him, and no one else.  Her love was his, and had always been his.  Relief flooded through his body as he toyed with the golden locks that dangled before his eyes.  He suddenly realised what would have happened to him if he knew he had lost her love. He would not have been able to cope.  He had to make sure that it would never happen. 

Smiling to himself, he wound his wife’s hair around his fingers more purposefully, gathering it all together in his hand.  Lifting himself from her shoulder, he pressed his lips to hers, releasing his passion, relishing the love that she responded with.  The love that would never wane.  The love that would always be his.  Gradually, her movements slowed, before ceasing altogether.

Pulling his face away from hers, the man carefully opened her eyes, seeing the immortal love radiating from them.  His love.  Unwinding her hair from her neck, he rested her fair head upon his shoulder, and sat there, unmoving; as constant as the love in his Porphyria’s eyes.