Out of the Depths
By Hayden Thorne
Published by Queerteen Press at Smashwords
An imprint of JMS Books LLC
Visit queerteen-press.com for more information.
Copyright 2012 Hayden Thorne
ISBN 9781611522419
For more titles by Hayden Thorne at Smashwords visit
https://www.smashwords.com/profile/view/haydenthorne
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Cover Credits: tasosk
Used under a Standard Royalty-Free License.
Cover Design: J.M. Snyder
All rights reserved.
WARNING: This book is not transferable. It is for your own personal use. If it is sold, shared, or given away, it is an infringement of the copyright of this work and violators will be prosecuted to the fullest extent of the law.
No portion of this book may be transmitted or reproduced in any form, or by any means, without permission in writing from the publisher, with the exception of brief excerpts used for the purposes of review.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are solely the product of the author’s imagination and/or are used fictitiously, though reference may be made to actual historical events or existing locations. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Published in the United States of America. Queerteen Press is an imprint of JMS Books LLC.
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Out of the Depths
By Hayden Thorne
A young man, heavily cloaked in black wool, stood with head bowed by the marker. He’d placed a fresh bouquet of nosegays on the grave, taking care to arrange the flowers in what one would call “a studied wildness,” which he’d always considered an appropriate description of his deceased beloved.
“The garden’s growing very well,” he said, his gaze resting on the name carved in marble, the graceful scrawl a pretty yet melancholy tribute to the occupant of the isolated grave. “The roses are climbing everywhere, and I’ve ordered the gardener to leave them alone. They want nothing more than to travel, and I, for one, won’t stop them—won’t limit their direction. I’ve taken down the rest of the shrubbery and left the grounds with nothing else but roses. Your favorite red and gold climbers are flourishing and have developed into beautiful, wild, sprawling shrubs.”
He paused to smile lightly. “They’re so much like you.”
A sudden gust of cold wind blew, forcing him to pull the cloak more tightly around himself. He winced a little from the biting force against his skin then glanced up and found that the sun had disappeared behind a growing swirl of dark and gray clouds, the sound of dull thunder filling the otherwise quiet air around him. In the distance, he could barely see the Silesian Beskids, for much of the land in between his home and those glorious mountain ranges was already under the onslaught of a downpour.
“Again,” he sighed, shaking his head before glancing back at the marker. “The sky never wants to see us together, does it?”
The name on the grave marker seemed to stare back at him. The young man smiled once more before kneeling down, tenderly brushing the cold marble for the hundredth time, and then pressing his lips against the stone.
“Till then,” he murmured, resting his forehead against the stone and then standing up. “I’ll be seeing you very soon.”
With one final look, Konstancji turned and walked away, his head bent as his cloak flapped wildly in the wind, which had grown more and more insistent. He left the lonely grave that lay tucked away and protected in a small patch of land beyond his house’s main grounds. It was situated by the edge of a dark, lifeless lake, a prime spot in the opinion of the still-grieving heir, one that protected his beloved from the unwanted presence of intruding visitors, be they friends or family.
Konstancji made his solitary way back to the desolate house, reluctant to abandon the grave and yet compelled to return and to resume the work he’d left.
He was almost done, thank the heavens. After a year—after so many willing sitters. He was finally catching a glimpse of the end of the road, and he’d soon rest and enjoy the fruits of his labor.
His eyes shone with a distant light at the notion, and his lips, grown cold and devoid of emotion since his loss, moved imperceptibly, not feeling the sting of yet another harsh gust of wind against his person.
“Just wait, Ziven,” he whispered, his pace doubling. The first large drops of rain began to pelt him. “I’ve never forgotten about today.”