we got that love, the crazy kind
I am his and he is mine
What a story he has to tell, a woven web he weaves. There is so much that has apparently happened in the minutes (years, it was years) that I was dead, so many big and little adventures, tragedies and travesties and crimes against us all. It's so surreal, to think I blinked and missed his world falling apart. Of course he held me as I died. I can see it now, his slender body soaked in blood, crimson and black, his rage a storm as the Arbiter scoffs and walks away. There is no love or life in the heart of that man: He is made of iron, we used to joke. One day we'll cut him and he'll bleed oil.That he was engaged a minute later makes me laugh quite suddenly, an outburst of entertainment and something like pity for the fate of that poor little thing. "A Qhayi," I repeat, raising an eyebrow. "You could have had a magic bride, more interested in fucking with spirits than fucking you."
But all that amusement quickly fades as he reveals the true injury. "Graasvoel?" I repeat with distaste, my tone almost as venomous as his. Saartjie deserved better than a playboy with the emotional intelligence of a bowl of grain.
By now my hands are back on his chest, my thumbs dipping over his clavicle while my fingers slip up to his shoulders, resting easily on his skin. I may be angry, but I have won, and there is no way I'm letting him get away again. Not now, not ever, not if I can help it. The only one to kill him will be me.
His story ends the way I'd expect it, and a feral grin strikes across my face. Caused a distraction. Killed some fucks. My hand runs over his cheekbones, the face I would know by touch alone, stubbled and older now but still the same. "Good. I hope you burned the whole place down, my flood."
LUSEA
