I spoke with her again today. She told me of her former lover - the devil who gave her a song and then left her life so easily. I must say, I have never heard a woman speak so fondly of a man, yet have so much venom laced in her words at the same time. It was as if she was still confused about what had happened, despite the fact that it occurred long ago - far long enough to give her enough time to think and learn about her past mistakes. She loved him dearly, to this she had admitted to me. He was her first, though he was not the first man she grew fond of. Much as little girls tend to do, she did grow innocent crushes on knights and heros of her home world. But this man…this monster who took her heart and disposed of it, he was different to her.
According to her, he did cherish her heart. They had known each other and loved each other long before he bedded her. He was a loud and boastful protector, and fancied drinks almost as much as he did her company. He was obnoxious, yet held her with such compassion and love that he never gave her any reason to doubt. Alas, love was not something so important to him. He left and died, and she was alone. When I ask further about the events of his demise, however, I am reminded of the private and silent woman she has become, because she completely closes herself off and excuses herself of my company. This is disappointing, but I understand that she has her own reasons. I am content to know that she has become so comfortable about me to tell me what she does. Me, of all people - the man who she swore months ago that she would sooner deny his very existence than share a civilized conversation with.
It’s a glorious thing, this relationship that has blossomed from her one-sided ill content. Many who hear of it are shocked, something from which I take great delight. Though she still treats me like I’m a slight annoyance most of the time, this little thing who I have fancied from afar for so long, she opens up to me like she does with no one else, and I her. I’ve told her things that I would never have told a soul before. I do not like to admit this, but I even cried to her once. I had expected her to tease me for it, but she was silent and leaned her head against mine. Never before has someone been so comforting to me without saying a word. It is the pleasure of her company that I take solace in, not the words that we exchange. I love to listen to her speak and tell me stories of things that happened long before even I was born. Every so often I sing to her. Yet, it’s her small touches and the occasional brush of her hair. I am at peace when I am with her.
It frightens me how attached I have become.
The first time she agreed to allow me to entertain her alone, I was shocked. I offered several times as a mere jest, but one day, she accepted, and expected me to go at that moment. She was half way down the hall before I realized what had happened. Sense then, we have shared meals and spent spare time with each other. I am becoming attached and even a little dependant. I never planned on this. I have always been fascinated and infatuated by her, but I was not ready to love her. I wonder still if I’m ready to love her like she deserves.
We have spoken of love and the things like it. I never needed to verbally express how I felt for her. She always knew and she still does know, yet I can’t help but declare it to the sky and the sun and everything around me. I think she might feel the same. I’m unsure. Her actions and behavior tell me she does, but when I express my feelings for her, she closes herself off and grows quiet. It’s often difficult for me to even make eye contact with her. She’s distant at times.
She fears that I am like him, or maybe she is afraid that it just doesn’t matter. She is afraid. I wish I could prove to her that I will not be another monster in her past.
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