Her first love was red-headed and, unsurprisingly, of a fiery disposition. She was a goddess in her own right, haughty and dignified and a miracle to behold. Delial spent suns following the freckles on her body, spent nights trying to divine their meaning. They spelled out how unworthy she was of such a creature. Her pedestal stood far, far too high.
Her second love spoke of passion: passion in life, passion in love, passion in purpose. Delial always thought him an odd fit in a soldier's uniform. Later, she decided he did not even fit his own shape: too grand were his dreams that they saturated his words and made him larger, older, than the young man he was. She did not know how he died and she never forgave him for it.
Her third love was steel. His counsel and advice was not always kind but he said what needed to be said to pull her away from the bottles she so desired. She never paid attention to his lessons. She was good enough. She was drinking again. He would not bend.
Her fourth love was misguided but so was she. Weren't they all? The moon was coming. It did not matter.
Her fifth love spoke in truths. He took her scars and her cracks, all the crooked shapes that made her real, and he embraced them. It must have been maddening. It must have been. All it took was a flick of the wrist.
Her sixth love...
"Who ye were then is nae who ye are now."
There was a package tucked into her shirt, its contents wrapped in bloodied linen. He did not know this. He could not know. But he will.
"Mayhaps I see things differently than others do. Would nae be th' first time though."
"No," she said quietly. He knew from the start she was poison. He knew. "No, I suppose it would not be the first time."
Her sixth love was sabotage.
Her second love spoke of passion: passion in life, passion in love, passion in purpose. Delial always thought him an odd fit in a soldier's uniform. Later, she decided he did not even fit his own shape: too grand were his dreams that they saturated his words and made him larger, older, than the young man he was. She did not know how he died and she never forgave him for it.
Her third love was steel. His counsel and advice was not always kind but he said what needed to be said to pull her away from the bottles she so desired. She never paid attention to his lessons. She was good enough. She was drinking again. He would not bend.
Her fourth love was misguided but so was she. Weren't they all? The moon was coming. It did not matter.
Her fifth love spoke in truths. He took her scars and her cracks, all the crooked shapes that made her real, and he embraced them. It must have been maddening. It must have been. All it took was a flick of the wrist.
Her sixth love...
"Who ye were then is nae who ye are now."
There was a package tucked into her shirt, its contents wrapped in bloodied linen. He did not know this. He could not know. But he will.
"Mayhaps I see things differently than others do. Would nae be th' first time though."
"No," she said quietly. He knew from the start she was poison. He knew. "No, I suppose it would not be the first time."
Her sixth love was sabotage.
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