The Brittle King

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The blade feels awkward in my hands as I throw myself at my lover. He smiles slightly as he pushes me back and over, again. I’m frustrated and he’s gently amused by it. It takes time, I know. Mastery always takes time. In the meantime, I’m the cutest frustrated little fox-kit ever according to this overgrown bastard.

The wind comes through the archway, ice cold, and that’s the cue to take my leave.

His card amused me before it revulsed me. Context is always key.

He’s charming, handsome, gracious and tall… the smile doesn’t meet his eyes, but he is amused at our repartee. He is blond and blue eyed, conventionally handsome. The mask is different, almost perfectly disguised as his actual face. Deceptive.

We parry, dancing about each other as I pace around studying him.

I’m better with words than blades, although my lover would say they’re the same thing. The sheer hardness of this one is brutal. He doesn’t wield steel, he is steel. Razor sharp and ice cold, he makes no excuse for his decisions or lack of empathy. He does what’s best regardless of cost. I can smell rot when I get in close, he’s been wearing that mask a long time.

And there’s the key, though I don’t realise it until I wake groggy and unwell an hour or so later. He is steel, old steel kept in freezing temperatures, and therefore brittle. I am human and warm despite all that has surpassed.

The moment is fleeting as I return the mask to his face, in his eyes one moment and gone the next. He yields without bloodshed or battle. I will have his advice freely given, though he makes no promise I will appreciate it.

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