âThe game takes its toll on you,â she whispers to you, long fingers intertwining with yours, the contrast of your hands so stark it almost seems a tragic joke. She, with hands stronger than iron and callouses harder than her weary heart, from holding swords and shields, to take the blows that would have been meant for you. You, with skin hardened by knives slipped under skirts and pulled for the flash of death but still soft to the touch, tips of your fingers calloused by the instruments you once plucked, to accompany the voice you once used to sing. She pauses then, just long enough to press her forehead to yours, to breathe against your lips, to worry, to fret.
âI worry about you.â Still you say nothing.
She breaks you down, runs you into the ground and you can feel this mask of security slipping, but you clamber to hold onto it, to keep the edges from cracking. You mustnât let it fall for you would rather feel the bite of a blade between your ribs, pressing into a heart you hope has been steeled through the years,
âAre you okay?â No, youâre not okay. You hurt, you bleed. Your heart rips under the steel armour, pouring out and drowning in your pain. But still you smile, leaning up to her again, so lightly brushing your lips upon hers.
âYes.â
And so youâll lie to protect yourself again.