And our love was a like a storm: powerful, ruthless, destructive. But we were together, and that’s all that mattered.
We were meant to be wise after so many years bound to a changing earth, but instead we sunk to a level more foolish than man.
The arguments had been getting worse for a while, but one day, we both exploded. I don’t remember what triggered it, perhaps a legislative decision that I’d disagreed with, or some political issue we’d stood on different sides on. All I know is that it was to trivial for us to break ourselves over. I wish I’d realised that then. Perhaps we could have worked it out, made it better. But we didn’t.
(( And I’ve always wished we had. ))
It was the first time that summer any of our spats had become so violent. I distinctly remember a set of antique plates, dating back to the days of the revolution, shattered to pieces by my own hand. You’d glared at me afterwards, so furiously that I’d wanted to step back and apologise and beg for your forgiveness. Maybe it would have ended better if I didn’t, maybe it wouldn’t. We’d never know. Instead, anger reared its’ ugly had and I just laughed. I think that, in that moment, I’d seen betrayal in your eyes. I’d ignored it, choosing to smirk in that way you’d hated so much.
But you’d committed your fair share of cruelties, no? You’d brought up my shameful past, countless time, mocking me in a manner I hadn’t seen in centuries. It hurt to remember those times, now long past. I’d been so gullible hadn’t I. So weak. So willing to do anything to be accepted. I thought we’d move past that, but seemed we still clung to the remnants of the pass, as I do now.
The fight lasted for what seemed like days, but probably was more like hours. So long we had waged our war that it would take days for the ringing of shattering plates to subside in my ears. I’d stormed out of your flat, bruised and bloody, swearing to never again set foot in the accursed home again. You’d just watched, your eyes cruel with hatred, as packed my bags to leave and never return.
(( From that day on, I’d always wondered what would have happened had I ended it differently. Would we still be so estranged as we’ve become now? ))
i missed your company in those cold winter months. Your constant business demanded you return to your own country, and I wasn’t in any particular position to leave my home either. I would have though, if I could. Only for you. In those early years, the letters were necessary. They were our only means of conversation in a world where the telemobile hadn’t yet been invented and travel was more hassle than worth. It hurt, waiting so long just to hear of word form you, but that pain gave way to elation as yet another collection of rose-scented card decorated in your elegant script was delivered to my door. I’d read them over and over again by the fireplace each night, my heart bursting while I read of your flowery recounts of each day, sprinkled with your unique humour.
(( I hadn’t had the heart to burn the letters. It seemed sacrilegious to desecrate something so sacred to us even after all that had conspired between the two of us ))
After the telephone had been invented, we now had the ability to hold those long conversations we’d so missed. But despite new developments, we never failed to send letters. It was a tradition neither of us would break for decades, and that was only after war had been declared. More words, more emotions, were shared within those written words than we ever spoke to each other. The meant the world to me, just like you.
do you think we’ll be in love forever?
For the sake of my government and its’ morals, I chose not to say a word, until one day, I just couldn’t help it. But you? You looked at me so wisely, so understandingly, the same way you had so long ago, and I, selfish as I am, engulfed myself within you. I think it was then that I realised I loved you.
I still remember the first time I’d seen you in bed with a woman. It was so… different. I’d bedded before, and had been bedded, but you- You truly exhibited a love I’d never seen before. I wanted to receive that affection and luxury and gentleness. I’d stood there, unable to look away, as you’d cradled her in your arms, whispering sweet nothings into her ears as she entered the throes of pain and pleasure, gasps and mewls escaping her lips. And then you’d looked up at me, as if you’d known I’d been there for all that time, and you smiled. Your lips were pulled wide, their edges twisted upwards in a devious manner that resembled the cheshire cat from one of my tales. It pulled at my heart in ways I hadn’t understood then. I now recognise that chill, the name of which had evaded me so long, as jealousy. But I wasn’t jealous of you with a beautiful woman in your arms to hold. Oh no, I was jealous of her. She who could parade round with you by her side, calling herself ‘yours’ and you ‘hers’. That was one thing I’d never be able to do, no matter how hard I tried.
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