the writers fault

The city of swords

"The time we dedicate to something is what makes it immensely significant." 

- S.B

"A star plus a comment equals a motivation for me." 

-

I sat outside for a minute, gazing at the aurora. Its lights danced in the sky while Damir sat on the doorstep. I had repeatedly urged him to come inside, for the wound in his chest had not yet healed, but he refused. Sometimes he would gaze at the sky with me, and other times, he would watch me. It unsettled me, although he hadn't spoken a word. I was on the verge of losing both my sense of smell and touch due to the biting cold, so I retreated indoors, leaving the aurora to fade behind me in the sky.

"So, are you the one who saved us?" Damir asked me, sitting on the couch in Oliver's cabin. The wooden clock indicated it was one in the morning.

"I happened to be there by chance," I replied calmly, noticing his features contort as if he were struggling hard to recall what had happened. He said, "I saw small figures and crows before my mother covered my body and caught a glimpse of you behind the tree, staring in terror at what was happening before I lost consciousness."

I nodded in understanding of the sense of loss he described, as I now lived in this world. So I told him:

"In truth, I didn't see you; I only heard your mother's voice screaming while I was with Mr. Light, attempting to carry the apples to his cabin. But I couldn't continue my journey, leaving you all in imminent danger. Fortunately, a flock of crows attacked the highwaymen. It was merely luck that favored you."

I added my sentence with a smile, remembering how sharp I had been with him. I bit my lip in regret. I didn't know why I acted this way with young men; I always felt like I was on the defensive. Perhaps this attitude had prolonged my spinsterhood. Girls usually married at eighteen where I came from, and here I was nearing thirty with a sharp tongue. But that didn't matter; it's not like I hoped for a knight in shining armor to rescue me.

I sat on the couch next to Damir and lowered my head apologetically.

"I apologize for my previous sharpness. I'm not accustomed to talking to young men. It's something I find difficult to do."

A laugh escaped his lips, and he said with a bright smile that almost overshadowed the pallor of his face and the dark circles under his eyes:

"And why would talking to young men be difficult for you? Isn't that the first thing we learn, how to find a life partner and how to fit into society? I'm sure your mother taught you all of that."

Despite his casual manner of speaking, he certainly didn't know that my mother was one of the staunchest opponents of youth, love, and anything remotely romantic. But I didn't blame her. Many young men in the time we lived in didn't regard love as sacred; it was more akin to a fleeting rush of adrenaline that made the heart race and dance. Once that feeling faded with one girl, they began the search for another, like stray dogs.

I didn't know what to say, so I finally decided to make him feel guilty. That seemed to be the only way to escape attempting to explain my mother's ideas.

"My parents passed away when I was four, so..."

"I'm sorry," he said, his face saddened and shocked. He added in a voice closer to a whisper, "I didn't know. Forgive me."

"It's okay."

A silence enveloped us for a few moments. I looked around the room between the torches and the windows overlooking a star-filled sky. I noticed Damir gazing at me with eyes filled with longing and a sad smile. If I hadn't been paying attention, I might have thought he was infatuated with me. But the truth was, he wasn't looking at me; he was looking at something in my features, as if I reminded him of someone. So I broke the silence that lingered in the room: