A Thousand Tears
by J.C. Martin
So often in the course
Of life's few fleeting years,
A single pleasure costs
The soul a thousand tears.
- Francis William Bourdillon, "Upon the Valley's Lap"
A war has been raging in his mind for a long time now. Finally, one side has won.
As he steps out from the shadows, he relishes the flash of hurt and betrayal on her face. Even now, as she stands before him as the enemy, he finds her beautiful.
And treacherous.
He had not wanted to get involved, to get tied down. But she was so different from all those other wenches he had taken. She exudes a quiet courage even as her eyes reveal the scars of countless battles and immeasurable loss. Through their travels, he had watched her grieve for those that fell, and bleed for those she tried to save. Through it all, he had admired, from a distance, how she never once complained about her unchosen fate, at times making him wonder at himself, on what could have been had he been less resentful of his own circumstances, on whether it is too late now to change...
Yes, she had nearly changed him, hadn't she? Almost managed to turn him around with her beguiling charm. Unlike their other companions, she was never brusque with him despite his pointed ogling and crude remarks. Instead, temptress that she was, she had teased him with kindness and compassion, chipping slowly away at his emotional defences, until the walls of indifference came crumbling down, leaving him hopelessly drawn to her cause - and to her.
The depth of his feelings scared even himself. At first, he had held back, hiding behind his mask of apathy and open hostility, unwilling to set himself up for a possible rejection. But the night he encountered her in the woods outside the keep, seeking a brief respite from her burdensome duties, smiling so invitingly as she asked if he would like to take a walk with her...well, he would have kicked himself if he had said no.
He led her to a secluded glen fed by a tiny brook. She was smiling at something he had said when, before he could stop himself, their lips met. A shudder coursed down his spine, and he had pulled back quickly, fearing he may have played his hand too soon, when she suddenly cupped his face in her tender hands, and pulled him in for another kiss. That gesture erased the last vestiges of doubt for him, and in that moment, a dam inside him burst, releasing a feral hunger he never knew he had until then.
Under the stars and by the light of a thousand fireflies, they had made love - twice. The first time was frantic, needy, passionate to the point of being animalistic, selfish on his part, as he quenched the desire that had threatened for so long to explode inside of him. In their frenzy, the old amulet he hung on a worn leather thong was ripped right off his neck. When they were spent, he had, in a moment of euphorical weakness, blurted out those three accursed words:
"I love you."
He had instantly regretted it. Her face became unreadable, her bright eyes wide. She still held his amulet in her hand, and in an effort to dispel the awkwardness of the situation, his next comment, out of sheer habit, was a biting one about how she would need to get him a replacement charm that had to exceed the old one in value. In response, she had shaken her head, an amused smile on her face, and had said:
"Your love doesn't come without thorns, does it?"
With a naughty wink, she called him a rose with spiky thorns, and had laughed that seductive laugh of hers when he balked at being compared to something as effeminate as a flower. That laugh had an infectious way of making him smile. He kissed her again, long and deep, and his amulet was cast aside and forgotten. As his lips traced her delicate features, she twitched involuntarily as his facial stubble grazed her skin. With a smile, she caressed his coarse cheeks.
