Ficlet, stream of consciousness thing.
Obviously un-betaed and probably a total mess.
What the wolfshead learned of love.
That it was fragile and fleeting he knew long before he even knew the word love. Learning first hand from his mother that the love of Kings and all great men was not to be trusted.
That it caused trouble he learned much later. But it was trouble that invited him in with a warm smile and a soft laugh and a firm hand. Even when fleeing the endless stream of husbands and fathers it never occurred to him that maybe it was trouble he loved more than anything.
That "not everyone offers it as freely as you, my friend". The words of a travelling companion following a particularly painful and humiliating rejection by the landlords daughter. Anymore sage advice was forgotten soon after in the hot scrape of hands and bite of hard kisses and the mans face and name to the haze of time and alcohol not long after that.
That it could be earned and lost in a day or a week. Or spent or traded and never remembered thereafter.
That it could find its way into his heart from the unlikeliest of sources. That he could discover to his surprise that it didn't always mean that he liked the object of this inexplicable attraction anymore for the loving him.
That it could be hidden in jibes and challenges and teasing.
That it could still scare him enough to have him run and try and destroy it before it fled and injured him.
That it would always follow him and haunt him warmly with the promise that one day he would find the courage to turn teasing caresses tender and lend mocking words meaning.
That for love he would reshape himself into something far beyond the man he ever thought he could be. So that he would be worthy of what he ran from, even after he realised its loss.
What the wolfshead learned of love.
That it was fragile and fleeting he knew long before he even knew the word love. Learning first hand from his mother that the love of Kings and all great men was not to be trusted.
That it caused trouble he learned much later. But it was trouble that invited him in with a warm smile and a soft laugh and a firm hand. Even when fleeing the endless stream of husbands and fathers it never occurred to him that maybe it was trouble he loved more than anything.
That "not everyone offers it as freely as you, my friend". The words of a travelling companion following a particularly painful and humiliating rejection by the landlords daughter. Anymore sage advice was forgotten soon after in the hot scrape of hands and bite of hard kisses and the mans face and name to the haze of time and alcohol not long after that.
That it could be earned and lost in a day or a week. Or spent or traded and never remembered thereafter.
That it could find its way into his heart from the unlikeliest of sources. That he could discover to his surprise that it didn't always mean that he liked the object of this inexplicable attraction anymore for the loving him.
That it could be hidden in jibes and challenges and teasing.
That it could still scare him enough to have him run and try and destroy it before it fled and injured him.
That it would always follow him and haunt him warmly with the promise that one day he would find the courage to turn teasing caresses tender and lend mocking words meaning.
That for love he would reshape himself into something far beyond the man he ever thought he could be. So that he would be worthy of what he ran from, even after he realised its loss.