You thought I cared about truth, all these little things.
What do you know?
I was struck by you, your gait. I thought you were magnificent, capable of anything.

The test was simple; did you not understand it? Must I repeat what you already sense and should have memorized?

I have sent a messenger. Your brothers will arrive by evening. Pack. You must be ready by then. You can tell of how you escaped by the skin of your teeth, how monstrous and brutal I was, how I strung up my wives like sparrows.

There is always someone who will be dazzled by your heroism, take you as their wife. Only the brave do not believe these stories. When I met you, I knew you did not believe them either. That is why we smiled at each other. That is why you came. I had spent months in preparation for yourcoming. Even that blue finch hanging in the corner of your room. I had, by myself, spent months trying to capture it, luring it with suet in the midwinter months, lunging again and again with a fine silk net. I wanted to hurt nothing after I had met you. Even the lamps were doused at night. You never fed it once. Your uncertainty made you arrogant. You were too young, clumsy, cruel. Perhaps love creates its own toxins, dies in its own waste.
I cannot bear the look of remorse on your face.

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