“About the one who never caused any pain”, my witch whispers and rises her glass into the night. “At least none that wasn’t asked for.” And she giggles.
It was the one with the darkest of masks whose judgment the witch feared the most.
The mask meaning death.
Mirroring it, defying it!
Making her witching heart race, her knees weaken,
and her mouth go dry.
It was the one walking the darkest paths of this world whose rejection she feared the most.
Whose knowing eyes.
What if her darkness was too flickering?
Her shadow too unstable?
What if her voice was too weak?
Her smile too fragile?
Oh, this made her heart run away!
She thought of all the world not able to hold her!
Of the husband cold as ice, and the lover shying away.
What in the world could endure the witch if not the dark figure meaning death?
Where in this universe would a witching heart ever find rest, if not with him?
How much would she break?
But she never found out.
It was him who never caused her harm, who never gave her any pain.
Was it because he had seen enough darkness?
Or maybe because he knew pain so well and how to escape it?
The dark figure meaning death was the one to never harm the witch.
“One exception”, Layla adds, her voice almost flying off into wine giggles. “The dark ones run out of luck at some point, and don’t live forever.”
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