No te amo como si fueras rosa de sal, topacio
o flecha de claveles que propagan el fuego:
te amo como se aman ciertas cosas oscuras,
secretamente, entre la sombra y el alma.
It should not have been there.
The dagger that flashed against the light; a terrifying steel glint across shadow and sky half buried in sand and dirt, the hilt of gold and silver damascening and the small glow of pigeon’s blood ruby catching the sweltering heat of day to its silk. The reflection half blinding the eye of the man walking toward something else, yet below his feet it called out.
The man whose boot touched the hilt and then cautiously reached down to pull it from its unintended hiding place - He too should not have been there.
Finding something. That is not stealing. Keeping something which has no owner, that too is not stealing. A gift from the Heavens, now belonging to a man who would respect and devote himself to the care of such a work of art. Such a precious thing dropped on this shore only to be found by he, a man who cautiously noticed things others often overlook. A man who notices small things. Who delights in memorizing the detail in a person’s voice or if the woman walking the calle has scuffed the toes on her shoe.
These few rushed days were different than the previous Seasons. War, threat of war, and all the death and violence and blood that comes with feuding nobility. It is the people that suffer. Swearing to make a swift decision to honor your people does not communicate well to those who thirst for power.
In all truth, nothing of that day should have been there.
Not the dagger.
Not his fellow soldiers.
Not the story that follows.