The oldest story there ever was

She was shameless. She would demand and demand with no apology no conscience no sense of guilt nothing-she would just ask. You could hate her- but how could you, she wasn’t spoilt. No. She was just honest- raw like the animals of the oldest lands wise in the oldest truths. She was other worldly in how she never hid yet she stayed apart. She was brave. She didn’t need ties. She ran alone.

He lived surrounded. The village celebrated a week and a year after he came. Old men, widowed women, girls and more girls lived there. He was the first to be born in years-war had taken everybody else. He lived fussed and loved. Every moment lovingly cleaned and wiped spotless, the most precious china washed on and on. Be it in sadness or in joy he grew up well loved well learned in the heart.

One day the fates rained unlike ever before-a fog-white mist rose up after the rain rising through the gnarled blue woods till the pebbled cultured stones. Her step weighed down a moment longer than ever before. He felt amiss something he who had felt it all had never felt before.

He felt as if he did know nothing at all. She felt unsure, doubt-something so foreign to her so alien to her,

She cringed and crawled. She tried to shake it off but it stuck.
He felt this gnawing within him- a constant twitch a constant itch, nails on a blackboard only to his ears. He dove into his work, his people, his books.

He tried to push it away. He tried to stamp it down but it stayed.

The love became chains.
The woods scared her now.

They met in the middle. Both so wise so learned in everything the other knew little of and yet still they knew nothing of that which filled them heart to toes, that which sparked and ached, that which was the oldest magic of it all, as they met in the middle.

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