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But Sir John of Cincinnati
She knew me then, at the beginning of ourselves, and she knew me now, here at the end, when she did not even know herself.
But she’d been willing to kill for me, and so she must have loved me, after all. As I loved May, as Sir John loved his wife, as God loved the world: with blood on our hands.
I hope she didn’t run too far. I hope I’ll find her waiting for me, out in the wild, and then the two of us can run away as we always meant to: together.
The sun had slipped behind the ridge, and the sky was fevered, hectic red. I heard a strange cry and looked up. A pair of hawks circled above me. No, perhaps they were gulls or bats—angels or dragons, or every beast that has ever heralded the end of one world and the beginning of another. One of them was graceful, confident, slipping purposefully from one form to another, and the other was clumsy, as if unused to himself. I heard a woman’s laugh. They chased and changed above me, knight and demon, husband and wife, shifting like clouds in strong wind, and then wheeled together, toward the
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Crying in the airport over this rn
