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He’ll never speak of love again, the child swears to himself, curled cold and alone on the unforgiving sand. Love had been his parents, and home, and hope, but he had none of that now, and he would never think of it again. That which is loved is too easily lost.
He doesn’t speak of love because it isn’t love when he meets the other boy, a loner like him, strange even among the flotsam of the dock urchins. It’s friendship, and brotherhood, and safety in each other. Muriel and Asra, together against the world. But it’s not love, never love. Just friendship and leave it at that.
He doesn’t speak of love because it isn’t love the first time Faust pokes her head out of her shell, bright red eyes looking at him like he is the most important person in the world. She’s part of him, and he of her, and that isn’t love, just is. Familiar and magician, playing among the rigging to the laughter of strangers.
He doesn’t speak of love because it isn’t love the first time he sees her, a pretty face beneath a mask looking over his wares like so many others. But something in her deep blue eyes makes him look twice, something in her smile catches his breath in his chest. She’s just a stranger, a girl in the crowd. Not love at all, just a face to dream of when the nights grow cold.
He doesn't speak of love because it isn’t love the first time he beds her, it’s need. He’s spent so long dreaming about the girl in the mask he fears he can’t be kind when he takes her, but she’s so sweet he holds himself back, heart singing at the pleasure that echoes back and forth between them like something alive. Not love, just need. Need that grows worse with each moment apart.
He doesn’t speak of love because it isn’t love when he finds he cannot leave her. She’s an addiction, his beauty. The feel of her against his body, the taste of her when he pleases her, the smell of her hair when she sleeps in his arms. Sometimes he thinks he wouldn't mind an eternity of listening as her heart raced to his touch, her breath in hot gasps against his throat. Not love, though she blinds him to everyone else in the world. An addiction, nothing more.
He doesn’t speak of love because it isn’t love when he finally does leave her. It's anger and fear that tears them apart. She loves him, she says, but this is their home and they can't just abandon it. But he can’t love her, because if he loves her he’ll lose her. And he can’t lose her, he can only leave. Not love, so she’ll be safe.
He doesn’t speak of love because she isn't there when he comes back. Only a pile of ash that somehow still carries her scent running through his bloody fingers as he screams her name over and over and over again. He would speak of love if she were here, because he finally knows that it is. Too late to tell her, his beauty. His life. His beloved. If only he could, he would never stop saying he loves her.
He doesn’t speak of love because her mind shuts down every time he does, he sees her face go corpse white, heart trying to stop its beating. He never knew it could hurt this much not to speak of love, but those weeks when she neither moves nor speaks are worse than holding her ashes in his hands. It took him too long to know it was love, and he must pay the price.
He’ll never speak of love again, the magician swears to himself, settling the hat on his head as he takes one last look back. Love is her, and home, and hope, but he can say none of that. He cannot bear to break her with his words. That which is loved is too easily lost.