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What is love?
That is a question you had asked yourself for years, but did you ever truly find an answer?
Is love the feeling of being carved out of the finest white wood imaginable, of being watched while you slept, of being given a single gift of a feather charm?
Is love the pain of calluses, the joy from a new sword crafted, the pearly white smiles offered by a man with a red streak in his hair?
Is love the work of making medicine, of having your veil caught by a friend, of seeing them bite into a ripe lavender melon and wiping the stray juice off their face with a handkerchief?
Is love the injection of power into your veins, the smell of sweat and blood and tears, the long meetings with others who would only shake their heads if you flung yourself off the roof of the palace?
Is love the arms of someone smaller than you reaching out to give you a hug when you finish an assignment no matter the grade, of getting candied nuts you don't like but eat anyway, or watching from afar so someone isn't hurt again?
Is that love? Do you even want that to be love?
Or is love the way her eyes crinkle at the folds when she smiles, the way she looks at you when she gives you your tea just as bitter as you like it even as she complains the whole time, the warmth of her hand against your cold palm as she drags you from commission to commission?
That might be love… Could it?
Could love be walking down the stairs in the morning to honey colored eyes and short, blonde curls?
Could love be sitting at the kitchen table as someone cooks sweet madame right beside you? Could love be looking over someone's shoulder and having them wait for you to finish reading whatever they are to turn the page?
Is that what you felt as she grabbed your face at Lantern Rite and bonked your foreheads together? When she threw her arms around you so you wouldn't run away? When she cuddled into you with kisses on your face, everywhere but your lips when she'd had too much to drink?
Or… Was it love when you saw her jumping into the arms of your ex-coworker? Or when she held the hand of the adeptus and walked with him through the town?
When she hugged you and kissed your cheek to say goodnight, was it also love? Or was it love when she gave that adeptus a real kiss, or when your ex-coworker was invited to her teapot to stay?
Did she really love you? Or did she love everyone the same?
Why do you care if she loved you? You couldn’t even love her. Love couldn't be fighting, and hurting, and pain, right? Love couldn't be how good it felt to throw her to the ground and try to bring your blade to her throat.
But maybe, love was the relief you felt when you missed, or the way you threw yourself in front of her when that giant robot attacked. Was love what drove you to do that, even when you weren’t sure you still have the power to survive it? Was love what caused you to be blessed by the gods, and was love what caused you to not hate it just because it saved her?
Is love how you slowed down your flight so she could climb beside you, or how you would carry her over rivers and lakes when she could just swim? Is love how you'd leave tea with too much sugar in it for your own tastes, warm and milky on her bedside while she slept? Was it love when you let her fall asleep on the shoulder and you didn’t move even when your neck was cramped?
Is love when you let her sleep in your bed when there’s lighting in the sky, and you’d cover her ears so she wouldn't hear the thunder? Is love how you'd hold her hand and trace constellations on her scars when she fell asleep?
Did you… Love those moments? Did you love those actions? Or did you love…?