You instruct your men with a sense of purpose, your strong voice bellowing through the old war fort. There’s a glisten in your eyes, an entity that takes over your body when you prepare for a fight, there’s fires burning in your throat and it escapes across the map that you’ve placed on the rickety old table. Your fingers dance across the paper, charcoal marks following in their wake, the crowd is silent. I’m watching you from across the room, seated in the corner, peering under the brim of my hat in attempt to watch you without the sunlight filling my eyes. My own fingers are tracing over the leather of my belt, silently wishing to myself that they were on you instead.
You finish your speech, and you fall quiet while an inspired chatter flies through the group, you look up to meet my eyes and you smile.
I’m a killer with a trigger itch, a hired gun for the right price, a beast with a thirst for blood.
I’d give it all away and turn myself into a gentle sheep were you just to ask,
but I know you won’t, my love.
Falcon Feathers and White Hair 