From the moment I met him, he was always clothed in black. Black for the colour of mourning, black as on the night that we met, black as a raven’s wing, black as pitch, black as the King piece on a chessboard, black as the eye patch that covered the wreck of an eye that he lost in a treacherous plot, black as the depths of the soul that all in France swore that he no longer had.
The Unseelie Fae, from whom I am descended, do not fear the dark, we do not fear black. We are these things and more. We are the ‘unblessed’ from the land of nightmares and the dark whispers upon the winds that few dare speak of even in the bright glare of day or even within a safe sanctuary. No one else but he could have understood what or who I was. None but I could fully appreciate the black that he wore and why.
But beneath the black garmenture or countenance that we both were cast in, there were hearts that beat like all others. Within the dark shells lay that which could yield and experience the ecstasies of the flesh, hearts that could feel and reflect love, souls that could become entwined like two vines of night blooming jasmine in a midnight garden.
Black concealed and insulated us, concealed our secrets, and was the basalt foundation upon which we had built our lives. And when he was killed, all was blackness. The midnight sun in my world had gone out. I wrapped myself in the dark cloth of mourning, consigned myself with in the blackness of sorrow and mourning and buried him with my own hands.