Wizard Love

Many people say that wizards cannot love. This is not true. Sure they can’t eat the same food we do or defecate out of their butts, but they sure can love. How do I know this? I once loved a wizard.

It’s difficult to believe that underneath all the mystery, magic, and seven layers of robes there is some soft, warm hearted thing taking up cocoon there. That’s just a metaphor of course, we all know wizards must remove their own hearts to gain powers. But it doesn’t make them any less human! Except for physically, which it does because they replace the hearts with a machine.

Despite Emma Handblades many replaced body parts, the only thing they couldn’t remove… was her heart. Except literally, I must reiterate. Emma and I had a whirlwind romance. We met at the royal ball. I was there as a lowly count’s daughter’s husband’s mistresses’ cousin, and she disguised as a servant so she could assassinate the King. As I watched her magically choke the life out of the King I smiled because she was so beautiful as she did it. Of course for smiling I was sentenced two weeks in the dungeon, but it was worth it. For a little while Emma was there, popping in and out as she pleased, but when she didn’t show up for the last week of my imprisonment I began to think things had changed. Luckily as it turned out, she’d merely been captured and tortured during that time.

After our time in the dungeon Emma and I found ourselves back at her wizard tower, where we dissected pigs and threw things out the windows onto the poor people below. Sometimes, every week or so, she would allow me to speak in her presence. I was astounded. As a lowly Count’s daughter’s husband’s mistresses’ cousin I could only speak to the lowest of people, usually when I dared cough in more prestigious peoples presence they would beat me for hours. But not Emma. She’d only beat me for a couple of minutes.

I’m sure on paper it sounds great, but being in love with a wizard was hard. Some nights I’d come back home after throwing rotten tomatoes at criminals in the pillory’s all day and find Emma crafting a death potion with someone else. It hurt. And not just because of the toxic fumes emitted from the cauldron.

The bad times were balanced by the good. When we’d walk around the street laughing at all the people who would soon be infected by the bubonic plague, we’d just laugh because it was a lot easier than crying. For her anyway, her tear glands were removed so she could have laser eyes.

Eventually though our romance had to end. Our worlds were too different. I was the type of guy that brought rotten tomatoes to the stocks and she brought fresh tomatoes, genetically modified to be filled with acid.

Sometimes I still look at that black tower during the nights, when it’s the only light in the city, because almost everyone else has died of the plague, and I wonder what could have been. But then I remember if I’m caught wondering I’ll be whipped because wondering is for the rich. So I go back to running my whorehouse, but all the while thinking of Emma.

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