Spellweaver: A Historical Fantasy Novel

I loved her more than life itself. And I killed her.

 I was not the man who came to snatch her away from us, nor was I the man’s disgusting, servile toad-eater who lit the fire under her with such a look of glee on his face. I might as well have been, though; because I didn’t stop it, I killed her just the same.

  But this was a woman who couldn’t be killed. Truly. You could take the life from her, but you couldn’t take her from Life, for once she lived here, the world was never to be the same. Oh, just imagine a woman who is so in love with living, so in love with the break of each new dawn, so in love with her body, even so in love with the very air around her. For that’s how she moved. That’s how she glided through her day, that’s how she danced on the hillsides, that’s how she bathed under a waterfall, that’s how she slept, that’s how she ate. It was like she was making love to the water, to the sky, to her nighttime dreams. And how fortunate was her food to be chosen by her—to be turned into such a life and, ultimately, such love. It was like she was making love to life—every minute of her day, every minute of her too-short life.

 And I took that life from her.

 Oh, did I love her. I didn’t know that love could kill anyone. I thought only hate did that. But I loved her so much I killed her. When she was taken, I thought I would regret it for all of eternity.