It began quietly.
It started when Jahari told him He loved him, and he answered, “I know.” He’d never said that before. Jahari was a little surprised, but it didn’t mean anything.
He started to want time on his own. It made sense. Everyone needed time. Jahari spent time with His other friends—with His beloved siblings and their loves and their families. With the dragons and the Fae and the spirits of the world, as usual. But he was no longer by His side, and it was strangely lonely.
Then it was the half-hearted hugs and the unreturned kisses. Jahari would lie in bed with him and shower him with kisses, embrace him tightly, and he would only lie still and watch. No longer would he kiss passionatey in return, no longer the soft embrace. That was the first time He noticed something was wrong.
One night, he left the bed. He never returned.
Jahari stood over His lover’s body, sword in his hands, and His lover looked up at Him. The face He had fallen in love with, all those centuries ago. The face that had never left His side until those few short years past… He stood over His lover’s body, and His sword dropped from his hands.
His lover rose, picked up the sword, and drove it through His heart.
He died in Amuset’s arms.
Jahari sits on the roof of Casa Dultae and stares at the stars. He remembers placing them in the sky, forming the constellations carefully, then gleefully spilling the rest across the blackness, dancing with His lover. Every star, another step. Azrael is sleeping, dimensions away, and Jahari has been rejected from his bed.
It is quiet.
And so it begins.
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casadultae's journal
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