a covetous fellow

He wasn't quite sure when he had started to love her. It might have been a few days ago as well as years ago, but there had been some point, indefinitely, when he realized he just loved her. He loved her small statute, her big goldredish eyes, her unequivocal temper, her words and the mouth she spoke them with – he loved every single bit about her. And just as easy she were to love, she was to hate. Too independent, too stubborn, too fierce. She didn't think, she just acted – usually anyways. And it seemed like he was just to keep up. She played him, like the crow played the fox in the old tale.

The crow and the fox. More like the jackdaw and the fox – and this time the fox would probably win. Jack. Jackdaw. Well known as a thief from shiny things and glimmering jewels. In this particularly tale he didn't made much of a thief. That was more the fox's job. She was a thief, he was more of a rogue. The villain perhaps, though people liked him to much to hate him – usually at least. She stole whatsoever her quick pickpocket fingers could grasp; he made up the bigger plans. The great robberies. Not that he would ever call himself the smarter of the two. Hardly. She was the one full of quick wit and sharp cleverness; he was quite sure she could outplay him easily. Luckily for him she was to impetuous to surpass him. And maybe, just maybe, she needed him – like he needed her.

So it had become. The fox and the jackdaw.

Another town, another day. He told her, like always, to stay close and she had, naturally, disappeared with the first signs of daylight. Like she had always done and she would probably still do over a thousand years or so. He had given up trying to find her. He rested his case, more or less. For now he walked the streets of this unfamiliar town alone. He smoked a cigarette, enjoyed the soft sunlight and listened to the whispering of a city slowly waking up.

It was there he laid eyes upon her. For a moment, a long lingering moment he thought it was the foxy lady. He had almost called upon her, 'Little Fox!', when he realized it wasn't her. She was to tall, not skinny enough. Like the Fox's cub liked to say: 'I am not just skin and bones, although I might look like it.' This woman definitely wasn't. She was beautiful. A woman he would like to touch, a woman he would like to make to love to. His mind drifted away for a moment. It felt like years ago he had last touched a woman. Due to one foxy child who had decided to lure him in her trap. After that one night he hadn't felt like to be in touch with any woman. Against his usual habit he had stayed away from inns and brothels. He had almost decided to get rid of the young lady, but he couldn't bare it. He just couldn't stand the idea she had to be alone once again. So despite his anger he had let her stay.

They just hadn't really made up afterward. They were on speaking-terms, but that was about it – and it would probably stay that way for quite some time. At least if it were up to him. She had lured him, used him and somehow he felt utterly betrayed, although he wasn't entirely sure she was the one to blame. After all, wasn't she little more than a child? She might act like an adult, she was still young. Maybe, just maybe he should have been more careful – more considerate.