She sits. Because I tell her to sit. I am a man of passion, and dark humours boil within me now. She is wise to heed my words and do as I command.
I pour two glasses of the finest red that I have. The cut of the glasses deepen and intensify the rich colour of the wine. It is too crude to liken it to the blood of my man that she has caused to be spilt. My man, to me. To her and her ilk, just a Man.What can they know, secure within their timelessness, about what life is? About what life is, to a Man?
She has caused him to be cut down in his prime. To her, as ephemeral as a weed. To me, to him, one glorious chance at being here, present. What can they know about this wine in my hand, how it tastes, knowing that wine will always be there for them? Pleasure, pain, loss, gain ... they cannot know the true meaning, therefore cannot savour every passing, fleeting moment. Endless life should be the preserve of Men, we who know what life is, and know how to live it.
I tell her his name. His father, his lover. Where in the lands he came from. What he liked to eat, what he hated. Did she think that we are just one thing? Some amorphous mass clad in the same dark robes? We are alive, we act as we do because we think. We are not dullards, mindlessly following orders. We are Men. This is what Men are ... they need to understand that we are not sheep to bleat along for elven masters, in thrall to their beauty.
I bring him to life for her. Let her swallow with every wine scented mouthful the enormity of what she has done... if she can. I loathe her beauty, her changeless features. I tell her she will raise her glass and drink to the memory of the man she has caused to die.
Drink. Drink to the memory of your enemy, bird; or my own fingers will take their cue from you. I will wring your slim neck with my own black hands.
