His two hearts were courage and tenderness and wrath. He could listen to the high, wild song of the universe's magic, and she knew he would never run mad with its beauty. He could taste the metallic tang of time itself, and she knew he would never become addicted. He could tear and mend the fabric of space at will, and she knew he would never sew the pieces together haphazardly. And it was why she stole him away: so she could do it too.
Her heart was the universe and time and space, after all.
And soon, the purity of her energy flowed into his hearts too. The unbridled, constant joy of running free among the galaxies almost made up for the losses they suffered, the people lost or disillusioned or dead because of their influence. Almost.
But they put it behind themselves, because they had to. If they consciously dwelt with the intangible but ever-present spirits of those they had left behind, or thought about all those who had died and never knew their names, they knew they would no longer listen to the singing universe or drink in the sharpness of time or stitch together pieces of space in exotic patterns.
And however much she loved him, and he her, she knew he would feel alone all his life, so she brought him to new companions, new places, new experiences, all in a desperate effort to keep him enthusiastic. All the while, she knew when and how each one of her attempts to maintain his happiness would come to an end, and that his hearts would break yet again, and each time be less and less reparable.
He trusted her with his life. He cared for her—treated her like a lady, even, when they were the only ones. But he never realized, not once, that when every single one of his companions left him in the end, he was still not alone, and he never would be truly alone.
She was the last of her kind, too.
So how could he forget?
((Written late with a bit of a cold, I could barely breathe. Does this make sense?))
