Good Hating
"You don't like it when the things are simple no more."
Valygar startled and pulled the blankets tighter around himself: "No." Things were never simple, but that was beside the point.
"Well, let us try to make it simple, then," the voice was velvety, almost without mockery. Almost.
Valygar tried to count the stars.
"Four thousand and eighty seven," his tormentor offered helpfully, and shrugged when Valygar growled in response.
"I had to give Bandit some chore or another. Counting the stars sounded as good as any. And yes, your objections to waking a weasel's mind are noted. Which subtly brings us back to making it simple."
"You are -" Valygar coughed and finished almost in a whisper: "-mad…"
"Yes, good thinking. People are sleeping nearby. Hopefully still sleeping," now the voice was clearly amused. "And of course I am mad; and a wizard. Which does not contradict your way of thinking at all."
It did, of course. Only he had already said the words.
"You are…" Valygar started again and stopped. How does one define a candle? One says 'a candle'.
"You are you." It was hopeless. And boundless, like the starry skies. Even if the weasel thought there were only four thousand and eighty stars. Much do the weasels know!
His companion sat up, the dark shadow looming against the dark sky: "Yes, I am I. And I am a mage. What does it make you then?"
"Your lover," Valygar said simply.
"I am glad it's solved." He stretched and kissed Valygar's forehead. "Good hating, my dear. Good hating."