France, 14th century.
I was a slave.
I was weak.
I was only 100 years old.
I had been captured by a much, much more powerful warlock. He put a magical block on my powers and loaned me out for cash to different house holds. Sometimes I would come back with a sore back, legs, arms.
Sometimes I came back with a sore ass.
It wasn't the first time I met him.
He was the young son of a mundane couple; an only child in this life.
They borrowed me often.
I like to think it was because of him.
He was only sixteen.
He should have been spoiled rotten.
But everytime I met the boy with the blue eyes he defied what he was supposed to be.
We kissed only once before the fire.
His lips, as always, were soft under my lips. His hair soft under my fingers. His body rock hard under mine.
It was devistating.
The fire spread quickly.
I could see it from where the other warlock and I were staying.
I broke the block on my magic and ran to his aid.
It was too late.
I was always too late.
