The tale of the blue heart is a love story in labor. The Wildforest is pregnant with it, conceived after an invisible secret courtship that never happened sometime in the middle of a certain July. Maybe it is a nine-month thing, maybe not. Maybe something happens in March, nine years after. It is a wild story, all fierce and weepingly beautiful, and sharp, and painfully elusive, and most impossible. It is also light and sunshine and unexpected foolish smiles out of nowhere and anywhere.
But every love story has a shadow. And it is the blue-blind boy. All tricky and kind and cruel at the same time. All real and too close with silences that slice like serrated claws. He wounds by denying the possible. He stains the impossible with dark hope. His very breath a curse in the wind. He shows up at every crossroads like a test. And she has to see through him, break through him.
The blue heart princeling marks the trail. Blue-blind boy lays traps. But blue-blind boy is not even hungry, he just likes catching things, and then he will complain why he can’t have what he wants.
Blue heart princeling is magic. Blue-blind boy is a test, until he isn’t, until he is shadow merged with light, or until he is shadow burned away by light. Until then his grip is tight, his fingerprints are guilty all over her bruised beaten heart.
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