“You’ll what?” countered Gita, “Breathe on me?” She waved her hand in front of her face in mockery. A few wild men chuckled. Cuor snarled.
“She—is—mine!” he hissed. “And mine to do whatever I please with. YOU MAY NOT TOUCH HER!!” Gita tensed and stood, her face threateningly close to Cuor’s.
“It is not your place to give me orders, elf!” she spat the last word and anger welled up inside her darkening eyes. The king stepped in.
“Gita. I promised Cuor the Swan Lady. You will do your best not to interfere thankyou.” Enraged, Gita left the tent, retreating into the darkness of the woods, drawing a knife. No one tells me what to do. I’ve had it. Cuor will have his Swan Lady. Oh yes, but only after I’m through with her. She grinned wickedly and crept through the forest to the village: undoubtedly Laurel’s next stop.
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"They call this war a cloud over the land. But they made the weather and then they stand in the rain and say, 'Sh*t, it's raining!'" -- Ruby, Cold Mountain
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