'Definitely better light out here,' he thought as he made his way to the side of his small abode where a cracked mirror hung, haphazardly attached to the outside wall.
Slathering some of the white cream over his face and occasionally nodding in the direction of the townsfolk who stopped to observe his daily routine, his mind went over the events of the past couple of days. The business with El Serpiente had taken its toll on them all. Some of the outlying villages were still rebuilding in the wake of his vengeful destruction and he himself was dealing with the results of his actions.
One clear fact did not escape him: He had sworn to himself to protect El Serpiente and hold to his oath to save lives and not take them. Then what had he done? He'd killed him--not because of his past crimes or any sense of justice or punishment, but because the Queen of Swords' life was in danger. What did that mean?
He knew good and well what it meant. He'd do just about anything regardless of his own principles to ensure her safety. Sighing he positioned the freshly-stropped razor against his chin and started pulling it in short strokes over his skin.
'Admit it, Robert,' he told himself as he dipped the blade into the basin of warm water. 'You're falling in love with the Queen of Swords.'
It wasn't really an unexpected revelation. Lately he found himself dreaming up possible ways to let her know how he felt. Sometimes he even caught himself wondering what exactly he could do to 'sweep her off her feet' as they say.
Peering into the mirror at his reflection he mused, 'Perhaps I'd look more distinguished it I took up smoking.' Bringing an imaginary cigar to his lips he took a few experimental puffs. He could almost see the smoke rings formimg. Bringing the razor back to his face he decided against that option. 'Dreadful things, cigars. I'm sure she'd think it a reprehensible habit..'
Maybe if he had a romantic accent instead of his bland English one. French. The ladies always seem to like the French accent. Affecting his best Parisian dialect, he propositioned his image in the mirror. "Voulez vous coucher avec moi ce soir?"
'Right. That would probably earn a slap in the face, Robert.'
He was beginning to think it was a lost cause. With a shake of his head he brought the towel to his face to wipe off the excess shaving cream when he heard a tinkle of feminine laughter behind him. He whirled around in time to catch a glimpse of a black blur disappearing around the side of the building. He followed after it quickly but when he reached the street all he saw was the sea of townspeople milling around the pueblo.
A bit of color caught his eye as he glanced down. There on the ground was a tarot card. He wasn't surprised when he found it to be the Queen of Swords. He bent to pick up the now-infamous calling card. Turning it over in his hand he *was* surprised to see another card attached to the back--the Wheel of Fortune.
With a wry grin, he looked off in the direction his visitor must have gone and mused, 'Perhaps my luck is changing.'
