His feet weren't moving any better than they had been a second ago, and now Bragi had lost his hands too. He couldn't pull away. That was beyond him then. It was why his feet couldn't move. He could only pull off, and now Bragi couldn't do that either. He thought he'd gotten rid of the part of him that cared, but it was obvious he hadn't done a good enough job. So Bragi did it again. He didn't care that her hands were on top of his. He didn't care that they were warmer than his hands. He didn't care that he couldn't pull away.
He was trapped like someone about to get trampled by a horse, who freezes because they know they don't have enough time to pull away. Bragi did care about that. He'd killed a person. He'd wrecked the woman before him, who he'd loved once, so badly that she'd come to a man who she had to hate, to ask him about his plays. He was bad, and himself was the only thing he did care about. But the horse was still coming. And there still wasn't enough time to get out of the way.
“It's about two feuding families” Bragi said, “who nearly come together when their children fall in love. But it's ruined by a duel.” He still didn't know why she was asking. He didn't ask. He hadn't asked anything in two months. When you asked things, people had the terrible tendency to answer them. But he didn't care what she knew. He'd keep talking about the play if that was what she wanted. If that would make her let go of his hands, because she was squeezing them, and Bragi couldn't pull away.
“Usually there is an element of that” Bragi said. He'd talk about story structure too. He'd do whatever she wanted, except look her in the eye. “But that's not the focus usually. The focus in a true love story is usually not the tragedy they overcome itself, but rather the sacrifices the lovers are willing to make in order to overcome it.” He glanced at the door. He didn't ask her why she was asking. He didn't ask whether she was writing a play.