"You swore you would die for me." Her voice is icy, expressionless. Her
eyes are unreadable.
"It is true." His voice is full of plaintive hope, though he knows it is
"You swore you loved me, on your honor." She holds his letter in her
delicate hands. Evidence.
"It is true." He seals his own fate with the same ink-stained hands that
had professed devotion.
"Do you love me still?" Still beautiful, still radiant. Even with malice in
her eyes she draws in him, makes him sweat.
He does not answer. She draws closer, moving with the grace and deadly
agility of a panther.
"Do you love me still?" She puts her face close to his. He can smell the
perfume she wears, see the whiteness of her skin. He is drunk with her
"Yes." The word falls the like closing of a cell door, throwing him into an
abyss without light or hope. He has become a shadow of himself with pining,
a slave to the wanting of her, the unforgettable longing.
"Fool." The condemnation. Her musical voice caresses the syllable,
releasing it with timed precision to crush the remains of the man. She
moves her face close to his, feeling his heartbeat speed up. He knows she
can crush him, use him up, leave him bereft of any soul. She is fire held
within ice: fierce, strong, controlled, controllling. He is nothing beside
"Keep your declarations." Three minute daggers stabbing their target swift
and sure. She smiles at him, cruelly, toying with him still. She lifts one
of his hands, covered in the stains of a scholar's ink, caresses the long
white fingers mockingly, knowing well the fire that courses through him at
her touch. "Find some meek and vulnerable mouse who will be glad to
surrender to your songs. Perhaps she will be content with one whose hands
are so weak." She drops his hands, meeting his bewildered, stricken gaze.
"Do you always treat them such- the ones who have done nothing more than
love you?" his voice is raw with unshed tears. Would to see some softness
in her face!
"Never will you see me under the dominion of any weaker than I," she tells
him, each word hammering him with contempt. "Do not look for kindness
She leaves him then. He stares at his hands, hating them for their tingling
remembrance of her touch. He can still smell the perfume she wore.
Still he wants her, as the moon wants the sun, knowing it will be burned.
Still he will dream of her and wake covered in sweat, wanting until there
is nothing more than desire. He knows she is as cruel as she is beautiful.
Still he is helpless before her.
He did not look for kindness.