Weak Hands

"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 futile.

"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 nearness.

"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 her.

"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 here."

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.