She took one hesitant step back, then another, and peered down into nothingness, with only the air licking at her ankles. A young, ingenuous creature such as she, never having any experience aside from the careful and restricted teachings from England, would never dare do such a thing, he told himself.
He eased the knife down, looked in her eyes, searching for the answer. Her eyes spoke of the battle waging deep within her soul; he knew she lacked the mettle to follow through. He gestured for her to come, to obey, to retreat from the abyss, to accept her fate as punishment for her father's sins. His hand lifts slowly, fingers dripping with the blood of the warrior he had vanquished. Her warrior.
At that moment, the decision was clear. The innocence she had once possessed was gone, not from the pierce of a man or from witnessing the slaughter of hundreds of men, but from the slaughter of one man: The brave warrior who sacrificed himself for her, someone she had barely known but always knew. No longer crippled by fear, her body soaked up enough courage to take control of its destiny. She let go, falling quickly to her end, to reunite with her warrior, to meet him in place far away from enemy grasp.
She had done it. He hid the astonishment from his face, quickly reassuming the mask of indifference. This tiny, timorous scrap of a girl actually had the courage to become mistress of her own fate. He stared only for a fraction longer, begrudgingly giving the doomed lovers his respect.