Discalimer: I don't own. I just play.
Malice
The lone tear ran down her face. She was battered and bruised in ways she could only imagine, and that he could see all to well. She used her hair as a shield, its length and thickness cloaking all but her face. She was thankful for a moment, that she'd never had the heart to cut it. He stared at her, his cold dark eyes, boring into her skin, her soul. She wanted to look away, the shame she felt was quite overwhelming, but she couldn't, not when he held her gaze so securely. The tears she'd been holding back in shock began to slide down her face. She wasn't one for heaving sobs. No, she cried just as silently as she read her favorite books. He crouched down before her, wrapping his cloak around her shoulders. She could tell he wasn't sure what to say to her, but she didn't care. At that moment, her body shattered, along with her heart, and what was left of her mind, she couldn't bring herself to care about anything. She felt his hand on her cheek, but couldn't remember seeing the movement that brought it there. It was a slight jolt to her system to feel something so warm against her skin, when she felt so cold. But his touch brought to mind the touch of another, and when she shuddered the second time, it wasn't in surprise, but in fear and revulsion and she was finally able to pull her gaze away from his. Her stomach roiled, and her eyes began to show the whites. He could only compare her to a frightened animal. He wasn't sure how he had brought back the fear he saw in her eyes, but he had, so he stilled every movement beyond what it took to breathe. Her lips moved, but he couldn't hear the words she said.
"What did you say?"
"Stop." Her eyes met his again. "Stop touching me." She brushed his hand away from her face.
"Ok. I wont touch you." And when she looked at him again, he felt his blood run cold. No longer could he see the warmth and compassion that had always graced her features. Even in anger she had exhibited an intense passion that burned hotly in her. But not in that moment, no, she had lost all of her fire, and replaced it with cold calculating malice. The look in her eyes was far more terrifying than any other evil he had ever faced, if only because it was on the face of the one woman he had secretly loved for so many years.
If he could have, he would have used his own intense passion to warm her, to hold her close and shield her from the turmoil that was currently holding sway over her mind and her heart, while her body continued to tremble with pain and with fear. He pulled the impulse in and held it tightly less she shatter even further than she already had. She brought out something that was long dead in him, something that he wasn't sure he could ever feel again, if he had felt it at all.
She looked up at him again. The ice shards in her eyes were like stabs to the heart. He didn't know how to offer the comfort that he knew she needed without first breaking her again. She must have seen something in his eyes that intrigued her, as she tilted her head to the side, studying him. He mentally overlaid an image of a large predatory bird watching her prey.
"You love me." It was a statement of fact, said flatly, as if any possible emotion was a sin, and would burned out on her tongue before the words could be uttered from her mouth.
"I do." He answered, trying to keep his own voice as equally emotionless.
"Can you love me after this?" She asked, her head still tilted in her study of him.
"I will always love you." He answered, this time letting the depths of his feelings be seen in his eyes as well as heard in his voice. She nodded and leaned back a little, closing her eyes. He continued to watch her, tamping down the little feather of hope that had suddenly tickled his chest.
They sat for what seemed like hours to both of them. She was mentally using his deep and abiding affection to restore her mental defenses, to smooth over the cracks that had begun to appear within her psyche. He was content to wait as long as it took for her to respond or acknowledge him again.
When she reopened her eyes, it was too see him still sitting patiently in front of her. He had long since settled himself down to the ground in order to wait her out more comfortably. When she finally caught his eye, he saw a hint of warmth, not the blazing fire that he was used to seeing, but enough of a spark that the feather of hope in his chest tickled again.
This time she reached for him, wanting his touch, and his comfort. She knew that he would never hurt her, that he was patient, and he was kind, and he loved her. She knew that she was damaged and that he didn't seem to care that she would never be whole again, that something had been ripped from her. He simply gave her all of himself and hoped that it would be enough to properly fill the void that had been left behind.
He was surprised when she reached for him, but gladly welcomed her into his embrace. He held her gently at first and then as fiercely as she held him, wanting to climb into each other's skin.
No more words were needed. They returned to his quarters and washed themselves of their former lives before leaving once and for all. Neither knew where they were going, nor did they care. They only wanted to leave, to escape the confines of the hell they had both walked through, and start over without the stigmas they both carried.
They were never seen again, but lived contentedly with each other.