Disclaimers: I do not own Vampire Princess Miyu, nor any of the characters therein. I also do not own the poem The Prisoner, which was written by Emily Bronte.



~ He comes with western winds, with evening's wandering airs,
With that clear dusk of heaven that brings the thickest stars,
Winds take a pensive tone, and stars a tender fire,
And visions rise, and change, that kill me with desire. ~
- Emily Bronte, The Prisoner



His eyes are like fire. Allusive, yet direct- as if his gaze could burn a hole right through your soul. And it feels so lovely. As if you have been completed. Though I can't help but wonder...
What piece was I missing?
Sadness was all I had. It was my fear and pain. I sold myself to it. All those wasted years...
His mouth is like ice. It is so cold against my temple, it burns my skin. Kiss me again, and I will turn into stone, like you. But he holds me instead, gently tracing his long fingers across my mouth. The gesture has become so familiar, so vital. I breathe deeply, gathering as much of him as I can.
He smells of the sea. My mind slips into a calm stillness, and it is all I can do to close my eyes and give into the steady rhythm of his fingers, as they explore my cheek. I am trapped. I could not move, even if I gathered all my strength.
This is what I was missing.
Love...
I had become used to sharing my misery with my fears- feeding them. Is this what it is like to be free? Before a shadow of doubt could tear at the single bud of hope that bloomed within my chest, I felt his fingers slip into my hair, gently drawing my head back.
Miyu...
I open my eyes.
His mouth was close, so close that his lips brushed against mine as he spoke my name. He has never kissed my mouth before. His eyes have touched my lips, and his fingers trace their shape in a gesture of affection- or love? I'm not sure I know how to love like a woman. I told him once he was my very best friend, in the whole world. He had watched me, his beautiful face strangely sad.
And you are my very only, my whole world...
I had been elated. I had a true friend, a companion. After so many years of loneliness, of watching without being seen, I had found someone who could see me. I did not know then that though he held me carefully, he held me because I would someday slip through his fingers.
His cool fingertip trails down the side of my cheek, dipping under my jaw and continuing an icy path down my neck. I did not notice my eyes had shut, until he spoke into my ear.
Open your eyes, little one...
I obey. Two crimson eyes burn into mine, and I gulp silently. A strange heat is welling in my chest. My hands tremble. His fingertip stops it's decent on my collar bone.
Strength. Devotion. Desire.
I watch, as though caught in a strong current, as he lifts his hand to touch my temple, his fingers sure.
Strength...
He says, bringing his cold lips to brush against my forehead. His voice is soft and somewhat hoarse; as though he has just woken up. His throat is smooth and inviting. I reach up to touch it. He sighs, almost inaudibly at my touch. Pulling back, he traces his fingertip down the side of my face, and down my neck until he stops at the neck-line of my kimono. Slowly, as though revealing a secret, his eyes hold mine. His fingertip gently slips the neck line down, until the pad of his finger rests on the sensitive skin where my heart should beat.
Devotion...
Before I can gather my wits about me, he has slipped the kimono from my left shoulder, baring the point where his finger rests. The well rises, in a painful wave. It is not unpleasant though. It is a sweet pain. A longing...
I watch silently as he lowers his eyes to my breast, then bows his fair head. His mouth tastes my skin with a soft stroke, his lips causing every hair on my body to rise. My hand moves without command to run through the silky strands of hair that fall onto my skin. His lips part from my breast, and I hear him take a deep breath. His eyes travel up my throat, past my lips and directly into my eyes. My vision has become hazy- my mind is cloaked within a humid fog. He raises his head, and I tilt my chin upwards, following his movements, curiously.
Fair strands fall across his forehead, dark eye brows curving above his eyes severely. His features are sharp and straight- until you reach his mouth. His lips are full and soft, curving youthfully- though his jaw is set firmly. His throat is strong and smooth. Wrapped in his arms, I am growing increasingly feverish with each touch. As though reading my thoughts, his cold hand cups my cheek, and I sigh with pleasure.
Where is desire?
I ask. His eyes darken. My breath slows. Was I breathing? I hadn't noticed...
His nose brushes against mine, and I fight the urge to shut my eyes in shyness.
Desire...
He whispers, then captures my mouth with his. I must have parted my lips in surprise, because before I know it, his tongue is tracing my bottom lip teasingly. It is a different touch than that of his fingertips. His mouth was supple yet demanding , drawing me towards him as if hypnotized. The well that brimmed inside my chest was near bursting, and in a vain attempt to ease the ache that threatened to wash me away, I opened my mouth fully under his caress. My hands slip behind his neck, pulling his mouth as close as I can. I felt his arms tremble, as they tightened around my body. Our mouths are exploring, tasting, reaching for what lay just out of reach...
Without a second thought, I bite gently at his bottom lip. His breaths quicken, his hands skimming up my back to cradle the back of my head between his palms.
It hurts...
I whisper against his mouth.
Here...?
My hand was now in his, as he focused on my eyes. Drawing my hand down his chest, he stops where his heart should have beat. I look up into his face, his lips parted and his breaths fanning my heated skin.
Yes...
I nod softly.


~Still let my tyrant know, I am not doomed to wear
Year after year in gloom, and desolate despair;
A messenger of Hope comes every night to me,
And offers for short life, eternal liberty.~
- Emily Bronte, The Prisoner