She stands, ashen and cold and perfect. Her body bends unwillingly, but she goes through the motions as she sings, performing only for him. Him and the monsters. Her arms lift; she shudders. And her voice... her voice is the voice of an angel. A dead angel, a howling angel filled with icy wind and fury. That never touches him, though. He doesn't mind.

Her gift surges through her, disregarding the dusty throat and empty lungs. They don't matter. She sings and sings, and the world kneels before her. Sometimes he feels a little guilty, though. She shouldn't have to fight. The battlefield is a dirty place. (Though, he supposes it's not really her anymore. Still.) She always was a glorious creature. When you looked at her, you could see that she knew it, too. The men at her shows always gave her roses.

He knows that voice- he'll always know. But she's too far away, she isn't his anymore, it hurts. Still, he cannot bring himself to let her go, and so she lingers on. It's only the right thing to do. To let her decay would be sacrilege. His Maria does not decompose. She does not.

It's as if she hates him for it, with her perfect stillness, but he knows better. (Not her, she would never.)

They fought often, arguments sounding through the night and stinging dreadfully in the morning, but it was always alright in the end. She was tired of society's finest- cringing cowards who couldn't duel or even fight- and he was more than happy to oblige. They fit, in the worst of ways. It was perfect.

Her face has been covered since the first day. The first day he went to meet her at the opera, that home of her heart, and saw her eyes. Her eyes were open, even as she lay dying, bleeding and twitching and ruining her pretty, pretty dress. She loved that dress. It made her feel like a queen, she said.

"But you are a queen, my dear. Your audience agrees, I'm sure of it. Just listen."

"You're shameless, Cross."

"It's Marian. How many times must I tell you?"

"...Very well, Marian."

"Much better. Now, as the show is over... why don't you lead me to your dressing room?"

"Absolutely shameless."

She died, of course. Who wouldn't? She looked like she'd been torn apart by a pack of wolves. It was a pity, really. All her grace and poise (which he'd so admired), replaced by the ugly stiffness of rigor mortis.

But he fixed her. He put her back together, he sewed up the body, and it walked again for him. He was a selfish man, deeply so: she was his. And he never lets go of what belongs to him.

So he keeps her covered, for her face. His Maria was alive inside; she had red flowers in her hair, she broke wineglasses when she was angry, she scowled at passerby on the street when carriages splashed mud on her pristine white gloves. She slapped him once, for walking in on her while she was changing for the final act of some tragic romance or another. Then she kissed him, and went out on stage with her lipstick smeared hopelessly a minute later.

When he was done with her, she no longer bled. Her torn limbs had been carefully attached once more, her skin washed of stains. And he did it all for her, of course. She wouldn't want her gloves dirtied, would she? She hated that. And her favorite dress... he spent so long on her goddamn frilly clothing.

And she was lovely once again.

They dance, still. After all, she is a lady. Ladies are to be treated with nothing but the utmost respect (or so they say). And he is a gentleman, just for her. Her hands are delicate in his as the guns roar and the screams grow louder. To hear her voice is worth it all. True, it's not exactly ballroom style, (oh she did so love to dance) but it'll do for now.

His Maria.