"Oh, the queen of peace

Always does her best to please

Is it any use

Somebody's gotta lose"

- Queen of Peace, Florence + the Machine

I.

When she realized that she loved him, she hid from him and cried. She did it often – escaping moments of beauty and true joy in order to tend to her internal turmoil. It was difficult to be present.

When the epiphany struck her, it did so like a slap. It shook her out from this self-inflicted daze that she was clinging onto. She might be in love with him but she didn't know, did she? It was comforting to not be sure. It had worked for her. It was nothing more than a delay of the inevitable but it gave her time. She had a funeral to prepare for after all.

II.

She was the queen of peace that never existed; she wanted a balance that brought no harmony – it was a catastrophe. She wanted to have him in every way and wished she could be the happy recipient of every type of love he could give her. Only, she could choose just one. He could be her lover or her faithful, fatherly guardian, never both. She was certain of it. Somehow, she didn't believe the universe could be so generous as to grant her such an excess of devotion. That was, if her suspicions were correct and she wasn't alone in her wildness for him. She wasn't sure. His somewhat fatherly ways were confusing her, warming her; such frustration! She wasn't sure. It was comforting to not be sure. Otherwise she was going to have to bury one love and let the other live; a funeral.

III.

He'd give her the address to his safe house and she'd go there for dinner. Maybe a movie. They'd read in silence sometimes, often times. He'd insist on Dembe escorting her home and she'd convince him she was a very capable driver. And she'd call him the second she'd get home and his voice would lull her to sleep after hours of conversation. It was their thing. She tried not to think of it as a newly established tradition but it was exactly what it was – a routine. An exciting one. Exciting and breathable. She felt light after indulgent dinners and desserts and wine. She enjoyed the illusionary balance between breathing in his cologne and having him kiss her temple before she left. She enjoyed toying with herself that way. She relished in not being sure. It was their thing.

IV.

Tragically, she was no queen of peace and balance had started to escape her; her attraction to him was growing. Her uncertainty in the essence of his love was her only comfort, the only thread she was currently holding onto. It was comforting to not be sure. But he caught her staring at him once, twice; many times. He was catching up with her turmoil. It was then that his kisses on her temples started to linger. And she was stripped of all her comforts. She didn't have a single excuse to keep postponing, to keep not knowing.

Truly, it had to end or else she'd combust; she was so full, so overwhelmed.

Something had to die – the possibility of Red being her lover or the warm, protective cloak of her guardian angel. There would be a funeral either way.

V.

"Why did you run away, Lizzy? What's bothering you?" He asked the evening after she jolted from his armchair like a mad woman and ran. Little did he know, a possible confession would speed up the small death she'd been trying to avoid for months.

"Please, don't make me answer you today," she implored. An attempt at lying wouldn't result in anything so she decided to forgo it. "I will tell you," she assured because she knew, she knew all too well that hiding her turmoil from him wouldn't do; he wouldn't have it.

She needed an evening, she decided. She'd tell him the next day. She'd be brave for him and for herself. With a little luck, there might not even be a funeral.

"Tomorrow," she promised.

"Tomorrow, Lizzy."