It was as if a divine being had taken an item as simple, mundane, and unworthy of being held in the hands of an existence so holy as a paintbrush, dipped it into the endless depths between the brilliant pinpoints of virginal, untarnished light that we call stars, unhurriedly pulled it out, allowing the drops of pure obsidian to plummet and spatter onto the ravenous, purposeless void, before painting the previously bare surface of the ebony cross now cradled by remarkably pale, nimble fingers. The charcoal starkly contrasted the milky white it rested against. Ivory hands connected to a porcelain doll, dirtied, shattered, and tossed into a dark, impassive corner consigned to oblivion, while the shards still stubbornly shimmered incandescent white.
The cross was being gradually lifted skywards in a single fluid motion and at last arrived at it's intended destination: a pair of perpetually battered, bruised, and war-torn, dauntlessly stubborn and unswayable, seemingly eternal yet undeniably mortal, cracked, chapped, and bloodstained lips. It was a black icicle, an unforgivingly frigid chunk of metal, yet the pair of lips caressed it like it was a beautiful lover as it placed a lingering kiss onto it's smooth surface. Then, the pendant was lifted even higher as it's chain klinked and rubbed against it's owner and guardian's neck, slid over his uncovered ears, rustled through his disheveled hair as white and majestic as an alabaster column inside a Greek temple that had unflinchingly braved the cruel test of time, forever a testament to whatever wise, generous, beloved God or Goddess it had been dedicated to, and suddenly, it dangled in thin air, nothing supporting it, for the blanched hands of it's steadfast owner had moved to the opposite side of it's chain.
It was still moving though, towards another person. A girl, no a woman with chestnut curls. Funny that a word as over-used and cliche as chestnut could so flawlessly describe the exact shade of brown woven and spun into every strand framing her lovely features. Including eyes as green as the trees and leaves residing within the feral fairy-tale Forrest in which the malicious crimson-eyed Wolf had lured innocent Little Red deeper into it's fathomless heart, sealing her fate forevermore.
Those wild vividly green eyes stared at the man before her with an emotion he was not accustomed to seeing. He was used to her unbridled fury, limitless elation, tender, sweet love and affection, anything but the way she was looking at him now with such profound, heart-shattering grief. He needed, as blood needed to turn from cobalt to scarlet as it mingled with the oxygen in the cruel air of the outside world after being released from the confines of vein and flesh, to remove that vile expression marring her gorgeous eyes. But it was impossible. There was simply nothing he could do. It was far too late. This was the very last thing he could do for her and he was going to complete this invaluable task no matter what dared stand in his way.
The jet-black cross was once again lowered down. Past the crown of her chestnut head, past her agonized, fiercely green eyes, past the creamy skin of her forehead, nose, cheeks, and chin that displayed a warmth that the pale man's skin would never have been able to betray at simply a glance, past her rosy red lips that never failed to speak her opinionated mind and had so often been gently kissed by her lover, and finally laid to rest over her heart which would always be protectively kept under lock and key by the man standing in front of her. She gazed into his eyes, haunted by horrible deaths, unspeakable torture, unbelievable pain, and so much more yet too iron-willed to openly reveal it other than being stained the same shade of crimson as his undeservingly spilt blood, the blood of his victims pierced by his sword and his gun, the blood of his tormentors, the blood flowing through her, as well. She loathed how his eyes were continuously compared to blood, though. Maybe, they were the deep ruby red color of the poisoned Apple pretty Snow White had sunk her delicate pearly teeth into and collapsed to the ground in deep slumber. Or maybe, the velvety burgundy smeared into every individual petal of the encased gossamer Rose of which each falling petal signified a tick-tocking clock relentlessly counting down the remaining light of hope of the horrendous Beast.
When his deed was finally done, he flashed her one of his signature cocky grins, and she couldn't prevent her unwanted tears from spilling over any longer. Like rain that fell from the gray clouds of the heavens up above, a single lonely teardrop cascaded down her cheek but was stopped in it's tracks as it was wiped away by a pale hand. His palm didn't want to abandon her soft cheek.
"Hey, don't cry for me, Lizzie."
They crashed into each other's arms. One hopelessly inconsolable while the other had already begrudgingly accepted his fate. Their lips met as the midnight cross was tangled and embedded between them. He reluctantly pulled away and with three, simple yet timeless words, there was nothing, as if his sentence had been a magic enchantment of "Abracadabra!" whisking him away like a rabbit into a magician's hat. But there was no fanciful magician, no furry white rabbit, only a woman trembling and convulsing like a terrified child, her crystalline tears littering the ground as she mourned the previously occupied space in front of her.