Hands
Hands-one set perfect, pale, slender, soft and complex; marred only by the paint from the paintbrushes they've used only so many times. Sweeping, swirling, and dabbing at the canvas as they create masterpieces so divine that it could make even grown men well up with tears.
Another set-this pair tan and calloused-scarred from the many blade nicks they have endured, and the numerous stones and surfaces they've skidded across. These hands carry the scent of blood on them, and are a master of many weapons. Axes, knives, swords, blades, maces, spears: all of these having been wielded by them. The scarlet blood of enemies' splashes onto them and their tools; soaking them and adding to the aroma. Yet these hands-no matter how brutally they often command themselves-are gentle as a lamb with the pale artist's hands.
The darker hands of the assassin close around pale, holding tightly. They move to cup the artist's face in their center, and course along jaw line, neck, and forehead tenderly.
Harmoniously, the painter's slender digits entwine themselves between darker ones; thumb softly stroking over the other's captured hand. They thread through a curtain of brown locks, pausing occasionally to twirl a strand around a finger. Gliding downward, they caress lightly over a cheek.
Two sets of hands-both very different, but both very similar. One set creates and has the essence of beauty. The other destroys and kills, with an aura of blood constantly surrounding them. But as they twine, hold, and stroke each other; they both share the same unspoken message:
"I love you."