She watched him.
She saw him for who he really was.
A weakling.
Not strong or powerful.
Not hateful and scary.
No, he was weak.
He showed it in how he moved.
How he ever so often glanced around in the room,
waiting for someone to defy him.
She couldn't belive it.
That someone weak, someone like him,
became the Dark Lord.
No, she didn't understand,
but she never said a word.
Because she loved him,
loved his weak and cursed soul.
More than anything.
More than her own life.
She tortured for him,
she killed for him,
but it was never enough.
He never looked at her,
didn't notice all the things she did.
All for him.
He always said love made you weak,
and hatred made you strong.
But he was wrong.
Because love made her strong,
and his hatred.
His hatred killed him.
But in the end,
neither love nor hate makes you strong.
Because in the end,
they both kill you.