Title: Why Do You Love Me?
Summary: Hermia is in need of reassurance, which Lysander provides. Cute and Fluffy. ^__^
Genre: Romance.
Rating: K
Words: 998
Completed: Yes
Warnings: may induce cavities. I take no responsibility for any money lost in dentist visits or other such things
Disclaimer: A Midsummer's Night Dream and all associated Characters and Events belong not to me, but to William Shakespeare, may he rest in peace.
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"Why Do You Love Me?"
Two lovers walk in a shaded glade, hands clasped one in the other, murmuring softly to each other about everything and nothing. They stroll awhile, passing beneath the lofty trees, and at last find themselves beneath the arching branches of an ancient, towering oak. Here they stop, and the lady rests a hand on the rough bark of the trunk, eyes closed as she reminisces. "Do you remember," she says quietly, "when we were young, and you and Helena and I used to come here to play? And always Helena would insist we play dragons and princesses and knights, and always make me be the dragon?"
The man smiles tenderly at his love, placing his hand over hers and gently holding it. "I do remember," he replies, "as long ago as it was."
"Do you ever wish we could go back to those days? Back when we could play together in innocence, without worries of propriety or of my father's disapproval?"
Lysander frowns slightly, and tugs her to his chest, folding her in a gentle embrace. "Hermia, love, what troubles you? It is unlike you to speak so melancholy."
Hermia sighs, and leans back against him. "It's just- this has all gotten so complicated now. I hardly know how to act anymore. Should I marry Demetrius as Father wishes, though I love him not, or should I follow my heart and stay at your side as I long to do?"
Lysander growls at the mention of Demetrius. "That man can rot for all I care. I'm not giving you up, not for all the riches in the world."
"But do you really mean that?" Hermia muses sadly, "or are you just saying that? And how can I know if you are?"
"I'm telling you. I love you, Hermia, with all my heart. Never forget that, love."
Hermia's lips curve upwards of their own accord, but the sadness lurking in her eyes does not fade away completely. "This is all so confusing," she whispers. Lysander sighs, and gently tugs Hermia to sit on the ground. They lean against the oak's broad trunk, hands entwined, holding on to each other for all they are worth. "How can I reassure you, Dear One, of my love?"
Hermia won't look at him, and begins to fiddle with a fallen leaf, slowly tearing it into smaller and smaller pieces. "I- I just can't understand it sometimes, Lysander. Why do you love me?"
Again, his mouth falls open. "Dearest?"
"I know why I love you; I love you for your strength, your gentleness, the way the troubles of the world seem to melt away when I'm safe in your arms, but—what is it about me that can possibly make someone as perfect as you love me?"
He grips her hand tighter, and with his other hand reaches over and slips one finger beneath her chin. Gently, he tips her head up to meet his gaze. "Clearly, my love, you have not lately looked in a mirror. Do you not know that you are the most beautiful creature in all the world? More beautiful than any woman, more so than even Aphrodite."
Hermia frowns, her thumb tracing circles on the back of his hand. "Is that all it is? Is that the only reason you love me, then, for my beauty?"
Lysander shakes his head, a small smile dancing on his lips. "Not at all, Beloved, simply that is the reason why any man might love you. But I- I see your kindness, your understanding, your quiet courage. The way you speak to Helena when she rages against you, and sooth her fears when she is afraid. The way you love your father and mother, and how it pains you to go against them, even for love. The way you walk, talk, even breathe—all of you, every last part of you I love."
She sighs, allowing herself to lean into her love and melt into his warmth, letting his words wash over her. "You paint a picture of me that is unlike who I am," she mutters, "I am not this perfect creature you describe. I am simply me, human; imperfect."
"And I love you because of it; because you are flawed. I love the way you pick at your food when you eat; I love the way you trip on your dress hem, the way you chew on your hair when you think." He pauses, then with a laugh in his voice continues. "…the way you snort when you laugh-"
"I do not!" she protests, bolting upright. "Honestly, Lysander, to say such a thing…"
Her love collapses back against the tree, shaking with laughter. She gazes at him, and a small sigh escapes her lips. She shakes her head, and leans against him once more. "Idiot," she mutters fondly.
They simply sit for a moment, enjoying the others presence, then: "I suppose both of us have a slightly warped image of the other. But is that not what love does? Blinds men to the faults of his love, and makes her seem as a goddess in his eyes?"
Hermia laughs, happy now. "That is a fair enough assessment, I suppose, but I still hold that you have no faults."
Lysander grins at her. "Well, thank you darling, and the same goes for you."
He pauses, and his grin turns wicked. "Except for the snorting one. That's—hey!"
"Take that back, you rogue!"
He dodges the handful of leaves Hermia throws at him, and jumps to his feet, calling out, "Won't take it back unless you catch me!" he dashes off, yelling, "Lady Hermia snorts when she laughs! Like a pig, a pig! It's truuuuue!!"
Hermia squeals in mock frustration, and scrambles after him, yelling at the top of her lungs, "Lysander you traitor! Come back here!"