His hands curled over the edge of the workbench, his long fingers, his square palms.
Those were the hands that took hers, that stroked her face, that grasped possessively at her hips. Now they were dormant, and simply resting in between stirrings.
His eyes were trained on the text in front of him, their sharp gaze translating the old French in his mind.
Those were the eyes that had locked on her's from across the room, showed more joy than his smiles ever would and those were the eyes that had looked on her with longing, and with amused patience.
Her mouth was pursed, her quill worrying at the corner of her lips as she ran arithmatic equations.
Those were the lips that had formed the words that fueled him, boueyed him and eventually tore him down.
Her hair was coiled at the base of her neck- large, springing curls with the honey brown strands making their own path against the ivory of her throat.
That was the hair that she had trailed across his chest when they made love. That was the hair that he had run his hands through, snagging on the snares, then gently working them through.
His patience had run out.
His patience was what had kept her sane. His gentle words, his reassuring murmurs.
Her strong point had never been patience.
Her defiant rejection of what was right, what was good, and what was needed for their continued intimacy was like her hair: beautiful, bright and resilient, but at any moment was ready to wrap its fingers about his throat and choke the life and love from him.
His ability to keep loving her was tapped out.
His thoughts were constantly strained, his psyche strained, his body strained, his love...strained.
They that once was...was lost.