I too loved her, you see.
Loved? Past tense? Who was I trying to convince? I could only smile in a very faint derision and sip my cold tea in front of my dying fire. The night was cold, but somehow it seemed right to feel the chill on my hands and neck. Somehow I didn't think I deserved comfort, as conflicted as I felt.
There is something about Constance. There always has been. That ever-present passion, so tightly controlled, that she carries everywhere with her, her complete wholeheartedness in everything she does; she throws herself completely and recklessly into the narrow confines she has built around her life, and the effect on everyone around her is just the same as being on an immense river forcing itself through narrow banks - swift, powerful rapids that take your breath away and make you grin with delight, all at once.
Well, perhaps her students don't exactly grin with delight, but they will never forget the experience of being taught by "old HB", as I know they call her. She is impossible to ever forget. And her effect on me - oh, Merlin, I can't describe it. She infuriates me. She makes me want to beat my own head against my desk. She makes me smile. She is herself, and being so, she is, really, my world.
I wondered if, tears finally spent, she had fallen asleep yet. I hope so. So much pain and confusion, so utterly undeserved.
I could cheerfully hex Hecate Broomhead from here to Spain for what she has done to Constance.
And yet, even though I know that it would be wrong, even though I know simply thinking of it is harmful, I cannot help but wonder...
What would it be like to hold her? Not as a friend, in comfort; but as a lover, with passion. To tell her that my heart is hers, to look into those dark eyes with utter honesty?
Oh, Merlin. I am a fool, a fool, and thrice times a fool. My heart hurts for her pain, my heart hurts with my own, and knowing that she loved Hecate - Hecate! - my heart hurts with a stupid, stupid hope.