Scene Eight; Reverberation On A Metallic Drum
Days later, Aardvark was gone from the newly revived Mirratord base, but she hadn't gone far, not at heart. Before the male she'd once called to with love she now stood in loathing, almost unable to believe her own feelings had so reversed on her – how he made her mad! How uncaring of his actions he'd become. Their argument had been bitter, and she'd told him off.
His return had been harsh, scathing, cold, sharp as knives. What he'd allowed himself to fall to, what grace he'd fallen from, all honor gone beyond hope or desire, and he had the audacity to come back to her with that stain.
Her blades got into her hands, one came on. She accused him of treachery, now, calling him out for a betrayal of all she'd ever believed in, for the violation of her honor upon tricking her into performing upon his twisted will. He knew he could never convince her to see it the way he did, not now… not if she could take up arms against him. It was too late… and any love she thought she had had for him now was dead, gone, and forgotten. Like he soon would be.
The other blade lit.
He plucked his own from his belt, tried to warn her she didn't know what she was doing – no one to date had been able to beat him at this game, and while angered at her attitude towards what he found easily justifiable, he still wanted to keep her. He didn't know he'd already lost her, and upon that epiphany, she would never come back. He hadn't turned his shielding mechanism on, but then he'd fought and killed hordes before and never needed them. Aardvark was no overwhelming horde of enemy, but she was his weakness, and any strike against her directly would be instinctual, and instantly regretted, and he knew it.
She didn't need to be better than him. All she needed was to be her… and that was the one thing she could never get away from. Her screaming accusations pierced him like bullets, punching holes in his front and pouring out the lifeblood of his means. Nothing could be justified, to her, she simply nolonger would listen to them. Her last muted acceptance had been the first time she'd come to the Halcyon, and today she was leaving him. As much as he knew he would probably get more accomplished without her, she wounded him just with the thought.
He reached to block, met a blade aimed at his face, caught the other over his gut, and got kneed in the crotch. Staggered back, The Lone Heretic had only enough time to look up at the last thing he ever saw, at the lovely face of the Assassin-Bard twisted with ugly fury, her golden energy blades slamming down over his head.
It was the last betrayal he would ever make, but a cold beginning for her.
