Pull
I took the liberty of treating this prompt as dialogue. Intended to be set during S02E02 ("An Ordinary Man").
"We would have eaten each other alive and then we would have exploded."
"You say that as if we didn't," he says, words as cool and remote as the ice in his eyes – ice where she had been so accustomed to seeing fire simmering beneath, hatred and hunger tangling together, anger and attraction inextricable for so long, and she wonders at the reply if perhaps he is right, perhaps that's exactly what's happened in these months of lashing out at each other. What is left of either of them at this point, now that they have sucked the marrow from each others' souls and remain unslaked – what had there been to consume but the disparate passions, and with those emotions burned out what is left, any longer, for the explosion?
The pull remains, even now, as it was ever there before; they are iron and lodestone, undeniable, magnetic even without the impetus to act on it, and she wonders if it is only a matter of time – if together, inevitably, the fire will find fresh tinder and rekindle and they will destroy themselves and those around them in the resulting conflagration, shatter an entire world as they had years ago (a world that reels even now, and she forces herself not to think of La Fère, of dead dreams, of blood she would have gladly stained her hands with if not for what followed). It remains, and she looks at him there in the verdant shadows of the forest, her hands outstretched to seize a chance that's fallen all unexpected into her lap, and feels the hunger gnaw at her even when a triumph is so close; she wants to grasp, to take, to devour or be devoured, if only so this finally ends, but no matter how hollow she feels, the truth remains the same.
The pull remains, and after months apart she is still dead, still bleeding, still refusing to kneel beneath the strain because she survives, and she's not about to let anyone take that away from her, even if she has to be empty to do it.