SEQUEL to Silver blades and a Night to Dream On. :] PLEASE review. I hope all of you liked my first one shot. Now here's the second. Enjoy. No flames. AND please don't get angry with me. [Whimper]

…

I wanted to hold his hand. Not the soft, warm flesh and bone of a knuckled palm, not the sweaty cervices that etched so lightly on flat backside of a wrist, not the slender, long fingers with the broad nails of peach and pink and honey. No, I wanted to touch his hands, the silver blades and sheaths so secretly covered in a veil of wool. The blades that brought back so many memories that never occurred, and the dark, sinister look bringing forth the innocent images brightly carved in ice.

To touch him, to know what raced along the mind of the flickering eyes. But the moment I got close he ran, scurried off underneath the floorboards, the longing look never dispersed from eyesight.

I wanted to hold those hands like I would a porcelain doll, never knowing the immense power of one until you glanced at it for a second and realized that it was staring back. And he watched me. Dark eyes following the movement of my hands as if a fire had sprung to life on my fingertips. That longing look was a forward of deep wanting, of deep feeling to yearn and touch and love. The wanting and wanted hands, wanting to feel and touch and learn as a child did exploring the new world at their palms. Wild eyes to see and feel the soft, feathery wings that outstretched from tallow candles.

The warmth melting the biting harshness that had lingered in his mind for so long. So long at his fingertips. I knew this and he had not said a word.

I had met him a year ago in the rain. Where the soft pitter patter of the falling drops began to pour in the ever slow seeping pure heart. Even now he is afraid to touch me. He wanted to feel and not just see all the happiness and warmth that had blanketed over the mistrust of his tales long ago. Oh to see and feel through closed eyes. Oh to scratch that itch!

News circled around Suburbia about me. I was the tale of a girl who ran off into another town, city, world…in search for money and wealth. I was the girl who swam away to find true love in the Pacific ocean. I was the girl who proclaimed herself monster and scurried off into dematerializing, self sufficient sadness and peach. They all really knew where I was, and they were afraid.

And the time had come when I held him, the coarse, thick leather digging roughly into my skin, the metal buckles scraping along the fragments of my clothes, and I thought, It's going to be alright. I drew my arms around his waist, feeling the sharp blades dig into my long, thick hair. The fire crackled in the hearth as we held each other.

And he drew back.

"I can't," He said, voice in whisper, eyes wild with a subconscious fear. "I won't hurt you."

I stared, the nets catching words in my tongue as he walked into a corner of the attic and stood in the darkness, the pale face outlined in ebony, bringing back so many memories of a year ago. Working up the bottled courage that I had stored away months ago, I approached him, his eyes still wide with tension.

Gently lifting his arm, I touched the blades of his fingers and smiled, "You can't hurt me," I said softly, resting the sharp blades against my skin so that it barely scratched me. "See, Edward," He looked at his own hands, confused. "I love you." I said, finally breathing out the words that had smashed the dam. The flow of tears came.

The nervous look in his eyes dyed away as I held him, the blades of his fingers digging lightly in my red mane. Planting a small kiss on his lips, I smiled gently. He looked back, assurance dancing lightly on the corners of his face.

"I love you," He said, as we held on tightly in the embrace. The emotional depth to feel and love came swarming all around us as I blinked away tears from looking at the utter expression of happiness in his face.

I melted.

Holding onto his arm, the blades faced forward in front of him, we steadily walked ourselves down into the garden and circled our home, our home, a place where our heart is content. We circled the building until night approached, smile never leaving my face. I had a home. I was with the man I loved.

A sudden sound of a crack echoed in my ears as I turned around, startled. Edward turned, eyes glancing towards the mansion. Dark smoke was billowing at the top of our home. The attic. Rushing into the house we looked around, smoke burning and singing into our eyes. I cried out, running.

"We have to get help," I said frantically, choking on tears welled up to the base of my throat. "Come on, Edward, let's get out of here." I grabbed onto his arm and pulled his body out of the mansion, we stared at our home, the fire eating up. The smoke was thickening as we continued to look up at the dark mansion.

"Let's get out of here," I said, grabbing his arm and pulling our way towards the gate.

"No," He said.

"No? Edward, this place is going to burn down. I will not lose you," I pulled harder at his arm but he did not move. "Edward…" I begged. He remained still.

I tried to get him to talk, my tongue swelling in my mouth. I glanced once more at the burning building and cried out, the fire was growing at an alarming rate. The Suburbians would have seen this by now, or they did and did not care. I pushed open the gate and grabbed at his arm, crying out. "Come on Edward, let's go, let's go."

I remember smoke entering into my body, the light-headedness of my mind blacking out the remains and scraps of his face as closing eyelids finally shut tight, as if glued. I remember falling into someone's arms, a blade nicking a part of my shoulder. I remember being gently laid on something soft and plushy as the sound of footsteps edged away.

I remember waking up feeling guilty, as if I had drowned in my own shame and had not died. I remember being afraid and small and alone, alone surrounded in this house of white walls with the clean sheets. As if life itself was sucked out of my mouth. I wasn't allowed to leave, I could not leave. I was eighteen.

…

Many winters came and went as I patiently waited for snow to fall. It never did.

I am ninety two years old, and I still remember the shine of silver metal that lingered in my eyes, that night I had held him still and for the first time, heard his heart beat. Felt his heartbeat against my chest as I kissed him. As I held him. As he held me.

I still remember the smell of pungent smoke as if it wafted around my head in a gray cloud all my life… and his safe arms as he carried me out and gently placed me in front of my own home in the darkness of the night. As he placed a soft, cold kiss on my cheek before returning to his home, our home, and shutting the large, creaky door that I had entered a year ago. The burning mansion. I don't know if I was conscious. Maybe I was dead or alive or even awake or sleeping. I know.

I remember waking up with white walls the first morning and having a nurse tell me that I would be here for a long time. I remember crying out and living underneath my bed sheets. I remember writing this down in the last few minutes of my life, still smelling the fragrance of fresh baked cookies and delicious licorice. The smoke was gone. The smile of a pale face, spreading an unknown warmth swirling in the room. The feel of the cool, smooth blades against my skin as we drowned in each other's heartbeats.

And when I close my eyes, I still hear his words echo in my mind.

I love you.

I had given him my hands.

…

THE END.

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