He was a beautiful man, physically, with soft flowing hair, gentle eyes and a smooth, curved face of ancestry that belied his other attributes. But that could change in an instance; his soulful eyes became devoid and blinked into amber that foretold of ferocity; I can only believe that that was my fiancé's last sight to behold. I only saw that gaze directed at me once, but it will always linger within my mind.
He was sleeping, calm and, for once, at peace. None of the malice that I saw within him was there and, to me, he could have been an eight-year-old boy sleeping away the loss of his parents. For, even though he was serene, his brow was slightly troubled with sorrow; he had carried that sorrow around him for years.
I came near to touch him, allow him to look at the new, lighter color I had chosen for him; I hoped to make him something new so that he would not have to wear old, blood-stained clothing. The cloth rustled against him.
Waking up, those eyes of amber cresting into his soul, his sword was at my throat, his fist bringing me close, and I could only stare with fear into those eyes. The fear, the trepidation, it all flooded into me as I could only stare in horror at what years as a killer had done to a frightened boy and wonder what could have killed that little boy so. The seconds dragged onwards…
Then his eyes flooded into his lighter hue and I was cast aside. His back heaved with emotion and I saw what I didn't think he could truly possess: shame. Even though I saw guilt many times, it was never like this, never directed towards one he had almost killed. My heart… melted… at the sight of a naughty child in need of help and, all at once, I forgave him. I forgave him his assumptions of hospitalities, the fatalities he had suffered upon others, the anger he gave towards the others, and the anger that he gave towards me. He was lost, lost nearly to tears, and I wept and smiled for him, settling down to make his new garment.
Life is not hate…