A/N: And so we come to the close of our little tableau. I can only hope that you enjoyed it, you readers, and that it was a fitting and sufficient tribute to those to whom I dedicate it. And Ben-sen-chan, this is for you.

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The bed was neither warm nor cold, at first. The thin silky covering seemed to have no temperature, only the texture which caressed the two beneath it. But soon enough, the inevitable and passionate heat of their bodies spread in almost-tangible waves. Broken Sword closed his eyes with a slight smile. Heaven, for him, to share his bed. Beautiful, the unmistakeable yet indescribable feeling of skin against skin. Perfect, the sight of her, naked under the sheet. The curve of her back white and strangely eloquent, her raven hair laying so naturally, over her shoulder and across the pillow, tickling his nose. So natural, yet she looked like a sculpture,
something cold and carved with the utmost precision and art.

She always slept facing away from him. He didn't mind, only moulded his body to hers, embracing almost without touch. It was enough for her to know he was at her back, a steady, constant presence with a soft voice and poetic eyes full of soul and animal-feeling. She needed little more of him, and he knew it, and it was all right between them this way. More than all right.

She stirred lightly, deeply asleep. What was she dreaming about? About tomorrow? About him? There was no way he could know, and she'd never tell him, not in a thousand years. Fiercely private, his love. She shared only what she wished to share with him, with anyone.

He shifted too, only for his eyes to widen in unexpected pain. His long artist's fingers traced the line of the wound she had inflicted without hesitation, not even the smallest apology, not even the shadow of a tear when she watched him writhe, wrestling with the agony. Her only offering was a little anxiety over whether she had cut him too deep, nothing for the pain she had put him in. Merciless. That was what some said of her. Maybe it was even true. He didn't care. He loved her anyway. He loved that she was so passionate at times, so ambitious. She had wounded him to make sure he couldn't fight with Nameless. This was her protection. A little twisted perhaps,
but he thought he understood.

But she didn't understand him.

She had never understood him really. Their first meeting had been completely on her terms, and she liked what she saw of him. What had she seen of him? He didn't know. She had never told him, not even mentioned it before. One day, he promised himself. One day, with patience and love and unwavering silent loyalty, she would understand. She may taunt him, she may deride him, she may even leave him, but she would understand.

"How can I tell you I love you?" he asked in a whisper to the sleeping Snow. "How do I put it to you when you only hear my weakness? Love is not a weakness. There is no shame in love."

She didn't even move in acknowledgement, but then, he hadn't expected her to. To be honest, he didn't want her to. She'd only laugh. He ran an outstretched finger along the smooth skin of her back, and she shivered. He smiled. He tried a different pattern. Again, she reacted, shuddering in her sleep. He paused. If only I had a calligraphy brush with me now, he thought ruefully. No matter.

He began to write, tracing the lines of the Chinese characters he knew so well. After a while she settled again, only twitching occasionally when his touch was too light or too quick, or when his fingers brushed a certain spot on her spine, about halfway down, where it curved inwards. He made a mental note of the exect location with a smile.

Still he wrote. "No matter where you go, or what you do to me, I will follow you. I will forever be here, as I am now, protecting your back, and you don't have to look at me or talk to me, or even tell me you love me, because it doesn't matter."

He felt the blue veil of sleep over him, and after one last long look at his sleeping lover, his eyes closed slowly. He prayed that all her sleep be as untroubled as this night. He dreamed of shining silver blades flecked with water, of Flying Snow and of calligraphy brushes, pregnant with ink, on rice paper.

That was their last night together.

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