Part Two: Storm of Souls

:III: Male pronouns refer to Neal, female ones to Yuki. Simple enough. Her and she, which I will use sparingly in this section of the story, denote Kel, though by using italics I am not trying to imply scorn for Kel or negativity of thought, simply distinguishing one female from the other. Part II written in the POV of our darling Neal. :III:

He has seen this look so often.

Her porcelain face smoothes, hiding the vast myriad of emotions that assail her mind. Glittering black eyes are empty as she draws a veil over her soul. He cannot see through it. He never has been able to.

He doesn't want to anymore.

She is not one to be irrational. The night is cold, windy, harsh—hard, like her voice, sharp as the edge on a sword and yet so calm and forthright. He wonders how she keeps such a firm grasp on composure. The words slip from her lips like silk, smoothly and effortlessly, a deep contrast from the words wrenched from his mouth. She is like a statue. She is stone. She is unreachable.

And that is partly the difficulty of this. She is so distant, so coldly indifferent. At least, that's what he thinks. It is impossible to discern anything beneath that impenetrable mask. He imagines the sifting emotions would resemble a billowing sea if he could find a way to strip her mask from her face.

Perhaps, he has thought in scorn more than once, she doesn't even feel anything. Perhaps she really is a statue—all cold, marble beauty and no heart.

He thought once that he could remove that mask. He thought that he could find a way to persuade her to discard it. She hadn't used it much anyway, not before; but after their marriage, she wore it more and more to hide herself. To hide insecurity? he wondered, but knew it was not so.

He admits it now. There is no way to find her beneath the mask.

Just as there is no way to love her anymore. He was certain that once he did. It felt so different than what he'd felt toward all those other women. And if it really was different, it all ended up the same anyway. What love he had once cherished for those dancing black eyes and gentle smile dwindled into—what? He didn't know.

It never had been true, real, tangible love, then.

You called it love, he tells himself bitterly time after time in chastisement. You lied to her. You made her think it was real.

But hadn't he thought that, too?

It wasn't love. It never really had been. That was what had gone wrong—he had wanted so much to believe it was love that soon, fantasy became false reality. Before marriage, before everything was taken a step forward, he had been relying on fleeting passion that soon deserted him like warmth in winter. And that's what happened, really. His warmth, his transient fire of passion, had died. And then there was nothing left but cold, unforgiving winter. If he had known this would happen before, he would have spared her—and himself—this. He would never have married her.

He knows he is being selfish—he hears it from his own accusing mind as much as he hears it from her lips. He is selfish because he regrets what he did, for his sake. He is sorry that she has suffered from this, but more than anything, he wishes he had never met her. Never looked at her. Never kissed her. And certainly, never married her.

Is it too late to change that?

"Neal," she says, but his name sounds different on her lips than it did years before. "Neal, please listen to me."What, he tries to say, but he cannot speak. The words escape his mouth silently and flit away before he can gather them again. Silent questions choke his voice. What do you want why are you looking at me like that what's wrong? He is glad that some of them are not spoken. Why won't this work why do I feel this way what have I done? He does not expect an answer.

"I…I didn't think it would ever be this way." She blinks and looks away, a single tear rolling down her cheek. "I'm sorry."

He tries to speak. "Yuki…I…I don't understand."

Her sharp gaze focuses on him, flashing black eyes piercing him worse than a hundred knives. "Yes, you do. Don't lie to me."

Stung, he retreats. "What do you mean?"

She sighs wearily, and he realises that she is no longer young, and neither is he. Is it too late to go back? He regrets so much, but has time made it impossible to change that?

Her eyes soften as she sees that same dark emerald gaze that had her swooning years before. "I'm sorry, Neal. I just…Don't think I can't see it."

His heart skips a beat. She knows? He remains silent, clinging to his composure with his last strength. He will not say anything. He wishes he had her mask to hide behind, wishes he has mastered her stone countenance. But he will never be able to conceal himself that easily. So he does not speak, fearing that words will give him away.

Certain enough, she continues. "I'm sorry, Neal. I'm sorry I can't be like her. I wish that I could be enough, that this would—would be enough—for you." Her voice catches; her mask slips and for a moment of eternity, he can see her. He can see what, who, where she is beneath. Her eyes are a sea of turmoil, of hurt, pain, confusion, denial, sorrow, resolution, acceptance. For one second, he can see her, truly see her. Before her mask slides over her features, and she visibly hardens into stone. Cold and unfeeling. She draws a deep breath and plows on. "But it obviously isn't. I think…I think that it was wrong, to…" Yuki hesitates, but in the end decides that he needs to hear this. "It was wrong to marry you."

She sees the fallen look on his face, pained eyes exposing torment and remorse but even worse, relief. He can already guess her words, predict them as if they were written in front of him. But he keeps his thoughts to himself and lets her speak. He knows she will.

"I was wrong to think that it would work," she says softly. "I…I think I somehow knew that it wouldn't. But I wanted it to. I shouldn't done it. It seemed so right, then. If I'd known…things would be different. This marriage was supposed to bind us together. Instead, it has imprisoned us."

Finally, he speaks. "It's my fault."

She shakes her head. "It's as much mine as it is yours." She is sorely tempted to add, And it's her fault as well. But she knows it is not true, and so she lets the words drift into the silent chasm of her mind. And then, resolute, "It isn't working. I don't want to live like this." He nods: he's known this for a long time. "Besides," Yuki adds hesitantly, "I know we aren't the same as we once were. I have no love to give you anymore." She pauses, half-expecting him to be despondent, sorrowful, but the look of suffering never comes; the determined set of his jaw is more real and tangible and frightening than anything else. She doesn't want him to be all right; she wants him to grieve. As she has. As she did. "I cannot give you love," she repeats softly, her eyes hard and cold as stone. "But there remains one thing I can still give you."

His head shoots up as he meets her gaze cautiously. "What?"

She sighs again and moves to the window, gazing out on the swiftly falling rain. Her heart cries like the dark sky. Cries for lost love, for what was never there and what never will be. She wishes so dearly that everything could be as it once was, pure and innocent and naïve fool's love. Part of her is still jealous, although she knows she has to let him go. He is already hers, there is nothing Yuki can do to prevent it. He always has been hers. Does she really, truly regret that? She regrets this change. She regrets that she once was young and foolish enough to believe in his vows. She regrets that once, his waning love broke her heart, but now she knows there is nothing he could have done to prevent that. Perhaps it is truly time to let go.

"Freedom," she whispers as lightning shatters the storm, the storm of rain and thunder and the storm of their souls.