Solitude's Price
Certain little things could easily set his mind reeling and bother him like nothing else, as was just the case in this moment as V sat in a chair, leather fingers drumming on the arm rest as he remained deep in thought. A book lay open, flipped on its pages in his lap. It was within those pages that had caused him a sudden headache with his ceaseless thinking.
It wasn't always like this, he knew. But the important question was how and why. He couldn't have an open discussion about this. He'd feel she were humouring him, sighing impatiently and he, having to hold his tongue lest he openly say, "berate me already." That wasn't it.
He couldn't help but feel so grateful, yet it was instinct to question it -- to question everything. Because he questioned happiness, he felt he was allowed to question misfortunes for as long and deeply as he wished.
V silently wondered when it would all fall, as the stars in the deepest night portended and promised that it would. He also secretly imagined exacting revenge, no matter the cost, no matter the repercussions. But was he doing it for her or for himself? He seemed the only one still deeply troubled by it all and he feared it would always remain in the back of his mind as a nagging reminder that, for a time, she wasn't his. But she couldn't hide the furtive glances towards the telly, the nervous rubbing of her arms, the fear in her expression when memories would return unexpectedly, conjured up from anything. A part of her seemed always on vigilant watch. He wanted to end that, more than anything, even if it meant ...
V shook his head and slipped the first two fingers underneath the mask and rubbed his temple. If there was anything that could cripple words and make them weak, it was lack of action. They were meaningless without. And oh the actions he wanted to do that would vindicate them both from such a choking memory. But he remained silent upon the matter and instead drove himself crazy thinking about it, going so far as to plot about it.
She had been in the Gallery upon his return, as he had predicted correct. V remembered her arms wrapped around his neck, the tiny kiss on the mask's cheek, and the deep adoration and relief in her eyes at the sight of him. Not long after, she had tried to question him about his whereabouts, more so who's blood it was that stained his attire but he gave a vague enough answer, waving it away with a hand before locking himself up in one of his studies on a lower floor.
No need to elaborate on the irrelevant.
V picked the book up, the pages slowly folding together as he closed it. A small smile pulled at the corners of his lips as he regarded the title fondly. It was her favorite, one that she could read a hundred times and not get tired of -- the things that never grow old in one's eyes.
A reflection struck him again. He thought of thrusting it away in favor of the happy reminiscence but he let it come; it would be kindling for later. The person of his absolute hatred looked upon her as V now looked upon that book -- an object and nothing more. But V always looked upon her as an ideal, a person -- that much was certain in his blind adoration back then. Yet, it was that same blindness that made him the fool. But he wasn't anymore. There was no more reason to be suspicious of anything but there was still every reason to be wrathful. But he didn't want to make the same mistake as before ... the mindless and gratuitous killing.
He breathed in deep, holding it in before letting it out slowly. No more killing -- that was the whole of the law, that was her law and he wouldn't break it, not again. The walking dead would be judged by other means in lieu of cruel steel and pools of blood.