IV. Bitter
"I am putty in your hands," he said, truthfully.
He adores the way her eyes can spark with sudden mirth and flash dangerously with unspoken rage, usually both within the confines of the same conversation. They are now familiar enough for him to admire the way her hair swings loose behind her as she tramps around the room, overturning the sparse furniture with almost effortless awkwardness. Her serrated words are suddenly musical, her sharp angles seem to melt beneath his diamonded hands.
Love makes lovers fools, and none more so than Fiyero.
As the moon slices obliquely through the skylight, he murmurs, "They say love is touching souls. If that's true, perhaps you've touched mine."
"I don't have a soul," she retorts stingingly, voice cloaked with the weariness of one addressing an imbecile child. Whether intentionally or not, he cannot say, nor can he remember if he expected any other reaction. Years of city-earned suavity melt away and he is once more a timid, transfixed schoolboy. But he cannot begin to fathom the lonely depths of her eyes for she has already turned away, moonlight tracing the faint curves of her silhouette.