Penelo blinked. Somehow she had ended up on the deck of the Strahl, settled into a chair with a blanket wrapped around her shoulders and a cup of cold water in her hands. Her head spun, her thoughts disordered and jumbled. Balthier had seated himself across from her, his long legs stretched out before him, his chin propped in his hand as he leaned forward, observing her with cool green eyes that saw too much. The Strahl rocked gently, having been set on an unknown flight course.

For long moments they merely stared at each other. Penelo sensed that he was waiting for something, and she didn't know what it was, and it made her unspeakably nervous. He had the look of a lazy tiger, lounging as he was, but she suspected he was merely biding his time, poised to strike at any moment. She didn't like the disquieting thought that she was the prey in this scenario.

"So," he said finally. "Would you like to talk?" His voice was deceptively even and mild. She didn't trust it for a moment.

"No, thank you." Her hands curled ever tighter around the glass, bringing it to her lips to hide her face from his scrutiny. "I'd like to go to bed."

"You need to sober up a bit first, drink some water. You're going to have a devil of a headache in the morning," he said, and he sounded almost...regretful. Compassionate. "I should have kept a closer eye on you."

"I don't need a babysitter." She'd had enough people hovering around her in the past year, always dogging her steps, correcting her, cosseting her when all she'd wanted was a bit of peace. She had hated it, hated the way people treated her as if she were fragile, delicate, trying not to upset her at all costs. She had hated the vaguely pitying looks, the constant attention. She hadn't escaped all that just to be thrust back beneath someone else's thumb. His thumb. She had never wanted to be a responsibility, a burden.

"You're angry with me."

"No. No, I'm not. I'm angry with myself." And she lapsed into silence once again, shocked by the way the words rose in her throat, pushing against her teeth to escape. She would never drink again; it made her say more than she wished to, stripped away the barriers she had erected and forced her to scramble desperately for cover. He knew it; he was ruthless enough to push her when she could not manage to gather her defenses.

"Why?" he asked, watching the unguarded emotions chase across her face. Her lips quivered, her shoulders tightened, tensed as though she might spring to flee. "It's got to come out sometime, darling girl. You might as well cut loose."

"Don't call me that." The words came out a painful, ragged whisper, wrenched from some deep, aching part of her. For a moment a few tears trembled on her lashes, and then dropped, sliding down her cheeks. Horrified, she brushed them away with a choked sound.

Her torment squeezed his heart. He rose to his feet to go to her, but she erupted in a flurry of motion, upsetting the water glass, and dove towards the door. She warded him off with one outstretched hand, her shoulders shaking.

"I'm not crying. I don't cry." But her breath hitched in her throat between the words, the tears continued to fall.

"Penelo..." He reached for her; she darted away.

"Don't touch me!" she cried in a high, thin voice.

With effort, he stood still, his hands at his sides. Her vulnerability clawed at him, made him want to comfort her...made him need to comfort her. She swayed unsteadily on her feet, wrapped her hands around the back of a chair for balance, for strength.

"I knew what you were," she whispered. "It's no one's fault but mine."

"What was I, then?" He modulated his tone carefully, knowing she might flee at any moment if he did not, if he scared her or startled her or made a single move she did not like.

"Inconstant." Her eyes closed; more tears streaked her white, tense face. "Capricious. I didn't expect anything else, I swear I didn't."

"Then why are you angry? Why, if you expected nothing?"

She ignored him. "I never asked anything of you. I never would have. I don't think I was such a clinging sort of person. Did you really have to die to escape me?"

No. Oh, no. She had gotten it all wrong. His fists clenched at his sides helplessly; he could not hold her, could not comfort her - she would shatter, and he would lose her.

"You could have just left. I would have understood. I really..." she took a shuddering, gasping breath. "I really never expected anything else. But instead you died, and I died, too. Over and over. I've lost everyone I ever -" but she bit back the rest of the words, pressing her hand to her mouth to muffle them.

He made a rough sound in his throat, trying to clear away the curious lump that had risen there, to banish the tightness from his jaw. She had lost everyone she'd ever loved, that was what she had been about to say. Had he once been counted amongst those illustrious ranks? He waited for the sensation of entrapment to grip him, for the noose of expectations to begin tightening around his neck, but it did not come. He had always assiduously avoided any such entanglements, had called halt to any liaisons as soon as his chosen partners displayed any such indications of jealousy or possession. Why, then, did he feel no such compulsion to disabuse Penelo of it? Instead he wanted to comfort her, to soothe her battered pride, her savaged emotions.

"I've made such a fool of myself. But you've made a fool of me, too, Balthier, and I let you do it. You couldn't even let me keep a few of my illusions. Why did you have to come back? It would have been so much kinder if you hadn't."

"Penelo, sweet, please..." He couldn't bear that broken expression for another moment. "Please, let me -"

"You have to go." Her tremulous voice cut him to ribbons. "You have to go, Balthier. I'll go back to Rabanastre. I'll pretend to be a lady. I'll be fine, really." A gasping breath, dredged up from the depths of her soul. "But with you...I can't...I can't..."

He had done this to her, reduced her to this. He had broken that sweet, gentle girl, turned her into a frightened, pale shadow of her former self. She had deserved better than what he had given her; she had given him so much and he had taken and taken until there was nothing left of her, until she was empty, her spirit extinguished. He had run her down, left her broken and bleeding, and hadn't even looked back to see how she fared.

And he could not reach her now, not while she trembled like a leaf in a high wind, not while those silent tears continued to fall like rain. Not while her white face was pinched with pain, while the effects of his unintentional cruelty were writ fresh upon it. She might have recovered herself somewhat in the morning, but she would not thank him for how he had besieged her tonight.

"You should sleep," he said carefully. "You'll feel better in the morning. We'll talk further then, and you may rail at me all you wish."

For a moment she merely stared, as if he was speaking to her in a language she could not comprehend. Then, finally, she nodded shakily. She turned on unsteady legs, drifting listlessly down the corridor, one hand pressed over her chest as if she might hold in the shards of her heart. He heard her bedroom door open and close softly, and sank into a chair, head in his hands.

His conscience shrilled at him, shaming him for his arrogance, his hubris and greed. Gods, what had he done to her? In the morning, they would resolve this. In the morning, he would make his explanations, give her the apology she deserved, ask her forgiveness. She was sensible; she would understand. She was charitable; she would forgive. In the morning, all would be set to rights once again.

But when morning finally dawned, she was gone.

She could not have gotten far; that was his only consolation. The ship had been docked in the middle of the Phon Coast, so she had to have disembarked at most only a few hours before sunrise. In her rush to escape, she hadn't waited to reach a city; she had merely set them down in the middle of nowhere and taken off. That would leave her with a quite a walk ahead of her, in order to reach a city from which she might be able to purchase passage on some sort of vessel.

Probably she had not wanted to face him. Probably she had desperately needed to get away, wouldn't risk exposing herself as she had been last night. Probably she thought he would not pursue her, as she had left the Strahl in his hands. She was wrong, of course, but that mistaken belief would make her complacent, keep her on an easy course rather than a frantic flight. He was counting on her overconfidence - or, rather, her under confidence in her own appeal. It was what would enable him to catch up to her.

She had had only a few hours' head start, and he was an experienced tracker. She hadn't taken much with her; he'd found the wrapped package that had been delivered by the seamstress on her bed, untouched - only the outfit she'd worn the day before was missing. The provisions he'd acquired in Balfonheim were similarly untouched. She had gone once more into the wilderness on her own, but now she was without the shelter of the Strahl, without anything more than the clothes on her back. He could only desperately hope that she had thought to bring a weapon of some sort with her for her own protection.

She would be heading for a settlement - a place where she could acquire her own provisions, as she had not seen fit to take any of his. From the Strahl's current location, that left Balfonheim - two days journey on foot - or the hunter's camp on the Phon Coast, which would be a mere six hours or so. He was banking on the latter. Perhaps she would head into Balfonheim eventually, but based upon her reckless abandonment, he suspected she would instead be headed towards the comparative peace of the hunter's camp. She would want the isolation, the remoteness, the solitude. She would need the quiet stillness of the place to recover her equilibrium, to regain her shattered composure.

Of course, he would have to restrain his anger at her foolhardy actions long enough to soothe her injured pride. But he would have to impress upon her his displeasure with her recklessness; she could not continue this unfortunate habit of disappearing into the wilds on her own. For his sake, if not her own - he could not go on with the constant worry for her, wondering if she was hurt, if she had taken ill, if she was alone and frightened. He was not accustomed to this concern, this disquieting level of tightness in his chest - like he would not be able to draw a full breath until he knew she was safe. He was unused to caring, and he did not find it a comfortable sensation. But against all odds, he did care.

Perhaps she thought he was merely using her, amusing himself with her. Perhaps she had been just as bewildered at his unusual behavior as he had been. After all, he had left her grieving for the past year, had, by all appearances, spared not a thought for her until his abrupt reappearance, which had knocked her off balance, kept her teetering on the precipice of confusion and uncertainty. And now she feared him, had been caught up in a tide of hot humiliation and despair, drowning in her own dashed illusions. Perhaps she had not expected anything of him, as she'd said, but perhaps his death had freed her to acknowledge emotions she never would have had she known he yet lived. She had been free to love the man who had died without reservation, without expectation, for that man belonged solely to the past. He could not hurt her. He could not disappoint or abandon her. He could not throw her tender feelings back in her face, humiliate her with his callous disregard. It was far easier to love a memory.

But instead he had destroyed her illusions to become flesh and blood once again, had pierced her heart with his indifference, had shattered her bittersweet memories, replaced them with pain, left her broken and bleeding. She had loved a man who had been honorable at the last, a man who had died in the pursuit of Ivalice's freedom. And she had been crushed to learn that the man who had lived was not the man she had loved after all; this man was selfish, insensitive, cruel. This man was not the paragon she had built him into; she believed that he had let her think him dead to be rid of her, that he had found death preferable to her company.

When in reality, he had fled for her sake, for both of their sakes, because he had wanted to keep her. Of course she could not know that, and somehow he did not think that such a thing would even occur to her. And now she had fled from him to protect herself, to save herself any further humiliation.

He had left her before, but she had never truly left him. She had always been there, patiently waiting in the dark corners of his mind, lingering in his dreams. He had not been able to banish her completely; she had clung tenaciously to him, dancing across his memories, stubbornly resisting his every effort to exorcise her. More often than he would care to admit, he had heard her chiding voice, felt her disapproval or her gentle reproof - for her memory had become like his conscience, directing his actions, turning him into a better version of himself. He had made his peace with her there, ceased attempting to drown her out, had achieved a sort of acceptance of her presence. But then, seeing her in Rabanastre had brought back a rush of memories, stoked the embers of old emotions back to roaring life. And her voice had gone quiet in his mind, erased by the living, breathing reality of her, as if it had been only a placeholder, filling a vacant spot that must soon be occupied by the real person.

He had been a fool, he realized, to think that he could see her again and not want her. Just as she was a fool to think that she could run from him, a fool to think that he would not pursue her. He could only hope that she would understand the futility of it, would cease attempting to escape the inevitable.

He arrived at the hunter's camp just as dusk was falling in heavy streaks of pink and purple on the horizon. It had not changed much in the past year; not many travelers ventured out this far into the wilderness. It still housed less than a dozen tents, a blazing bonfire, and a few merchants. He had docked the Strahl some distance away, not wishing to alert Penelo to his presence should she manage to get a glimpse of it - it wouldn't do to send her into a panicked flight before he had even ascertained whether or not she was here.

But a few inquiries to the locals indicated that she was - several people had acknowledged that a fair-haired young woman had indeed passed through and had headed off in the direction of the hot spring. He had the curious sense of history repeating, of the events of the past year draining away, leaving only that wondrous feeling of awed discovery, of magic under the soft glow of moonlight in their wake.

Although he hardly dared to hope, he returned to the Strahl to collect a few items, and then made his way toward the hot spring, carefully easing through the copse of trees, moving silently to avoid detection. As he crossed into the clearing, the milky moon burst into view, the first stars speckled the night sky, glittering like gemstones. Steam rose in delicate whorls, stretching its swirling tendrils into the air.

The darkness and misty condensation shrouded the spring, and for a moment he did not see her. And then, finally, he heard a muffled curse, and peered through the veil of fog to see a shadowy shape, settled on the large stone marking the center of the spring. Her back was to him, but she appeared to be attempting to comb the tangles from her hair with her fingers. Another curse - he thought perhaps it was not going well for her.

And then a wistful sigh, the slump of her shoulders. She drew her knees up to loop her arms around them, apparently having given up the task. The water lapped gently at the shore, at the rock in the center, the soft sounds masking his own as he quietly removed his clothing to set it on the grassy bank.

This time he would not be the passive observer, the shameless voyeur he had been a year ago. He slipped silently into the water, wading slowly toward her unseen, unheard. The thick shroud of fog dissipated as he neared; no longer was she cloaked in mists and shadows, and he could admire the glow of moonlight on her skin once more, follow with his eyes the tiny droplets of water that rolled off her shoulders and down the silken flesh of her back.

At last he was close enough to touch her; he could reach out, close his hands over her hips, draw her down to him. But instead he quietly set the soap and comb he had brought beside her, and withdrew his hand, waiting, watching her in this unguarded moment. The sultry heat of the water coaxed forth the soft scent of the soap, teasing his nose with the sweet fragrance of lavender. And hers - he heard her delicate sniff, watched her shoulders grow stiff. She uncurled her arms, braced her hands at her sides, but her right hand came down directly upon the small bar of soap. She lifted it hesitantly, inhaling the fragrance. Then her head jerked around, wide, shocked eyes alighting on him.

Had she been in a different state of mind, she might have fled, scrambled away from him, forced him to chase her. Instead she could only freeze as he lifted himself onto the rock beside her, trembling as he cupped her face in his hands, her eyes squeezing shut against the sight of him as he bent to brush a tender kiss to the top of her head.

"Why?" she whispered. "Why?" Such a pitiful, resigned sound. She didn't understand; she could only mourn her failed attempt at escape.

But the only answer he had would alarm her, and he wanted to ease her out of her fear, her misery, not incite a fresh burst of it. He rearranged himself to sit behind her, stretching out his long legs on either side of her, the heat of his body a shield against the chill of the air. With exquisite care he settled his hands on her slender shoulders, gentling her to his touch. He scraped the tangled mass of her wet hair over her shoulder, trailing his fingertips across the back of her neck, down the silky flesh of her back, feeling her ribcage expand with her heavy breaths.

Long minutes elapsed; she waited in the tense silence as if expecting a blow. Instead she received a kiss, laid with sweet, undemanding pressure at the nape of her neck. He felt the shudder that slipped down her spine, the gooseflesh that rose on her folded arms, chased it away with the heat of his fingers.

He waited out her tension, soothing it away a bit at a time, until finally he was satisfied she no longer cowered from him but instead rested silently, passively accepting the soothing strokes of his fingers. Her breathing had evened, her panic had faded to cautious hesitance, but he sensed any wrong move he made might propel her back into flight. So instead he drew his hands away, grabbed the comb, began to work it gently through her tangled hair, and spoke to her, softly, evenly.

"When I realized, this morning, that you had run, I was...terrified." The comb snagged on a knot; he picked at it carefully until it gave. "Anything might have happened to you. Do you know what that's like, to worry for someone like that?"

Her tremulous voice sounded as if she had cried herself hoarse. "Not as bad, I imagine, as thinking someone dead."

He winced; point well made. But he continued anyway - she would have her turn later. "My mind concocted thousands of ills that might have befallen you, every one of them my fault for having driven to you flee. I hardly dared to hope that I would find you here, safe, unharmed." The comb slid through her hair smoothly at last, unhindered by knots, and he set it aside. Absent the gentle pressure of his fingers, that tension had gathered once again in her shoulders.

"I'm fine," she said in a dull little voice. "I told you I would be. You didn't have to come after me. You can leave."

Clearly she hoped that he would, but she was so far from fine that the words caused an ache in his chest. Her body was well; it was her heart that was damaged.

"We still need to talk, Penelo."

"No, please -" Her voice broke on the plea, and he broke with it; dragging her back against his chest, cradling her in his arms, stroking her hair, surrounding her with the heat of his body. She tried to curl in on herself, but he would have none of it, gently prying her trembling limbs from around herself until he had managed to drape her across his lap, her head pressed against his shoulder, her chest heaving with the effort to hold back her sobs.

"Hush," he murmured in her ear. "Hush, darling. There's no need for that, I promise you." One of his hands swept over her back in smooth, even circles, the other cupped the back of her head, massaging the tight muscles in her neck. Her breath came quick and hot against his throat; he grazed his lips over her cheek. "There now, sweet," he soothed as she went lax, surrendered. Poor, tormented girl - what she must think of him! She had to be reeling, having been chased down by the man she wanted nothing more than to escape. But she deserved to have her burden lifted from her shoulders, deserved the chance to repay him for her anguish, to make him suffer as she had. And he suffered already, although perhaps she did not know it, cut to threads by each helpless tremor that shook her, each ragged breath that passed her lips.

She turned her face into his shoulder and eased closer, and he didn't flatter himself that he had succeeded in comforting her.

"You're cold," he said. She shrugged, just a tiny lift of her shoulders, as if her body betrayed her with its lassitude.

"It doesn't matter." Just a tiny whisper of sound. Weariness had settled into her bones; she couldn't muster the energy to care. About anything. She was just so tired, so overwhelmed. Her skin had prickled with gooseflesh again, and his hands could not soothe it away, and she didn't care any longer. "I just want to forget." She was weak, so weak. She had been strong once, she knew that, but that strength had been siphoned from her soul until all that was left was a cringing, awkward creature afraid of anything that threatened her fragile security, the pitiful armor she had gathered around herself. His very reappearance had divested her of it, and she resented him for exposing the pathetic excuse for a woman she had become in his absence. Her eyes closed, wishing she could just drift away. Whatever he intended didn't matter anymore.

And then he was lifting her, rearranging her in his arms, lowering both of them into the warm water below, and the heat poured over her, soaking into her limbs. He sat on a low outcropping of rock beneath the water which lapped low on his chest, cradling her against him, her breasts pressed tight to his chest. A frisson of awareness crept up her spine as she felt the changing contours of his body beneath her bottom, registered the significance with a skitter of alarm.

"Natural reaction, given the circumstances," he murmured at her ear. She wriggled a bit in his arms, and he sucked in a breath, squeezing her to still her, his voice dropping an octave. "Just don't...move like that," he rumbled. "Dangerous. Unless you wish to find yourself flat on your back."

Her eyes opened wide, mouth rounding into a little 'o' of surprise. She ought to have scrambled away, retreated, but it would provoke another skirmish, she was sure. She didn't want that; she couldn't bear another battle, especially one she had no chance of winning. She wanted only to forget, to drift away, and he...he...he could make her forget, even if only temporarily. She seized on the thought, warming to it, welcoming the languid heat that settled low in her belly. A desperate grasp at an escape, perhaps, but then, she was desperate. When she had been in his bed a year before, he had managed to drive every other thought from her head until nothing had existed but him. He could do it again; he would do it again - she wanted the release he could provide. No, he owed it to her.

So she shifted her legs, straddled him, wriggled again. Whispered, "Yes."

His piercing green eyes narrowed on her face, his hands clenched on her hips, holding her still. "Don't think for one second I don't know what you're up to, darling."

One of her hands fisted in his hair, she melted against him, whispering at his lips, "I just want to forget. Just for a while. You can make me forget, can't you, Balthier? Please." With her other hand, she pried loose one of his from her hips, carrying it to her breast, pressing it against the full, supple weight of her. As if of its own accord, his fingers cupped her, molded around her, learning the shape of her again, and she shuddered, trembled, yielded.

He hissed, as if heat of her skin had burned him. "We're still going to talk." But one of his hands had clenched in her hair, drawing her head to the side to press his lips to the curve of her throat, and her breath sighed out. Pain slipped away beneath the onslaught of pleasure; there was no room in her for both to exist at once. But he retreated, released her hair, stared into her eyes. "Your agreement, darling. I'll have it before this goes any further."

"Yes. Yes." Her eyes were luminous, sparkling, deceitful. A lie. Of course he knew it was; she would use him for her pleasure, for the few moments of forgetfulness she craved, and then abandon him as he had abandoned her. But her hand slid down his chest, over his abdomen, grasped him, stroked him. He shuddered, thoughts scattering. With effort he snatched at them - she would not escape him; she was years too young, too inexperienced, to pull the stunt she would attempt, and after her earlier flight he would be prepared for it.

He fumbled behind him on the jutting surface of the rock for the soap, found it, worked it between his hands until it foamed into a rich, fragrant lather, then cast it aside. He slid his soapy fingers up her arms; she rolled her shoulders beneath them, arching into the caress. His hands slid down her ribcage, thumbs coming to rest beneath her upthrust breasts, teasing the soft lower curves, fingers splaying over her back, arching her to his seeking mouth. Beautiful, darling girl that she was, she lifted to help him, gasping as his fingers caught her hips, dragging her close and tight, rocking her against him.

She caught his hair in the fingers of one hand, raking his scalp, purring her delight as his lips closed over her nipple, suffusing her with heat and pleasure. And below the water, her opposite hand still moved on him, a maddening, steady rhythm that stoked his need. He knew he was breathing as if he'd run for miles, but her delicate fingers on him were more than he could bear. She had always reduced him to this; beneath her hands he was weak, helpless but to please her, to let her please him. He needed her to put him out of his misery, to take him inside her and kill him with the sweet clutch of her body, her sighs in his ear, her breath on his throat.

She was squirming, gasping, ready, her body lush and perfect. Carefully he eased her hand away from his aching flesh, hushing her protest, drawing her up tight against his chest, holding her hips to steady her.

"Ease down, sweet, and take me," he crooned at her ear. "Yes, darling girl, that's it...you are beautiful, glorious." He knew he was rambling, but she was sinking little by little over him, sheathing him in the heat of her body by careful degrees, her tight, velvety inner muscles yielding so slowly to the demands of his body. And he...he was sure he would die before she took him completely; her cautious descent was torturous - already he was straining against the desire to plunge into her, to clench her hips in his hands and drive himself into her.

But her fingers clenched on his shoulders, as if the pressure of his entry was just this side of painful. She bit her lip; he stroked her back, nuzzled her throat, whispered praise in her ear. And finally, finally she came to rest, trembling with exertion, panting.

It had been difficult for her, but she had been determined to take him, and now she wilted against his chest, struggling to adjust to him once again - it had been a year, and she was as small, as tight, as unpracticed as she had been then. So he soothed her, kissed her forehead, her cheek, her shoulder, denied his own desires, instead to comfort her. And then she moved, testing the tight fit of their bodies, and beneath her he writhed, clutched her hips, drew in a sharp, tortured breath. She readjusted, pushing on his shoulders for support, lifting herself carefully, sinking down in a slow, steady stroke, rose again.

"You wonderful, wicked girl," he breathed at her lips, holding her hips, trying to help her ease into a rhythm. But she had found her own, and she defied his guidance, moving over him in luscious cadence, a succubus demanding her due, her every motion an order he was only too willing to fulfill.

She struggled towards the peak of pleasure, carrying him with her, until finally her last reserves of strength gave out and she collapsed with a tiny sound of dismay. "No, I was almost -" Her lips trembled, so frustrated, looking as though she might cry at the loss, pleasure snatched away before she could grasp it.

"Sweet, you cannot think I would leave you unsatisfied," he grated. And he surged to his feet from beneath her, pinning her back against the rock, entering her on a solid thrust that forced a breathless, shocked cry from her lungs. He hooked his arms beneath her knees, holding her still for his driving lunges. He was rough with her, determined, all unleashed passion, but she didn't care, couldn't think beyond the approaching pinnacle of fulfillment. She could only drape her arms around his neck, dig her nails into him and ride out the storm.

Each surge of his hips seemed to bring him deeper inside of her, like a promise, a stake of claim. Sweat beaded on his forehead, his face was a mask of single-minded desire, eyes blazing hot on her face, and she writhed beneath the scorching pleasure he forced on her until the tidal wave crested, broke over her, dragging her under with a high, broken cry. Distantly she was aware of his own groan of satisfaction, his hard-muscled body suddenly heavy on hers, the rough, affectionate rub of his cheek on hers, his lips pressed to her temple in silent reverence. Her eyes slid closed as aftershocks gave way to exhausted lassitude, her limbs going boneless, heavy and immovable. His hands slipped beneath her, drawing her close, and she managed a soft, unsteady sound of protest.

But he merely bussed his lips against her forehead as he gathered her into his arms, murmuring, "Shh, darling. Sleep. I've got you."

That was what she was afraid of...but she hadn't the energy left to protest further. Beckoning darkness hovered, and she could no longer fight the welcoming embrace of sleep.

She awoke with the chill of the wind on her bare back, lying on the grassy bank of the hot spring, resting in the circle of Balthier's arms. He was asleep, it seemed; she didn't know how much time had passed, but it couldn't have been all that long - her hair was still wet, the breeze still nipped at stray droplets of water on her skin. He had carried her out of the spring at some point, she knew, because surely she hadn't had the strength to do so on her own. Shifting gingerly, she experienced a dull ache between her thighs, remnants of his abandoned ardor. She was sore, stiff, and she wanted nothing more than to go back to sleep, to catch a few hours of rest and restore her strength, because her exhaustion wore on her still. But he would not sleep forever - the chill of the night air would wake him soon, and she needed to be gone before then. With any luck, he would simply give up and let her disappear at last.

Carefully she eased herself out of his arms, silently gathering up her clothing to don it hastily, silently. Only as she was working the ties of her top, she heard a dark chuckle, froze, turned to glance over at where she'd left him sleeping. But he was there no longer; he had risen without her notice at some point and had already donned his trousers, and was currently busy working the buttons of his shirt.

She shrank from him as he approached, a shiver that had nothing to do with the cold sliding down her spine.

"Have you forgotten your promise already, then?" he asked, in a deceptively mild tone. It was the silky, silvery voice of a man who knew he'd won. There was no need for him to chase her; he'd already caught her.

"No," she said. "I never intended to keep it. But you knew that, didn't you."

An indulgent look; he had expected her duplicity, anticipated it, and yet somehow did not hold it against her. It was the nature of trapped creatures to attempt escape. "Of course. Just as you ought to have known that I would not have let you leave." He held out his hand. "Come; it's a wonder you're even standing."

But she made no move to take it. She merely turned, looked over her shoulder into the distance, at the stretch of the land towards the freedom that was futile to wish for, now. Her shoulders slumped, defeated.

"We had a bargain, darling," he reminded her. "Whether you intended to keep it or not, I say it stands." He moved slowly, deliberately, catching up her hand and lacing his warm fingers through her cold ones. He did not wait for her assent, he simply began walking, pulling her after him.

She stumbled along after him like one condemned, but, really, what more could he do to her? She had already been destroyed. There was nothing left of her heart to hurt. It had already been flung at his feet and then dashed to pieces, leaving a gaping, raw wound in her chest that had never healed. Nothing he could say to her could possibly do any more damage than she had already suffered. So she would let him have his say; she could endure it as she had endured so much already. He had already left her in pieces; maybe then he would finally leave her in peace.