Weak
The only plan going in on this prompt was to not go for the predictability of Athos being the target of the accusation - it all kind of went from there, and got away from me a bit and kept going. I have no idea how much the background framing for this one comes through, so if it doesn't make sense bother me. XD;; Takes place in the nebulous grey space between Seasons 1 and 2.
(I am also a little mystified by the number of baby/kid prompts I've gotten so far. It's fun trying to handle them in different ways, though.)
"You gave my baby away to strangers and let me believe he had died."
She is furious; the words are a cold, measured accusation, but he can see the fire that blazes in her eyes and the way her hands curl into fists at her sides – the woman who stands at his bedside may sound every inch the heartless creature he trained and shaped, the ruthlessly dispassionate killer, and yet the rage is there, the fire at odds with the coolness of her tone, and it is all too clear something has changed since he last saw her, some discovery no doubt fuelling her accusation. She may sound ordinary, but she looks far more reminiscent of the bedraggled fury who'd first caught his eye five years ago, when he'd seen potential and promise and something he could use and shape, a creature whose loyalty he could ensure with promises of vengeance and power and the fine things life had denied her, but he suspects (fears, a little) those are not what she is seeking now.
"You could not have had your child and your revenge both," he says calmly, because he believes that – because the child would have made her soft, weak, as motherhood and love have ever made women, and seeing the emotions that twist in her eyes only reinforces the certitude of his decision.
"So you made the choice for me," and the anger is plainer now, creeping into her voice as she rocks slightly forward on the balls of her feet, "you decided to steal away the last chance I might have had to a shred of happiness or peace, when you had no right to such things, no right to –"
She cuts herself off with an abrupt gesture, the words lost in a choked sound as she turns away, and he watches silently, curious at this new dimension in her, this unexpected softening that he may yet be able to find a purpose for, because he still holds the cards, never mind that most would look at him and see only an aging man whose health is failing him; when she finally turns back, the mask (fractured as it may be) is firmly in place as she sits, demure and proper, on the bedside chair, and the implicit threat in her smile makes him wonder if perhaps, after all, he has miscalculated.