Love and War

Abruptly, she had gained the upper hand, and her foe knelt on the floor of her bedchamber before her, defenseless, her sword tip touching his chest.

He smiled slowly, his eyes moving thoughtfully from the tip of the sword up its shining length and into her face. “Mon amour,” he said softly. She trembled at the words, and tightened her grip on the hilt, swiftly jerking it up at an angle, aiming down at his heart. She gritted her teeth as she stared into his deep green eyes, struggling to maintain her resolve.

He smiled lazily, looking up at her through his unkempt dark curls. “You’ve beaten me,” he said simply. “But it is an honor to die beneath such lovely eyes.”

Her hands shook and she leaned down to him. “You lied to me. You lied to us all.”

He nodded. “You may believe that.” He reached up to touch the blade that was aimed so threateningly at his own heart. “Or perhaps you may trust that I have deeper plans.” She watched, slightly bemused, as his hand caressed the argentine steel, tracing up the long thin blade. She found herself pondering what he’d just said, and her defenses dropped for one second. In that second he shoved himself inside the opening and refused to let it close again. His hand reached hers on the hilt, and he caught it softly, looking into her eyes with a smirk that, strangely enough, seemed still to worship her even now. She did not move except to keep her eyes fixed on his face as he rose, turning her blade away from him with gentle pressure on her wrist. Her glance darted to his lips of their own accord before she hastily looked back to his eyes, her cheeks flaming.

He chuckled and stepped closer, suddenly spinning her around and gently pressing her back against his chest with a large, persuasive hand on her waist. She was utterly petrified, as if she’d been drugged. He released her sword hand, and took the other in his, pulling it up over her head to lay it against his cheek. The fingers tightened longingly against his skin, and she shut her eyes against the tears of frustration welling up in her eyes. She wanted to be like this with him in some other context, a sweeter and more tender context than one in which she was eternally faced with the directive to kill him. She did not, however, resist as he let go of her wrist and stroked her reddish-gold hair away from the side of her neck, bending to press his lips against her snowy skin in a tender kiss. She gritted her teeth and turned her head away, every inch of her longing to forget their individual missions and sink into the moment together. Suddenly her fingers tightened convulsively and painfully against his face and she abruptly jerked away, angry tears standing in her eyes.

“You lie, again,” she choked out, her sword leveled at his chest. She advanced a step, and then another, gradually forcing him back against the wall. He lifted his hands disarmingly, smiling down at her carelessly.

“I promise, ma chérie, I do not.”

She stepped forward again, the point of her sword pricking slightly through his shirt as she leaned viciously towards his face, her teeth bared. “What proof do you have? How can you hope to convince me after all you’ve done to us?”

He shrugged. “I can’t. I can only ask for a final chance.”

She was breathing hard, her face wet with tears. “You had your final chance… when you — when —“ she could not bring herself to reference the last time he’d asked for a final chance. “And now, again, you would use me. A tool, a plaything, just as I always was.”

He shook his head. “No, amour. This time, as last time, I am in earnest.”

“Last time?” She wavered. “You never showed me you meant it last time.”

“You did not give me a chance,” he said softly, persuasively. His French accent, so endearing normally, grated painfully on her ears when she remembered the other words it had affected, softly whispered in her ear beneath the trees watching the sun over the sea.

“A chance? A CHANCE?? You ask again for a chance, I gave you a chance, I gave you a million chances!” she cried.

“What do you see is a chance, ma chere? I was told I had a chance. And you, from that point on, refused to let me do anything. Is that what you call a chance?”

She was shaking with both sobs and anger now. Wearily she let the sword drop and stepped back, putting a hand across her eyes. “Go,” she said thickly, “get out. I don’t ever want to see you again, unless what you hint at, of a deeper plan, shows its face.”

He chuckled drily and shook his head. “No. I will not go. You need me, in some capacity or other.”

She drew her hand away and looked at him savagely, her lips still quivering. “How can you tell?”

He nodded confidentially. “Just trust that you do… either you all, or just you.” He gestured towards her.

She swallowed hard. “No. Leave. Get out.”

He chuckled. “What, you suddenly do not want me?”

Her control snapped. “Don’t you see that I DO?” she burst out. “I want you here so badly it hurts me!! I want nothing more than to trust you the way I used to, when we were no more and no less than lovers! I want to forget everything around us and have it just be us two, but it will not work out that way! We cannot be together, you and I, ever again! We cannot… it would destroy everything I have worked for. And from what you seem to be trying to hint, everything you have worked for as well.”

He shook his head and advanced toward her decisively. She swiftly jerked her sword tip up towards his chest but he swept the blade aside and caught her around the waist, pinning her sword hand down against her side. “No, ma chérie. Not this time,” he whispered, drawing closer to her and pulling her lips into his.

She let out a tiny sound, almost a mix between a whimper and a squeak and a sigh all together, in faint protest, but she soon forgot all that and melted into his arms, letting tears flow free again from her eyes.