The last strains of the complex final movement of A'l'an Salaq faded from the resonator of Spock's lyrette as he carefully placed his palms over the vibrating strings. The piece had brought order back to his confused, frustrated thoughts. He could now assess the situation, the last few days, calmly and logically.
The beginning and the end of the problem was, of course, Sulu. The middle was lack of understanding, his own, Ruth Valley's and Sulu's himself. He had assumed that Sulu's reason was indicative of logic. Ruth had assumed his barbarity meant naked, guileless emotion. Sulu had assumed he was being played. All of them had been wrong, yet all assumptions carried a grain of truth and critical understanding. It was that grain which kept thwarting all of their best intentions. For Sulu was logical, for his culture; and when his emotions were displayed, they were guileless; and because Ruth was in love with him, he was being played. That Miss Valley had fallen into that particular emotional state was no longer in question. She was quite obviously miserable with the young man's cool civility toward her. Sulu was polite, and very little else. Yet Spock could easily see the tension this attitude caused him. For while his manner when in public was charming and curious and carefully tolerant, he became bitter and cynical when he entered his quarters. Spock had allotted time daily for answering Sulu's questions, an attempt to continue the acculturation process despite the loss of any meaningful contributions from Miss Valley. It was during these discussions that Sulu's true feelings acrimoniously revealed themselves. Explanation of the patently casual attitude toward sexual tatters elicited a disbelieving, "Right, whatever you say." A mild reprimand concerning the inappropriateness of staring at non-humanoid crewpersons got a tight smile and a spat, "Got it." The assurance that verbal battles were a form of recreation and not prelude to an attack was met with a muttered, "Sure they are." Spock had enquired if the young man played chess, thinking that the discipline would aid his evident emotional labyrinth. But Sulu had responded with a satiric, "And what aspect of Federation culture is that supposed to explore?" Spock had replied that he merely thought a game would be welcome. To which Mr. Sulu snapped, "Why not?" Sulu's entire attitude had become one of observing, assimilating, reacting properly, but not caring or communicating. Spock thought he detected an almost feverish despondency under Sulu's cynicism, something he suspected ran deeper than Sulu being misplaced in an alien universe. Some basic part of the young man's psyche was being intensified by his new environment. Yet it retained hidden, completely submerged in Sulu's dealings with anyone other then himself or Ruth. Sulu had presented an almost courtly apology to Janice Rand, taking all the fault, explaining that her loveliness and, if he wasn't presuming too much, willingness had led him into actions that while not, perhaps, entirely inappropriate, were possibly too forceful, and he was very sorry to have frightened her. Spock had been quite convinced of his sincerity, and the crew was beginning to find his presence easier, if not yet comfortable. And Sulu was trying to be tolerant and tolerated with everyone except the First Officer and Ruth. It was the inconsistency that kept Spock from being able to comprehend Sulu, and that inability which caused the frustration, and that frustration which aggravated the sense of inconsistency. He sighed and began to strum the lyrette again, but was immediately interrupted by the door chime. He put down the instrument and called, "Come."
Ensign Valley stepped into the room and asked, "May I speak with you, sir?"
Spock saw that she had the same melancholy, almost frightened look that he had noticed every time he had seen her recently. He knew what had caused some of the fear, she had explained it to him herself. She had given a fuller account of the incident with Mr. Thompson to him than she had to the Captain. There had been violence and threats, and she had used her telepathic ability to force Thompson to ignore any inclination to report the matter. In doing so she realized that she had broken the strict rule she had set for herself about never interfering with another's will. She had assured Spock that she would not do it again and he believed her. He also knew that her confidence in being able to keep a strict rein on her keheil talents was badly shaken.
He frowned but nodded. "Very well, Miss Valley."
"It's about Sulu," she said anxiously.
"I had assumed as such."
Her head lowered, her attitude somehow defeated. "He won't talk to me, and I know it's all my fault but I can't take it anymore."
"Yes," Spock agreed simply. "I have had little luck communicating with him of late, and while his public appearance is quite irreproachable, he is internalizing nothing of our culture. He wears a proper face, yet is as unchanged, and as dangerous, as before."
"What can I do?" she asked, and while the question was quiet, there was an abject wail of misery behind the despairing eyes.
"That I'm afraid I have no answer for," Spock replied.
"The Captain will send him to rehabilitation, won't he?" Ruth murmured.
"If we cannot solve this dilemma."
"I don't understand. I've tried everything, yelling, talking, pleading, but he doesn't listen, won't listen." Her voice had begun softly, and grew even softer as she went on, until Spock was certain she was speaking to herself. "If he'd only listen, let me explain, let me apologize - I have apologized and he just... I'd do anything if it would make him..."
The words rambled on, but Spock no longer paid them attention. There was a despondency beneath her tone, a feverish despondency, the aching sense of a lost love, and he knew where he had heard the tone before. Only before, he could not identify the source. Lost love. That was the key, the ‘something' in Sulu's psyche, the basic part that made him seem more than misplaced. And who he had lost, at least in this alien universe, was Ruth Valley; lost by the barrier of cultural clash. Spock knew the sense of estrangement such a clash could cause. He lived with it, dealt with it. But Sulu had no base from which to work, no solidarity on which to build. One could teach the form of security to a child, yet without material demonstration, the child would comprehend nothing save empty hypocrisy, and so become bitter to protect a much too vulnerable self. He and Ruth had preached the virtue of Federation ideals, yet denied the man the only comfort, the only assurance his discipline could allow. If all rights were sacred, how could he be starving; or had he no rights to even bare sustenance?
And with the realization, Spock knew what must be done. "I believe I have a solution," he told her.
She looked at him expectantly. "Yes, sir?"
"You have stated that you would do anything. I am afraid I must ask you to fulfill that statement. Mr. Sulu's attitudes toward interpersonal relationships are very different from ours, his requirements stricter. If you love him and wish to aid him you will abide by his tenets in this matter. This will provide him with security. Having security he will be able to adjust more easily."
"What?" Ruth asked, her eyes wide and not a little fearful.
"Go to him, Miss Valley, inform him that you wish a relationship - on his terms. He will never belong here without some anchor, something from which to orient himself. The only thing we have to offer him is, unfortunately, you."
"Do you know what he'll do to me?" she rasped unbelievingly.
"Miss Valley," he replied softly. "There is no other choice except admit defeat and give him over to the Captain's wishes."
Sulu sat in his quarters, staring at the chess problem Spock had left him, resisting the urge to demolish the chess board. Logic; calm, reasoned order. It's enough to drive a man mad. His keeper was so pleased when he solved problems rationally. It was indicative of his rational adjustment to life in a cage. Caged animals get fed, he growled to himself.
Not here they don't, came the immediate answer. Tame the beast by starvation. But then you don't dare let him out. So they have to give something. Logic; calm, reasoned order. It's supposed to be enough. Rights, equality, greater good. You're going insane, Sulu.
It's what they want.
You'll get crushed.
Who gives a damn?
He got up abruptly. The sweeping gesture of his arm disrupted the chess board. It gave some small satisfaction, but no gratification. Everything he did gave some small satisfaction, but no gratification. He thought of calling Rand, but he knew no woman was allowed in his quarters except the Antari whore - excuse me, Ensign Valley. He didn't even consider calling her. His body was aching for some release, the tension combining with the ravenous hunger. He found himself prowling the rooms, searching -
Discipline, he ordered harshly, and brought himself up short. The coil inside him wound tighter, but he took deep breaths, clenching his fists, fighting down the frantic despair. No way out, live with it. Or die with it. They aren't strong enough to kill you. Maybe they're hoping to make you kill yourself.
He laughed out loud, bitter, sardonic, then whirled at the soft knock on his door. Come to check up on my rationality, Spock? he thought wryly, and called, "Come." Let him see my solution to his damned chess problem.
The door opened, but it wasn't Spock. Ruth stood, her head down, eyes lowered, hands clasped nervously. "Sulu, can I come in?" she asked.
The mask dropped neatly into place. "As you wish, Miss Valley," he replied coolly. She stepped inside hesitantly.
"I - I've come - to apologize and - " she began. He cut her off.
"No need, Miss Valley."
"Sulu..." She stopped, drew a shaky breath. "Please, I don't want to play this game. I came to - '
He interrupted again. "What game do you want to play?"
For the first time, she looked at him. "None," she said, "or all, or any you want." She waited, barely breathing, but he simply stared at her. Her eyes closed. "I want to come back, Sulu, on your terms. No more equality, no more rights, just - " Her voice shook. "Let me be yours, for now I - "
"For now?" he asked, still unrelenting.
She gazed directly into his eyes. "For as long as you want it," she whispered, fearful, yet resolved.
Sulu's cold control began slipping as the hunger inside him screamed for satiation. What more do you need? The bitch wants to be yours!
How can she, Federation -
She says it! No equality, no rights, let me be yours, for as long as you want!
But she doesn't mean it.
She's scared, isn't she?
She doesn't know of what, she doesn't understand what it means to be mine.
Teach her; gods, man, you're starving, are you going to turn down a feast?
It's not good enough! Not from her, not yet...
Yet. She can learn, can't she? Gods, she can learn, and then... then... How would it feel never to hunger again?
He knew that the desperate need shone from his eyes, but he kept the eager smile from his lips, retaining the ice but twisting it from indifference to taunting silky threat.
"We'll see," he said, and turned from her. He could feel her helpless frustration, and her eyes followed him as he moved across the room to stand next to the weapons display case. He faced her again, and she paled, lowering her eyes. "How do you open this?" he asked abruptly.
Her head jerked up, terror gleaming in her eyes, and she swallowed, licking dry lips. But she answered immediately, her voice soft and hoarse. "His signature on the painting, it's a thumb-lock."
Fierce joy welled up inside him as he turned to the willow. She learns fast. His eyes quickly scanned the fall of leaves, located the one that was not a galaxy - an oval of double katanas enclosing the Japanese mon of his family name. He reflected for a fraction of a second how similar it was to the signature he had used for his own art: His had added an Imperial dagger through the center.
The thought vanished with exultant expectation as he reached up, setting his thumb firmly over the oval. There was a hum, and a faint click, and the glass-steel panel that had kept him from the treasures inside slid back into the bulkhead.
He dove blindly for a weapon and his hand jerked back up clutching a dagger, a gleaming metallic life-line to sanity and survival. He heard Ruth gasp and forced his eyes away from the slender blade long enough to give her one commanding look. He saw the dread and acceptance in her eyes and let the triumphant smile lighten his features.
She came to him without having to be told and he laughed, genuinely jubilant, slashing the knife through her uniform with one fierce blur of action. She gasped again, trying desperately to stifle it, her body trembling, her eyes closing. Fire raced through him, raging to be set free, and he reveled in it, keeping its burning racing along his veins, strength and power and glory.
Hold on, he warned suddenly. Don't give too much too soon. Patience. Feast, don't gorge. His smile turned anticipatory, and he carefully set the dagger back in its place, loathing to give up his hold on its steel security, and walked away from the case, toward his bed. Ruth's eyes opened, she was still shaking, staring at him with pleading confusion. He felt her eyes on him as he swiftly undressed. He ignored her, even though the terror that raced from her called to him, begging to be fulfilled. When he was finished, he turned to her and held out his hand. "Bring it here," he said. His smile taunted but his voice and eyes were flat, unreadable. The quick panic on her face assured him she had understood what he meant, but she glanced at the case, then back at him, perhaps hoping she was wrong. He nodded, slowly, letting a touch of the need that drove him reach his eyes and his smile. Any hope she might have had fled with the color in her face. She moved, numbly, gingerly lifting the knife he had replaced, carrying it to him. She held it out to him, and he waited, gazing at her steadily. Her hand started trembling, and she inhaled, then whispered, "Take it, please."
The rush of heat felt marvelous, and he reached out, allowing her to give him the dagger. When it was in his palm, he grasped it tightly, then relaxed back on the bed, caressing the blade with careful, sensual fingers. Ruth sank slowly to her knees beside the bed, but she didn't protest or back away. He toyed with the knife a little longer, noticing with glee that her eyes never left it.
Then with one swift motion he had reached over his head, thrusting the blade of the knife deep into the belly of the carved wooden dragon that rested on the shelf. Ruth's gasp pleased him, and he grabbed her wrist, pulling her to him.
His kiss was brutal, daring her to protest. She accepted it meekly. But that wasn't enough and he intended her to know it. His grip on her body tightened, the kiss becoming more insistent. He felt her start as she realized she wasn't responding; felt, too, the surge of passion she sent at him. He chuckled without breaking the kiss, knowing it would unnerve her. Her body stiffened, but only momentarily. Hungrily he moved his mouth away from hers, grasping her by the waist, using her as a lever to push his body lower on hers. He attacked and devoured her breasts, leaving them covered with teeth marks. She gasped and writhed beneath him and still no word or sound of complaint passed her lips. He looked up at her, smiling grimly, noting that her eyes were open and fastened on the knife he'd left as her focus. Good, good, he thought. I don't want you to lose sight of what I could do to you.
His fingers caressed her thighs without tenderness but without intentional pain. He reveled in his freedom, and knew by the sweat on her skin and the moisture that seeped from her genitals that she was as excited by this as by the most gentle of lover's caresses. He left the marks of his teeth all over her belly and hips, groaning when she writhed with arousal, feeding her hunger as he fed his own. His fingers grasped and kneaded her flesh, his urgency reflected in her willing response; arching hips, hard, erect nipples, soft, gasping cries. His hands sought her buttocks, pulling her to him; then he slid his hands forward to grasp and part her thighs. The heat and heady scent rising from her genitals was intoxicating and he bent his head to taste her. She gasped, her hands coming to his head. But he pulled away, teasing her, then let his fingers explore deeply, savagely inside her.
It wasn't until her cries were incoherent and begging that he slid his burning erection into her. He made his thrusts as hard and fierce as with any of the Imperial sluts he'd ever used. And Ruth took them, bucking her hips up to his, her response and return of his passion as far from protest as he could wish.
Ruth forced her head to move back, to take her eyes from the dagger that protruded so dangerously from the dragon. She didn't know how long she had stared, fascinated, at it without any coherent thoughts as the fear gradually subsided. She sighed and shifted slightly to look down at the silky dark head that rested on her breasts. The breath that caressed her skin was warm, even. He hadn't moved in several minutes. Asleep, she thought. Finally. He hadn't made any move toward the blade, but it was there, gentle reminder that she had said 'on his terms,' the entire time he had made such savage love to her. Savage, but not painful. It had been more than good, more than completing. He had let that knife glitter with cruel promise, just above her head. Had it just been to frighten her? No. To teach her exactly what she had promised him. I promise to take what you give, when you give, to do what you say with no consideration given my own needs or feelings or fears. I promise to be what you want, when you want, and to change with your whim like a kite before an intermittent breeze. And I promise to read your needs from your face and your voice and your deep, enigmatic eyes.
Ruth shivered, remembering the look in those eyes the first time she had talked to him, knowing he wasn't Roy: Predatory, proprietary, a hungry hawk hypnotizing its prey with its unwavering gaze, waiting for the right moment to strike - and feast. And it had worked; it took all her will to turn away from that relentless appraisal.
And yet she hadn't. Not really. In that moment he'd caught her. From that moment this submission had been inevitable. He'd known it, it was why he'd gotten so angry with her, and why she with him. The terror of the last hour was punishment for daring to defy his will. She took it because she knew she deserved it. Not because he was right to be master, but because she had, on that first encounter, promised to be his. And he was only reacting to her breaking that promise. She hadn't defied his will: she had defied her own.
If you love him, and wish to aid him...
How had Spock known?
She hadn't known herself until Spock said it for her, hadn't admitted it. Did Spock realize that the only way to deal with Sulu was to give him complete honesty? The security of a familiar relationship was only part of it. He needed truth most of all. She reached out, her fingers barely touching his hair. "I love you," she whispered.
Sulu lay still, silent, comfortable and finally relaxed. The coil inside him was unwinding, a pleasant, content exhaustion seeping slowly through him. Mine. You don't know it yet, dear. But you will, oh you will.
Ruth's breasts made an excellent pillow, the beating of her heart furious triumph even as it slowed. She hadn't once lost awareness of the blade, hadn't once forgotten that it was in arm's reach. The terror fed him, thrilled him. She learned so quickly. I'll hold you to your words, angel. No equality, no rights. My terms, for as long as I want. Sweet, lovely Ruth.
He smiled, ready to move up and take her in his arms, when her fingers lightly touched his head. He almost didn't feel it, but then her voice murmured in his ear, a soft, gentle sound of helpless yet joyful revelation. "I love you."
("I made you," he said tauntingly.
"It doesn't matter," she replied. "I do."
"You have no choice."
"I know. I don't want one." A pause. "Do you love me, Sulu?"
"Yes, Diane, of course I do." )
Blood and healing, more blood, more healing. Ruth didn't know how long it went on, only that she sobbed "Yes!" every time Sulu demanded to know if she loved him. He didn't want her to say anything else, and she knew it. He wanted it, yet wouldn't ask for it, and couldn't take it. Why? Why! Her tears were as much confusion as pain and fear.
His voice came once again, hard, challenging. "Do you love me, Ruth?"
Her answer was half sob, half gasp, "Yes!"
The blade came slashing at her and she screamed, but the edge didn't touch her. She had closed her eyes, and now she quickly opened them. In the instant before Sulu noticed, Ruth watched as anguished sorrow and bitter hope flashed across his face, as clearly as the cold joy that replaced it a second later. He didn't know she'd seen it. His eyes bored into her and all she saw was that moment of naked, raw pain. Her fingers reached for, touched his.
"You're hurting," she whispered. "I don't want to do anything to hurt you."
The sorrow and hope returned, tinged with fear, but his answer was calm, cold. "Then don't love me."
Ruth blocked out the facade, responding to the fierce desperation in his eyes. "I can't help it."
He hardened. "You're exhausted, Antari," he said contemptuously. "How much healing did you do?" His tone was a challenge. She met it.
"You want me to love you," she said, "and you love me but you can't say it." Her voice began to quaver. "Is it because I'm not completely Human? It is beneath you to love an alien?" She was shaking, afraid she'd gone too far. But he smiled, slowly, with a tenderness that was frightening because it was so obviously scornful.
"I do love you, Ruth," he murmured, taunting, mocking.
She ignored the fear. "It's not a joke," she murmured back. "You really do."
Did his smile soften? "Of course I do," he said, and she couldn't read his tone. Confusion washed over her.
"What do you want from me?" she wailed.
"Everything," he said simply, and his eyes gleamed. "In time."
She was too tired to continue the game. "Take whatever you want," she said wearily. "I told you, I love you, I'm yours. You terrify me, confuse me, hurt me, but I hurt more for you and I'll do what I have to to prove it."
He was silent, and Ruth finally looked up at him. He was staring at her, emotions unguarded battling in his eyes. He wanted to stop, to take it at face value, to believe her words - and he couldn't. Wouldn't. Yet he reveled in her saying them, in winning - winning a prize he hated and feared yet ached for and couldn't hold on to even if he got it. Tears welled in her eyes, but she said nothing. The silence stretched on as they stared into each other's souls. Finally he spoke, his voice low, rasping. Two words.
"Get out."
Ruth blinked, bewildered, aching, suddenly lost. "What?" she whispered. He continued to stare at her.
"You heard me," he said.
Pain and fear competed inside her. "You can't just..." she began.
"I can't what?" he snapped.
She lowered her eyes, swallowing, and spoke as humbly as she knew how. "Sulu, I want to stay."
"I want you to leave," he replied smoothly. It was another challenge, but Ruth had no idea of how to meet it. She swallowed her tears and slowly got up. He said nothing as she dressed, though her eyes sought him, sorrowfully, pleading. She hesitated before she moved toward the door, but his gaze was cold and aloof. Her sobs stuck in her throat as she turned to step before the door. His voice seared the silence; bitter, cynical, vindicated yet hurting, begging.
"And you love me?"
She whirled, her mind aflame with agony. "I'm doing what you tell me!" she cried helplessly.
"So you are," he said, and his voice was calm and warm, and he was again smiling. "Come here."
She rushed to his arms, to his kiss, joyfully, and only started crying at his deep chuckle.
Spock woke with the concern that had filled his dreams. To what had he sentenced Ruth Valley by stating 'if you love him'? He had not realized it when it had been said, but he had left her no option. To fail, to stop trying would say she did not love him, and Ruth Valley was both too proud and too honest to give credence to that lie. So she would continue beyond any sensible limit because of it. He felt suddenly guilty. If she was injured, if her personality was damaged beyond repair by Sulu's machinations, he would have to bear the blame. Was his belief in Sulu's eventual acculturation so strong as to risk that? Or was it his confidence in Ruth's strength and abilities? She was strong, capable, as integrated a hybrid as he had ever seen. She handled her keheil talents with assurance and restraint, her scientific duties equally well. Though barely twenty-two, she was no child, except for rare outbursts of temper. Surely he had no cause to worry for her.
And yet he did. Something tickled the back of his mind, a subconscious warning. Was he becoming infected with the paranoia of the Captain and McCoy? Perhaps. And if so, there was but one solution: give Sulu more room to confirm or belie such paranoia. More freedom? No, that had been disastrous. More duty. But in his present state of mind would even that be safe? He has had a night with Ruth, and it was what he needed. But why second guess the man. If you wish him to be equal, treat him as such. Ask him if he would be amenable to more duty.
Spock nodded to himself, finished dressing, and started the short walk to Sulu's rooms.
Ruth woke in Sulu's arms, and though he didn't stir, or open his eyes, she knew he, too, was awake. There was a tension in him that only relaxed in sleep. The thought cut her, it was so sad to know he was so distrustful. She reached up, stroking his cheek, unconsciously caressing the scar that wasn't there, as though it was some invisible badge of his inner turmoil. She remembered the night before, and his reaction to a similar touch, but couldn't stop the touch, or the words.
"I love you, Sulu."
Predictably his hand reached up, grabbing hers, twisting her an in such a way as to force her up to her knees. She bent her head and said quickly, "I do, I can't help it, I wouldn't if I could, I love you!"
To her surprise, he let go of her. She glanced at him. He looked tired, angry, almost humiliated.
"All right," he said, "you love me. Why? Because I look like him?" Ruth winced, realizing consciously now about his smooth, unmarked face. "Because you're into pain? Because you pity me?" The words snapped out at her. "Or am I all a half-breed can get?"
He's so vulnerable, she thought, so desperate to know it isn't true. Sulu, my poor troubled man... She spoke softly, gently. "Sulu, you're not a thing like him." She paused, smiling. "Well, not very much. I find pain - inconvenient, and tiring, but I've been trained to accept it. I've had every man I ever wanted. I don't pity you. I hurt for you." She took a deep breath. "I love you. I never said that to your counterpart. I love you, enough that I want to take all your pain into myself. And for some reason, maybe because you're capable of loving me, I want to share my pain with you." She leaned forward, kissing him, and when she drew away, the knife was in his hand. She paled, but he extended it to her. Perplexed, she stared at it.
"Your turn," he said quietly.
She blinked, looked at him. "What are you doing?"
His smile was faintly satiric. "Sharing the pain."
She gazed at the expectation on his face, the slow caresses his fingers gave the blade. She refused the knowledge. "No," she said.
"Go on." Soft confirmation.
She shook her head, unable to deny she knew what he wanted. "I can't hurt you."
The same, gentle, eager urging. "Go on."
Terror took her. "I can't!" she pleaded.
He stared into her eyes. "Then get out."
No, not again, oh god, not again! Tears filled her eyes, and even as her mind protested, she prepared to face his challenge. She took the knife, her hand troubling, saw his eyes watching it, his hands going to his sides, the slight intake of breath as he waited for the pain. I can't! her mind screamed and she bitterly turned the knife on herself.
With a movement too fast for her eyes to see he grabbed her wrist, frightened and angry. He had been terrified she would use the blade on herself, and the realization filled her with hope. "No easy way out," he snarled at her. "If you're mine you'll do as I say."
Hope fled. "Please, I..."
"Or you'll get out!"
She sobbed as he let go of her wrist, his eyes again anticipatory. She was shaking, desolate, hating herself but knowing there was no escape. It took a great effort, but she managed to move the knife toward him, to touch its tip to his chest. And with the touch she knew she could do no more. She glanced up imploringly - and was stunned by the fierce joy on Sulu's face. Relief, the look of a man who had waited all his life for this moment. No fear, no confusion. Peace. Oh my god, peace!
She started to pull away, and he grasped her hands in a panic of sudden despair and forced the blade deeply into his chest.
Ruth screamed, pain hitting her mind like a close-fisted blow. But more than that, she screamed from the wave of gratitude that flowed from the man who was sure he was, at long last, going to die.
Sulu closed his eyes. The pain was nothing. He could feel it, searing through his lung into his heart, but it was inconsequential compared to the exultation of death. Freedom, release, and at Ruth's hands; beloved Ruth, angel, savior. She had done what no other could, what he had hunted for for so long. Proof: irrefutable, eternal, the love he had thought would never be his. She knew him, oh yes, she did. She saw all he was, the black pit that was only a hollow mockery of a soul. And she knew, as he himself had known for years, that such a thing was not fit to live. Not that others hadn't known; by the gods, everyone he touched knew. But she cared. No one else had ever cared. She loved him. So she freed him. She killed him. She stayed, found the weakness, used it to give him the only thing he really needed - to die. What more could there be to love? Angel, savior - Ruth, thank you.
Darkness was taking him, the pain fading with his life. He had no thoughts of the hell that awaited him, the tortured souls that would soon torture him. All he knew was joy, the joy of being loved —
Something was wrong. The pain wasn't fading, it was leaving. The metal salvation in his chest was gone, the sweet peace of death was being pulled out of him. Dimly he heard a gasp, felt fingers clutching his chest. It seemed a great effort to open his eyes, to see again hurt his thoughts. Gold and amethyst, pain, strength, concentration - and Ruth collapsed in his arms.
He held her, unable to think for a moment. He was alive, somehow; a miracle and one that didn't sting him. Gods, he was alive! She had kept him alive, knowing - knowing what he was, and she kept him -
No. She didn't know. She couldn't know. She had lied to him, deceived, cheated him. Betrayed him. No one who knew would want him to live. How could he have believed otherwise? What had made him hope she was different? Damn her, damn her!
She was crying brokenly, laying in his arms like a weak, helpless doll. She felt light, faded somehow, and he found himself wondering just what had happened. He lifted her chin, staring both wonder and betrayal into her eyes. "What did you do?" he asked,
"I couldn't..." she sobbed, "...couldn't let you..."
Suddenly he understood; "You can heal me?" he asked again. She nodded wearily. A glimmer of hope returned and his eyes sought the knife. It was still covered with blood but he ignored it. He pushed Ruth away from him, quickly slashing open his arm. Her eyes grew wide with horror. "Do it again," he said.
With a sob, she touched his arm. He watched intently as she groaned, her arm opening as his closed, then slowly healing until there was no trace on his arm or hers. Maybe, he thought, both bitter and aching, she can pay for her betrayal. She fell against him and he settled her comfortably in a cross-legged embrace. He gazed at her with loving, determined devotion as he gently carved swirls of scarlet vengeance in his skin, watching them disappear, reappear on her flesh, then disappear again. He carved more, watched, carved, watched until her skin no longer absorbed his caresses.