Liar...

Had he forgotten how to be convincing? Did he dislike this that much? Did she know him that well?

Fake...

Was anything about his actions genuine? Did he ever care for her well being, or anyone's? Was any of this what he really wanted?

"What do I have to gain?" the words repeated from his lips.

Scarlet's touch pulled his arms tighter around her into a firm embrace. The leather of his sleeves began to shrivel and dry. The sheets maintained integrity, but the patches that draped over her bare skin looked as though they were forgotten by time. She pressed her head against the nape of his neck, red hair against draping white locks. Were it not for her hair, the woman's passive blight might have started to work it's way toward one of the assassin's favorite arteries to sever.

"Nothing," he stated with complete honesty. "I have nothing to gain."

His hand encroached on her neck. The grip started gentle, pressure gradually increasing. He felt his blood rush by the familiarity and memories of so many fading lights strangled into darkness. His hand opened, slid down, traced across her collar bone, and settled in the valley of her bosoms. The leather of his glove withered and began to chip away.

"Do you remember what I said to you?" his voice remained calm despite the inevitably that her blight would soon eat away at his skin. "I would take everything, but in exchange, you would never need food, shelter, or safety."

Then was a different woman. Did any of that still exist? He saw it, if not fleeting, those golden irises. That initial fire and brilliance the he needed to grasp and hold. In his arms now, was darkness. Death and darkness. How could anyone love such a thing. But the warmth and brilliance that once burned? That fire could be fanned, fed, and coveted. What embers, if any, remained?

"I wanted to own you. Unflinching loyalty. A strong, vivacious force to stand by my side," he spoke as his eyes traced the inky black that etched across her skin. "When I said everything, I did not mean to leave you like this: a hollow, broken vessel. True, your ability to kill is beautiful, but..."

But what? Isn't this the weapon he wanted? Did he want something more? Did he need more? Was it something that needed to be given, not taken?

"I need you back," he stated, not entirely sure why the words felt heavier to speak. He needed nothing. No ties to this world so no man could exploit them. "How can you protect me like this?"

He needed no protection. He knew that his hands would either grant him victory or death. Could it be that he was scared? Death visited him twice before. What reason could he have to be afraid?

"I don't want to kill you," he spoke gently. Such odd words, but from his lips and atop the pile of corpse in which he built himself, they carried a weight as strong as a lover's confession. Were she unable to recover from this -- were she to become a force of decay, he would have to eradicate her. He knew this, but he did not want that outcome. Those golden eyes, her moments of genuine conviction after fiery resistance, he missed that.

But why?