Not with a Bang, but a Whimper

Marquis Spinneret

He conquered her with kindness. No one was more surprised by this development than the Marquis herself, but it didn't make it any less true. His pity was her redemption; his revolution, her salvation.

He never set out to conquer her, he realized as he lay beside her, just kill her. But here she was in his arms, sleeping, trusting. It was odd how childish she really was. She thrived on this system, the spoiled princess of the Hemospectrum. It was because of her blood that she was given so much freedom, and that almost boiled the syrupy chocolate in his own veins. But then he looked at her, and the anger cooled, and his heart burst.

"Get out!" had been her command when the revolutionary brigade invaded her fortress. The Summoner had led the way, for Spinneret's reputation preceded her. Her abilities of manipulation were well known throughout the galaxy, and while very few had any natural defenses against her, there were those who were impervious to her mind. Just as the members this brigade were.

"Who . . . who taught you how to fly? How . . . how did you learn?"

"Would you like to fly with me?"

A hesitant yes and they took to the skies.

Something about the way he brushed his hand against her cheek or his crooked smile or his radical ideas made her heart rate elevate, like she was six solar sweeps again. She had expected him to force her to surrender, but his shy glances and the way his cheeks colored mahogany—he blushed!—when he could so easily turn her face a deep cerulean endeared her to him stronger than mere force could.

Something about how easily he flew her or his ruthlessness with those who refused to surrender or even his forceful tone when she was cruel earned her respect. And slowly, ever so slowly, the ice of bitterness melted from her heart.

Something about the way she fit in the crook of his arm or her spoiled pouts or her genuine dismissal of the importance of the Hemospectrum made his heart hammer painfully against his chest, like he was six solar sweeps again. He had expected arrogant deceit, but her open stares and the way her cheeks colored sapphire—he did that!—when she could so easily turn him into putty endeared him to her more than manipulation could.

Something about her willingness to be held or her contemplative expressions or even her child-like wonder at flying earned his pity. And slowly, ever so slowly, the barrier of prejudice was chipped away from his heart.

The sight of her lying in a pool of her own blood made him sick. No, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, she couldn't die. It wasn't fair. No. No. No, no, no, no, no, no.

"Don't let me bleed out." Barely above a whisper.

"Don't you dare give up. You can stay strong." Desperate and pleading.

"It's alright. Please. Don't let me bleed out." Resigned begging.

And he had never been able to refuse her when she begged him.

Flying feels empty without her.