Primal need brought them together. But in the end it was the blood that tore them apart.

Blood on his hands, blood everywhere; His hands were never on anything but her. Until they weren't there anymore. He lost himself, lost himself in his need for the judge, lost himself in the beauty of revenge. And suddenly, her beauty was too surreal. Too tangible. He knew he could have her, so what was stopping him? Perhaps that was the problem. Perhaps simplicity was stopping them both.

He needed to feel the smooth, silky red blood on his fingers. Needed to feel the metallic substance as much as he needed to smell it, live it; Breathe it in. So it became his new hobby, and she was thrown into the dust. She was left to clean up after him, to ironically sustain herself off of his cruelty, his ignorance. Because every night, she'd hack apart the lost souls who got all of her lover's attention. She'd burn them up with a fury he could never imagine. Rip off the flesh, char the bones. Burn their bleeding hearts.

Because no one could cure the endless flow of hurt pouring out of her own heart. So she'd spill all the blood he worked so hard for and let it wash away on the mangled cobblestone floors.

Sometimes, she would fantasize bathing in it, if only to feel him touch her again.