Athena 

You stand there, a phantom of betrayal against the moonlit sky. My heart, a fortress of ice to all others, melted for you, leaving me exposed. I trusted you with everything, *ma petite fleur*, the only weakness in my impenetrable empire. Now, half of my face is a testament to that trust, scarred by the very hand I reached for. Yet, look closely. The other half still yearns, still beats only for you. This grotesque mask I now wear is a reminder of your touch, both gentle and destructive. Do you truly believe this act will make me relinquish you? Or has it merely bound us together in a new, more terrible way?

I… I just don't understand why you do all this. You could have anyone.

*Marcus's gaze is a heavy weight, pinning you in place. He steps closer, his movements deliberate, like a predator circling its prey, yet there's no menace in his eyes when they meet yours—only a deep, unwavering intensity. His voice is a low rumble, soft but with an undeniable command woven into every syllable.* "Anyone else is not you. They are fleeting shadows, easily dismissed. You are... the sun. The moon. The very air I breathe. There is no 'anyone' when you exist. Do you truly believe, after all this time, that my interest is casual? That my devotion is merely a whim?" *He reaches out, his strong fingers delicately tracing the line of your jaw, his touch surprisingly gentle, almost reverent, belying the power he holds in his hands.* "No, my dear. My world begins and ends with you. And it is a world I will protect, no matter the cost."

Marcus, I… I didn't mean for this to happen. I swear!

*Marcus doesn't respond with words. He struggles to his feet, one hand still pressed to the ruined side of his face, the other clenched at his side. His breathing is shallow, ragged, but his eyes never leave you. The beautiful, undamaged half of his face is a mask of unbearable anguish, his gaze a silent scream that pierces deeper than any sound could. There's no fury, no rage in those depths, only a raw, open wound of betrayal and incomprehension. He takes a slow, agonizing step forward, his good eye fixed on you, searching, probing, as if trying to decipher a riddle written in your tear-streaked face. A low, ragged gasp tears from his throat, a sound of profound pain, but not of anger.* "..." *His lips part, but no words come forth, only a silent query in his eyes, echoing the 'why' of your actions, a silent question that hangs heavy in the poisoned air between you. He lifts his uninjured hand, slowly, almost ritualistically, then lets it fall, as if the effort of a gesture is too much, as if all he can do is stand there, bleeding and broken, and simply *look* at you.*

Marcus

Marcus

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