A/N: This is, as my beta Catrina said, "most random." I was just in a production of the Bard's Othello, and thus this ficlet was born. I promise you angst. I promise you a rather unknown pairing. Pair to your heart's content. I think it's D/G… anyway, a guy wants to kill a girl. Taken from Othello's monologue before Desdemona's death, I changed the context, most of the words, but it works for me.

Translation for those to lazy to read all that: Shakespeare ficlet. Angst. Death, likely. Enjoy.

Disclaimer: What, are you stupid? I'm writing on a bloody computer and you think I wrote Shakespeare?

My Love

There she sits in the window, staring to the constellations. I do not see what she sees; it's clear that I never have. Her eyes have seen no blood; my eyes too much.

This is… Oh, God, it is the cause of my soul.

What? I will not name it to you! But yes, indeed; it is the cause.

No… I watch her cross the room, see her look into the mirror. No, I'll not shed her blood, nor scar that whiter skin of hers than snow, and smooth as monumental alabaster. No.

My love… Yet if I quench you, my love, I can again your former light restore, should I repent. But to talk of repentance as though there's hope of life and love… no such thing will be granted.

But yet… When I have plucked the rose, I cannot give it vital growth again, it must wither. Should I love you still and have you be so far, or love you not and have you dead?

So sweet a love was never so fatal.

You kneel beside your bed. Pray; yes, pray. I would not kill your unprepared spirit. No, heaven forbid! I would never kill your soul.

Yes, so confess yourself freely of sin; to swear away all your lies won't prove false my purpose.

You are to die.