Disclaimer: They're not mine so please don't sue

This little drabble came, surprisingly, pretty easily to me after I let the idea form in my mind for a couple of days. This fic is definately more stylized, I think, than my usual stuff, and it's significantly shorter, but I'm still happy with it (I'm not completely in love with the title, however). I have a nagging little urge to lengthen it, but then I think it would lose some of the ...something it has that I like about it. My sincerest thanks to Charmes Malheureux, who gave me the slight nudge I needed to write about something other that Van Helsing & Co., and might have just motivated me enough to start hammering out some details for a multi-chapter fic!

Reviews are, as always, greatly appreciated.

It's always been ice and cold and frozen; he would, she knows, have it no other way, but each time she shivers without meaning to because even where he touches her she is still cold. There is no warmth in him, would not, could not be even were she to wish it.

She doesn't.

It is always futile and despair and heart-break, would be if she was capable of allowing herself a moment to succumb to such human – pathetic, weak – emotions. Would be if she had any heart left to speak of. What they make together is death; neither he nor she can breathe life into them, and so they are born within the same instant of their death, marring the beauty of his fingers caressing and pressing against her with the agony of their, her, failure. She told herself she would grow accustomed to it.

She hasn't.

It is always jealous and envy and suspicion. He has three of them, after all, and she knows he does not, would not, shun them for her sake. There is an irrational fear, though, that the reverse might not hold true, and so with each passing moment she wills herself to become as stately and regal as Verona, as becoming and alluring as Marishka, and to love him a thousand times over. The later, at least, is not difficult. They are sisters now, she knows, the three of them, and beyond him they are all she has. So she does not voice these musings in attempt to accept that she must share him.

She can't.

It's foolish and want and need, because he's done so much for her already but until he loves her she wants more. She will always want more. He's taken her from rags to as close to riches as she's ever been and so she is in his debt, but she had sunsets then and she needs something to replace that now. She has fooled herself, with centuries upon centuries of practice, into thinking there will come a day when the Valerious line will mean nothing to him for one moment, and she will finally hear him profess to her his love.

She won't.