Some kill their love when they are young,/And some when they are old;/Some strangle with the hands of Lust,/Some with the hands of Gold:/The kindest use a knife, because/The dead so soon grow cold.

Some love too little, some too long,/Some sell, and others buy;/Some do the deed with many tears,/And some without a sigh:/For each man kills the thing he loves,/Yet each man does not die.

The knife was undoubtedly a sharp thing, wickedly pointed. He'd whetted it himself, fingers firm on the handle, working slowly over the stone in the kitchen for such things. It was one of the older ones; one of the first knives to be found in his collection, in fact, an elegant and historic piece that had been allowed to go dull over the years with lack of use and a dearth of need for it, he supposed.

It was the knife that had killed Tyrian Persimmon, the ancestor of Klaus Heinz von dem Eberbach.

He supposed that there was something to that, in the end; the romance of it, perhaps, or simply some unknowable want for closure of a sort. It seemed right, in the end, that the knife was the one he'd chosen to do this particular job.

He wasn't inclined to violence. Truly, he wasn't. Violence had never been his way, not when he could get what he wanted through various other means. Seduction was one of the better ways, he'd always thought, but it hadn't worked. Not with *him*. No, it had failed terribly, leaving him feeling useless, worthless, ineffectual... cheap.

Cheap.

*Him*!

/It should never have happened this way,/ he thought morosely, heading up the stairs with a slight sigh. /It should never have reached this point. I should have stopped chasing so very long ago. Perhaps if I had.../

Well. It had never been any use to cry over spilt milk.

Quietly, footsteps moved along carpeted halls, no sound marking their passage, no board squeaking underfoot. No, it wouldn't; the castle was well kept, despite complaints about the cost. After all... it was a loved place, was it not? It deserved to be so cared for, made clean and pleasant in which to live. It was beautiful, after all, and beauty always deserved such care.

Always...

With a drifting sigh, he pushed open the bedroom door and slid in upon silent feet, blade held at the ready. A moment's work was all it would take. A short period of time in which to draw the knife over skin, to pluck at the warmth of life's blood and release it quickly from its vessel. He could see tousled hair spread across a pillow, silvery light worming its way in through sheer panels and making those silky locks gleam. /So exquisite,/ he thought sadly. /So very elegant..../ It was no wonder he'd spent almost twenty years making a complete
idiot of himself over the man.

Two decades. It was a very long time to be in love with someone, to want and need and be denied at every turn. The occasional teasing glimpse of what might be, what could be, what would never be, had been enough for a while. For a while. Never for long, and the occasional stolen kiss or threat had only stirred his blood yet again, making him *want*, making him need, killing him inside over and over again when it wasn't meant, when it was back to business as usual. Tromping around the world over, Albania, Nigeria, America, Pakistan, Czechoslovakia. Art to steal, Alphabets to coerce, money to burn, spend, spend and spend again, and the fighting over that had always been worth it. That, too, had been blood-stirring, but nothing like those kisses.

Nothing could ever be like those kisses.

The edge of the blade gleamed silver in the moonlight, the sleeping man's lashes fluttering as it raised. It was time to finish things, time to end the entire stupid charade, the game they'd suffered through for so long. Time to consummate what had lain dead between them for so *long*...

With a downward slash, it was done, the feel of drops tingling on his fingertips, slipping down slowly to the carpet below. He felt bad about that, truly. It was a thin, silky Persian thing, and the stain would never come out of it. It would never come undone, just like the thin gash that traced from elbow to wrist along the line of the vein.
He wondered if he had the strength left to do the other.

He wondered if it mattered.

He wondered if he cared.

Those lashes fluttered again as the knife raised once more, glimmering eyes opening slowly as if sensing his presence. "I loved you, you know," he whispered, tearful for the first time. Not from the pain, no; from the fact that he had chosen to do it *there*, so that at least he could be with the man he'd loved so dearly for so many years. "Loved you awfully..." The second slice was made before it could be stopped, the bleeding intensifying.

"My God," the man murmured. "My God! You little idiot!"

"Yes," he breathed softly, sinking down to the floor as a wash of dizziness overtook him. "Yes. Yes..."

Yes...