I watch the blood slide down the back of my hand, dark and thick. For some reason that always mystified me, I had often found myself entranced by the sight of my own blood. It was so vital and fresh, and as I watched it touch the outside world I always felt there was an inherent purity to it as well. Maybe I was confused, though, because I had a long way to go before I could consider anything about myself pure. Serving her was all part of my redemption as well as my wish.

As I washed the blood from my split knuckles in the kitchen sink, I considered what I should do with the blood covering my clothing. Most of it wasn’t my own after all, and I hated the way it reinforced the tainted feeling I was entertaining as my rush of adrenaline tapered off to a mere buzz.

It was my job to protect her, I told myself, and what had happened was perfectly understandable, but my hands still shook beneath the cold water. That he had thought he could get past my flawless security system . . . well I was impressed at how far he got actually. That’s why I decided to confront him myself rather than call in for back up. It was almost the end of my shift anyway, so leaving my post right then was not that critical.

After a quick, but thorough because I could do nothing less, check to make sure no one else was invaded her property, I shed my jacket and stretched a bit. The sound of joints popping in time to my well practiced movements was my reassurance that the stretches were doing their job. I stuck a knife in my boot just in case the fight turned ugly. I always carry a gun, even if I don’t use it to kill anymore. A shot in the leg is often quite helpful, even if it protracts the fight out.

With a deep breath, I walked out into the chilly air that marked the passage into fall. The leaves hadn’t fallen yet and they provided even greater cover for the silent intruder in the darkness of tonight’s new moon. I always suspected an attack on nights like this. They were the sorts of things I used to plan myself. The air was crisp, and my black t-shirt and pants are not particularly heavy. Cold is not great concern, I’ll be warm enough soon.

From how I calculated the objective and the speed of his travel I should be seeing my opponent in about two. More. Seconds. THERE.

The smile I give is the one I would never let her see. It is unnatural. It is carnivorous. It is anticipatory of great violence.

I step into the light, away from the wall and the ivy in which I had been leaning, and my quarry halts with a stiff awkward jolt of the limbs. Perhaps I won’t have the element of surprise now, but I always off a fair fight. My natural talents tend to give me an advantage anyway. I wouldn’t do this if there was an extreme amount of risk, but then I wouldn’t do this if there was no risk at all either. Balance must be maintained.

The mask they wear obscures their eyes and I cannot read what they are thinking. My heartbeat starts to speed up, and I don’t attempt to regulate it. Increased blood flow gives my muscles some much needed warmth and a shiver works its way across my lower back. Now what would I have done in such a situation?

My wait is not disappointed. Instead of fleeing, an amateurish response, the intruder attacks. Taking out a lone guard who does not appear to have alerted anyone else is desirable to aborting the mission altogether. It’s for moments like these that I purposefully misrepresent the time tables of when I work. The dart that my enemy threw at me with admirable dexterity grazes my neck as I dodge.

Before they can pull out any other toys I make the battle close and personal. Now that I can no longer kill, guns are too tempting to be my chosen weapons anymore. On some levels, my fists are far more satisfying anyway. One of my punches lands squarely on the intruder’s eye, smashing the goggles. My hand bleeds, but I’m already in too deep to feel any pain. I catalogue the injury so I will remember to tend to it later – an old habit from those days when my training was still fresh in my mind. Now it is instinct rather than a memory.

They rip off mask and goggles together and I stare into the frantic, angry face of a man who looks to be my age. Maybe he is even a year or two younger. The knife he draws is long and jagged, but I know that all he has is the advantage of reach. My own choice is thin and small. My speed is greater and he must already know this fight is over. Relena’s voice in my head, the conscience I had been given from her as a burden, as a gift, suggests mercy. I consider it a moment.

“Fuck you, and your bitch. We don’t need her dictatorship anymore. The colonies will have freedom from Earth’s neoimperialist slavery.” He sneers at me, like the martyr he assumes himself to be. “If not me, there will be others who will come.”

It was like waving a red flag in front of me. So long as we were locked in this clear moment, this fight, I could separate it from motives. The outside world was full of complications, but the world I had offered him was simple. Now he had made it personal, and so I would no longer hold back even if he was not my equal in battle.

My growl was louder than I wanted it to be, and our blades clashed. With a flick of my hand I severed one of his fingers and his knife dropped as he briefly went into shock. Kicking it towards a bush, I threw my own knife away and advanced, the sick smile back on my face. Not only could I not hold back anymore, I needed to break. Some call it bloodlust, but it was a more complex emotion than mere lust. There was joy, triumphant joy, and an almost sexual feeling of release as I smashed my fist into his face again and again. He had gone unconscious long ago, but my hand continuously met his face with each moist slam. When I heard the crack, I knew I had broken his nose and that’s when I stopped, panting, speckled by blood and wondering again whether I was really human.

There may be more like him. That could be true. But I will always be here to meet them.

As for the man, he is alive, but barely. I’m pretty sure he will be nearly blind in the future, though. I look at him for a moment and wonder at how young and inexperienced he was. Did he and his idealistic revolutionary friends have any idea of what the war had been like? Did they remember? They didn’t know what a dictatorship was, not really, if they thought was Relena offered the Earth and colonies fell into that category. I was the same age as him, but for me the war was something that defined me even more than the peace I now fought for. I had beaten him for his ignorance and my hatred for that ignorance as much as for the threat he posed against Relena.

I wiped my mouth with my hand as I thought of all this, crouched next to the sink, rocking back and forth unconsciously.

I didn’t kill him. I didn’t kill him.

My mantra rang though my head. Maybe I could still be worthy to guard her so long as I could follow that one simple instruction. The main problem was that for me it was not simple, but a tempting rule to break.

“Heero.” The lights came on the stainless steel, sterile kitchen in which the same cook had been making Relena’s meals for over a decade. I knew this room, it defensible capabilities, and relative weaknesses for years, but tonight it was foreign just because it chose to house me and her in that same moment. How could I explain when there were no words for it? ‘I beat a man nearly to death because I love you and I love what you have done for all of us.’

No, I had no words for her. And I knew that the blood was still on my face even if she could not see it on my shirt. I’m sure she could smell it. There was a lot of it on me after all.

“What happened?” At times I have wondered if she were a witch. She always knows where I am and at my lowest most despicable times she shows up like some personal demi-goddess to make me forget.

The arms she throws around me are soft, with no real muscle to speak of, and I tell myself that what I did I had to do. The lies compound. I have done it in the past. I have told this lie many times, but the excuse cracks a little more with each retelling. Someday I’ll admit my sins to myself. Hopefully they won’t destroy me. If not, it will be because of her.

“My poor Heero.” She whispers, her compassion painful for me to accept when a man is dying outside because of my savage brutality. After a some time I allow myself to wrap my arms about her and find oblivion – absolution. If I really loved her as much as I suspect I do, I would stop debasing myself with violence, but for now I will use the only tools I have left after a lifetime of bringing death to make sure she lives on.

And she loves me in spite of that.

“I’ve got to go. People need to be notified.” She lets me go reluctantly. I let go of her with even greater reluctance.

“I’ll be waiting for you when you finish.”

I know where she will be. I also know she will wait as long as she has to. Logically I should let her sit there, waiting for dawn, and not chance the prospect of telling her the truth of what happened – as I know I’ll be compelled to do.

Yet I appear, an hour later, an intruder in the sitting room next to her bedroom. The robe she put on over her nightgown is modest, and the way she has curled into the chair next to the balcony windows makes her look so small and much too young. I turn to go.

“You wouldn’t leave me like that would you?” She did not move from her chair. I’m even more convinced she’s a witch. “Come in.”

“I shouldn’t.”

“But you will.” Her prophecy is true enough. I make my way around chairs and tables to stand next to her. She still has not made any move to look at me, but her hand reaches out and touches mine. Forcing her fingers inside my palm, she gives a small squeeze and I reflexively shut my hand around hers, trapping it even when she hesitantly tries to pull away at first.

“Did you enjoy it?” This is the second time this has happened. It is also the second time I have come here. The question is familiar, my answer rote.

“Yes.” My voice is harsh. She knows how it hurts me to tell her, and I know that it wounds her to hear, but she can’t abide not knowing. I look down at her, and see that her eyes are wet but she doesn’t let the tears fall. My own eyes are unforgiving, willing her to accept me. Even this. Even the beast in me she fears.

“I’m tired Heero. I’ll see you tomorrow.” She unfolds from the chair with a little pain from the limbs that had fallen asleep while she waited. I still hold her hand, but finally relinquish control. She pulls my head down and kisses my cheek softly. “Good night.”

“Good night, Relena.” I tell an empty room. Lack of rejection is not acceptance, but my anemic shred of hope will live on so long as she does nothing to crush it.