At times the truth hurt far worse than any lie or omission, and Kaj wondered if this was a time when the truth should have been concealed. He had never envisioned such an atmosphere surrounding the confession of emotions he had only ever known to be beautiful and freeing. Why would she cry? Why would she curse such a pure emotion? Had she encountered the loss of a mate, the heartbreak of inconsequential, unrequited love? But even if she had, why would she consider it a ball and chain? Kaj could not understand, for the life of him, why she was so torn and damaged over love. If he were to profess he loved her in turn, would it repair the damage she inflicted upon her own heart? Or would it cage her, as she so seemed to fear?

Even as words fell from his own lips, unable to be understood, he couldn't seem to calm the hurt of his own heart to reword it into a language she could comprehend. There was nothing more to be said on the matter, after all, for as she wiped clean the slate he found himself wordless and lost. Briefly he wished Evangeline were there, for she always seemed to clear the air and point out to Kaj the truth that hid behind the muddled analogies Helovians favored. Wished the orange maiden was there, to help him understand why he always seemed to ruin whatever he touched. Or maybe Destrier, so he could bury his head into a shoulder as strong as his and not feel ashamed for the tears and the agonized howling of anger and torn dreams that were bottled up inside away from Kahlua's innocent eyes.

But there is nobody there to help him overcome this hurdle, to help him understand. He has fought since his hooves first touched Helovian soil to understand them, and no matter how far he manages to climb he still feels worlds away from the people he called family. So instead he stares, silent, vapid, as she wanders into the depths of the water. Staining innocent achromatic skin with the taint of carmine depravity, woe and affliction, taking upon herself the malfeasance that seeped from his own skin to rot her and warp her untarnished soul with the physical reminder of his demoralized nature.

Incarceration flows from fathomless, sable lips. Attempts at clarification, unpretentiously imploring understanding from a faulty mind incapable of such a proclivity towards comprehension. Adoration was a parcel, a benefaction, one she cast aside with scorn and displeased ennui. Love...he could not comprehend how she could cast it in such a damned light, even as clarity began to clear away the clouds consuming the space of his foremost thoughts. She believes love to be a horrific thing, a ball-and-chain round her ankles. She believes I am to chain her forever should I return her love.

Such a realization is stunning, benumbing enough to cease all attempts at sealing the fissure she fabricates with the sullen removal of her limbs from the tainted pools he remains inhabiting. Flavescent lips gape in soundless understanding, words unforthcoming for long, interminable moments where silence is the only ally remaining at sunken flank. Freedom was what the patched maiden sought, and yet she would succumb to what she conceived to be a death sentence, all for him. No matter how he may be able to convert her thoughts in time, the immediate consequence of answering in any positive fashion was the removal of what made up the core of her soul.

No matter what his heart said on the matter, he could not do such a thing to her.

"The love I hold for you is convoluted, complicated. But it is present." No matter how he desired to succumb to the beseeching of his heart, demanding he speak in the same forthright, adoring manner he had envisioned as a boy, he did not want to cause her to flee with fright at such a blatant response. "But...but I cannot take from you your freedom. What I see love as, something beautiful and freeing, something that grants you wings and the ability to see heaven in another mortal's eyes...in that oppositional mirror, you see a cell with cold bars." He attempts to seek her gaze, only to drop his own in defeat as he realizes it will only harm the flesh of his heart further to see her elation at the prospect of retained freedom.

"In time, perhaps I could change your way of thinking. But until you see, on your own, that love is different to me...I cannot rip from you the freedom you cling to so fiercely." The gavel bangs in his mind and where he anticipated tears, there is only numb acceptance. How could he have anticipated an alternate outcome? The Beast did not deserve the Beauty, no matter how fairytales painted their endings. "When...no, if...if you ever see being with me as more than a lurch from a cliff, as defeat...then I will love you, with all the intensity and devotion that you deserve." Strength is imbued in his words, orbs lifting in an attempt to catch her own flighty gaze. For she deserved all the gold and riches of the earth, all the precious stones and anomalies that made the world so beautiful. She deserved servants waiting upon her, a pedestal high enough to graze the clouds. And he desired to shower it upon her, to love her with the intensity of a typhoon and the gentleness of loving hand upon a sleeping child's head.

"But I cannot take from you your freedom, not for my own selfish gain. I cannot love you when you are incapable of loving the idea of loving me." Defeat. Submission. Briefly he considers departing, wishing to vanish from her gaze and give not her, but himself, time to heal. But he is a martyr and a masochist, and the Beauty held her dagger deep in his heart, and even while he bled for her he crawled upon his knees for her to allow him one more chance to kiss her lips, driving that ivory blade deeper with every reach he made for her illuminated figure.

Death would be kinder in that moment than the fate he suffered by remaining.