Opening her eyes, she settled her gaze on the lean, tall figure lying beside her on the bed. Soft beams of sunlight danced over his skin and for a moment, she held her breath, afraid she might wake him. For someone who had lived so long, had proven herself to be more than able to survive whatever was thrown her way, she was strangely struck by the fact that Exodus held a power over her; one that provoked fear. Not that she was afraid he'd harm her--though in a temper, she didn't know what he'd do. She was quite certain though, that were she to lose him, that would be the thing that would break her.  Moving closer to him, she kissed his cheek softly. She wondered what he dreamt about. Sometimes he spoke out in his sleep or thrashed about. On one occasion, Clarisse had taken her Exodus into her arms, rocking him as she would Sigyn, singing softly to try and ease his nightmares away. When morning came, she hadn't said a word and neither had he. They both had their demons.

 Finger reached out, brushing over the scar on his throat and to the ones on his wrists. She was gentle in her touch, tender. He stirred then, caramel eyes focusing on her. "Bonjour, mon amour," she whispered. They sometimes lay together like this; quietly. Observing one another. They seemed to be rather in awe of the other's existences. She was a two hundred and forty five year old vampire. He was twenty-six. More of an age with her daughters than herself. His fingers brushed down her side, over her own scar. Jagged and long, going from her breast to her hip, it stuck out sorely against the alabaster of her flesh. The memory of the knife being dragged in her adolescent flesh like butter, her screams loud and pull of agony, yet the torture did not stop. And it was only because her brother, dear Frederick, had found her when she'd crawled out to the carriage house. She'd lain upon the ground, bleeding profusely. Lifting her small frame, he'd jumped into the saddle of his horse, holding her to him as he galloped towards the only hospital; which was run by nuns. He'd sent a servant out to fetch their father.

For weeks she had lay in the bed, somewhere between life and death and when she'd healed, finally, she had shuddered. The nuns hadn't wanted to show her, but she insisted upon a mirror. When she had first seen the thing, she'd cried. An ugly reminder of her own mother's hatred of her. Exodus said nothing, merely pushed her arm away as she tried to hide it. "Stop it," he mumbled, pressing his lips against the scar, from top to bottom and back again. "It's so ugly," she whispered, embarrassed.
"No, it's not. It's just a reminder that you're a survivor."
She frowned at this. She hated to talk about being a survivor of things. It made her feel old. He made her feel old. As she went to protest, his lips covered her own, silently reassuring her of his devotion.
"My Dark Beauty," he spoke against her lips before rolling over, a silent invitation for her to curl against him. He wasn't in a rush this morning and she wasn't rushing him out the door. Let the House of Filth wait a little longer. Her body pressed against his; the puzzle pieces once again joined.

Her mind thought of the Dark Room and all of the acts that occurred there. Yet, she had watched in silence, struck by the depravity of some people. She was the monster, the thing people warned their children about at night, but there she had been. Watching as some older man had done some unspeakable act to some young, ripe beauty. The only beautiful thing about the woman had been her face; her personality was uglier than the man's bald pate which had scabs upon it. Another man had simply bound a girl in ropes, hung her from the rafters and had been screwing her senseless. The men were not the only ones who seemed to have a dark perversion within them, the women had been keen to be just as sadistic. Others wanted to kill...and they did so. She had sat silently, watching. The Dark Room was where the worst of the worst occurred. Why she had allowed herself to sit and watch, she hadn't been certain. Perhaps she had thought it a challenge to herself; to watch what was happening. To acknowledge that Exodus allowed this to happen. 

They told her that he was absolutely mad. That he was crazy. But that wasn't what he was with her. They were different with one another. It was strange but wasn't that the way of life? Nothing was quite predictable. Clarisse had promised herself once...that she would never let a human steal her heart. But...here he was. She was in his arms, his willing captive. And yet, he might want to join her in eternity. She had only sired one person in her life; her brother, Frederick. And only last year, he had destroyed himself, unable to take it any longer. She lived in fear of changing of someone else. Lived in fear that he would resent her and loathe her for making him into what she was. Clarisse wasn't pressing the issue. And if she did go through with his siring, he wouldn't be weak. Not like she was when she had first been changed. No, he would walk in the sun. He wouldn't need to feed incessantly. He would be strong. Damn near invincible. Would he become a Lazarus Soul like her? Never able to really die; just changing bodies through eternity. It was a thought that would plague her.

But for now, he had dozed off again, his arms draped around her petite frame, tight as a vice. "I've been waiting for you." she whispered, laying her head on his chest. Right above his heart, listening to it beat. Thump thump. Thump thump. Steady. Firm. Like a drum. Her toes moved in time, finding a rhythm to dance to. He was the music that inspired her to twirl, to dance and give herself over to its power. He was her heart; the long silent muscle in her chest. He was her darkness and her bravery; giving her the nerve to do things that she might not necessarily do. Exodus might be a 'psycho' to some but to his 'dark beauty', as he called her, he was hers.