Work Text:
Why do I love? Go, ask the Glorious Sun
Why every day it round the world doth run;
Ask Thames and Tiber, why they Ebb and Flow:
Ask Damask Roses why in June they blow;
Ask Ice and Hail, the reason, why they’re Cold:
Decaying Beauties, why they will grow Old
They’ll tell thee, Fate, that every thing doth move,
Inforces them to this, and me to Love.
There is no Reason for our Love or Hate;
’Tis irresistible, as Death or Fate;
’Tis not his face; I’ve sence enough to see,
That is not good, though doated on by me;
He had often come to wonder why she loved him. It must have been Fate, for he could not find any compelling rational reason for it. His looks (pallid complexion, long nose, thin lips, receding hairline, softening middle) were surely not those who inspired violent feelings in attractive young ladies (save, perhaps, repulsion).
Not is’t his Tongue, that has this Conquest won;
For that at least is equall’d by my own:
His sharp tongue - a scathing remark often escaped him with little provocation - might be an appreciable quality in a worthy opponent in a clash of wits (they did often clash metaphorical swords), but hardly something that one would wish to find in their intimate partner.
His Carriage can to none obliging be,
’Tis Rude, Affected, full of Vanity:
Strangely Ill-natur’d, Peevish and Unkind,
Unconstant, False, to Jealousie inclin’d,
He was not a nice man, not even a kind one most of the time – he was a little too aware of his superior intellect and thus arrogant and impatient with those who were not quick enough to follow his train of thought (that is, most people). Given that his mind was a quick one, it would jump from one association to another with frightening speed, making the mercurial change in his moods nigh impossible to predict or follow. An experience most his acquaintances dreaded.
His Temper cou’d not have so great a Pow’r,
’Tis mutable, and changes every hour:
Those vigorous Years that Women so Adore,
Are past in him: he’s twice my Age, and more;
Though he loved her quite fervently, he could not always keep a tight rein on his long-standing tendencies to keep everyone, including her, at arm’s length. To his great relief, she could see through the unfeeling facade, but he could see that his coldness nevertheless often wounded her deeply. She, on the other hand, was very liberal with her empathy and chose to bestow her kindness on many unworthy recipients – though he endeavoured to hide it, he was unhealthily, obsessively jealous of every crumb of her affection.
And yet I love this false, this worthless Man
With all the Passion that a Woman can;
Doat on his Imperfections, though I spy
Nothing to Love; I Love, and know not why.
“Why do you love me?” he had once asked her.
She had fixed him with an undecipherable look on her expressive face and quoted a poem. In an ironic twist of Fate, his professional excellence was founded on deception and subterfuge (his empire of Lies, as she called it), whereas her passion in life was the pursuit of Truth. How should he interpret her reply then – was it merely a light-hearted quip or some revelation of a deeper truth?
Since ’tis Decreed in the dark Book of Fate
That I shou’d Love, and he shou’d be ingrate.
“I do hope that you do not think me ungrateful,” he finally settles on.
“Silly man,” she murmurs before kissing him, her dark eyes unmistakably tender.