Set post-Season Three, this ficlet was inspired by Robert Frost's poem Fire and Ice (for those of you unfamiliar with the poem, it can be found here).
The fire was there, all right, believe me; bright flames of raw, painful hate aimed squarely at those faceless, hollow men of shadows who had no feelings and the malevolent little pepper-pots who had no conscience.
Oh, yes, that fire was there, in the time after; after I lost the woman I adored - to a still uncertain fate, leaving me as a shell of the man she knew. How often my hearts ache, still, for the time before.
But the flame has evolved into ice, as it must - for the hate consumes my body, leaving only the icy porcelain of the outer skin. My soul, such as it was, is long dead.
Oh, yes. I have had my dark night of the soul; enough.
I want peace. I want to be able to forgive myself for that day so long ago, and all that followed. Oh Rose, my love, I miss you so; I tire of fire (and ice), and wish for rest.
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