he sometimes stole away,
to stare at the wound
that was threatening to destroy his dreams
and her hopes
in dark black fingers of death
creeping towards his heart.
He would think of her,
standing tall and proud and strong,
how soft her little laugh,
how fierce her determination,
how wounded her heart,
and the anger would flair --
How he needed to strike out,
a most unBuddhist behavior.
Sometimes, when she knew he couldn't see her,
she would follow, stealthily,
trailing far enough behind to stay in the shadows,
but close enough to know
how this weighed on his heart,
and silent tears
would stream down her face,
irridescent pearls the lone testimony
of how she knew his fear.
And when the pain got too strong,
she would slink off,
doing endless katas
where she ripped apart the evil one
who brought them to this point.
In a life that was all shadows now,
he was the only point of light,
and she would go down fighting into that blackness
rather than live in the shadow alone.
Sometimes, he would sit in his tree,
and watch the drama,
of how quickly time was running out,
and his hand burned to send the deathblow
to the one who would hurt his pack,
Seeing him watching them,
the dark haired girl's eyes would sadden,
and feel the tingle in her hand
of the purifying power
that one day might help set them all free.