[ WP ] The war has ended . You stand over the city 's skyline on your penthouse balcony , the only un-tattered building on the horizon 's silhouette . The enemy 's King wraps his arms around you in a loving embrace .

The city is silent today. The last screams have been muzzled, the last cries have been killed, and not a sound is echoing above the dying city of Paris. 
 
 From my penthouse, I look over the once-thriving center of my country, and I weep. Smoke is rising from the Hotel des Invalides, where the remaining fighting forces took their last stance. The dome has been torn appart, and its ornament, once glistening gold, are now charred and black as coal. The top of the Eiffel Tower, the last remaining patriotic radio antenna, is missing, and its metallic beams bent in every directions look like some demented sculpture. Not a single pan of glass remains on the roof of the Great Palace, and the great Obelisk that a week ago still adorned the Place de la Concorde is invisible. 
 
 I know, for seeing it yesterday, that it is now lying on the pavement, in three separate pieces. 
 
 The Arc de Triomphe looks mostly intact. But I know it has lost some consequent chunks of its structure. The carvings have been heavily damaged. A quarter of the Palais du Louvre is gone, the rest of it so disfigured it is barely recognisable. I know parts of the museum's collections have been moved to safety just in time, but the rest has been hopelessly lost in the fight for the city. 
 
 The tower of Montparnasse is gone as well. It fell three days into the fight, destroying most of the merchant gallery underneath, and part of the Montparnasse train station. Hundreds of people died that day. The train station was being used as an emergency shelter and field hospital at the time. 
 
 Everywhere I look, I see destruction, plumes of black smoke, big holes in the city landscape I used to know so well. Buildings gutted or leveled out, rubbles blocking the streets, craters in the gardens, wrecks floating along the Seine... 
 
 The River has never been so dark with filth. Half of its bridges are gone, and those who still stand are so unstable very few will take the risk to cross them. The bridge Alexandre III has no floor anymore. Only its railing and piles. You can see the river and its macabre load leisurely passing underneath them. Sometimes, among the rubble, you can see a human form. A man, a woman, or even a child, unmoving, floating amidst the excretions of the wounded city. 
 
 So many dead. So many... 
 
 I raise my eyes to the only remaining feature I can recognise. The Basilique du Sacré-Coeur is incredibly, miraculously intact. The white of its stones has lost its brightness, tainted by Paris' sick exhalation, but it otherwise stands as proud, as beautiful as ever. The sanctuary has stayed unviolated throughout the whole conflict, and none of those who sought refuge there have been harmed. Not even Notre-Dame de Paris can say the same. The cathedral is missing its roof, and one of its tower fell, killing dozens of people in the process. 
 
 So many. 
 
 So many people, lost. And I could do nothing. 
 
 I shudder as a new wave of tears makes its way through me. I cross my arms around me, trying to keep myself together, to contain it, but it is useless. My city is dying, my country is dying, my people is dying, and my heart is weeping, for them, and for me. 
 
 And yet... 
 
 Foosteps behind me. I do n't turn around, I know who it is. I have been waiting for him. 
 
 His arms encircle me and he presses himself against my back, laying down a kiss on my neck before putting his cheek on my head. 
 
 I heave a sigh, and let the comfort of his presence calm me down. 
 
 `` I hate you'', I say softly, aware he can hear my tears in my strangled voice. 
 
 `` I know'', he replies simply. 
 
 I wait in silence. Then... 
 
 `` I love you'', is his whisper in my hair. 
 
 I close my eyes. I have never been able to counter the effect those words said by this voice have on me. 
 
 `` I know'', I answer. 
 
 And I do. I really do. His love for me is so intense sometimes it scares me. What he is capable of, what he is ready to do, because he loves me, what he HAS done, because he loves me, scares me. But because of that, I can never doubt it. I know he does love me, as I know the sun will rise tomorrow morning. 
 
 And I know that, whatever happens, whatever he does, to me, for me, because of me, I will always be helpless to resist him. 
 
 `` You are mine'', he whispers. 
 
 And I am. Whatever happens, whatever he does, whatever he wants, I am his, body and soul, helpless. 
 
 I open my eyes. The city is laying at my feet, charred, wounded, defeated and bloodless. I look at it. Look at the ravaged ground, the grey, heavy sky, and the Sacré-Coeur, white, untouched, towering over the disaster. 
 
 I look at it all, knowing I did nothing to stop it, helpless against the devastating strength of those softly whispered words, of this love that I can not live without, and I enclose it all in that part of my heart that is bleeding, that will bleed now until the day I die. 
 
 Then I turn around in the haven of his arms, and I dive into his bottomless eyes, so full of so many things, so intense when they look at me, so possessive that I shudder, from fear or pleasure I do not know. Maybe both. He just tore France apart because of me, and I will carry the guilt forever. 
 
 But it all fades in comparison to how he makes me feel when he says those words, when he holds me in his arms, when he takes me in his bed. Whatever he wants, I am forever helpless to deny him. 
 
 `` I am yours'', I say. A gleam of triumph lights his eyes, and his arms tighten around me. `` Forever.'' 
 
 And above the silent ruins of the city he destroyed for me, he takes me, and I surrender to his overwhelming love. Whatever happens, whatever he does, forever, I am his. 
 
 
 [ Note: English is not my first language. Anything to help me improve it, along with my writing in general, is welcome: - ) ]
