The tears had stopped, for the time being, and now there were only the wounds. 
She'd lost track of time and place near the beginning of the evening, almost 
as soon as she'd gotten back into her room. But now her thoughts had cleared 
enough to allow her some perception; she knew now that she was curled up in 
one corner, back pressed hard and near-painfully into the wall, but she looked 
around at her room through the haze of pain and didn't want to move. The only 
thing she could focus on, when she forced herself into focusing at all, was 
the hand she had used to touch his cheek -- the hand that had finally stopped 
bleeding. 

The puncture wounds were remarkably clean; they would probably leave no scars 
when they healed. She could feel a cold ache resonate, though, an aching that 
took a moment for her to recognize. But then she knew it: it was the feeling 
of looking into familiar eyes and seeing animal fear and nothing more... 

... seeing the dagger, lying calm and still in the middle of the blood, and 
not knowing what to do before her screaming and his stillness, and running... 

... knowing, and feeling a thousand times, what precisely was done to steal 
the fire from another pair of pale blue eyes, and yet not being able to end 
it, and running... 

... feeling the puncture wounds, and screaming, and running. 

So that was all it added up to. Running. She longed to cry, but the tears had 
fled, so she mouthed only a silent prayer. In a moment, her prayer was 
answered: she fell into a dark and dreamless sleep.