Final Fantasy XII, Cid/Venat, rhythms of poetry
Her thoughts, his thoughts; his scholarship, her goal: Two lives, dimorphic, on themselves depend. He needs her might, her force; his means, her end-- Two disconsolate portions of a whole.
The Doctor well appreciates his role But all his skills are hume ones, so he spends His sleepless nights in toil to comprehend The fury of this pure immortal soul.
She comes to him in shadow, god she is; She glows, or darkens, luminous and dim, Unlike a woman; not unlike a whore.
In chaos, /hers/ will condescend to /his/; In order, all she is transcends to him. Exquisite agony. He says, "Please. More."
(apologies to Petrarch, and whoever suggested this prompt. :)