It was easy to believe in certain not-truths when she was being held in his oh-so-capable arms. (Capable of what exactly, she remained firmly ignorant.) It was easy to believe that he hadn't abandoned her or that at least their love made up for her hurts. (She did love him. There were so few things that she knew in her very blood, but he was one of them.) It was easy to believe that she hadn't tried to give up every shred of her humanity to forget him. (Even without a face, her dreams were haunted by blue-eyed ghosts and the smell of smoke.) It was easy to believe that she could slip back into this normal life once again. (When you've become No One, even a life at war should count as normal.)
It was in the moments when she slipped out of his reach, away from his oh-so-capable arms, that it became harder. Vengeance was all she believed in. An unending litany of names filtered unerringly through her mind like rain water through leaves, steeping her very soul. She knew him in her blood, but she cradled vengeance in her soul. She couldn't very well survive without either.
Her life had taught her three things: run and hide and survive. These imperatives were her only nature. Run and hide not out of fear but because survival necessitated it. But her survival necessitated blood shed, too. She needed to snuff out the names that filtered through her mind like rain water through leaves. She needed to snuff out those names before they evaporated like so many drops of morning dew. She needed vengeance for a stolen family. Dead is dead, but they all deserved the worst. They all deserved her.
When her very soul screamed out in blood lust, there was little she could do but obey. So, she would run and hide and cover a continent in blood if it would further her chance of survival by limiting theirs.
Maybe it was good, then, that he could always find her. Even when she fought to escape his embrace, fought for her right to retribution. Fitted into his arms, though, the burning need could fade into a dull ache, and she could resume believing.
Believe that she was a normal girl who had always carried her face and her name. A normal girl whose hands had never ended life. A normal girl who loved a normal boy and lived a completely normal life.