His hands belie their use, their contrary purposes hidden. Hands that touch a lover's skin so gently as to hardly be felt, that comfort and arouse with deft fingers.  Hands that wrap around a throat and hold life in their hands, that balance a weapon easily, placing two shots within inches of each other, puncturing a beating human heart.  

His eyes belie the soul inside, revealing only what their owner wishes. Eyes that speak volumes when words fail; that show the depths of love when his strength or his own vulnerability don't admit the telling; that well with tears when the weight of the world and the actions of that other side of him slump his shoulders, too much for one person to bear stoically. Eyes that speak of possibilities better left untested, of actions better left untried if the audience knows what's best for them; eyes the burn with hatred or disgust, that have seen more than enough of what humanity is capable of.

His heart belies its strength, its dogged determination. A heart that is boundless, giving such care to thousands that its owner would risk its own beating so that others wouldn't have to know sorrow or distress; prepared to give so much to those allowed inside, the select few that bypass defences, earning trust. A heart that turns cold, meeting hatred with hatred, betrayal with loathing, barred and shuttered when it comes time to deliver retribution. A heart torn and broken by a civil war between two opposing sides, both contained in one too-human frame, until it ceases to beat in armistice. 

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