No, there are no guarantees, just like there are no answers. Logic is not sovereign here. Magic should be, but it isn't. No one is sure either exists. Intention matters only to the one intending, the rest will judge execution, and rationality has been executed. Suicide seemed so exhilarating until waking up in the arms of a dead lover.
Heads roll, not from the guillotine, but from the thoughtless purity of lust. Love is little more than justification for brash decision, and this is why it is compared to war. Both take their victims, and the survivors move on. The face that launched a thousand ships destroyed two countries and created another, undiscovered. Fears are shed for those left behind as she sails beyond the horizon.
No testament, old or new, has ever revealed what it means to be human. "Because," is a pitiful answer to the question, "Why?" The wisest don't even ask. Lords and Kings fall because they are not their fathers. Fathers fail because they do not choose their daughters. And if their favorite remains silent, what does it matter that subjects remain foolishly loyal? What she wants is known only to herself.
If it's going to happen, there's no need to worry about it. Silence is a torture, but she's persisted a decade; there's no reason to question her impatience. Summer has begun, and misunderstood dreams will follow. Her balcony never seemed so far away, but it's not too high to climb. An arm is outstretched, though it's unclear if she's offering her hand or keeping her distance. Perhaps she's waiting for the Fall.
Take the hand. What is there to lose?