snork snork mimimi

yan! phaidei and predator/prey play. phainon with his underlying mean streak is the one to first suggest the idea, the one with the right words to form a compelling enough argument, slowly convincing mydei in being more onboard with the idea as time goes on. he's the one dangling the carrot above your head with a boyish smile. giving you a way out; a head start even; you'll earn your freedom if you can avoid being caught by either of them as they work together to hunt you down.

mydei doesn't approve of it at first. it is mean, and unlike Phainon, he's not the type to play with his food. and he certainly doesn't believe in bullying the weak.

"Partner." His voice reverberates through the solid wood. "Let me in, please?"

He's already smiling when you open the door for him. Stepping forwards to envelop you into an ever compassing hug where you can only bury your face into his neck and you breathe. Inhaling in the smell of dirt and ash and burnt cinders. He's murmuring something, something soft and gentle, but it's all lost in your ears as you squeeze your eyes shut, holding onto him tightly for dear life. You vaguely remember locking the doors back up before you're hoisted into his arms. He picks you up easily, carrying you through hallways to your bed, ignoring the eyes of others peeking through gaps of doors.

"I missed you." Phainon whispers. "So, so much."

Morning comes quickly and already the first signs that he was never really your Phainon are there. The house smells like death again. There's a body bag already packed in the corner of the kitchen and the people are nervous. You don't ask and when Phainon smiles, you see his teeth are too perfect. Too white. His fingernails are packed with soil, like he's been digging the ground. Yet his hands are warm. Gentle when he hugs your waist like glass as he sits on the edge of your bed, holding you close to him while you stand in between his legs and continue forth with your inspection, cupping his face as you lean down.

The whites of his eyes are tinged red.

It becomes a morning ritual waking up. You aiming your shotgun at Phainon's face. No one ever dares to step in even with all the shouting and yelling and crying from Phainon. Those that are still alive know better than to get involved now, choosing to turn a blind eye to all the loud noises coming from your bedroom. He begs and pleads with you because he knows the type of person you are. You're like clockwork, always making your rounds the same order: always the kitchen first, then the living room, the bathroom, and last, the closet. He knows you're capable. You've done it before countless times.

You'll do it.

(Again. Again. And again.)

Watching as the shock and the hurt and the despair repeat, then looping again as your finger remains steady on the trigger.

There's never anger though. Never, never, never. Only the loud and deafening shaky exhale of an air released as you lower your gun again, putting it a distance away to lean against a corner and Phainon rushes forwards, and every time you think, this is it. This is where you've reached your limit. This is how you will meet your end.

Being pushed against the door, his weight on you. A tight and suffocating embrace against his chest that you neither fight or accept, Phainon sobs. Every sound reverberates through you as he cradles your head, stroking your hair as if you hadn't tried to blast his brains out just a second prior. But, it hurts to see you like this. He can tell you're exhausted. You're in pain. You're not thinking straight. The heat is getting to you, isn't it? But it's alright. Everything's okay. He's here now that you've let him in. You're okay. You've done so well, holding everything together all by yourself. You've done everything you needed to do today, right? So let him lead you back to bed. Let him hold you as he hums a tune for you to close your eyes and listen to. Sleep until it's night again.

(The cycle repeats.)

Sometimes you let people in. Sometimes those people die. And sometimes you kill them.

He's beautiful, even as he's lying there on the sand with his hair wet and his clothes soaked in sea water. Long lashes and porcelain skin. Eyes blue like the rising morning sky, equally wide as yours as you both stare at each other in bewilderment.

Something quickly blossoms between the two of you. The Prince of Aedes Elysiae makes it often a habit to sneak away from his royal tutors, only to make his way down to the beach instead where you are already waiting for him in the waters, hiding behind a particular large rock and Phainon has the mischievous idea to surprise you from the other side with a loud boo!

Phainon only laughs, a boyish sound that makes your chest flutter even as you're using your tail to flick water into his face.

You don't think you will ever understand how your sisters could even grow jaded with this world inhabited by surface creatures. Not when there is so much to do and see. You're quick to pick up on the words Phainon teaches you, repeating them back to him albeit clumsily in a voice so angelic that Phainon can't help but pause, his hand slowly reaching out to cup your cheek, thumb rubbing gentle circles against skin that has you pressing your face against his palm with a strange chirping sound.

The days go by quickly when Phainon is there, always bringing you gifts and more trinkets for you to take home. He fills your heart with a warm, burning feeling. The kind that could never be extinguished even if you were dive down to the deepest and coldest parts of the oceans.

But that rush of a thrill is no longer enough to sate the glimmer in your eyes, while Phainon's lessons regarding the Royal Court he will soon have to take part in are becoming more serious. He cannot run from his responsibilities as much as he could from before, there are duties he must perform and your own interests have started to expand beyond this little beach that has become your regular meeting spot with the prince. No matter how much Phainon pleads with you, telling you stories to scare you from swimming out of his reach, he cannot stop you from being drawn in by bright lights and warm music from afar.

It's a cruel thing taking advantage of your naivety like this. He does not realise how sacred your trust in him was until he trades it all away, unable to bear the sight of you in such pain and agony after drinking the potion he had offered to you like candy. Instead he holds you close to his chest, a tight embrace against your violent thrashing as he consoles your sobs and screams with soft hushes against your hairline. Your screams being the last sounds you will ever make before your throat is burned away forever, voice and tongue stolen away so easily by the Sea Witch herself.

You spend your days up on the surface world weeping day in and day inside the bedroom you share with the Prince. It does not matter to you if the Prince loves you with all his heart. His sincere promise of vows mean little to you now. The places you once wish to see have lost all their glitter when all your feet do now is bleed. You do not want him to carry you. You do not want his apologies.

It is clear you are burdened , and you are reluctant to disclose such details towards anyone, let alone him. Despite being fellow Ratniki comrades in arms, despite having shown no harm towards you, you still keep him at a distance.

He knows it's a shield you overtly rely on. Like a child stubbornly clinging onto their toy, he does not think it is no longer possible for you to even willingly let go now; because you think so long as you do not let anyone into your heart, build walls that reach as far as the moon, then nothing could hurt you, and no loss or grievances could topple you over.

Such a cold, and precise individual you were, turning down all of his invitations (offerings) for some warm tea and food after another day's of work.

You were still a human running on the last of their fumes though.

It has taken him a while, breaking you in such a gentle and tender way that has you coming to him one night.

The tea he has poured you is warm.

"It seems whatever is on your mind has been troubling you for quite some time now."

You look down at your reflection of the still surface, deliberating.

Hesitating.

Every nerve inside your body screamed to get out of his abode. That you were only damning yourself. It was as if your survival instincts knew better — because how else have you survived when compared to others who have long come before you?

Something was terribly wrong with Flins.

Yet you remain seated in his lounge, holding onto the teacup for a semblance of tethering.

You wet your lips, voice parched. "If…If I drink this tea." You ask, "What will to happen to me afterwards?"

A beat of silence. Deceptively calm he blinked slowly. "An odd question if I may say so myself."

"Still, I suppose the tea would warm your chest — it is a cold night after all."

He then continue to play innocent, "Though really, I suppose it depends." He said, a faint smile ghosting his lips as he turned your question back on to you.

"What is it that you want to happen?"

He was so close. You were just a grasp away. Offering yourself to him on a silver platter so wonderful in a way that just screamed you. All he had to do now was push you a little further past your breaking point. Lower his voice down to a soft, gentle murmur.

"What is it that you wish to forget?" Flins asked you.

And you finally confessed, breaking down—

"Everything." A whisper you dare not raise further in fear of your admittance. "…if not, then briefly, just for a little while...Please."

His lips curled into an enigmatic smile.

"Then if you truly wish to forget it all, all you need to do is drink."

You don't remember much afterwards.

True to his promise, your world does end up being much softer then as to before. Even more so in his lap while he cradles you to rest your face into the crook of his neck, his long fingers carding through your hair, your insides being cored out with every motion, only to be replaced with something warm and sticky. Gooey and pleasant that made your tongue heavy and slow.

A part of you still intact clung on though, resisting him, turning away from his neck, trying to break through the thickness of the fog—

But you could feel his teeth smiling against your skin, the gentle thrums of his voice reverberating through.

"Shh." He would not have none of it though. "Close your eyes now."

And soon the world fell under. Now finally quietening down to something more bearable, you watch with half-lidded eyes his hand growing ever so closer, his touch barely perceptible when his fingers stretched out to close your eyelids for you.

From possessing this now empty vessel, you share the faint wisps of a past grief. A failed creation, unable to offer anything in return, yet still wishing nothing but the approval of its creator. You are so, so hollow and it is perhaps because of that you hold onto the previous occupant's sting of being thrown away more tightly than what should be honored.

Whether it's from the exposure of sea salt, or the unshed tears trapped inside metal, your joints are rusty. You are clumsy like a newborn fawn, moving in disjointed spurs, stumbling about on knees that don't seem to work the way you want them to, slipping on grains of sand before crashing back down to the ground once more.

Animals avoid you like the plague, and those that don't snarl in your vicinity, hackles raised and all. It's a little disheartening to say the least.

You're a little bit bigger than the trinkets he normally collects. But Flins likes the way your pretty glass eyes reflect against the light of his lamp when you look up at him. And you have nowhere else to go. You have no idea how long you've been wandering. You don't even remember your own name. So he coaxes you, convinces you to take his outstretched hand in letting him take you back to his home as he helps you up from another clumsy fall.

His handiwork is a little bit shoddy at times. The outdoors of the Nod-Krai has not been so kind on you and truthfully, Flins is not the best equipped at keeping up with the latest of modern machinery. But Flins tries regardless, using an elegant black ribbon to tie around your wrist, holding the dodgy joint more securely in place. He does this to each of your ankles as well, for safe keeping. He's better at hand painting your features back into placed, two long fingers holding your chin as his brush does all the work while he murmurs quietly for you to hold still just a little longer. Reapplying paint that has long since faded from who knows how long.

Flins is still a gentleman however. It does not matter what you are, be it a puppet, or something else (the cryptic smile he wears has you wary that sees through you, or rather the spirit residing within this shell). He always asks for your permission to bunch the lace of your dress up to your thighs.

He works methodically and diligently, wiping carefully with a cloth the dust off porcelain skin.

But beneath the mechanical ticking of gears, there begins a stir of discomfort. Of course it was you who allowed him to help you dress. But you don't know where he even gets all the clothes from. Layers of fabrics he insists in draping you with, to be adorned in matching jewelry he often brings home.

"People ought not be so frightened of ghosts." Flins makes light talk as he guides you around the wooden floors of the lighthouse. The dance is taught to be simple, his steps to be followed as he holds you in a gentle sway. He does not comment on the stiffening of your hand.

"They are merely talking shadows, chattering away endlessly about their past affairs."

He forbids you from leaving his lighthouse, coating his words in way that it feels more like a gentle suggestion. Seating you in a chair while he kneels down on one knee before you. He's good at that, lowering himself as if to drive the point in he's only doing all of this for your own good, explaining he cannot keep you safe if you were to toddle out of here alone again. There's no telling what will happen. People can be so cruel towards those they recognise not to be their own. And he can't always be there to save you. What if you were to encounter the Wild Hunt once more? You're lucky to have escaped with nothing but a few bumps and loose screws this time. But what if you were to break more than that?

After all, few licks of paint and ribbons can only go so far, and you are so, so fragile. You understand why he is so worried about you all the time…right?

So be good and wait for him. Let him brush your hair as he recounts to you another one of his tales. Let him decide which dress you should wear today—

And try not to break again.

You think so long as you don't forget to throw a bone in his direction every once in a while, giving him attention; a glimmer of hope of a relationship blooming out of this terrible, terrible dynamic you find yourself in: a dangerous tightrope act involving in giving out the occasional treat to reward good behavior, and discipline when otherwise. If you keep him fed. Play with him. Scratch his chin when spending time with him; it'll be enough to keep the man (sedated) sated. He won't mind being collared and muzzled if it's you tying the collar around his neck. He doesn't mind worshipping the ground your feet tread on. Doesn't mind rolling over on command, performing tricks to keep you entertained.

He'll sit obediently in the palm of your hand. Behaving. On his best behaviour. Leashed and wrapped around your finger. He won't be an unruly dog that no one wants around, snapping his jaws and growling at anyone you spare a lingering glance towards that isn't him.

But sometimes he can't help it. Whining a little too loudly. His fingers reaching around your elbow. Tugging you a little too tightly. His grip reminding you of his strength.

Of the thing hiding under his oversized puppy demeanour.

"Be a good boy, Phainon." However all it takes is your voice to drop ever so slightly for him to tense; a signal of your warmth rescinding. Watching the slow downturn of your mouth and single, tired sigh has him backpedalling. Letting go of your arm as if you had burned him. Panicking. Second guessing and apologising.

"You don't want to disappoint me now, do you?"

He can see the moment when you start to get tired of him. The look in your eyes that tells him you're starting to see him as more trouble than his worth. He's not as stupid as you seem to think he is when you start giving excuses as to why you're avoiding him, ignoring his texts and calls. He knows all you've ever seen him is an accessory, a toy to be thrown away once you lose interest him.

Phainon doesn't mean to be so rough.

Picking you up suddenly. Giving you no time to react. No time to kick or flail or fight him as your feet are lifted so easily off the ground before you're thrown (flung) on to the bed. Back hitting the soft expensive sheets of the mattress, body flopping helplessly before the weight of his own slams on top of yours.

You hit his chest once, a solid mass of unmoving muscle that your fist bounces useless against.

Had it not been his hands planted firmly between your head, keeping him up, you would have been crushed underneath his.

The blood drains from your face as the slow realisation dawns on you that you've bitten off more than you could chew. The air being squeezed out of your lungs from looking up to his face.

"P-Phainon." You swallow carefully. You can still grab a hold of his leash. You can still rein him in if you play your cards right. "Get off—"

"No."

The next thing you know is his teeth over your neck. A large hand holding your shoulder in place. Pinning you down. Jaw ready to clamp down on your throat. Hot breath fanning your skin as you freeze in place by instinct.

A dying sound leaving your mouth over a terrible mistake you've made.

You're scared. Shaking and trembling violently. Little apologies leaving your mouth like the tears beading down your cheeks.

"It's alright." But Phainon only laughs quietly, pulling away to look down at you with a sickly sweet smile meant to assure you. Hushing your whimpers as his hand comes up to run his fingers through your hair.

Petting your head gently in a similar nature to soothing a small, distressed animal.

"You're alright." He says.

"Are we ready to come home now, my love?"

It's infantilizing; how he addresses the question.

For as long as you can remember, Jing Yuan has never once raised his voice. You think it's ironic that the man would rather end his own life than to ever behave such a brutish manner against you. You doubt there has ever been a time where he has truly lost his temper with dealing with your 'antics'.

He maybe disappointed at times; other times he may express the occasional hurt feeling. And at the very worst, he may voice his quiet disapproval beforehand, even while knowing his words will fall on deaf ears.

(He may let go of many things with a lazy smile: be it the murmur of cruel words intent on slicing deep into his heart, or the poisonous hate-filled stare you often send his way—

But — he will grab you by the scruff of your own neck should you decide to treat your own life so carelessly against his own soft warning.)

Yet even so, despite it all. Despite everything—

You think this is the furthest you've ever managed to get away from him.

This might be your best record so far.

(It might even be your last.)

You're not really sure yet.

You've been a little more difficult to chase down this time. A little harder to pinpoint. Opting to hide in the outskirts of the Fanghu Fleet. A barely populated village hardly anyone has heard of.

Perhaps it is because it has been quite some time since your last attempt that you have really given Jing Yuan a run for his money.

Honestly if anyone here is to blame, it's Jing Yuan. The fault lies with him: he should have known better that this begrudging truce — the fragile kind of peace — would not have lasted forever.

Still, you suppose you might have overreacted a little. When the whispers concerning the topic of his approaching retirement started to make their way around the Luofu.

The feeling had been unpleasant. As if a thousand insects were crawling up your spine. The noises of the chirping birds slowly fading to the background, only to be replaced by a terrible ringing noise.

You were never quite sure just how long you stood there. Facing the garden wall while the sun burned your back. Watering canister frozen in place, tilted downwards.

There had only been the cold sound of trickling water to fill the stillness.

Drowning the potted flower as the water overflowed, spilling over and onto your shoes.

The very thought of it alone. The few moments. Scraps of peace momentary. Where you could truly be alone when he was called away to meetings. To talks and paperwork he couldn't weasel his way out of tending to with his usual array of excuses.

To be easily taken away just like that.

(Just like everything else.)

"I've missed you quite dearly." Jing Yuan hums, then sighs. The usual tilt of his head, and another soft, smitten smile stuck permanently to his face once more.

"These long months really have been quite lonely without you by my side."

The man is fond of this habit. Pretending to be a harmless house cat; domesticated and of innocent intentions. When really, he was nothing but a hungry, starving lion. Intent on stalking his prey.

You see it in his eyes. The glint of his teeth catching the light. A lovesick fool he has always been even after five hundred years.

It was never a matter of whether if he would find you—

but more of a matter of when he would find you.

"Have you been well?" Jing Yuan continues, "I trust that you have been looking after yourself, hm?"

Jing Yuan never brings his men along as aide. He believes he alone is enough to coax (drag) you in coming back home with him, and he does not believe his men should have to spend their time in intervening in his own marriage strife's.

You would return home in a foul mood if he had. You don't exactly like seeing your former comrades. People who you once trained with. Fought alongside with. Giving him the silent treatment that would last a minimum of half a year — at best. It's a number that can easily be waved off by a long-life species.

But Jing Yuan is the sort of man who could not bear the wrath behind his spouse's silent treatment for even one second.

Even an incorrigible scoundrel who finds joy in pawing for reactions know when to tread carefully.

"One more game." Your words are calm. Levelled.

If you must pass the time in the gardens surrounded by his plants and the birds that adore his presence and be forced to entertain his games of star chess, then it is only fair that he indulges in your demands as well.

"One more." You insist, "And then we can go home."

The adoration in his eyes is clear for anyone to see; and in those golden eyes, constantly droopy with indolence; you can never do anything wrong in his eyes.

You could steal his card and spend his money away on extravagant shopping trips that would leave anyone to baulk at the mile long receipts of luxurious high-end clothing you'd buy and Jing Yuan would not bat an eye. After all, he has more money than he knows what to even do with it. He may be cheeky about it though, casting an faux-innocent suggestion to try your haul in front of him however.

You could destroy all his furniture to come home to, ripping the wallpaper to shreds. A debris of countless expensive antiques thrown against the wall and Jing Yuan would wave away the mess. The style of his interior was starting to become a little outdated anyways if you were to ask him, and he needed the excuse to replace the decoration. You do have an eye on these sort of things.

You could shout and scream at him. Cursing him with a foul mouth that would leave even the most hardened soldier cringe at your selection of words. Hurling insult after insult until your face went red from the exertion and your lungs burned, and your throat grew sore, until you grew quiet and weak, and Jing Yuan would swoop in then. Descending on you. Swaddling you. It feels better after letting it all out, doesn't it? Jing Yuan never likes it whenever you bottle up all your feelings. When you hide the truth from him. It doesn't do any good for your health.

You could even fake your death. Find a body. Have it be unrecognizable that it'd be impossible to identify correctly. Whether it was your doing or not, Jing Yuan would have covered it up already once he sees through the ruse. A single missing civilian and no one would raise a brow.

A missing General's spouse however? And people would be up in arms.

Regardless Jing Yuan will wait until the two of you are home before he is to gently pry the truth out of your mouth. He is a little hurt that you would do such an extreme thing to get away from him.

Still he will force you to be seated in lap, as he feeds you extravagant treats in between the moments of his learning. You will answer every question he has for you no matter how long it will take, long fingers slipping inside the caverns of your mouth as he searches around the cavern. It would be best not to get unruly, his fingers may just accidentally slip deeper than intended, now what would he do if you were to choke, hm? If you behave, it will be over quickly. But he will still voice his disapproval with the click of his tongue either way. It is inevitable. After all, it is unsanitary to be exposed to a corpse for long periods of time. Who knows what sort of diseases you could have potentially caught?

Jing Yuan holds his chin in deep thought.

"I suppose there is time for one more game."

He tilts his head once more, "The usual game, dear?" He asks, despite knowing already.

"What else?" You say.

"Very well. Would thirty minutes suffice?"

"An hour."

"Thirty, dear."

"Forty Five."

He sighs. The sound hardly has any bite to it. "Alright, forty five it is—"

You've already taken off past him. A clumsy stumble midway. Scrambling to the thick of the trees. Hoping to lose him in the forest surrounding the village.

"You spoil me, Jing Yuan. You really do." You shout over your shoulder. Making the mistake to look into his eyes.

Steadfast. Calm. Confident.

"It is simply what you deserve, my love."

He hummed.

"But do make the most of your time." He then said, and suddenly there is the cold fear inside your veins, that you've made a mistake and scared little side of you no longer wants to play this game. You could get cold feet, forfeit now and drag your pathetic side back to him. All you have to do is sniffle a little, rub your eyes and tell him you're sorry for making him come all this way to take you home and he'll be all over you in an instant.

There are other games you could play.

"Because once I start searching, I don't plan on stopping until I find you again."

You run a little faster.

He's pestered his parents. Talked their ears off into giving as much detail as to how they found each other through their own red string that no one else could see but them. The feeling of meeting your other half. The happiness in following the other end of the rope.

Every word of his parents' union had been memorialized inside his head. He knew every detail off by heart and he saw the adoration reflected in their eyes, how their smiles had matched, the entwined hands that he'd imagined were adorned in red threads.

The idea of a soulmate — even after losing his home — his friends — his family — that there was still something good left that had survived and remained untouched by the black tides. There was still something at the other side. That his life was more than just revenge and hate. Something at the other end of the rope that could keep him going. Tucked away. Protected and hidden from the cruelties of a harsh and lonely world that belonged to a boy who had only ever wanted to be his village's little hero.

(Unblemished. Pure. Unstained.)

Which is why it breaks him. Tears him into tiny little pieces to the point it feels like every part of him is dying from his soulmate rejecting him.

The string thickens the closer the soulmate is. Twisting itself together to form something more akin to a rope and less of a flimsy thread. The kind he's seen fishermen on their boats use to knot around a heavy anchor before being thrown into the sea to sink down in the deep waters. Held in place.

The colour is a bright red. A beautiful shade.

You won't look at it. You won't even look at him. At the thing tied around your wrist to his own. He sees what looks like to be disappointment from the ways your eyes are casted downwards, mouth forming a small quiet oh. Like it had to be him of all people. As if you had hoped it would have been someone else. Perhaps there had already been a face in your mind. There is no fanfare. No smooth first words designed to swoop you off your feet. Just an agonisingly awkward silence hanging above both your heads where the two of you are standing to the side in the quieter parts of Okhema's market alleyway, away from the bustle and for some privacy.

Phainon wants to cry.

He almost loses it. Almost taking it out on you. Scaring you by begging for a reason. He couldn't even fathom the possibility as it had never been on his mind. It would have been easier had you even had an existing lover. At least there would have been a reason (motive).

You're just scared. It's natural. It's to be expected to be overwhelmed by the idea of knowing he is your fated one just as he is yours. He's a Chryso Heir. The fame and status is hardly helping his situation here.

He supposes even if you were soulmates, you're still technically strangers.

But that's okay. He can be patient. He can be good. For you. He can give you space as you get to know him better. He'll endure every sting when you shirk away from his touch. Just give him a chance and you'll see. He can show you that he can make you happy. So what if the first meeting had gone terribly? Who cares if his first words were all jumbled and practically incoherent, lost to his nervous laugh. This was what love was. It wasn't perfect. It was ugly. It was addicting.

The threads may tangle itself into an terrible mess of a mishappen shape to choke on.

But it will never break.

(You can run to the other side of the universe and he'll still find you. All he has to do is follow the red string.)

Love is selfish. It was selfishof him. And it was wrong. Using the string to tug you back when you try to avoid him. Announcing to the people he too had found his beloved and what followed was a cacophony of erupted cheers. He makes sure the people commit your face to their memories. So that there is always congratulations ready on hand and the occasional envious stare to the side. So that you're isolated (reduced down) to just being his soulmate.

You can't leave him.

If you do act out, lashing out at him. Intent on leaving him (you can't), all he has to do is pull firmly. Yank the red cord with all his might. He's not above it. He is stronger after all. It's a little mean. A little childish. You may stumble and trip over and fall. But Phainon will be more than happy to rush over and soothe any scraped knees. He'll kiss the bruises away, make it hurt less and wipe any tears that drip down your face. Provide the comfort you deserve as he hushes the sound of your cries.

He caught you trying to cut the string the other day.

Walking in to see your desperation spill over, the kitchen knife shaking terribly in your one hand. Your bounded wrist on the chopping block. You swallowed hard. Raising the thing above your head.

He disarmed you before you could go through with it.

But even if you could. Sever the fate connecting the two of you together. Phainon will only pick up the pieces and tie them back together.

Even without it, he knows he is forever bound to you.