ᵘⁿʰᵒˡʸ ˒

the dance was a mistake, not wholly, not entirely. he would never say so out loud, but his leg smarts and he aches somewhere deep with a need for rest he doesn't fully want. especially not with the presence at his side. how he has ached for it, longed for it, wandering and following the sketches that sit tucked in his bags back in his current rooming situation. his body protests the dance, but he cannot help the smile on his lips, joyous in a way he hasn't felt in so so long. so many lifetimes.

he feels like a kid, again. a teenager, gripping a fistful of flowers for her because they reminded him of her and he's covered in dirt and his father is appalled at the state of him. his mother is smiling knowingly, and vincent is seven, eight, and his world revolves around his best friend. ( it always has, it always has, even when he didn't know it. )

she slips from him, and vincent teeters, his hand's slip to the railing for posture. gone is the fake high-class rise of his shoulders. ( the priest, the man conducing a sermon. ) and instead he braces against the railing with a welcome reprieve of the weight on his leg. he's not doing this again any time soon.

vincent turns his head, when he just catches her speak, his eyes glitter behind his mask, mouth upturned in a smile. it's soft and adoring and he watches the shape of her lips like he'd done it yesterday. he's unsure if he should be offended, or if he should laugh.

"it's not like we do not share a house, or rings." he says slowly, carefully. his voice is so much clearer, now that he is dragged himself from speaking to plants. conversed with people, and had them converse back. "this is where i be concerned you do not remember me, ma cher? are we so destined to meet like that until eternity runs out?" he tries to hide the edge of concern, of worry, in his voice, eyes squinted in just enough panic that he straightens up with his hip braced on the rail.

what is it , she can not place ? the unknown of stranger, yet that pull of familiarness. his steps had matched hers so well, as if they had done this all before. fingers reach to remove her own mask, delicate pearls and ivory in color to compliment powder blue of her dress. nymeria tries, thoughts desperate to place him. a blur of memories. the voice, the eyes. she knows them, as well as she should know herself. she is still, unmoving. it is gasp of air she does not need that comes from her. everything dizzies around her, the only focus is that of his mask covered face. she trembles now, reaching for him. she is in some dream, some cruel trick of fate. her vincent. free from manor overgrown with garden. how he had tried to play the part of her husband. lack of memories, she had caught onto it well. but it was a subject neither one wanted to speak on. to stay balanced on tight rope that was waiting to snap from beneath them. her corset suddenly feels too tight, the noise from inside too loud. her vincent. her hand placed upon mask of his, gentle and yet hurried all the same to remove it. she waits for the stone to slip from beneath her feet, to wake up in tears and sobbing breath. only, he stays. nymeria does not understand, the furrow of her brows and mouth that tries to form words. paris, he had always promised to take her. to let her wander with awe. it had at first, felt wrong to be within the city without him. it was always him, her thoughts had been placed on the entire time here. what would it have been like, for young couple untouched by death and cruelty. whatever hesitation nymeria had held is now gone, throwing herself into his frame. a noise that is between laugh and cry escapes her, the way he questions her memory. everything fades and it is only the two of them. one hundred and sixteen years. she had counted each day, each month waking without him. how does one find words ? there is nothing she can offer him in return, only the way arms wrap around him and hands hold tight to fabric. she can not let go, she can not lose him again.

he hears the knock only because the house is dead. only because sound carries in the house that is so empty. there is no bodies to muffle it, no laughter. ( he wonders why his house is so large, knows it only by his and his wife's names signed on the deed tucked into a drawer. knows it only because he knows nothing else. ) he treads the house with caution, cane grasped between his fingers and aiding the hobble-drag of his leg.

vincent doesn't even know why he has ventured out, at the knock. a curiosity perhaps, and desperate attempt and foolish hope that someone has come to be a friend. ( he could make friends, but he thinks about people and he thinks about mud in his throat and spilling over his face. he thinks about a wood coffin and jeers of devilhood while he prays and prays and prays to a god who will not listen and has cursed him. ) it's silly, the last person he interacted with —

vincent tucks it away neatly, peeks around the corner with a shake to his knee as he braces on the steps before him. watches, waits. listens. he is cautious, his breath feels sticky in his chest. vincent looks to his exit, runs his head through the best path to the cellar to escape if they break through.

the door creaking open has him jumping, he doesn't know why suddenly the house is so loud. as if the house wants him to hear it where normally the floorboards are silent. vincent whirls, a tossed glance to confirm, yes, the doors have been wrenched open by two vines of ivy around the handles, and he takes the briefest of seconds to toss a chastised look at the nearest hanging plant that has long overgrown it's pot, spilling on the floor, before pushing himself to the best attempt at a hobbling run that he can get.

if he can get out of the cellar, he can be lost in the woods and nobody will find him there. he knows how to hide in the dark. especially not when it seems the garden has betrayed him.

stupid, foolish idea to return here. based upon exterior alone, their home had set abandoned. it had aged, and not done so with grace. greenery had taken hold, claiming rights to ownership. that felt better, than those who would not know the home's history walking it's halls. everything she had poured her heart and soul into. the furniture, set just so. the portraits that hung on the walls, she had handpicked every single one. strangers ridding and stripping her home down to bare bones. the thought makes her ill. a hand reaches, she placing it softly upon ivy that had over taken the front, as if she intended to say thank you. the hardest part, is reaching out to knock upon door. she would know if vincent were dead. that is the hope that would not be broken from her. her heart would know. nymeria knows the worst is that, he is long gone from here. their creator, her angel. he had held true in giving vincent immortality. thirty five years for it, she had paid. and would have been even longer, if she had not escaped. an eternity as his. she stands as a statue, like dust should cover her too. inside her chest, emotions at war. the hope, the dread. will nymeria be able to survive, if she does not find him here ? the world was vast and wide. doomed, to always just be out of her reach, that was the price she paid for taking away his humanity, for saving him from sickness that would have claimed him. nymeria refused to let go of him, she would not have death take him. and now ? it refused them both. the knock, the wait for the door to open. it does, and no one stands placed in entry way. apprehension takes her, but it is hope that carries her through the door way. if she were need for breath, it would have taken from her lungs. how most everything remains. few things have been moved from their places because of greenery that has claimed it. but it is all as she picked out, but remains dust covered and mostly untouched. nymeria is not sure, what the sound it is that leaves her. something between wail of relief and gasp of delight. it is her eyes that wander, just there to the stair way. always be careful on the third one, vincent had told her. it gave underneath weight. he had intended on fixing it, but never done so before sickness claimed him. her gaze continues, up and further on. just so catching, the movement of someone. the hope that fluttered small in her , unbreakable catches flame. she knows the golden strands, the figure. her vincent. even if just a ghost, nymeria takes to stairs to chase. gloved hands raising skirts to not trip upon their fabric, careful on third step.

❝ vincent ? ❝ how the name feels from her, the name had been forbidden. but now it escapes from her, tumbling as a plea. the sound of another's footsteps, something heavier. she's giving chase, turning corner. nymeria remembers this house, the layout. every single hall, every single room. she hurries, to catch up with figure. to let amber hues take in the sight of him. her vincent. she stands frozen, everything around them has ceased to exist. ❝ are you real ? ❝ the words are trembled, holding back sob that threatens to shake her entire body violently. ❝ je suis rentré, mon amour. ❝

he would rather bury himself again. a yawning grave, dirt under his feet. he does not wish to tell her. he does not wish to utter words that are coated in mud and slick and blood blood blood. he remembers thinking about there couldn't possibly be this much blood in his body. he remembers thinking how nobody will investigate this, as his blood soaks the empty wooden coffin and he can do nothing but listen as dirt hits the top with a sickening plop from rain and what he terrifyingly thinks his is own blood. how he could hear nothing but a whine in his ears, high pitched and ringing ringing ringing. he counted them. he doesn't remember the number, but he remembers counting. one two three four five six...

he takes the assistance, limbs shaking and fumbling with the fabric. it's pulled over him, tugged snug over the too-familiar pain. she touched it and it feels ripped open, he doesn't know why, he forgot? ( he never could. ) he forgot it was there? ( then why does he wake up as if he has been buried again, cold and death rattling and wild eyed. ) vincent stares at the ceiling, and not her, the glint of the light overhead, the banisters holding the ceiling up.

he sees her lips move, catches the action and slowly drags his gaze to them, almost begrudgingly. that furrow of intense concentration as he watches the shape. ( really, he's trying. he's trying don't hurt him don't be frustrated at him he's trying so hard. ) his lips part, close, open, close. dirt slogs in his throat, he thinks some of it still rests within his body, somewhere. lives under his nail beds no matter how much he washes his hands and scrubs his skin.

( he remembers the water, blistering hot on his cold skin, blood and dirt covering him, how no matter how hard he scrubbed and bled and scrubbed he couldn't get it off. how he thought about just bleeding out but he can't bleed out, apparently. how hungry he was. )

"hm." he hums, turns away and limps to the bed. to bury under the covers, his back to her. to hide and hide so he will not have to see the shame in her eyes when he tells her. so he will not have to look in her eyes and see the hate and vile in them. where he will not see her reaction. "i tried to visit your grave, after the investigation was declared cold..." he mumbles, matter of fact as if it explains everything. "it rained."

❝ mon amour, the rain does not explain your scars. ❝ she does not mean to press him. a warm, that turns to flame in her. anger is ugly, that is what her mother had taught her. it had no place in the heart of a saint. oh maman, what would she think of her daughter now ? an evil, wretched thing. ❝ we have never kept secrets from one another before. ❝ so young, an eternity passed since they were children. it is fuzzy, their faces blurred just so. even then, not a single soul would know whatever secrets carried between the two. she had never lied to vincent, even in the days of her angel. but now that death had refused to take them both, now they were both entirely different ( she knows. he does not know her, he does not remember her. ). movement of hers are nimble and quick, in a way that is unsettling. nymeria has placed herself on other side of bed. this is not their bed. that room is avoided, a room that once had been for guests. is it where she belongs ? not the same young girl who only needed the love of her husband. this home is his, and the garden's. nymeria is only someone passing through. she plays this game of make believe that he is her vincent, his memories are there and he's waited so long for her to come home to him. she brings herself back to focus, back to the vast space between them. nymeria wants to reach out to him, place her hand in his. she's memorized everything about it, how could she not ? it is like fighting instinct to do so. nymeria wants to draw close, to press herself against his chest and rest in his arms where nothing could harm her. to feel them around her frame, to feel safety she found in no where else. ❝ no one will harm you this way again vincent, not while i am here. ❝ she reaches out, pinky finger extended to him. it felt childish, but it was a promise. she had never broken those, and neither had he. ❝ we will keep each other safe, nothing bad will happen as long as we have each other. ❝