a wild desert heart

“Cutieeeeeeee.” The voice was pitched high and whiny, vowels elongated until they lost all shape and meaning.

You blinked, turning away from the booths and stalls scattered around the plaza in front of you, and glanced at the man to your left. The mid-afternoon sun glinted off his short lavender hair, turning the strands into tendrils of violet flames. His eyes were equally luminous, a palette of constantly shifting blues and pinks and purples, and his profile was poetically perfect.

Usually. But right now, those fine, elegant features were twisted into the most petulant pout you had ever seen.

“Raf, what’s wrong?” you chuckled in bewilderment.

He’d been all smiles just a few minutes ago, when he dragged you to a food booth selling donut holes on skewers. He had bought half a dozen flavors and insisted on trying them before you, to “make sure they’re worthy of passing your sweet lips, cutie.” You’d blushed, swatting his arm, but allowed him to be your taste tester, and he dutifully handed you each skewer once they passed his very thorough inspection.

You’d thrown the last stick away less than five minutes ago, sat down on this stone bench less than two minutes ago, and now he was slouching there with his arms crossed, his lower lip jutting out dramatically.

“I’m bored,” Rafayel huffed as he tipped his head, exhaling sharply to blow a strand of purple hair out of his face.

“I’m sorry, who was the one who wanted to sit down?” you laughed. “I told you not to wear those shoes.”

You glanced pointedly down at his shiny, brown leather shoes. They were, admittedly, very handsome. And ludicrously expensive, of course. The high-quality leather was imported from another distant country, and the intricate patterns carved into the sides and across the top were done by hand, by some master shoemaker in a very remote village, who only made like five pairs a year, so they were insanely sought after.  

Rafayel had of course bestowed upon you this very important information when he came strutting into your apartment this morning, like a peacock. He’d done a whole fashion walk across your living room before whirling around and asking for your thoughts (and applause.)

You honestly told him they looked very nice, before reminding him that the two of you were planning to do a lot of walking this afternoon, and maybe it wasn’t the best time to test out a new pair of shoes.

He’d waved off your concerns with a flourish, but the pair of you had barely made it into the park before he’d thrown himself down on a bench.

“It’s not the shoes,” Rafayel still insisted, stretching his long legs out so he could admire them in the dappled sunlight coming through the canopy of leaves above. “Master Eldrin’s work is perfect, without flaw. Each curve rides the line between sensual and practical, and every stitch is strong, confident, unshakeable. The leather is so soft and supple, it feels like-- like warm buttered glued to my skin.”

“Gross. What kind of metaphor is that?” You wrinkled your nose but couldn’t help but smile at his— mostly— poetic wording. He was always such an artist.

“See? That’s what I mean!” he groaned, slumping further on the bench. “I’m so bored that all my creatively is oozing out of my ears, along with my brain.”

“Hmmm.” Tilting your head, you pretended to inspect the side of his face and neck, even reaching up to flip his hair out of the way. “I don’t see any brain matter…”

“Cutieeee, don’t tease me,” he whined and grabbed your hand between his agile fingers. “I’m seriously suffering here!”

He batted those multicolored eyes at you, looking for all the world like a kicked puppy.

“Alright, alright,” you chuckled, intertwining his hand with yours. “I don’t want my poor fishie to suffer anymore, so let’s go.”

You stood up from the bench, expecting him to follow, but he remained seated and frowning as he tugged you back toward him.

“Go where?” he asked.

“Uh…” You raised an eyebrow, glancing over your shoulder at the plaza full of booths. “To the art festival?”

“Noooooooo,” Rafayel groaned like he’d been mortally wounded and clung to your hand like it was the only thing keeping him on this mortal plane. “That sounds awful.”

You stared down at him incredulously. “What are you even talking about? You brought us here. You’ve been yapping about this festival for weeks!”

“Yeah, but that was before I saw how boring it is,” he said as he glared past you at the multiple vendors and customers winding their way through the stalls.

“Raf, we haven’t even reached the artists yet,” you tried to reason with him. “You got distracted by the food stalls.”

“They’re the only good things here,” he scoffed. “Actually, we should get some more donuts before we leave. The strawberry ones.”

“We can’t leave, we just got here,” you protested with a frown.

“I’m just trying to save you the disappointment, cutie.” Rafayel suddenly jumped to his feet, and he tucked you against his side like he was trying to shield you from danger. “Don’t look. Those flat, ugly colors and uninspired works will make your eyes bleed. Mine are stinging even at this distance. I don’t know how those people call themselves artists.”

A couple walking past at just that moment turned to give Rafayel reproachful glares, and you winced and mouthed an apology before elbowing your companion in the side.

“Ow!” he yelped and stared down at you with wide eyes. “What was that for?”

“For being rude,” you huffed, and before he could argue, you changed the subject. “Look, we don’t have to stay for long, but I don’t want to leave yet. I got all dressed up, and I rarely have time off, so I just want to have a fun, relaxing afternoon.”

“We can have fun on our own,” he insisted.

You arched an eyebrow. “Doing what?”

Rafayel blinked, and you could tell he hadn’t thought this far ahead, but he doubled down anyway.

“Whatever we want.” His smile was sly as he wrapped an arm around your waist, trying to reel you in, but you batted him away.  

“I want to go to the art festival,” you insisted. “So, unless you have an actual, better idea than that—”

“We can do a picnic!” he blurted out.

You paused, considering him. “A picnic?”

“The most lavish picnic you’ve ever had, Miss Bodyguard,” he added with that cajoling smirk you hated and loved in equal measure. “I can have anything your heart desires delivered right to us. We’ll have a whole feast, spread out on my private beach, and then we can just spend the rest of the day relaxing and having fun, as you wished.”

It did sound very tempting. You knew Rafayel would spare no expense, and the beach behind his studio was pretty, but…

“Hmm, as nice as that sounds…” you said as you half turned back to the art festival.

The artist made a choked, offended noise. “You can’t tell me a boring festival sounds better than that!”

“Doesn’t sitting on a beach, alone, sound more boring?” you laughed.

“Of course not!” he immediately shot back. “First, I wouldn’t be alone, I would have you, and your company is vastly superior to… theirs.”

He flicked a dismissive hand toward the crowd near the booths, but when your head started to follow, he caught your chin and guided your eyes back to his. He was also much closer all of the sudden, his crisp scent, edged in salt, invading your senses.

“And there are many things we can do besides sitting,” he continued in a low voice that made something in your belly flutter, and his eyes dropped to your mouth before flicking back up. “For example, we can lay down and work on our tans. Though, you may have to… shed a few layers of that admittedly very cute outfit. Just so you don’t get any weird tan lines, of course.”

Your face felt hot now, and it had nothing to do with the summer sun. You tried to come up with a response, but your thoughts were slow, sluggish, derailing completely when Rafayel looked at your mouth again.

A tiny smirked tugged at his own, and then he was abruptly stepping back and dropping his hand from your face. You swayed there, suddenly cold and off balance, but he just tucked his arms behind his back and rocked back on his heels, still wearing that damned smirk.

“We can also go swimming.” His tone was normal again, casual, almost innocent, but you knew better. Your eyes narrowed, but he continued talking like he couldn’t feel your glare. “There’s a reef not too far off shore. We can swim down to it, hunt for sunken treasure, see all the cute fishies. If you’re lucky, I might even show you my true, amazing, awe-inspiring form.”

You had to admit, that last part was tempting. He’d mentioned his other form before, and you were insanely curious. Depictions and descriptions of Lemurians were varied and highly contested. Rafayel said they were all wrong, too, but you could never tell if he was joking or not.

You’d asked, once, to see it, suggesting he use his large bathtub that could probably fit half a dozen people. But he’d just smirked and said he wouldn’t fit, and you’d quickly changed the subject to hide your intense blush.

So, needless to say, you did want to see his true form, but…

“C’mon, Miss Bodyguard,” his voice interrupted your thoughts. “What do you say?”

He stood there looking so very smug, so you felt a little pleasure in cutting him down to size.

“Mm, pass,” you said flatly, stepping around him and walking toward the festival booths.

Rafayel squawked behind you like a seagull, and you heard his long, leaping strides as he ran to catch up to you.

“Cutieeeeeee,” he whined again, but when you just kept walking, he huffed and darted into your path.

You tried to step around him a second time, but his long fingers caught your shoulders, forcing you to stop.

“Just give me one good reason,” he said. “Give me one good reason why this festival is better than my incredible, genius idea, and I’ll happily admit my defeat and escort you to every booth you want.”

You highly doubted that, but you decided to play his game.

“Fine.” You crossed your arms over your chest. “I want to go to the festival because there’s a much less likely chance I’ll drown.”

Rafayel blinked at you. Then blinked at you again. He was staring like he was waiting for something, and you matched his expression as you waited for his response.

“Is… that supposed to be joke or something, cutie, because I, uh, don’t get it,” he finally said with an awkward chuckle.

“It’s not a joke,” you huffed, squirming until his confused gaze.

There was a reason you’d never mentioned this before. He’d told you so much about himself, about Lemuria, and you knew you should have said something, but it always felt so ridiculous, and the longer time went on, the bigger the secret felt.

Now, there was nowhere left to run, so you took a deep breath and confessed.

“I can’t swim, okay?”

You were staring down at his stupid shoes as you spoke, and you braced yourself for his teasing. When the silence continued to stretch, heavy and unbroken, a knot tightened in your gut.

Finally, you couldn’t take it anymore, and you lifted your face, expecting Rafayel to be choking down a bout of laughter.

Instead, he looked… horrified? His eyes were wide, his face pale, his mouth half agape.

Your heart skipped a beat as you quickly glanced over your shoulder for the Wanderer that must have appeared, but there was nothing. Just the park and the crowd of festival goers moving around the two of you like a river over stones.

Frowning, you turned back to Rafayel, who still looked like he was going to be sick.

“Raf?” you asked tentatively.

He jolted out of his stupor, blinking rapidly as his eyes refocused on you. Clearing his throat, his tongue darted out to wet his lips, and when he spoke, his voice was a harsh rasp.

“If this is a prank…”

“Why would this be a prank?” you scoffed, fighting the heat in your cheeks. “It’s embarrassing enough as it is.”

“You… really can’t swim?” he asked as he stared at you intensely.

You shrugged, kicking at the ground. “I mean, I can kind of doggy-paddle for a while. Maybe like a minute. Does that count?”

Rafayel swayed on his feet like you’d dealt him a physical blow, palming his forehead and looking faint.

“This is…” he muttered and shook his head. Then he shook it more vigorously and straightened up, and when his eyes met yours again, they were twin aurora flames. “Nope, this isn’t right. This is wrong on an actual, cosmic level. I cannot abide this. My soulmate can’t not know how to swim, what kind of Lemurian would I be?”

He’d used this word before, soulmate. Most of the time, it was said in a silly, joking manner, like when you both got the same drinks at the café, or when your outfits coincidentally complimented each other without any coordination.  

A few times, though, he’d said it in quiet, private moments, moments where a joke didn’t fit, and he said the word in a tone you couldn’t quite decipher. He always moved on quickly when that happened, and you always found yourself wondering if there was another layer to the joke you just weren’t getting.

Right now was one of those latter moments, but before you could even think to question it, Rafayel grabbed your hand and started dragging you after him.

“Rafayel!” you protested, your shorter legs struggling to keep up with his clipped pace. “What are you doing?”

“We’re going home, and I’m teaching you how to swim,” he said with a finality that you’d only heard him use with people who had really pissed him off.

He didn’t seem angry at you, though, more the situation, which was ridiculous, but you’d long since accepted the fact that the artist could be more than a little ridiculous at times.

“Raf, it’s not a big deal—” you tried to argue.

“On the contrary,” he cut you off. “It’s the biggest deal ever. I can’t exist in this world one more day knowing you can’t swim.”

“A lot of people don’t know how to swim,” you huffed defensively.

“Sure,” Rafayel agreed as he weaved through the crowd heading to the festival, towing you in his wake. “But you can’t be one of those people. Not while I’m around.”

His tone left little room for argument, but you tried to carve some out anyway, feeling that old sense of dread crawling up your spine. 

“I-I don’t even have a swimsuit.” Okay, that was a weak attempt, but Rafayel had already reached the edge of the park and was using his other hand to call a car.

“I’ll order you a dozen to be delivered to the studio,” he said without looking up from his phone. “They’ll be there when we arrive.”

“You don’t even know my size,” you grumbled.

Rafayel pulled to a stop at the curb, and you stumbled before finding your balance. When you looked over at him, his eyes were skimming over you in turn. Slowly. Intensely. Until every inch of your skin was prickling.

As his gaze finally met yours, he smirked and squeezed your hand.

“Wanna bet?” he asked in that low voice that struck you low in the gut.

You huffed and turned away, trying to ignore the fire in your cheeks, and Rafayel chuckled under his breath.

Just then, a car pulled up in front of you, and Rafayel finally pocketed his phone.

“Here’s our ride,” he said, letting go of your hand to open the door. Then he bowed with a flourish. “After you, cutie.”

You scowled and considered high-tailing it back to the festival, but you knew it was a futile endeavor. When Rafayel got in these weird, intense moods, nothing could persuade him.

So, you sighed and marched forward, but you still shot the artist a glare as you slid into the backseat of the car.

“I still expect a picnic,” you said. “Several courses. With multiple kinds of dessert.”

Rafayel grinned, the afternoon sun dancing in his rainbow eyes. “Already ordered.”

~*~*~*~*~

“Maybe we could just—”

“Nope.”

“Okay, but what if—”

“Nu-uh,” Rafayel cut you off again. “You aren’t talking yourself out of this one, cutie. We already ate a delectable seven-course picnic, and we tanned while we let our food settle. I held up my end of the bargain, now you must hold up yours.”

“I never signed a contract,” you argued, digging in your heels.

“Your agreement was implied when you ate, hmmm, half a dozen oysters, several crab legs, those fried squid balls, the seaweed salad… oh! And three slices of cake.”

You scowled and crossed your arms, but the pose felt less intimidating in your new bathing suit. It was thankfully a more modest piece than some of the bundles of floss Rafayel had ordered, but you still felt exposed and prickly with anxiety. Your toes dug into the warm sand, like that could keep you anchored to the shore, but now the lavender-haired artist was tugging on your hands with that annoying, charming smile of his.

“C’mon, Miss Bodyguard,” he teased as he led you, step by step, toward the rock outcropping on the edge of his private beach. “I’ve seen you face down a horde of Wanderers without breaking a sweat.”

“Yeah, because I have a gun in my hand,” you deadpanned before glancing nervously over his shoulder at the approaching waves. “I can’t shoot the ocean.”

“I mean, you could, but the fishies wouldn’t be very happy,” he chuckled, but when you shot him another glare, he sighed and finally came to a stop at the base of the outcropping. “Okay, seriously. Why are you so worried?”

“I…” You mouth opened, but nothing came out. Swallowing tightly, you tried again as your hands tightened around his. “I don’t like being in situations I haven’t prepared extensively for. And the ocean is dangerous. One wrong move, and…”

Your voice trailed off as your eyes darted to the waves crashing against the rocks, but then Rafayel shifted until his face was all you could see.

For once, his expression was uncharacteristically serious, and his eyes held yours steadily.

“The ocean can be dangerous,” he agreed. “But nothing is going to happen to you. I’ll be right by your side the entire time. Don’t you trust me?”

“Of course I do, but--”

“But nothing,” he interrupted. Then he saw your still uncertain expression, so he lifted one of your hands to his bare chest, pressing it flat over his heart and that strange tattoo he refused to tell you about. “I, Rafayel, son of Lemuria, vow that no harm will befall you in these waters. On my life I do solemnly swear.”

For a moment, you thought he was just being overdramatic again, but to your shock, his skin began to glow beneath your hand. Gasping, you shifted your fingers just in time to see the warm light fade into the dark ink of his tattoo.

“What… did you do?” you breathed, eyes flicking up to his.

“I made an ancient, unbreakable vow with the sea,” he said as his gaze bored into yours, and you suddenly felt like the entire world beyond his swirling eyes didn’t exist. “If even a drop of your blood is shed, my life is forfeit. I will dissolve into nothing more than seafoam on the waves.”

You gaped at him with horror, until his lips twitched up at the corners.

“Don’t worry, though,” he said in a lighter tone. “It wouldn’t be the first time.”

Making an offended noise, you ripped your hand away from his chest, only to bring it right back in a light slap.

“You jerk,” you grumbled. “I almost believed you.”

“When have I ever lied to you, cutie?” Rafayel laughed, but his smile was strange, almost sad.

Then you blinked, and he was suddenly catching your hands again, tugging you forward, and sweeping you off your feet.

“Raf!” you squealed as you instinctively clutched his shoulders. “Put me down!”

“No can do, sweetheart,” he said as he started to climb up the rocky outcropping with ease. “Can’t have you cutting those adorable little toes on these rocks! Seafoam, remember?”

“I’ll turn you into seafoam!” you threatened, struggling in his grasp, but he just pressed you tighter against his chest.

“Sure, but first you’ll learn how to swim,” he shot back as he crested the top of the rock.

“Raf! Rafayel!” You doubled-down on your struggling as he approached the sea-side edge of the outcropping, and your heart was pounding in your ears, fear metallic on the back of your tongue.

He finally came to a stop but didn’t set you down, and he said your name multiple times until you looked up at him with wide eyes.

“I-If you throw me from here, I s-swear—”

“I’m not going to throw you,” he said in a calm voice. “We’re going to jump, together.”

“That’s not much better!” You renewed your attempt at escape. “Do you know how deep that is? I’m going to drown! I—”

“You aren’t going to drown,” he sighed for the millionth time today.

“How do you know?” you snapped mindlessly, the animal in your brain screaming to run and lash out.

But Rafayel just smiled, slow and easy, with the salt-tinged wind ruffling his purple hair.

“Because of this,” he said.

Then he ducked his head and kissed you.

The touch of his mouth shocked you so much that you abruptly went limp. He’d always been touchy-feely, ever since you met him. He was constantly holding your hand, playing with your hair or fingers, tugging you into his side. He’d even kissed your cheeks a couple times when he was particularly excited, like when he finally figured out a problem he was having with a painting.

He had never actually kissed you, though, not for real. There had been a couple moments when you’d thought he might, but they were gone so quickly that you always told yourself you were imagining things.

Now, his lips were pressed firmly to yours. You could taste the strawberry frosting from the cake on them, feel their warmth against your own. That warmth traveled through your whole head, down your throat, and into your chest until you felt like you were swallowing the sun.

Then, as quick as he appeared, Rafayel pulled back.

You blinked owlishly at him, speechless in your shock, and his aurora eyes lingered on your mouth before rising up to meet your own.

“I imagined that going a little differently,” he murmured nonsensically, and he was so close still, his breath mingled with yours. “But… I’m not complaining. Now, hold on.”

“W-What?” you asked as your synapses started firing again.

Rafayel grinned, and without saying another word, he sprinted forward the final distance and jumped off the outcropping, with you in his arms.

Your shriek was snatched away by the wind, and you barely had time to panic before you hit the water. The coolness after the hot summer sun was its own shock, but it wore off quickly, and you instantly began to thrash.

“Calm down,” Rafayel’s voice sounded in your ear, slightly muffled but still perfectly clear. “I’ve got you.”

Your brain registered the words but didn’t pass along the message to the rest of your body. You continued to flail, surrounded in a mass of disorienting bubbles, until strong hands caught your arms and pinned them to your sides. Your legs kicked double time in response, but then longer and more muscular legs locked around your own.

The affect was instantaneous. You sank like a stone.

Panicked, you snapped your head around until you saw Rafayel’s face. Anger and betrayal warred inside you, but they faltered when they saw his smile.

“Relax,” he laughed, a few bubbles snaking out the corners of his lips. “Take a breath.”

Your anger overrode your good sense, and you opened your mouth.

“You idiot, I can’t brea—” You cut yourself off as realization struck you, but instead of choking on water, feeling the burn in your lungs as they filled, you felt… nothing.

Well, not nothing. Your chest still felt very warm, like it did when he kissed you.

Stunned, you looked down, expecting… well, you didn’t know what. But your body looked normal. It looked the exact same as it always had, except now, you were somehow breathing under water.

“Are we done fighting now?” Rafayel asked in a teasing tone.

You lifted your head and gaped at his still grinning face, and you fought against the instinct to keep your mouth closed to ask the burning question on the tip of your tongue.

“W-What… how…?”

“Lemurian perk.” Rafayel smirked as he finally let go of your arms, raising one hand to brush his thumb along the corner of your mouth. “It’ll last until we surface. This way, I can teach you how to actually swim, without you worrying about stupid things like drowning.”

You just stared at him incredulously, but when he moved to fully let you go, you flailed and clung to him like an octopus.

“Wait! D-Don’t go.”

“I’m not going far,” he chuckled. “But it’s a little hard to swim without using any limbs.”

He had a point, but you still refused to release him.

“C’mon, cutie, what are you still afraid off?” he asked, and while there was still a teasing undertone to his words, they were also warm with reassurance.

“I-I don’t know,” you admitted shyly, still trying to wrap your head around the strange sensation of talking— breathing!— underwater. You could feel the water entering your mouth, but then it just seemed  to… disappear, and you could talk normally, even if the sound was slightly muffled to your ears.

This was so weird.

Suddenly, a finger jabbed your forehead, and you jolted.

“Tell your brain to stop eating itself and focus on me,” Rafayel said with a mock-stern expression. “Your lesson is about to begin. Now, I’m going to let go of you, okay?”

He waited until you shakily nodded, and then he released his hold on you. It took you a few more seconds to do the same, but you finally let go, and then the two of you were floating opposite each other.

Nervously, you glanced up at the surface, which seemed so high above, and a twinge of fear wound through your veins again. But then you took a deep breath, reminded yourself you could take a deep breath, and the anxiety slowly faded.

In its place rose a quiet awe, and you turned your head in every direction to take in the sights you never thought you’d see. Distantly, you also realized the salt-water wasn’t stinging your eyes like it should, so you could see perfectly clearly, and you wondered if that was more Lemurian magic. You decided to keep your questions to yourself for now and just enjoy the crazy experience.

Most directions were nothing more than a blue wall, but on one side you could see a shadow in the distance, rising up from the sea floor.

“That’s the reef I was talking about,” Rafayel said when he followed your gaze. “We can see it later, once you’ve mastered the basics.”

“That basics?” you asked as you turned back to him.

The artist’s grin this time was full of sharp teeth, and you could have sworn his eyes flashed a glowing blue for just a moment.

~*~*~*~*~*~

To your great shock, Rafayel was a strict and exacting teacher. You’d never seen this side of the aloof and, at times, downright lazy artist. Normal Rafayel was practically allergic to any type of movement that could even be construed as exercise. You’d actually seen him go over a day without eating because he forgot his phone in another room in the studio, and walking thirty feet to fetch it and order dinner was “wayyyyy too much work.”

Swim-Instructor Rafayel was a different man entirely.

He had you running drills until the muscles in your arms and legs were nothing but gelatin. Sure, the fear of drowning had vanished, but now it was replaced by a fear of being stuck in the ocean until your kicking form was absolutely perfect.

Eventually, though, the sun began to set, and the already darker waters became too dark for your weak human eyes. When you swam into Rafayel for the tenth time, he finally sighed and said the lesson was over for today… once you swam up to the surface.

“I don’t think I can make it,” you groaned as you floated limply in the water.

“Guess you’ll be stuck down here then,” he said, starting to kick upwards.

“Wait!” You lashed out, grabbed his ankle, and dragged him back down, using the momentum to propel yourself up. 

Rafayel’s laughter floated up with you, and even though your limbs felt heavy as lead, you kicked your legs and moved your arms as the Lemurian taught you, and before long, you reached the surface.

It felt like you were inhaling ice when you sucked in your first breath, but the sensation quickly faded into a cool lull spreading through your chest. Your lungs still worked perfectly fine it seemed, which you were grateful for.

Wiping the wet hair out of your eyes, you treaded water like a pro, bobbing along the gentle waves. You grinned and looked around for Rafayel, eager to show him how well you’d internalized his lessons, even up on the surface.

But the water was empty around you, stretching out in every direction.

“Raf?” You frowned as you turned in a circle.

No response.

“Rafayel!” you called out a little louder.

Still nothing.

Just when you were starting to worry and about to duck your head back under the water, a splash off to the side startled you.

You turned in that direction… just in time to see a massive, purple-blue tailfin slip back into the waves.

Fear struck you like a lightning bolt. You’d barely seen any sea life all afternoon, just a few schools of small fish that kept their distance. You weren’t even sure if there were actually sharks in these waters, but that’s the idea your brain latched onto.

What if it had already gotten Rafayel? And now it was after you.

Your eyes darted to the shore, where your picnic blanket, clothes, and more importantly, your gun were still laid out. The strip of beach seemed impossibly far, but you might be able to—

Your thoughts were derailed when that fin broke the surface again, but this time, it was so close that water splashed into your face. You yelped, backpedaling in the water, and when you wiped your eyes, you saw a massive shadow circling around you, its radius growing smaller and smaller.

Every muscle in your body locked up, but before terror could completely seize you, that tailfin broke through the water again. It was right in front of your now, and as the sunset glinted off the purple, blue, and pink scales, familiarity struck you in the chest.

All at once, your fear dissolved, like the seafoam on the waves, and a smile broke out over your face despite yourself.

This time, when the tailfin slipped back into the water with another splash in your direction, you laughed, sucked in a deep breath, and ducked back under the waves.

Without the Lemurian magic, the salt-water stung your eyes, but you didn’t care. Your blurry gaze immediately locked onto the huge tail in the corner of your vision, and you spun and kicked as you chased it.

Muffled laughter reached your ears, and then that hazy, purple shadow whipped around, and suddenly Rafayel was floating in front of you with a grin.

He looked different, though, and not just because of the tail.

Ink or some kind of markings wove across his chest and up his neck, tangled with smatterings of scales in the same blue, purple, and pink hues as his tail. Small patches of darker blue scales sat under his eyes and across the tops of his cheekbones, like iridescent freckles. His galaxy eyes were mostly the same, but they seemed to glow with an inner fire that made you feel warm despite the cool sea. His ears were also elongated and ethereal, like fins fanning out from the sides of his head, and when movement caught your attention, you realized he had gills flaring on either side of his neck.

He was so beautiful that your eyes ached from more than the sea water.

As you floated there staring at him, though, a flash of uncertainty crossed Rafayel’s face, and some of the light glimmering in his eyes and on his scales dimmed.

You couldn’t have that, so you opened your mouth to tell him what you really thought…

Except you forgot you couldn’t talk or breath underwater currently, and all you succeeded in doing was sucking in a mouthful of water and choking.

Rafayel’s eyes bulged out of his skull, and his powerful tail propelled him through the water before you could even blink. His strong arm wrapped around your waist, and then he was dragging you to the surface, which thankfully wasn’t very far this time.

Still, you coughed and sputtered once your head broke into the air, and you would feel embarrassed if you weren’t too preoccupied hacking up salt water.

“Are you okay?!” Rafayel’s frantic voice broke through the cacophony of your coughing, and when you blearily lifted your head, you saw his worried face inches from your own.

He still looked so otherworldly, like something out of a children’s fairy tale, with his finned ears poking out of his wet lavender hair. The last rays of sun caught the scales under his eyes, and without thinking, you lifted a shaky hand to touch them.

The Lemurian flinched minutely at your touch, but when you shifted to cup his cheek, he relaxed slightly.

“Cutie,” he sighed. “Don’t scare me like that, I—”

“You’re beautiful,” you blurted out in a hoarse rasp, and when he blinked at you in confusion, you cleared your throat and tried to clarify your random statement. “That’s what I was trying to say, before I nearly drowned.”

“I told you, you’re not drowning with me here,” he grumbled as he clutched you a little closer, and you realized he was still holding you up while the pair of you bobbed along with the waves.

You also noticed that despite his petulant tone, a blush was streaked high across his cheeks, and to your delight, even his finned ears flushed a darker indigo.

“What’s wrong?” you teased. “You’re not usually one to shy away from a compliment.”

Rafayel pouted, his blush deepening, but before he could respond, you felt something brush against your legs. It was hard, solid, and a little coarse, and you glanced down to see his tail lazily waving back and forth in the water as it kept you both afloat.

You followed the hypnotic movement for a moment, but then Rafayel nudged your chin up with his finger.

“You’re staring, cutie,” he muttered.

“Can you blame me?” you laughed and shook your head. “You’re— I don’t know what I was expecting when you told me about your true form, but this… this blows every expectation out of the water. No pun intended. You’re incredible, Raf.”

“Really?” You’d never seen that tentative, earnest smile on his face, and you were seized by the sudden urge to kiss him silly. 

You nearly did, too, but then you reminded yourself that the kiss earlier had just been so he could share his people’s magic with you, nothing more. A kernel of disappointment unfurled in your chest, but you swallowed it down as you smiled back at him.

“Now you’re just fishing for compliments,” you scoffed as you lightly splashed him with water.

“If they’re from you, I’ll fish all day long,” he shot back with a grin before his expression sobered. “I, um… I actually haven’t shown many people this form. Not even Thomas knows about it. So I just… I don’t know.”

He trailed off with a helpless shrug, and your heart swelled with so much warmth that you couldn’t stop yourself from leaning up and pecking a quick kiss against his cheek. His scales were rough beneath your lips, but not unpleasantly so, and your mouth tingled as you pulled back.

“Well, I feel very honored,” you said honestly, and to lighten the mood, you threw in a joke. “Don’t go showing anyone else, so I can remain the only special person to witness this Rafayel masterpiece.”

His cheeks and ears darkened again, but a smile tugged at his lips.

“You got yourself a deal, Miss Bodyguard,” he said before his face took on a mischievous look. “But only if you beat me back to shore.” 

He made to let go of you, but in a déjà vu moment, you threw your arms around his neck and clung to him like there were suckers on your skin.

“Noooooo,” you whined. “I’m so tireddddd. Didn’t you say the lesson was done once I reached the surface?”

Rafayel smirked, but his arms slowly wrapped around you again.

“I guess I did say that, huh?” he drawled as his fingers drew patterns up your spine.

“You did.” You nodded smartly. “So, instead of Swim-Instructor Rafayel, why don’t you be Raft Rafayel and carry me back to shore?”

“Hmmm, you sure drive a hard bargain, cutie,” he chuckled. “But I am a gentlemen, soooo…”

As he spoke, his body suddenly shifted, and you yelped as you were lifted out of the water. When things settled, Rafayel was floating on his back, with you sprawled out across his chest, and his massive tail acting as a rudder as he steered you back toward the beach.

“How’s the weather up there, Captain Cutie?” he asked as he tucked both of his hands behind his head to act as a pillow.

His tail was so strong that he didn’t even need his arms to swim, and now you were the one fighting a blush as you tried to find purchase on his slick chest.

In an effort to not think any inappropriate thoughts, you sat up slightly, cupped your hands in front of one eye like you were looking through an eyeglass, and squinted.

“The seas be fair,” you replied in a terrible pirate accent. “And I think I see some treasure, just on that beach over there!”

You pointed to where the abandoned picnic blanket still lay, with an assortment of leftovers from your earlier feast, and after all that swimming, you thought you deserved a few more slices of cake.

“Mmm, I dunno,” Rafayel drawled. “I think an even greater treasure is much closer.”

You frowned and dropped your fake eyeglass, about to ask what he meant, but when you looked down at him, he was smiling up at you so softly that something in your belly flipped.

“I-I think my first mate might need to get his eyes checked,” you joked weakly.

His smile widened, and his eyes never left your face.

“Actually, Captain, I think I’m seeing clearly for the first time in ages.”

You blushed, swatting at him half-heartedly, and he laughed but stopped teasing you as he finished swimming back to shore.

Soon after, the pair of you were stretched out on that picnic blanket while the last rays of sun slipped below the horizon. As dusk settled over the beach, you finished your last bite of cake and turned to the man beside you. He’d traded his tail for legs again, though there had been a harrowing moment when he stepped out of the surf naked, and you’d squeaked and darted back into the studio to find him a new pair of swim trunks.

Now, the last of the sea water was drying on his chest, and your eyes dipped to the marking above his heart, the one that had glowed when he made his bogus vow earlier.

“So, is this a Lemurian marking, then?” you asked as you reached out, but you stopped just short of touching his skin, your fingers hovering a hair’s breadth away. “What does it mean?”

Rafayel turned away from the horizon and looked down. His face did a complicated dance, too quickly for you to name all the moves and emotions. When he looked back up at you, he was smiling, but you could have sworn there was a shadow of sadness hiding in the depths of his rainbow-colored eyes.

“Sorry, cutie,” he murmured. “But I’ve got to save some secrets for myself, or I’ll lose my cool, mysterious aura.”

You scoffed and pushed him away, but when he whined about being bullied after working so hard to teach you how to swim, you caved and let him pull you back in.

Somehow, you ended up laying with your head on his chest while he reclined back on the blanket and pointed out the constellations that were just starting to dot the sky.

With his heartbeat in one ear and his soothing voice in the other, you smiled as you traced a single finger over that mysterious tattoo.

— ⟡ —

Marshall College

A knock comes at your office door. Thinking it’s a student dropping by, of course you welcome them inside.

Instead a handsome ghost pops his head in.

Although you work on the same campus, you’ve actively been trying not to run into Dr. Pike. It helps that you know his schedule and avoid his wing of the campus, even avoid his lecture hall across from yours.

He’s in the same studious glasses, sharp suit and bow tie he wears for class.

Except now Marcus sports faint traces of a beard and mustache.

You’ve seen days where he hasn’t shaved and how handsomely rugged he’s looked. Now this change of appearance is utterly devastating on the studious professor.

“The facial hair...” You greet with a dry tease, achingly fond.

As attractive this new look is, you already miss his clean shaven face. Or maybe a part of you just misses him.

“Uh yeah, just trying something new.” He laughs nervously fixing his glasses.

“It looks good.” You truthfully nod.

The softest gleam glazes over his eyes, and the weight of it makes you look away.

“So…you must have a reason why you’re here, Dr Pike.” Clearing your throat you try to refocus.

“I do indeed, Dr Pike.” Marcus replies swiftly.

“Unless… you’re going by your last name again.” Until he rapidly and politely corrects himself.

Always so damn polite and considerate, even during this mess of a monster known as marital separation.

You wave him off.

Some days you go by your last name, others you find it hard to let his go. The papers haven’t been officially filed after all.

Like he’s done days before, Marcus slides into the seat across your desk. It’s been so long since he’s been here.

You can still remember the first time he arrived at your office ready to greet you, the new Iconography and Symbolist professor.

“Guess we’re campus neighbors! My lecture hall is right across from yours.” His charming sweet smile and earnest welcome you swear won your heart over that very moment.

Now Marcus being here again feels habitual, like part of your heart returned seeing him place his weathered leather briefcase on your desk. Almost out of habit you want to lean across the table to kiss him like you’ve done before.

Instead you patiently sit while he scrambles and searches his briefcase. Readjusting his glasses, Dr Pike then slides a torn book page towards you.

The painting is one you recognize instantly.

“Raphael’s Crucified Christ,” you nod at the familiar work.

The distinct style and angel poses were topics you and Marcus both have discussed at length.

He points at the nails keeping Christ on the cross.

Confusion bubbles up as you glance back to Marcus.

His rich soil of the earth twinkle with an eagerness you recognize. The same one you’ve seen when he’s got something up his sleeve.

“I may have found a lead…” He eagerly begins.

“To what?” You narrow your eyes suspicious.

Dr Pike taps the page again.

“Wait…To the crucifix?” You question unconvinced.

Marcus is good, but he’s not that good. There’s no way he could have found the actual wood.

“No, the nails.” He clarifies quiet.

That equally makes your mind get stuck in a tangled web. There was no way.

“Need I remind you the Vatican already claims they’ve been found.” You politely offer a rebuttal.

“The lead I got says otherwise.” Marcus shrugs his shoulders, incredibly boyish and casual.

“And you wanted to tell me why?” The familiar cautious tone turns your words to stone.

You already hated where this was going.

“Because I know your thoughts on the matter of the current nail's authenticity.” He starts.

“And… you’re the one I know who can help me.” His voice then dips drenched in earnest.

Those beautiful eyes of his pierce your soul.

You exhale already feeling exhausted.

Just from his composed stare, you understand this means he’s going to leave no matter what you say. You can’t even get upset with him anymore. After all, you're signatures away from legally not being his wife anymore.

“You can drop by the house after class.” You sigh defeated.

Marcus’s hand immediately reaches out to rest over yours. His larger warm hand squeezes yours tight and fond.

The touch lingers with you the rest of the day. Even heading home his warmth prickles your skin. Has it been that long since you’ve touched Marcus?

An ache of longing swirls in your chest as if your body begs to have his return to yours. You shove all those thoughts away and step into your home.

The hushed stillness of moving boxes greet you.

Marcus, ever the gentleman, has been staying at a friend’s house while you pack your things as you and him try to rearrange this situation. Your neighbors have started asking more questions. You can’t even bring yourself to answer them.

But you press on.

The night settles in. Marcus is late. Must have gotten caught up at the university.

You now start heating a kettle, ready to make his favorite chamomile tea to unwind, grateful you didn’t throw these tea leaves out. There’s actually a lot of Marcus’s things still lingering, unable to bring yourself to pack them up or dispose of them.

It’s like your mind is split in two, wanting to leave fast as you can while also feeling snagged on the floorboards.

A knock arrives, and your heart jumps ready to greet Marcus.

Except he isn’t there when you open the door.

A sleek and dashing stranger instead grins at you. His piercing blue eyes stare unflinching.

“Good evening….Dr. Pike, I presume?” He greets you.

This time you correct him sharply with your maiden name.

“Ah yes, my apologies.” He nods.

The stranger introduces himself as William Musgrave, who apparently is a Vatican official. He even holds up a badge with the familiar papal key symbol.

“I’m here on behalf of your ex husband…” he begins, and your face falls.

“No, I'm sorry,” you cut him off. “But whatever Marcus is involved in I don’t want to be a part of it.”

His face, which has kept a polite smile, now twitches as if this mask could crack.

“Professor, please understand-”

“I don’t mean to be rude, but I need you to leave. Now please excuse me.” You shut the door on the stranger.

Rushing to the house phone you immediately call the school, hoping maybe Marcus is still there and you can catch him before he leaves.

Then the door to your home is forcibly kicked in.

Immediately men rush in to grab you. Slapping a hand over your mouth, someone muffles your screams. Thrashing hard trying to fight back, the last thing you hear is the kettle screeching in the kitchen.

Then the world goes dark.

— ⟡ —

Now you’re here tied to a bed post somewhere in Italy.

Of course, the mercenaries and treasure hunters must have caught onto the same rumor Marcus heard.

They need you to decipher something from the location.

A polite knock comes at the door, almost mocking. William Musgrave shows himself in.

Some fake Vatican officer he was.

“Sorry for the unfortunate hospitality, can’t have you running away.” He frowns as if he cares.

You simply glare back.

“I know you think I’m the villain here, but I’m not the only one who has secrets.”

Musgrave holds out photographs.

In their black and white shading Marcus sits at an outdoor restaurant, one you recognize instantly. He took you there on your first date.

Except this time he’s sitting across from a sleek and gorgeous mystery woman. The two are caught mid laugh, like the picture of effortless charm.

“The woman he is with is an associate of ours,” Musgrave explains. “She was the one who gave Dr. Pike the lead and he apparently got wrapped around her finger. Even tried to convince her to help him instead of us.”

Something inside you drops.

“But she turned him down.” Musgrave tuts.

If Marcus refused to work with them, suppose you’re the next best option. And these photographs along with this story feel like attempts to sway you to willingly help Musgrave instead.

Anger bubbles in, and you flicker your gaze back to William.

“Looks like you were stalking him.” You hate that even feeling this hurt you’re still bitterly protective of Marcus.

Musgrave sighs seeing your refusal.

“Guess we have to do this the hard way.”

The knife happily pointed at you speaks of a deadly response if you refuse to cooperate.

A voice in your head sounding so much like Marcus urges you not to fight back.

Marcus.

As frustrated as you are with him, you can’t even hate him.

Even now.

“Well, I heard you were smart, had a strong spirit. Glad to confirm the rumors are true... I can see why a man like Dr. Marcus Pike fell for you.” The man’s tone is fond, faintly flirtatious.

It doesn’t settle you one bit.

“I’ll be back with dinner later.” Musgrave says cheerfully shutting the door behind him, and you blink back tears.

Suppose this is what love is. Even in the face of heartache and frustration, and of course impending divorce, there might always be a piece of you that achingly adores Marcus. Even knowing he’s moving on.

You close your eyes and simply try to pass this solitude.

Feels like minutes have passed and you check the clock on the fireplace.

A little past midnight.

Musgrave is late.

Normally a guard even comes to let you walk around, use the facilities or even get water. They need you alive after all. This night has been relatively quiet. Even the guard at the door seems to have maybe forgotten you.

Closing your eyes again, you quietly hope this will all settle down soon.

Until the door gets yanked violently open, striking panic into your heart as you snap awake.

Barging in with the force of a hurricane, Marcus emerges.

Yet the sight is not of your scholarly Dr. Pike.

Ditching his glasses, dressed in a dusty rustic jacket and wearing a dark hat that accentuates his eyes, the studious sweet professor is instead replaced by a danger seeking excavator and adventurer.

You remember the first time you saw him like this. You had stayed late one night at the college and ran into him by accident.

You almost didn’t recognize him in the new outfit.

“Going to a costume party, Dr. Pike?” You had even jokingly asked him that.

To which Marcus lied and said yes.

Then, after a few more dates, he showed up to your apartment late one night.

After narrowly escaping a trip from Cairo, Marcus didn’t even allow himself time to change. He simply just appeared at your doorstep exhausted looking like this different man.

A part of him you would come to know and love.

Now that same man kneels before you. A deep hint of a 5 o'clock shadow lingers on his jaw and his mustache is coming in stronger.

Glistening in sweat, slightly covered in soot, you’re grateful he’s okay.

Sobbing your name, Marcus’s hoarse voice sounds caught in his throat as he rushes to you.

You almost don’t feel like he’s real.

But his steady hands cut through the rope. Then tenderly he checks you for any cuts or bruising and the truth settles in.

This is him. He’s here.

“You came for me.” Now your muttered words escape thick with tears tired from the fright but filled by a shaken relief.

Those stunning rich bourbon eyes of his immediately widen. A large warm calloused hand cups your face.

“I’ll always come for you.” Marcus breathes out with something akin to devotion.

You can’t even stop yourself or remind yourself that you’re possibly divorcing this man. Instead you throw your arms around him.

Instantly Marcus draws you into his embrace squeezing you tight.

“Thought I lost you.” His voice continues to wave through tears. “Went by the house and saw… a nightmare. Couldn’t find you anywhere.”

You couldn’t imagine the type of panic he must have experienced.

But a harsher realization does arrive.

“Guess you need me to make sure I’d sign the divorce papers, huh.” You joke lightly.

He chuckles quickly, yet it sounds uncomfortable as he pulls away. Footsteps stamped down the hallway breaking the moment and igniting a sense of fear.

Scrambling up, your hand finds his or maybe he finds yours first.

This pocket of peace shatters as commotion unfolds fast and blurred.

Marcus keeps you behind him while fighting off the remaining guards, throwing punches when he can. But more henchmen arrive to ambush him.

Then one of the mercenaries yanks you away.

A sharp crack electrifies the air. Suddenly the man cries out in pain, releasing you.

Immediately you rush to Marcus and that’s when you see the snake-like whip effortlessly flutter back to him.

You’ve seen the weapon before. Once you begged him to show you a demonstration. It was absolutely sinful at how well he maneuvered it.

Now Marcus rapidly takes down another guard with the bull whip. He stands a Sir Galahad brought to life, his whip powerful as any ancient sword.

Extending his hand out, you grab it and rush out.

Running past mercenaries, peering around corners with your heart racing, Marcus never once lets go of your hand. Whenever gunfire starts he immediately flings himself over you, a firm shield.

Unfortunately, one bullet does graze him.

He yells in pain, and you scream frantically if he’s alright. Stubbornly, he ignores you and rushes out of the rundown old mansion.

After managing to steal a motorcar you command him to sit in the passenger seat, and you drive away fast as you can into the darkness.

— ⟡ —

The inn you stumble upon is quaint, a bit rustic but perfect to hide out for the night.

“Is that signore your husband? He is one lucky man to have you caring for him,” the sweet elderly inn keeper says with a longing sigh when you return to grab more alcohol from the bar.

You don’t even have the heart to correct him.

Entering your shared room, you stumble upon Marcus, shirtless now, messing with the gash on his arm.

“Stop,” you order, and he blinks like a guilty puppy caught red handed.

Sighing you plant yourself on the bed with him.

The routine comes effortlessly, soaking the clean rag with the distilled liquor to disinfect the wound. You miss the first air kit you kept at your office for times like this.

“Can’t believe he gave you more liquor.” Marcus mutters a bit amused while you work.

“Yeah well… had to flirt with him a little so this didn’t come cheap." You half joke, and he chuckles.

“I can do it-”

“The wound is in an awkward spot, I got it.” You cut him off sharp.

Marcus stays quiet.

He seems broader, bulkier, like he’s been exercising more, or maybe going out on these exhibitions more. Or maybe it’s the sweat glistening on his skin and being so close to him that intensifies everything.

Your heart races as if it's the first time you’re doing this.

“Remember when you first patched me up?” Marcus, ever the intuitive mind reader, speaks first.

“I was worried you were going to bleed out in the middle of my kitchen.” You lightly snort.

“Yeah, you kept running around like a scared barn cat.” He chuckles.

“Hey, I like to think I did pretty well.” You huff back.

Dabbing the alcohol soaked rag to the wound, Marcus hisses.

“I know, this always is the worst part,” you comfort him soft.

“Suppose this is payback for me getting you wrapped up in all this huh? I really am a bad husband.” Marcus tries to slip in a bit of self depreciating jest.

Yet you find no humor.

The silence suffocates the room. You continue tending to his wound, winding the extra spare cloth as a makeshift way to stop the bleeding.

“I’m sorry…” Marcus apologizes sincerely, somber and serious.

“I promise you won’t have to deal with me or any of this anymore once we get the divorce finalized. I know you’ve always hated this.” His voice comes sharp as a knife, and his gaze won’t even meet you.

“I never hated you doing this… I hated worrying if I would ever see you again.” You answer back low and serious.

“I hated wondering if my husband was safe and why…” the words get caught in your throat.

“Why? Why, what?” Suddenly Marcus asks, turning to finally catch your gaze.

You swallow hard, shaking your head.

“It’s nothing.” You dismiss.

“No please, I want to know.” Marcus pleads, his eyes glistening.

You give yourself a moment.

“I used to wonder why you wanted to be out on these adventures instead of wanting to make some with me.” Your voice cracks as you feel like an exposed nerve.

The first few years of your marriage, he rarely left on any excursions. Of course during the times he did you welcomed him home with open arms grateful he came back safe. But when the problems started to trickle in, he slipped away more and more. Until his absence greeted you home more than he did.

His face falls, stunned. You blink away, averting your gaze now.

“It's silly, I know.” You laugh hollow.

You always loved and adored Marcus’s sense of adventure, how much he enjoyed being among antiquity.

“You’re allowed to enjoy your own time. I never wanted to be possessive or always keep you by my side, but I always felt….”

Your voice trails off as you realize you’re rambling.

“Tell me.” Marcus urges again, moving in closer, his voice begging soft.

“You grew bored of me and didn’t want to be around me anymore.” You reveal.

Because why wouldn’t he? When he can enjoy being whisked away on these adventures or meet gorgeous women instead of being at home with you…

He breathes your name, scared and trembling.

“You…” Marcus stares at you like he’s witnessing a heartbreak. You regret saying anything now.

“I could never… would never get tired of you.” He shakes his head.

“You’re the adventure I waited my entire life for.” Marcus breathes those words out like they could be his last, and tears spill from your eyes.

Like the sun and the moon simply orbiting, you don’t know who moved first or maybe it’s simply two souls moving as one, reuniting.

But the kiss steals your breath.

Marcus kisses you desperate, drenched in a hunger you greedily surge to meet. He shifts in the bed drawing you fully onto his lap, straddling him, as he licks into your mouth.

Feverishly you quickly yank off your blouse and brassiere wanting to let yourself melt into him again.

Seeing your exposed skin Marcus groans and immediately dives his face against your chest to breathe you in.

Effortlessly his hands go to your hips and guide you in a fluid rhythm, letting you grind down onto him.

The rut is delicious, torturous and beautiful. A whimper escapes you when you grind harder against his bulge, and you see stars.

You think of the days when you rode him like in his office after hours, and a louder moan escapes you.

“More, wanna hear you more.” Marcus growls deeper.

His hips ground up into you letting you feel his hardened cock against your soaked core.

Even with all the clothes separating you two, the friction is mind melting, addictive.

Your hands move to his shoulders to steady yourself and simply touch more of him.

Immediately Marcus hisses in pain. You snap your hands away.

“Oh Marcus, your arm,” you sob worried and apologize rapidly.

“S’fine, honey. Don’t care. Not when you’re here. You’re the only medicine I need.” He mutters, returning to kiss your jaw.

When he nips gently at your neck your resolve wavers.

“You need to rest,” you mutter that responsible thought out. “Can’t strain your wound.”

Marcus grumbles your name, trying to get you to reconsider.

“Honey please,” he sounds like sin, pure temptation.

A part of you wants to give in, to fully ignore his wound and embrace the desire clawing its way out of you.

The energy in you buzzes like a gleeful frenzy, yet also tangled in worry.

It’s like a piece of you is afraid this might be the last and only chance you’ll have with Marcus before the dream disappears and you wake up to find yourself divorced.

You wonder if he’s feeling the same way.

So wearily opening your eyes, you run your hand up to his rugged unshaven face and draw his gaze to you. Those dark eyes of his open, star dazed pools you could swim in forever.

You lean forward to kiss him soft, gentle.

“We have all the time in the world Marcus,” you reassure him, softly saying the words against his lips. “I’m not going anywhere, not without you.”

“Besides, you speak Italian so you’re my ticket back.” You add grinning and teasing.

“Sweetheart,” he sobs half an awed laugh, looking at you teary and heartfelt.

Once you and Marcus settle, you stay curled against his side, blanketed across him like you’re the one protecting him now. His hands stay touching you, running his fingers against your soft back.

“I’m afraid… I’ll wake up and this will all be a dream.” Marcus reveals among the dimming candle light and soft bed sheets.

“Me too,” you admit and press a kiss to his bare shoulder.

His eyes never leave you while his hand traces across your face.

“How do you keep getting more beautiful?” Marcus mutters.

Bashful your burrow your face against his uninjured shoulder.

“What? Don’t hide from me.” He teases now.

“Now I’m really going to divorce you.” You joke back.

“Hey,” his voice drops dejected.

“Sorry too soon, too soon,” you reassure Marcus, rubbing a hand against his warm broad chest.

He picks up your hand and kisses your palm.

“So… can we talk about how it took me getting kidnapped for us to face our marital problems?” You ask, humored by this truth.

“Hey, saved us on the expensive lawyer fees.” Marcus teases again with a shrug.

You bust out into a bright laugh.

“God I missed this, misses that sound. Missed you.” Marcus, ever the romantic, draws you even closer into his embrace.

“I missed you too, more than you know.” You admit, closing your eyes in peace.

Then an image flashes into your mind.

The photos, him and that woman…

Suddenly you stiffen and sit up from his warmth.

“Darling, you alright?” Marcus asks.

You inhale, then shakily exhale.

“Are you sure you want to do this… with me?” You keep your voice as level as possible.

“What? Of course I do. You’re the love of my life.” He urges sitting up gently without straining his arm.

“Those men that took me… they showed me photos of you and another woman.”

Your words silence him.

It wasn’t the yelling or arguing that rattled the foundation of your marriage, but the silence. The fearful hollow silence, the quiet acceptance, ate away at so much. It continues to make its presence known here.

This moment felt so gilded. Now it melts away like fool's gold.

“She… was an associate I thought I could trust. But I was proven wrong.” He answers collected and level.

So Musgrave wasn’t fully lying.

“You took her to our spot.” You mutter not even able to look at him.

“I… I wanted it to be a fresh start, a way to get over you.” He admits freely, ashamed.

“After I saw Dr. Freeman getting friendly with you and hearing around campus that he apparently was interested in you…”

His voice trails off.

He assumed you were the one moving on.

“Doug did ask me out, but I politely told him no.” You truthfully tell Marcus. You couldn’t bring yourself to date, even someone as charming and smart as Dr Freeman. Your heart stayed tied to a certain archeology and art history professor.

Softly Marcus leans forward and rests his head on your back. Faintly his tears trickle against your naked shoulder.

“I think about you, everyday. And I wished it was you the entire time. I know you might not believe me, but it was.. so hard knowing I was there without you.” His voice wavers.

A jealous and pained part of you hisses that he still took this woman there. But the ache inside your heart weighs more knowing you don’t want to imagine another day where he could be dating someone else.

You turn to embrace him and let his face burrow into the curve where your neck meets your shoulder.

“I won't ever lie to you, won’t hide anything from you. Never again.” Marcus vows, and you believe him.

In the silence now you and him find solace in each other's arms allowing the night to gentle greet you.

— ⟡ —

The nails supposedly used to crucify Jesus Christ are known as the holy nails. They’re a part of significant artifacts known as the Arma Christi or the instruments of the Passion.

Considered some of the holiest artifacts, the Catholic Church deemed their existence to be undeniable reliquaries of Christ’s existence. Yet their credibility still holds some discussion.

Many have claimed to house the true nails, but their authenticity has been debated for centuries.

Saint Helena, the mother of Roman Emperor Constantine, is said to be the one who first discovered the current relics.

“You’ve never believed she brought the real things back.” Marcus notes as you look over the journals beside him in the car ride.

“Always had my doubts.” You mutter going over the notes.

As the mother of the Emperor who changed a national faith, you believed Helena needed to solidify the holiness compared to the nation's old pagan faith. In theory, it made sense for the Empress Dowager to so conveniently find the holy relics to further justify her son’s new conversion.

“Where do you think they are?” Marcus's voice dips while staying close beside you.

“Honestly? Here.” You say nudging out the window.

The beautiful Vatican streets roll by the window. An ache squirms in your chest thinking about how you and Marcus had always dreamed of coming to Italy.

“On our tenth anniversary I’m making it happen,” he had once grinned telling you that.

“Reached our fifth anniversary last year and finally made it here… I think we’re on the right track, baby.” He now jokes holding the taxi door open for you.

Rolling your eyes, amusement still tugs at your lips.

Normally, you would have begged Marcus to simply book a flight back to the states and come home with you.

But now you hate curiosity has sunken its claws into you. You want to see if this lead here holds any truth.

You take this time during the day to truly scope out the Vatican Museum.

Saint Helena’s sarcophagus is a sight.

A deep crimson red, covered in etching of Roman soldiers, the piece draws attention. Your eyes try absorbing every detail you can from the distance.

The lions on top of the tomb catch your eye.

Strange that one sleeps while the other lion is simply lying down.

If only you could inspect the burial piece closer, try to see if there’s any hidden religious iconography hidden.

“You notice something?” Marcus questions keeping a hand against your lower back, soft and protective.

“It’s lovely finally getting to meet your wife I’ve heard so much about.” A new voice, crisp and achingly saccharine, interrupts the moment.

Off to the side stands the woman, the one from the photos.

“Margaret,” Marcus curtly nods to her.

She grins at you wicked and sweet.

“Good to see you again, Dr. Pike,” she purrs, and Marcus stiffens beside you.

“See anything good, gorgeous?” Then the familiar voice of William Musgrave arrives.

You glance around and find even in the crowded space, it’s obvious you’re surrounded by their goons.

“I always knew you were the brains between the two Pikes,” Musgrave grins at you.

Your husband’s hand tightens into a fist against your back, angered.

“Now we can do this the easy way, or the not easy way.” Musgrave explains politely.

Either you and Marcus would both accompany them to the spot you believe the nails could be at, or they’d take you by force.

“The sarcophagus is the only clue we had. I’m sure you figured out something, Dr. Pike. Marcus always did praise your intellect.” Margaret coos at you faux adoringly, and your blood boils.

“No. This supposedly great lead was unsuccessful.” You snap back.

Musgrave sneers unconvinced. But glancing around he also notices this isn’t the time or place to be having such a conversation in the broad daylight among other visitors.

“Guess we can just return here later, once things have settled down.” He suggests.

“Now, don’t make this harder and come with us.” Margaret smiles.

True to their word, they bring you and Marcus back to the exhibition sneaking in under the cover of nightfall.

At any other time you’d be over the moon getting to examine such a rare and ancient artifact with Marcus by your side.

Now a horrible distaste rots in you.

“So… what plans do you all have for the nails? Are they really that expensive? Don’t you think the Catholic Church will find you first before you even get to sell them?” You suddenly speak up, momentarily lionhearted.

Marcus under the hood of his weathered hat shoots you a sharp cautionary look to tread lightly.

“Well, the money is nice,” Margaret begins.

But the truth was that the sacred nails apparently hold the dried sacred blood of Christ. Legend says the blood could heal any wound.

“Imagine the payout we could get if it’s true?” Musgrave greedily grins at the thought.

“Even if it’s true, those belong in a museum," Marcus snaps now.

One of the many qualities you loved about Marcus was his resolve, his integrity and steadfast determination.

Marcus championed artifacts being returned to their cultures, or for certain relics being restored within the safety of a museum. He would never think about seeking any artifacts out for his own gain.

Hearing him speak so firm and in his dusty leather jacket, even in this stressful moment, you’ve never been more in love.

Margaret makes a gagging noise and mockingly laughs.

“Oh you’re such a wet blanket, Dr Pike. No wonder why you were a disappointment in bed.” Her words slice through you.

Immediately your gaze snaps to find Marcus, almost accusatory. He already looks back at you, eyes shining in unshakable clarity.

“She’s lying. I never slept with her.” His words ring firm and true.

“So says the desperate lonely soon to be divorced man. I don’t know how you stayed with him for so long, you poor thing.” Margaret frowns staring at you.

“There’s nothing here.” You now declare fierce ignoring Margaret and her venomous words. “I’ve looked at every inch of this thing but found nothing.”

Musgrave sighs now.

“A shame… that’s all we had to go on.” He mutters.

Was this it? Was this finally over?

Marcus even seems to exhale a bit relieved.

Until Musgrave pulls out a pistol and points it to you.

“No!” Marcus screams and tries to reach you until another gun gets drawn stopping him.

“Now we can’t have you two love birds coming after us can we?” Margaret grins.

“We wouldn’t dare, just let us go.” Marcus urges and tries to negotiate saying he can lead them to other artifacts.

“Sorry Dr. Pike, we were set on those nails. It’s unfortunate that you or your pretty spouse couldn’t find anything.” Musgrave whistles disheartened.

“Wait.” You suddenly blurt out.

“I think… there might be another spot we can try.” You mutter.

“Now that’s the type of talk I like to hear.” Musgrave beams at you.

Marcus mutters your name petrified but confused, wondering where you’re heading with this.

“We can maybe try Helena’s original burial site.” You explain.

Your favorite professor blinks, processing what you’re saying.

“I remember… There was a mausoleum Constantine had commissioned for his mother,” Marcus mutters thinking out loud.

The original burial ground where Saint Helena rested is at another location.

This was your final attempt at finding something, or until you and Marcus figured out a way to escape this band of devils.

It pains you knowing you’re seeing this sacred site under awful circumstances. The mausoleum sits towering within the night and looms with the grace of an ancient world.

Musgrave’s men keep watch as everyone sneaks into the ancient site.

Among the beautiful old stones, listening to the softness of the wind, all you can think about is the sarcophagus.

And the image of those two lions.

One resting and the other sleeping. Two distinct forms that seem connected.

You finally take notice of the mausoleum’s peculiar build with two particular layers.

A thought strikes you. When you turn to Marcus he already stares at you, and you wonder if he arrived at the same conclusion.

“Some nails are up top,” he whispers.

“The other is buried below.” You finish.

“Don’t get brave and try anything silly now,” Musgrave reminds you and Marcus.

There’s still hope to escape this. But now you’re on a mission trying to search for some sort of clue.

Marcus however goes to stand in the center of the gravesite. Muttering to himself his eyes scan the walls while he holds the lantern up.

Then he scurries to a side of the wall.

Immediately Marcus kneels down and begins swiping at the stone wall edge with his hands, a makeshift attempt at trying to preserve the stone

You rush to his side.

“I figured we’d try for the sleeping lion first. Biblical prophecy and all. Just had to remember what direction the lions were in.” He grins boyish.

This smart, incredible man.

The stone wiggles under Marcus’s delicate touch.

Musgrave hisses something to his men while more of his men approach.

Neither you or Marcus care about the mercenary now. Everything in you simply focuses on the dig.

“I need something to move the brick blocking the others.” Marcus huffs a bit frustrated at himself for not having his dig site tool kit on hand.

“Not if we do this.” You grab a nearby discarded stone and start using it to knock away the brick.

“Hey!” Marcus cries a bit horrified at your actions, and Musgrave laughs.

“It’s fine,” you reassure Marcus. “Don’t you remember Helena desecrated and destroyed a pagan temple dedicated to the goddess Venus. This was bound to come back to her.”

Now you hear a breathlessly laugh come from Marcus. The jagged stone wall scrapes your hand, and you flinch in pain. He grabs the rock and instead takes over for you.

Further and further he digs into the rock wall’s edge that meets the floor.

His dusty hat unfortunately covers your eyesight when Marcus leans down closer to the ground.

Reaching into the stone gingerly he then pulls something out.

Ancient and aged cloth, almost delicate enough to be paper, is wrapped around something.

The air stills.

Delicately Marcus unfolds the wrapping. His eyes meet yours.

Inside sits a large rusted ancient nail.

Your breathing stops.

Stunned, you glance to Marcus who stares at this artifact trying to process the sight before him.

No one moves.

Until Musgrave reaches out and simply grabs the holy nail out from the wrapping.

Then, before you or Marcus can even react, immediately Musgrave begins screaming.

A horrible smell fills the air.

Then you watch as if a mysterious acid starts eating away at Musgrave’s hands. They disintegrate right before your eyes. His men and Margaret scream in confusion as their leader perishes right before them.

Margaret’s terror transforms in anger, and she whips out a gun pointing it at you.

Everything happens so fast.

The gunshot fires into the night, the sound ringing in your ears.

Yet you never feel the impact of a bullet.

All that comes is Marcus’s body barreling into yours as you and him collide falling over onto the ground.

Maybe she missed?

Margaret screams again, but this time it’s in pure agony. Wearily on the stone floor you watch her collapse to her knees. Her hands start disintegrating too. The holy nail she tried to escape with falls to the ground.

Utterly petrified, the rest of the men quickly flee in fear.

“Some mercenaries they are.” You chuckle.

Yet Marcus stays quiet.

Worried, you call his name and sit up more.

Blood stains your clothes.

The source leaks from the bullet wound -

That hit Marcus.

“No… oh please no,” you frantically cry trying to press your hands against the bleeding on his shoulder.

His breathing comes shaky, wheezy.

“Marcus, stay with me!” You snap, ordering him to stay awake.

“Love you, my bossy wife.” His tone is fond, but his slurred speech worries you.

Sliding your coat off, you use it to help put pressure on the wound. But so much blood continues soaking into your coat.

“Darling….” Marcus’s voice trickles out softer, weaker.

“No,” you cry harder trying to think of something, maybe run out into the streets of Rome to find help.

You can’t lose him.

Looking around the ancient site hoping to find anything, frantically you spot the nail on the ground.

Gingerly you move Marcus off your lap.

He coughs out your name.

“What are you doing? Honey?” Marcus speaks up a bit stronger against the pain and blood loss.

Resolved and hoping for a miracle, you gingerly pick up the nail through the wrapping, making sure not to touch the holy artifact. Your hand stings from the scrapes, but it doesn’t matter.

Against the lantern light you delicately shift Marcus to see his shoulder. A soft pained groan leaves him.

“I know, honey,” you hiccup.

This is all you can think of.

You run the tip of the nail against the wound.

Marcus shouts in pain. Tears stream down your face, blurring your vision.

What have you done?

Did you just lose the love of your life?

But then the bullet simply plops out from the wound.

Your eyes go wide.

The bleeding stops.

You beg Marcus to sit up and help slide off his jacket.

The wound is gone.

More sobs overtake you. The paper covered nail drops from your hands, and you fling yourself to embrace Marcus into your arms.

“You dumb man!” You cry hard. “Don’t ever jump in front of a bullet again!”

“I’m sorry, but I’d do it again to keep you safe.” He comforts you.

You shed more tears now simply relieved he’s alive. Marcus moves to draw you into his arms, cradling you.

Suddenly, the screech of police sirens break the air. A rush of police and Vatican officers arrive. A distinguished elderly priest speaking Italian storms in. He must be the main guy in charge.

Managing to steady himself Marcus answers the priest back in Italian.

The priest’s eyes go wide. He nods then returns to ordering the others around. The officers show no sign of arresting you or Marcus, and it confuses you even more.

“I told them what happened.” Marcus explains sensing your confusion.

“But how… why are they even here?” You still question, clinging to Marcus.

“Before we left, I told the innkeeper if we weren’t back by midnight to call the police and send them here,” Marcus reveals.

He already knew you might end up here.

“Kinda figured we’d both come to the same conclusion and check this place out. Guess my hunch was right.” He chuckles.

A watery relieved laugh fills your body, and you clutch onto him.

“I love you so much, you beautiful ridiculous man.” You laugh cry.

“Not as much as I love you,” Marcus exhales, kissing the top of your head while he clutches onto you tight.

“You saved my life.” He says reverently.

“You saved mine.” You argue back.

“Please… don’t ever touch a terrifying artifact again.” His voice wavers heavily with thick emotion.

“I’d do it again to keep you safe.” You repeat his words back to him.

Marcus busts into a watery laughter so love sick you want to hear it over and over.

Under the shadow of the ancient stone, you find anew in his arms.

— ⟡ —

The beautiful Italian sun coats the mausoleum in a soft light. The police and other authorities are still keeping everything off limits.

You’re grateful to finally appreciate the historic site without the stress of mercenaries or Marcus possibly bleeding out in your arms.

“I owe Saint Helena an apology. Guess she did really find the Holy Nails.” You note.

“I’m sure she’d understand your doubt.” Marcus ever reassuring replies.

“But you did break part of her mausoleum. So maybe you should apologize for that.” He adds teasing, and you playfully elbow him.

“You know it’s funny, I just remembered Helena is considered the patron saint of archeologists.” You add feeling a fondness swell in your chest.

“Very fitting,” Marcus squeezes your hand, grinning soft.

The priest from last night emerges out from the site and kindly smiles at you and Marcus.

“We appreciate you both keeping watch over these sacred relics,” the priest is earnest in his gratitude but also politely urges to never speak a word of what you saw.

“Safe blessings and travels to you both,” he nods and turns on his heels to return to the site.

“Father,” until Marcus calls out and stops him.

You’re just as confused as the poor priest.

“Can you… maybe do me a favor?” Marcus asks with kind pleading eyes.

Now you’re even more confused.

“Can you marry us? I want to renew our vows.” He asks sincerely.

An unflattering confused noise escapes you.

“Are you serious?!” You continue to squawk.

Marcus turns to you, clean shaven now and more stunning than ever in his blazer.

“Never been more serious in my life.” He reassures you and then turns back to say something in Italian to the priest.

The holy man sleepily grins, almost understanding. He now turns to you, waiting for your decision.

Without hesitation you step to stand beside Marcus before this priest.

The vows are familiar. You remember the officiant who did your first ceremony got emotional when Marcus politely interrupted the vows and declared his own.

Now under the watch of the ancient building, you and your husband declare yourselves to each other again. In your heart you promise to fight any battle with Marcus by your side. You again want your life tied to him in every way.

There’s no rings but you don’t mind.

Until of course Marcus eagerly moves to pull something from his blazer’s breast pocket.

His ring.

“You have it?” You can’t even believe your own words much less the sight of the familiar wedding band.

“Keep it on me for good luck,” bashfully Marcus shrugs.

You truly would love this man for all eternity.

Sliding his ring onto your hand, it feels like coming home.

“You may now kiss,” the priest declares warm.

It’s even better than the first time.

The inn keeper greets you relieved and teary eyed when Marcus and you return back.

This sweet older man is the true hero of this trip and you thank him graciously.

“So, are you ready to leave that signore and stay here with me?” He playfully winks, and you laugh.

“Maybe another time. This guy is my ride back.” You joke.

“Husband,” Marcus politely corrects. “I’m your husband.”

Damn right he is.

Tomorrow you’ll be flying home with your husband.

“Wish we could stay later, maybe see more here in Rome” he admits dreamily placing soft kisses against your shoulder as he gathers up his things.

“We have papers to grade,” you weakly reply back.

“Ugh no talk of school. We’re on our second honeymoon mind you.” Marcus huffs, and you laugh.

When he pulls you down to the bed alongside him, he winces a bit.

“Does your shoulder still hurt?” You ask worried.

“Just sore, it’s fine.” He reassures you. The wound is completely healed still, but you understand how sore he could still be.

Your eyes find the spot where the bullet hit him, where his warm skin now remains unblemished.

Leaning down you place a soft kiss to where the wound was. The soft exhale Marcus gives is music to your ears.

“I’m a bit sore here too honey, might need a kiss,” Marcus mutters moving to point at his lips.

The action makes you laugh, but you happily kiss him all the same. Greedily your husband sweeps you in his arms.

When your hand reaches for his face, the scrapes still fresh against your skin suddenly sting sharp, and you now flinch.

He immediately notices, says your name worried, and pulls away to tend to your hand.

“It’s nothing.” You’re the one reassuring him now. Especially compared to his wound, you had almost completely forgotten about your hand.

Once the tender wrapping is around your scrapes, Marcus lifts your hand to place a soft kiss against it like he’s a beautiful knight pledging his fealty to you.

“You wanna hear my theory on why I think the nail worked, Dr. Pike?” he mutters.

“Tell me, Dr. Pike.” You perk up curious.

“Because you used the nail on someone else, someone you love.” Marcus explains with the most gentle tone.

“I’m just glad it worked.” You agree.

Gentle he gathers you back into his arms, and you melt into blissful peace. He kisses your forehead.

“So… what’s your next adventure, Professor Pike? Want to find the ark of the convent?” You tease.

“Why? Is my beautiful wife thinking of accompanying me?” Those gorgeous eyes of his go wide in surprise.

“Maybe… I don't know. Guess I just now understand why you do this.” You shrug playfully.

Leaning out from his arms, you reach and grab the dusty hat perched on top of the best post.

Turning to Marcus you place his hat on your head.

“What do ya say…Up for another adventure?” You grin wild.

You’re worried he might have taken this as teasing since he intently stares at you.

Marcus doesn’t let you utter another word as he suddenly surges forward to kiss you.

In the beautiful afterglow among the sheets again, dark brown hat fully discarded, you slowly fade in and out of sleep. Your husband’s fingers aimlessly tracing gentle shapes on you.

“I’ve always wondered if Atlantis is real,” you suddenly say dreamy burrowing closer to Marcus. “Can you maybe try to find Atlantis?”

Your favorite professor burst into a wild wonderful laugh, one that brilliantly touches his eyes.

“No, my darling. I think I’ve had enough adventures for a while. Now I want to enjoy the best ones with my wife.” He grins.

Then Marcus kisses you like you’re the most precious treasure he could ever find in the world.