#outstanding move

Was he truly this old?

"Right this way, miss."

He hears it, but doesn't pay attention to it. Visitors weren't that uncommon, and he paid them no mind, nor interest. He focused on staring at the styrofoam cup with coffee in it. He had no idea how long he has been looking at it. Then again, time wasn't important in here.

"Were there any problems with him so far?"

He frowns a little, his brain deciding to pick up on the conversation nearby despite his attempts to ignore the whole world. He replays the overheard sentence once again, and again, feeling weird. The voice felt weirdly familiar, to the point where his old, dusty instincts started to delicately poke him in the head. He shouldn't hear anyone familiar, because right now everyone he used to know is most likely his enemy. And despite not being in his best mental shape, those parts deep inside him that kept him alive all these years were preparing themselves.

"Nothing out of the ordinary. He's still constantly swinging in between seemingly perfectly aware of his situation and able of fast, complicated calculations of his environment, and then once again turning completely unresponsive." He can hear nurse's steps right behind him, stopping slowly. He doesn't see her in the flesh, but what he does see is her reflection in the glasses left by other patient. A normal person wouldn't be able to see something like this, but he could. His eyes used to be the eyes of the gods, after all.

And one of them was still inside him. Silent, as if actually dead, but those delicate symptoms of Ammit's presence were felt in the way Harrow could see more, hear more, awaken in himself more strength and grace than he should in his current state.

He's still looking at the reflection in the glasses, focusing on it. The nurse fades away, and soon he sees someone new.

No, not new.

A woman, definitely younger than him, but definitely not a teenager. She seems delicate, wearing a simple shirt and a grey jumper. On her neck is a golden, subtle necklace with an emblem of a lioness' head.

She comes slowly, in silence, and then crouches next to him. He crooks his head in her direction and their eyes meet, his icy blues searching her face. The wave of sudden recognition hits him with a stunning force, and something inside him twists painfully with a mixture of regret, betrayal and something he could've sworn he allowed to die many years before.

The asleep, trapped goddess inside him seems to stir, recognizing the woman in the same moment he does, but while he's conflicted and feels himself getting smaller, Ammit, depraved of the ability of actually voicing her thoughts, cursed with eternal silence, seems to conjure enough power in her spirit form that he hears a word in his head that doesn't really feel like his own. Sekhmet, she seems to hiss, and his memory responds accordingly and swiftly, bringing before his eyes the sight of a lion goddess, thrusting her claws into a crocodile chest, with another gigantic figure with a bird skull instead of the head trying to stand up from the waves of sand.

He blinks, pulling himself back to the current reality. The woman is still crouched beside him, quiet, searching. Her face seems neutral, analyzing, but her eyes tell a different story. You're a terrible liar, dove, he can hear himself saying somewhere in the past. You can try to tell me anything you want, but your eyes will always tell me the truth.

"So." Finally she breaks the silence, and absentmindedly he holds his breath, like if he was about to hear the final judgment after a long trial. "On which side is the pendulum of your awarness right now? Do you know where you are?"

He exhales heavily, trying to process the question. His mind does it momentarily, sharp and swift, but the rest of him is less interested in such compliance. He takes a few long moments to finally answer. He slowly extends his right hand in young woman's direction, his long fingers welcoming.

"I'm Arthur." He stops for awhile and blinks. "Arthur Harrow, ma'am."

Something flickers in her eyes and he sees the corners of her mouth shiver in the most subtle, genuine smile. She delicately shakes his hand and in the somehow broken voice responds with a simple 'Hello'.

I remember you, he thinks to himself. I remember everything.

~ o ~

Weeks later, when he's being taken away from the nurse by a mystery man, he doesn't even question it. Still dizzy from post-sedative effects, fighting an inner – and losing – battle between that rational, true part of him that tells him to immediately try to understand hist situation, while the other is happily, blissfully unaware of what awaits him outside the facility.

When the first breath of fresh hair hits him after being wheeled out outside, it's almost like a punch to the face. Harrow closes his eyes for a second, as if the purity of sunlight, opposed to the false nature of lamps in the asylum could actually hurt him. He needs a few seconds to get used to it, and he can feel his senses slowly coming back. He's far from being fully conscious and aware, but still closer to it than he was in the beginning. He makes an attempt to look up at his mysterious kidnapper, but his neck hurts, and despite years of experience with pain, he's too weak right now to fight it. The same body that was able to easily hold up against two other avatars is right now far away from this state of wellbeing. He starts to genuinely feel old, as if there were twenty, if not thirty additional years suddenly added to his early fifties.

The man pushing the wheelchair leads him in the green alley of small trees and hedges. A calm place, hidden from the eyes of the mental health facility, even though it dangles somewhere far in the corners of his vision. He could almost start to appreciate the serene aura, but then he was abruptly thrown off the wheelchair. The mysterious man behind him kicked it far away and it rolled down the delicate hill, dissapearing in the bushes.

He holds himself on his hands, light brown hair obscuring his vision, sticking to his forehead. The adrenaline starts to kick in and suddenly he feels a sudden surge of strength – not much, but enough for him to force himself to stand up, on the same legs that he barely used for the past three months. Harrow grunts, stiff muscles in his arms straining, his fingers already clenching into a fist. Too slow, he thinks, a mere second before he feels a strong kick hitting him in the abdomen. He loses his balance and lands on his knees, his left arm instinctively jumping to hold the lower part of his stomach, while the fingers of his right hand are once again sprawled on the grass.

The force of the kick took his breath away and he struggles to force his lungs to work again. He feels dizzy, tears gathering in the corners of his eyes. He hears the sound of the gun being cocked and while his mind urges him to stand up and put up a fight, his body decides that holding itself on its knees is more comfortable.

"Hoy te toca perder."

His mind allows him for the almost comedy-like, one last moment of puzzlement. Seems like his lack of interest in learning Spanish is going to be the last thing he regrets right before his death. He only picked few simple words and most fundamental sentence structures from Victor, but it was not enough to truly make him a fluent speaker of the language. Always too much focused on Arabic and Ancient Egyptian.

He closes his eyes in a silent acceptance, waiting for the shot. He berated himself for allowing to be caught in such a fragile state of the body, which, despite being enhanced by his years of service for Khonshu, was way out of touch with itself these past few months.

"MARC!"

The familiar voice comes out from nowhere, followed by a sound of a body colliding with another. The gun fall's out of a not-so-mysterious man's hand and clatters to the ground, only to share the fate of the wheelchair and fall down of the hill. Harrow gasps, the pain from the kick still strong, but not as overwhelming as it was in the beginning. He tried to stand up, but his stubborn brain is too focused on the sounds of a short fight. He sees the same young woman which visited him few times in the asylum. The same one he saw frequently for the past decade.

"We had a deal!" She almost growls out, crawling back, then crouching on one knee, her figure a barrier between him and his attacker. Her pose is both defensive, but also shows the ability of launching another attack, muscles tense, feet strategically put on the ground. His brain can easily calculate the scenario of her jumping from crouching to standing position in a heartbeat. He doesn't even have to imagine. He saw it before. "We. Had. A deal. What is wrong with you?"

Marc Spector? How entirely surprising. Harrow manages to lift up left corner of his mouth in a sarcastic smile, hidden by greying strands of hair hiding his face, his eyes fixed on the ground.

"Oh, mierda." A man in the body of Harrow's nemesis proceeds to stand up, his hands raised just a little in a defensive gesture – or a mockery of it. "You weren't supposed to be here, señorita."

"You don't say." She hisses back, sparing one second to look behind her, to see Harrow's eyes fixed on her, unreadable, partially obscured by hair falling on his face. "And what's with the Spa-- Ah, right." The woman shakes her head, eyes travelling back to the so-called Mark. "Jake, it's been awhile, and I want to get this straight--"

"You don't have to." Jake, as it turns out, stops her in her tracks, looking around for his gun, only to notice it few meters below. He sighs, then continues to speak, the Spanish accent strong in his voice. "I know about that deal you've made with the other two. But Khonshu has other ideas."

"I don't care about what Khonshu wants." She spats. "He was there when the deal was made. He could've just stepped in and killed him shortly after we trapped Ammit in his body, but he didn't. His chance was lost then and there. Now he's just using you to do what he could not."

"I'm serving him. Willingly, señorita. Keeping Harrow alive was a miscalculation made on behalf of your sentiment towards him, and Marc's and Steven's friendship towards you. Khonshu only wishes to correct that error in judgment." Jake leans down and gets the cabbie hat from the ground, then puts it back on his head. "It's nothing personal between you and me."

Harrow still remains on the ground, his mind trying to focus both on the conversation he hears and on forcing his body to regain its composure. At his current state, however, it can only do one of those, and the most complicated movement he can do right now is slowly getting his hand in the woman's direction, delicately placing his fingers on her armas if to placate her. It does little, her posture still defensive, eyes focused on Jake Lockley.

"It's going to get personal if you'll leave me no choice. Now please leave, and you can sincerely tell Khonshu to fuck off." The venom in her voice slowly dies out, replaced by a silent plea, that is soon followed by new words. "Please. Leave."

All three of them are hit by a sudden rise in the wind. Trees and bushes clash mercilessly, leaves pirouetting. Harrow looks at Lockley and can clearly see the Moon God standing behind him, empty eyes from the bird skull focused on him, fingers tightly clenched around his staff.

She can't see him anymore, but she knows he's here. When Harrow looks back at her, he can see her jaw clenching, but she doesn't say a word, entirely focused on the man standing in front of her. Jake grimaces, his eyes disapproving, slowly moving to the right to meet the icy blue irises of his near-victim. Both men stare at each other in silence, calculating, measuring, planning.

When Lockley speaks again his voice is cold, flat, and sharp.

"No te mereces a esta mujer."

And just like this he's turning around and leaving them both alone, accompanied by another strong blow of the wind, the only way for Khonshu to demonstrate his fury. Harrow closes his eyes, feeling how his throat clenches, nostrils flaring. He hates his mind and these old, short lessons from Victor for allowing him to understand this specific phrase.

"I know." He murmurs sincerely in response, his fingers leaving the woman's arm.

*"No te mereces a esta mujer." - You don't deserve this woman.*

~ o ~

She rarely left him alone at home – actually, she didn't do it for the first month at all. She took him out of the asylum straight away after meeting with Lockley. Whether it was an accident, her intuition or just fate that she was right there and then when Harrow was being taken away for execution, she couldn't tell. But she was glad nonetheless, even if she was painfully aware of how much more tough her life is going to become now.

Then again, she chose it the day she decided to step in and separate him from Steven in the museum. When her eyes locked with Harrow's for the first time in five years, she could literally feel the irreversible change of the course her life took in that very moment.

And here they were.

Harrow was always difficult, for many reasons. For one, he was disgustingly intelligent and gifted in the art of manipulation. Because of that she could never tell if he was telling the truth, and if so, what did he change in it. She genuinely wasn't sure if he actually loved her back in the old days, or did he use her for his own goals. But even if he was pretending, she had to admit he was very, very, very good in it. The fact that he was able to put up this act – if it was an act, she kept telling herself – for five years was also worthy of respect, in her opinion.

Back then she prefered to think it was genuine and pure, despite their disagreements. Now, ten years later, when he was in his current state, her mind decided to change its views and tried to make her swing to the side of thinking he was just pretending, and that she was the one playing the lovesick fool.

Then again, maybe her mind was also broken. After all, she became Sekhmet's eyes at a very young age, and even though the goddess of war and famine wasn't nearly as frustrating and abhorrent as what Marc had to pull up with Khonshu, it still left quite a big scar on her psyche. Now, after the Egyptian lioness' left her alone after the battle with Ammit, she still wasn't sure if her mind was truly, fully hers.

But she learned to enjoy little things. Living on the outside of the society, alone, wild and untamed, she liked talking to Steven and Marc, as well as happily wandered around the world with Layla when the possibility arose. But now she willingly tethered herself to her small apartment, afraid of leaving Arthur alone. Even though she made sure to get rid of anything that could be possibly dangerous, she knew he was way to smart to be limited by it. Even though Harrow has shown absolutely none suicidal tendencies, not did he make any attempt at her own life, she knew that safety is important. Better safe than sorry, she kept repeating to herself in moments of doubt.

Harrow, actually, was quite healthy in terms of his mind. He didn't lose any fragment of his memories, perfectly aware of his past and current situation. His eyes were still full of wisdom, seeing everything, his brain certainly planning something – she didn't know what, and it unnerved her. But he was very silent and closed in himself, something that was quite a drastic change in someone who proudly interrogated people, learning their beliefs, wielding words and his voice as his greatest weapon. He was a leader, a born orator, and now he could sit in silence for days, not exchanging a single word with her. She accepted it, didn't push. She was just stupidly glad that he was alive and that she could see him constantly, watching him with that longing stare of a lovesick teenager when she thought he isn't looking, or he's sleeping and unaware.

But he was always aware.

And she was still just enjoying his presence, no matter how painful it actually was to bear, how painful were those old memories. She had also no idea how long would she be able to contain him in her house – he couldn't spend here the rest of his life, however long it might be. Thirty years? Forty? Fifty? Theoretically speaking, he was only halfway into a possible lifespan, maybe little more than that. Was this how their lives were supposed to be from now on? Was she truly going to allow both of them this misery of living in the same, small space, together but also as far away as possible?

"Yeah, I'm right at the door right now," She says on the phone, taking out the keys. "Yeah, sure, sure. Okay, thanks Steven. Yeah, I'll call you in the evening. Take care."

Her phone ends back in her pocket as she steps into the apartment. It's quiet, as she suspected, everything left in the same place it was – she quickly learned to make mental notes of where what was, to have a general idea of what Harrow might've been doing when she wasn't home. She closed the door behind her, peeking out from behind the corner. He was sitting on the small, dark grey sofa, a book about lore of Egyptian pharaohs in his hand, eyes focused on the text. He noticed her and welcomed with nothing more but a short look of acknowledgment. She nodded her head in response and hung her white coat on the wall, proceeding to the main room and throwing her phone, wallet and keys on the black table.

She moved to the kitchen counter in silence, her steps quiet, something she learned doing during her service in Sekhmet's name; it was a reflex, the need for being unseen strong. She takes a glass and pours a little bit of alcohol into it, sparing a glance in Harrow's direction, him still situated on the sofa on the end of the room. Her gaze covers his whole body, starting from the head adorned by brown-grey hair slightly brushing his shoulders, going to the lean frame of his torso. Her eyes run through his fingers, sprawled on the cover of the book from underneath, then to the slightly spreaded legs, and finally ending on his feet.

She hums quietly in silent acceptance of his visible state, focusing back on the glass in her hand.

And then it hits her, and her gaze returns immediately to his feet. When she notices them, her heart stops beating, and when she forces herself to speak she barely recognizes her own voice.

"Stand up."

His eyes flicker in her direction nearly immediately, searching, his brain undoubtedly calculating his next move, but not making any with his body. Harrow slowly closes the book he's been reading and puts it on the coffee table in front of him, but outside of it, he doesn't move.

"Stand up." She repeats, her fingers involuntarily clutching the edge of the counter. "Now."

He finally does what he's told, her eyes focused on his feet. When he was at home – and he was there for most of the time, because she rarely took him anywhere – he was usually barefoot. It was definitely a massive step up after years of walking on glass. After some quick and easy calculations, she estimated he must've been doing it for at best two years, at worst – nearly five. She didn't think about actually asking him about it. She doubted he would answer.

But now he stands up, slowly but gracefully, and she sees him wearing simple, black shoes. Her nostrils flare and she makes a simple hand gesture, motioning for him to come forward. He does so, his eyes not leaving her face, and despite the fairly big distance between them, she starts to feel cornered by the power of nothing else but his gaze alone.

She knows that she can't lose that silent battle of wills and struggle for authority, no matter how big is the difference in the terms of their experience. She does her best to remain composed, even when she hears the familiar sound of glass shards crunching beneath his feet with every step he makes. Harrow doesn't even flinch, there is no sign of pain on his face, he isn't even limping. She knew that the cane he used was nothing more than a weapon, since he was in a very good state, physically speaking. The facade of an elder, well-spoken man he was putting for the world was very well, intricately made, but she knew the truth.

He closes the distance between them, and she truly has to do her best not to back down a step. Even in simple, white attire, with no weapon at his disposal, he has this unbreakable aura of authority that makes her flinch. He has the upper hand in everything – age, experience, knowledge and intelligence. The realization hits her fast – she only gives commands in this house because he allows her to. The apartment might be hers because the official documents say so, but the fact that it's her voice that resonates in its walls is, since the last month, possible purely because of his so-called good will. He could crush her if he wanted, because his mind was perfectly clear, and his body in a shape better than it had right to be.

I can't step back now, she thinks to herself, forcing every fiber of herself to stay defiant and not lose control. Harrow was playing some kind of game with her, slowly pushing at her walls, testing their strength.

"Take off your shoes." She commands calmly, but sharply, doing her best to withstand this eye contact. His blue irises are absolutely unreadable to her, and it makes her frustrated. She had known him for the past decade – well, on and off, considering the five years of no contact whatsoever – and yet she feels like she barely scraped the surface of him.

Harrow ponders about this command for a while. Then his lips twitch oh-so-slightly and he kneels, freeing his feet from their prison. He allows her to see his feet, full of old scars as usual, but now with fresh blood and new cuts added to the picture. She gulps, involuntarily, slightly baring her teeth, like a lioness berating her cub.

This metaphor was so absurd it made her nearly choke on the incoming wave of laugh, that she managed to stop in the very last second.

"Well?" She motioned to his bleeding feet, deep inside feeling bad for not immediately going to clean and bandage them. But the tired, irritated part of her forced her to play this cruel game he started. "Why?"

Harrow slowly stands up, unfazed. "My penance." He responds smoothly, though his silky, delicately rough voice is now much rougher after months of barely speaking at all, and days of actually not murmuring even a single word. He looks at her again and slightly tilts his head in a way that could almost be perceived as adorable.

"Stop toying with me." She cuts him off, wanting to assert her own dominance as quickly as she can, before he gains the upper hand. Something flickers in his eyes - something close to amusement, but he allows her to finish first. "You decided to come back to this after months? Now? Don't you think that in your case, penance is long overdue?"

"What makes you think so?" He asks instead, calm, not paying any attention to the blood, gathering in a small puddle beneath him. He's still pushing her, trying to get some kind of a serious reaction. I'm not strong enough for this, she realizes, gritting her teeth. She meets him with silence, instead moving even closer, to the point where they're literally breathing at their faces. She has to raise her head a bit to look at him, and she isn't sure whether she's already going mad, or if he actually did move his face a tiniest bit lower and closer to her.

The sudden surge of conflicted emotions hits her sharp, hard and leaves momentarily. Not sure what exactly she feels or wants, she sprays fingers of her both hands on his chest and pushes him backwards. He allows her to do so, walking where she leads him, his eyes never leaving her face, his breath hot against her cheeks. She involuntarily, slightly parts her lips, but doesn't do what she clearly wants to – instead she stops pushing him when they reach the bathroom, orders him to stay put with a short squeeze of his wrist, and then proceeds to test the remperature of water in the shower. The furious part inside of her wants to make him wash the blood off with the most icy cold water possible, but the caring one eventually prevails and she lets the water run at a decent temperature.

She doesn't say a word, just closes the door behind her and leaves, his gaze piercing through her disappearing frame, unraveling everything inside.

 ~ o ~

He doesn't attempt to come back to his sick, morning ritual of breaking glass – or at least not that she's fully aware of it. For the next two months it's fairly peaceful, both of them retreated to their previous routine of barely noticing each other.

Sometimes she has to leave him alone in the house. Usually nothing happens after she comes back, but there are times where she could've sworn she can taste the metallic aura of blood in the air. Everytime it happens, she notices that Harrow's hair are slightly damp. She isn't stupid and puts it together, but is too mentally tired to try and fight him on it. She only lets him know that she knows by welcoming him with a knowing, cold stare. When she does, he only slightly tilts his head and blinks slowly. It was a non-verbal invite to another battle of wills, but she was smart enough to not try picking the fights she had no chance of winning whatsoever.

If he was disappointed by this, he never showed it.

Even though the mental aspects of their shared life were complicated, frustrating and tiring, the day-to-day routine couldn't be simpler if they tried. Once in a few days he shaved, then went to read a book, making some notes he later hid in places she couldn't locate. They ate in silence, sitting on the opposite sides of the sofa. In his defense, he could be actually helpful at times. He knew a thing or two about preparing food, and he respected order and tidiness, so quite often he took the house cleaning on himself, especially when she had to go outside, be it a meeting with Steven and Marc, a one-day trip with Layla or something less entertaining. He never left a mess – even when he was surrounded by pieces of paper, opened books and other materials, he always put it back in place when he was going to sleep. It was quite a contrast with her – she was more wild, her desk and bed a chaos, much like her mind. At some point he genuinely asked her if she would mind him cleaning her own workspace up a bit. It threw her off guard, lips parting in a surprise, before she regained her composure and told him that there is no need, because she can always find whatever she needs in that private, small chaos of hers. Still, it mattered to her that he asked, even if the only acknowledgment from him was a short nod of his head before he moved on to something else.

There was some progress on their quiet journey of living together, but it was painfully slow and far from grandeur. But it was there nonetheless, in small actions, small gestures, small exchanges of words. The longest conversation they had lasted about fifteen minutes, when she watched him making some notes and simple drawings of Egyptian symbols. She knew he was far from leaving his past behind and that he was planning his next, future move, but at the same time she was too unsure on how to bite the subject in order to even make any attempts of stopping him from another world-shaking plan. He knew that, and that's why he was so open with what he was doing, not hiding what exactly interested him in his long research, his notes and titles of the books he picked up open for her to see. It's almost like he urged her to try and understand what was he doing, testing her as he always did.

Not a fight I can win, she reminded herself. She was a fighter, but he was a manipulator. His mind worked in ways so beautiful and complex, they were far behind the spectrum of her own experience.

Sometimes she just sat in silence next to him, even going as far as falling asleep on the couch they were sharing. He didn't mind, focused on his reading, putting a blanket on her if she forgot to do it by herself, but not uttering a single word in her direction.

Three months came flying by, nearing to fourth one. It was a weird stagnation, but in a twisted way it was comforting for her. She was fully aware of the strength of her feelings towards him, despite the war they fought just half a year ago. She still tended to steal glances in his direction, fighting the urge to brush the rebellious strand of hair falling on his face, or the powerful need to throw herself at him and just not let go. She was desperate for his warmth, her traitorous body reacting way too accordingly every time he so much as brushed his fingers against her hand. His scent was intoxicating, and she found herself sitting next to him more frequently, enjoying that silent torture that was purely her own choice.

She often wondered how he would react – if he would do anything – if she had just wrapped her arms around him and buried her face in the crook of his neck, inhaling that scent of his like her private source of oxygen. But she never mustered up the bravado to actually do it, and in exchange was left with a burning need, condemned to see him every day, for most of the time, sometimes to even hear his voice, feel his closeness – even if they weren't truly touching. She tended to wake up at night, forced to overcome the urge of screaming into the pillow out of the pure frustration. She felt stupid, like a lovesick, obsessed teenager.

Her neverending love for him was the most sublime torture.

It was another one of those usual mornings. She left her small bedroom, yawning, still wearing the way oversized t-shirt that was her excuse of a nightgown. Harrow was sitting on the sofa he slept on, head slightly tilted, as he slowly moved a simple razor across his cheek, working on getting rid of his current stubble.

She frowned.

"Why aren't you doing it in front of the mirror?" Was her genuine question. Her heart skipped a bit, groggy mind making wild imageries of broken mirror in the bathroom, of glass, of glass in shoes, the red shirt he wore making her think of blood pouring from his feet...

"There is no need." He answered simply, thankfully putting her racing thoughts to a halt. She sighed heavily, pressing her fingers to her forehead. She started moving in his direction, slowly but surely, and sat right next to him. He looked at her from the corner of his eyes, but didn't stop scraping the razor against his skin.

She gulped, thinking about something, straightening her fingers and biting her lip. She was already beginning to sober up, and was ready to move on with her day, but then her nose picked up his scent and her reasonable judgment broke like a porcelain figurine. A soft "hey" came out from her parted lips, and then her hand slowly caught his wrist. That made him stop in his tracks, blue eyes meeting hers fully, waiting. She quickly wetted her lips with her tongue, and his eyes involuntarily flickered to this movement before coming back again. He allowed the delicate, filigree fingers to take the razor from his own, and leaned slightly back, presenting his whole face to her. He could see her hesitation, but said nothing, allowing her to make the decision for herself.

The idea of her slicing his throat with that razor did occur to him, but he banished the thought like it was nothing, paying it no mind. He could do it – where she would be full of insecurities and hesitance, he was able to control his mind and genuinely command it, while she was constantly struggling for that control.

Her current position was a bit uncomfortable for what she was about to do, so she went to sit in front of him, positioning her legs beneath her. Harrow stopped her there, his right hand carefully catching her left ankle, then going a bit higher, maneuvering her leg so that it was on his lap – and then he pulled some more, forcing her to sit on his own legs. The sensation of his fingers on her bare skin made her feel lightheaded, and once again she was forced to fight her own mind and her own body, both wanting something very obvious. Obvious and wrong.

He knows, she thought to herself in agony. He knows and I hate the fact that he does.

She sat in his lap, doing her best not to tremble, trying to fight off the sudden rise in her body temperature. Harrow remained composed, calm, his breath hot on her neck but rhytmical, steady. The hand that brought her to her current position left her skin for a while, and she almost sighed both with relief and sorrow – only to come back and trail intricate patterns on the outside of her ledt thigh. He was slow, careful, testing, his eyes wandering and observing. She decided to just get on with what she was supposed to do and try to ignore everything else.

'Try' was a good word to describe it. Despite his calm demeanor, she could feel that his body is not exactly as composed as his mind is – it became even warmer than it usually was, and the mixture of that heat coming from both of them was agonising. She stroked the razor along the line of his cheek, then chin and jaw, tilting it slightly with the tips of her fingers. Her moves were slow, careful, and it took all her sense of self-preservation not to focus her eyes on the delicate movements of his Adam's apple.

He didn't do much – only his right hand was still painfully slow in massaging her thigh, while the orher one was randomly sprawled on the sofa right next to them. Seconds became a full minute, and then another. It felt like hours, her breath heavy, but slow. She awakened in herself such big amount of patience and focus that she barely noticed how his breath also started to became much heavier than it usually was, the digits of his free hand slowly tapping the soft cashmere beneath.

She made a last stroke on the edge of his jaw, pulling slightly back despite her want to do the opposite, and turned her torso around so she could put the razor back on the coffee table behind her. She turned back at him, seeing him but not really looking, absentmindedly smoothing both sides of his face with her hands, then brushing back the white-gray strand of his brown hair.

And just like that, the glass wall that was between them up to this point shattered, and his free hand caught the back of her head, fingers tangling in her hair, while the one stroking her thigh squeezed tighter, then went up to wrap itself around her waist. She barely managed to gasp before her face was brought down to his own, lips crashing against each other, breaths entangled, his arm pressing her even closer to him. If his composure broke with such force, her own was destined to do so as well; and so she did what she desperately wanted to do for so long, wrapping her arms around his neck, trying to fight off tears of pure, unbridled joy prickling at the corners of her eyes.

It was done. She needed nothing more, ever.

His tongue lapped against her own, exploring every inch of her mouth, his breaths burning her cheeks. The hand holding her waist went down, crawling itself underneath her loose shirt, drawing circles in between her shoulder blades. She gasped loudly, her body involuntarily attempting to straighten itself; but his hold on her was strong, and he pulled her back, even deeper onto his lap, a growl coming from the depths of his throat. That was it – there was no escape.

He slowly broke the kiss, bringing his lips to her earlobe, using the most powerful weapon he ever wielded – his own voice. He murmured quiet praises, but she was so lost in the haze of lust that her mind was barely able to recognize the words. Whether the mouth biting hear ear and jaw was speaking those words in English, she couldn't tell. For all she knew, he could curse her right now in Coptic and it wouldn't matter at all. His teeth were scraping her skin, going lower, tainting her neck with bites overlayed with kisses, and all she could do was to pull at his hair, massaging his scalp. Her breaths became silent moans, and his self composure broke even further, his body suddenly making her aware of his strength as he laid her down on her back, soon to cover her body with his own, hands running down the sides of her body as she was holding on him for her dear life.

They spent the next few, long hours sprawled on the sofa, breathing each other, making love they denied themselves for years.

 ~ o ~

 "My love,

I'm confident when I say that you managed to heal me – something I considered impossible. I always perceived your sentiment towards me as something horrid, and I was forced to look how it destroyed you piece by piece. You've made one bad decision after another, first when you begged to spare my life, then saved it once again, and then when you decided to condemn yourself to sharing your private space with me. I might've not shown it the way I should and wanted, but know that I appreciate this sacrifice. Though I do agree with the words that I have heard every single day since the moment they were spoken by Jake Lockley: I don't deserve you.

Do not make mistake on this – I care about you, I always have and always will. It was so easy to let you in, even after all these years. I purposely tried to create distance between us when we first met after that long time, because everytime I saw you during my fight in the name of Ammit's ideals, I was very, very close to giving it up. I pride myself on believing in my goals, and I will always stand by my beliefs, even if it's truly outrageous in your eyes. But if you so much as told me to stop and pulled me in other direction, I could very possibly be swayed, so I avoided you as much as I could. The fact that we ended up sharing the very same place for the five months that came afterwards was, in my opinion, a beautifully fitting punishment for my misdeeds. And I definitely enjoyed every moment of it.

I do, however, believe that it's time to move on to another chapter, whatever it may be. I'm regretful for not speaking to you about this, instead cowering behind written words – and I've been trying to write them for a long time. I think that's the broken charm of love – it gives you courage when you need it, but in the most crucial moments, it makes you afraid, and fear is very good at depraving of reason. Saying my farewells to you once again makes me feel pathetically weak, but it's necessary for the both of us.

Whatever shall happen in our separate futures, I want you to know that my heart always belonged to you and you alone, and always will – but for your own wellbeing, I sincerely hope you will find someone else to keep yours. I know you had your doubts in this matter, so I wanted you to know. I never lied to you in this aspect, even though I did hide some things from you when it was necessary to do so. I do not hope for your forgiveness, but I keep hoping you will understand.

Always yours,