tɦe ʄɑte we ɗeɑl.

the wind is howls around him, a echo of his soul, of his mind. there is something inside, something living there now, ever since they escaped. a voice, a scream constantly echo through his scull. several voices, screaming, cursing, wailing. one voice for each of them. and then his own. waves violently crashing against rocks, the salt spray barely reaching him up here. the sky ahead turning darker and darker by each passing second, and he think there is a storm brewing. it is sinking beneath his skin, it makes a home there. there is a comfort in this. unsettled nature, uncontrollable forces. standing here, sleeves of shirt rolled up and drops of water against skin, the wind tugging at the fabric, trying to rip him apart. it doesn't understand, he is already torn.

a moment, that could have happened before the cards. that could have happened after. some things never change. he doesn't move, not when there are footsteps, not when familiar voice is there. he watches, the sea, the sky, the seagulls. always changing, never the same. somehow, it stayed true to itself. even now, millenniums later. a low hum as hand tuck into the pockets of his pants, head tips to the side. " it never changed. " the world lost it's magic, it lost the memory of them, but right here, stayed the same.

theodore and antoinette. a tale as old as time. their issue was never love, it was everything else. perhaps change is not the worst to happen. perhaps it will bring them closer. perhaps it will tear them apart. he doesn't sit on the answers to how the future will unfold. he leans back a little, there is a shift of weight, before he turns to look at theodore. eyes a storm, just like the one now brewing behind him. takes him in, as if he could read the subtext to his words. there's a low hum then, ghost of a smile flash across features. barely there, gone in a second, a trick of mind. " and the dramatics, did you borrow from rhyder ? " voice is low, rasp across gravel, leaning weight on his cane, a slight limp in his steps as he comes closer.

tristan’s words come in waves. no, not waves, rips— jagged, holy, heretic things. they split against him, not around. salt in the wound. salt in the soul. truth before tenderness. like gods before mercy. theodore doesn’t move. doesn’t need to. but he feels it. ribs first. then breath. then that sacred, brittle place where being seen feels like sin. his jaw tightens— not out of ego, no. that’s a young man’s posture. this is older. this is a cathedral kind of ache. this is a prayer said after the roof already collapsed. he laughs. kind of. more the ghost of one. a breath with bones. less thunder, more dust. not humor. not even irony. just grief in costume. “        rhyder’s too chaotic for poetry,        ” murmured, like a secret he's told too often to believe anymore. boots flirting with the cliff’s lip. toes daring gravity. a kind of seduction. “        i never borrowed dramatics. i inherited them. from gods with no patience. and worse manners.        ”

his eyes are out past the edge. where sky forgets itself into sea. where all things shift, shapeshift, sink. a gull cuts the storm like it signed the damn thing into being. he watches. maybe envies. maybe not. “        i didn’t come here to argue with a ghost.        ” the words crackle. like fire under frost. like bones under silence. “        but you’re right. you always did know how to twist the knife so it teaches instead of kills.        ” he turns, finally. slow. like the earth might shatter if he moves too fast. looks at tristan like he’s more myth than man. not reverence, exactly. but the kind of hush you give to truth when it shows up uninvited. “        did she leave because of the change?        ” a scoff, more breath than sound. “        she left because that’s the one thing she never changes. she’s loyal to departure. devoted to vanishing.        ” the wind howls between them— teeth-first.

“        i could be better,        ” and oh, how that line cuts. “        i should be. after the cards. the seals. the blood. the binding. after being twisted into a shape that doesn’t quite fit my name anymore.        ” his grin splits like a mirror, all wrong angles. “        but maybe that’s all becoming is. learning how to sit inside the skin of your consequences.        ” he steps forward. once. not enough to bridge the chasm, just enough to let it feel smaller. holy distance, narrowed but unbroken. “        you found peace here,        ” a nod to the storm below. the entropy. the honesty of it. “        maybe i’m looking for the same thing. or maybe i just need a reason not to fall.        ” then it drops— softer than breath. not quite prayer. not quite confession. more offering.

Hwa-rim had grown accustomed to the latter.⠀ ⠀ The reticence that seeped beneath the skin like cold oil, 𝘃𝗶𝘀𝗰𝗼𝘂𝘀 𝗶𝗻 𝗶𝘁𝘀 𝗰𝗼𝗿𝗲.⠀ ⠀ It was the silence that lingered after a false rite, when incense still hung in the air,⠀ ⠀ 𝕒𝕟𝕕 𝕥𝕙𝕖 𝕨𝕖𝕝𝕝-𝕗𝕖𝕕 𝕖𝕝𝕚𝕥𝕖 𝕓𝕠𝕨𝕖𝕕 𝕥𝕙𝕖𝕚𝕣 𝕙𝕖𝕒𝕕𝕤 𝕚𝕟 𝕣𝕖𝕧𝕖𝕣𝕖𝕟𝕔𝕖 to a performance they could not discern from belief.⠀ ⠀ She had lit candles that meant nothing.⠀ ⠀ 𝚂𝚙𝚘𝚔𝚎𝚗 𝚗𝚊𝚖𝚎𝚜 𝚜𝚑𝚎 𝚍𝚒𝚍 𝚗𝚘𝚝 𝚑𝚘𝚗𝚘𝚞𝚛.⠀ ⠀ The spirits, if they listened at all, offered her nothing but stillness in return.

𝔄nd yet now, now there was this.⠀ ⠀ 𝚃𝚑𝚎 𝚌𝚒𝚝𝚢 𝚑𝚊𝚍 𝚟𝚊𝚗𝚒𝚜𝚑𝚎𝚍 𝚋𝚎𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚍 𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚕𝚒𝚔𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚌𝚕𝚘𝚜𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚘𝚏 𝚊 𝚟𝚎𝚕𝚟𝚎𝚝 𝚌𝚞𝚛𝚝𝚊𝚒𝚗.⠀ ⠀ One moment her figure stood on the curb, the soles of her feet blistered and her purse heavy with money earned in half-truths.⠀ ⠀ The next:⠀ ⠀ 𝔻𝕚𝕤𝕡𝕝𝕒𝕔𝕖𝕞𝕖𝕟𝕥.⠀ ⠀ Disorientation.⠀ ⠀ As if the world itself folded inward, and now she stood in a corridor that breathed.⠀ ⠀ 𝔗𝔥𝔯𝔬𝔟𝔟𝔦𝔫𝔤.⠀ ⠀ Alive.⠀ ⠀ The walls were velvet-clad and pulsing, 𝗮𝘀 𝗶𝗳 𝘀𝘁𝗶𝘁𝗰𝗵𝗲𝗱 𝗳𝗿𝗼𝗺 𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝗺𝗼𝘂𝘁𝗵𝘀 𝗼𝗳 𝗯𝗲𝗮𝘀𝘁𝘀 𝘄𝗵𝗼 𝗱𝗮𝗿𝗲𝗱 𝗻𝗼𝘁 𝘀𝗽𝗲𝗮𝗸.⠀ ⠀ The air lynched thick with sweetness.⠀ ⠀ That cloying rot of overripe fruit married with the coppery tang of blood that had long since dried.⠀ ⠀ Somewhere, laughter trickled like the sound of silver bells dropped down a well, and her own breath fogged before her lips, 𝖙𝖍𝖔𝖚𝖌𝖍 𝖓𝖔 𝖈𝖔𝖑𝖉 𝖗𝖊𝖒𝖆𝖎𝖓𝖊𝖉.⠀ ⠀ She reached, as if by instinct, for the small pouch where her bells lay nestled.⠀ ⠀ 𝐁𝐫𝐚𝐬𝐬 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐛𝐨𝐧𝐞.⠀ ⠀ Instruments of false divinity.⠀ ⠀ She did not ring them.⠀ ⠀ Cowardice or wisdom?⠀ ⠀ Even she could not say.

Then she saw it:⠀ ⠀ The door.⠀ ⠀ It did not open.⠀ ⠀ 𝕴𝖙 𝖕𝖆𝖗𝖙𝖊𝖉.⠀ ⠀ The space itself grown weary of her indecision.⠀ ⠀ She stepped through, and reality warped around her.⠀ ⠀ The chamber was less room than reverie.⠀ ⠀ A lounge swathed in sumptuous shadow, 𝕨𝕙𝕖𝕣𝕖 𝕤𝕞𝕠𝕜𝕖 𝕔𝕦𝕣𝕝𝕖𝕕 𝕝𝕚𝕜𝕖 𝕒𝕟𝕔𝕚𝕖𝕟𝕥 𝕤𝕡𝕚𝕣𝕚𝕥𝕤 𝕖𝕩𝕙𝕒𝕝𝕖𝕕 𝕗𝕣𝕠𝕞 𝕥𝕙𝕖 𝕝𝕦𝕟𝕘𝕤 𝕠𝕗 𝕘𝕠𝕕𝕤.⠀ ⠀ A dozen lanterns burned low and red, casting light like coagulated blood across velvet cushions and lacquered marble.⠀ ⠀ The air pulsed with the thrum of unseen music, 𝚎𝚊𝚌𝚑 𝚋𝚎𝚊𝚝 𝚒𝚗 𝚛𝚑𝚢𝚝𝚑𝚖 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚑𝚎𝚊𝚛𝚝, 𝚘𝚛 𝚙𝚎𝚛𝚑𝚊𝚙𝚜 𝚊𝚐𝚊𝚒𝚗𝚜𝚝 𝚒𝚝.

𝔖𝐡𝐞 𝐬𝐡𝐨𝐮𝐥𝐝 𝐡𝐚𝐯𝐞 𝐥𝐞𝐟𝐭.⠀ ⠀ She should have turned and ran until the sky returned to blue and the streets to filth.⠀ ⠀ But then, she.⠀ ⠀ ─── ⠀ ⠀@taroet.

𝚂𝚎𝚊𝚝𝚎𝚍 𝚕𝚒𝚔𝚎 𝚜𝚒𝚗 𝚍𝚛𝚊𝚙𝚎𝚍 𝚒𝚗 𝚜𝚒𝚕𝚔.⠀ ⠀ Her hair was the hue of starless nights, her eyes cut from 𝖔𝖇𝖘𝖎𝖉𝖎𝖆𝖓 kissed with garnet.⠀ ⠀ She did not need to speak.⠀ ⠀ Her presence pressed against Hwa-rim’s skin like fervor from a 𝖕𝐲𝖗𝖊.⠀ ⠀ She was 𝕥𝕖𝕞𝕡𝕥𝕒𝕥𝕚𝕠𝕟 𝕕𝕣𝕖𝕤𝕤𝕖𝕕 𝕚𝕟 𝕢𝕦𝕚𝕖𝕥, and every buried desire Hwa-rim had so meticulously drowned now clawed against its chains.⠀ ⠀ She felt herself moving forward.⠀ ⠀ Not by will, but by gravity.⠀ ⠀ 𝕳𝐞𝐫 𝐨𝐰𝐧 𝐡𝐮𝐧𝐠𝐞𝐫 𝐚𝐧𝐬𝐰𝐞𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐭𝐨 𝐬𝐨𝐦𝐞𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐨𝐥𝐝𝐞𝐫.

kore does not rise. of course she doesn’t. she unfolds — or maybe she reclines — like a secret no one dares name at the altar. one leg bare, slung over the other like prophecy gone lazy. the gown clings, wine-dark, split to the thigh as if the fabric forgot what shame tasted like. she is not seated. she is enthroned. curves like mythology, smile like a knife dipped in honey and baptized in oaths she never planned to keep. her fingers trace circles on the rim of a glass that exists only for theater. she does not drink. she does not need to. this isn’t thirst. it’s summoning. the room thrums. waiting, not breathing. a stillborn prayer stretched tight beneath the skin of the world. this is not a place. it is a prelude. and then— the exorcist arrives. hwa-rim, all salt and sacrament, steps into the silence like she belongs.

kore’s eyes lift— eyes like honey turned grave-deep, like centuries fermenting behind glass. they do not look. they undo. they unravel the stitches of belief. no monster here. only the mirror. her voice? it doesn’t echo. it consumes. it crawls down the spine on velvet elbows. “        spirit?        ” she purrs, the syllables stitched with silk and fang. “        how provincial.        ” and then she stands. not because she must. because cruelty tastes sweeter on your feet. she rises like dusk taught her how. the room exhales— the shadows bow, the fire curtsies, the velvet croons. one step. then another. each a falling star in reverse. kore moves like forgiveness should apologize. like the air parts in reverence or fear ( or both ). closeness isn’t the right word. closeness is for lovers. this is something older.

she doesn’t touch. she suggests— fingers grazing not-skin, just breath, just space. her smile is ruin and reward. a gospel of indulgence whispered into the bones of saints. “        you don’t kneel for spirits,        ” she says, soft, amused, like sin wearing perfume. “        you bargain. you bind. you play god with incense and holy rope.        ” she leans in. not close. consecrating. voice like confession wrapped in midnight. “        i’m not what you pretend to cast out.        ” silence. thicker than blood. “        i’m what you conjured when the prayers felt too small and you wanted them to fail.        ” she pulls back just enough to leave a scar. looks into hwa-rim like a history she remembers better than the girl ever will. and then — permission is a myth — she lifts hwa-rim’s hand, presses it flat against her sternum. heartbeat: slow. steady. human. except not.

perhaps it is praying to the stars, never to be heard. it does however make her feel less lonely. and there is that knowledge, that something / someone is out there. something more than her. and she clings to it. to that hope, to that faith. because at one point, it was all she had. when locked away in those cards, when everything was slowly decaying, there was faith. there was prayer. there was more. more than her & for a while, she needed that. perhaps she should have been strong enough in herself, secure enough, though enough, but some part of her . . . a little frail, a little naive, a little needed something more. she wasn't as though or as hard, as some of her peers. not in everything. she tries, but sometimes falter. she wants to , but it doesn't turn out the way she wish for.

hint of a smile, it tugs at the corner of lips before eyes flutter open, and slide towards kore. a sense of understanding rest in the depth of her gaze, because she wasn't always this much of a believer of higher powers. they were the highest power. there had been no worries. no fears. they were the highest power, until they weren't anymore. she felt time pass, she felt everything unravel. slowly but surely. and slowly, but fast enough to notice, it unraveled inside her aswell. she had thought it would go back to how it was, before, but it never did. no, something shifted inside, at her very core, and she isn't entirely sure she likes it. can't find it in her to adapt to it. there are pieces inside, that doesn't fit anymore. and it's wrong. so very wrong.

" would you rather i pray to you ? " hands drift across the velvet fabric of her dress, before turning more towards her. then again, she is action. she isn't standing in the dark, hoping. praying. wishing. she is so much more than that & perhaps one day she will feel like that again. a little more self assured. that she won't be this fractured version of herself. that she will be who she once was. how nobody has picked up on it, she think it's nothing short of a wonder. supposed to be the one in balance, harmony. and she feels everything but. " do you think they would do something, if they did ? " it's an inquire she doesn't expect answers to. of course she doesn't believe in it. if they listened, she isn't sure she wanted to know. isn't sure she truly would want an answer.

the breath is false. too clean, too holy. it burns like something that does not belong to a body like hers, not anymore— not after what she’s done, what she’s become, what she is. but lana is close now — too close — light seeping in like smoke through the seams, brushing up against the jagged edges of her. against the ruin. and kore takes the breath anyway. inhales the ache of it. grace, grief, guilt— whatever name you give a thing that was never meant to be yours. there is a moment. ( there’s always a moment. ) she could turn. could sneer. could armor herself in apathy and cruelty— cut the softness off at the knees. say something sharp, something easy. wrap herself back in that old, beloved violence. but she doesn’t. because lana steps closer— and kore doesn’t move. doesn’t snarl. doesn’t run. she stands. still. wound-tight. a held breath made flesh. a cathedral of scars, humming beneath her skin.

lana speaks. simple. steady. and the words don’t fall. they pierce. like a prayer nailed to a body that no longer prays. kore looks at her. really looks. at the softness of her hair. the tremble in her stillness. the quiet violence of hope still lingering in her. that mismatch— a girl who shouldn't know calm but does, a soul that shouldn’t believe in redemption but does, a gaze that meets hers like it hasn’t learned to fear. and something inside her clenches. not pity. recognition. kinship in the broken. “        then you’re a fool,        ” she says, voice ironed flat. not a blade. not a wound. just truth, dull and aching. because lana wants wholeness— and kore? kore is wreckage in a silken dress. the wrath left over when gods stop watching. a hymn rewritten in blood. she doesn’t get wanted. she gets worshipped, ruined, run from. she gets feared. but lana chooses her. again and again. and every time it feels like damnation pretending to be deliverance.

kore’s jaw tightens. her chest betrays her— aches. she hates that lana can see it. hates more that she always does. that’s the danger. that’s the curse. “        you should want another version of me,        ” she says, quieter now. “        softer. cleaner. one who doesn’t bite when you breathe too close.        ” her gaze flicks— lana’s hands. folded. still. a hesitation in human form. “        or maybe,        ” kore adds, crooked smile pulled from the wreckage of self-defense, “        maybe you like the bite. maybe that’s what makes you feel real again.        ” a beat. a breath. and then— she steps forward. not close enough to touch. just enough to cast a shadow. just enough to see her own reflection in lana’s eyes and not look away this time. “       you say you wouldn’t want another version of me,        ” she murmurs. low. not cracked. but close. a confession with a dagger sewn inside. “     but what if i did?        ” she says it like a sin. like asking to be holy. like the moment before the fall, when the wings still remember flying.

she knows nothing truly remains static, there is always transitions. life is full of it. they are all ever changing. and they had been through the biggest change of all already. losing their powers, losing their beings. locked away by bastian of all people & becoming nothing but mere memories of old. they became nothing but stories, legends, fables. until they walked earth once more. perhaps that's the thing that proppeled this into action. always been tension there, resting in the space between them, but it was never acted on. always felt drawn to him, like a invisible string had been tied from her hand to his, but rooted at a slight distance, at the thought of possible rejection. in the maybe and what if's. if he jokes it away, if he laughs and it means nothing.

it's soft, it lingers, it's unlike anything she has experienced. barely there, does lips brush together. barely there, and it changes everything. it draws her in closer, half a step does she take, into him, towards him. and her heart beats a tune of closer, closer, closer. and as lips part, forehead rest against his, hint of a smile tug at the corner of lips. there is always something sharp about her, cutting, and now it melts. she melts for him like it makes perfect sense. for a moment, she can't bring herself to care. to be what she is supposed to be, but rather be what she wants to be. the fool always had a way of getting under her skin & perhaps it was a good thing. she can stand upright and accept the change, the opportunity it might be. a change to break free from the past. a way to start something new.

never understood it. the way antoinette and theodore had been lost in one anothers company, deaf to the world around them, but now, right here, she might start to understand it. if only a fraction of it. " i wouldn't make you walk away, " it's barely a whisper in the space between them, gaze slowly flicker between his. and it's a silent thing. it's not uttered in words. it rest in the depth of her eyes, in the slight crease between brows, in the uncertainty of her smile. i don't want you to walk away from me. she doesn't care where they are, but there is this small voice, telling her she doesn't want to be without this anymore. without him.

the smile is wrong. too soft. too human. no razored edges, no glint of mischief catching like a blade behind his teeth. it stumbles onto his face like a drunk prayer, half-formed and lopsided, like it doesn’t know where to live in a boy made of exits. but she— gods, she looks at him like he’s not already halfway gone. like he’s more than a punchline scrawled in the margins of someone else's tragedy. like maybe — maybe — he’s not just the ghost in his own story. her hands find him. not clinging, not claiming. just there. just enough to remind him he has a spine, a body, a pulse. just enough to say: i know where you fracture. just enough to say: i love you anyway. no running away, she whispers, nose brushing his like a dare he wants to lose, and something inside him snaps quiet. not breaking— becoming. something honest flickering to life in the hollow where his fear used to sleep.

he leans in— not for shelter, not for escape, just for the symmetry of it. forehead to forehead, breath to breath, like maybe they’ve always belonged to the same exhale. “        you say that now,        ” he murmurs, voice cracked at the corners, warm in the way wounds are when they start to close. “        but you haven’t seen me restless. i pace like the walls are teeth. like if i stay too long, the world might forget i was ever real.        ” his thumbs trace her like a memory— soft, measured. not because she’s fragile. aleyah is a hurricane in human skin. she’s silk with fangs. she spins chaos into prophecy and makes it look like poetry. but this— this is not chaos. this is cathedral. and he touches her like a psalm he’s terrified to mispronounce.

“        i’ve always been the leaving kind,        ” he says to the air, to the stars, to the version of himself that still doesn’t believe in staying. “        stick around too long, and people start drawing you into their futures. start handing you permanence like it’s a gift and not a sentence.        ” but he looks at her. really looks. and suddenly the weight doesn’t feel like drowning. it feels like gravity finally got it right. “        and yet,        ” he breathes, barely louder than the wind between them, “        here i am. not moving. not running. not even hiding behind a punchline.        ” a smile ghosts across his mouth again— wobbly, disbelieving. a comet that forgot how to burn out. “        you did that,        ” he says, like it’s a secret, like it’s a confession with blood on the edges. “        you and those impossible eyes. you pulled me out of orbit like it was nothing.        ”

wisdom is the daughter of experience & she learned too late what was happening right under her nose. she didn't see it before too late, and by then there was nothing she could do. the domino bricks fell, one by one, perfectly stacked by someone she thought stood by her. she thought she was close with and she felt the slow descent into madness when being trapped inside those cards. it slowly burned something inside, turned something else inside out. but the betrayal cut so much deeper. the grief of what was once there. it was still there, and it took so much from her, day by day, it took more and more. more than being trapped. more than losing this . . . connection she thought she had. he broke her trust. he broke relations she had, ever since she was created. it started as a small fracture, and it made everything crumble around her.

she can find a small appreciation, in what reia is trying to do, if only for a brief moment. once, she did have people that loved her. but she is the reason they were all trapped inside those cards. why they were held apart. why magic disappeared. why the world was different. why they had become nothing more than myths and legends. she couldn't forgive herself for not seeing what bastian was up to, why would anyone else ? she didn't deserve it. she doesn't want it.

sitting on one of the pillows on the floor, legs crossed, arms resting in her lap as she watch the flames inside the fireplace. not sure how long she had been rooted in this spot, but it felt like a small pocket in time, where there is some form of peace. there is a slow blink of eyes, one of her hands reach out, feeling the warmth against her skin. " you know that is not true anymore, " her voice is low as she finally speak, head tilt ever so little to the side. it's true, what she told him when they first broke free. he took everything from her. more than her freedom. more than her mind. more than her knowledge. " they cannot forgive me for what happened, and i do not blame them. i cannot forgive me either. "

no urgency here. no breathless scramble to mend. not with her. not now. reia does not rush the silence— not out of hesitation, but out of understanding. because she knows. knows that silence can be the holiest thing in the room. a pause that doesn’t demand, only allows. the fire speaks in crackle-tongues. small. gentle. contained like grief folded into an old shawl. a memory you cradle instead of exorcise. reia stands— unflinching. barefoot. bare-souled. not cloaked in silk, not crowned in defiance, just here. present. a monarch who burned her throne and came out softer. stronger. human. her eyes like spring after the funeral, like moss reclaiming tombstone, find her: demetria. so still. so near-fracture. and yet: unshattered. still here. ( which is another phrase for miracle. )

no performance. no procession. reia lowers herself into the waiting hush— not onto a throne but into truth. her spine straight, her heart open. she does not need marble to remind you of what she carries. she radiates. even now. especially now. when she speaks, it is not softness— ( it is never softness, not from her ) but intention. voice like ivy— creeping, curling, claiming what’s been abandoned and making it live again. “        love,        ” she says, “        isn’t built on clean slates. it’s made of memory. of choosing, despite.        ” and oh, how the words settle— not fall, but settle, like gold dust in cathedral light. “        i remember you.        ” not a weapon. a resurrection. not judgment— just truth. “        before the cards. before the silence. before your face became a question that has haunted every dream i had to claw my way out of.        ” it wounds. but she doesn’t flinch. she never flinches. “        but i remember other things too.        ”

a breath. a shift. not closer, not farther— just open. “        i remember how you held knowledge like a priestess at the altar. how you walked between veils like a birthright. how you wept— not for power lost, but for the ache of magic breaking. as loss. as mourning. as love.        ” her voice bends at the edges, light catching on memory, firelight threading nostalgia through grief. “        you loved us. we loved you. maybe that wasn’t enough. maybe love doesn’t know how to unmake knives when they come wearing familiar hands.        ” a pause. a reckoning. “        but it remains. even buried beneath centuries of ash, of rage, of forgetting— it remains.        ” she does not reach. she invites. that is her power. “        you say you don’t deserve forgiveness.        ” ( she nods— accepts the wound. ) “        maybe none of us do. but that was never the language i learned from you.        ”

but still..you cling to her.  you have always been aware of the game. the tug of invisible strings, the deft pulls meant to make you dance just so.  you have felt the manipulation in every softened word, every calculated silence.   it is nothing new—your brothers were your first puppeteers. elijah, with honour sharpened into a weapon.  niklaus, with his love laced in barbed wire.  and you…you have played your part. willingly.   because the truth that no one asks for: you would rather live inside a carefully crafted illusion than stare into the barren expanse of nothing. you would rather clutch at even the hollowest of hopes than let go and fall into that consuming, merciless emptiness.   hope is the cruelest relic, but it’s the only one you have never been able to bury.

“perhaps you’re right.”   a faint smile ghosts over your lips, bitter and amused all at once.  you are nothing more than the sum of your hungers, stitched together with spite and longing.  but there is a part of you–small, stubborn, and treacherous–that refuses to believe the girl is truly dead.   and maybe that is why you allow this. why you let him push and pull at you like tidewater against stone. because somewhere, buried in the marrow, you believe it might lead you back to yourself. that perhaps he will be the one to find her in the ruins and tell her she is real.  (naïve? of course. but survival has made you shameless in your delusions).   you think that maybe that girl you claim to miss was never really yours to begin with. that perhaps you stole her bones to build your myth.

he leaned forward, shadows bending to his face, candlelight carving hollows into bone. the glass before him: untouched, forgotten. his gaze: merciless in its steadiness. “        not the same,        ” he echoed, voice a low vow, a confession whispered to the dark. “        no. we are not. and yet—        ” the dip of his tone— velvet on steel. intimate. weighted. “        we bleed the same, don’t we? rage. grief. want. you wear yours in defiance, i in charm. but the marrow—        ” his hand flexed once, stilled. “        the marrow knows.        ” silence. thin as a blade. drawn taut. he could have stopped. he should have. but her eyes — unyielding, bright with refusal, unbroken — pulled something loose in him. something reckless. something ruinous.

Statuesque figure rose from her crouch in measured increments, spine straightening as though tethered to some invisible metronome. Verdants traced the casing’s curve, fingers loose yet certain in the cradle of the latex. The metal was warm still, impossibly so. She let it rest there for a breath longer; Because brass, if you knew how to listen, would confess, AND ONLY SHE COULD DECIPHER ITS CODE.

Cathal was not a man one missed, even at the edge of vision. Some presences announce themselves with movement, others with words. Cathal did neither. He simply was. She’d grown accustomed to it; Expected it from the quiet security guard who seemed older than the hours themselves. They were not strangers, after all. And some people you just felt as though you’d known your whole life. Emerald gaze found him without intention. PIERCING GREEN THREADED WITH GOLD, meeting hers for a heartbeat and sealing its impression. There was an architecture to him: Deliberate, immovable. And though he said little, she heard far more. The gaps were thick with the things he would not speak, the things she knew all the same from carrying the same weight; From that inherent strength drawn taut in her bones.

A small curl touched the corner of her blush-pink lips at his remark; A smile as honeyed as it was dangerous. The sort that could make a man forget what he’d meant to say, if only for a moment. “Well good,” She drawled, cadence euphonious as a hymn. “The world’s mind certainly needs changin’.” The casing caught the lamplight when she turned it between her fingers, attention sliding back to the ground as though the remark were nothing more than idle conversation. When his second observation came, softer but heavier, “You see things, not just in the scene, in people.” Verdants lifted to him then, steady under the brim of the night. A longer pause, the ghost of that smile still playing at her lips. “Well,” A lighter timbre, almost like she was letting him in on a joke, “There's always evidence. People leave it all the time; Just not the kind I can bag and tag.” The line landed easy, teasing, even. But the weight in her look was undeniable. “You see, too. Most folks look. Few know the difference.”

She stepped past him then, the scent of powder and magnolia trailing like a benediction. The casing slipped into its evidence bag. The gesture neat, reverent: A sealed prayer.

her question cut across him— clean, without the hook of judgment. not a trap. an opening. a place at the table where evidence spoke with its own ruined tongue. “        the scatter’s wrong,        ” he said, voice rasping low, gravel dragged across tidewater. “        too clean. too far. wind would’ve curled it. this is pushback. an angle lost. a hand unsteady. adrenaline. panic.        ” he read the ground like scripture written in invisible ink, geometry stitched in silence. a step closer, boots absorbing weight like the earth itself had agreed to hush for him. “        shooter didn’t mean to drop it here. the casing traveled farther than their nerves allowed. that’s why it stings false. evidence doesn’t lie. it tells on people.        ”

for as long as she could remember, there had been theodore. he was vowen into who she is, who she was, who she will be. her heart belongs only to him, and there is no twisting or turning that. there would never be someone else. she doesn't want there to be. walking away from them, walking away from him, it never truly had anything to do with him. and she would always come back. her true north would always be him. her true home, it was right here, in his arms. never been able to explain it to someone, never been able to understand it herself, this deeply rooted need to run. to escape. it felt so overwhelming in the moment, so much, too much, but then she left him and . . . something was missing. he was missing. there would be this invisible, gaping wound where her heart was supposed to be. it ached and dripped blood wherever she went, leaving a bloody trail for her to follow back to him. and she never felt whole until she walked back into his arms.

there, it felt like it healed in matter of seconds. he soothed something she ripped apart. and she did it. over and over and over again. like her heart refused to learn. and if anything, she was a creatures ruled by her heart. wild and unpredictable. impulsive and at times childish. and yes, sometimes it turned ugly. it hurt, because she never learned. what if she could simply accept this. what if she could stop sabotaging herself. them. both of them. because he keeps taking her back, and she doesn't understand why. but maybe she does understand just fine. because the way she feels when he kiss her, when he pull her close, when she breath him in, there is no parallel to it. there is no better feeling in the whole wide world. and she should know, she has explored most of it after all.

a hum, a nod of her head, not denying it. greedy. if that's what he wants to call it, she'll happily be it. barely any space between them, barely above a whisper, and there isn't need for more. not really. and for a moment does her eyes close when forehead press against hers. every second that pass, there is a weight lifted off her shoulders. there is this age old feelings of her heart beating a little faster, a little stronger in her chest. the familiar butterflies swarming in the pit of her stomach. all these feelings only he could dream of awaken in her. because there truly is only him. always. past, present and future. " yeah, " barely there between them, eyes slowly fluttering open to watch him, chin lifting with his guidance. " but i will never tire of hearing it, " earnest mumble, her hands drift to cradle the sides of his neck, tip of her nose brush lightly against his.

there it is. again. that ache. the one without a name, only edges. only echoes. it lives behind his ribs like a secret too long kept. like a song hummed from the bottom of a well. not quite grief. not quite joy. something in-between. something that only exists when she looks at him like that— like she’s arriving and unraveling, all in the same breath. he says nothing. words are too clumsy, too loud. instead, he breathes. breathes her. like maybe if he’s careful, if he’s reverent enough, he’ll memorize her again. before she’s gone. before the leaving wins. her hands find his neck, and he swears the world tilts back into place. pulse meets pulse. a heartbeat shared. she ruins him and repairs him in the same breath. a storm made of skin and softness. a wreckage he would walk into blindfolded— again, again, again. because she comes back. even now. especially now.

and when she speaks — i always want you, teddy — it lands like prayer, like the kind of truth you whisper into someone’s skin when you’re trying not to shatter. his throat locks. his chest tightens. too much. too much. but he looks at her. he always does, always will. “        then that’s all i need,        ” he says, voice a murmur stitched from marrow and longing. no tremble, no plea, just truth. naked. unadorned. offered. “        not a perfect you. not a fixed you. just you. however you come back.        ” his fingers rise. a curl tucked behind her ear. a jawline traced like scripture. she is holy. she is ruin. she is his. “        i don’t love you for your steadiness, annie.        ” the name lands soft in the space between them. “        that was never the bargain.        ” his smile cracks open sideways— not quite whole, not quite broken. just memory-shaped. bruised by time. he carries her ache in the lines of his mouth. wears it like a vow.

he slides into the booth almost smoothly . the bench is comfortable when he eventually settles and his chin eventually rests in his palms . his eyes are fixed on the woman sitting there . he doesnt know this place . he didnt even know it was here to begin with ! - maybe he just didnt need it before . who knows how the universe works . wade , however , is stuck looking at her . doesnt turn his gaze away , he couldnt ! ( even if he tried ) entirely captivated by what hes met with .

kore doesn’t look. not yet. lights the cigarette with a match struck on the unwritten— on a spine that hasn’t earned a title but hums with prophecy. flame flares soft. coy. feral. a kiss, a hush, then gone. smoke exhales like a memory that never meant to stay this long. and then— movement. not dramatic, not grand. just the slow arc of inevitability. kore tilts her head toward him like the moon deciding to notice. shadows wear her. cling like perfume, like guilt, like something too old to name and too young to die. that smile? lethal. slouched. coiled. a razor in silk stockings. something wicked in lipstick and leisure. “        deadpool,        ” she repeats, slow enough to slice. tastes the word like sugar with a sin tax. “        sounds like a game i’d be very good at.        ” her voice: velvet lined with smoke. velvet laced with something stickier. louder. quieter. dangerous in the way open doors are. she lounges like an afterthought turned art. one leg draped. casual as catastrophe.

maybe one day, she tells herself. one day she is able to settle here, in this space, in this home. in the arms now holding her. in a perfect world, in a perfect life, she would never feel the need to leave him. she would never want to walk away from him. she would never feel like this becomes too much. too intense. too consuming. she wouldn't feel like their love is too much for her to constantly live in, she would simply relish every moment. her heart holds teddy, there is only ever been him, there will only be him, it's where he belongs. it's how it's supposed to be. it's how they are supposed to be. this is where she belongs. that is the truth, and it ruins her all the same. and it breaks something inside, every time she leaves. it's a need, it's a way of self preservation. it's a way to keep sane.

his love is like the air she breaths, it's something she needs to survive day to day, minute to minute, second to second. his love is like waves, pulling her under, taking hold of her ankles, pulling her down deep, stealing the air from her lungs. two truths, existing side by side. and she knows . . . she knows every time she leaves, she ruins something with him aswell. there is always the fear, that he won't welcome her back into his arms. into his heart. that she broke something between them, and there is no taking it back. they are made this way, faithed to stay together. faithed to stay apart. faithed to be the damned lovers. it weights on her heart, on her shoulders, on her spine. she is the reason. she is the one walking away. she is the one that can never make it work. it's always her fault.

" i know, " she ruins him. she ruins them. yet here she is, fingers curled into the fabric of his shirt. curled so tight, her knuckles flush white. holding on, as if refusing to let go. and right now she is refusing. she doesn't want to go anywhere but here. yet here he is, holding on to her like she might floath away, and she can't blame him for it. she often leaves. without a word. without a trace. because she needs to. because there is this silent knowledge, he would be able to hold onto her longer, if she faced him. it was always so easy, losing herself in him. too easy sometimes.

forgive her? the words drop. not like knives. not like thunder. they fall soft, like ash. like the after of something already burned. they land in his throat, not to cut— but to break. delicate. a sound too brittle to breathe around. if he exhales, it will shatter. and then it will be real. too real. too much. ( but hasn’t it always been too much with her? ) his hands remember. they tighten. just so. not fear. not fury. just grief in the shape of a touch. like he knows— knows the feel of vanishing. how to hold someone and still end up with nothing but the memory of warmth. forehead to forehead. the prayer begins. no language for it anymore. just breath. just skin. just the trembling of maybe. her fingers tangle in his hair and gods, how many times has he tasted this purgatory? this half-moment? this almost-salvation where neither of them says what’s already carved into the marrow?

her please is a blade dipped in honey. sweet. merciless. “        don’t,        ” his voice rasps out wrong. a sound born from ruin. from nights spent breathing beside her ghost. “        don’t ask me to forgive you like you haven’t already made a cathedral of my wreckage.        ” his hand rises. spine to neck. slow. holy. as if she were scripture. as if ruin could be read backwards into grace. ( it can’t. but he tries anyway. ) “        you know i will.        ” barely more than breath. not an answer. not a threat. just truth, softened by ache. “    i always do.        ” not bitterness. something sadder. grief dressed as ritual. devotion dressed as grief. “        i tell myself i won’t,        ” and now he shakes, just a little— a fault line yawning open under his ribs. “     next time, i’ll lock the door. nail it shut. let the ache become something solid instead of always bleeding.        ” he doesn’t blink. he can’t. if he does, she might vanish again. “        but then it’s you,        ” ( it’s always you ) “        and every reason to hate you melts into the shape of your name.        ”