Pain.
It's a familiar ache.
A familiar ache that starts in her gut and consumes her body until she carries its virus.
It's never planned.
But it's never expelled.
At least the heartache is something.
Grief.
She thought she knew it.
She thought she knew it through anguished cries and gravestones and missing people.
It's always permanent.
But it's never unwarranted.
That's the only justification she has.
Desire.
It wasn't supposed to be bitter.
It wasn't supposed to manifest through restless nights and a ghost in her bones.
It's too late now.
But it's never too late.
She won't let it be too late.
Fantasy.
So vivid that it could be reality.
So vivid in how it teases her, touches her, before it vanishes without a trace.
How red, the hair in her hands.
But the hair never stays.
She just can't imagine it's not there.
Time.
So immaterial, so stubborn.
So immaterial in how the gods manipulate it, so stubborn in its demand to pass by.
When all was lost, she left time.
But in this time, she is also lost.
Time has moved enough for her.
Space.
She traveled these roads before.
She traveled these roads when it the light was only an hour and her stomach cried mercy.
She was used to slowly dying.
But living was a whole new challenge
And she doesn't know which road is right.
One.
It was one particular moment.
It was one particular goodbye, one particular kiss, one admission that she was never a child.
She would never get to be one.
But she could still be something.
Just a shame that she could not be yours.
Two.
She can't get the equation right.
She can't get it right even as she reunites with her father, her friends, her world in living color.
The kids are all waiting for someone.
But they're not waiting for her.
And she hasn't found the one who is.
Zero.
Zero isn't quite right.
Zero isn't talking to strangers she idolizes, knows, to friends she loves, to gods who saved her.
They see her as a hero.
But that's too grand for her.
Too grand for a jealous, lonely zero.
Joy.
She didn't allow it.
She didn't allow herself the time for frivolty or happiness or love for the longest time.
Except for the time that she did.
But by then it was too late.
Only promising a portal, a future, and regrets.
Sorrow.
She can't feel it.
The deaths are too ingrained to be raw, the resurrection too light to be important.
No one expects raw wounds.
But no one denies its power.
Just a shame that she has to carry it.
Charm.
Supposedly she has it.
Supposedly it's in her eloquence, her confusion at jests, her serious nature.
A lot of glare, but too little.
But a little glare is too much
When it takes nothing to shine.
Beauty.
Supposedly she has it.
Supposedly it's in her eloquence, her confusion at jests, her serious nature.
It's just enough, you say.
But it's more than enough for you
Or she wouldn't steal your heart so easily.
Lost.
How selfish to feel as such.
How selfish to be lost after all that the gods and warriors have done to set her on this path.
Everyone says it makes sense.
But they all know the truth.
It takes nothing yet everything to satisfy.
Found.
How easy to feel as such.
How easy to feel so important, so remembered, so brave, so wanted.
She traveled so many roads.
But none of them validated her
Until she finally chose the right one.
Knight.
She never had many options.
She never had much choice but to pick a foulmouthed, angry, resentful daughter of grace.
You never should have been.
But you were her perfect one
And she's never wanted for another.
Love.
She is yours.
She was never your obligation, your resignation, your reluctance, your sacrifice.
Her love is as deep as a river
But it rushes downstream
To finally spill in your worshipful arms.
Satisfaction.
You tell her a lot.
You tell her where you've been, how life has gone, how long it's been since you lost her grip.
You tell her everything.
But she only says the same thing
The thing she said years ago before you left.
Bliss.
You're still in hell.
You're in hell with a war unfinished, a future insecure, a burden still to carry.
It never feels like it's over.
But in sone ways, it does
Because two loose strings have tied together.
Peace.
At night, she's yours.
At night, you share a tent in quiet, reflection, motionless contemplation.
You aren't good enough for all of this.
But somehow, you are
When she says she's thought of nothing but you.
Promise.
The last thing she said.
The last thing she said before you left time, held on until your hands slipped and heart dropped.
She is on your lips.
But then again, she always was.
No one has ever promised to love you like her.
No one ever has lived up to it like her.