i.

This is not a love story.

He pins her down to the bed in the middle of the night, when her dreams send her writhing, screaming obscenities and rage at him in a voice that is not her own, speaking in hard-accented tongues, and her nails leave bloody streaks along her arms.

His fingers tighten around her wrists and he says her name, again again again, aloud and in silence, hoping that one way or another will cut through the universes colliding inside of her skull.

"Rin—" he says, and he is aware that his voice breaks on that half a syllable, aware that she is featherlight beneath his grip and that he will one day have to run her through with cold steel, because what is this, if it is not a knighting?

This is not a love story, and yet he would die a thousand times over for her. But he doesn't know if he can do it, kill her like he's always told Leonhart that he would never be capable of— you're not strong enough.

"Shh— Rin, I'm here, I'm right here—"

But he has walked this path before, shared thoughts and dreams and nightmares with a witch— tick tick tick, the clock goes running down the hours, and with a sudden, sharp inhalation, Rinoa comes back to herself, gold leaking from her eyes and leaving them brown and soft as a doe's, and just as terrified.

Seifer gives it a moment before he withdraws, knees still planted on either side of her as he sits back on his heels, and waits to see if she is going to disappear on him again.