once, as the night was leaving
into us our dreams were weaving
once, all dreams were worth keeping
I was with you
Despite Raine's swift departure, her presence still seems to linger, prickling in Yuan's chest and fraying his nerves. He doesn't recognize the sparks dancing in his blood as impatience for several almost sleepless nights—the hope of her return, unexpectedly reawakened after having lain dormant for decades.
Realizing his emotions is usually the first step to laying them to rest, but this time, the epiphany only agitates Yuan further. He tells himself that he has no reason to feel so restless. Lies. He tells himself that Raine does not care for him any more now than she ever has. Lies. As he falls asleep, he tells himself that he has me, and that I am enough. Lies.
Yuan does not tell himself anything when he wakes up hours later soaked in sweat and tears and more, only lies there breathless and thoughtless and burning in shame. Trembling, he stumbles out of the house, falls bare-backed to his hands and knees before my tree, and prays. Not for his soul, but for his headstrong body. It's been centuries since Yuan could remember his dreams in any detail, but he wishes more than anything that he could forget this one.
It wasn't her holding him down this time. It… wasn't… her.
"Martel," he moans finally, sitting back on his haunches to gaze at the starless sky. "Forgive me." There is nothing to forgive, but Yuan's instinct is still to seek my assurance. He has not yet learned to differentiate me from the woman he once loved. Her memories may be more prominent in my mind, but her experiences are not wholly mine. My form may resemble hers, but it has never touched his.
Still, for the sake of my lonely guardian, I find the strength to manifest.
He drinks in my all too familiar form with eyes desperate for absolution. Time is short, and there is no time for me to speak any less clearly than I feel. "I am no more your Martel than any mortal woman," I murmur, sadly and truly, and he freezes, uncomprehending. "Deep down, you know that. Please, Yuan. Free yourself."
Bowing his head, Yuan grits his teeth, and I choose to vanish rather than force him to face me any longer. As keenly as he felt the need to see me seconds ago, I can sense that he wishes me gone, even before he realizes it himself.
"I know," whispers Yuan, the words said aloud more to convince himself than me, and pushes his weary body back to its feet. His empty bed awaits.
Yuan may change his clothes to distance himself from the proof of his shifted desires, but his own name on nameless lips still echoes unbidden in his mind. The exact identity of that imaginary lover is irrelevant. To him, there are only two women: his goddess, and all others. Yet a sudden torrent of objections bursts into his heart at the thought, overcoming the philosophy so long left untouched.
What about Raine?
She has obtained an identity all her own in his consciousness, and Yuan lets out a frustrated sigh. He finds himself wondering whether it was her in his dream, but does not want to know, and quickly brushes the idea aside lest it color the nights to come. Instead, he tries to recall what they have in common; how can Raine possibly have become so integral to his solitary existence? And why is she still present in his life; what does she see in him?
Yuan lies awake until sunrise, puzzling over answerless questions rather than risk another not-quite-nightmare. And somewhere, far away under grayer skies, so does Raine.
She has never been religious enough to pray, but snatches of her regrets make their way to me from the far reaches of the earth all the same. Her nights are no less long than his, although at least her husband's spirit is peaceful within her. More so now than ever it was in life. Perhaps that is because to be alive is to be restless, especially for half-elves; no matter where Raine goes, she quickly discovers that she has no place to stay.
Her daughter has children of her own to look after, though she at least had the sense to adopt orphans rather than curse another generation with elven blood, however diluted by humanity. Yet this same praiseworthy decision serves to divide Raine from her descendants, even the half-elves among them. Though they listen to the stories she spins, she must speak to them as if from a distance—separated by a layer of nervous skepticism, ironically very like her own.
Even her younger brother, by now quite experienced in the long-expected shock of each parting, needs her less and less. His own, full-blooded family fills the void. They have all assured Raine, time and time again, that she will never lose her place among them. But, in a perhaps misguided effort to avoid prioritizing her needs over theirs, she prefers to walk alone.
Visiting each of her friends' graves, as well as that of her husband, Raine does not cry; she has no tears left. (This must be what it's like to be an angel.) Instead, she simply stands in silence, suffocating in her solitude, and shuts out the world. She saw less and less of them over the years before their deaths, because it became as painful for her as it was for them. Now they're gone, and Raine is alone.
Almost. So few others are capable of understanding the helpless anguish that comes with her grief that she cannot bear the thought of trying to articulate it to anyone else. There is one other person who knows how she feels, but Raine wishes to wait until she's sure the answer Yuan offers will be the one she wants. So she bears the burden of her race alone for another cycle of seasons, her long-forgotten hopes for a future purpose guiding her like a compass through the bitter darkness.
And then, as the dawn of spring breaks all around her, Raine understands in a way she cannot explain that the time has come for her to return. It has been long enough by now, she thinks, that he will have arrived at a satisfactory response. As has she. Leaving a letter for her worldly brother, Raine finally flees the reality he has embraced.
Home—to Yuan.