who can say when the roads meet
that love might be in your heart
and who can say when the day sleeps
if the night keeps all your heart
And so, finally, they talk.
Forever, it seems. All Raine has to do is tug loose a single historical fact, and a cascade of disjointed memories bursts into Yuan's mind. Each of them is in its turn tied to thousands of other tiny details long left buried, a stream of incoherent recollections pouring from his mouth until he begins to worry that he has lost her somewhere in the past—that he has led her farther than she ever meant to go, or down certain paths that she finds meaningless—but Raine stays faithfully by his side, interrupting only to ask Yuan to pause if she needs to finish one of her notes.
And after Yuan talks himself hoarse, which happens much more quickly than he anticipated, she brews some tea for him. He tries to talk her out of it, dimly remembering the horror stories of her culinary misadventures, but she insists. To his astonishment, the result is not only drinkable, but actively soothes his throat. "I've been practicing in the kitchen," Raine confesses, somewhere between proud and embarrassed, and pours herself a cup as well. "For times like these, when scientific experimentation is… uncalled for."
Once his voice is restored, Yuan continues, his thoughts more organized now. He confides in Raine his long-ago hardships, recounting how his mother told him on her deathbed that his father was an elf. He tells her more about his service in the military, of his painstaking efforts to pass as human in a prejudiced world, and of his involvement in the Kharlan War. But Yuan does not speak of his heart, nor can Raine bring herself to ask after it. For all his outbursts, any tales of his travels with his former companions remain untold.
As night falls, they lapse into an oddly companionable silence, each staring into the magically fueled fireplace and recalling the last times they and their respective allies sat around a campfire. Forgotten emotions flood their minds like the firelight, stoked through storytelling: uneasy contentment in the moment, anticipation of the journey's continuation the next day, constant readiness for battle. Home, as a singular location, ceased to exist. They were not only self-sufficient, but fended for their friends as well.
Raine bears the usual melancholy in still silence, letting her thoughts come and go like so many raindrops, but Yuan strives to catch his instead. Closed-eyed and restless, he catches the scent of fandalia, the sound of laughter, a sparkle in emerald eyes… no, not emerald. His love was far more organic, and more precious, than gemstone. She was the living green of flora, vernal and vivacious; she was the ancient green of enduring moss, the blinding green in the sun after the rain. It hurts, the brightness of days long gone.
Yuan only comes back to himself when he opens his burning eyes and realizes that Raine is offering him one of his own tattered handkerchiefs. As he touches his hand to his face in astonishment, it comes away warm and wet and shaking slightly under the weight of everything he cannot say. "I—I'm sorry," he says, turning away as another fragment surfaces: the last time he cried was the night he forgot that beautiful shade of green entirely, in that colorless sensual dream.
"Don't be," says Raine, softly, and means it. This is the kind of crying that the body does all on its own, without consulting the rational mind; the only comfort she can offer comes in pain, to ease the passage of his tears. "What was she like?" She speaks in a hushed voice, daring to ask at last, although she feels strangely breathless. Her heart quickens under Yuan's stare, and she drops her gaze in a gesture of respect.
Though Raine's inquiry does not come as a surprise, Yuan still deliberates as long as possible, getting to his feet and pacing back and forth. He wants to tell her that he forgot, that he lost his mind somewhere amid the agony of isolation, but bites his tongue. "I loved her enough to help Yggdrasill try to resurrect her, and I loved her enough to go behind his back in the end," he says finally. "That's all."
Raine nods hesitantly, but does not make any notes. She asked only because she was curious, and nothing more. She almost smiles as Yuan frowns, his eyes flicking briefly between her and her inkpen. Is it really so difficult for him to believe that Raine does not ask all her questions as a historian? She cannot treat feelings the way she does facts—dissecting them, analyzing them, and putting them in their place. Emotions cannot be solidified simply by writing them down, and their truth is of a less tangible kind.
Warmth wells up in Yuan's soul at the realization that he and his heart are safe in Raine's care. "I loved the same woman for four thousand years," he says quietly, leaning on the table with both hands to support himself, and glances up at Raine again as if in search of absolution. "And it destroyed me. I wanted to lay her to rest for reasons as selfish as Mithos's justification for resurrecting her. In that respect, I am no better."
True to her unspoken word, Raine makes no move to record his response, sadness hollowing out her chest. Perhaps she misses being a confidante; perhaps she is simply being selfish, trying to keep some of his precious stories all to herself. Or perhaps there is no need to write down his thoughts, because she has already committed this particular sentiment to memory. For a moment, she sees paler hair and bluer eyes, hears a deeper and more gentle voice, and shivers at the memory.
"Yuan," says Raine haltingly, her husband's name catching in her throat. "Please don't punish yourself. I've had… more than enough experience dealing with men who cannot release their pasts." Yuan frowns slightly; her words could easily be critical, even harsh, but there is only regret and grief in her tone. It would be a simple matter to return her question, to drop a few words into that impenetrable pool of sorrow, just to see its surface ripple. What was he like…?
But, resisting his bitter temptation, Yuan chokes the phrase into silence. Raine's loss is too recent for confiding in him to have a similarly cathartic effect. "I'm tired, Raine," he says instead, leaning on his elbows with all the weight of his past pressing on his sagging shoulders, and bows his head as if in prayer. "I'm so tired."
"Sleep," suggests Raine gently, with surprising immediacy, although they both know his exhaustion is not necessarily of a physical kind. Still, Yuan sees the sense in the word; it has been a long day. He considers retiring to his room, but the idea of a closed door between them feels so unbearably lonely and oppressive that he does not entertain the thought for more than a moment.
Instead, he paces to his sofa—situated just across the rug from Raine, although it seems thousands of miles away—and lies down without a word. She does not ask why Yuan seems afraid to leave her. Somewhere inside her, she already knows.
"I'll be here," she murmurs, and perhaps it's a trick of the flickering light, but she thinks she sees Yuan's face relax at her assurance. Yet it feels impolite to look at him for long, even to marvel at his peaceful countenance… so Raine simply sits in his armchair, watching the fire die through unfocused eyes, until she sees no more.