We sat in silence, the air between us heavy and stale. Rom, grumbling under his breath, shoved forward two offerings: a bottle of throat-scorching alcohol and a cup of milk that probably saw more years than the stool he sat on. Reinhardt and I exchanged a glance, each opting for quiet refusal.
The silence lingered, a gnawing presence. It chewed on the edges of my nerves, each second stretching and twisting until the absence of sound felt louder than anything Rom's creaky old bar could offer. I almost caved, almost reached for the rancid drink. At least the burn of cheap liquor would have distracted me from this oppressive stillness.
But the stillness found me anyway.
Unraveling, thought by thought, it pulled me under.
It wasn't like I'd intentionally avoided thinking about everything. I'd just been swept up—carried by the chaos before it could stick. No time to dwell. No time to process. But now, there was nothing to keep it at bay.
And the flood came.
This was wrong. Uncomfortably wrong. The kind of wrong that lodges itself deep, pricking at the edges of your mind. A subtle, insistent alarm that tells you everything is slightly off.
Had I always been meant to meet Emilia first? In that alleyway? Wasn't her timing too precise? A little too perfect? Like she knew exactly where to find me.
Then there was Satella. So quiet. Too quiet. No eerie whispers, no tangled gardens, no shadowed mirages twisting themselves into Emilia's likeness. Not even a faint word. That wasn't her. She didn't stay silent.
And Reinhardt. That single comment he'd dropped earlier lingered in my mind, its weight growing every time I replayed it. What had he meant when he—
A gust of wind came out of nowhere.
A deafening roar of air slammed into me, turning my breath to dust. Cold steel carved against my neck—sharp, precise, and final. My pulse thudded against the blade.
Panic surged, electric and instantaneous, but too slow to keep pace with reality. My head twisted instinctively, but by the time I saw the glint of metal in the dim light—by the time the shadow sharpened into focus—it was over.
I froze. My breath staggered, then stopped altogether.
It was too late.
I dropped to my knees, the whispers coiling around me like serpents. They slithered into my ears, hissing venomous secrets, their tones sharp with malice, their words ablaze with spite. Each syllable scorched me, leaving wounds I could not tame.
My arms hung at my sides, leaden as iron, aching beyond salvation. Though I knew I could move them, my spirit lay spent—shriveled and drained by the flames that danced around me, crackling in wicked celebration.
I let my arms dangle. Let them swing, useless, like a marionette whose strings had long since snapped. My heart thrashed against my ribs, screaming for warmth, for something—anything—to hold onto. I clawed for solace, for just a flicker of life to thaw my frostbitten soul. But the cold was absolute—It refused me.
And yet, somewhere deeper than despair, a raw and desperate wish rose from the ashes of my resolve. A yearning, guttural and keening, surged through the ruins of my soul. Not for fire, not for a blade, but for a presence—
Someone to gather my shattered self, to cradle me in their arms and breath life back into me. To strip the darkness from my bones, peel away the jagged edges of my ruin, and dress me in absolution. To cocoon me and birth something new—Someone like her. But she wasn't mine to call. She never was.
So my longing curled in on itself, a dying ember whispering one fragile word—pray.
I shut my eyes against the dark, trembling as I reached for something unseen. Any faith, any deity that might hear the anguish of a twisted soul like mine. I wrestled with the emptiness, dragging broken words from my lips—a prayer choked and hollow, each word cracked and brittle. They fell into the silence and vanished.
No answers. No light. Only the yawning chasm of the void, so vast it devoured sound and soul alike. No gods came. No hand reached out of the dark.
I laughed. I laughed until my ribs ached, a jagged pain stabbing my sides, a cruel echo as i unraveled. My laughter spilled forth, unbridled, It clawed its way out of my lungs, tearing up through my chest like splinters of glass. Jagged, uncontrollable, and alien to me. filling the air as a desecration of the silence. I didn't care to quiet it.
Across the dim chaos, I caught the cold eyes of my executioner. He stared, unmoving, his gaze fixed and unblinking, drilling into mine with a relentlessness I couldn't escape. I wondered then—did he flinch behind that emotionless mask? Did he see me as broken, as absurd? Yet, his face betrayed no scorn, no contempt—only an apathy, a detached indifference.
"Amused by your own death?" he asked, his voice rigid as stone. The blade of his words was sharp, but it couldn't silence my madness. The laughter rolled out of me, sharper still, tearing the silence into shreds. My breath broke in time with my unraveling, and the sound filled the air like a dirge.
I wasn't man, I was barely a creature then, barely a thing, barely living, rarely feeling, ever so empty.
Less like a person and more like a mechanism—a hollow construct. The thought struck me then—he probably didn't even know what a machine was. My alienation stretched far beyond culture, deeper than differences in custom or creed. I was a ghost here, haunting a land where I would never truly belong.
It was strange to feel alien in a way that had nothing to do with my afflictions. Any nostalgia for my old life had dulled long ago, worn smooth by time and distance. I had become woven into this place's fabric, its harsh textures as familiar as my own scars. I understood its rituals, its patterns, the quiet indifference that showed itself as much in subtle gestures as in brutal acts. I had grown used to the cruelty, even learned to wield it myself.
Earth was nothing like this. Earth was fragile, shimmering, a world only half-touched by the shadow of darkness. A place where you could live an entire lifetime without the copper tang of blood in the air, without wondering if your body might lie unclaimed, nameless, unmourned. Earth was paradise, a faint memory of something sacred. It was Eden.
And I was both Adam and Eve, cast out for a sin I could scarcely name. The forbidden fruit was not offered by a serpent but presented by God himself—an invitation wrapped in a dare. I had bitten into it with ravenous hunger, devouring it in my desperation to fill the emptiness within. I consumed until there was nothing left to sustain me.
No devil whispered in my ear; the devil lived within me. We shared the same skin, the same hollowed soul. It was I who clawed my way out of grace, who reached too far, always grasping for more than I could hold.
And for my greed, my insatiable hunger, terribly I would pay.
Reinhardt approached with finality, his shadow enveloping me. His eyes never left mine, and though I barely cared for sentimentality, I found myself briefly wondering if I should close my eyes. A mercy for him.
I wasn't quite the merciful type.
Without another thought, his hand descended in a brutal arc, and in that instant, everything turned to darkness.
I awoke as though rising from the depths of an endless abyss, gasping for air, each breath jagged and raw as I choked on my own spit. The icy sting of a blade pressed against my throat shattered the haze in an instant, dragging me back to the grim reality before me. The steel bit into my skin, sharp enough to draw blood if she so much as flinched.
"What the hell is going on here?" she growled, her voice as sharp as the knife she held. Her gaze, blazing with mistrust, darted between little poor I and weary little knight Reinhardt, He stood a few paces away, his piercing blue eyes locked onto her with a blend of patience and silent resolve. His weary frame exuded calm authority, even as his hand rested inches from his weapon, ready to spring into action if needed.
Then, her attention snapped to the towering giant behind her, standing still as a boulder. "Old man Rom!" she snarled, her words cutting like shards of broken glass. "Did you seriously let these two pretty-boy pricks waltz in here?"
Despite the circumstances, her insult managed to sting my pride. I didn't think of myself as "pretty," though Reinhardt, with his regal posture and features seemingly carved from marble, might wear the title with ease.
"Lady Felt," Reinhardt began, his voice steady, like an anchor in a storm. Each word he spoke was deliberate, chosen with care. "We mean you no harm. Please, I implore you—do not force me to take actions that will lead to regrets on all sides."
He stepped forward slowly, measuredly, like a wolf circling to protect its pack. Though his hands were empty, there was an unmistakable air of restrained power in his every movement. Reinhardt didn't need a weapon to be dangerous, and she must have sensed it.
Her blade quivered against my neck, and I caught the flicker of uncertainty in her golden eyes, a split-second crack in the hard shell she wore.
"Felt!" The booming voice of Rom cut through the tension like a hammer shattering stone. His towering frame moved with surprising grace as he stepped to us, his presence alone filling the cramped room. Dust danced in the beams of moonlight that streaked through cracks in the wooden walls, casting long, distorted shadows.
With the ease of a farmer lifting a sack of grain, Rom grabbed Felt by the arm and plucked her from me, his rough hands gentle despite their size. She writhed and flailed in his grip like a cornered animal, her small frame bursting with pent-up rage.
"What'd I tell ya 'bout actin' first and askin' questions later?" Rom barked, his gravelly tone full of exasperation, though not unkind. "You tryin' to get us both thrown in the slam for stabbin' some noble? Use yer head, kid."
"Noble?" Felt spat, squirming in his grasp but no longer struggling with the same ferocity. Her blazing eyes turned to me again, raking over every inch of my dusty, travel-worn figure. "Pretty-boy number one doesn't look like much of a noble to me."
I coughed, tracing the spot where the blade had kissed my neck. The lingering sting of the near miss burned as I rubbed at the tender skin. Reinhardt took another step closer, his presence all but eclipsing mine.
I raised a hand quickly, waving off Reinhardt's silent concern before he could step any closer. "I'm fine, Reinhardt," I said, my voice hoarse but steady. The words came out lighter than I felt, i was alive, so it was pretty alright all things considered, what a low bar had i set to myself. "I'd like to say I'm used to this—but honestly that just makes me feel depressed when I think of it."
Reinhardt paused mid-step, his piercing blue eyes scanning me for any sign of injury before reluctantly nodding. Despite his outward calm, the tension radiating from him was palpable, like a spring coiled and ready to snap. He wasn't just my shield right now—he was Felt's unspoken executioner, if she made one wrong move—that was cute, in its own grim way.
"Wait—Reinhardt. The Sword Saint?" Felt's voice cracked with a mixture of disbelief and realization, her earlier bravado crumbling beneath the weight of the revelation.
"Yep, the one and only," I chirped, the unexpected sing-song lilt in my voice surprising even me. Shouldn't I be more bothered about this whole mess? No—this far in, it was hard to muster the energy for much beyond wry resignation.
Felt trembled slightly, and Rom, ever the perceptive guardian, placed a reassuring hand on her head to bring her some comfort.
"Lady Felt," Reinhardt began, his tone gentler now but no less commanding, "your cooperation is greatly appreciated. Allow us to explain our intentions fully."
I stifled a groan, already bracing for yet another thorough, mind-numbing explanation of the plan, whatever that was, Reinhardt's earnest nobility was commendable, sure, but it had a way of dragging even the simplest conversations into exhausting marathons, as much as I should have sought to listen to it, I knew firsthand how plans usually end up going wrong in a flurry of ways, so I just layed my elbows down the bar top and took a quick nap—I've always been so easily stricken with boredom.
Something slammed into me with the force of a freight train, stealing air from my lungs as my feet flew out from underneath me. I crashed backward, tumbling down the jagged slope, each impact tearing new screams from my body as the unforgiving earth scraped my skin raw. The rocks were relentless, clawing at my flesh with jagged edges, leaving behind trails of searing pain that snaked up my arms and legs.
The skin on my arms burned, stretched to its limit, as if invisible tendrils were trying to peel it away. Every jagged corner I collided with seemed to have a vendetta, each one sharper than the last, as if the hill itself were determined to keep me rolling.
At last, the earth met me with finality. My body slammed flat against the dirt, the hard surface kissing my lips with cruel intensity. The impact left my mouth raw, the metallic tang of blood spreading like wildfire over my tongue. My nose throbbed, bent grotesquely at an odd angle.
Before I could even muster the will to groan, a hand hooked itself under my armpit, wrenching me upward with brutal force. Pain exploded in my ribs and shoulders as I was hauled to my feet like a marionette whose strings had been yanked too hard. I gasped, letting my head loll forward, my gaze swimming in the blurry muddle of dirt and blood dripping onto the ground below.
"Meili?" she rasped, her voice scraping out like shattered glass, raw and broken.
In response, I tried to lower my head even further, seeking refuge in the darkness of my own shadow, but I couldn't. My legs trembled under my weight, my strength betrayed me, and the unseen grip on my arm remained steadfast.
"I see," came the reply. Her words carried the hollow weight of pity, though her trembling voice cracked the facade of indifference. I knew, if I dared lift my gaze, I'd see it. The crude, mocking smile that never quite reached her eyes. A mask she wore like armor.
"It's a pity," she added, her tone soft but laden with quiet anger.
It was. I couldn't deny that much.
"Why are you still here?" I rasped.
"Don't you still have something to do, dear contractor?" she asked, her voice carrying a sickening lilt, playful and mocking. There was a cruelty in the amusement that edged every syllable, like the twisted joy of watching someone drown while smiling at the struggle.
The absurdity of it all rose up and twisted inside me, twisting the pain in my chest into something that forced a bitter laugh free. It was ragged and wet, sputtering up from deep within, half-choked by the rawness in my throat. The laugh cracked in the air, but it felt bitterly empty.
"You're a cruel woman, Elsa," I rasped, voice barely a whisper against the noise in my head. "Even as I'm half-dead, you won't let me go out in peace."
A coy smile tugged at the edges of her lips, something fleeting and dark flickering in her gaze—a tenderness that never belonged and disappeared before I could grasp it. Her head tilted slightly, a calculating, almost playful gesture, and then she spoke again, her tone soaked in false innocence, the words wrapping themselves around me like a silken cord hiding a dagger.
"Not as cruel as you, mister," she cooed, the mock sweetness of her words a venomous caress. "Always cutting into my poor maidenly heart with that tongue of yours."
I couldn't help it. A derisive snort escaped, bitter and caustic. "A maidenly heart? Could've had me fooled, bowl hunter."
Her eyes narrowed, the smile faltering as the sharp edges of her composure sharpened. "Says the man who burned down the entire capital," she shot back, her words like arrows tipped with acid, sharp and precise. "What about you, Archbishop of Pride?" Her voice lowered on that last phrase, dragging it over the air like a deep, mocking cut.
If she thought that could pull regret from me, she was sorely mistaken. Regret was a luxury I'd long since abandoned, a ghost that only crept in when delirium softened the edges of my mind. A slimy thing—I'd peel it off if I could.
I coughed, half a laugh and half just… dying, probably. My lips curled into something that might've been a grin if you squinted hard enough. "It merely felt too cold for my tastes," I muttered, the words stumbling out like drunkards at closing time.
The silence that followed was dense, pressing against the air like an unspoken verdict. It was the kind of silence that swallowed breath and bent time, heavy with something unspeakable. Her frown, once a line of iron, softened—twisting into a smile that did not belong, a cruel mimicry of something that could be tender. Blood streaked her cheeks in jagged rivers, mixing with the dust that clung to her like a second skin. And yet, beneath the grime, the vestiges of her beauty remained—an echo of innocence now drowned in the filth of our transgressions.
Her dress—what was left of it—clung to her in desperate tatters. Voilette silk, once a whisper against her skin, now slashed to ribbons, barely hanging onto her shoulders by defiant threads. The ruined fabric bared glimpses of her milky flesh, stark against the darkness around us, Elsa was lovely, when she allowed herself to be.
Her lips, parted just enough to tremble with words left unspoken, glistened in the dim light. Thoughts churned behind them, drowning in the weight of what had passed, in the unspeakable ruin of what we had become. The sound that nearly escaped—a breath, a whisper, a confession—hung in the air, daring to break free from the velvet prison of her mouth.
The sounds of steps interrupted our impromptu reunion, a man who's eyes locked into me closed on us.
Elsa pushed me aside, roughly, coldly, her apathy was an ocean I could drown in, when she set out to face him, I couldn't mutter a single word, with their names uttered to each other, I limped away to let death find me elsewhere.
My head snapped back, my neck absorbing the brutal force of the blow. A sickening crack reverberated through my skull, and for a moment, the world dissolved into a chaotic whirlwind of pain. I staggered, my legs trembling, my feet leaden as if shackled by invisible chains. My heart pounded—a frantic, unrelenting drumbeat, faster than a racehorse in full stride.
Agony split my skull like a cleaver through bone, stealing my breath and leaving me teetering on the brink of collapse. My vision swam, darkness threatening to pull me under, but instinct wrenched me back just in time. A blade whistled through the air, a silver blur slicing toward me. Too slow. Too sluggish. Yet somehow—whether by luck, fate, or sheer desperation—I twisted just beyond its reach.
A low, sultry chuckle slithered through the air like a serpent. "My, oh my… aren't you just a treat?" Her voice coiled around me, smooth and dangerous—like a dagger slipping between ribs.
I swallowed against the fire in my throat, blinking hard to keep her in focus. "Sorry," I croaked, shifting on unsteady feet. "This buffet's closed. Come back later, ma'am."
The words tumbled out, half-defiant, half-dazed, and judging by the wicked gleam in her eyes, they only served to amuse her.
Reinhardt shoved himself to my side, steadying me even as his presence threw me off balance. I huffed, whimpering despite myself against his firm grip. "You ought to leave this to me, Sir Subaru. Please stand dow—"
I wrenched free and lunged forward, ignoring the protest, adrenaline surging through my veins like a wildfire. My fist cut through the air, reckless and desperate, and collided with her chin. Bone cracked—hers, mine, both. A shockwave rippled up my arm, my jaw clenching so tight I nearly bit through my own tongue.
But I was alive.
Even as her kekura coiled toward my throat, even as my jacket tightened into a makeshift noose, I felt the raw, electric thrill of survival. Then, just as the crushing grip threatened to take hold, Reinhardt yanked me back an inch from death. In the same motion, he spun and delivered a devastating kick to her midsection, sweeping her off her feet and slamming her against the cavern wall.
Dust billowed, swallowing her form. I clutched the fresh bruise on my neck, breath heavy, gaze darting to the gaping hole torn into the rock. Beyond it, the void stretched endless and dark.
Elsa was nowhere to be seen.
I turned around, walking slowly, making little noise as I took a sword off the nearest shelf. Rom eyed me warily but said nothing, just clutching his bloodied arm by his side.
I gave a quick glance to the saint sword as he stepped out of the gaping hole, his eyes scanning the shadows for our stealthy assassin with unnerving thoroughness.
Felt crouched beside her wounded grandfather, her small hands trembling as she hovered over his injuries, her face a mix of defiance and helplessness. And beyond her, standing stiff as a pillar in the dim glow, was Emilia.
"Hey," I muttered, the word slipping from my lips like a stray whisper.
She stiffened. Her lips quivered before she forced them into a thin, wary line. "W-What do you want?"
Suspicion laced her voice, but beneath it, something else shimmered—something raw, something brittle.
What did I want? I wasn't even sure myself. My mind was a tangle of doubts, my own thoughts a treacherous maze I no longer dared to trust.
"I just wanted to say sorry for earlier." A lie. And a poor one at that. But it was time to mend something, even if it was broken beyond repair.
Her brows knitted together, a silent war playing across her face. Confusion. Hesitation. A fragile longing for understanding.
Emilia had always craved forgiveness as much as I had once craved love. But that meant nothing when—
"You think that's enough?"
The voice cut through the air like a blade of ice.
And then, between us, he stood.
A small figure, unassuming at first glance—but the pressure in the room shifted with his presence, the temperature plummeting. The tiny ball of fur had shed its gentle guise, leaving behind a force as old and relentless as a winter storm.
"You think I wouldn't have your head roll just for looking at my daughter the wrong way?" Puck's voice was steady, but there was no mistaking the lethal promise woven into his words.
Emilia's hand curled into a fist at her side. "Puck, please stop." Her voice was barely above a breath. "I can handle this alone."
"I… I'm sorry as well," she whispered. The words felt fragile, unsteady. "I shouldn't have followed you. My presence must have petrified you."
For a moment, silence stretched between us, thick with something neither of us could name.
A feeling so dark and vast clawed its way up to my chest, shifting and squirming as it strangled the last bits of apathy coating my soul, leaving me naked and raw.
With my throat constricted and lungs frigid from doubt, I could not bring myself to do more than give her a languid nod.
With nothing more than a breath tearing its way out of my throat, a blur of violet flew across the rubble, aimed straight between us.
Violet and pale, with crimson dripping along the edges, her speed was something my eyes could barely keep up with. But my mind had already conjured the image of her crazed smile, how certain I was she went for Emilia.
It was only when I sought to move myself that I realized her trajectory aligned with me, tracking me like a hawk. My arm barely held up, I knew I had no time to fend for myself, not even the time to blink as her blade shimmered with the moonlight.
I heard a scream, a thud, and a horrifying impact that left ripples as the shockwaves hit me like a riptide, almost bringing me to my knees.
During it all, without even letting my eyes rest, having witnessed it all, I still couldn't entirely understand what occurred in those tenths of a second.
Almost instinctively, my hands went to check over my vitals, grabbing at my chest, searching for blood, wounds. I was free of those.
With a glance toward Emilia, seeing her neck craned as she looked over at the side of the room, my brain finally caught up with the events that had transpired in front of me.
"I hadn't felled her." Came a disappointed whisper from Reinhardt, his hand so tightly clutched around a rusty sword that it dissolved into ash and dust, flowing in the air.
"Lady Emilia, if you will." He added, with a meaningful glance over to the fallen giant and his granddaughter.
Emilia, the lady in question, let out an embarrassed squeak before heading to the side of the bleeding Rom, tending to his wounds.
With everything ending so unceremoniously, with the quietness that invaded the air, I couldn't help but let out a sigh and drop down onto a seat, rummaging through the bar to grab a drink for myself.
With a glass in hand and after a few sips, I grabbed the insignia from a shelf and threw it toward Emilia, who, though seemingly nervous, caught it without breaking a sweat.
Lost in her own head, with her cute eyebrow knitted in doubt as the light felt ethereal in her hand, I couldn't help but think how pretty she was even as she frowned.
"Why?" Her question came, soft and quiet.
In response, I downed the whole drink in one swing. I was in dire need of some liquid courage.
"Think of it as an apology." I responded.
Taken aback by my words, her hand went to her chest, trembling slightly. "I thought you were scared of me, with how reminiscent I am of th-the witch."
I let out a huff of air, breathing harshly as I was hit with a sharp blade of agony looking at her trembling lips.
Setting my glass down and taking measured steps toward her, I gathered my resolve.
As I sought to wrap my hands around hers, icy chains kept my limbs at bay, a spirit snarling, reminding me of the sins I had committed.
He uttered no words, but his threat lay bare. She sought to calm his fury, but I allowed her not.
Shaking my head at her unnecessary worry for offending me, I locked eyes with her and slackened my jaw.
"Emilia, you're nothing like her... nothing like the Witch." Soon as the words left my mouth, doubt crept in. Did I even know her well enough to make that judgment? Did I truly know anything about Satella? The truth was, I didn't. I barely knew Emilia, let alone the Witch who haunted my memories like a shadow.
The words felt hollow, even to me. They were a shield, a desperate attempt to reassure her—and perhaps myself—but they rang with an uncertainty I couldn't shake. Who was I to draw such a line between them? Who was I to pretend I understood the depths of either?
"O-oh... thank you," she stammered, her voice soft but tinged with more confusion than gratitude. Her amethyst eyes flickered with something unreadable—relief, perhaps, or maybe just bewilderment at my clumsy attempt to comfort her. She looked away, her fingers fidgeting with the hem of her sleeve, as if unsure how to process my words.
I wanted to say more—to explain myself, to bridge the gap between us with something meaningful, something that could undo the mess I'd made. But the truth was, I didn't know how. My thoughts were a tangled web, knotted and frayed, and my emotions raged like a storm I couldn't calm. All I knew was this: I couldn't let her believe, even for a moment, that she was anything like the specter that haunted us both. The thought alone was unbearable.
But as I stood there, the silence between us stretched like a chasm, vast and unyielding. It was in that stillness that I realized how little I truly understood—not just about her, but about myself. And yet, despite the distance, despite the uncertainty, I felt a yearning so deep it ached. It wasn't just a wish. It was a hunger, a desperate pull toward her, as if my very soul was tethered to hers by some invisible thread.
I wanted to know her—not just the surface, not just the mask she showed the world, but the hidden corners of her heart. I wanted to unravel the quiet fears she kept locked away, to hear the dreams she dared not speak aloud. I wanted to know the weight of her sorrows and the color of her joys. And more than anything, I wanted her to know me—not the facade I wore, not the lies I told to survive, but the broken, jagged pieces of who I truly was. I wanted to lay myself bare before her and trust her with the fragments of my soul.
I was maddened by the sight of her, so radiant even in her uncertainty. Her silver hair caught the light like moonlight on water, and her amethyst eyes held a depth I could drown in. I was captivated by the sound of her voice, soft and hesitant, yet carrying a strength that defied the weight of the world. It was a voice that could calm storms or stir them.
I was utterly stricken by the thought of her, her presence a constant hum in the back of my mind, as if she had carved a space for herself there and refused to leave. I was terribly, hopelessly smitten with the feel of her—not just her touch, but the way her very existence seemed to fill the spaces around me, as if the world itself bent to her gravity. She was a force of nature, and I was a moth drawn to her flame, knowing full well I'd burn.
I could see it. I could imagine it. I could dream of it—a world where she and I could share a little warmth, where we'd whisper hellos and goodbyes into each other's ears, our breaths mingling in the cold air. A world where we'd lock hands and entangle fingers, shy and embarrassed, leaning into each other's sides as if we were the only two people in existence. A place where we'd sit and talk, letting time pass in the comfort of each other's presence. Maybe, just maybe, with enough time, I could hope to etch my name into her heart, as she had already etched hers into mine.
A modest house deep in the woods, far from the noise and chaos of the world. The air would smell of pine and earth, and the only sounds would be the rustling of leaves and the distant chirping of birds. Little quarter-elves with silver hair would run amok, knocking things off shelves and bumping into furniture, their laughter echoing through the halls like music. Emilia and I, sitting by the hearth, sharing quiet moments as the world outside moved on without us. Drinking our worries away, swaying to the tune of birdsong, finding peace in the simplicity of being together.
What a beautiful thing that would be.
But even as the dream took shape in my mind, vivid and intoxicating, I knew it could never be. Not in this life. I would not allow us to be anything but strangers. Our souls would not entangle, no matter how much I dreamed of it. No matter how much I ached for it.
For you, I will be nothing. For me, you will be something. And together, we could have been everything—but such luxuries cannot, should not, will not be afforded to the Archbishop of Pride.
I couldn't allow it.
It wasn't long before I took my leave from the loothouse.
No goodbyes, no wishing wells, no grand displays of gratitude were exchanged—not even the slightest hint of acknowledgment. My departure was as silent as a shadow slipping through a crack in the wall, unnoticed by all but one. Reinhardt's sharp eyes caught my retreat, but he said nothing, his gaze lingering just long enough to make my skin crawl. I slipped into the dark night like a thief, my footsteps swallowed by the stillness of the air.
I chose to hide, to scurry away like a rat when I saw Emilia and Felt deep in conversation. It wasn't some grand strategy, not some calculated move to gain favor or position. No, it was simpler than that, uglier than that. I hid because I was ashamed.
The weight of it pressed down on me as I leaned against the rough, cold stone of the cavern walls, willing the shadows to swallow me whole. My breath came shallow, my chest tight as I watched them—Emilia's silver hair catching the faint light, Felt's fiery energy animating her every gesture. They looked so alive, so unburdened, while I stood there like a ghost, hollow and unseen—even Rom bathed in a pool of his blood looked more alive than me.
I couldn't bring myself to step into that circle, to pretend I belonged among them. How could I? How could I stand there and act as though I was anything other than what I was—a fraud, a failure, a man who had nearly destroyed everything he touched? When Reinhardt noticed me slinking away, his expression softened with pity. He offered no words, just a painstaking smile that felt like a dagger twisting in my gut.
I couldn't even muster the decency to return it, not even as a lie. The shame that clawed at me from the inside out had stripped me of even that small kindness. I was too raw, too broken to pretend.
The rage burned hot in my chest, a fire that consumed everything in its path. I was furious with myself, abashed to the point of nausea. I cursed the ground beneath my feet, the very earth that dared to forgive me, to forget my sins as though they were nothing. Damn this ground, damn these petty rocks that crunched under my boots, damn the world for its relentless indifference.
The cold bit at my arms, sharp and unrelenting, but I welcomed it. The ache in my muscles, the exhaustion that threatened to drag me to my knees—none of it mattered. I pushed through it, driven by something darker, something more desperate. I knew what I was doing. I knew exactly what I had almost done, and the knowledge was a brand seared into my soul—I dared and hoped, I let myself too close, and it disgusted me to the core.
Me living a normal life after all of that? With her nonetheless? Don't fuck with me!
The darkness stretched on a tide washing over me, I knew where I was heading, it was a familiar route I once took, one with a trail of fresh of blood to follow.
"Oh~it seems I've been found, I can't say I'll be able to put much of a fight dear~."
"Elsa."
On this earth—this dirt beneath my feet—where the wind carves through my flesh, etching crevices where skin clings tight and thin, the cold gnaws at my bones like a hound from hell. Its tongue slithers over me, sinking deep into the marrow, as sorrow drags me to my knees.
I am nothing. And I wish for nothing.
Everything I held within my grasp slipped through like sand in a clenched fist, vanishing before I could claim it as my own.
O world of Titan, why should I hope for more when I have grown so accustomed to living in the mud beneath your feet?
Beloved melancholy, you have made a garden of me—your roots entwined in my ribs, your touch the only thing to reach me.
Dearest agony, you have sown fields upon fields within the hollow caverns of my chest, but nothing grows. No lilies, no roses to veil the grave I dug—a place where my heart lies, in peace at last, untouched by that wretched light.
O sorrow, you have been so kind, never once straying from my side. Like a devoted lover, you creep into my bed each night, whispering lullabies only I can hear. How could I forsake you, when you have never forsaken me?
O dear misery, I understand now—by embracing you, I shall be saved. And as you have done to me, so shall I do to you. No longer shall I turn away from the one who has always remained.
And in the final moments of my demise, I will open my heart once more—so you may enter it again.