rooted to the ground, but the cosmos are so close. she can almost taste them, if only her tastebuds weren't deadened by weeks of poison. just dust in her mouth and ash. dragonfire feels so far away - mere cinders. and then close, too close, frigid even. fur and steel around her and she gasps, muscles shaking, but xen does not let go. 

home. 

familiar scent and sound. creaking of the floorboards, noise of the bar and the streets outside. some of her belongings stretch shadows across the furniture. tears pool in her eyes. she has no room in her heart for guilt over leaving him. 

this had not been her choice. 

pale skin still lavender in its undertone, she reaches like a ghost, hand trembling towards him. "please," she says hoarsely, "i need you."

KING WAYLAND

☉

healing pulses do little to repair the cracks in her splintering psyche, but they assuage her cuts and bruises, pad the tough callouses that have formed on her hands from weeks of cleaning tera crystals. 

she crawls onto the bed, into him, nosing into his chest, snaking arms around his sides to bring his warmth against her. she shakes; with every space she fits pieces of herself into, her trembling grows, until her heart is a wild thunder in her chest and her breaths are shallow hiccups of pain. 

"they took me away again," she says in broken cries, soft and forceful. "i wanted to serve. i was, i was stolen."

misted, with purple instead of pink.

KING WAYLAND

☉

and time, as it is meant to do, marches on. agonizing seconds slip into minutes, slip into hours, and she begs him with no shortage of word and touch not to let her go. not to leave. not to break her, please, don't break her. 

all the rest of the world is so empty and it is filled with vile darkness, splatters of bloodied feathers and bisected bodies and contorted shapes of the damned. the nightmares are violent and unrelenting, but somehow they are better than the dream. 

only forty minutes have passed. not hours since she's been in his arms.

her sobs have petered to half-asleep hiccups. she jerks back to, grimacing as glass shatters (not here, not there, not anywhere (or was it another her that knocked the glass off the nightstand, saying, eva, dear can you get that?)). 

she gropes for him, finds the curve of his jaw, and looks up through wet lashes. 

"i think i am unraveling," comes the admission, given so freely. no more hiding. no more shouldering alone. and almost as quickly does she press her thumb to his lip, to stop him from speaking, to give her a moment. "but here, with you, i'm held fast, but i'm not safe.

"we're not safe."

KING WAYLAND

☉

the end is coming. it's in the air. it's in the rot and buried in the flesh and thickening sweetly in the blood. she shows teeth in the face of his denial, tucks her head under his jaw so the corner of her mouth impresses upon his throat. his jugular veins pulse and more red flashes over her vision, making her toes curl.

"you asked how many," she breathes. "how many lives i could stack up. not more. not much more, but there's something important here."

her words are a jumble, she knows. mismatched and turned around. not enough and too much. 

"there were masks. they showed us what we wanted most, showed us what each other wanted. our deepest desires. and that's where it started. where i lost myself, wanting, giving up all of it - you, for a dream - but you were the dream." she turns her head and she kisses the side of his throat with featherlight care. 

"and by wanting you, i betrayed you," she whispers.

KING WAYLAND

☉

"sleep," she says humorously, smile quirking while mania dribbles into her eyes. "the dreams were my prison. in there, i knew it was false, and i spent every moment knowing it could be my last. that i'd wake up and i wouldn't be me again."

her canines graze his skin. 

"tell me," she demands. "tell me who i am."

KING WAYLAND

☉

flint strikes and sparks shower, but nothing catches. no smoke, no ash, only his arms around her, his fingers and his lips sifting through her hair, holding her in this body - in her body. 

each supplant of her turmoil glows warmly and the bits and pieces of her that were drifting apart settle back down, held fast by each adjective, verb, and insufferable phrase. she coils into him, hooking an ankle around his calf, willing all the spaces away so she can grip him tightly and burrow into his warmth, his scent, his safety. 

she says, "thank you," and, "i love you," and "kiss me now, love. please."

KING WAYLAND

☉