forceful1cupid

[forceful1cupid]

And My Soul, Hers III

Elira stood beneath the statue once more.

The wind had grown quieter now. As if the world, too, was holding its breath.

She tilted her head up, her eyes tracing the likeness carved in stone.

There he was.

Tall. Unyielding. Regal in stance.

But it was the eyes—the red, unblinking eyes—that kept her still.

They had chiseled them carefully. Proud and distant. As if they stared through centuries.

But she remembered another version.

Eyes heavy from fever.

Lashes clumped with sweat.

The bandage slipping when he turned too fast and she nearly saw.

Caelum.

Not the statue. Not the king.

But the man she once found crumpled beneath roots and boughs, muttering half-coherent things through a cracked lip.

She stepped closer and pressed her palm to the cold stone of the base.

And whispered, voice hoarse,

"There must be something…"

Her brows knit.

She closed her eyes, steadying her breath.

And then—memory returned.

She was kneeling in the garden behind the cottage.

He had just started walking again, stiff and slow, like a soldier stitched back together wrong.

The bandage was still on his eyes. He claimed he could see nothing, but she swore sometimes he turned his face toward the birdsong with too much precision.

She’d caught him smiling once, when she tripped over a root and swore.

She didn't press it.

Instead, she knelt there in the herbs and silence.

And picked a flower.

It wasn’t much—its petals slightly torn, stem bent—but it had bloomed in the shade. Quiet and persistent.

Like him.

She stood, holding it out.

“Here,” she said simply, voice almost shy.

He blinked behind the bandage. “What is it?”

“A gift.”

Caelum held out his hand.

She placed the flower in it.

He didn’t say thank you.

He didn’t smile.

But what he did next—He walked back inside. She followed, curious.

And watched him kneel beside the fireplace, pry up a loose stone, and gently nestle the flower inside.

Covered it like it were a sacred thing.

He never spoke of it again.

But she knew—He hid what mattered.

The memory faded.

But her fingers twitched.

Eyes snapping open, she looked again at the statue’s base.

If he were to leave something, it would not be in the open.

Not for priests. Not for the crown.

But hidden.

Protected.

Like the flower.

She stepped closer, running her fingers over the stone now with purpose.

Every carved line. Every curve.

Then—

There.

Just beneath the base, tucked along the wingtip of the phoenix crest—A hair-thin seam.

Her breath caught.

She pressed.

Click.

A faint shift.

And the stone gave way.

A hidden compartment slid open with the slow hush of dust and time.

Inside—wrapped in ancient velvet—

A book.

Worn leather. No crest. No seal.

Just one word, burned in faded gold:

Caelum.

Elira did not speak.

Her hands trembled.

And for the first time since waking…

She wept.

--

[I]

I write this not for the bards, nor the nobles, nor the robed fools who pretend wisdom.

I write not for posterity, nor pity.

I write for mine own self—lest I forget what I was before they break me wholly.

I am Caelum, second son of Emperor Therion.

Born with hair gold as harvest wheat, and eyes red as flame—eyes touched by the divine, or so the old priests whisper.

Yet I was not born to be heir.

Nay. That blessing was cast upon my elder brother—he who hath no spine, nor strength, nor shadow.

He was soft from the cradle, always coughing, always crying.

And yet they wrapped him in velvet, kissed his brow, fed him the language of kings.

While I, born stronger than most men thrice my age, was taught to bow my head.

"Thou art not firstborn," they said. "Thy duty is to serve."

I did not ask for this strength.

I did not ask to break bones by accident, nor to outmatch my tutors before I reached my tenth year.

I was born with the blood of gods in my limbs—and yet I was told to hide it.

They called it cruelty.

A flick of the wrist that disarmed a knight? "Cruel."

A look that silenced a court? "Cruel."

My brother stammered and they praised his humility.

I stood firm and they scorned my pride.

But tell me—who guards this empire when war comes?

Who leads when the weak falter?

I was not made to kneel.

I was made to rise.

And gods forgive me, I shall.

From the moment I could walk, I dreamt of the throne.

Not for gold. Not for luxury.

But to prove that I am more than shadow.

That I, too, was born with purpose.

The halls of the palace echo with songs of my brother’s gentleness.

The walls are dressed with his likeness.

And yet not once hath my father looked upon me with pride.

Only demand. Only silence.

He sees in me the blade—but never the hand that wields it.

They do not know what it is to be born second in a line meant for kings.

To live in half-light.

To be the spare.

I train in silence.

I bleed in silence.

And each night, I whisper the same vow to the gods who gave me these cursed eyes—

One day, thou shalt see me crowned.

Not because I was born to rule… but because I earned it.

And if this world shall not yield its throne to merit,

Then I shall tear it from the hands of cowards and carve my name into the stone myself.

Let them fear me.

Let them curse my name in the dark.

But they shall never forget it.

[II]

The chamber was cold, but not with wind—only judgment. Their eyes followed me like vermin trace a hound, waiting for blood. I could hear the rustle of silks, the creak of leather belts—men grown fat on title, yet trembling at the thought of war.

The rebels had stirred in the north. That much we knew. And with them… the witches.

Of course they feared them. The nobles, I mean. They feared what they could not tame, could not bleed dry and name useful. The moment the word witch was uttered, their prayers began to stink of sweat.

No man rose. Not one offered to lead. Not even the crown prince.

So I did.

My name fell like iron across the table, and the room changed. They shifted in their seats, as though Death himself had spoken.

I had been waiting for this. For years.

And yet, when the moment arrived, it did not taste like victory.

It tasted like stone.

After the council, my father did not speak to me as a sire might. He spoke as a sovereign. The words he offered were not wrapped in warmth, but in warning. There would be no crown unless I returned not only triumphant—but purged.

He named the witches as the true enemy. Not the rebels who bore blades, but the ones who whispered in the soil, who remembered the old ways, who still bore the mark of the Old Tongue.

Their power, he said, had grown too vast. They challenged the natural order. Even the divine.

And so the order came.

Eradicate them. Every last one.

The root, the fruit, the flame.

And in exchange—

A crown.

I said yes. Of course I did.

The throne had been denied me all my life. This was my path. My right. My inheritance offered not through birth, but through conquest.

Yet that night I could not sleep.

I sharpened my blade beneath torchlight, listening to the soft rasp of steel, and I tried to ignore the silence that gathered behind it. A silence not of peace—but of something waiting.

I should have felt pride.

Instead, I felt watched.

The fire in my hearth sputtered as if suffocating.

I stared at it until my vision blurred, and I thought of all the witches I had yet to meet.

I imagined them old and toothless, cloaked in rot. I imagined them monsters, beasts that wore the skin of men.

It was easier that way.

Easier to believe I would not be killing anything with a name.

But deep within, a voice had begun to stir. It asked, quietly—what price art thou willing to pay?

And I answered without pause.

Anything.

Everything.

I would burn down the sky if it meant they would crown me king.

For I was not made to serve.

I was not made to kneel beside my brother, to clap when he spoke, to walk half a step behind like some loyal hound.

I was made to rule.

So let the north rise in fire and wrath.

Let the witches scream.

I go not for justice.

I go not for God.

I go for the crown.

And if the divine doth object—

Then let Him try to stop me.

[III]

I do not know what day it is. The sun barely shows here. The trees watch us.

We have marched deep into the north. The further we go, the less my men laugh. The less I sleep.

I kill and I kill.

Men. Women. Witches.

Their blood steams on the snow.

Their mouths curse in tongues I do not know, and still—I silence them.

I have grown quicker with the blade. Colder.

The killing used to shake my hands. Now they barely tremble.

The whispers… they follow me.

I see shadows in the corner of mine eyes.

I see her face before I sleep, though I know not who she is.

The old witch said I would wear the crown crooked.

I think she was right.

There is something wrong in me.

I am beginning to forget the sound of laughter.

Even my brother’s name slips my tongue.

But I remember what my father promised.

If I return victorious—

I return king.

And so I march.

Gods help me, I march.

[IV]

I have returned.

The war is done.

The crown is mine.

They sang for me when I crossed the gates.

They dressed me in crimson and gold.

They called me savior.

And yet I cannot breathe.

Not since I left her.

Not since she vanished into air and silence and the memory of her blood on my blade.

I brought her hands with me.

That was the price they asked.

But none knew they were hers.

None knew what they cost.

Not even I knew—until it was done.

She had looked at me with such disbelief.

Not pain. Not rage.

But heartbreak.

And that broke something in me that even war could not.

I remember the first time I saw her.

Not as a soldier. Not as prey.

But as a woman.

She was tending my wounds, her fingers gentle, her words too quiet to hear.

There was a softness in her that unsettled me.

Something tugged at my chest—but I ignored it.

I thought it weakness.

Then she laughed once. Just once.

And it echoed in me like a bell I had never known I needed to hear.

Her hands—before I took them—used to touch my face when the fever came.

She would sing to me in a language I did not know.

She would press flowers into my palms and pretend they were spells.

And gods forgive me… I believed her.

Her lips touched mine in the stillness of dusk, once.

I remember it not as a kiss—but as a moment where I felt whole.

Not a sword.

Not a weapon.

Not a prince.

Just a man.

In her arms, I was not second-born.

I was not cruel.

I was hers.

And I would have stayed, had fate been kind.

But fate is a crueler thing than any sword.

I knew she was hiding something.

I saw the mark.

But I turned from it.

Because for the first time in my life, I belonged.

And when she told me the truth, when her voice broke and she said “I am a witch,”

I still wanted to stay.

But the blade moved before I could think.

My hands… my cursed hands.

They cut what I wished to protect.

The bandage fell.

She saw my eyes.

She knew then.

And she vanished.

I have not seen her since.

But I see her in everything.

In the way the wind stirs my curtains.

In the way the flowers still bloom near the old chapel.

I see her in the shadows when I close my eyes.

And if she came now—blade in hand, vengeance in her breath—

I would kneel.

I would not raise a hand to stop her.

For what I took cannot be returned.

But if she would look upon me once more…

Even if in hatred…

I would welcome death.

And so I write this.

Not for penance.

Not for mercy.

But to remember.

To remember her.

If my body belongs to this empire…

And my blood belongs to God…

Then my soul—

my soul is hers.

[V]

They say I have grown quieter.

They say I walk the halls like a ghost wearing a crown.

Perhaps they are right.

The weight on my shoulders is no longer the weight of steel, nor duty—

but the ache of remembering things too soft to survive in this palace.

I recall the way she peeled fruit, slow and precise, her brow creased like it were a holy rite.

I remember how she hummed when she thought I slept.

Once, she placed a flower by my bedside. A white one.

No meaning given.

But I kept it longer than I should have.

It dried.

The petals curled in upon themselves like dying hands.

I still have it.

In a box no one knows exists.

I speak her name in silence. Never aloud. The palace walls have ears.

But I whisper it into the ink of every law I sign.

I see her eyes in every storm that rolls across the northern ridge.

I rule a kingdom, yet I would trade it all just to feel her hand again—

even if it were in a slap, a blow, a curse.

I would beg for it.

There is a sickness in longing.

But worse is the silence it leaves behind.

The curse, I think, is not the old witch’s words.

The curse is her absence.

I have everything I was promised.

The throne. The name. The legacy.

And yet I wake in cold sweat, reaching for a hand I cut away with mine own blade.

I deserve it.

But still I reach.

Every day I rule, I hope she walks through those great palace gates.

Not to forgive me.

Not to love me.

But to end this.

To end me.

That would be a mercy.

For a king without his soul…

Is nothing but a shadow wearing a crown.

[VI]

The quill grows heavy in mine hand.

My breath, fainter by the hour.

The healers murmur of fever. The priests speak of salvation.

But I care not for gods, nor for gold, nor for legacy.

My mind wanders.

Not to battlefields nor coronations—

But to a quiet cottage at the edge of a forest I shall never see again.

I remember the scent of damp earth.

The sound of her voice reading aloud some tale she barely finished.

I remember how she’d brush the sweat from my brow when my dreams turned to ash.

She held me when no one else dared to.

And I repaid her with blood.

I cannot change what was done.

I made my choice.

I became king.

But the crown has always sat wrong upon my head.

It is too cold.

Too quiet.

I have no son to inherit it. No queen to soften its burden.

I sent them all away, one by one, until only I remained.

Waiting.

For her.

They call me a madman, an old fool speaking to ghosts.

But I know she still lives.

Somewhere, beyond the reach of this fading world, she endures.

And if she comes—

Even in fury, even in flame—

I will be waiting.

With open arms.

Let her strike. Let her curse my name and burn my legacy to ruin.

I shall not raise a hand in return.

For what I stole cannot be forgiven.

But to see her face once more, even full of wrath…

That would be a gift greater than any throne.

I go now to sleep.

And if the gods are kind—

Let her be the last I dream of.

If my body belongeth to this empire,

And my blood unto the divine,

Then my soul… my soul is hers.

Always.

[forceful1cupid]

And My Soul, Hers II

Time passed, though neither counted it.

In the woods, there were no bells nor courts to mark the days.

Only sun, rain, and the breath of the forest.

It was one quiet dusk when he saw her hands trembling again, and this time he dared to ask.

“What is thy pain?”

Elira hesitated.

Then placed down the bowl she had been drying.

“My scar,” she said simply.

Caelum turned his head slightly, though he saw her clear.

“What sort?”

“The kind that never bled,” she said, and she removed the bracelet from her wrist.

He froze.

There it was again.

The mark.

Plain in the firelight.

“I have been hunted for this,” she murmured, tracing the edge of the old sigil. “For years. I have hidden, and watched those I loved be taken, burned, or silenced. So I ran. Far, far into the woods.”

Caelum said nothing.

“Now,” she continued, “I no longer run. I simply… remain.”

She turned to him.

“And thou, Ash? What scar dost thou bear?”

He lowered his head, jaw tight.

“…Betrayal,” he said at last. “I led men into war. One turned his blade upon me.”

Her eyes flickered with pain.

She understood.

That night, neither of them slept.

It was weeks later.

He had gone deeper into the woods than usual, gathering fallen firewood while pretending still to stumble.

That’s when he heard voices.

Familiar ones.

He ducked low.

Peered through the bramble.

Three men, cloaked in black and armor worn from the march.

One knelt by a carved tree, muttering.

“…He fell here,” the man said. “We stabbed him. But the body was never found.”

The second man spat.

“If we do not return with proof, the king will have us flogged.”

The third—older—spoke quietly.

“T’was the first prince’s order. We were but pawns. He feared what Caelum would become. Too beloved. Too strong. So he rid himself of his brother.”

Caelum felt his blood ice.

The first prince…

My brother.

He had known of betrayal.

But not the hand that had moved the blade.

Now he knew.

And rage, long-buried, rose like a tide in him.

He returned to Elira that night with fire in his chest.

And for the first time, he did not speak a word.

“I must go,” he said suddenly, days later, as she prepared supper.

She turned, startled. “Go?”

“To the capital. To take back what was mine. My name. My place. I was wronged.”

She stepped toward him, hands trembling.

“Then thou rememberest.”

“I never forgot,” he admitted coldly.

She froze.

He approached her, hands outstretched, voice softer now.

“Come with me, Elira. We could live as more than shadows. The court would kneel before thee.”

But she shook her head.

“That is not my place.”

“It could be.”

“Nay,” she said. “I belong to the forest. My power wanes beyond it. The city… would devour me.”

Frustration cracked his voice.

“Since the start, I have felt it—thou art hiding something.”

Elira’s expression darkened.

“Then ask.”

“…What art thou?”

She raised her arm and pulled the sleeve back.

He did not flinch.

“I am a witch, Caelum.”

The name hit him like a sword.

“I am the last speaker of the Old Tongue. The old witch who raised me… she is gone. Killed, I know not when. But I felt her passing.”

He turned away.

His father’s words echoed in his skull.

"If thou returnest a hero, thou shalt be king. Kill every witch—"

"—they defy even God's will."

And now she stood behind him.

Witch.

Lover.

Home.

His breath grew short.

“No,” he whispered. “Not thee. I cannot—”

But his hand moved of its own.

A blade drawn.

A cut swift.

He struck.

Elira cried out as her hands fell back, blood welling.

And in the motion—

His bandage, loosened by the force—

Fell away.

Her eyes widened.

“You…” she breathed.

Those red eyes—undeniable.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered, trembling.

But before he could strike again—

She opened her mouth, and the Old Tongue spilled forth like fire.

She vanished.

He returned to the capital with her hands bound in cloth—proof enough for those who demanded it.

He walked through golden halls, draped in the blood of the one person who had ever made him forget the throne.

The court rejoiced.

The crown was laid upon his brow.

His brother fled.

Caelum was named King.

But his heart remained in the woods.

With her.

He waited.

Every day, every season.

For her to return.

To curse him.

To kill him.

To save him from what he had become.

The once-mighty halls of Aerion had dimmed with age. Golden banners dulled. Statues cracked and crumbling. The court, a quiet echo of what it had been.

And in the highest room of the western tower, the king lay dying.

The fire had long since burned to embers. The room was cold, despite the silks that cloaked him.

King Caelum, ruler of Aerion for over seventy years, stared at the painted ceiling, unblinking.

The crown rested not upon his brow, but beside him on the bed. Dust clung to its edges.

He had not worn it in years.

A servant girl wept softly by the doorway, but he did not see her.

He saw only trees.

And her.

The healers had said his time would be short.

They were wrong.

He waited.

Every morning, he looked to the door.

Every night, he whispered into the darkness.

“Let her come. Let her hate me. Let her burn me with her tongue.”

But the door remained closed.

And the nights, silent.

He remembered her scent in the folds of her hair.

The tremble of her voice when she had said “I am a witch.”

The blood on her hands.

Because of him.

He turned his head slowly, barely breathing now, and said to no one but the shadows at his side:

“I have seen kingdoms rise and burn.”

His voice was gravel, crumbling like stone.

“I have held power in both hands and bathed in the cheers of men. But none of it ever quieted her name in my chest.”

The wind slipped in from the window.

A page turned.

His fingers trembled as he reached for the crown. But instead of placing it back on his head, he turned it slowly in his palms.

He let it fall to the floor.

A soft thud.

Then, with a last breath—quiet, cracked—he said:

“If my body belongeth to this empire…

And my blood to God above…

Then my soul—”

“…my soul belongeth to her.”

A tear slipped from the corner of his eye.

Not for glory.

Not for the throne.

But because she never came.

And yet still—

He waited.

Until the silence took him.

--

Beneath roots as old as the empire itself, where no light ever reached, she lay in stillness.

Elira, last of the forest-born witches.

Broken. Betrayed. Bleeding.

And then gone.

She cast herself into slumber, sealed in a cocoon of hollow magick. Her hands—severed from power—tucked against her chest like a promise she meant to break later.

She whispered to the stones:

“Only a season. A year at most. I shall wake with the Old Tongue in my veins again. I shall rise, and he shall fall.”

But the world turned.

And turned.

And kept turning.

When her eyes opened, it was not to wind.

Not to the hum of trees or the ache of old spells calling her back.

It was to stillness.

Sharp air. Light that cut the cavern in slanted blades.

Elira sat up slowly, breath caught in her throat.

The silence screamed.

Something was wrong.

The air tasted… wrong.

The earth beneath her fingers felt cold. Still. Dull.

She looked down at her hands.

They were healed.

Whole.

Not a scar.

Not a sigil.

Not a single mark left behind.

Her hands… they were empty.

Not just of wounds—

But of power.

She rose to her feet, slow and stiff.

When her feet met the soil outside, she paused.

Her eyes narrowed.

The forest was gone.

No—some trees remained, yes. But they no longer sang to her. No roots whispered. No leaves bowed to her steps.

She could feel a trace of magick in the air.

A faint heartbeat.

Barely alive.

Her feet began to move before she told them to.

She walked with a blank face. Her eyes glazed, her breath shallow.

As if possessed.

As if not quite alive.

She passed through fields where cities now bloomed.

She crossed roads carved into the earth like wounds.

She watched flying carriages without beasts.

She watched people with metal in their ears, glowing stones in their hands.

And all of it—wrong.

This world was too fast.

Too bright.

Too loud.

And not hers.

She wandered into a plaza at dusk.

Lights glowed from posts without fire. Buildings scraped the sky. People moved like water around her.

No one looked.

No one saw.

Until she did.

At the heart of the square—

A statue.

Raised high in pale stone. Clean. Perfect.

Carved in armor.

His head held high.

A sword at his hip.

Red eyes cast toward the heavens.

Caelum.

Her breath caught.

The world tilted.

She took one step forward.

Then another.

Closer. Closer.

There was a plaque beneath his feet:

Caelum Aurelius Aerion

Flame-Born. Last crowned King of the Aerion Empire.

Died with no heir. Took no wife.

It is said he spent his final years waiting for a woman who never returned.

The words blurred.

Her vision swam.

She stumbled.

Her knees struck the stone.

And she whispered—

“…He’s gone.”

Her voice broke.

Her hands, perfect and healed, pressed to the base of the statue.

What is she to do with all this hatred…

if the man she meant to kill is already dust?

She sat back, dazed.

Numb.

There was no revenge.

No purpose.

Only a world that had moved on without her.

Only a statue.

And silence.

[forceful1cupid]

And My Soul, Hers

He was the Empire's sword. She was the witch he should have slain.

She held him when no one dared to. And he repaid her with blood.

"Let her come. Let her hate me. Let her burn me with her tongue."

"If my body belongs to this empire, and my blood belongs to god- then my soul belongs to her."

(Inspired by the manhwa Second Life of a Trash Princess) ii, iii

In the kingdom of Aerion, where the sun kissed the marble towers and the gods were said to walk among men, there lived a second-born prince.

He was born with hair the color of molten gold, and eyes like fire caught in ruby glass—eyes that marked the blood of the first line, the divine line.

Red eyes.

It was said those eyes were touched by the heavens themselves, a gift passed from the first emperors when the world was still young. Yet he, the second son, was not heir.

No—his brother was.

A frail, stumbling thing with soft hands and trembling words.

The first prince wept at the sight of blood.

The second, Caelum, craved it.

He was raised with sword in hand and fury in his chest. His breath longed not for music or diplomacy but for war, for the proving ground. All he ever wanted—

Was the crown.

Not for power. But because it should have been his.

The chamber was silent. Thick with the scent of smoke and candle wax. Maps sprawled across the war table like entrails of a dying empire.

The Emperor stood at its head, stern and unmoving, voice carved from stone.

“They gather at the northern border. The rebels—filthy with fire and heresy. They prepare to strike.”

The nobles exchanged glances, eyes downcast, mouths shut.

“We need a commander,” the Emperor said.

Still, silence.

No hand raised. No voice offered.

Until—

“I shall lead.”

The words rang sharp as drawn steel.

Caelum stepped forward, crimson eyes gleaming beneath his dark mantle.

A storm stirred in the room. Whispering lords. Murmured doubt.

The Emperor raised his hand.

“Silence.”

Then turned to his son.

“You shall leave by sunset.”

But as the others turned to leave, the Emperor held Caelum back.

“There is more,” he said lowly. “Thou must know our true foe.”

Caelum tilted his head. “Not the rebels?”

“The witches walk among them. Hidden. Whispering the Old Tongue.”

Caelum’s jaw tensed.

“God came to me in vision,” the Emperor said. “He spake thus: ‘The witches are no longer weak. They have grown too bold. Their powers reach beyond their place. They defy heaven’s will.’”

The Emperor’s hand gripped Caelum’s shoulder.

“They must be cleansed. Every last one.”

Caelum’s lips parted. “Aye, Father.”

“And shouldst thou return victorious…”

The Emperor stepped back, gaze cold and solemn.

“…the crown shall be thine.”

He rode to war beneath a banner of red silk, his soldiers chanting his name.

Caelum. Caelum. Caelum.

He carved a path through rebel lines like fire through dry wheat. His blade, kissed by silver, dripped blood by dusk and again by dawn.

The rebels were weak. But the witches…

They were unnatural.

They smiled when cut.

They sang when burned.

They cursed his men with words that turned blood to sand and breath to ash.

He hated them most of all.

But then—he saw it.

The mark.

A strange sigil, carved into their flesh. Always upon the wrist. Always hidden beneath cloth or charm.

That mark, he learned, was the key.

The source.

If he cut the hand, the spell died.

And so he cut.

Over and over.

Hand after hand.

The hill was soaked in crimson.

Caelum stood, shoulders heaving, before the last of them.

She was tall, silver-haired, old yet still sharp of eye. Her mouth curled in a knowing sneer.

“Prince of fire,” she said. “Thou thinkest thy crown is but a sword away.”

“I need not think,” Caelum growled. “I know.”

She lifted what remained of her hand—bloodied, trembling, and mangled. Only three fingers were left, torn and slick with crimson. One of them rose, shaking, and pointed at his chest.

“Then hear this,” she said, voice thick with power. “Thou shalt have thy crown, aye. But never thy place.”

She pointed one gnarled finger at his chest.

“Thou shalt never belong. Not to this land. Not to thy name. Not even to thyself.”

Her words echoed like thunder.

He charged.

Her head rolled a moment later, falling into the mud.

He barely had time to breathe.

A sword pierced his back.

Not from the front. But behind.

A soldier.

His soldier.

Caelum turned, choking.

“Forgive me,” the man whispered.

Another strike.

Then he was pushed.

Off the cliff’s edge.

Falling.

Falling.

Branches tore at his face, tearing skin and gouging eyes.

He remembered pain.

She found him at the roots of the Old Tree, where the fog clung to bark and no birds dared sing.

Then—darkness..

...

He was broken.

Bleeding.

Unconscious.

Elira had not seen a soul in many years.

But still—she touched him gently.

Still—she cleaned his wounds.

Still—she carried him to her cottage, made from stone and vine and silence.

She bound his ribs.

She stitched his side.

And when she saw his eyes, bleeding and torn, she wrapped them in linen, soft and blind.

She never saw the red.

She never knew.

He woke on the third day.

But he did not speak.

He listened.

He learned.

She called herself Elira.

She lived alone.

She healed with herbs, not magic.

She asked no questions.

He should have killed her.

But he did not.

Because when he opened his eyes behind the cloth—He could see.

The bandages were thin. The light pierced through.

Faint. Blurred. But enough.

He could see her.

And she did not know him.

And for the first time in all his life—

He was not the prince.

He was no one.

He was quiet.

Not from pain.

Not from weakness.

But because every word he might speak felt heavy with the weight of who he used to be.

The fire crackled in the hearth. Outside, the forest sang its lullaby of cicadas and distant howling beasts.

Inside, the woman moved softly. Always tending. Always humming.

Elira.

Her name clung to his thoughts.

She never asked for his.

She only called him stranger.

And he allowed it.

Each day, she pressed poultice to his ribs. Each night, she dampened the cloth at his eyes.

He flinched once when her hand touched too near the bridge of his nose—too near the edge of the bandage.

“Forgive me,” she said, voice gentle.

“…’Tis nothing,” he murmured, slow and low.

“You speak,” she noted. “At last.”

“I do.”

She smiled then. And it was a thing he had not seen in a long while.

Not without agenda.

Not without fear.

Just… warmth.

It unsettled him.

“Dost thou know thy name?” she asked the next day, handing him a bowl of hot broth.

He stared into it for a long moment.

“I do not.”

Another lie.

He was Caelum of Aerion.

The second-born.

The blade of the empire.

But now… he did not want to be.

He sipped the broth.

Elira watched him over the rim of her cup. “Then perhaps thou mayest borrow another, till thy memory returneth.”

“And what should I be called, then?”

She tilted her head. “Mayhap something simple. A name the trees could whisper. Or something more proud, if thy bones remember the weight of swords.”

He smiled faintly.

“Elira,” he said.

She looked at him.

“Name me,” he whispered.

She studied him then—truly studied.

“Very well,” she said. “Then I shall call thee Ash. For thou camest from fire and fell like cinder through the sky.”

He chuckled low.

It was a strange name.

But it felt right.

He let it wrap around him like the bandage on his eyes.

A cover.

A comfort.

A curse.

The days passed with rhythm.

He began to rise from the bed, walk slow, test his limbs.

She showed him how to gather water, to grind root, to bind cuts.

He let her believe he could not see, stumbling where he must, reaching out when he already knew the step.

He memorized the layout of her home.

Her habits.

The softness of her voice when she sang.

Her scars.

He saw the way she flinched when she drew water with her left hand. The stiffness in her wrist.

One day, as she stirred the cauldron, the sleeve of her tunic slipped just enough.

And there it was.

The mark.

A sigil etched faint into her flesh, curved and broken, half-buried beneath years of scarring.

His hand tightened around the wooden spoon he held.

But he said nothing.

She was kind.

Too kind.

They sat by the fire. It was late. Rain tapped gently on the windows, and the scent of dried lavender clung to the air.

He leaned back against the wall, sipping tea, the bandage still upon his eyes.

“You fight well,” she said, folding herbs with careful fingers.

He stiffened.

“I can see the way thy body moves when thou walkest,” she added. “Thy balance. Thy step. ‘Tis not that of a peasant.”

“I… was taught long ago,” he replied.

“Then thou wert not always Ash,” she said, teasing.

“…No,” he admitted softly. “But I find I like him more than the man I used to be.”

She looked at him across the fire.

“Then perhaps,” she said gently, “we were both someone else, once.”

His breath caught in his throat.

“Were?”

She smiled, slow and secret.

“Aye. I no longer know that girl, either. The one who lived before this place. Before silence.”

He did not know how it began.

A hand brushing his as he passed her a basket.

A laugh shared too long at something foolish.

A glance held one heartbeat longer than it should have been.

But something bloomed.

Slowly.

Dangerously.

He knew the truth of her blood.

She knew nothing of his name.

And still, every day he did not leave.

Every night he listened to her breathe as he lay wakeful, eyes open behind the cloth.

Red eyes, hidden.

From her.

From himself.

[forceful1cupid]

Extra Scene

A Boy Named Reign , The Year Reign Fell

Marc leaned back in his chair, the soft glow of his laptop illuminating his tired features. It was late, and Alex had already fallen asleep on the couch behind him, his breathing steady and calm. Marc’s fingers hovered over the keyboard as he stared at the password prompt.

He sighed, his mind elsewhere. Without thinking, he typed 0403. The screen unlocked, and for a moment, Marc froze.

It was always 0403.

His lips pressed into a thin line as the realization washed over him. He wasn’t even aware he’d done it anymore. It had become second nature, like breathing. Every new account, every device—it was always 0403.

Room 0403.

Reign’s hospital room.

The hours he had spent there, the nights he had refused to leave, the quiet conversations in the dim light of the machines that surrounded them—it all came rushing back. He could still see the pale blue walls, smell the sterile air, hear the beeping that marked time in a way that felt both endless and fragile.

He leaned forward, resting his elbows on the desk and rubbing his face with his hands. “Why do I still do this?” he whispered to himself.

It wasn’t just a number, not really. It was a place, a memory, a tether to someone who had been both his greatest joy and his deepest heartbreak.

Behind him, Alex stirred in his sleep, mumbling something incoherent. Marc turned to look at him, his face softening. Alex was good to him. Steady. Kind. He deserved Marc’s full attention, his whole heart.

But as Marc turned back to the screen, the faint memory of Reign lingered, like a song he couldn’t quite forget. His fingers hovered over the settings, over the option to change the password.

For a long time, he sat there, unmoving.

Then he closed the laptop, leaving 0403 unchanged.

[forceful1cupid]

The Year Reign Fell

A Boy Named Reign

They say your first love never really goes away. It settles somewhere deep in your chest, quiet but persistent, like a song you haven’t heard in years but still know every word to. It’s not the perfection of it that stays with you—it’s the way it changes you, leaves its mark, and makes every love after feel like a pale imitation. For me, it wasn’t about the drama or the fireworks. It was about him.

Marc.

Even now, years later, I still catch glimpses of him in strangers. A tilt of the head, a crooked smile, the way someone runs their fingers through their hair—it’s never him, but for a fleeting second, it feels like it could be. I’ve spent so much time searching for him in other people that I’ve started to wonder if I’ll ever stop. He’s the echo I can’t quiet, the shadow that lingers no matter how far I try to run.

Marc wasn’t my first everything, but he was my first real love. The kind that makes the world feel sharper, brighter, and somehow more fragile all at once. I remember the day I met him as clearly as if it were yesterday.

The classroom was buzzing with the hum of half-hearted conversations and shuffling papers. I stood up to introduce myself, not because I wanted to, but because the teacher insisted. Public speaking wasn’t exactly my forte, so I did what I always did—I turned it into a performance.

“Hello, I’m Reign,” I said, drawing out the words just enough to sound bored. “Like... ruling over a kingdom or the stuff that falls from the sky. Take your pick.”

A few people chuckled, and I smirked, satisfied that I’d done enough to keep the awkwardness at bay. As I sat down, my eyes landed on him. He was smiling—not the kind of smile that begged for attention, but the kind you couldn’t look away from. Quiet, understated, and somehow more captivating because of it.

Marc.

Back then, we didn’t talk much. He stayed in his world, and I stayed in mine, but there was this energy between us. It wasn’t something you could see or touch, but I felt it every time his eyes flicked over to mine. It was a quiet sort of connection, one we both seemed too afraid to acknowledge.

Until the day I finally broke the silence.

“What’s your sign?” I asked, leaning against his desk like I belonged there.

He looked up, startled, and blinked at me. “Uh... stop sign?”

I laughed, caught off guard by how genuinely terrible his response was. “No, genius. Your zodiac sign. You know, astrology?”

He scratched the back of his neck, looking adorably lost. “Right... that. I think I’m a... goat? Or maybe a crab?”

God, he was awkward, and it was the best thing I’d ever seen. “Okay, so you’re definitely not a Leo. Let me guess—you don’t believe in this stuff, do you?”

“Not really,” he admitted, his voice soft and unassuming. “But apparently, I’m bad at it either way.”

I leaned in, lowering my voice like I was sharing a secret. “Don’t worry. I’m an Aquarius. That automatically makes me the expert in being misunderstood.”

He didn’t get it—not really—but he stayed. He listened. And that was the moment I knew. I didn’t have a name for it then, but looking back, it was the beginning. -- It was late evening when I found myself pacing back and forth outside Marc’s aunt’s house, my breath fogging up in the crisp night air. I hadn’t planned on being there—not consciously, anyway. But something about the quiet of my own house had driven me outside, seeking... I don’t even know what.

I’d walked aimlessly at first, the cool breeze cutting through my hoodie, my hands buried deep in the pockets. But before I knew it, my feet had carried me here. To his place. I stared at the gate for what felt like hours, caught in an internal tug-of-war.

It wasn’t the first time this had happened. I’d come here before, plenty of times, telling myself it was just a walk, just a coincidence. But it never was. Every time, I’d pace around like some kind of lunatic, getting as far as the gate before the knot in my stomach tightened, and I’d turn back, convincing myself that tonight wasn’t the night.

But tonight felt different.

I stood there, wrestling with the idea of actually knocking on the door, when the gate creaked open. My heart jumped into my throat as Marc stepped out, his head tilted slightly in that curious way he always did.

“What are you doing here?” he asked, his voice breaking through the stillness and snapping me out of my thoughts.

I froze, feeling the heat rise to my face as my mind scrambled for an excuse. “I was... uh, around the area and thought, why not visit you?” I said, my words tumbling out so fast they barely sounded convincing even to me.

“Sure, you were,” he said, his lips curving into a small, knowing smile.

He stepped outside, letting the gate shut behind him, and began walking down the road. For a moment, I just stood there, rooted to the spot, until he turned back to me with a raised eyebrow.

“Aren’t you coming?”

His voice jolted me out of my daze, and I jogged to catch up with him, my nerves still buzzing. “Where are we going?” I asked, trying to keep my tone casual, though my chest felt like it might explode.

“You’ll see,” he said with a smirk, keeping the mystery alive as always.

We walked in silence for a while, the cold air wrapping around us like a blanket. The stars were out, scattered across the sky like tiny promises, and for the first time that night, I felt myself relax.

Eventually, we reached the park, quiet and empty at this hour. Marc headed straight for the old swing set, settling into one and motioning for me to do the same. I hesitated for half a second before sitting beside him.

“So, do you always drag visitors to abandoned parks, or am I special?” I joked, trying to lighten the mood and distract myself from the fact that I was sitting this close to him.

He laughed softly, shaking his head. “You’re special. Thought you knew that by now.”

His words hit me harder than they should have, but before I could respond, he let out a long breath, his gaze fixed on the ground.

“Sometimes... I hate that house,” he said quietly, his voice tinged with something raw.

I turned to him, the lightness of the moment fading as I caught the pain in his expression. “Yeah?”

He nodded, gripping the chain of the swing tightly. “It’s just... my aunt. She treats us like we’re not even human. Like we owe her for something we never asked for. And my sister—she’s strong, you know? But me? I just...” He trailed off, the weight of his words hanging in the air.

I leaned back slightly, staring up at the sky as I searched for the right words. “My parents are the opposite,” I said finally, my voice low. “They give me everything. But sometimes it feels like... it’s not for me. It’s for this image of a perfect family they’re trying to keep. And me? I’m just this sick kid who’s never enough, no matter how hard I try.”

The silence between us deepened, but it wasn’t uncomfortable. I felt his eyes on me, and when I looked at him, really looked at him, there was something there I hadn’t noticed before—a quiet understanding, like he saw through the walls I’d spent so long building.

We sat there for what felt like hours, trading pieces of ourselves we’d never shown anyone else. For the first time, I didn’t feel like I had to fill the silence. For the first time, it felt like I wasn’t alone.

And as the night stretched on, I realized that maybe, just maybe, Marc felt the same. -- The night after I spent with Marc at the park, my body betrayed me. It started with a cough, then the chills, then the kind of ache that seeped into every bone. I tried to shake it off—tried to convince myself it wasn’t that bad. But by the time I woke up the next morning, barely able to sit up, my mom was already dialing the hospital.

She didn’t say much on the drive there, just the occasional exasperated sigh or muttered complaint about how careless I was. And honestly? She wasn’t wrong. I shouldn’t have gone out. I shouldn’t have stayed out so late, especially in the cold. But in the moment, sitting on that swing next to Marc, I hadn’t cared.

When we got to the hospital, the doctors ran their usual tests, poked and prodded at me like I was some fragile thing. My mom sat by the window, arms crossed, her silence louder than any words she could’ve said.

By the time evening rolled around, I was sitting up in bed, staring out at the streetlights glowing in the distance. My mom finally broke her silence, her voice sharp and cutting through the quiet.

“What were you thinking, sneaking out like that? Do you have any idea how stupid that was?”

“I wasn’t sneaking out,” I muttered, though I knew it didn’t matter.

She ignored me, her frustration boiling over. “You know your limits, Reign. You know what could happen, and you still—” She stopped herself, shaking her head. “Sometimes I don’t know what to do with you.”

That stung more than I wanted to admit. I didn’t reply, just stared down at my hands as she sighed heavily and stood up. “I’ll be back,” she said, grabbing her bag and heading for the door.

When the door clicked shut behind her, the room felt suffocatingly quiet. I leaned back against the pillows, running a hand through my hair and letting out a frustrated groan. I was mad at myself—at my body, at my decisions, at the fact that no matter how much I wanted to be normal, I couldn’t.

And then the door opened again.

I glanced up, expecting a nurse or my mom coming back to yell at me some more. But it wasn’t either of them.

It was Marc.

He froze in the doorway, looking as surprised to see me as I was to see him. For a moment, neither of us said anything. Then he stepped inside, shutting the door behind him.

“Marc?” I asked, my voice coming out hoarse. “What are you doing here?”

“I—I heard what happened,” he said, shifting awkwardly. “I was worried.”

“You didn’t have to come all the way here,” I said quickly, my face growing hot. I could feel the blush creeping up my neck, and I hated it. “I’m fine, see?” I gestured vaguely at myself, even though I knew I looked anything but fine.

He stepped closer, guilt written all over his face. “Reign, about the other night… I didn’t know it could hurt you. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have asked you to stay out so late.”

I stiffened, my embarrassment giving way to a strange mix of emotions. “Marc, stop. It’s not your fault. I wanted to go. I had fun. I mean… I don’t regret it.” The words came out softer than I intended, and I looked away, fiddling with the edge of the blanket.

“I still feel bad,” he said, moving even closer. “You’re here because of me.”

I shook my head, letting out a weak laugh. “Marc, you’re being dramatic. My immune system’s trash, not you. Besides…” I glanced up at him, a hint of mischief creeping into my tone despite everything. “If you’re gonna feel guilty, at least bring snacks next time. Hospital food sucks.”

He laughed, and it was the kind of laugh that made something in my chest ache—something I didn’t want to name. “You’re impossible, you know that?”

“Yeah, well,” I said, smiling faintly, “I have my moments.”

Before I could say anything else, he stepped forward and hugged me.

At first, I froze, my entire body going rigid as his arms wrapped around me. “Marc, what are you—”

“Just… let me,” he said softly, holding on like he wasn’t ready to let go.

I hesitated for a moment before giving in, my arms coming up to wrap around him. It was awkward at first, but then it wasn’t. His embrace was warm and steady, grounding me in a way I didn’t know I needed.

“You’re such a sap,” I muttered, my voice muffled against his shoulder.

“You love it,” he replied, and I could hear the smile in his voice.

We stayed like that for what felt like an eternity before finally pulling apart. His eyes met mine, and for a second, the world outside that tiny room didn’t exist.

And then the door opened again.

“Reign,” my mom’s voice cut through the air, sharp and demanding.

We both turned to see her standing there, her expression shifting from surprise to suspicion as her gaze flicked between us.

“What’s going on here?” she asked, her tone firm.

I stepped back quickly, my face burning again. “Mom, this is Marc,” I said, my voice stumbling over the words. “He’s… a friend.”

The word felt wrong in my mouth, but I didn’t know what else to say.

“A friend,” she repeated, her eyes narrowing slightly before turning her attention fully to me. “We need to talk.”

I glanced at Marc, apologetic but helpless. “Give me a second, Mom.”

Marc nodded, stepping toward the door. “I’ll see you later,” he said softly, his voice steady despite the tension in the room.

“Yeah,” I murmured, watching him leave, the warmth of his embrace lingering long after he was gone.

The door shut softly behind Marc, and the room fell into a tense, suffocating silence. My mom’s face was tight with anger, her arms crossed as she stared me down.

“Reign,” she started, her voice sharp and accusing. “What was that? Who was that boy?”

I sighed, already feeling the exhaustion creep back in. “Marc. He’s a friend.”

“A friend,” she repeated, the words dripping with disbelief. “And what kind of friend shows up unannounced, sneaking into your hospital room?”

“He didn’t sneak in,” I said, trying to keep my voice calm, though my frustration was bubbling just beneath the surface. “He heard I was sick and wanted to check on me. That’s it.”

Her eyes narrowed, her lips pressing into a thin line. “Don’t lie to me, Reign. I saw the way he looked at you—and the way you looked at him.”

“So what?” I shot back, my voice rising slightly. “Why does that matter?”

“Because it does,” she snapped, stepping closer. “You’re already dealing with so much, Reign. You don’t need to add… this to your life.”

I stiffened, the meaning behind her words hitting me like a slap. “This?” I repeated, my voice shaking. “You mean being gay. That’s what you’re so upset about, isn’t it?”

Her face flushed, and for a moment, she looked like she wanted to deny it. But then she sighed, pinching the bridge of her nose. “I’m not upset,” she said, though her tone suggested otherwise. “I’m concerned. You already have enough challenges—your health, your future. Do you really want to make your life harder than it already is?”

“Make my life harder?” I echoed, my frustration boiling over. “Do you even hear yourself? I didn’t choose this, Mom. And you acting like it’s some kind of curse doesn’t exactly help.”

“Reign,” she said sharply, her voice rising. “Don’t twist my words. I’m trying to protect you. People aren’t kind to… to people like you. The world isn’t kind. And the last thing you need is to get attached to someone who’s only going to hurt you.”

“Marc’s not going to hurt me,” I said firmly, glaring at her. “He cares about me—something you clearly can’t understand.”

Her expression faltered for a moment, but then she shook her head, her anger flaring again. “You think he cares about you? Reign, you barely know him! He’s just some boy—”

“Some boy who actually makes me feel like I’m worth something!” I interrupted, my voice cracking. “Unlike you, who only ever sees me as a sick kid who’s a burden to everyone around him.”

Her eyes widened, and for a moment, she looked genuinely hurt. But then she scowled, her anger flaring again. “That’s not fair,” she said, her voice trembling with frustration. “Do you think this is easy for me? Watching you throw your life away for someone who—”

“For someone who what, Mom?” I demanded. “For someone who actually makes me happy? God forbid I have one thing in my life that doesn’t revolve around my illness!”

“You don’t get it,” she said, shaking her head. “You think this is about you, but it’s not. It’s about keeping you safe. And if you can’t see that, then—”

“Then what?” I snapped. “You’ll cut me off? Stop caring about me? Oh wait, you already treat me like I’m nothing more than a problem you have to deal with.”

Her face turned pale, her jaw tightening as if she was trying to hold back whatever she wanted to say. But instead of arguing, she grabbed her bag and headed for the door.

“You’re impossible, Reign,” she said quietly, her voice cold. “I’ll be back in the morning.”

And with that, she walked out, slamming the door behind her.

I sat there, staring at the door, my chest heaving with anger and hurt. The weight of her words pressed down on me, suffocating and unrelenting.

For a moment, I thought about calling Marc—just hearing his voice, even for a second. But I stopped myself. I didn’t want to drag him into this mess.

Instead, I leaned back against the pillows, letting out a shaky breath. The tears came before I could stop them, silent and relentless.

Marc’s warmth lingered in my memory, and despite everything, I let myself wish he were still there. -- It became a routine after that. Every time I ended up in the hospital, Marc would visit me without fail. It didn’t matter how tired he looked or how much he had going on—he always showed up.

He’d arrive with his bag stuffed full of notes and textbooks, hell-bent on making sure I didn’t fall behind. As if hospital beds came with built-in desks. At first, I’d try to protest, though I knew it was pointless.

“Marc, I’m in a hospital, not a classroom,” I’d say, rolling my eyes.

“And that’s why I’m here,” he’d counter, pulling out a notebook with that stubborn look of his. “You’re not getting away with skipping math.”

I’d groan, but eventually, I’d give in—because how could I not? That was just Marc. We’d go over equations and history dates, and I’d throw in jokes to distract him, watching the corners of his mouth twitch like he was fighting a smile.

But once the lessons were done, the real fun began.

I loved talking about the future. It was a little ironic, sure, given how shaky mine was, but dreaming felt... safe, somehow. Like if I imagined it vividly enough, it could exist, even if just for a little while.

“Marc, picture this: a little cottage by the sea,” I told him one time, letting the idea unfurl in my mind. “I’ll spend my days writing novels, the kind that make people cry. And you’ll visit me every weekend, bringing me overpriced coffee from your café.”

He gave me this skeptical look. “You think I’d own a café?”

“Why not?” I said, grinning. “You’ve got the soft vibe for it. You’d wear one of those cute aprons and glare at customers who order decaf.”

He snorted, shaking his head. “Right. And you’d be the reclusive writer who scares off tourists.”

“Exactly,” I shot back, laughing.

Sometimes our dreams got... weird. But maybe that was the point. Maybe we just needed to escape reality a little further.

“Imagine this,” I said one evening, my mind spinning with possibilities. “You and I, world-famous detectives. We solve crimes no one else can.”

He arched a brow, amused. “And how would that work?”

“I’d be the brains, obviously,” I said, gesturing grandly. “And you’d be the brawn. You know, tackling bad guys and all that.”

“Sure,” he said, laughing. “Because I’m so intimidating.”

I ignored him, pressing on. “We’d travel the world, from Paris to Tokyo, cracking impossible cases. And at night, we’d sit in fancy hotel rooms, eating room service and judging people on TV.”

“Reign, I think your meds are messing with your head,” he teased.

“Maybe,” I admitted, chuckling.

Other times, we’d play games. Silly things, like trying to guess how many times the nurse would walk past the door in an hour.

“I’m saying eight,” Marc declared, leaning back in his chair.

“Too low,” I shot back. “Ten, minimum. The guy’s basically running laps.”

When the nurse finally came in, I grinned. “Ten times. Pay up, loser.”

Marc rolled his eyes but handed over the chocolate bar he’d smuggled in.

But not every visit was lighthearted. Some days, the exhaustion hit so hard that even keeping my eyes open felt impossible.

On those days, the air felt heavier, like the room itself was pressing down on me. I’d lie in bed, my limbs like lead, my usual jokes and chatter dried up. The effort it took to even smile wasn’t worth it.

Marc never pushed, though. He’d sit beside me, the textbooks forgotten, his presence steady and calm. He didn’t fill the silence with empty words; instead, he’d reach for my hand, his fingers wrapping around mine with a quiet reassurance. I’d squeeze back, weak but intentional, because even on those days, I wanted him to know I was still here. Still fighting.

One night, when the silence stretched too long, Marc spoke, his voice soft. “You ever think about what’s next, Reign? Not the big dreams—the little things.”

I blinked, surprised. “Like what?”

“Like... your first day out of here. What’s the first thing you want to do?”

The thought warmed me. I closed my eyes and let myself picture it. “I want to feel the sun. Like, really feel it, without a window in the way. And I want to hear the sound of the ocean. Not just in my head, but the real thing.”

Marc nodded, a small smile tugging at his lips. “Then that’s what we’ll do. First day out, we’ll go straight to the beach. You can yell at me if I forget to bring your overpriced coffee.”

I laughed, even though it came out weak. “Deal.”

And in that moment, it didn’t feel like just a dream. It felt like a promise. -- Time slipped away, faster than I could grasp, until we found ourselves back at the same park where so many of our moments began. The sun hung low on the horizon, painting the sky in hues of amber and pink, and the world felt still.

We sat on the same worn bench, watching the sunset in silence. I told myself to hold onto the peace of it, to let it settle the storm brewing inside me. But even as the world seemed timeless, I could feel time moving too fast, slipping through my hands.

Marc broke the silence first.

“I like you, Reign.”

The words were soft, barely louder than the rustle of the leaves, but they hit me like a tidal wave. I froze, the moment shattering as my heart began to race.

I didn’t look at him right away. I couldn’t. My eyes stayed fixed on the horizon, the golden light of the sunset blurring as tears threatened to fall. I tried to find the words to respond, but they stuck in my throat.

“We’re leaving tomorrow,” I said finally, my voice barely steady.

I felt him shift beside me, his gaze burning into the side of my face. I knew what he must be thinking—that I was avoiding him, dodging the weight of his words. He didn’t understand.

I wasn’t avoiding them. I was drowning in them.

His silence made it worse. My hands started to tremble, and I clenched them into fists, hoping he wouldn’t notice. But then, despite my resolve, the tears came. Slowly at first, then faster, until they slipped down my face unchecked.

When I finally turned to look at him, the pain in his eyes mirrored the ache in my chest. And for the first time, I said what I had been too afraid to say before.

“I like—no, I love you, Marc.”

It felt like tearing a piece of myself out and placing it in front of him. Vulnerable. Exposed.

And yet, even as the truth spilled out, it came with the words I wished I didn’t have to say.

“But I can’t. You know how uncertain my future is. I don’t want to put you through something like this. I don’t want to hurt you, Marc.”

My voice cracked, and I hated the weakness in it. But the thought of him tying himself to me, to someone who might not have a future worth dreaming about—it terrified me.

The tears came harder then, and for the first time in years, I cried not for myself, but for him. For us. For the impossible reality we were stuck in.

“Stop thinking like that, okay?” he said, his voice breaking. “You’ll live a long life. You’ll make it. I know you will.”

And then he pulled me into an embrace, his arms wrapping around me tightly. I held on as if my life depended on it, as if letting go would make the ground beneath us crumble.

I buried my face in his shoulder, letting his warmth steady me, his words pressing into me like a prayer I desperately wanted to believe.

We held each other for what felt like forever, even as time refused to stop. In that moment, I let myself imagine it—just for a second. A life where I didn’t have to leave, where I could stay on this bench with Marc forever.

But reality doesn’t bend to wishes.

Eventually, the moment passed. The embrace loosened, and the world started spinning again. And just like that, I had to let him go.

But even as I walked away, even as the distance between us grew, I could still feel his arms around me. A memory I knew I’d carry with me for the rest of my fleeting, fragile life. -- I never thought leaving him would tear me apart the way it did. I told myself it was for the best—what could I give him except a life filled with hospitals, uncertainty, and waiting for the inevitable? I convinced myself he’d be better off without me. But that didn’t make it easier when the plane took off, leaving Manila—and Marc—behind.

For weeks after I arrived in the States, I couldn’t sleep. I’d stay up replaying every moment we’d shared, torturing myself with the thought of what he might be doing. Did he miss me? Did he hate me? Or had he already started moving on?

The treatments were grueling, but they worked. Against all odds, my body healed in ways no one expected. I was stronger now, though not invincible. There were still limits I couldn’t ignore, but for the first time in years, I felt alive.

And yet, I couldn’t find joy in it.

When I came home two years later, healthier but hollow, my mother welcomed me back with open arms. But she didn’t care about Marc or what I’d left behind. To her, my recovery was an opportunity to groom me for the family business.

“You’re better now,” she said over breakfast one morning, her tone clipped and matter-of-fact. “It’s time to start thinking about your future.”

“My future?” I asked, already dreading what was coming.

“Your career. Your marriage. Your life,” she said, setting her teacup down with a sharp clink. “I’ve set up a few meetings for you. Professional, and… personal.”

“Personal?”

“Blind dates,” she clarified, her smile tight.

I laughed bitterly, shaking my head. “I’m not interested, Mom.”

“You can’t keep living in the past, Reign,” she snapped. “Marc is gone. You left him, remember? It’s time to move on.”

The words cut deeper than I expected. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Oh, don’t I?” she said, her voice rising. “You think I didn’t notice how sick you were with him? How much worse you got because you refused to take care of yourself? If you go back to him, Reign, you’ll ruin yourself all over again.”

Her words were fire, burning through every ounce of patience I had left. “That’s not fair. He never asked me to choose between him and my health. That was my choice.”

“And look where it got you,” she said, her voice icy. “You’re better now because you left him. Don’t ruin it by chasing a ghost.”

I slammed my hand on the table, making the plates rattle. “Marc isn’t a ghost.”

“Then prove it,” she said, leaning back in her chair. “Give me one chance to show you what’s out there. One date. If it doesn’t work, I’ll leave you alone.” --- Her “one date” turned out to be Isla.

She was beautiful, poised, and polite, the kind of woman my mother probably dreamed I’d marry. But it wasn’t her looks or her charm that threw me off—it was the way she reminded me of Marc. Her smile, her laugh, the way she absentmindedly tucked her hair behind her ear.

I stayed, telling myself it was the right thing to do. But no matter how much time I spent with her, I couldn’t shake the feeling that I was chasing shadows. --- Over the years, I searched for Marc in everything and everyone. A laugh in a crowded café that sounded like his. A glimpse of someone with his messy hair walking down the street. But every time I followed those threads, they unraveled, leaving me with nothing.

I never found him. --- The day I saw him again was like a cruel trick of fate. Isla and I were walking through the streets of Manila, her arm looped through mine as she talked about a new project. I wasn’t paying attention—I never did, not really. My mind was always somewhere else.

And then there he was.

Marc.

He was walking hand in hand with a man, his face lit up with a smile so bright it made my chest ache. He looked different, older, but happier. Healthier.

I froze, the world narrowing to just him. Isla tugged on my arm, trying to pull me forward, but I couldn’t move.

He looked up, his eyes meeting mine.

For a moment, everything else disappeared. The noise of the city, Isla’s voice—it all faded.

But then his gaze shifted, glancing at Isla beside me. His expression didn’t falter, but I saw the flicker of recognition, the hint of something that made my heart twist.

And then he looked away.

I wanted to call out to him, to run after him, but I didn’t. I couldn’t.

As he walked past, I turned to watch him disappear into the crowd, his laughter blending into the noise of the city.

---

That night, Isla asked me what was wrong. I lied, telling her I was tired. She believed me—she always did.

But as I lay awake in bed, staring at the ceiling, I felt the weight of it all crash down on me. Seeing Marc again wasn’t closure. It wasn’t peace.

It was torture.

Because I knew, deep down, that I would never stop looking for him. And even if I found him, he would never be mine again.

I turned to Isla, her face peaceful in sleep. She deserved someone who could love her fully, not someone who was still haunted by the ghost of another.

But I didn’t let go. I couldn’t.

Because even if I could never have Marc, I could keep the pieces of him I found in others.

And maybe that was enough. Or maybe it wasn’t.

[forceful1cupid]

A Boy Named Reign

The Year Reign Fell

They say first love is unforgettable, like a melody that lingers long after the song has ended. It’s not because it’s perfect—no, far from it. It’s because it’s raw, unpolished, and completely overwhelming. It’s the kind of love that fills you up and leaves you empty all at once.

My first love wasn’t the kind you see in movies. There were no grand confessions in the rain or sweeping romantic gestures. Instead, it was quiet, like a gentle breeze that you barely notice until it’s gone. It wasn’t perfect, but it was real.

It was Reign.

I vividly remember how he stood up, his pale skin almost glowing under the classroom lights and his tired eyes betraying a heaviness he tried to mask with a mischievous grin and sharp, knowing gaze.

“Hello, I’m Reign,” he said, dragging the words out lazily. “Like... ruling over a kingdom or the stuff that falls from the sky. Take your pick.” He paused dramatically, as if we were supposed to applaud his creativity.

The class chuckled awkwardly, and he smirked, clearly amused by our confusion. “I’ll save you the trouble—I’m terrible with names, so if I forget yours, just make something up. I probably won’t notice.”

With that, he plopped back into his seat, looking thoroughly unbothered, like he’d just given the performance of a lifetime. I couldn’t help but smile. Reign had this way of making you want to laugh and roll your eyes at the same time.

Though we had never really spoken, we often stole glances at each other from across the room, each of us tucked into our own circle of friends. That was how it stayed—until the day he finally spoke to me.

He walked up out of nowhere, his sharp eyes narrowing playfully as he said, “What’s your sign?”

I blinked, caught off guard. “Uh... stop sign?”

He laughed, shaking his head like I’d just told the worst joke he’d ever heard. “No, genius. Your zodiac sign. You know, astrology?”

“Right... that,” I mumbled, scratching the back of my neck. “I think I’m a... goat? Or maybe a crab?”

His grin widened, equal parts amused and exasperated. “Okay, so you’re definitely not a Leo. Let me guess—you don’t believe in this stuff, do you?”

“Not really,” I admitted. “But apparently, I’m bad at it either way.”

Reign smirked, leaning in like he was about to share a secret. “Don’t worry. I’m an Aquarius. That automatically makes me the expert in being misunderstood.”

I had no idea what he was talking about, but the way his eyes lit up while he explained constellations and cosmic energies made it impossible to look away. Even if I didn’t understand half of what he said, I liked listening to him. It felt like Reign wasn’t just talking about the stars—he was part of them.

——

It was late evening when I saw him pacing back and forth outside my aunt's home. His pale figure stoodIt was late evening when I saw him pacing back and forth outside my aunt's home. His pale figure stood out in the dim light, his hands stuffed deep into his hoodie pockets. I furrowed my brows, watching him with curiosity.

Opening the gate, I tilted my head at him. “What are you doing here?” I asked, catching the way he froze, clearly caught off guard.

“I was... uh, around the area and thought, why not visit you?” he said quickly, the words tumbling out in a rush that only made me more suspicious.

“Sure, you were,” I said, cracking a small smile.

I stepped outside, letting the gate click shut behind me, and began walking down the road. After a few steps, I realized he wasn’t following. I turned back to him, raising an eyebrow. “Aren’t you coming?”

That snapped him out of whatever trance he was in, and he jogged to catch up with me. “Where are we going?” he asked, his voice carrying a mix of curiosity and hesitation.

“You’ll see,” I replied with a smirk, keeping the mystery alive.

The cold air wrapped around us as we walked in silence, the stars scattered across the black sky like tiny beacons of light. Eventually, we reached the park, quiet and empty at this hour. I made my way to the old swing set and sat down, motioning for him to do the same.

He sat beside me, letting out a dramatic sigh. “So, do you always drag visitors to abandoned parks, or am I special?”

I laughed softly, shaking my head. “You’re special. Thought you knew that by now.”

He chuckled, but his grin faded as I let out a long breath, my gaze fixed on the ground. “Sometimes... I hate that house,” I said quietly, the words surprising even me.

He turned to me, his sharp eyes softening. “Yeah?”

I nodded, gripping the swing’s chain tighter. “It’s just... my aunt. She treats us like we’re not even human. Like we owe her for something we never asked for. And my sister—she’s strong, you know? But me? I just...” I trailed off, the weight of my own words pressing down on me.

Reign was quiet for a moment, then leaned back slightly, staring up at the sky. “My parents are the opposite,” he said, his voice low. “They give me everything. But sometimes it feels like... it’s not for me. It’s for this image of a perfect family they’re trying to keep. And me? I’m just this sick kid who’s never enough, no matter how hard I try.”

I looked at him then, really looked at him, and saw something in his face I hadn’t before—vulnerability. We sat there, the night wrapping around us like a secret, trading pieces of ourselves we’d never shared with anyone else.

Maybe it was midnight. Maybe it didn’t matter. For the first time, it felt like we weren’t alone.

——

It was then Reign had been gone for a few days. Nobody seemed to notice, but I couldn’t stop worrying. The world felt like it was moving forward while I was stuck, waiting for answers.

Finally, I couldn’t take it anymore. I approached Simon, Reign’s closest friend, during lunch.

“Simon,” I called, catching up to him in the hallway.

He turned, giving me a curious look. “What’s up?”

“Uh… about Reign,” I said quietly, trying not to sound too desperate.

Simon raised an eyebrow. “Reign? I didn’t know you two were close.” He shrugged and continued. “He relapsed and went back to the hospital. You know how it is with him. He snuck out last week—at night, no less—and he’s not supposed to be out in the cold air.”

His words hit me hard. Reign had been with me that night. The memory of us sitting at the park, talking like we didn’t have a care in the world, rushed back. I felt a heavy weight in my chest.

“Can you take me to the hospital?” I asked suddenly, cutting Simon off.

He gave me a questioning look but eventually shrugged. “Sure. After class?” I nodded.

The day dragged on, each second stretching endlessly. By the time Simon led me to the hospital, my nerves were frayed. He didn’t ask any questions, thankfully, sensing I wasn’t in the mood to talk.

“Room 403,” he said, stopping in front of the door. That number stuck in my mind, engraved like it would be important forever.

I hesitated for a moment before sliding the door open.

Reign was sitting by the window, staring out at the world outside. The soft afternoon light cast a faint glow on him, but the moment he heard the door, he turned—and froze.

His eyes widened in surprise. “Marc?” he said, his voice rising slightly. His pale face turned a faint shade of pink, and he shifted uncomfortably. “What are you doing here?”

I shut the door behind me, feeling a lump in my throat. “I—I heard what happened. I was worried.”

“You didn’t have to come all the way here,” he said quickly, avoiding my gaze. He tried to sound casual, but the redness creeping up his neck betrayed him. “I’m fine, see?” He gestured vaguely to himself, though his fragile appearance said otherwise.

I stepped closer, the weight of guilt heavy in my chest. “Reign, about the other night… I didn’t know it could hurt you. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have asked you to stay out so late.”

He stiffened, then sighed, his embarrassment giving way to a small, hesitant smile. “Marc, stop. It’s not your fault. I wanted to go. I had fun. I mean… I don’t regret it.” His voice softened toward the end, and he looked away again, fiddling with the blanket draped over his lap.

“I still feel bad,” I said, stepping closer. “You’re here because of me.”

Reign shook his head and managed a weak laugh. “Marc, you’re being dramatic. My immune system’s trash, not you. Besides…” He glanced up at me, a hint of mischief in his eyes. “If you’re gonna feel guilty, at least bring snacks next time. Hospital food sucks."

Despite everything, I laughed. It was weak, but it was genuine. “You’re impossible, you know that?”

“Yeah, well,” he said, smiling faintly, “I have my moments.”

Before I could stop myself, I stepped forward and hugged him. His body stiffened in surprise, and I could feel the tension in his frame.

“Marc, what are you—”

“Just… let me,” I said softly, holding on.

He hesitated for a moment before his arms came up around me. At first, it was tentative, awkward even, but then he held me tighter, his embrace warm despite the cold hospital air.

“You’re such a sap,” he muttered, his voice muffled against my shoulder.

“You love it,” I replied, smiling against the ache in my chest.

We stayed like that for a moment before slowly pulling away. Our eyes met, and for a heartbeat, it felt like the room had shrunk, leaving just the two of us.

The door opened abruptly, shattering the moment.

“Reign,” a sharp voice called.

We both turned to see his mother standing there, her expression shifting from surprise to suspicion as her gaze flickered between us.

“What’s going on here?” she asked, her tone firm.

Reign quickly stepped back, his face red again. “Mom, this is Marc,” he said, his voice slightly unsteady. “He’s… a friend.”

The word felt like a weight dropping in my stomach, but I kept my expression neutral.

“A friend,” she repeated, narrowing her eyes slightly before turning her attention fully to Reign. “We need to talk.”

Reign glanced at me apologetically before saying, “Give me a second, Mom.”

I nodded, taking a step toward the door. “I’ll see you later,” I said softly, trying to keep my voice steady.

“Yeah,” Reign murmured, his usual confidence dimmed.

As I walked out of Room 403, my chest felt heavy, but I couldn’t shake the memory of his embrace—or the lingering warmth of his arms around me.

—

It became a routine after that. Every time Reign was in the hospital, I would visit him without fail. It didn’t matter how tired I was or how many things I had to do—I had to be there.

I’d bring my bag filled with notes and textbooks, determined to tutor him on all the lessons he’d missed. At first, he’d complain about it.

“Marc, I’m in a hospital, not a classroom,” he’d say, rolling his eyes.

“And that’s why I’m here,” I’d reply, pulling out a notebook. “You’re not getting away with skipping math.”

It always ended the same—with Reign groaning but eventually giving in. We’d go over equations and history dates, his attention waning as his jokes slipped in between answers.

Once the lessons were done, though, the real fun began.

Reign loved talking about the future. It was ironic, really, considering how much of it was uncertain for him. But he dreamed big, painting vivid pictures of what could be.

“Marc, picture this: a little cottage by the sea,” he said once, his voice dreamy. “I’ll spend my days writing novels, the kind that make people cry. And you’ll visit me every weekend, bringing me overpriced coffee from your café.”

“You think I’d own a café?” I asked, skeptical.

“Why not? You’ve got the soft vibe for it. You’d wear one of those cute aprons and glare at customers who order decaf.”

I snorted. “Right. And you’d be the reclusive writer who scares off tourists.”

“Exactly!” he said, grinning.

Sometimes our dreams got... bizarre. Maybe it was the late-night energy, or maybe we just needed to escape reality a little further.

“Imagine this,” Reign said one evening, his eyes sparkling mischievously. “You and I, world-famous detectives. We solve crimes no one else can.”

“And how would that work?” I asked, playing along.

“I’d be the brains, obviously,” he said, gesturing dramatically. “And you’d be the brawn. You know, tackling bad guys and all that.”

“Sure,” I said, laughing. “Because I’m so intimidating.”

He ignored me, continuing, “We’d travel the world, from Paris to Tokyo, cracking impossible cases. And at night, we’d sit in fancy hotel rooms, eating room service and judging people on TV.”

“Reign, I think your meds are messing with your head,” I teased.

“Maybe,” he admitted, chuckling.

Those hospital visits became our little world, a place where time didn’t matter and reality couldn’t touch us. And even though I knew they couldn’t last forever, I held onto them, because those moments were ours.

And of course not every hospital visit was lighthearted. There were days when Reign’s energy was so low that even smiling seemed like a monumental effort.

On those days, the room felt heavier. The light pouring through the window couldn’t quite chase away the shadows in the corners. Reign would lie in bed, his face pale and drawn, his usual wit nowhere to be found.

I’d sit beside him, the textbooks and stories forgotten. Words felt unnecessary, so I didn’t force them. Instead, I’d reach for his hand, wrapping my fingers around his gently. He’d squeeze back, faintly, as if to remind me he was still there, still fighting.

We’d sit in silence, both of us staring out the window. Sometimes we watched the leaves rustling on the trees or the clouds drifting lazily across the sky. Other times, it felt like we were staring into nothing, lost in thoughts we didn’t dare share.

In those quiet moments, the reality of his illness felt sharper, more real. It wasn’t just a story we could laugh about or push aside with dreams of the future. It was here, inescapable and heavy.

But even then, I stayed. I stayed because I wanted him to know he wasn’t alone. That no matter how hard it got, I would be there, holding his hand, sharing the silence.

——

Time slipped away, faster than I could grasp, until we found ourselves back at the same park where so many of our moments began. The sun hung low on the horizon, painting the sky in hues of amber and pink, and the world felt still.

We sat on the same worn bench, watching the sunset in silence. The peace of the moment made everything feel both fleeting and eternal. It was in that quietness that my heart pounded with the words I’d been holding back for so long.

“I like you, Reign.”

The words came out barely above a whisper, but they shattered the calm like a pebble dropped into still water. I held my breath, waiting.

Reign didn’t look at me right away. He stayed staring ahead, the golden light of the sunset casting soft shadows on his face. His silence felt endless, and I began to wonder if I had made a mistake.

Then he spoke. “We’re leaving tomorrow.”

My heart plummeted. I turned to him, my chest tightening, but he still wouldn’t meet my gaze. His voice was steady, but I could see the tremble in his hands.

And then, slowly, tears began to fall.

When he finally turned to look at me, it wasn’t the sadness in his tears that caught me—it was the love. It was there, clear and undeniable, in his glistening eyes.

“I like—no, I love you, Marc.”

His confession should’ve lifted me, but instead, my heart sank deeper, weighed down by the words that followed.

“But I can’t. You know how uncertain my future is. I don’t want to put you through something like this. I don’t want to hurt you, Marc.”

His voice cracked, and it was the first time I’d ever seen him cry. Not from his illness, not from pain, but for me. For us.

“Stop thinking like that, okay?” I said, my own voice breaking. “You’ll live a long life. You’ll make it. I know you will.”

I reached out and pulled him into an embrace. He held onto me tightly, his arms trembling as he buried his face in my shoulder. We held each other like the world was ending, like we could stop time if we just stayed close enough.

But time didn’t stop. It slipped through our fingers like sand.

That embrace felt infinite, but it ended too soon. And just like that, he was gone.

——

It had been exactly 1,826.25 days since Reign left. I remember the precise number because, for a long time, I measured my life in the days since he was gone. At first, it was unbearable—the thought of waking up every morning without him in the world I knew. But time, as cruel as it is kind, does what it does best. It dulls the sharp edges, smooths out the pain until it becomes something you can hold without bleeding.

A lot has changed since then. My sister, Rue—strong, relentless Rue—finally got a job that lets her breathe. We moved into our own place, small but enough to feel like home. Free at last from the suffocating walls of my aunt's house, from the bruises that weren’t always physical.

And me? I’ve managed to piece myself together, bit by bit. I’m with Alex now. He’s everything I’m not—steady, kind, endlessly patient. Sometimes, I look at him and wonder how someone like me deserves someone like him. Life’s been good. Not perfect, not magical, but solid.

And yet, there are moments when Reign still lingers in the corners of my mind. His laugh, his frailty, the way his eyes lit up when he talked about the life he wanted so badly. Those memories have become like a song I used to love—a melody that plays in the background, faint but familiar.

Or at least, that’s what I thought.

It was a sunny afternoon, the kind that makes the streets of Manila feel alive. Alex and I were walking hand in hand, weaving through the crowded sidewalk, our steps in sync. He was telling me about his day, something about a client at work, and I was listening—really, I was—until I saw him.

Reign.

There he was, standing not ten feet away, holding hands with a girl.

I froze for a moment, unsure if my mind was playing tricks on me. But it was him—his hair a little longer, his frame stronger, his skin glowing with the health I used to pray he’d have.

And that smile. God, I’d know that smile anywhere.

As we drew closer, I felt my chest tighten. He glanced up, and our eyes met. His expression didn’t falter; he didn’t stop walking. Neither did I.

I turned to Alex, gripping his hand a little tighter as we passed each other. I don’t think Alex noticed, but I did. I noticed everything.

The moment lasted no more than a few seconds, but it felt like a lifetime.

And then he was gone, swallowed by the crowd, his laughter fading into the noise of the city.

I didn’t look back.

That night, lying in bed beside Alex, I stared at the ceiling, letting the weight of it all settle over me. Seeing Reign didn’t hurt the way I thought it would. It wasn’t regret or longing, just… something softer. Something quieter.

He was happy. That much was clear. And I was happy too, in my own way.

Maybe that’s what love is sometimes. Not an ending, not even a beginning. Just a chapter that shapes you, even when the story moves on.

And so, I let him go. Again.

This time, though, it didn’t feel like goodbye.