#Boundless Awareness | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

merakiui · 8 months ago

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moros's looking glass.

yandere!overblot!riddle x (female) reader cw: yandere, unhealthy behaviors/relationship, death, victorian era, obsession, attempted captivity, arranged marriage, threats of violence, restraints, non-consensual touching and kissing note - after the death of your husband, you are left to sift through his estate. you'll soon find some ghosts refuse to remain in their graves.

To the esteemed Lady of the Rosehearts Estate: It is with a shrouded heart that I write to inform you of Lord Rosehearts’s untimely passing. It is a most unfortunate occasion, and for such reasons I must implore you to return from your seaside retreat with great haste.

Mrs. Rosehearts’s bare hand comes down so suddenly that you hardly have any chance to brace yourself before it makes contact with your cheek. A harsh smack resounds throughout the hall, echoing within your brain until it’s all you can process. The sting that follows warms your tender skin and, though you wish to soothe it with a gentle caress, you remain stone-faced and stiff before her, a mere statuette who has been frozen in time.

“Such insolence is unforgivable,” she seethes, swiping her glove from her butler, who holds it out with his head bowed and shoulders hunched. She fits her hand inside the pristine fabric and flexes her fingers momentarily before turning her fiery gaze back on you. “You were well aware of the ailment that consumed my dear Riddle and yet you abandoned him in his time of need! You are the lady of this house. It is your duty to remain here! Must the implication be branded on your very bosom for you to recognize it?!”

“My deepest apologies, madam.” You lower into a perfect curtsy. “I did not possess enough foresight to know that this might happen. For that, I am truly regretful.”

He was already at death’s door. A sickly body is meant for the hands of higher powers, or so they’ve said. I suppose this is the inevitability of fate.

“I have always been of the opinion that you were inadequate for my son,” she snaps. “If it weren’t for your family’s status, I’d have had you pulled from his life before you could ruin it further like the vapid weed you are.”

With a huff, she strides past you.

You remain in the hall, comforted by the soft tock of the old grandfather clock.

It’s not my fault your son was sickly, you think, scowling at the floor tiles. But you refuse to allow this to darken your mood. Gathering yourself, you straighten your posture and smooth the sting in your cheek with a few consoling pats.

I am (Name) Rosehearts, lady of this fine estate. I shall not waver in the face of a monstrous mother.

Though your union was one of arrangement, it took some time to convince Mrs. Rosehearts. She only conceded after her son had, quite literally, begged her. Your parents’ social status and fortune were quite persuasive as well. It was your late husband who argued with her, day and night, for the right to wed you.

“Mother, I have fancied no other to the extent I do Lady (Name). Should you come between us, I shall take her and we will be wed elsewhere—with or without your approval.”

Not wanting to lose her pride and joy and faced with the boundless prosperity boasted by the arrangement, she submitted to his demands. Thus, you were wed. You shall never forget the disdain scrawled on her wrinkled countenance as she watched you from her place in the pews. She disapproved of your dress, your disposition, your very existence. There was no part of you that could please her, but she had no choice. For Riddle’s sake, she would have to acquiesce.

Now that he’s no longer of this world, you’re feeling the force of her frosty hatred more directly. She has, by her own standards, every reason to dislike you. You could not conceive an heir to carry on the legacy. You could not be there to assist Riddle while he was on his deathbed. You could not measure up to her lofty expectations of what a proper wife and lady should be. You could not be pretty enough. The list is endless.

“My lady, the photographer is waiting,” the butler pipes up, nodding in the direction of the room.

“I understand. Thank you.”

You inhale all of your negativity, allow it to fester within your lungs, and then you expel it in a long exhale.

You must stand tall and proud in the face of adversity. Do not falter.

This is the busiest you have seen the silent, despair-tinged halls of the Rosehearts Manor. Shadows creep along floral, cream-colored wallpaper, and the curtains do well to keep the sun from poking its rays through the gloom. Your grip tightens on your lace shawl as you’re led through the foyer, and when you view the vaulted ceiling it seems to spiral into never-ending darkness. Photographs are turned over to protect those in the film who are still living. The clocks are all stopped at three in the morning—supposedly the time at which Riddle gave his final breath. Every reflective surface has been enveloped in black cloth, and every funeral attendant you pass offers sympathetic bows and curtsies. Your nose crinkles at them, but you nod your acknowledgement and continue down the hall.

Riddle is poised on the sofa, his arms folded primly in his lap. His face is colored in a sickly pallor, and he’s dressed in his best suit. If it weren’t for how deathly still he is, you’d think he was full of life. Glassy greys stare listlessly ahead. You peer into them. He does not blink or recognize your presence.

It occurs to you that he truly is dead.

Mrs. Rosehearts is quick to shoo you away. “Distance! You’ll pollute the air near my Riddle!”

You offer her a cordial simper. “Wherever shall I sit?”

She wrinkles her nose at you but gestures to the spot beside him. “You are his wife, so you must sit at his side here.”

“Very well.” You lower onto the cushion. Riddle is arranged to lean against you. He is cold and stiff, almost like a doll. His soft hair brushes your cheek. “And what of you, madam?”

“You are to be photographed first, after which I shall replace you. Then, we’ll both be photographed.”

“If it pleases,” you reply, looking towards the camera. Gently, you close your hand over Riddle’s gloved one.

Forgive me, Riddle. I should have returned from the sea sooner, but I was cowardly and could not bear to face you as you withered away. It is with great shame that I wear this mourning dress.

Your photo is taken. For the rest of the ordeal, you remain in your head. The shuffling of bodies is drowned out, for you focus only on your husband as he’s situated on the sofa beside his mother.

Riddle wouldn’t have wanted that, you think, but then you pause. What would he want?

You can scarcely say.

Afterwards, Riddle is placed in his coffin, his eyes shut, and carried feet-first from the house. You accompany the procession, everyone following the solemn hearse in its travels. There is a hollow in the ground, where a group of men lower the death box. They work silently and diligently to shovel soil and fill the hole. You stand off to the side, watching from behind your veil. You don’t shed tears, but neither does Mrs. Rosehearts.

It is a chilly, autumn day devoid of birdsong and sunshine.

A laurel wreath is hung on the door following the funeral, and an ornament fashioned out of his hair alongside his photo are kept enclosed in a locket pin. You hold it in your hands at all times, tucking it beneath your pillow when you sleep, cherishing this piece of him. You visit his grave just as frequently as it is guarded. Every now and then, you expect the bell aboveground to ring, signaling life from below. It never does.

Riddle left his entire estate to you. His mother could fume as she pleased, but the validity of his penmanship could not be denied. He explicitly wrote: To my wife, Lady (Name) Rosehearts: You are granted all mortal possessions within my estate as well as ownership to the property. Do with it as you like.

Your relationship with Riddle, while not free of its strains, was mostly amicable. You played your parts well enough. Even so, it bewilders you that he would leave you so much. You always assumed he’d gift it to his mother, as she seemed to have a hand in every aspect of his existence—his death included. She planned the funeral and the burial well in advance, arranged the photographer, even the outfit he was to wear.

Now, dressed in black crepe, you wander aimlessly through a quiet, covered house and wonder what you should do with so much empty space. There are still rules you must follow, of course, each one aligning with mourning customs. But now that you don’t have your husband to enforce them, you feel…lost.

Illuminated by candlelight, your reflection follows you as you walk past an uncovered mirror, trapped in silent reverie.

And then you stop.

An uncovered mirror?

In a horrified panic, you set the candlestick down to gaze at yourself in the glass.

This can’t be! All of the mirrors must be covered! What happened?!

You scramble to shroud it, your heart pounding restlessly like a war drum. For a while you stand there, waiting for something. You anticipate a shout from the shadows: Don’t you know you are expected to cover each and every reflective surface in the wake of death? Do you want to be pulled into the grave next?! Nothing happens, though. The house remains perfectly still.

You think you hear someone breathing shallowly, but then you realize that’s you. Your chest heaves as you take in big gasps of air.

No one will know, you remind yourself, gradually calming your frazzled nerves. The mirror is covered. That is the end of that.

The grandfather clock’s midnight chime echoes down the hall. Sighing, you lift the candlestick and carry on.

“I shall retire to bed,” you tell the darkness, climbing the stairs. Riddle’s room is kept sealed, a place stuck in permanence. You refuse to disturb his things, lest you dampen his spirit, and so you beeline for your room. It’s directly across from his. When he was alive, he insisted you sleep at his side despite the bed customs between couples. Stubbornly, you refused. You recall the dismal glimmer that darkened his eyes whenever you’d decline. He would always promise the same thing—

“Should you need the warmth of another body, I am here to receive you. Forever and always.”

Pulled from your reminiscing, you turn sharply on your heel and raise the flame to light the end of the hall.

“How strange. I was certain…” You peer over the bannister at the foyer below. “Riddle, have you come home?”

Silence is your only reply.

“Foolish,” you chide, contenting yourself with the facts. “He rests peacefully in his grave.”

Burrowing into your woolen shawl, you depart for your bedroom.

In an empty house, swathed in the quilted duvet, you drift off into dreamless slumber.

It’s not the clock or the cold that jerks you from sleep. Rather, it’s the screeching noise that grates on your ears. You blink through the dark, only to cringe moments later when someone drags their nails over glass. You almost allow yourself to fall back into the sheets when you realize there shouldn’t be any human disturbances here, for you’re the only one in this house.

A mouse, perhaps?

But even you know that’s impossible, no matter how much you want to believe such faulty logic.

Throwing the covers off, you search blindly for the candlestick at your bedside. You fumble with the match, shivering like a frightened fawn, but eventually flame brightens the space. Now equipped with light, you peek outside your room, searching either end of the hall just in case. No one’s there, but the scratching continues. Incessantly, almost maddeningly, as if whoever’s doing it is trying to escape.

Nails on…glass. On glass.

Glass.

It’s coming from Riddle’s room.

The mirror!

You shuffle towards the door, only to stop short just as your foot steps in something sticky.

You lift your leg and shine the light on it. A black substance that appears to be some sort of molten tar or ink drips from your sole. With a gasp, you drag your foot upon the floor in hopes of getting rid of it.

“Ugh! How filthy!”

Resolving to wash it later, you stomp over to the door, yank it open, and poke your head inside. A rush of cold air barrages your face, whistling through the crack and out into the corridor. You stumble away in a daze. The scratching persists, angrily now, in a desperate sort of fashion.

“Riddle?” you call out, your voice subdued and shot through with fear. “I… I’m sorry for disturbing you. I’d like to warm myself with you, if you’ll allow it.”

Just like that, the house stills. Shakily, you hold the candle out to light a portion of his room.

“I never should have left you. It must have been terribly lonely here. Lonely and cold… I’ve betrayed you in life, but in death I will be here to look after you. Forever and always. So… So please rest peacefully.”

The tip-tapping of a sharpened nail against the glass almost startles you out of your skin. You realize then that the shroud has fallen away from the mirror.

If I must look upon it… Oh, but I’d rather not… Oh, but I must!

Steeling yourself, you burst into the room and brandish the candlestick. Thankfully, there are no monsters or humans to scare you. No ghosts to be banished. No intruders to chase off. Instead, you see yourself in the mirror.

Or…an approximation of you. Not quite a doppelgänger in appearance. This version of you is wearing soaked rags, tattered and tired, but she has your eyes. They’re unmistakable as they stare back at you.

You set the candlestick on the bedside table and inch closer to the mirror.

“Peculiar,” you whisper, reaching for the glass just as your reflection does. “Surely this isn’t me. I look ghastly!”

Your fingers brush the surface and, in a stroke of shock, just as the grandfather clock below chimes the hour, your hand goes through. Before you can think to pull away, something on the other side tugs at your wrist, frigid fingers coiling tightly. With a shriek, you resist and claw wildly at the air, stretching to grab hold of the bed. You manage to grasp the edge of the blanket, which is pulled free from its neat placement, just as you’re dragged through the mirror.

All that’s left of you is the locket pin, having fallen to the floor in a clatter during the scuffle.

You open your eyes on a room colored black and white. It looks like yours, but something is different. It doesn’t feel like yours. It doesn’t even appear lived in. Almost as if it’s been sealed like a crypt, kept in pristine condition as it awaits an owner who will never return.

Where am I? you wonder, closing your hands around your shawl. It provides you with a modicum of comfort.

A book is lying on the vanity desk, the only thing that looks just slightly out of place in an otherwise tidy room. Curiously, you pick it up and open it to read the cover: Property of Riddle Rosehearts.

“Oh?”

You turn to a random page and skim through the words: I’ve waited ceaselessly for her return, so much so I’m beginning to lose count of the days. I’ve no inkling as to what’s real and what’s false. I see her in the stars, in the mirror, in my dreams… She is lost, I’m certain of this. No one will listen to me. They’ve condemned me to my solitude in this house, but soon I’ll swap places with him and then I’ll have her. It is only a matter of time. She will be mine.

This…cannot be my husband’s diary. Or was it? This is undoubtedly his penmanship.

Surely your husband wasn’t seeing another woman. He has always been honest and sincere. He has never raised his hand to you, nor has he ever threatened you. He is gentle, albeit rough and awkward around the edges, but he means well. Furthermore, you’ve never known him to keep diaries.

If he was embroiled in an adulterous affair, perhaps it was for the best. I could not hope to give him a child. I couldn’t bring him happiness or comfort. I am a failure of a wife, you think, running your thumb over the page.

You must stand tall and proud in the face of adversity. Do not falter.

Drying your eyes, you set the diary down and resolve to keep your strength for the exploration to come. Crying will not help you here. Not right now.

Never falter.

You push the door open and step out into the hall. The photographs are turned upright; mirrors are uncovered. The staircase is on the opposite end of the hall instead of directly around the corner like yours is back home. Even with the differences, the house reminds you of Riddle’s manor.

Strange… Everything is so similar and yet it’s not.

You creep down the stairs, eyeing the crystal chandelier hanging high in the foyer. In fact, now that you’re descending, you’re beginning to notice just how many reflective surfaces surround you. Looking glasses of all shapes and sizes. Crystal decorations that reflect in dozens… It’s overwhelming. At every angle, your face peers back at you.

When you peel the curtain away to glance outside, you find an unsettling white space stretching on endlessly.

Where have I found myself?

You trot down the hall, searching the portraits for any indication of the master of the house. Instead, all you see is yourself. The other faces have been blotted out in dark ink.

This is not my home, you realize with a shiver.

The further you venture, the clearer it becomes that someone lives here. Despite the manic decor, there is not a speck of dust or a hint of disrepair. Someone is here, and they’re looking after this property.

You round the corner, acquainting yourself with a semi-familiar layout, and that’s when you find him. Your husband.

He’s hanging up another portrait with meticulous precision. This is a painting of you. It reminds you of the one your Riddle had commissioned. Only this one depicts you in the same decrepit fashion you saw before you were coaxed through the mirror.

This can’t be… Do my eyes deceive me? Is this truly—

“Riddle?”

His hands fall away from the frame, and he turns to look at you. Ruby-red eyes widen in recognition and then delight. He swoops in like a falcon, covering the distance in quick strides to gather you in his arms.

“My beloved! Oh, what wonderful fortune!” he cries, embracing you tightly. “You’ve come back to me! At long last, you’re here… You’re really here in flesh and blood! Oh, my love, sweetest rose, welcome back.”

If you were to ever meet your husband again, you were certain he’d have an earful for you, a long lecture of societal and personal expectations husband and wife are meant to adhere to. But this Riddle is…happy. He doesn’t seem angry or disappointed at all.

Rather woodenly, you wrap your arms around him. “You’re…not cross?”

“Whyever would you think that?” He pulls away from you and runs his hands up your arms, as if to assess the authenticity of your appearance.

You stare at his face. He looks like Riddle. But… Well.

He doesn’t feel like Riddle. Your Riddle—the grey-eyed Riddle—was awkward in his affections. He would never hug you so openly. He would never touch you without your approval first. He was considerate and well-mannered. Furthermore, he never called you by any endearing terms. You were always Lady (Name) to him.

Your hands close around his face to hold him still. “Your eyes—”

He blinks and suddenly the red was never there. “My eyes?”

Am I dreaming?

“Are you certain this is real?”

He smiles. “You must still be clinging to the vestiges of sleep. I assure you this is all very real.”

“So you’re truly Riddle? My Riddle?”

“Your Riddle. Always and forever.”

Tears well up in your eyes. You sink to your knees. “Oh, Riddle… Riddle, I’m so sorry. If I had just come back sooner… If I hadn’t been so scared—I couldn’t face you! I didn’t want to. I…didn’t wish to see you suffering so. It hurts…”

“My dear…” He lowers to your height and brushes your tears away with his thumb. His eyes soften with an intense fondness. “How fervently I’ve missed your voice. How desperately I’ve longed to hold you in my arms.”

“I can’t fathom it—how can it be?” you mutter, hesitant to touch him again lest he be turned to dust before your eyes. “You… You’re alive?”

“I’ve always been alive.”

“But you—your condition! You’ve been ill. It…” You inhale a sharp breath. “Your ailment worsened when you married me.”

“Do you blame yourself?” Before you can answer that, he takes hold of your chin and tilts your head. “Don’t. The fault does not lie with you. It never has.”

And then he fits his lips on yours in a kiss so sweet and soulful it momentarily rekindles your hope in romance. Shocked, you stumble back on the floor, but he just surges forward to continue kissing you. It’s passionate and hungry; he nibbles at your lip and licks into your mouth, leaving you panting and scrabbling for purchase. You cling to his suit—the same suit he was buried in.

He breaks away for breath, and you inhale mouthfuls of it. “Wait—”

Another kiss, this one longer than its predecessor. Your fingers curl into his shoulder. He pulls back.

“Riddle—”

He tugs your shawl from your shoulders in lustful impatience. You yelp when you feel his hands on your thighs, slyly sliding beneath your dark nightgown.

“Riddle!” You gasp, scandalized, and push him away. Breathing heavily, you yank the strap of your gown over your shoulder. “Just what’s gotten into you?!”

“I’ve missed you,” he confesses, gathering your hands in his. “I’ve waited for your return for so long—too long! And now you’re finally here… You’ve finally come back to me.”

My Riddle was never this forward.

“You must know I cannot give you what it is you want. I’m dead inside, a tragedy your mother is all too keen to remind me of.”

A frown tugs at his lips. “Unfortunate as that may be, it does not offend me in the slightest and it shouldn’t. I love you, with or without child.” He lifts your hand and places a gentle kiss upon the top of it.

You stare at him, horrified.

“S-Say that again, if you would…”

“I love you?” He raises his brow at you, confused. “With or without child, I love you. Always and forever.”

You drag your hand back, clutching it as if it’s injured. “I think…I might go for a stroll.”

He blinks back at you, one eye at a time. “Oh! Allow me to accompany you. It’s howling a gale out there. You would do well to change into attire fitting for the weather.”

“Of course. I’d love nothing more than to walk through the rose gardens with you. I do hope they haven’t started wilting.”

Riddle helps you up from the ground, drapes your shawl over your shoulders, and sends you on your way. You offer him a smile and turn to walk stiffly down the hall. The minute you’re out of sight, you sprint for the stairs, taking two at a time, and throw open the door to your room.

Your reflection meets you at the mirror. Without wasting another moment, you reach for her. Someone catches your wrist on the other side and tugs you through.

You’re spat out in Riddle’s bedroom in a heap of tangled limbs, your heart in your throat. The mirror shimmers with the real you. When you press your finger to the glass it doesn’t go through, but your finger touches its reflection.

“That was…strange,” you whisper, drawing away. You find the locket pin lying inches from your foot and you scramble for it, hastily prying it open to check its contents. The photo and lock of red hair remain untouched. “It was just a dream. A wild, whimsical terror.”

You rise to your feet and, after fixing the disturbed sheets, bid a final farewell to the room.

“Rest peacefully,” you say, shutting the door behind you.

That was not my Riddle. My Riddle has never said he loves me before.

Following that night, you busy yourself with the curiosities of Riddle’s estate. In the three years you’ve lived here, you were unaware the house had so many secret spaces. Hidden doors that open into narrow passages and stairs. You’ve never had any servants, so you’re not sure why Riddle would need any of this. The house has been in the Rosehearts family for decades. As the legend goes, it was burned beyond repair and rebuilt with a better layout. A safer layout, Riddle would tell you when you questioned the tale.

��Safer for what?” you mutter, peeling wallpaper back to reveal the door to a thin crawl space. There’s never anything sealed within these rooms, but their existence is proof enough. If not for servants, these passages were meant to house secrets. “Did he know about this? He must have.”

Would Mrs. Rosehearts know? Oh, but I dread the thought of wasting ink on that insufferable woman.

You lower to your knees and peer inside the crawl space. “Hello? Is anyone home?” And then you laugh to yourself. “Are you hiding in there, Riddle?”

You receive no reply.

A Riddle with red eyes… I must have been so feverish that night, to dream a vision so crooked.

You stretch your arm inside and feel around for any hidden treasure. You expect to come away with cobwebs and spiders, not a leather-bound book.

“Huh… Perhaps I’ve been away from the manor much too long,” you mutter, sitting with your back to the wall. You open the book, wondering what its contents could be that would merit this treatment.

Books ought to be treated in the same manner we treat each other—with respect. They are filled with boundless knowledge, and they provide insight into fascinating wonders we may yet comprehend, Riddle used to say.

“‘To destroy them would be to destroy the wisdom they offer,’” you say, finishing the rest of his quote. A smile pulls your lips up. “He loved books. Riddle would never seal any away.”

You peel it open to the first page, where you find four unsettling words.

Property of Riddle Rosehearts.

It’s a diary. Riddle’s diary.

Suddenly, the house is colder and unwelcoming, as if the very foundation disapproves of what you’ve just unearthed from its bowels. You’ve never known Riddle to keep a diary. And yet…

Tentatively, you flip through the pages. It’s a log of his condition, you realize. He details his symptoms daily, every event outlined in neat, waltzing script. You weren’t aware of just how morbid his condition was. At some point, though, he begins to catalogue other happenings.

I’ve coughed up quite a monstrous thing, he writes. I cannot fathom what it is, but it has the consistency of ink, almost. It is thick and foul in my mouth. It stains my sheets and colors my teeth. Next time it happens, I shall gather enough to test whether it truly is ink.

Then another page: I cannot employ servants because I fear he will tip poison into their ears. Thus, I’ve deigned to do everything myself. I’ve mustered enough strength and willpower to stand and cover most of the mirrors. So long as Lady (Name) stays away…

And another page: He is looking at me again, knocking at the mirror. Even as I write this, I must remain vigilant. You must wonder why I don’t shatter the mirror and put an end to this madness. Rather than sever the connection, I fear it would only provide an opening into our world. I hear him every night just as the clock tolls out the Witching Hours. He speaks of a malice most concerning. It is tiring and I think fondly of submitting, but I must protect Lady (Name).

And the final page, penned just days before his death: I fear the worst is happening. I cannot continue to research the face in the mirror. It has rendered me too frail. He has been studying me in the meantime, following me through the glass. He is a perfect reflection now, an expert copy. I’ve no inkling what this implies, but I suspect it cannot be anything pleasant. I’m going to seal my findings away with what little strength I have left so that it never falls into his hands. There must be some way to stop it… this infernal ringing in my ears… the blood filling my eyes…

A dried splatter stains the page, obscuring whatever was left of his words. You leaf through a few pages, searching for a proper explanation.

The face in the mirror? A perfect reflection? What is all of this? Just what was Riddle doing while I was gone?

You find it then, a list of what he believes to be fact, all outlined in an organized fashion.

Evidence of Fact

It is confined within reflective surfaces. It cannot step out into the mortal realm (or so I’ve yet to witness), but it can follow through mirrors so long as you look into it. Though the original must remain intact.

It is most active during the hours of midnight through three o’clock in the morning. To be referred to from here on out as the Witching Hours.

It has my voice and my face, but it is not me. You must remind yourself of this when you feel yourself losing control: He is not me, nor is he the shadow I cast.

It sees with red eyes and reaches with nightmarish claws. (A devil, perhaps?)

The substance I have been vomiting ceaselessly is indeed ink, but the reflection in the mirror refers to it as ‘blot.’ It is black and viscous. It reeks of rot.

It is undoubtedly after Lady (Name).

It calls itself Riddle.

You don’t really know your husband. You’ve never known him, in fact.

He was shouldering such a heavy burden all this time… All for my sake.

You hold the diary close to your chest.

If what he writes is true, then what I experienced that night… It wasn’t a dream but, rather, a supernatural occurrence. The reflection in the mirror calling itself Riddle—that must have been the Riddle I met. The one with red eyes. For a moment, I almost thought it was my Riddle. You run your finger over the cover of the diary. If that thing is the reason my Riddle is dead…

You don’t dare think any further.

Riddle noted that Reflection Riddle is most active during the Witching Hours. If you follow that logic then the mirror should open up between midnight and three every night, allowing you to cross into a world that reflects your own. You wonder if it’s the same for the other side. If it was, wouldn’t that mean Reflection Riddle could step out at any point and enter your world? You certainly hope he can’t.

Moros’s Looking Glass, reads the bookmarked tome in Riddle’s study, a (thankfully) mirrorless space that grants you total privacy, is said to be a powerful mirror that connects the mortal realm with that of the spirit realm. It is said that mortals who look upon Moros’s Glass are bound for death and should tread carefully when they hear three consecutive knocks from within their home.

Not if but when. A certainty.

You turn to the chapter on Moros. “‘Gave people the ability to foresee their death…’” you read, frowning deeper as the text goes on. “‘Moros is a word meaning doom or fate. It is said that once you take Moros’s hand you can never turn back, for your death is already weaved into fate.’ No escape… Could that Reflection Riddle be Moros? That might give reason to why my reflection looked so twisted.”

You slump in the chair and sigh. “I’m sorry, Riddle… I never should have left you. I should have stayed. Perhaps then we could have worked together to understand this.”

Gritting your teeth, you wipe furiously at your eyes.

All this time, he was suffering and I ran away. All this time, he was thinking of me and my well-being, and I ran away.

Before you can openly bawl in his study, you remember the notes in Riddle’s diary.

It wants me. To what extent, I’m unsure. But if it truly does love me as it claimed… Surely it wouldn’t hurt me.

You don’t want to return to that strange world with its strange Riddle, but you need answers. If it killed your Riddle… You shut the book and place it back on the shelf.

You must stand tall and proud in the face of adversity. Do not falter.

Stringing the locket pin on an empty chain, you fasten it around your neck. That way, Riddle will always be close to your heart—a reminder that you are not alone. You rifle through your closet for appropriate attire, casting corsets and crinolines aside in favor of clothing that grants more freedom.

But I mustn’t look suspicious, you think, debating whether you should wear a chemise or a longer gown. You pull a pair of loose-fitting trousers from a drawer next. Perhaps… Oh, this will seem so indecent! If Riddle were here, he’d advise against it. But these will allow for movement should I need to flee fast.

Seeing no other option, you choose the bloomers and a simple blouse, both in the classic color for mourning.

Ideally, I would prefer to never go back again, but I suspect I’ll be visiting more than once. Tonight, I’ll attempt to search for a weakness. There must be something I can exploit. A tension or a spot of blindness, perhaps? There’s that white space surrounding the manor. Perhaps I ought to try stepping outside?

You change in your room in front of a covered mirror and read through Riddle’s diary to refresh yourself on the foe you’ll be facing.

When the grandfather clock’s midnight toll reaches upstairs, you hide the diary under your pillow and cross the hall into Riddle’s room.

I refuse to call that thing my husband, you think hatefully. You are not Riddle. You will never be Riddle.

You kneel before the floor-length mirror and press your palm to the surface. A cold hand pulls you through.

I must remember not to overstay my welcome. You lift your trousers to peer at the pocket watch tied around your thigh. It is fifteen minutes past twelve. The window closes at three.

Throwing the closet doors open, which is packed full of well-tailored dresses and skirts, you grab a long woolen coat and fit your arms through the sleeves. You slide your feet into a pair of low-top heels. When you admire yourself in the mirror, you spy your waterlogged reflection looking back. She vanishes in a blink.

Descending the stairs, you call out for Riddle. “I apologize for the delay. I’m ready if you are.”

He pokes his head out from around the corner, a delicate smile gracing his pale features. Meeting you at the very bottom, he offers his arm.

“I’ve waited years for your return.” He laughs. “I can wait a few measly minutes.”

Minutes? Does time work differently here? Every clock aside from the watch fastened to my thigh is stopped at Riddle’s time of death. Perhaps this world’s sense of time is warped because of that. Or maybe Moros truly has no concept of time…

“Patience is a most admirable virtue, or so they say.”

“They speak the truth.” He leads you to the door. “You’ve come at a wondrous time. The roses are still in bloom. Though, regrettably, most of them have already closed up.”

“What little is left, I will be sure to cherish.” You pat his arm and smile. “Thank you for always taking such diligence to care for them.”

If there exists a reflection of Riddle, why haven’t I seen my reflection? Surely she isn’t just confined to the mirror…

The door opens and you brace yourself for the blinding white space. Instead, you’re greeted to the sight of a flourishing front yard. It looks nothing like your own, which leads you to wonder if Moros can only replicate the scenery within the house due to the limited field of sight provided by the mirrors. The rest of this—the gardens, the stone pathway, the hedges—it’s his imagination filling in the blanks.

“Oh, it’s beautiful!” You tug him ahead, your hand easily sliding into his. “They’re quite red!”

“Aren’t they just?”

“Positively beaming with color,” you exaggerate even though you can’t see a speck of red. Everything here is black and white. The only red you’ve seen so far is the red in his eyes.

You gaze at the iron gates at the end of the property. “Riddle, dear, have we always had those gates?”

“We have.” His hand slides over yours. “To keep beauty in and filth out.”

“Filth?” You look at him incredulously. “What sort of filth?”

“Those who think it wise to flout the rules. I will not tolerate such flagrant displays of disobedience.” He squeezes your hand. “I’m sure you understand, my rose. There is no greater peace than that which is attained through order.”

“And what of exiting?”

“You’ve only just come back to me and now you speak of leaving?”

“I wouldn’t go alone. Do you not want to go into town? I quite like the circus.”

“You have everything you need here.” He kisses the top of your hand. “With me.”

So the boundary is the gate. Very well.

“I suppose that’s true. There is no greater bliss than seeing you again after so much time apart. Why would I ever want to leave?”

“Indeed. You shall never leave,” he murmurs, smiling.

Riddle takes you on a tour through monochrome gardens, pointing out all manner of delightful flora. You voice your acknowledgement when it’s necessary, but your mind is elsewhere.

I should find his diary again. I don’t believe I saw it on the desk when I came through the mirror.

You peer at Riddle’s face. He is not a fool. My Riddle was so bright. If Moros can replicate his physical form so seamlessly, then surely he knows of his intelligence.

“Riddle.”

“Yes, my rose?”

“I love you, too.”

His eyes widen. The admission must have genuinely shocked him, for his grey irises explode with red. But then he blinks it away and they’re back to grey. In these quiet gardens, he pulls you closer and presses a chaste kiss to your lips.

“And I love you. Most ardently.”

You smile and then you giggle. “Why did I leave you in the first place? It’s patently absurd.”

“A question I asked myself in cycles.” He drags his knuckle along your cheek. “Can the sea truly cure the morbs? Wouldn’t it have been better here? What can the sea offer that I don’t already have?” He clenches his jaw. “Why would you leave? Why?”

“Riddle… R-Riddle, you’re hurting me!”

He comes to his senses then and gazes at his hand closed tightly around yours. “Ah… Forgive me.” He loosens his hold and tries a relaxed smile. “Your arrival is most important. Anything that came before that is wholly insignificant.”

“Of course it is…”

He must know of my trip from Riddle. Perhaps it was mentioned in passing. I’m certain Moros doesn’t have Riddle’s memories. Despite being reflections, they are still separate entities. Or so I hope.

You return inside on account of being famished. Riddle insists on preparing dinner, claiming he’s practiced tirelessly in your absence and has been awaiting a chance to boast his skills. You allow him to do that and, while he works in the kitchen, you slink upstairs to check the time. It’s half-past two.

Just before you exit through the mirror, you poke around the room in search of the diary. It isn’t there.

Perhaps it’s in Riddle’s room?

You refer to the watch once more.

I have time. Just five minutes and then I shall be on my way.

You creep over towards Riddle’s room and, slowly, so slowly, reach for the door. Riddle’s voice permeates the air just then, calling up to you from the bottom of the staircase.

“(Name)? Dinner is almost ready!”

You press yourself against the wall just in case he can somehow see you. “Yes, thank you! Just one moment.”

Stuffing the coat and shoes inside the closet, you spare one final glance at the door before stepping through the warped surface of the mirror.

You emerge just a few minutes before three.

Much too close for my liking. You shut the pocket watch and run your hands through your hair. But that was enlightening. While not clear in its entirety, I understand the world I’m grappling with just a scintilla better.

In the coming weeks, you travel between worlds to gather as much information as possible. Riddle receives you with immense adoration every time, seemingly none the wiser to your periodic disappearances. The last time you went snooping around the second story, you realized the rooms were mostly empty and Riddle’s bedroom was locked.

You write your findings down in the empty pages in your husband’s diary: If the door is locked, he must know that whatever’s inside is of great importance. Therefore, he’s done well to keep it safe. Additionally, he appears to learn from my actions. When he’s startled, his eyes can’t remain grey. Now it’s as if he’s anticipated the shock and has taught himself to keep the façade. It is a most peculiar act. No weaknesses to detail as of yet.

You return to Riddle’s entries once more. Surely I’m missing something. There must be a weakness.

Briefly, you consider shattering the mirror. Riddle didn’t test his hypothesis regarding this method. Perhaps nothing will come of it and you’ll be rid of this menacing reflection. But then you’ll never know why your reflection looks the way it does. You’ll never know what killed your husband. You’ll never know who Reflection Riddle really is—though you certainly have your suspicions.

I must return.

When the clock announces the arrival of midnight, you step through the mirror. Only this time, when you step out of your room, Riddle is there and he doesn’t look pleased.

“Oh! Riddle—”

“What were you doing?”

“I…” You shut your mouth and fish through your brain in an attempt to recall what you said you’d be doing last time you were here. “I was changing.”

He scrutinizes you with narrowed eyes. “Into your night clothes? Did you not wish to take a stroll?”

“Oh, you must forgive me. I have been so weary… If it pleases you, perhaps we can have our stroll tomorrow?” You glance past him at his bedroom door and then reach for his hands. “Shall we sleep together?”

Riddle watches your face a moment longer. The tension in his figure relaxes, and he eventually smiles. “Nothing would make me happier.”

He guides you to your bed, but you stop him. “Your room. I’m most comfortable in your bed.”

“Is that so?”

“Verily.”

For a moment you think he’ll find some way to slither out of this, but then he’s pulling you through the door towards his room. His hand ghosts over the knob and it unlocks just like that. “I must warn you. It’s not in the…cleanest condition. I admit it was a reflection of my mind in the wake of your absence.”

“I’m certain it isn’t so terrible,” you assure, rubbing his arm consolingly. “Although… Riddle, if I may, what happened to me?”

“To you? Why, you left.”

“Yes, that is an irrefutable fact. But… It couldn’t have been the morbs.”

Riddle smiles thinly. His eyes fog over with an unrecognizable emotion. “I thought I lost you,” he explains, his hand on the knob. “I was certain you would never return.”

“But I’m here now. Whyever would you think that?”

“You died,” he says, his voice cracking. “A-At sea. You threw yourself into the sea.”

I…did that? Truly? But then it makes sense. The water dripping from your reflection. Her tattered dress. The strands of seaweed. But why? Why would I do such a thing?

“That’s why I could scarcely believe my eyes when I saw you. When you came back to me, perfectly whole and in one piece, warm and alive… I was so relieved. I’ll never let you go again.”

He opens the door and it becomes clear to you when you see a roomful of portraits and letters scattered everywhere. Your letters. Your pictures. Even your belongings. These aren’t mirror reflections. These are genuine artifacts from your world. The breath sticks in your throat. All of the letters you sent Riddle while you were away, never to receive a single reply, they’re all here, tucked away in their respective envelopes. And you know they’re yours because your signature dots each and every one, each stamp pasted on by your careful hands.

Lying on the bedside table is Riddle’s diary, where the passage you first read must be penned. The one in which he notes how long he’s waited. How very soon he’ll swap places with your husband and have you all to himself. How they’ve condemned him to this prison. They. Who is they?

You understand it now. The sticky substance you stepped on the first night. The reflection of the other you. The Riddle who you thought couldn’t stand you and was having his silent rebellion disregarding all of your letters. It was the thieving reflection who crept into your world!

Your other self died so that you could take her place. And you know this is true because she is you, and in the midst of your melancholy back in your world you considered surrendering yourself to the sea.

“Riddle…”

“Sleep! Do pardon the dreadful state of this room.” He smiles and tugs you down onto the bed to tuck you in. “It’s late. You’ll never function properly if you neglect the moon’s call for bedtime.”

“Riddle!” You seize his wrist when he climbs into bed beside you. He blinks at you, one eye at a time. “Who…are you, exactly? You’re not my Riddle.”

He tilts his head at you. “But of course I am.”

“No… No, you’re not. My Riddle is—” you inhale shakily— “dead.”

His eyes rove over your features, flicking down to watch your hand curled around his wrist. He chuckles. “You must be so tired, my rose. Sleep. Come morning, all of this will have been a daydream lived in a daze.”

He pats the pillow and you lower yourself slowly. He follows your lead, wrapping the both of you in the fluffy blanket.

“I have always been your Riddle. Always and forever.”

“Right… Yes. Yes, of course. How…” You swallow thickly. “How foolish of me to think otherwise.”

You squeeze your eyes shut, hoping he’ll inevitably fall asleep. The pocket watch tied around your thigh continues to count out the minutes. You’ve no idea how much time has passed, but the longer you spend here the slimmer your window of escape gets. And Riddle just won’t fall asleep! His eyes remain open, observing you as you shift in and out of faux sleep. Eventually, you turn your back on him.

I cannot fall asleep here. I’ll be trapped.

“(Name)…”

Why won’t he sleep? Surely he’s tired… Do reflections feel exhaustion? They must!

“(Name)…”

You force yourself to remain calm, contenting yourself with the fact that he has to fall asleep soon.

But then there’s a hand on your arm, climbing up your shoulder like a spider on a web. His fingers drum along your sleeve.

“You’re not truly sleeping, are you?”

His voice is right in your ear, and you can hear the twisted smile in it.

You roll over onto your back. Riddle blinks down at you, still smiling that sticky, self-satisfied smile.

“You were anticipating my slumber, were you not?”

“In the hope that we might rest together, yes. Are you not tired?”

“How could I rest when I know you’re just going to slip away again?” He yanks the covers off and moves to grab the hem of your nightgown. In a panic, not wanting the watch to be revealed, you push him away, falling off the bed in the process. Landing with a thud, you pick yourself up and glimpse the time. Just ten minutes until three. You gasp and stumble towards the door.

“Stop!” he shouts, reaching for you. “Come back here! Don’t leave me!”

You yelp as something slimy coils around your ankle. You fall flat on your stomach, pulled back into the room without mercy. You thrash, kicking out blindly in hopes of untangling whatever’s found itself attached to your leg.

“Unhand me!” You grab at the door frame and pull yourself forward, grunting with the effort. “Don’t touch me!”

“You don’t get to leave! Not when I finally have you!”

You turn to look at him and bite back a terrified scream at the sight of him. He’s monstrous! The odious stench of death hangs heavy in the air. There’s that black substance again, oozing from his pores like an overfilled, soggy rag. He’s dressed differently, too, in clothes that bring forth images of decapitated royalty. The inky crown on his head and the spade-tipped Medici collar only cement this imagery. His hands are splayed with razor-thin claws, and suddenly you’re brought back to the night of that ominous tap-tapping against the glass.

The tendril coiled around your leg, you now realize, is an ebony, thorny stem.

“W-What are you?”

He grits his teeth. “Your husband.”

You reach for the stem and, pulling it taut, bite down roughly. Blot spatters your maw and it tastes rancid, but you chew through in spite of the taste. Riddle hisses at you. You manage to sever it just in time. Another vine shoots out after you and you slam the door shut before it can ensnare you.

“(Name)!” he roars from behind the door, his voice deeper and angrier. “You step through that mirror and I’ll tear you to shreds the next time you return! Do you hear me?! I’ll slaughter you!”

“I wish you luck in that endeavor because I won’t ever be back!”

The door is torn off its hinges then. When Riddle lunges for you, he narrowly misses your nightgown, instead grasping the chain around your neck. It snaps and the locket pin smashes to the floor.

“No!” You swoop down to grab it, but Riddle’s already swiped it for himself. Looking between that and the mirror, you scream a colorful word and dive for the mirror just as the clock below chimes out the hour.

You somersault into Riddle’s bedroom, your heart pounding wildly in your ribs, and feel along your body for the pendant. It isn’t there.

“No… No, no, no! Blast! I can’t… I need that locket!”

You whirl towards the mirror and this time it isn’t your reflection peering back. It’s that monstrous fiend!

He holds the chain up for you to see, grinning all the while. The locket twirls idly on the broken link. It’s an obvious taunt: If you want it, come and get it.

Your fingers curl around an iron candlestick, but you stop yourself just before you can bring it down against the glass.

I can’t break it. I need to get in, and he wants to get out. We both want something we can’t have.

You scowl at the mirror just as Riddle vanishes, and then your reflection—your real reflection, broken and despairing—is staring back. Falling to your knees, you hold your head in your hands and sob.

The next few days trickle by like the seemingly never-ending rainfall outside. You pen countless letters to friends, Mrs. Rosehearts, even Riddle himself, but they’re all ripped to shreds before you can sign them. You visit his grave, dressed in all black, crying behind your veil.

“What am I to do, Riddle?” you whisper, clutching your parasol to shield yourself from the winter sun. “It’s an impossible foe. There is no weakness to be found…”

Your choke on your sniffle. No weakness but me. He would do anything for me, would he not? And if he can’t have me… At once, you shake your head. No. I’m not going to resort to such drastic, harmful measures. In the face of adversity, I shall stand tall and proud. I will never falter. I will never waver. That monster killed my husband. I refuse to be cowed into submission by such malevolence!

You bend down and place your gloved hand over the soil. “I never did thank you, Riddle.” A small smile pulls at your tired, sleep-deprived face. “Thank you for all that you have done. You may rest in ataraxy, for I shall put an end to the beast who tormented you in such unspeakable, barbarous ways.”

Smoothing down your skirts, you depart for the Rosehearts Manor.

After eating as much as you can stomach, you spend the rest of the day catching up on lost sleep. With your body and mind now refreshed, you approach the problem from a new angle. A physical altercation is impossible, and you’re certain it will be impossible to truly kill him. If you can’t fight, then you shall talk instead. Riddle was a logical man. Though that monster will never be your Riddle, surely he holds some shred of logic.

And in the event that he can’t be reasoned with…

You touch the pointed tip of a knife and frown. Can I bring myself to wound the creature who wears my husband’s face?

Even though you’re doubtful, you stow it in your satchel with the rest of your tools and trinkets.

This ends tonight, once and for all, even if it kills me.

You sit in front of the mirror and await the tell-tale chime of midnight.

When the mirror’s surface warps and twists, you harden your nerves into that of unbreakable steel.

In the face of adversity…

“Blast it! I’ll kill him,” you snarl and step through the mirror.

It is eerily quiet when you exit on the other side. The house is in shambles, as if a nasty storm has come through and torn up everything in its path. The wallpaper is peeling in thin curls, the portraits are hanging crooked, the mirrors are shattered, and blot paints everything in black. It drips from the ceiling like saliva from a mutt’s mouth.

Swallowing your disgust, you tiptoe out into the hall. Riddle isn’t in his room. In fact, there isn’t much of a room to admire. The door has been thrown against the wall, and everything is tattered. It occurs to you that this Riddle’s love is wrong. It is not love. It is an obsession driven by the greedy desire to possess. You gather what letters you can salvage and stuff them in your satchel, even the ones from Riddle you never received.

What iniquitous meddling. To intercept our communication in such a way… You are nothing more than a parasite that must be snipped away.

Your journey takes you down the stairs. You’re careful to avoid the blot sticking to the steps as you descend, gracefully maneuvering around it. The deeper into the house you venture, the thicker the air becomes. You pinch your nose and squint through the dark haze, pushing aside low-hanging branches and vines. Inky roses sprout from the walls, twisting towards you as you approach. You duck to avoid them.

Moros is waiting for you at the dinner table. It’s set for two. Flowers twine around his seat. It looks more like a grand throne. Yours is much the same.

A Queen needs a King, even when both are destined to fall.

“Riddle.”

“If you would, have a seat. I believe we have an exchange to make.” Your locket drops down in front of your face, dangling from a stem. You reach for it and it shoots back up towards the ceiling. “No, no. That’s not how reasonable conversations are had, (Name). If you think yourself wise, sit down and listen.”

You scowl at him. “What do you want?”

“You’re an intelligent lady. My counterpart fancied that side of you most ardently. He wrote about you often, spoke of your marvelous brain.” He rests his elbows on the table and props his chin on his folded hands. “So you must already know what it is I seek.”

“You… You murdered my husband.”

He slams his hand on the table. The plates clatter from the force. “I didn’t kill him! He withered away of his own accord!”

“What did you do?”

“Sit down.”

“What did you do?”

“Sit. Down.”

“What in blazes did you do to him?!”

“I said, sit down!” Vines shoot out from the darkness. You’re tugged into your seat and held still, posture perfect. A smile twists itself onto his ink-stained lips. “Was that so difficult?”

He waves his hand and more vines come down from the ceiling to grasp the cutlery. You watch as they cut a portion of whatever shapeless filth is on your plate. Refusing to comply, you keep your mouth shut.

“Not hungry? A shame. It’s strawberry. You enjoy strawberries, do you not? Ah, and I suppose that husband of yours fancied them something fierce.”

“Please…” You look at him helplessly, tears shimmering in your glossy gaze. “What did you do to my Riddle? Why did you hurt him?”

“Two cannot exist within the same space. I was never going to be allowed to stay in your world with him around. He was already bound for the grave.” He chuckles to himself. “Rather, it was quite fortuitous that you left for the sea. If you had stayed, I wouldn’t have been able to work so efficiently.”

“So you—you’re the reason he—”

“My (Name) left me stranded here in this hell, but you… You’re perfect. Your love is pure and soft. You are the one.”

“So what are you, truly? You’re not Riddle.”

A flower unfurls before you, its petals drying your tears. He hums.

“You’re mistaken, my rose. Who else am I if not the Riddle you cherish so dearly?”

“You’re Moros, are you not?”

He tilts his head, and you can hear the audible crack of his neck.

“Moros, an entity of doom—of death. Riddle saw you in the mirror when—”

“Not me,” he corrects. “He saw himself—what was to become of him, at least. He also saw you, here with me. This is the very outcome he was hoping to prevent.” Moros barks out a cruel laugh. “And look where it got him! A wooden bed beneath the soil. Oh, but I do understand, though. You’re worth fighting for. Dying for, even. He loved you sincerely, but I shall love you perfectly.”

“You’re a monster.”

“Nooo.” He waggles a vine at you. “I’m your husband. There’s a difference. One is imperfect, a failure. The other… The other is better, an improvement.”

“Oh, forgive me. A parasite.”

“No,” he says, stressing the word. “Try again.”

“A fiend.”

“(Name), my patience is thin as a hair.”

“I will never call you my husband, Moros.”

The vines tighten their grasp just as his face reddens with frustration. His vermillion eyes flash dangerously. You wheeze as the life is squeezed from your lungs.

“S-Stop—I can’t—can’t breathe! Please! R-Riddle… Riddle, please!”

At once, your flowery restraints retreat. He tries a smile next, but it’s tense. As if he could snap at any moment.

“There you are. (Name), my rose, I must say, it is dreadful manners to call your husband by another man’s name. So dreadful, in fact, that it incites the cold-blooded rage in my very veins. If I wished, I could paint these walls in your red. If I wished, I could tear you apart, limb from precious limb, and string you up among my flowers. But I won’t because I love you, and it would cause me immeasurable grief to lose another (Name).”

“Enough prattling. I want my locket.”

“And I have told you before that is not how you negotiate, my dear. Proper etiquette at the table dictates that you must maintain respectable eye contact, and you must never slouch. Nor should you chew with your mouth open, and if you wish to speak you must not mumble or twiddle your thumbs. You must not whine like a petulant child either. If you wish to have your locket—and I cannot fathom why—you must outline your terms. I do realize you’ve been away from your husband far too long, so perhaps he never taught you any manners. Under my rule, that shall change. Under my rule, you will be perfect just as I am.”

You tamp down a foul-mouthed tirade. “Very well. In exchange for the locket, I will give you myself.”

“In what way?”

“In any way you please, but you must first answer my questions. Truthfully.”

He eyes you dubiously. “What might those be?”

“Can you leave through the mirror?”

“I can, but only when you’re asleep.”

“What’s stopping you from existing in my world now that Riddle is gone?”

Moros smiles and the locket falls onto the table, right in front of you. “Your mourning ornament. So long as a piece of him exists in those walls, I am trapped here. As you can imagine, it’s immensely vexing.”

“And who trapped you here?”

“Why, it’s been so long I’ve no recollection. Perhaps a clever witch or a simple mistake… I do so detest living within this dull looking glass.”

“So even if I’m to keep my locket, you wouldn’t be permitted to cross over.”

“Correct. But why do that when you’re already here? You can keep those measly strands of hair. I don’t want your world if you’re not in it. So long as you’re here with me, I can stomach these colorless, glass confines.”

“Then… You’ll give me the locket and I’ll stay here?”

“Indeed.”

“And you’ll release me? I won’t be imprisoned in this…grotesque garden of yours?”

“Will you flee? Ah, but I surmise you couldn’t manage that. Not after three.”

“One more question.”

He narrows his eyes at you.

“What happens if the mirror breaks?”

“No further questions.”

“Answer me! What happens if the mirror breaks, Moros?”

“That’s not my name!”

“Tell me, or else I’ll—” You stop yourself, lower your voice, and soften the anger in your face. “Riddle, dear, please… I don’t want to argue with you.”

He studies your expression for a moment. “Why do you wish to know?”

“Riddle assumed it would give you the means to free yourself.”

“Well, he’s partially correct. If I’m to truly free myself, there must be part of me in your world, much like the hair in that locket. So that, even when the mirror shatters, I can slip out from the remaining shards and cling to that part of my existence.” His red eyes flick to your stomach. “It is a shame you cannot conceive. Even if you escaped my grasp, I could simply follow you if you were—”

“Even if I could, I would never,” you interrupt, tone clipped. “Never. Not with you.”

“Then it is very clear where we shall live from now on. You must forgive the state of our home. I’ll be sure to tidy it soon enough. If we’re to live in perfect harmony, our home must reflect that, yes? You will learn to keep house so that it never falls into ruin.”

“Yes… Yes, I understand. So… So may I—the locket?”

The vines holding you hostage slither away to the shadows, and your locket drops into your outstretched hands. You breathe a relieved sigh and pry it open to check its contents. Both are still intact.

Oh, thank you. He’s okay. He’s safe!

“Now then…” Moros offers an inky hand. “Shall we?”

Tying the broken chain around your neck, you hesitate. Eventually, you place your hand in his. “We shall.”

He sweeps you into an elegant waltz. Thick, gnarled roots shift to allow the two of you passage. He lifts you into the air just before you nearly trip over one of them. If you allowed starry adoration to shroud your sight, perhaps you would have been content remaining in this world. But this wicked place is far from a comfort. Even if your world is devoid of Riddle, it is still infinitely better than this one.

Moros twirls you effortlessly, a smile widening on his lips. “You’ve made me the happiest man, my rose. I am forever honored to have you here with me. You’ll never know just how long I’ve waited, day after day, night after night… Now we can be together forever.”

You cradle his pale face, swiping the murky ink that leaks from his eyes like tears. “Forever and always.”

The musicless dance comes to an end. His hands rest at your waist, unwilling to truly part.

“Wasn’t that just grand?”

You nod along. “I apologize for my previous behavior. It was most unbecoming. Perhaps we might begin anew? Put this mess behind us, yes?”

“My rose…” Vines slither through the shadowy brush, coiling up your legs to root you in place. His grip tightens, and a manic glint darkens his gaze. “Do you take me for a fool?”

“You are no fool, Moros.” Your hand creeps into your satchel, fingers fishing for the handle of your knife. “But you were foolish to take the face of my Riddle, and for that you have brought misfortune upon yourself. It’s unforgivable!”

You yank him towards you via the belts laced around his torso. He’s caught by surprise when you crash your lips against his, whisked away in a rush of ardor. The vines slacken just so as he melts against you, pinned in place by the blade you thrust into his stomach.

And then you’re stumbling away, pitch-black blood stringing between your lips. You wipe the filth away with the back of your hand and turn from the dining room. With trembling hands, Riddle touches the handle wedged deep in his gut. There’s a flash of innocence on his face, a betrayal that carries a somber sort of pain. He looks pitiful for a second before that fearsome temper contorts his expression into something frightfully abominable. Weeds and roots thicken in retaliation, diving right for you.

“You deceitful, ill-mannered cheat!” he fumes, tearing the knife from his abdomen. Blot spatters the ground in a grisly splat. When he flings the knife across the room, blot-blood follows in an arc. “Do you not understand that this is where you belong? This is your home. I’m your husband and you’re my wife—mine! All mine!”

“I’ll never be yours!”

He grits his teeth. “You’ve scorned me for the last time! Get back here or I shall drag you through these halls—dead or alive, with or without your head attached to your shoulders!”

You shriek when he, accompanied by a following of frightful flora, lunges after you. His claws drag against your arm, almost breaking skin, but you manage to shake yourself free, just barely avoiding the vines that reach for you with thorny fingers. He slams into the wall and the whole house seems to shake from the force of it. You catch him clutching his stomach just as you jump over a rose bush sprouting from the cracked tiles.

“Stop! I implore you!” He reaches desperately, eyes wide and terrified. You almost hesitate, but then you remember this is the monster who killed your Riddle—who is trying to imprison you in this corrupt cage. “You can’t leave! I forbid it!”

Shunning him, you bound up the stairs. A stem curls around the bannister and shoots out to seize your ankle, tripping you. Your chin smacks against the steps. Blood fills your mouth shortly after, and you realize you’ve bitten your tongue. It hurts, but you must push through.

“You’re stark raving mad!” You shake your leg free of the vine, but another captures your wrist. “No! Release me!”

“Once you’re in my arms—where you rightfully belong—you shall learn proper discipline so that you conduct yourself in a manner befitting your station!”

Your eyes dart around the hall, searching for a means to escape. There must be something—anything! You can’t let him drag you down these stairs. The moment your foot touches the floor, you’ll never make it back up.

“You’ve yet to see how perfect we’ll be, but in time it will become clear,” he’s saying, watching you from the bottom of the stairs. “Soon… Soon, you’ll understand. Then we shall be wed and you will be mine for all of eternity. I shall employ any means necessary to ensure you remain here at my side, even if it means I must terrorize you only slightly.”

Scrambling with your free hand, you rifle through your satchel for anything useful. Your fingers brush the edge of a little box and the beginning of an idea sparks in your brain.

“I may not have done everything perfectly. I’ve made countless errors in my life and I will make countless more. I’ll never be what you want me to be—what his mother expected from me. But, if nothing else, I will right this wrong.”

You manage to loosen your other arm just enough to pull the matchbox free. In a wild frenzy, you grab hold of one and strike it against the surface of the box.

Moros lurches up the stairs, but you’re prepared. You kick him back down, your sole colliding with his face, and it brings you overwhelming delight to hear him groan in pain. Quite satisfied with yourself, you watch him tumble down the stairs, caught only by his weeds at the very bottom.

The flowers, vines, and roots retreat, shying away from the flickering flame in your hand. You shimmy out of the last one wrapped around your waist. Shrugging the satchel off, you offer the letters stuffed within an apologetic frown before dropping the match inside. The satchel and the now smoldering envelopes land right before Moros’s feet, smoke curling out from the flaps.

You hurry to procure another match and, just as he scrambles to put the first one out, flick it down the steps. The leaves and petals shudder in the heat. Soon enough, they’ll all be caught in a fierce blaze.

“No…” he laments, looking between you and the withering plants. “No! No! No!” His gaze hardens, odium burning behind those malicious red eyes. “Not another step! Do you hear me?!”

You do. You just choose not to listen.

You scurry the rest of the way, stumbling over your clumsy feet, and burst into the bedroom. Your sopping reflection is beckoning you forward with silent urgency. Seaweed hangs from her arms like a cloak. Her skin is bloated. In spite of everything, you trust her wholeheartedly.

A most haunting cry resounds from the hall. It’s filled with indescribable agony, tinged with rage and…fear.

“Don’t leave me! The world out there offers you nothing but misfortune and melancholy. You’ll never survive! You need me!” His shadow is stark against the wallpaper, illuminated by a gradually growing fire. “I can’t—won’t do it again! I refuse to be alone! I refuse! I’m right… Always right… And yet…”

Clutching the locket secured around your throat, you take hold of the hand offered in the mirror. She pulls you through for a final time just as another anguished scream pierces the air.

You fall out of the mirror on your hands and knees, chest heaving with exhilaration.

“I… I’m free. Free from that monster’s grasp!” You check yourself over just in case and, finding all to be well, breathe a relieved sigh. “It’s over…”

A thump against the mirror startles you. You turn back to see a thin, spidery arm reaching for the glass. His clawed fingertips touch the surface, but they don’t pass through. Instead, they tap a steady rhythm.

Clink. Clink. Clink.

Within minutes, he’s pounding a fist against the glass. You jerk away and hold tightly to the locket pin. It occurs to you that you’ll never truly be rid of Moros unless you destroy him. He can still slip out of the mirror when you’re slumbering, even if only for a few hours.

You dread to imagine what wretched feats he may be capable of when you submit to the land of dreams every night.

So you lift the heaviest candlestick you can find and, just as the tolling of three o’clock calls up from below, smash the mirror to pieces. The last you see of Moros is his frightful countenance awash in firelight. He looks more like a demon than a replica of your husband, inhuman features elongated like taffy stretched too far.

You’re not sure how long you spend destroying the mirror frame, but in the aftermath you allow the candlestick to fall from your hand. You deflate against the floor, gazing at the ceiling.

“It’s finally over. No longer shall we be tormented by that fiend…”

You gather the shards and stow them in a box. Come tomorrow, it will be filled with rocks, locked and bound in chains, and tossed into the river.

For now, you climb into Riddle’s bed and, soothing yourself with the warm memories you have of him, slowly succumb to sleep.

Moros’s Looking Glass is no more.

“Oh, if you could only hear his death wail!” you recount to Riddle’s grave over tea and biscuits. There’s a cup and plate set for him, placed just near his headstone. “Shrill as a squall. I was so certain it might fill my ears with blood if it went on any longer. I should hope to never encounter another sound more thunderous.”

You hum around the porcelain rim. “If you were with me today, I suspect we’d have a grand celebration. Only the victors delight in the secret spoils of a battle hard-fought.”

The sun is peeking out through feathery cumulus today. Warmed beneath the rays, boasting the locket pin on your breast, you don’t seem so gloomy in your mourning wear. Rather, you’re hopeful. Riddle can finally rest.

“Oh! I never did have the opportunity to recount my travels. The seaside is marvelous. Simply exquisite, my dear. Full of enchanting mystery. The sailors at port spin all manner of tales! I fear it may have haunted my head for the rest of my stay, for I was certain I saw shimmering tails out by the rocks. Ah, but these grotesque sirens could never hope to impress a jot of fear in me.”

I’ve endured far worse.

“Riddle…” You rest your hand upon the grass, smoothing out verdant blades beneath your palm. “I adore you.”

A gentle breeze whistles through the churchyard. You smile.

If you strain your ears, you can almost hear his voice on the wind, reciprocating the sentiment.

Five Years Later.

At the bottom of the river, stowed away in a box with rocks, shards of glass have been laid to rest.

A single red eye blinks open in the dark, trapped within the reflective surface.

Hands bring the box up onto shore, where three children crowd around it.

“What you’ve dug up this time?” the little girl asks, kneeling on the shore.

“It’s a treasure chest!” one of the boys exclaims.

“Is it truly?”

“Look, see!” The other points.

Together, they drop a particularly heavy stone onto the rusted, water-worn chains. They break apart seamlessly.

“Blast. No key.”

“Surely we can break it in?”

“Let’s give it a go.”

It takes some effort, but soon enough they’ve dented the mechanism. The box pops open, revealing shards of glittering glass. With a disappointed grumble, one of the boys lifts a chunk towards the sky. The sun catches it, reflecting its rays beautifully.

“Nothin’ but mess. Worthless.”

“Ya think? If we patch it up, it’ll sell for a few shillings. I declare thee: Magic Mirror of Mystery.” He turns towards his friends and grins. “What do ya reckon?”

“This isn’t even worth a week’s bread. Throw it back.”

“It could be worth something small.”

“Hmm. No. I reckon I’ll keep it. Let’s make it a gift.”

“Who for?”

“Lady Rosehearts! She’s always givin’ us our share for survival. We gotta pay it back. Mummy always said you pay kindliness with more kindliness and you’ll never go hungerin’.”

“Oh, that’s marvelous! I shall make a necklace out of the smaller pieces! It’ll be so pleasing.” The little girl giggles in delight, admiring the shards sparkling in the box.

“And I’ll put the pieces together into somethin’ sturdy.”

They exchange eager glances and then gather the shards, leaving an empty box in their wake.

#yandere twst #yandere twst x reader #yandere twisted wonderland #yandere twisted wonderland x reader #yandere riddle rosehearts #yandere riddle rosehearts x reader #yandere riddle #yandere riddle x reader

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m1ckeyb3rry · 10 days ago

Text

LEVIATHAN I: ECHOES IN A SHALLOW BAY

Series Synopsis: The sea spits you out at Phainon’s feet and tells him to save you. You wonder if he will ever regret that he falls to his knees and obliges.

Series Masterlist

Pairing: Phainon x F!Reader, Mydei x F!Reader

Chapter Word Count: 9.9k

Content Warnings: it’s me again writing for amphoreus baddies despite being like an eighth of the way through 3.0 AT THE MOST, fantasy au (amphoreus?? i hardly KNOW us), i make up lore + magic because i can, i world build also because i can, random luocha relevance fsr, amnesia trope, love triangle (we are not getting both at the same damn time i fear), violence and blood and whatnot most likely, screwy timeline bullshit, screwy spatial bullshit (this makes no sense but it will), an ending i personally would not consider angsty but some might, don’t ask me who’s endgame i oscillate sm it’ll probably just be left vague, wherever you think this is going it definitely isn't, slapping that ooc warning on here because who even am i without her (it's really bad this time though SLDKHF sorry)…

A/N: guys i thought i knew fear posting part one of threefold but no THIS is fear LMAOAOA i'm subjecting you all to my slop T_T...i don't love this by any means in fact i on the whole despise it but whatever sometimes you just gotta post anyways #enjoy farmer phainon 😭 I WILL LOCK IN FOR LATER PARTS I PROMISE

Sand slipped between your fingers as you scrabbled for purchase, dragging yourself out of the vicious currents which clawed at your legs, wailing and trying to pull you back to where your certain death awaited. Your side screamed in protest, and with a low groan, you pressed one hand to the weeping wound in an attempt to silence it, your stomach roiling from the sticky sensation of blood gathering at the site of the frayed, greening flesh.

With only one arm left free, you continued to pull yourself up the shore, but you made it a scant few paces before your trembling wrist gave out entirely, leaving you to collapse, your cheek pressed to the rough, crumbling bits of shell that littered the coast. The tide licked at your ankles victoriously, and you were dimly aware of tears gathering in the corners of your eyes as they fluttered shut and the great song of your doom filled your ears, echoing somewhere deep in your bones like an army’s march.

Each pump of your heart was fainter than the last until your pulse all but crawled to a stop, and although the roar of the beast was in a foreign and guttural tongue, you understood what it was saying anyways: end. Your end was here, and there would be no one to witness this demise, no one to cradle your body and decorate it with anemones so that you were suitably beautiful for your journey to the underworld.

“Hey!”

You wanted to tell the man that he should leave you to die, that there was no need for him to run when there was nothing he could do to change this outcome, but his voice was so sweet and dear that you could not stop the burst of inspiration which compelled you to push yourself up and watch him as he sprinted barefoot across the beach towards you, his alarm palpable even from such a distance.

“Who are you?” he said as he knelt by your side, shielding you from the sun and the sea alike. The clamor surrounding you quieted when met with the heaviness of his vast, boundless irises, and as the rest of the world darkened into nothing, everything you had ever known dissipating as readily as mist in the morning, you focused only on the skies contained in his worried gaze.

“How beautiful you are,” you said, and then you were coughing and he was gasping and you were saying words that you were sure did not belong to you but to someone else, someone many years older and some measures wiser. “Forgive me…I have kept you waiting for so long…”

“No, no, please don’t die, please don’t — who are you? What happened to you?” he said insistently, taking your face in his large, warm hands. Your eyelids drooped as he shook you, and you did not feel as frightened anymore, your dread fleeing in the consolation of his panicked embrace.

The last thing you felt was the weight of his palms upon your heart and the heat of his mouth against your own as he begged you to come back, to answer his many questions and stay with him in the realm of the living. Perhaps you might’ve, but you succumbed to the bleakness of finality and were met with a blissful emptiness not too dissimilar to sleep before you could attempt to; then, it was all you could do to lie there and think to yourself how wonderful it would be if you spent the rest of your existence exactly like this, freed from trials and tribulations and terrors alike…

You awoke with a sharp inhale, half-expecting to be met with the biting sting of sand on your skin — yet to your surprise, you were in a bed, feather-stuffed pillows propped behind your neck and a pale blue quilt tucked neatly around your shoulders. Furrowing your brow, you stared at the white ceiling for a moment, and then you sat up, casting aside the pillows and quilt in a flurry of activity, swinging your legs over the mattress and planting your feet on the wooden floor.

Only a second later, your knees buckled and you found yourself in a heap on the woven rug, the flowery patterns dyed into the wool mocking you with their cheery brightness. You lay there for a while, finding no merit in attempting anything but motionlessness, and then slowly you extended your arm, tracing the bleeding edges of the red petals that were now at your eye level.

Dimly you grew aware of a thudding that was becoming progressively louder, and the thought crossed your mind that you should perhaps be worried, but whoever was approaching had not hurt you while you had slept, so you felt that it was fair for you to ignore it. Anyways, what would you do even if they did mean you harm? There was no sense in caring, so you remained sprawled on your side, stroking along the carpet and wishing the stems of the flowers might manifest into reality so that you could braid them together into thin, spidery plaits.

The door banged open, and you gave the entrant the grace of lifting your chin, as much out of your own curiosity as in polite acknowledgement. He did not notice you at first, his shoulders tense as he scanned the room, and when he realized the bed was empty, something like a scowl formed on his kind, lovely face — though it was not anger but despair that drove it, or at least that was how it seemed to your untrained eye.

“Oh, you’re awake!” he said, his eyes widening and a slight smile replacing his frown when he finally noticed you peering up at him. “Though, why are you on the floor? Never mind, I suppose it doesn’t really matter now that you’re there. You really are proving to be a lot more troublesome to take care of than a lamb, you know that?"

In a swift movement, he hooked one hand under your knees and cradled your neck in the bend of his other elbow, lifting you with a surprising ease and then depositing you back on the bed. It might have been impressive to some, but now that he had drawn the comparison, all you could think of was that he did not view you with anything more than the dutiful responsibility of a hound to its flock.

“I was just about to come and change your wound’s dressings, so it’s good timing, anyways,” he said, reaching for your waist before pausing, an odd, delicate pink shade blooming at the tips of his ears. “Ah, I’m sorry. You were asleep, so I never asked permission…”

“Whatever for?” you said. Your voice came out scratchy and burnt, remnants of something acrid sticking to the back of your throat, and you coughed to clear it, prompting another frown from him. Shaking his head, he sighed and tugged at the hem of your shirt, which hung off of you so awkwardly that it must’ve been his and not yours at all.

“I have to lift it a bit,” he said. “Not — not immodestly or anything, I swear! I had the neighbor’s daughter come to bathe you and change you out of that torn dress you washed up in, but your wound is so deep that it requires attention more frequently than I can justify calling her for, and I have some experience, you know, with the puppies and the foals and whatnot, so I’ve just been doing it myself…”

“Is that what you’re fretting over?” you said in amazement. “Why, I should not complain. You may think of me as a lamb or a puppy or a foal, if it eases your mind, but all you have done has been in the effort of saving me, I am sure, so whether you consider me a woman or a beast, I do not think there is any need for guilt regardless."

“If you’re sure,” he said, the shirt bunching around your ribcage when he pushed it up and leaned closer to the covered wound, the tip of his tongue poking out of the corner of his mouth as he peeled away the white gauze from your skin, bit by excruciating bit.

“So — so you must be fond of animals, then?” you said, biting back a hiss as the cool air dug into where tendrils of infection laced along your exposed, gouged-away skin. “No, do not apologize; please tell me of them, so that I may be duly distracted.”

“Yes, there’s not much else to be fond of around here,” he said. “Here being Aedes Elysiae, if you didn’t know; we are terribly isolated from anything of note, and the sheep outnumber the people by far, so what choice do I have? It’s a dull, sleepy place, this village, but no one ever leaves it, perhaps because there is a certain charm to a home and a livelihood so secluded from the mess and bustle of the capital.”

As he spoke, he patted down the packing in your wound, wiping away the excess blood spilling over the sides with a tenderness that belied the clinical nature of the task. Of course it still ached, but you were quite sure that if it were anyone but him, it would’ve been ten times worse, so in thanks you stayed as still as possible and allowed him to work without complaint.

“My name is Phainon,” he continued. “I’m only a shepherd, to be honest with you, so all of this is a bit strange to me — I’m not really the kind of person that this sort of thing happens to, if you understand what I’m saying. I was just chasing after a stray ewe that day, but then my dog got to barking and led me straight to you.”

“I don’t remember a dog,” you said. “Though I don’t remember much of anything, so I suppose that’s a bit meaningless. ”

“He didn’t want to go near the sea. It’s odd, because he’s normally so fond of swimming, but that day all he could do was whine and paw at the sand like he was waiting for me to do something,” Phainon said, winding a pristine roll of bandages around your torso methodically, with the mindlessness typical of accustomization to an everyday task. “You really don’t remember anything?”

“No,” you said. “When I try to think of my past, I come up with nothing. Nothing, that is, but you.”

He pursed his lips, and then his fingers brushed over your navel, tying the strips of dressing together in a cross. You didn’t know if it was intentional or an unconscious, fidgeting habit; you thought it must’ve been the latter, given that he did not dissolve into a fit of apologies for daring to touch you, but then again you did not know him well enough to say for certain. Either way, it was so quick that you did not mind and would not have mentioned it even if you did; then he was adjusting your shirt and stepping away, clasping his hands together like he was gathering his thoughts.

“It hasn’t healed any,” he said. “I was hoping that when you woke up you would be able to tell me where you’re from, or at least what happened for you to end up in such a manner. I might be able to treat you better if that’s the case, but as it is, I’m at a bit of a loss.”

“My apologies,” you said, bowing your head. “I owe you my very life, and yet the only repayment I can afford you is further distress.”

He rubbed the back of his neck. “Well, it’s not a big deal. I wasn’t thinking of repayment when I found you. I wasn’t thinking much at all, really, just that you were there and you were dead, or soon would be, and I couldn’t accept it.”

“You couldn’t accept it,” you repeated. “Why, because you’re the one who found me? Do you feel some measure of duty to me for it?”

“It’s not just that,” he said. “I don’t know. I can hardly explain it to myself, let alone someone else…but I thought I would have to stay and breathe for you until the tide grew low and the crabs came to mock me, and strangely enough, I would’ve done it. If that was what was necessary, I would’ve.”

You narrowed your eyes, scrutinizing the man who had played as your heart and your lungs until such a time that you could do so on your own. He was a striking figure, albeit unassuming at first glance, his taste in ornament and dress detracting somewhat from the imposing nature of his presence. Taller and broader than any shepherd had the right to be, his eyes were shimmering and clever, his hair carelessly mussed and pale as the moon, the silvery strands framing his appealing face in such a fine way that you almost could not believe he was real, that he was not some empyrean figment of your imagination.

“I see,” you said finally. “Whatever your reasoning might be, I’m indebted to you.”

“Oh, um…anyways, now that you’re awake, I guess the only thing to do is to take you to the village proper, where we can see an actual healer,” he said, wrinkling his nose, clearly unused to praise being lavished upon him, especially such a great, generous amount. “I was too frightened to jostle you about so much while you were unconscious, but I don’t know that we have much of a choice anymore. I’ve been treating your wound as one would treat an abscessed hoof, but this may be a few orders of magnitude more serious.”

Unbidden, your knuckles pressed into your aching ribs, and with a wince, you chuckled. Phainon’s face fell, his eyebrows drawing together and the corners of his lips curving downwards, and this for some reason prompted a sinking sort of disappointment in you.

“It may be,” you said. “But I am sure that with proper medicine, it will heal and be as if it never happened.”

Both of you knew you were being unnecessarily and unrealistically optimistic, but he did not say anything to correct you, only nodding, perhaps needing the reassurance as much or more than you did. After all, wouldn’t it be worse to know that despite everything he had done, you had still died? Wouldn’t it hurt more now that he had brought you into his home than it would’ve if he had simply left you on that beach, rotting amongst the stinking seaweed?

With the help of your grip on Phainon’s proffered forearm, you managed to stumble down the stairs to his kitchen, though it was an exhausting endeavor, and you would’ve fallen several times over if it weren’t for him. You knew from the set of his mouth that he didn’t approve of your attempts at independence, but he was not the sort to argue, nor the type to gloat when you settled in a chair at his small table with a sigh.

“I don’t have much,” he said as he opened and closed the doors of his cabinets, pulling out various preserves in glass jars, weighing them in his hands before putting half back. “It won’t be anywhere near as nice as you’re used to, I’ll bet.”

“I’m not ‘used to’ anything,” you reminded him, craning your neck so you could watch him as he crouched, muttering something about needing to go to the market again soon.

“Ah,” he said, turning and blinking at you nigh-owlishly, his lashes surprisingly dark as he batted them at you. “Right. Sorry, it’s just that you’re so proper and beautiful and — I mean, not beautiful! Wait. Yes, you are beautiful, but that’s not why — I just — ugh, my mother always told me I was well-practiced at shoving my foot in my mouth, but until now I didn’t understand what she meant by that. Here, I hope this is acceptable.”

He slid a plate of something or another over to you, and then he turned on his heel and busied himself with tidying the already-spotless counters. You admired him as he wiped over the grainy wood, in the meanwhile cutting your food into pieces with the fork and knife he had given you, taking the smallest bite and then humming in approval.

“It is more than acceptable,” you said. “However, need I remind you I’m in no position to complain either way? I would eat even if you only gave me pig slop.”

“I wouldn’t do that!” he said, dropping his rag and brandishing his index finger at you. “Do you really think — you’re joking.”

“Yes,” you said, laughing despite how it hurt, thinking that there might be some remedy to be found in this version of pain. “I am only joking.”

“I can’t quite understand you,” he said. “You speak like one of those Helikan tax collectors, but you have the sensibilities of any ordinary girl.”

“Is ‘Helikan tax collector’ the worst insult you can fathom? I am duly offended, though you really ought to improve your creativity for the future,” you said.

“You’re joking again,” he said flatly, and you could not even deny it, your continued laughter betraying you. “I’m not trying to insult you, I’m simply telling the truth. It’s an honor if anything; being associated with Helike is high praise here.”

“Why is that?” you said. He handed you a mug filled to the brim with a warm drink that had a sweet, unfamiliar aroma wafting off of it, and then he sat across from you with his chin in his hands.

“It’s the capital of the region,” he said. “The most powerful city on the coast. Aedes Elysiae and the other villages like us are technically part of the Helikan state, though for the most part they leave us to our own devices, as long as we pay our taxes and don’t cause too much trouble.”

“Do they lend you protection in exchange?” you said.

“They’re supposed to,” he said. “But the city itself is much too far, and we are of much too little consequence for them to care, especially since that Lord of Swines took over and let the countryside fall to chaos.”

“What sort of a place is this, to be ruled with such a loose fist, and by a man called the Lord of Swines, no less?” you said incredulously. “Have I found myself in some strange fiction? I can’t quite believe it.”

“He’s not actually called the Lord of Swines,” Phainon said, clicking his tongue impatiently. “And officially, he’s not the ruler of anything but his temple. Helikan politics are a bit of a complex situation, but you shouldn’t pay any mind to them. Focus on getting well and remembering where your actual home is. I’m sure there are people who are missing you.”

“Right,” you said. “If I have a mother and father, they must be worried…or siblings, if I am so privileged as to have a brother or sister or both, then maybe they are searching for me…and friends, surely I have friends, right? Do you believe they think of me in my absence?”

“Of course they do,” he said. “They will be overjoyed when you return, I’m sure of it.”

“It is such a difficult and delicate thing, to mourn a life and love I do not know,” you said, chewing contemplatively in the ensuing silence, continuing only after you had swallowed. “I am sad for what I have lost, but I am more sad for those who have lost me. My suffering is only bodily and can be treated, or at least alleviated, but what recourse do they have?”

It was a rhetorical question, and thus he did not try to answer it, but you could tell by the softening of his eyes that he pitied you. Perhaps you should’ve found it condescending or infuriating, but it was only heartening to think that he understood, that he, too, shared your sorrow, or at least held sympathy for it; so, reaching out, you wrapped your fingers around his wrist and held his hand against your eyes, smothering your tears before they could come.

Outside of Phainon’s small home stretched endless fields of grass, green and gold in turn, sheep dotting the landscape like small, fleecy clouds. A tan hound lounged by the dirt path, a pink tongue lolling out of his black muzzle, and when he noticed you had come out, he beat his tail against the ground, sending up plumes of dust into the air. You smiled as you passed him, remembering that Phainon had mentioned it had been his dog who had led him to you and wondering if this was the very one who had done it.

“He’s been moping about ever since I brought you home,” Phainon said, as if he could read your mind. The dog got up with a deep exhale, trotting along behind you with his tail still wagging, though he broke off eventually to chase after a pair of wayward rams. “You may think it fanciful, but I do believe he was worried.”

“How helpless it is, to be a dog in a world meant for people,” you said. You meant it as a rumination, an earnest contemplation on the nature of these things, but Phainon only snorted, tightening his grip around your shoulders as you rounded the corner of a stone barn and came up to a white-fenced pasture where a pair of horses grazed.

“You’re funny,” he said. “Maybe you used to be a court jester.”

“I don’t think so,” you said, furrowing your brow. You had no frame of reference for it, but the very title felt uncomfortable and wrong, settling on your shoulders like a mismatched cloak. He glanced at you, the corners of his eyes crinkling before he took a halter over the taller horse’s head and led it out of the field behind him.

“Yes, probably not,” he said. “I’ve not met any jesters, but from what Natasha has told me of them, you wouldn’t fit the role.”

“Who’s Natasha?” you said, sitting on a bale of hay and observing him as he bustled about, readying the horse for the trip to the town center.

“She’s the best healer in all of Aedes Elysiae,” he said. “Actually, she’s from the capital, but something happened in her family a few years ago, so she moved out here and has remained in the village ever since. It’s a lucky thing, really — she knows how to treat maladies most of us have never even heard of, and I’m sure she’s saved more lives than I count just because of it.”

“You’re taking me to see her, then,” you said. He nodded.

“If there’s anyone here who can figure out what’s going on with your wound, it’s her,” he said. “Like I told you, I would’ve taken you to her earlier — I should’ve, I know I should’ve — but —”

“You mustn’t upset yourself like this,” you interrupted before he could continue. “You have done the best you could. I do not blame you, so do not blame yourself; how could you have known that it would turn out to be such an abnormal case? Anyways, you may have done the right thing after all. I am still alive, and who knows if that would’ve been the case had you been hasty? Enough with your worrying, for I cannot continue to reassure you in this way. You must be certain that you were correct and understand that even if you weren’t, you cannot undo what has already been done. The only thing left for both of us is to continue onwards with the situation as it is.”

He gawked at you for a moment, like he had not been expecting you to say that, and even you were taken aback, for you, too, were surprised by the gravitas in your voice, the stern, cold nature of it. An awkward silence descended upon you both with a swiftness, and it was only broken when his horse huffed, pawing at the ground in an impatient reminder that he was still tied and half-tacked.

Phainon cleared his throat and busied himself with the buckles of the saddle, clearly embarrassed. “Right, I’ll do that.”

“I am sorry,” you said.

“Don’t be,” he said. “You spoke correctly. There’s nothing that can be changed now. All we can do is go to Natasha and hope it was enough.”

The ride to the village center was not terribly long, or at least you did not think it was, for you spent most of it with your cheek between the bony blades of his shoulders, drifting in and out of sleep, although you had just awoken a few hours earlier. It must’ve been a symptom of the decay festering in your ribcage, for the weariness felt unnatural, forced, a fog over your mind that combined with the lack of your memories to lull you into a blank motionlessness, your failing body weighed down as if by stones shoved in your pockets.

To call Aedes Elysiae a village was generous; it was a cluster of homes wound through with a few cobblestone streets, a small square lined with shops the closest to a center that they had. Wood-painted signs declared each merchant’s wares, but Phainon led you past all of them, ignoring the staring townspeople who whispered as you walked by and halting before a grey-walled house with flowers blooming in the windowsills.

“Here we are,” he said, helping you off of the horse and tying it to a wooden post. You reached out and took one of the blossoms between your fingers while he did so, stroking the velvety petals with a slight frown, though you could not say why they brought such distress, why your stomach dropped as soon as you saw the steadfast blooms. “Are you okay?”

“Hm?” you said, startling at the sudden address, the flower falling from your hand and drifting to the ground, where it was promptly crushed under the horse’s hoof. “Yes, yes, I’m alright. I was just surprised.”

“By the flowers?” he said, far more discerning than you would’ve expected from someone who had been kind to the point of near-naivete up until this point. When you nodded hesitantly, he frowned. “I don’t know what kind they are. They don’t grow around here; I think she brought them with her from Helike or something.”

“Anemones,” you said, the name materializing like the ghost of a person you once knew but had long ago lost. “I…they mean something, I think, but I can’t say what. Of course.”

“Do you think that once your injury is cured, you’ll be able to remember everything again?” he said, knocking on the blue door, cocking his head slightly while he waited for a response.

“I would like to believe so,” you said. “But it feels overly hopeful, so I will refrain for now. It’s better not to have expectations at all, right?”

“Maybe,” he said. “But isn’t it also important to have faith? I mean, what else even is there to be had?”

Before you could muster a response, the door swung open, revealing a slender, willowy woman with an oval face and dark hair tied at the nape of her neck, loose tendrils falling in her eyes and white ribbon trailing down her back. When she noticed you and Phainon standing there, she frowned slightly, but it was concerned, not disdainful, and nearly maternal in quality, although she could not have been more than a few years older than either of you.

“Phainon? Who’s this? Is everything alright?” she said, and the calm, steady cadence of her voice was enough to set your heart, which inexplicably had begun to race, at ease. Here was a woman who understood things, who might understand you, despite the sorry fact that you could not yet understand yourself. She ushered you in without even waiting for Phainon to explain, taking over the support of your limp weight as easily and naturally as breathing — which, to a healer, such a task really was so ingrained, you supposed.

“I found her on the beach,” he said, and although she did not require any assistance, he hovered at your side with the worried air of a mothering hen, like he could not bear to relinquish the care of you entirely. “She washed up in a wad of seaweed, bleeding all over the sand from this horrible wound in her side. For a while I was sure she would die in my arms, but then miraculously she began coughing and breathing on her own, without my help, although she did not wake up for some time, and the condition of her wound never improved. Ah, that’s actually why we came to see you, Natasha, if you don’t mind looking…”

“Of course I don’t mind,” she chided him, as if he had been a fool to ask her in the first place. “Just wait outside. I’ll bring her to you when I’m done.”

“Okay,” he said, but it was drawn out and long, like he was hoping by the end of the word she would change her mind. His reluctance was obvious, and with every step he took away from you, your heart squeezed a little tighter, which meant that he was not alone in the feeling — but who were you to argue? She was the one who knew best, and so you had no choice but to follow her directives.

Natasha waited until the door was well and fully closed before she turned to you, clearing her throat and folding her hands in her lap. You had been expecting her to immediately take to inspecting the site of your injury, so you were surprised by the reaction, and even more so by her subsequent scowl.

“Was he telling the truth?” she said.

“Huh?” you said. She nodded towards the window, where, presumably, Phainon stood in anxious wait, unable to do anything of merit but unable to leave, either.

“Phainon,” she said. “Did he really find you under such…altruistic circumstances? I don’t want to believe it of him, he’s always been so good, so wonderful, but neither do I wish to presume. So, I ask you again: is he telling the truth?”

“I don’t understand,” you said. “Are you suggesting that he could be the one who hurt me?”

“In a sense,” she said, the air suddenly growing fraught and thick with tension. “Or, perhaps, that in your current condition, he might have—”

“No!” you said, and it burst out so vehemently that your hand clapped over your mouth immediately afterwards. What cause did you have to defend him so staunchly? You did not know him, not well and not at all, and what Natasha was saying was not baseless. It would not have been difficult for Phainon, not with how you were at present…but you could not fathom it, you rejected it, you knew it wasn’t the case. He wouldn’t have, he could not, you were so sure, and your certainty was frightening, it was frightening and confounding and should not have existed in the first place, least of all in such a great quantity, but it was there nonetheless.

“You’re quite convinced?” she said, and you nodded, because, although you could not remember much, you did recall the day he had found you, for it was in a sense a second birth, the rest of your life a dark blur up until the moment you had opened your eyes to him. Him and the deep punctures in your side, which were blackened around the edges and wept red onto his turmeric-stained tunic; him and the kelp tangling around your throat, which crumbled away as soon as his palm lit upon the firm bone of your chest; him and the brine at the corners of your mouth, which dribbled down your chin as he pinched your nose shut and pressed his lips to yours, breathing life back into a sodden, weary heart that had no choice but to accept the offering.

“I am. He saved my life. I — well, to be fully honest with you, I have found myself without much if anything in the way of memories, but there are some things that exist in the back of my mind in the way some words exist on the tip of one’s tongue, just out of reach but maddeningly close, and this is exactly such a thing. I can’t explain how or why, but I can tell you unflinchingly and calmly that I would be dead if it weren’t for him. Perhaps many times over; perhaps in ways that he himself cannot know; perhaps in a manner that the explanation for does not yet make sense. But I would be dead without him, I assure you. He has saved my life, and I won’t — I won’t hear anything to the contrary!” you said.

“Alright,” she said. “Please do not misunderstand; I am relieved to hear it. I did not want to think of him as anything less than what I do now.”

“And what may that be?” you said, removing your shirt at her indication and raising your arms so that she could begin to undo Phainon’s attempts at bandaging.

“A boy who is meant for more than shepherding cattle,” she said, and the answer was simple, practical, yet the kind that spoke volumes for its abstractness. “Oh, dear girl, what happened to you?”

“He said it hasn’t improved any. He’s been treating it as best as he can, but he did not want to take me into the village until I was awake — you mustn’t tell him he was wrong, even if he was, I think it will crush him — although it is clearly more serious than anything he has ever seen,” you said.

“I’ll say,” she muttered, and then, to your surprise, she only rebandaged the wound exactly how it had been, not even addressing the site with anything more than a sad look. “Put your shirt back on. I’m afraid the prognosis isn’t good, and I think it’d be best if I tell both you and Phainon at once, to save you from having to repeat it. If I know him, I know he’ll take it worse than anyone, perhaps even worse than you yourself, and I wish to spare you this singular torment, for it is within my power to do so.”

Phainon swept in as soon as Natasha opened the door, and he did not even greet her, returning to stand before you, taking your hands between his and searching your expression like he could tell everything he needed to know just from the reflection of it in your irises.

“You should sit,” Natasha said to him.

“I’ll stay standing,” he said. The with her remained hanging in the air, unsaid but known by you all, and to it she could only exhale heavily, like she had expected as much but had wished most fervently for a different response.

“I can’t do anything for her,” she said. “As far as I can tell, the depth of the wound isn’t the main issue, although it’s definitely aggravating it; it’s that it’s poisoned, and that this poison is spreading, which is killing her slowly. But if it really is a poison, then it’s one unlike anything I've ever seen, and I don’t want to use medicine on it for fear of accidentally causing a reaction that’ll exacerbate her suffering further. The kindest thing we can do at this point is give her a comfortable place to live until she finally succumbs.”

“What?” he said. You supposed you should’ve felt equally as indignant as him, but you had been half-expecting from the moment you had awoken that your fate would be something like this, so the only reaction you had was the fleeting thought that even this much was a blessing. At least now you could die somewhere peacefully, happily, buried amongst flowers in those green-gold fields that Phainon and his dog watched over, defended with the same zeal that they defended their flock, instead of left to be pecked at by carrion-birds on the unforgiving shore of the stony beach. “How am I supposed to just accept that? How am I supposed to just — just — just watch her die, like she’s some ailing cow bound for slaughter? She’s a person, not livestock, doesn’t she deserve more than that?”

“There is one other option,” Natasha said, silencing Phainon’s tirade as quickly as it had begun.

“Why didn’t you start with that?” he said in exasperation. “Well? What is it?”

“You won’t like it, and it’s not a guarantee. The answer may not be any different, and you’ll have put both of yourselves through undue stress for nothing if that’s the case,” she warned. He rolled his eyes, and although he had dropped your hands about halfway through his rant, clearly overcome, he now brought his right to rest protectively on your shoulder, like he could tether you to the world, to him, with just that one point of contact.

“I don’t care about whether I’ll like it or not. Just get on with it,” he said.

“Take her to the capital,” she said. “Bring her to my former master, Luocha, who is perhaps the most learned medic in the world. Surely he will be able to better diagnose her malady.”

“You don’t mean Helike, do you?” he said.

“I can’t recommend it,” Natasha said. “The journey will be riddled with difficulties. The road is not safe on the best of days, and as for that wound…no mere accident could’ve caused it. Do you know what that means? Someone or something is, or at some point was, trying to kill her. You may be safe for now, if they believe they were successful, but what do you think will happen when they realize she lives? They will surely hunt her down, and no matter how talented of a swordsman you are, Phainon — and you are, I acknowledge that much — you can’t defend both yourself and a woman on the brink of death from a being that is hellbent on her end.”

“It’s her choice,” he said finally. “No one else’s.”

“Yes,” Natasha said, and then she turned to you. “It is. How about it, then? Knowing everything, what do you say?”

“Phainon,” you said instead of answering her immediately. “Will you stay with me?”

It was suddenly imperative that he answered that. For the first time but not the last, you wondered if you had met him before, to trust him so intrinsically, to need him so instinctually. What other explanation was there? Logically you knew it was not so, or else he would have recognized you, but you could not help it, could not help that nagging sense of familiarity, could not help that whining desire to be nearer and nearer to him.

“Until the very last,” he said, so solemn, so grave. “All of the way until Helike, if that’s what you ask.”

“Then I will go,” you said. “Even if it is not guaranteed, I want to live a little longer. Even if it is more painful, I don’t want to accept my death without first trying as hard as I can to fight it.”

Natasha clearly did not approve, but she did not seem particularly shocked, either, her lips pressing into a thin line as she nodded slowly, sadly, before standing and telling you she would return in a few moments if you did not mind waiting, please. So you and Phainon stayed in that empty room, and for a while neither of you spoke, lost in your own musings, until finally you gathered the strength to ask him the question that was newly weighing on your mind.

“Did I know you before?” you said.

“What?” he said, blinking rapidly, like he was waking up from some long dream, shaking his head and giving you a polite, confused smile. “No, I’m quite sure you didn’t. I’d remember you if we had ever met.”

“How can it be? You say I am a stranger, but who does this much for a stranger? And if I truly did not know you, then why…” you trailed off, because in face of the befuddled furrow of his brow, you did not dare complete your thought: why is it that I feel so much for you? Why is it that I have, in the span of hours, found myself so enthralled? If you are a stranger, then does that make me a fool? I cannot be so weak. I cannot be so hapless. My body has failed me and my mind has failed me, my heart cannot as well. It cannot, and so you cannot.

“I can’t answer that,” he said, and he sounded so contrite you regretted even bringing it up in the first place. “Of course, I wish I knew you. I wish you weren’t a stranger, so that I could fill in the gaps of your memories, so that I could tell you about the entire life you had led up until the point you lost it. I would remember each detail, you know, and I wouldn’t withhold even the most mundane of them — I’d tell you about every single breakfast you ever ate with me, which jams were your favorite and which you turned your nose up at, the flowers you loved and those which distressed you, whether you preferred to play with the sheep or the ponies or the dogs — you would find me tiresome and boring to listen to, I think! But anyways, you are not the type of person who would be found doing such unimportant, silly things, so it’s irrelevant. Can you really believe yourself to be from Aedes Elysiae? We both know you aren’t, which means that you really must be a stranger to me, who has never left this place.”

“If only I were,” you said. “Girls from Aedes Elysiae are not poisoned and hunted and drowned very often, are they?”

“No,” he said. “They have their own problems, but those are not amongst the most common. Whoever did this to you, they are a special kind of monster, the sort that most people are lucky enough to never encounter in their lives. We only have to worry about wolves and ordinary bandits in these mountains.”

“Natasha didn’t seem to think so,” you said.

“Well, the road to Helike is dangerous,” he acquiesced. “And the city itself is a separate entity altogether. Who knows if we’ll even manage an audience with Luocha? He is a busy man, and not the generous sort, who might hear our urgency and make an exception. She’s right to be against us going.”

“But you think it’s a good idea,” you said. “You didn’t say as much, but I could sense it.”

“I hope I didn’t sway your decision,” he said. “You’re right, though. I do think it’s worth it. If we stay here, then your death is assured, and I will always regret that I did not do the best I could to prevent it.”

“Yes, that’s what I was thinking,” you said. “Don’t worry. I arrived at the conclusion of my own volition; if I am to die, I do not want to just lay down and accept it. It would drive me mad to spend my days with that anticipation, especially knowing that there was something I could be doing in the meantime. I could not manage such an arduous journey alone, but if I can have you with me, then I will go to Helike and demand that this Luocha sees me.”

“I already told you I would go,” he said. “I’ll deliver you to the capital, and until we can find out who you truly are, I will remain by your side and fulfill the role of every person it occurs to you to miss.”

“What if he cannot do anything for me?” you said, giving voice to that which had been quivering between you, massless and amorphous until you forcibly acknowledged it, affording it credence and shape. “Then you will have to lay me to rest in Helike. I will be an unnamed body amongst the many others who die everyday in such a large place, another unmarked grave amongst a sea of the like. It sounds so sad and lonely, I don’t — I don’t think I want that—”

“You can’t think such things. Focus on getting better,” he said.

“But I must consider every outcome carefully. There’s a chance that this entire matter will end in such a way, after all, and not a small one, either,” you said. “Can you do me a favor? Please, if it comes to it, ask them to burn me, and then take what’s left to the most beautiful place you can imagine. I know that’s a lot to ask of you, given that we have only met so recently, but I have no one else…”

“I meant when I said I will be everything to you,” he said. “If that’s what you really want, then it’ll be done — but it won’t come to it in the first place. You will live, I promise. Those in the capital will know how to fix you.”

After that, he placed his hand on the top of your head, which was more than you needed but less than you wanted, and there you stayed, yourself on the bed and Phainon standing between you and the rest of the room, until Natasha returned with a few more sets of bandages and a bundle of clothes and a letter for Luocha, as well as a final warning to be careful before she sent you on your way.

Instead of returning directly home, you went to Phainon’s neighbor’s house, for if he were to accompany you to Helike, there were affairs that required settling. The animals he tended would still require feeding and watering and looking after, and he told you in a fond, level voice that there was no one he could entrust with the task better than the neighbor’s daughter, who was some years younger than you but possessed, in his words, the sort of determination that lent her far more reliability than mere experience might.

She was a vivacious girl, answering on the first knock and beaming when she saw you, the crescent moon of her grin splitting her freckled face nearly in two. Shoving aside Phainon, she threw her arms around you, and although you were taken aback by the affection, you were also warmed by it, by what she must have intended only as politeness but which came across to you as an offer of sincere friendship.

“You’re awake!” she said by way of greeting, and in the back of your mind, you vaguely recalled Phainon telling you he had called upon her to strip and bathe you of the filth of the beach. Maybe you might’ve squirmed, but she was the sort of person that was so guileless it seemed impossible to be uncomfortable around her, for she really was as wide-eyed and harmless as the lamb toddling around her feet. “You look much better now.”

“Do I?” you said dubiously. “I’m told I don’t.”

“This one,” she said, her voice lowering to a conspiratorial whisper as she motioned towards Phainon. “Would you believe he’s the hero of the village? He’s such a bumbling clown when you meet him that it’s easy to forget.”

“Don’t fill her head with silly stories,” Phainon said, but his cheeks were pink, and it was obvious he was trying very hard not to boast about what he may have done to attain the designation of hero. “Where is your father? I need to ask him for a favor.”

“I think he’s out collecting eggs with my mother,” she said. He stared at her expectantly, but she only jut her chin out and stared back with her hands on her hips, her foot tapping impatiently against the tiled floor.

“Can you go fetch him?” he said finally, slowly, like he was talking to an impertinent little child.

“You know where he is, and you always tell me you’ll do it when you come, so go on, then! What’s different this time?” she said, and you coughed to disguise your snicker at the glitter of her eyes darting between the two of you. Phainon frowned, opening his mouth to argue before clamping it shut and mumbling something under his breath, ducking past you both, ostensibly in search of her father. As soon as the door swung shut behind him, she sobered, her grin dropping as quickly as it had come. “You know, you’re lucky he’s the one who found you.”

“Hm?” you said.

“Like I said, he plays the part of the bumbling clown all too well, but that couldn’t be further from the truth of who he really is,” she said. “Phainon’s different from the rest of us. It’s as plain as day; my parents talk about it sometimes, I’ve heard them, so it’s not just me saying that, mind you! Just a few years ago, when I still went to the village for my lessons, there was an attack by a group of bandits. They were intent on holding Aedes Elysiae hostage until delegates from Helike could arrive, after which they planned to use our lives as the bargaining chip for what I can only assume would have been large sums of money.”

“How frightening,” you said, and you meant it entirely. “It’s abhorrent to think that they would attack such a defenseless place."

“It was frightening,” she agreed. “I was walking home already, as my teacher had suddenly grown ill and dismissed me early that day, so I escaped their notice, hiding in the trees as they corralled the townspeople in the square. When I judged them to be well and fully distracted, I began to run, and I did not stop running until I was banging on the door to Phainon’s home.

“He answered almost immediately, and he did not joke as he usually does. He knew as soon as he looked at me that something horrible was happening — I’m not particularly good at hiding my emotions, and he has a talent for reading even the best-concealed expressions — and he went with me to the village, and then—”

“And then?” you prompted when she suddenly fell silent.

“And then I told her to stop embarrassing me with these exaggerated accounts of events,” Phainon said. You turned to see him with a wiry man who resembled the girl most greatly, a cross look on his face, which was so at odds with the geniality you had come to expect that it seemed all but comical. “Please don’t take her too seriously. It’s true that there was a bandit attack that I helped fend off, but it wasn’t that big of a deal.”

“Now, son, don’t be too humble,” the man, his neighbor, said, giving you an affable nod in greeting. “My daughter isn’t exaggerating that much. Phainon here really did take the guardsman’s sword and slay all the bandits that held weapons in their grips, sparing those who had nothing and bidding them to spread the word that Aedes Elysiae was not to be touched. He is undoubtedly our savior, so it only makes sense that he’s the one who found you — who else would?”

“He’ll protect you well,” his daughter added, her voice a lark’s chirp as she hefted her lamb in her arms, holding it before her like a peace offering, which was promptly denied by a playful scowl on Phainon’s part. “You won’t have to worry about a thing if he’s with you! Like I said, you’re lucky to have him.”

“He tells me you have business in Helike,” Phainon’s neighbor said, and although it was not a secret, necessarily, you found you were still grateful that Phainon had not told him what that business entailed.

“Yes, that’s correct. He has graciously offered to accompany me,” you said. It was a credit to everyone in the room that they did not laugh at the notion of Phainon’s presence being a gift you could have denied. One did not need to look at you more than twice to know you were helpless in the wake of this poison, this half-death, but all three of them allowed you to keep your pride and did not point that out, Phainon’s neighbor even grunting in assent.

“Why, he’s always been the type. If there’s problems, he’ll be the first to try and solve them. I’m not surprised in the slightest,” he said. “But there’ll be trouble if you try to go like this.”

“Trouble?” you said. “Whatever do you speak of? What’s wrong with how I am now?”

“It’s not you, actually,” he said. “The clothes Natasha lent you are Helikan in origin; even if hers do not fit you well, she sent some from her mother that will surely work, so you should have no issue blending in. I’m more worried for Phainon…”

“Me?” Phainon said. “I see no problems with what I’m wearing. This is how I always dress.”

“Right,” his neighbor said, which brought Phainon to turn to you as if for reassurance. You cringed, for you could not come up with anything positive to say about the yellow tunic nor the pants, which were an inexplicable and blinding shade of violet that would not even suit a king in full regalia. In fact, the combination was all but offensive to the eye, the sin of it multiplying by how the swathes of fabric marred his comeliness, the muddy ochre tinting his skin sallow, the looseness of the drape folding over and concealing every line and angle of his body from view.

“Perhaps it is better suited for guarding sheep than visiting the city,” you suggested, attempting to soften the blow as best as you could. “He is right. From what you have told me of the Helikans, should they see us as peasants, then I am doubly sure they will not grant us an audience. If you do not speak, and wear handsomer clothes, then you will easily be believed as someone of import, and although you are not an authority on the matter, you did mistake me for a Helikan earlier, so I think that I can also manage. But where shall we find that sort of attire, such that you are convincing enough to pass through without question?”

“I would have kept silent in the first place if I did not have something,” his neighbor said. “My brother once tried to pass the exam to be one of the guards of the Temple of Cygnus, you see, and he made it far enough to receive a uniform, though he fell in love with a singer before he could actually take the role. He left it here with me, along with the rest of his belongings, before running off to become a traveling musician.”

“The guise of a Temple guard! You think my current dress will draw attention, and that won’t?” Phainon said.

“Well, they have a certain reputation,” his neighbor said. “Even the most fearsome of bandits would not dare incur the wrath of the Temple. It will grant you a safer passage…and anyways, if I am correct in my estimations, then the Temple is your end goal, is it not? It will serve you well there, too.”

“Fine,” he said reluctantly, though only after casting a sidelong glance at you, his lips pursing when he did. “You may be wrong, but if you are right, and if this uniform brings us before Luocha even a moment sooner, then how can I say no?”

Based on how averse Phainon had been to it, you had expected the garb of the Temple guards to be something practical but near to hideous, perhaps even fearsome, grotesque and twisted and hiding his shining visage from the world. Yet when he returned to you, self-consciously adjusting his white shoulder plates, you found you could not have been more wrong, for he was beautiful, so beautiful, awkward and shy though he was, the pearly threads of the long coat and the gold of the fastenings suiting him so well it was as if he had been born to wear them.

“You’re crying!” he said, and it might’ve been humorous, how he all but wilted, if he weren’t also right. “Do I really look that bad?”

For you hadn’t noticed until he had said it, but you really were weeping, and upon the realization, you could only bury your face in your hands in the effort of abating your senseless lamenting, wishing that your eyes would not sting so horribly and your throat would lose its humiliating swelling.

“I knew this wasn’t a good idea,” he said when you did not say anything. “I’ll go and change now, don’t worry—”

You shook your head, wiping at your face as quickly as you could, blotting away your tears despite how they came back twice as strong with every press of your palms against them. You knew he was confused, he must have been, for you were, too, and you hated that most of all, hated that your own actions were a mystery to yourself. But there it was regardless, your heart, your traitorous, jealous heart, which kept the remnants of your many secrets locked away from the rest of you, singing and singing as you clenched your fists to prevent yourself from reaching for him.

“Don’t change,” you said. “I’m sorry, I don’t know what overcame me. You just looked so familiar for a moment that I could not help it, but — but no, you don’t look bad, not at all.”

“You are a picture!” his neighbor said, clapping his hands together. “Truly, you suit it much better than my sorry old brother ever did. This must have been what Luocha envisioned when he designed them; I don’t think there’s been a guard more striking than you since the Temple of Cygnus was founded!”

“Okay, okay, that’s enough,” Phainon said, nudging his neighbor away as the man tried to reach up and ruffle his hair. “You’re certain it won’t be too much of a burden for you to watch over my home while I’m gone?”

“After all of the help you’ve given us, I would never dream of calling you a burden. Take your time and worry only about your pretty girl here,” his neighbor said, nodding his chin towards you. “We will pray for her health and your safe return the entire time you’re gone.”

“Thank you,” you said, ignoring Phainon as he began to sputter indignantly at what was unmistakably only said to provoke that exact reaction from him. “I appreciate it, and I am eternally grateful for everything that you have done for me. For the rest of my life, however short or long it may be, I will remember you all, who saw a stranger by the sea and found it in your hearts to save her.”

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