#technically its supposed to be lyney x oc

[jar-of-maise]

She takes his hands gently, cradling them in a manner that made Lyney unsure of how to respond. Those hands could never lie. They shook with an awful tremble, like the last flutter of a dying butterfly's wings.

“I’m sorry for loving you,” she says softly, her eyes filled with unshed tears. 

That was the burden of the unsaid, you never once thought that nightmares could be dreams too, until they were there in front of you.

Dread settles in Lyney's chest, it drops like a heavy stone into a still pond, sliding in without resistance. It sinks to the bottom of his chest where it's weight aches with a dull pain, “Don’t say that," he clears his throat awkwardly, "please, don’t say that.”

She stares back at him, unseen dread haunting her dull eyes, “What?”

Lyney swallows thickly, his breath shuddering in his chest, rattling like fragile marbles in a glass container, “don’t say things like that,” he whispers.

She drops his hands, where they hang like dead weights. She searches his eyes for something she can't find, for something she won't find. It was like the sun, desperately trying to reach the moon, yet finding only it's reflection in the burning daylight, “Things like what?”

She does not want to know the answer to that question. But a burning sensation compells her to ask. Perhaps, with a single word, an entire tragedy could be rewritten.

Looking at Lyney now, she knows that the feeling is mutual. That is an awful realisation to come to, she turns her head away to avoid looking in the mirror.

Lyney, the other half of her, the mirror that she never needed to look in. Lyney, who was the only one who could attune to her soul. Her Lyney who had never been lost for words like he was now, who'd never fumbled or been uncertain.

"Things like what?" She cries, when met with silence. Her hands twitch uncontrollably, and then she's lunging forwards her hands reaching out like desperate claws which latch onto Lyney's shoulders.

These hands of hers were gentle, they were kind. So now, seized by grief as they were, her fingers could not quite grasp the hatred that she wanted them to.

They were strangers to force yet they exerted a violence that was comparable to a monster, "tell me!" It's not a scream, by the time the words drag out of her mouth, it's a mangled, broken tangle of words.

"It's not fair, it's not fair," she says hoarsely, "why do you- you can't-You don't get to do this to me!" She yells, and it's a sound that wretches at Lyney's heart.

"Answer me! What things?! What things shouldn't I say?" Her hands were not made for violence, they were crafted with love in mind. But they tightened on Lyney's shoulders, trembling all throughout.

“Things,” Lyney finally chokes, blinded with tears, “that make it sound like loving me was a mistake,” his hands reach up clumsily, with none of the dexterity or reflex they usually moved with.

She was silent, tears streamed down her face in long, ugly rivers. They fractured her face and drew shadows across her face that did not belong there.  

“It’s not a mistake. This wasn't a mistake,” Lyney whispers desperately, not trusting his voice, yet continuing treacherously.

This is a one way path, a lonely dark road with no return tickets, “you loved Lyney, just plain Lyney. You would never lie," he pauses as his voice wavers, "you didn’t take me by accident, you chose me…didn’t you?” 

“I don’t know,” she admits, lowering her head, she had never admitted defeat. Giving up was not an option, yet she could not conquer this mountain. The shadow of its height, and sheer slopes rendered the fire in her heart cold and frigid.

“I don’t know you. Do I really love Lyney? Who was I in love with?” She asks herself, there is no reply.

This is another question that she doesn't want to know the answer to. But perhaps there is no answer, she's left grasping for strings that have already been broken. The gray cannot be defined, nor described, and in the face of such uncertainty, she doesn't know what to do.

Neither does the magician standing before her. His face is the image of forced apathy, like a puppet with no strings.

"Lyney..." Regret, and immutable yearning surge into her chest, where they mix together like a tapestry woven wrong. The strings are tangled, and the only remaining option is to cut the fabric entirely.

"Perhaps the greatest tragedy of it all is, the more I talk to you, the less I know of you..."