"Huh? Great red-eyed one? Silver hair? What are you even talking about?" Mellirion growled, halfway through her sip, bringing the heavy dragonbone mug to her lips as if it alone kept her going.
Veliranya gazed at her, mouth agape, hair still wet from the night sweats. "I said so—he was just there. Watching. Same one as last time."
Mellirion exhaled through her nose, rinsed her mouth out with the back of her hand, and propped herself against the counter. "Sounds like you need to have less wine in bed and more water."
"I wasn't drunk," Veliranya said abruptly and fell silent. "At least, not last night."
"Mm-hmm." Mellirion's eyebrow went up, half amusement, half exhaustion. "And what did the creepily dreamy boy say this time? 'Oooooh, beware'? Let me guess—'Choose wisely'?"
Veliranya fell silent.
Mellirion grinned. "Called it."
She said nothing of the river. Saying nothing about the dream, Mell just stood there. Watching. Screaming from the riverbank as if she cared—voice full of panic, hands grasping at nothing. Never quite reaching. Never quite rescuing.
Veliranya rubbed her forearm, staring blankly. "Forget it," she said, gathering up her cloak from the back of the chair.
Mellirion blinked. "You're not eating?
"I'm not hungry."
She wasn't lying to anyone. She was empty inside, as if something was eating out her stomach.
Veliranya was halfway to the door when Mellirion's words cut in, his voice softer this time. "How many times have you seen him? The man along the riverbed?"
Veliranya went still. Her hand resting on the lock.
"I've seen him too," Mell spoke more slowly now, more guarded. "Appears when I'm drinking, fucking, getting into something stupid. Always just there."
Veliranya turned. "What?"
"Says nothing. Simply watches. Time kind of—bends. Like the world is waiting with bated breath. You feel it too, don't you?" Mell stared at her half-full coffee, the steam curling up like smoke from a flame. "He never comes close, but he's close enough. Close enough to judge."
There was a piercing silence between them.
Veliranya's grip on the cloak's fabric tightened. "Yeah. That's exactly it."
.....
"Hmph… something's not quite right today," snarled Lincoln, swatting away a hanging branch as he and Gasgorin pushed their way through the wet forest.
Gasgorin sniffed theatrically. "Is it the humidity in the air or the condition of your heart that causes this moment to be so personal?"
Lincoln glared at him. "You always speak like a walking poem, don't you?"
Afraid so," Gasgorin answered with a grin. "But for the record—my lines rise not from the throat, but from the heart.
Oh gods," Lincoln groaned, rolling his eyes so hard that he almost tripped over a root. "I went into the woods with a man and came out with a lyre."
Gasgorin went on, arms hanging loosely, never even looking back. "And yet," he sneered, "you still stand by me."
Lincoln did not answer. He just stopped, staggered back a few paces, and then collapsed on his knees with a thud. His panting was in great gulps, fists pressed to the grimy forest earth.
"We killed so many," he choked. "And for what? A body that was not even Father's. It was not him. It was never him."
Gasgorin decelerated.
"The church got into my head," Lincoln explained. "They twisted everything around. I was the one who took the charge, Gas. I killed families. I burned towns. The blood at the start… that's all mine. And then I dragged you along as well. I jumped into that river—and dragged you along with me."
Gasgorin stood stock-still. His eyes became icy. And then, with a sudden motion, he booted his boot into Lincoln's ribcage, slamming the elf into a mossy boulder with a grunt.
"You're sorry now?" growled Gasgorin. "Now you feel something?"
Lincoln clutched at his ribs, gasping.
"Where was this guilt when you waged a holy war across realities over a dead body? Huh?" Gasgorin's voice grew louder, honed to a raw anger. "Look at me. I've done worse. Billions, Lincoln. I butchered them. I raped, burned, and desecrated all that was holy for a god I never believed in."
He moved closer, looming over Lincoln, scowling.
"Am I crying? Am I?" he shouted. "No. Because I don't get to. I made my hell, and I live there. You—we—don't get to beg for mercy now."
Gasgorin grabbed Lincoln by the collar and pulled him up, faces almost touching, breaths intermingling in the cold.
We are what we are," he stated, his voice husky, slicing as sharply as a bark-whittling knife. "Brothers in sin. So get the fuck up. Burn with me. Or shut up and rot because it doesn't matter anymore."
He released him. Lincoln fell as if dead weight, wheezing. Gasgorin spun and strode away—no dramatics this time, only crunching boots in dry leaves and a stiff back.
Lincoln sat on the ground, trembling, not from cold but from the gravity of it all. The forest itself became abnormally quiet. No birds. No wind. Only the smell of decaying leaves.
Will my daughters inherit my sins?" His voice shook on the last word, looking at the ground.
Gasgorin stopped. Wordlessly, he turned back and bent down to sit beside him. The old warlord said nothing at first. Just opened a bottle of morning glory wine and looked into it.
No," he grumbled. Then he corrected himself, "Probably, yeah.
Lincoln let out a harsh laugh.
But maybe," said Gasgorin, "there is peace for them. Maybe the only magic that still accrues to men like us is the fact that the fire doesn't burn beyond our own flesh. Karma's funny about that."
He lifted the bottle.
"To our damnation, old friend?"
Lincoln glared at him, feral eyes wide—then laughed. Raw. Ugly. Real. He snatched the bottle.
"Cheers."
...
Mellirion's voice cut through the twilight like a whipcrack.
"You touched it? You touched my Lilith rose?"
Velliranya involuntarily retreated, her hands still dirty, her eyes wide open. Her once-blooming bush behind her was withered, gray-veined, and curled up on itself as if under a curse.
"I—I just watered it—"
"Something from it, you wanted!" Mellirion snapped, moving forward, shadows closing in around her like taut bows. "It bloomed for me because it was afraid of me. Because it knew who had sown it. And you—" she poked a finger into her sister's chest, "—you came in with your quivering little hope and your desire to be noticed and killed it."
Velliranya's Adam's apple bobbed, but nothing came up. Her mouth opened. Nothing.
Mellirion's voice fell, bitter. "You don't get to desecrate what is holy to me because you wish to be loved. I see you, Vel. I see how desperately you crave my acceptance. But you didn't handle love. You handled power. And it does not forgive."
Velliranya's eyes welled up with tears, but she was resolute, lips quivering. "I didn't mean— "Intent couldn't raise the dead," Mellirion snarled. "Not even roses."
"Why don't you love me?" Veliranya's voice cracked—raw, loud, desperate.
"I do love you, Vel—"
"WHY. DON'T. YOU. LOVE. ME?" Her hands trembled, fists clenched like she could wring the answer out of the air.
"I love you! I love you, even if you—" Mellirion stopped, breath catching in her throat. "Even if you killed our mother. I love you, damn it. I just want you to stop being this unwise, reckless thing—this… whore to the abyss."
Veliranya's breathing grew shallow.
"Help me," she said quietly. "Please, just—help me."
"I won't be here forever," Mellirion said, voice breaking now. "You have to figure yourself out. You're flowing in a river, Vel. And you're going to drown. I love you. But I need you to swim."
Veliranya blinked—and the world twisted.
Mellirion's face rippled, stretched, and warped—her skin went glassy, and her voice distant and tinny like a broken music box. A mosquito mask slid over her features, expressionless and terrible. The same as in the dream.
Veliranya staggered back, eyes wide, stomach lurching. Not again.
Not again.