Years passed.
And time, like the slow turning of a blade in a wound, carved its path through Lysandra's mortal frame.
At first, the changes were so subtle that Rhodanthe could lie to herself.
The faint creases at the edges of Lysandra's mouth when she laughed.
The slight silvering at her temples that caught firelight like spun moonlight.
Small things.
Forgivable things.
Rhodanthe pretended not to see.
She pretended when Lysandra began pausing to catch her breath after climbing the old, winding stairs of the Delphi castle.
She pretended when the mortal's hands, once so quick and sure, now shook faintly when she stitched torn linens by the hearth.
But the weight of time grew relentless.
One night, as they sat before the fire, a book forgotten between them, Rhodanthe dared to look—really look—at the woman beside her.
Lysandra's skin, once smooth and sun-warmed, bore the delicate map of years now—fine lines like calligraphy at the corners of her eyes and mouth.
Her hair, still dark, was threaded thickly with silver, like frost tracing the edges of a midnight river.
Her movements were slower, heavier, but still full of a stubborn grace that defied pity.
Rhodanthe felt it then, sharp as any blade.
The ache of inevitability.
Lysandra would die.
She would slip through Rhodanthe's fingers like every other precious thing the gods had denied her.
And Rhodanthe—untouched, unchanged—would be left to rot alone in her endless, bloodless immortality.
The thought hollowed her.
It unmade her in ways no divine curse ever had.
She turned her face from the firelight, hiding the quiver in her hands, the tremor in her throat.
She could not let Lysandra see.
But Lysandra, ever disarmingly mortal in her perception, saw anyway.
She closed the book gently.
Laid it aside.
And without a word, reached across the space between them.
Her fingers—worn but still warm—slid into Rhodanthe's icy hand.
A shudder ran through the ancient queen's frame.
"Don't," Rhodanthe whispered. Her voice cracked like frozen branches.
"Don't be kind to me."
Lysandra smiled softly, a thing so unbearably human that Rhodanthe wanted to scream.
"I don't know how to be anything else," Lysandra said simply.
She pulled Rhodanthe's hand to her lips and kissed the frozen knuckles, tender and fearless.
Tears burned Rhodanthe's eyes.
She had not cried in centuries.
But for this—
for her—
the gods themselves could not stop her.
She pressed her forehead to Lysandra's, breathing in the scent of ash and honey and fading fire.
Desperate to hold the moment.
Desperate to defy the rot of time.
But mortals were not meant for forever.
And already Rhodanthe could hear the ticking of the last seasons in Lysandra's heartbeat.
A countdown she could neither slow nor bargain against.
Outside, the valley of Delphi slept under a sea of mist.
The ruins of a forgotten world dreaming of glories they would never reclaim.
Inside, two souls burned quietly against the cold.
One made of blood and sorrow.
One made of fire and mortal defiance.
Together—for now.
Together—still.
But not forever.
Never forever.
The nights grew longer.
The winds colder.
And Lysandra's breath, once steady and fierce, now came in slow, uneven pulls.
Rhodanthe knew.
She could hear it in the brittle rasp of Lysandra's lungs.
See it in the deepening shadows beneath her eyes, the way her once-strong frame seemed almost too fragile for this world now.
And yet, she smiled.
By the hearth, wrapped in heavy wool and old memories, Lysandra smiled as if she had not a care in the world.
As if death itself were nothing but a minor inconvenience, a brief road traveled before returning home again.
Rhodanthe hated her for it.
Loved her for it.
Worshiped her for it.
That night, under the hollow gaze of a waxing moon, Lysandra beckoned Rhodanthe to her side.
She was sitting on the grand bed, propped against faded pillows, a small bundle wrapped in red velvet resting in her lap.
When Rhodanthe crossed the room—silent, unwilling—Lysandra patted the space beside her.
Wordless, Rhodanthe obeyed.
For a long moment, they sat there, the only sound the soft crackling of the fire and the whisper of their breathing.
Finally, Lysandra spoke, her voice thin but clear.
"I have a favor to ask you, my love," she said, the endearment slipping from her lips like a prayer.
Rhodanthe closed her eyes. She could already feel the dagger of the moment pressing against her heart.
Still, she nodded.
"Anything."
Lysandra smiled—brighter than any sun, fiercer than any goddess—and pressed the velvet bundle into Rhodanthe's hands.
Inside was a locket.
Simple, beautiful.
Forged of ancient gold, carved with delicate phoenix feathers spiraling outward in endless flight.
A tiny hinge gleamed at the side.
Rhodanthe's fingers trembled as she opened it.
Inside, a hollow chamber waited.
Empty now.
Waiting.
"When my body returns to ash," Lysandra said gently, reaching to brush a tear from Rhodanthe's cheek with a hand still warm, still human, "I want you to place a part of them into this locket."
Her hand fell to rest over Rhodanthe's heart.
Her touch burned, not with fire, but with a tenderness so deep it was almost unbearable.
"The rest," Lysandra continued, "you must return to the earth. Scatter me here, where we lived, where we loved. Let me sink into the bones of this world."
Rhodanthe's throat was thick with grief.
She could barely speak.
"You ask too much of me," she rasped.
Lysandra only smiled again—that same infuriating, beautiful, mortal smile.
"No, my beloved. I ask for your hope."
She leaned closer, her forehead pressing against Rhodanthe's, their breaths mingling.
"Phoenixes will always be reborn," she whispered.
"You will see me again one day. So fret not, my beloved. We are not endings—we are beginnings waiting to happen."
Rhodanthe wept silently, her tears sliding down her stone-pale cheeks like molten glass.
She clutched the locket so tightly she feared it might break.
Lysandra's hands framed her face, thumbs brushing away the flood of sorrow with infinite patience.
"I want one more night," she said softly.
"One more night with you under the stars."
"Promise me, Rhodanthe."
"Promise you will live after me."
"Promise you will not let the gods steal your hope again."
The words tore from Rhodanthe's chest before she could stop them.
"I promise," she whispered, voice hoarse with agony.
"I promise, my heart. My flame."
Lysandra smiled.
A real, dazzling smile.
The last gift she would give.
She leaned in, pressing her lips to Rhodanthe's—
a kiss so gentle it hurt more than any blade,
so full of love it shattered every wall Rhodanthe had ever built.
They stayed like that, tangled together, hearts pressed close, the golden locket between them like a tiny, defiant star.
Outside, the heavens rolled on, unaware of the quiet, devastating love blooming and breaking within the ruined castle of Delphi.
And above them, the stars watched in silent mourning.
~~~~
The air was crisp when Rhodanthe carried her out of the castle.
Lysandra weighed so little now.
No more than a memory cradled in trembling arms.
She had protested at first—softly, weakly—but Rhodanthe had silenced her with a look, one filled with a pain too vast for words.
The ruined halls of Delphi blurred around them, shadows swallowing stone, ivy clawing at ancient murals.
The mortal and the immortal drifted through it all like ghosts.
At last, they reached the cliffs.
The world stretched out before them in endless dark blues and silvers.
The sea below whispered against the rocks, and the stars above bled cold light across the heavens.
Rhodanthe knelt in the tall grasses, cradling Lysandra close against her chest, her black gown pooling around them like a dying rose.
The mortal sighed—a sound so heartbreakingly content that Rhodanthe thought she might shatter entirely.
"It's beautiful," Lysandra murmured, her voice barely a ripple against the vastness.
"Almost enough to make me forget…"
Her words trailed off.
She didn't need to finish them.
Rhodanthe knew.
She knew every unsaid thing Lysandra bore in her chest.
Wordlessly, Rhodanthe pressed a kiss to her forehead, lingering there as if she could brand herself into the mortal's soul, as if she could anchor Lysandra to this earth for one moment longer.
The stars burned quietly above them.
Impossibly distant.
Impossibly cold.
"I wish I had more time," Rhodanthe whispered against her hair.
"I wish I could burn the heavens themselves for you."
Lysandra smiled faintly.
"You would," she said, her hand finding Rhodanthe's where it clutched her shawl.
"You would burn the whole world. But you mustn't."
She squeezed weakly.
"You must live."
A sob clawed its way up Rhodanthe's throat, but she swallowed it back like poison.
She would not burden her beloved's final breaths with sorrow.
Lysandra tilted her head back slightly, her faded violet eyes drinking in the stars one last time.
"Do you know," she said slowly, as if weaving a spell,
"in every life, the phoenix flies higher right before it falls? They burn brighter. Fiercer. It's not death. It's… a promise."
A single tear tracked down Rhodanthe's cheek, falling into Lysandra's silver-streaked hair.
"I will find you," Rhodanthe swore, her voice breaking.
"I swear it upon every drop of blood the gods ever cursed me with. I will find you, no matter how many centuries it takes."
Lysandra smiled again—serene, luminous, unafraid.
She turned her face up, searching for Rhodanthe's lips.
The kiss they shared was feather-light, trembling, a final sealing of a bond that even time could not destroy.
And then—
The mortal's hand went slack.
Her chest stilled against Rhodanthe's ribs.
Her soul, once fierce and wild, slipped free with a sigh too soft for the world to catch.
Rhodanthe held her long after the stars began to fade into the pale, cold light of morning.
Held her until her skin cooled, until her body began to crumble—not into decay, but into ash, fine and golden as stardust.
Trembling, Rhodanthe opened the golden locket Lysandra had given her.
With hands steadier than she thought possible, she gathered a portion of the sacred ash, sealing it inside.
The rest she cradled in her palms, lifting it high into the newborn light.
The wind came, as if summoned by her grief, and took Lysandra's remains into the sky—scattering them across the cliffs, the sea, the earth she had loved so fiercely.
Rhodanthe fell to her knees.
And for the first time in a millennium, she prayed.
Not to the gods who had cursed her.
Not for forgiveness.
Not for vengeance.
But for hope.
Hope that somewhere, someday, beneath another sky,
she would see those violet eyes again.
She would feel that stubborn, mortal love against her broken heart once more.
And until that day—
she would carry the fire of Lysandra within her,
tucked against her heart like a locket of ash and gold and undying memory.
Beneath the morning sun, Rhodanthe rose.
She turned from the edge of the world, the golden locket heavy against her breast.
She walked alone into the waking day—
but not empty.
Never empty.
For some loves are too fierce to die.
Some fires too stubborn to be extinguished.
And Rhodanthe—Queen of Roses, Daughter of Betrayal, Devourer of Hope—
now carried a flame that not even the gods could touch.