calren & amilía » not in life, not in death, not in eternity
Story: RPG Storyverse (maybe potentially possibly future Canon I guess? idk)
Genre: no idea what this is supposed to be tbh, vague whump with some hints of past dark romance?
Rating: 18+
Characters: Calren & fool_with_dream's Amilía
CN: Character being watched without knowledge/consent (no bad intentions though); romanticization of a toxic/fucked up/violent person/relationship; mentions of kidnapping, torture, trauma, trauma bonding; fawn & freeze trauma responses; self-destructive/self-sacrificing tendencies, supernatural resurrection; mentions of religion/deity/The Lord(TM); knives & cutting; mentions of murder & blood; fucked up research
Author's Note: CAN U BELIEVE IT, I wrote a part 3!!! ((read part 1 here)) ((read part 2 here))
Right now, here in the hazy half-dark of her house, Calren can barely take his eyes off Amilía. She's beautiful, he thinks, she always has been, and on a superficial level, she hasn’t changed much, has barely aged a day. It's an undeserved blessing, really - a façade so well-suited to hide her evil behind.
He watches as she sets up the fireplace in her living room. No rush, step by step. Soon, it lights up the small space she made for herself here. It's not her old house - the one she trapped him in, the one they used to share -, but it still looks, smells and feels distinctly like her; like the parts of herself she couldn't suppress if she tried, the parts that inevitably shine through in anything she does, anything she touches.
The parts of her he recognizes in himself, too, whenever he dares to look closely enough.
He has been staying close by all day while desperately trying to bargain with himself, one half of his mind desperate to stop the plan he has set in motion, the other insisting it is necessary for a myriad of reasons, each new one he comes up with more concerning than the last. Deep down, he already knows he will follow through with it, though. And what scares him the most is that he’s so keenly aware of the price he will have to pay, yet more willing than ever to do so without complaint.
It will be worth it. He has to believe that.
In the dim light of the flickering fire, Amilía leans on a nearby counter, flicking through her notebook. The one she had back when she studied him is long filled, as are multiple others that came after he left, he’s sure, but the view still invokes a twisted sense of nostalgia: It used to be him she took notes about at the end of each day, and often also throughout. He used to watch her, minute after minute, tensely waiting for whatever she thought of next, watching out for any sign that she might have made some big discovery, filled with the futile hope that she might let him go once she finally got whatever it was that she wanted. Later, he used to watch her not as a nervous test subject anticipating pain, but as a companion. It felt so different observing the movements of her hand from the edge of her bed instead of the hard basement floor. Freshly bathed and clothed instead of filthy and blood-drenched. Caressed and comfortable instead of beaten and bruised.
Calren sighs, his breath passing through the room as a soft, cool breeze, but he doesn’t announce himself, doesn’t yet give up the veil of invisibility he’s shrouded in until he can bring himself to go through with what he planned.
She only let him go last time because that night, there were more important things than her desire to torment him. She was on a mission he couldn't be a part of, but did decide to turn a blind eye to, for better or for worse. It won't be as easy this time, he's well aware. Once he crosses that line, her hands will do much more than gently graze along his collarbone, staining him with the blood of a stranger whose life he let her take, and laying the weight of bittersweet nostalgia onto his scarred shoulders. Tonight, once she gets him in her claws - proverbial or literal, he’s not quite sure these days -, she will, at the very least, attempt all the things her eyes spoke of. If he lets her, she might just pull him right back into the abyss only she can create in his world.
And yet, he still came to see her. Knowing what he knows, he still made the decision to show up.
Unannounced. Inside of her house.
»Amilía.« His voice is gentle and calm, clear as a bell inside her mind, and her name acts as both greeting and warning; as silent prayer and unspoken curse; as proof of loving devotion and trembling sign of fear.
She spins around, startled at first, reaching for a knife still tucked away beneath her dress. Her fingers grip the handle tightly, but before she can pull it out, let alone aim, she lays eyes on him, and, despite the subtle, restless twitching of her muscles yearning to give in to instincts and reflexes, the sight stops her in her tracks.
The sight of him - a figure that closely resembles the helpless human boy she once knew, looks just like him while clearly being something entirely different; something far beyond human, beyond life and death and earthly pain. Something holy. It’s the purity he always held within him turned into something more, interwoven with the fabric of his very being, blown out of proportion to create a new, unorthodox existence where only decay was supposed to be left.
The corners of her mouth twitch slightly, and maybe he’s imagining it, but her eyes seem to light up the second she realizes what his being here means. Her fingers relax, though she does not let go of the knife.
»You’re trespassing, Cal«, she remarks, shaking her head in playful disappointment. »This is private property. Don’t they teach you to respect boundaries in heaven?«
»Frankly, I don't think The Lord cares about anybody's boundaries«, Calren scoffs. »All-seeing, all-knowing, almighty and all that - it’s not just a myth, after all.«
»Hmmm.« Slowly, she begins to circle him, and he resists the urge to turn around, even though the idea of following her every move is very tempting. He stands still instead, tensing underneath the pressure of her prying gaze. »So The Lord will know that you're here?«
Calren nods. »Eventually.«
»Huh. Interesting.« She turns away, letting go of the knife to pick up her quill, writing in the notebook still waiting for her input with empty pages. »You wouldn’t bring a godly intervention to my doorstep, though, would you?«
Calren shakes his head. Briefly, but vehemently. »The Lord does not intervene«, he explains. »The Lord only makes plans - and watches them unfold.« No matter what gruesome or unjust twists they turn out to take. Calren knows that by now.
It’s quiet for a long moment, with nothing but the slight scratching sound of Amilía’s quill to break the silence.
»Do you remember what I do with trespassers?«, she asks then, tucking her hair back behind her ear with one hand while writing with the other, still not looking up from her book.
»I do.« The memory this simple question conjures is as rough as a rope leaving burn marks on a doomed man's throat. That one time he did witness what Amilía does with trespassers? It’s seared into his brain forever. It’s raw, primal screams echoing from another room, grating on his nerves way worse than his chains ever did on his skin. It's the coppery smell of blood emanating from the floorboards long after the red had been washed away. It's the overwhelming burden of misplaced guilt; guilt for still being alive, still able to scream, while the faceless stranger’s cries died down after a few hours, never to return.
Strangely, Calren also remembers feeling loved and secure in Amilía’s arms the morning after. Remembers waking up surrounded by her warm embrace, remembers asking What happened last night? Was someone inside the house?, and her replying with a soft smile, Don’t worry. I took care of it.
»I remember everything about you«, he admits. »I could never forget.«
Not in life. Not in death. Not in eternity.
She keeps on writing for a long while, and it's nerve-wracking, but he would never look over her shoulder without being invited to, he wouldn’t dare-
»And why is that?«, she finally breaks her silence.
»I used to love you.« A familiar pang in his chest reminds him of how fucked up that was - that he fell for her after all she did to him; cared for her so deeply while knowing what a monster she could be; truly loved her for all she was, despite the foulness that he got to know so well, the corruption that lay underneath, making a grotesque foundation for all that affection. Unfiltered bitterness lines his words like a cup of black coffee when he adds: »I used to despise you, too.«
Amilía pauses, quill still in hand. She takes a deep breath as if bracing herself, although he’s not sure what for. »And now? You don't feel either of those things anymore?«
It’s a good question. One he doesn’t have an equally good answer to.
Silently, he steps up to her, and she lets him; lingers, tense and expectant, as he comes so close their bodies are almost touching. It would take no more than a little twitch and he could put his hands on her waist, pull her even closer. He could easily wrap his arms around her, bury his nose in her hair and breathe in her scent like he used to. But he doesn’t. Just hovers right behind her, waiting for her to make that move if she wants to.
»Right now, I'm just craving you.« He lets out a breath he didn't realize he was holding in. »I’ve been longing for you, Amilía. So much that knowing what you do with trespassers on your property didn’t matter. That what you did to me didn't matter. I couldn’t take the chance you would turn me away at the door - I needed to see you. Is that good enough for you?«
For the first time in decades, he needed her more than he needed to be safe. For different reasons than he used to; but it’s still true.
Just as the weight of that truth fully hits him, Amilía’s grip tightens, coaxing a cracking sound from the feather she was using to write. Almost in a daze, she puts the damaged thing down and turns around, raising her now ink-stained hand, staring at the dark blots for a long moment. Then, she slowly blinks up at him. »My quill is broken«, she states simply.
Her inky fingers stretch out towards him, stroking his cheek, and she looks at him like she’s really glad he’s here, somehow. He was afraid he would melt under her touch if she ever came near him again, but in reality, it's quite the opposite: He freezes.
»Will you lend me a feather, Cal?«, she asks in her sweetest voice. »You have feathers now, don't you?«
»I do.« Calren swallows hard. »And yes, I will.« Don't you know you can have anything you want from me? It's an involuntary thought he can't shake. You'd take it anyway, whether I agreed or not, wouldn't you? You always have. He straightens his shoulders. »You’ll have to pluck it out yourself, though.«
Amilía raises an eyebrow. »Are you flirting with me?«
Calren’s lips press into a tight line. »No.« Part of him still wishes he was, but he absolutely can't be.
Silently, she puts a hand against his chest, pushes him just a step away, then grabs him by the collar of his shirt and just yanks. He already knows to anticipate the pain; he can’t stop waiting for it whenever he’s around her, and she rarely disappoints. His knees hit the floor hard, teeth clattering with the impact, and just like that, he’s at her mercy again. Just like back then.
Some things, he remembers so clearly, the images are so sharp in his mind he could cut himself on them, and yet there’s a foggy haze clouding his brain every time he thinks about that time too hard. Everything goes out of focus once he tries to hang on to the wrong detail - one of those his brain is still trying to protect him from after all these years. Back then, he hadn’t trespassed; he didn’t have to, she didn’t need the additional justification. She preyed on his trusting nature, snatched him right from the street, and once she had him, he was gone for such a long time. Sometimes, it feels like centuries. Sometimes, merely a fleeting moment within his now-eternal lifespan. Most of the time … both. She kept him longer than any of her other victims, as far as he knows, and yet, he somehow managed to come out of it alive.
All that, just to find himself right back in her hands more than half a lifetime later.
A surprising sensation pulls him back into the present: The cool tip of a metal blade briefly caressing his skin. It’s the knife she didn’t pull earlier, but is now pointing at him, sharp edge turned upwards. It’s nearing the thread holding a button of his shirt in place. The tip barely grazes his skin, hovers mere millimeters away from him, leaving no trace, just a frightened shiver. Sharpened to perfection - well-maintained, like all of her tools are -, it slides through the thread easily once it has found its target, and Amilía watches in fascination as her knife proceeds to undress him, snapping off button after button until his shirt falls open. He shrugs it off, and Amilía steps behind him, gaze boring into him right between his shoulder blades. Right between his wings if he had them out.
None of this feels real. It’s like a fragment of his past is slicing holes in his present, and the dissonance is a little too much for his brain to process.
»Show me«, she demands.
And he obeys, wordlessly spreading his wings for her to see.
Amilía is not the kind of person whose eyes widen upon the sight of angel wings. Her breath doesn't catch in her throat, and, of course, she doesn't start praying, like some people do. Instead, her inquisitive stare weighs heavily on him. He holds still, arms propped up on his thighs, fingernails digging into the fabric of his trousers as if to reduce the pervasive trembling that has taken over his body. There's nothing he can do to stop it, really, not with what is about to happen.
He feels her step closer, and flinches, only to find that nothing bad happens. Not yet. He keeps his wings down, not quite folded, but lowered, so they're within her reach with minimal effort. They're quite large, after all, large enough that he could easily shield them both behind his divine feathers if there were any danger so serious it would warrant that - any danger fierce enough to make someone like Amilía seek shelter, with him of all people. Gentle hands trace the spots where his wings attach to his back as if to test if they're really there, not just an illusion, not just a trick. Then, her fingers run along the topside of his left wing, all the way to its tip, making him shiver all over. He silently prays that she will make this quick, spare him the embarrassment of revealing just how sensitive those new extra limbs are; but chances are she already noticed, anyway.
A dark chuckle confirms what he already feared, but she doesn't comment and doesn’t yet make use of her newfound knowledge.
It's not like back then, he keeps trying to remind himself. It's really not. This time, he came here on his own free will, and he could leave any time he wanted. He could dematerialize into nothing within the blink of an eye, slip away from right under her hands if he needed to. She couldn’t stop him, he’s sure. It's just that he won't. He knows he won't, for so many reasons.
The pain is sudden and sharp when her fingers finally find a feather she’s pleased with. She doesn’t hesitate, plucks it out quickly, and leaves him wincing through the unpleasant sting it leaves. It doesn’t really hurt; barely feels like anything at all compared to some of the other things he went through. And yet, it takes all of his strength and focus not to make a sound. To stop the tears from welling up.
It’s not like he hasn’t felt any pain since they last met, or like he hasn’t gotten used to the sensation in his new body. He died a gruesome death in her absence, before he was granted the life he has now. He’s been hurt in several fights since, some of them fought with truly vicious magic. Hell, he even experimented with pain in the bedroom, with other people, because he himself wanted to, and most of it was great. But it’s so different when it’s her - the one person who changed the way he feels about pain forever. The one who crossed so many boundaries of what could reasonably be considered right, healthy or safe, and still managed to make a space for herself within his heart that he hasn’t been able to fill with anything or anyone else ever since they parted ways.
»Fascinating.« She sounds kind of lost in her thoughts, probably inspecting the feather, though he doesn’t dare look up to check.
This feels wrong. Not just mentally or physically. Spiritually, it feels wrong. Like every ounce of magic that flows through his being - the very power granting him his new life - is resisting the dark reality he is deliberately putting himself in.
He listens closely as she takes a few steps, puts the feather down on the counter, and comes back behind him, stepping closer this time. So close she can lean down, wrap one arm around him to keep him in place, and hold her knife to his throat while she's at it. After all she has done, he can’t even bring himself to muster any genuine fear. By now, he knows she won't actually kill him; she might make him feel like he'll die, she might even bring him dizzyingly close to death, but weirdly, despite his racing heartbeat and shaking hands, right now, he feels safer with her than he ever has before.
The blade pushes against the soft skin of his throat, just enough to make him gasp, though not yet drawing blood. »Tell me ...« Her lips are so close to his ear her breath brushes over his skin, making him shiver all over. »Do you still bleed as beautifully as you used to?« With full control over every movement, Amilía pulls the knife to the side, slowly, steadily, creating a thin cut, so superficial it couldn’t do any serious damage, despite its risky placement. Calren holds his breath, freezing completely. It burns just a little bit; just enough to remind him that her blade is, indeed, sharpened, and that he did, in fact, guess exactly right what he was signing up for when he came here tonight. »Do your angelic screams sound even better than the human ones I remember?«
Do you still scar like you used to?, she asked the last time they met, down in the catacombs where even heaven’s light can barely reach.
I don’t know, he answered honestly.
The following promise hasn’t let him go ever since. We should change that.
»I could tell you«, he replies, keeping his movement contained to a bare minimum to avoid cutting himself on her blade. Not any deeper than necessary. »But I know you. You’ll want to see for yourself anyway, won’t you? Let’s not dance around the truth.«
A dark laugh escapes her lips. »Alright.« She lets go of him, but keeps pointing the knife at him while she slowly circles back in front of him, until she can raise his chin with the tip of that wicked blade, forcing him to look up at her. »Truth is, I would love to find out, yes. So I will. And you knew that when you came here, didn’t you?«
Calren holds her gaze, and despite the sheer terror looming over him like a sword about to strike, he can't help but get sucked in by all that lurking darkness - all the wordless promises dancing behind her eyes, the desires that don't have to be spoken aloud to be felt clear as day.
Weirdly, he even feels a smile tugging on his lips. A faint hint of the twisted warmth and nostalgia that make his self-imposed fate just a little bit more bearable to accept.
»Of course, I did.«
Genre: no idea what this is supposed to be tbh, vague whump with some hints of past dark romance?
Rating: 18+
Characters: Calren & fool_with_dream's Amilía
CN: Character being watched without knowledge/consent (no bad intentions though); romanticization of a toxic/fucked up/violent person/relationship; mentions of kidnapping, torture, trauma, trauma bonding; fawn & freeze trauma responses; self-destructive/self-sacrificing tendencies, supernatural resurrection; mentions of religion/deity/The Lord(TM); knives & cutting; mentions of murder & blood; fucked up research
Author's Note: CAN U BELIEVE IT, I wrote a part 3!!! ((read part 1 here)) ((read part 2 here))
Right now, here in the hazy half-dark of her house, Calren can barely take his eyes off Amilía. She's beautiful, he thinks, she always has been, and on a superficial level, she hasn’t changed much, has barely aged a day. It's an undeserved blessing, really - a façade so well-suited to hide her evil behind.
He watches as she sets up the fireplace in her living room. No rush, step by step. Soon, it lights up the small space she made for herself here. It's not her old house - the one she trapped him in, the one they used to share -, but it still looks, smells and feels distinctly like her; like the parts of herself she couldn't suppress if she tried, the parts that inevitably shine through in anything she does, anything she touches.
The parts of her he recognizes in himself, too, whenever he dares to look closely enough.
He has been staying close by all day while desperately trying to bargain with himself, one half of his mind desperate to stop the plan he has set in motion, the other insisting it is necessary for a myriad of reasons, each new one he comes up with more concerning than the last. Deep down, he already knows he will follow through with it, though. And what scares him the most is that he’s so keenly aware of the price he will have to pay, yet more willing than ever to do so without complaint.
It will be worth it. He has to believe that.
In the dim light of the flickering fire, Amilía leans on a nearby counter, flicking through her notebook. The one she had back when she studied him is long filled, as are multiple others that came after he left, he’s sure, but the view still invokes a twisted sense of nostalgia: It used to be him she took notes about at the end of each day, and often also throughout. He used to watch her, minute after minute, tensely waiting for whatever she thought of next, watching out for any sign that she might have made some big discovery, filled with the futile hope that she might let him go once she finally got whatever it was that she wanted. Later, he used to watch her not as a nervous test subject anticipating pain, but as a companion. It felt so different observing the movements of her hand from the edge of her bed instead of the hard basement floor. Freshly bathed and clothed instead of filthy and blood-drenched. Caressed and comfortable instead of beaten and bruised.
Calren sighs, his breath passing through the room as a soft, cool breeze, but he doesn’t announce himself, doesn’t yet give up the veil of invisibility he’s shrouded in until he can bring himself to go through with what he planned.
She only let him go last time because that night, there were more important things than her desire to torment him. She was on a mission he couldn't be a part of, but did decide to turn a blind eye to, for better or for worse. It won't be as easy this time, he's well aware. Once he crosses that line, her hands will do much more than gently graze along his collarbone, staining him with the blood of a stranger whose life he let her take, and laying the weight of bittersweet nostalgia onto his scarred shoulders. Tonight, once she gets him in her claws - proverbial or literal, he’s not quite sure these days -, she will, at the very least, attempt all the things her eyes spoke of. If he lets her, she might just pull him right back into the abyss only she can create in his world.
And yet, he still came to see her. Knowing what he knows, he still made the decision to show up.
Unannounced. Inside of her house.
»Amilía.« His voice is gentle and calm, clear as a bell inside her mind, and her name acts as both greeting and warning; as silent prayer and unspoken curse; as proof of loving devotion and trembling sign of fear.
She spins around, startled at first, reaching for a knife still tucked away beneath her dress. Her fingers grip the handle tightly, but before she can pull it out, let alone aim, she lays eyes on him, and, despite the subtle, restless twitching of her muscles yearning to give in to instincts and reflexes, the sight stops her in her tracks.
The sight of him - a figure that closely resembles the helpless human boy she once knew, looks just like him while clearly being something entirely different; something far beyond human, beyond life and death and earthly pain. Something holy. It’s the purity he always held within him turned into something more, interwoven with the fabric of his very being, blown out of proportion to create a new, unorthodox existence where only decay was supposed to be left.
The corners of her mouth twitch slightly, and maybe he’s imagining it, but her eyes seem to light up the second she realizes what his being here means. Her fingers relax, though she does not let go of the knife.
»You’re trespassing, Cal«, she remarks, shaking her head in playful disappointment. »This is private property. Don’t they teach you to respect boundaries in heaven?«
»Frankly, I don't think The Lord cares about anybody's boundaries«, Calren scoffs. »All-seeing, all-knowing, almighty and all that - it’s not just a myth, after all.«
»Hmmm.« Slowly, she begins to circle him, and he resists the urge to turn around, even though the idea of following her every move is very tempting. He stands still instead, tensing underneath the pressure of her prying gaze. »So The Lord will know that you're here?«
Calren nods. »Eventually.«
»Huh. Interesting.« She turns away, letting go of the knife to pick up her quill, writing in the notebook still waiting for her input with empty pages. »You wouldn’t bring a godly intervention to my doorstep, though, would you?«
Calren shakes his head. Briefly, but vehemently. »The Lord does not intervene«, he explains. »The Lord only makes plans - and watches them unfold.« No matter what gruesome or unjust twists they turn out to take. Calren knows that by now.
It’s quiet for a long moment, with nothing but the slight scratching sound of Amilía’s quill to break the silence.
»Do you remember what I do with trespassers?«, she asks then, tucking her hair back behind her ear with one hand while writing with the other, still not looking up from her book.
»I do.« The memory this simple question conjures is as rough as a rope leaving burn marks on a doomed man's throat. That one time he did witness what Amilía does with trespassers? It’s seared into his brain forever. It’s raw, primal screams echoing from another room, grating on his nerves way worse than his chains ever did on his skin. It's the coppery smell of blood emanating from the floorboards long after the red had been washed away. It's the overwhelming burden of misplaced guilt; guilt for still being alive, still able to scream, while the faceless stranger’s cries died down after a few hours, never to return.
Strangely, Calren also remembers feeling loved and secure in Amilía’s arms the morning after. Remembers waking up surrounded by her warm embrace, remembers asking What happened last night? Was someone inside the house?, and her replying with a soft smile, Don’t worry. I took care of it.
»I remember everything about you«, he admits. »I could never forget.«
Not in life. Not in death. Not in eternity.
She keeps on writing for a long while, and it's nerve-wracking, but he would never look over her shoulder without being invited to, he wouldn’t dare-
»And why is that?«, she finally breaks her silence.
»I used to love you.« A familiar pang in his chest reminds him of how fucked up that was - that he fell for her after all she did to him; cared for her so deeply while knowing what a monster she could be; truly loved her for all she was, despite the foulness that he got to know so well, the corruption that lay underneath, making a grotesque foundation for all that affection. Unfiltered bitterness lines his words like a cup of black coffee when he adds: »I used to despise you, too.«
Amilía pauses, quill still in hand. She takes a deep breath as if bracing herself, although he’s not sure what for. »And now? You don't feel either of those things anymore?«
It’s a good question. One he doesn’t have an equally good answer to.
Silently, he steps up to her, and she lets him; lingers, tense and expectant, as he comes so close their bodies are almost touching. It would take no more than a little twitch and he could put his hands on her waist, pull her even closer. He could easily wrap his arms around her, bury his nose in her hair and breathe in her scent like he used to. But he doesn’t. Just hovers right behind her, waiting for her to make that move if she wants to.
»Right now, I'm just craving you.« He lets out a breath he didn't realize he was holding in. »I’ve been longing for you, Amilía. So much that knowing what you do with trespassers on your property didn’t matter. That what you did to me didn't matter. I couldn’t take the chance you would turn me away at the door - I needed to see you. Is that good enough for you?«
For the first time in decades, he needed her more than he needed to be safe. For different reasons than he used to; but it’s still true.
Just as the weight of that truth fully hits him, Amilía’s grip tightens, coaxing a cracking sound from the feather she was using to write. Almost in a daze, she puts the damaged thing down and turns around, raising her now ink-stained hand, staring at the dark blots for a long moment. Then, she slowly blinks up at him. »My quill is broken«, she states simply.
Her inky fingers stretch out towards him, stroking his cheek, and she looks at him like she’s really glad he’s here, somehow. He was afraid he would melt under her touch if she ever came near him again, but in reality, it's quite the opposite: He freezes.
»Will you lend me a feather, Cal?«, she asks in her sweetest voice. »You have feathers now, don't you?«
»I do.« Calren swallows hard. »And yes, I will.« Don't you know you can have anything you want from me? It's an involuntary thought he can't shake. You'd take it anyway, whether I agreed or not, wouldn't you? You always have. He straightens his shoulders. »You’ll have to pluck it out yourself, though.«
Amilía raises an eyebrow. »Are you flirting with me?«
Calren’s lips press into a tight line. »No.« Part of him still wishes he was, but he absolutely can't be.
Silently, she puts a hand against his chest, pushes him just a step away, then grabs him by the collar of his shirt and just yanks. He already knows to anticipate the pain; he can’t stop waiting for it whenever he’s around her, and she rarely disappoints. His knees hit the floor hard, teeth clattering with the impact, and just like that, he’s at her mercy again. Just like back then.
Some things, he remembers so clearly, the images are so sharp in his mind he could cut himself on them, and yet there’s a foggy haze clouding his brain every time he thinks about that time too hard. Everything goes out of focus once he tries to hang on to the wrong detail - one of those his brain is still trying to protect him from after all these years. Back then, he hadn’t trespassed; he didn’t have to, she didn’t need the additional justification. She preyed on his trusting nature, snatched him right from the street, and once she had him, he was gone for such a long time. Sometimes, it feels like centuries. Sometimes, merely a fleeting moment within his now-eternal lifespan. Most of the time … both. She kept him longer than any of her other victims, as far as he knows, and yet, he somehow managed to come out of it alive.
All that, just to find himself right back in her hands more than half a lifetime later.
A surprising sensation pulls him back into the present: The cool tip of a metal blade briefly caressing his skin. It’s the knife she didn’t pull earlier, but is now pointing at him, sharp edge turned upwards. It’s nearing the thread holding a button of his shirt in place. The tip barely grazes his skin, hovers mere millimeters away from him, leaving no trace, just a frightened shiver. Sharpened to perfection - well-maintained, like all of her tools are -, it slides through the thread easily once it has found its target, and Amilía watches in fascination as her knife proceeds to undress him, snapping off button after button until his shirt falls open. He shrugs it off, and Amilía steps behind him, gaze boring into him right between his shoulder blades. Right between his wings if he had them out.
None of this feels real. It’s like a fragment of his past is slicing holes in his present, and the dissonance is a little too much for his brain to process.
»Show me«, she demands.
And he obeys, wordlessly spreading his wings for her to see.
Amilía is not the kind of person whose eyes widen upon the sight of angel wings. Her breath doesn't catch in her throat, and, of course, she doesn't start praying, like some people do. Instead, her inquisitive stare weighs heavily on him. He holds still, arms propped up on his thighs, fingernails digging into the fabric of his trousers as if to reduce the pervasive trembling that has taken over his body. There's nothing he can do to stop it, really, not with what is about to happen.
He feels her step closer, and flinches, only to find that nothing bad happens. Not yet. He keeps his wings down, not quite folded, but lowered, so they're within her reach with minimal effort. They're quite large, after all, large enough that he could easily shield them both behind his divine feathers if there were any danger so serious it would warrant that - any danger fierce enough to make someone like Amilía seek shelter, with him of all people. Gentle hands trace the spots where his wings attach to his back as if to test if they're really there, not just an illusion, not just a trick. Then, her fingers run along the topside of his left wing, all the way to its tip, making him shiver all over. He silently prays that she will make this quick, spare him the embarrassment of revealing just how sensitive those new extra limbs are; but chances are she already noticed, anyway.
A dark chuckle confirms what he already feared, but she doesn't comment and doesn’t yet make use of her newfound knowledge.
It's not like back then, he keeps trying to remind himself. It's really not. This time, he came here on his own free will, and he could leave any time he wanted. He could dematerialize into nothing within the blink of an eye, slip away from right under her hands if he needed to. She couldn’t stop him, he’s sure. It's just that he won't. He knows he won't, for so many reasons.
The pain is sudden and sharp when her fingers finally find a feather she’s pleased with. She doesn’t hesitate, plucks it out quickly, and leaves him wincing through the unpleasant sting it leaves. It doesn’t really hurt; barely feels like anything at all compared to some of the other things he went through. And yet, it takes all of his strength and focus not to make a sound. To stop the tears from welling up.
It’s not like he hasn’t felt any pain since they last met, or like he hasn’t gotten used to the sensation in his new body. He died a gruesome death in her absence, before he was granted the life he has now. He’s been hurt in several fights since, some of them fought with truly vicious magic. Hell, he even experimented with pain in the bedroom, with other people, because he himself wanted to, and most of it was great. But it’s so different when it’s her - the one person who changed the way he feels about pain forever. The one who crossed so many boundaries of what could reasonably be considered right, healthy or safe, and still managed to make a space for herself within his heart that he hasn’t been able to fill with anything or anyone else ever since they parted ways.
»Fascinating.« She sounds kind of lost in her thoughts, probably inspecting the feather, though he doesn’t dare look up to check.
This feels wrong. Not just mentally or physically. Spiritually, it feels wrong. Like every ounce of magic that flows through his being - the very power granting him his new life - is resisting the dark reality he is deliberately putting himself in.
He listens closely as she takes a few steps, puts the feather down on the counter, and comes back behind him, stepping closer this time. So close she can lean down, wrap one arm around him to keep him in place, and hold her knife to his throat while she's at it. After all she has done, he can’t even bring himself to muster any genuine fear. By now, he knows she won't actually kill him; she might make him feel like he'll die, she might even bring him dizzyingly close to death, but weirdly, despite his racing heartbeat and shaking hands, right now, he feels safer with her than he ever has before.
The blade pushes against the soft skin of his throat, just enough to make him gasp, though not yet drawing blood. »Tell me ...« Her lips are so close to his ear her breath brushes over his skin, making him shiver all over. »Do you still bleed as beautifully as you used to?« With full control over every movement, Amilía pulls the knife to the side, slowly, steadily, creating a thin cut, so superficial it couldn’t do any serious damage, despite its risky placement. Calren holds his breath, freezing completely. It burns just a little bit; just enough to remind him that her blade is, indeed, sharpened, and that he did, in fact, guess exactly right what he was signing up for when he came here tonight. »Do your angelic screams sound even better than the human ones I remember?«
Do you still scar like you used to?, she asked the last time they met, down in the catacombs where even heaven’s light can barely reach.
I don’t know, he answered honestly.
The following promise hasn’t let him go ever since. We should change that.
»I could tell you«, he replies, keeping his movement contained to a bare minimum to avoid cutting himself on her blade. Not any deeper than necessary. »But I know you. You’ll want to see for yourself anyway, won’t you? Let’s not dance around the truth.«
A dark laugh escapes her lips. »Alright.« She lets go of him, but keeps pointing the knife at him while she slowly circles back in front of him, until she can raise his chin with the tip of that wicked blade, forcing him to look up at her. »Truth is, I would love to find out, yes. So I will. And you knew that when you came here, didn’t you?«
Calren holds her gaze, and despite the sheer terror looming over him like a sword about to strike, he can't help but get sucked in by all that lurking darkness - all the wordless promises dancing behind her eyes, the desires that don't have to be spoken aloud to be felt clear as day.
Weirdly, he even feels a smile tugging on his lips. A faint hint of the twisted warmth and nostalgia that make his self-imposed fate just a little bit more bearable to accept.
»Of course, I did.«