Thread by @dontenchantme

#scaralumi

he crawls into her bed at night, and she welcomes it—turns over, half-asleep, and wraps him into her arms, soft and drowsy and vulnerable.

he tucks himself under her chin and breathes her in. a reminder that this is his reality, now.

it’s so very different from how things were a few months ago.

he would never have imagined himself doing this. willingly showing his weaknesses, especially not after all the betrayals he’s suffered.

but the traveller has an uncanny knack for getting under his skin.

“wanderer,” she says, and her voice is gentle, soft with the remnants of sleep. “what’s on your mind?”

he clutches on to her, fingers digging in a little tighter. if that hurts her, it doesn’t show. “the passage of time.”

she hums. “is that something you fear?”

“no.” one of the few boons his mother has granted him—eternal youth, eternal beauty, eternal life.

but what point is there in all of that if he’s damned to be alone forever?

“you’re shaking,” she says, and he feels her hand smoothing the back of his head, warm and reassuring.

“i’m not.” it’s a useless lie, but he thinks he must say it—his arrogance is all he has left, and he will hold on to it even if it breaks him.

she doesn’t refute him. he looks on in the darkness as her eyes flutter shut, her fingers in his hair still gentle. “i’m afraid.”

that’s surprising to know. he’s realised that she’s anything but mortal, too—her existence unending, unyielding, much like his.

yet why is she so in touch with her emotions? why does she make friends so easily, laughing wherever she goes? she’s never a stranger anywhere.

every time he sees her smile, something inside him breaks.

“why?” he finally asks, after the silence that falls between them grows too heavy to bear.

she hums. “because not everyone is immortal like you and i.”

he understands that. he understands it far too well. “and?”

“i’m afraid of being alone,” she says. “i’ve never been… alone.”

right. she has her brother, and she’s seeking him desperately, even now. it’s a strangely repugnant thought. “you have immortal friends.”

“that’s true.” she nods. “but that does not replace the others.”

“why do you care?” he snaps, unable to place a finger on his seething feelings. his grip on her tightens, he’s sure to the point of pain, but she doesn’t flinch. “why do you waste your time and energy on people who will leave anyway?”

silence settles, thick and suffocating.

he tries to breathe, but it’s hard. there’s a heaviness in his chest that makes it hard to think.

but then she touches him, her fingers grazing his cheek, a touch that’s warm and painfully kind. “what sort of meaning is there,” she says, “in such a solitary existence?”

“for a life without pain,” he says. his voice trembles, and he hopes she doesn’t hear it.

the betrayals he’s suffered build and build, and he’s exhausted. if the traveller leaves him too, he doesn’t know what he will do.

“pain helps us grow.” she cradles his cheek. “accept it.”

she’s looking at him, eyes golden in the dark. something flutters beneath his breastbone, and he thinks it’s been happening a lot lately.

this feeling, unknown and mysterious—he finds it uncomfortable, but at the same time, it makes him curious.

why does he feel this way?

“will you help me bear the pain then?” he asks, half in jest. he doesn’t expect anything from her. he’s learnt not to expect anything from anyone centuries ago.

“i’ll try,” she says, and she leans in, her breath washing against his cheek. “i don’t know if i can, but i’ll try.”

he presses his forehead against her shoulder, inhaling her scent. she smells like flowers. “that’s not a promise,” he notes. “but it’ll do for now.”

“if it pleases you,” she says, running her hand through his hair, twining locks of it around her fingers.

he thinks about how she smiles at him. the way sunlight touches her face, turning her radiant—a goddess unsullied, descending from the heavens to bless her people.

he thinks of her smiling that same smile at anyone else, and fear and rage, emotions he finds all too familiar—

they resurface in him, bitter and boiling, bile in the back of his throat.

he doesn’t understand it, nor does he particularly want to. the heart is something too complex to force—his understanding will come and build slowly, as he travels with her. that’s what she told him.

but still. he shuts his eyes and the perfume of flowers seeps into his mouth, tantalisingly sweet.

“you can’t leave me,” he whispers into the darkness. “you can’t.”

her hand continues to play with his hair, but she doesn’t answer.

- fin.