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paintersknife · 20 days ago

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Lost

I was asked for a Silver Knight fic, so here's a Silver Knight fic

TW: suicide (it's not graphic)

He has been here before. He has been here before, too many times to count. So why does it feel different now? Has she always had such fear in her eyes? Something twists in his gut, a long forgotten instinct. Like a beast recoiling from fire? No, something deeper, like a bird hearing its chick call for them with the melody that only they share. On instinct, Cael clutches her closer to himself, seeing the flicker of hope that ignites in her eyes. The hope that reality will soon smother, that misplaced dream that he can save her. As desperately as he wants to fulfil that dream, he knows it’s impossible. He knows that his hands were made to destroy, not to save. Never to save. Blood bubbles out from the corner of her mouth as she tries to force out the sounds that make his name, and memories surface, unbidden. He remembers her whimpering his name the first time he held her like this, trying to comfort her in the purgatory that lasts until time finally resets itself around her. He remembers the time after that, when she had clutched his sleeve– Just like she clutches it now– how her fingers lost their grip as life ebbed from her body. He remembers how every single time, his name had been upon her last breath. How every single time, his face was always the last thing she saw. The only thing he can do now is to comfort her, to stroke her hair as her ragged breaths quiet and finally cease. She won't remember this death, just like she wouldn't remember the countless others before it, but that is barely any consolation.

Before the world around him dissolves into static, he is overtaken by the urge to press his lips to her forehead, and so he does, his touch lighter than the snow falling around the both of them.

The motion feels familiar somehow, like something half-dreamt and barely remembered, but somehow right.

But before he can question it any further, he finds himself once again in the Silver Knight’s tent, lonelier and colder than it has ever been.

His gloved hands curl into fists as he sends Liam away with some perfunctory words. None of this had bothered him before, so why now?

She is merely the charge left to him by his superior, an obligation, a burden. So why does she suddenly stir something in the deepest recesses of his memory, in a murky place that even the Empire hadn’t been able to touch?

These thoughts are of no help to him. All he knows is that he cannot bear to see this happen to her again. He will let her go, severing this cursed bond that he has trapped her with.

Her own path lies ahead, unwritten.

He should not interfere.

Even after he sets her free, Cael isn’t able to stop himself from watching her journey from afar. She’s breathtaking, he muses, seeing her fight. The complete opposite of his creations that she destroys, the painter is meticulous, precise, just like her brushstrokes, shattering their rime crusted wings into crystalline dust. There’s a dancer’s elegance in her movements, and he laughs ruefully, knowing that this was something that she doesn’t realise about herself.

The fire in her eyes was made to temper, not consume.

So how can he dare to covet it so?

He’s envious of her, of that changeability, that limitless growth. It won’t be long now before she surpasses her mother, his superior that he had looked up to.

How will he see her then?

With the same reverence?

With pride? Suddenly, he’s afraid, a deep ache making itself known in the space under his ribs. She’s a beautiful thing, never staying still, always evolving. He’s the opposite, like cold marble to her limitless ivy. How long would it take for her to outgrow him? She would deny it, of course, but he knows her well. He has already seen it in their unwritten future, how she would cripple her own wings for his sake, and never for a moment blame him. Regret was something she would never do, so he would carry it for the both of them, even knowing that it would ruin them both. He can already see himself as the hand that pinions her, taking the hand she offers him only to pull her down.

The painter scatters the last of the butterflies in front of her, taking a moment to catch her breath before she hurries off again, going to check on the people that came with her. The Silver Knight watches her treat their wounds with care, her smile warm enough to drive back the harsh bite of eternal winter.

It is in her nature to love others, and receive love in return.

A stray glacial butterfly flutters towards him, the sole survivor of her earlier performance. Its flight is crooked, its wings bent and torn by her illustra.

It is in his nature to destroy, to be the hand that seizes victory.

His fingers close around the butterfly, beautiful, ethereal, and fragile, just like she is. Tearing his eyes away from her, he finally leaves, crushed gossamer wings the only trace of his presence.

There’s an emptiness in his chest, an endless abyss. One that he never knew was there. Until now.

Cael yearns to step into the light beside her. Prefect Silver knows that it’s impossible.

The place by her side could not ever belong to him.

The script demands the Silver Knight attack the capital and he plays his role dutifully, knowing that she should be safe beside the man that she has chosen.

It only takes a second, a momentary lapse in his usually impeccable awareness. The dagger that buries itself into his side is meaningless to him, and he easily tears it from his body, slashing the throat of the knight that dared to wound him. Cael’s legs lose their strength and he realises it was coated with venom, but even then, it is nothing but an annoyance, something that would only immobilise him momentarily. What makes his blood truly run cold is the familiar voice that screams his name.

He turns, and he can remember that look on her face, the earth shattering grief that looks as if it would crush her. It was something he saw often when she lost her mother, but he doesn’t understand why he sees it again. That was a look reserved for those she loved. It can’t be for him. It shouldn’t. By his own hands, he has ruined this world she holds so dear and is so fervently trying to save. They are soaked with the blood of multitudes, stained so deeply that nothing could ever wash them clean again.

He wants to call out to her, to tell her that monsters don’t die so easily, but the toxin still has him in its sway.

She falls to her knees, desperate, trembling, as she closes her hands around the hilt of the dagger. Distantly he is aware of the sound of someone screaming the painter’s name, blissfully ignorant to the fact that it comes from his own lips. In a cruel twist, time seems to slow around him, binding his movements more than the toxin does, rejecting his mastery over it as it forces him to look, to only watch her from a distance, just like he had been for the last few years. Her hands are quivering, the tip of the blade wavering as she raises it towards herself, but her expression is as dauntless as it has ever been, as if this is the only thing she's sure of.

Her lips curl around the syllables that form his name, but he cannot hear it.

With one thrust, his own heart is pierced.

And shatters.

He roars, finally breaking the intangible chains that have shackled his being in place, his arms barely moving in time to catch her body as it falls.

Hot tears fall on her cheek, looking like dew on her eyelashes for a moment before they freeze in the frigid cold. He's unaware of them falling from him, unaware of anything except the numb void in his mind and the all consuming ache in his chest as his fingers fumble for the lapis necklace.

The static he's so intimately familiar with is nowhere to be seen, and his stomach drops, knowing that he would be consigning her to remember this. To remember the disgrace she had to suffer, all for him. His stomach lurches again, but he presses the cold chain to her anyway. He has to. The alternative is unthinkable.

“Please,” he entreats, voice hoarse, fingers clenched so tight his already pale skin loses any remaining colour. He doesn't even know if he's begging her, or begging all of creation or even begging himself. “Please don't. You can't.”

Finally he feels the pull as time begins to realign itself once more and he crushes her limp form to his chest, not wanting to let her go. Afraid to let her go.

He has always been cold, but her tiny, fragile, broken body seems to sap all the warmth he could ever feel. He doesn’t care. It is the least he can give to her, who had the misfortune of meeting the likes of him.

Her path forward should always be one free from thorns. The one without him.

She’s not sure if the memory is even real, or a half recalled dream, twisted by her own despair and longing into the reality that she desperately wishes for. She thinks she remembers the fleeting feeling of his lips brushing her forehead, of words whispered in her ears in that liminal space between dreams and wakefulness.

“Forgive me.”

The only thing she knows is that he’s gone. Others have noticed his absence as well, but it’s easy for them to brush it off as the same as one of his countless routine disappearances. A business trip. A sabbatical. A conference. A vacation. Everyone has an explanation for her, but when she sees the concern and pity in their gazes, the unspoken question of ‘ He’s your guardian, didn’t he tell you?’, she stops talking about it.

So she goes through the motions, as if she too is a ghost that isn’t really there. Time has no hold over her, but now it seems to stretch on infinitely, each solitary second an entire lifetime.

Are the words that twist in on themselves in the restless nights like unfulfilled infinity even real? “You’ll understand in time,” she thinks he said, but she still doesn't understand. She can’t understand anything, least of all why he isn’t here by her side, his graceful fingers brushing her hair out of her face as he whispers quiet comfort. Instead, she can only mourn him like she mourned her mother, except this time, she’s alone.

Even dreams now bring anguish instead of bliss. All she can find of him there are his faint afterimages, dull, muted, lifeless, as if all the colour in the world has been drained from them. It’s a curse, to be one step behind him where before she would walk by his side, his stride held so she could keep up, something he did only for her. But that was when they had each other, before he left her with only memories and regret.

Some nights she can almost feel his familiar presence, like how she used to when they were merely temporarily parted, and she’s almost sure that if she looks behind her, she’ll be gazing into those lilac eyes and their untold depths. He’s a traveller too, and far more experienced than her so the illusion always shatters, she’s always a mere step behind him, but that step might as well be infinity. Those nights she wakes with tears soaking her pillow and a sadness that curls itself in her chest, settling there to roost. Every night she prays she won’t dream, sometimes she wishes she simply wouldn’t wake.

“I have to do this… for you.”

How can this be for her own good if she hasn't felt whole since? Like there’s a rent in her soul that can never heal, like how a newly missing limb leaves a person collapsed each time they forget its absence.

But something deep inside her knows, has always known that he isn't coming back.

Not now. Not ever.

The only thing she can do is spend the rest of her life chasing after a mirage, an apparition, for the words she desperately wants to believe she heard, but will never hear again.

“I love you,”

Yeah I know I posted that last bit before but it worked so perfectly here that I just adapted it

#lbc #lovebrush chronicles #for all time #lovebrush cael #silver knight #cael anselm #don't come for me you two you literally asked for this

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paintersknife · 22 days ago

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Happy 1st anniversary to Lovebrush Chronicles! 🫶 The first one is based on this really cute tape design:

The second one is part of an art relay on Twitter under #LBC1AnnivFanRelay (check it out, everyone's work is lovely!), with my chosen theme being Eden. There was a really cute scene in Eden Reborn with MC holding Clarence's hand to lure fish to them...

I'm having a great time with the game and I hope it lasts to the very end!

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paintersknife · 22 days ago

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paintersknife · 28 days ago

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thinking about all the 2 hour timers I set just so I could farm my rewards for maudlin dream...anyway I'm still laughing at this scene in alkaid's story

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paintersknife · 1 month ago

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"interest"

Take care, and good night. Make sure to hold me tight and never let go.

"I said not to let go of me...didn't I?"

(doll(?)!cael, cael x little painter, little painter in 2nd pov, tragedy, slight yandere cael????, simple, word vomit idk what happened, inspired by Rope's "Interest Meme", 1.2k words)

You are happy everyday, and it's all thanks to the pretty doll your mother gave you.

"Happy birthday!"

In her hands, a silver fox doll sits obediently within her palms. As if saying hi, you see its ears rustle.

"Thank you, mom!"

You take the doll from her hands and hold it tight to your chest, saying;

"I'll be sure to take good care of it."

You don't ask her where she got it from.

Whatever the case is, you'll be sure to play with it. Holding it up to the sky, you make your future plans, one tea party a day, and a new coat to be sewn by your hand every week, so that this doll may never be bored.

"I think I'll name you...Cael!"

You press your cheek against the doll, breathing in the scent of fresh fabric and flowers, and you giggle.

"Let's have lots of fun together no matter what okay?"

"Hey Cael, today was awful."

You pout, lying over the table as you set him up facing towards you. He sits there silently, listening to your woes without a sound.

"Two of my closest friends fought with each other, I couldn't take it and started crying. Then they started blaming each other again."

You've never liked conflict, and thinking about how your friends are probably never going to talk to each other again, you tear up.

"What if they ask me to pick a side?"

You lament to him without reservation, and the mere presence of him is more than comforting so you continue to talk with no signs of stopping.

"What if I lose all of my friends?"

The side of your head is pressed against the table and you look up to see vaguely see his button eyes shine and gleam. Maybe it's a trick of the light, you think, and don't give it another thought.

"But everything should be fine!"

You stand up energetically, balling your fists and lifting your head to the sky.

"Because no matter what, I'll still have you!"

'No matter what, I'll always be your friend.'

You don't stop talking to him just yet.

"I'm afraid of nightmares."

You hold Cael close to your chest, and your voice is the most despondent that it has ever been, as you express your greatest worry.

"Mom hasn't been feeling well. She says that she'll be fine, but I saw her coughing up blood the other day."

You tighten your grip on him, asking him for comfort as you always have.

"What if she dies in my dreams? My classmates like to say that dreams can make the future come true so if that really happens..."

You can't stop the tears from flowing down your cheeks. So you sniffle, trying to hold everything in but you can't and start sobbing.

"I don't want to lose her, she's my only family. I have no one else."

Your tears stream down in waves for hours and by the time you're done, your pillow is soaked.

But for some reason the silver fox doll remains dry.

"You'll always stay with me, right?"

You're tired, and finally doze off as you ask him a question you know you won't hear him answer for the nth time, but as your eyes close, you hear something.

"Yes."

You wake up tomorrow not remembering a thing.

Every day, you have tea time with Cael and prepare strawberry scones and jasmine tea, before every tea party, you dress yourself up and bow in a curtsy, greeting him like the princess of a castle.

Every week, you sew him new suits and coats of all colours, and most of your favourite combinations often include white and purple. You think it makes him look elegant, and spare no effort in each design.

But soon, those coats and suits will gather dust, and the tablecloth over the tea table shall be replaced with a new pattern to accommodate your new toy.

You are happy every day, and it's all thanks to the pretty doll your mother gave you.

"Happy Birthday."

Your mother presents to you your 13th doll with a weary smile. Her youthful vigor had long been replaced by the wrinkles of time, but even that doesn't explain the exhaustion and effort in which she speaks with.

"Thank you, mom."

You try your best not to cry as you take the new doll from her arms, and toss your old one into a box filled with forgotten friends.

At the very least, you shouldn't worry her and put on a smile.

"Do you want to know why your mother died?"

You stare up at the mysterious man in front of you, his white hair and amethyst eyes contrasting the gloomy scene drenched in black, rain, and white flowers scattered over a coffin. He is beautiful, ethereally so, reminding you of a fairy from the storybooks you'd read aloud to your dolls every night.

"It was because she invoked my curse."

He bends down to look you in the eye at an even level, speaking gently and softly, and you think it is the sweetest sounding curse you have ever heard.

"It is as the old legends say, those who betray the fae are sentenced to have their lives cut short, and your mother–no matter how powerful she was–is no exception."

He lifts your chin up with one finger, treating you as gently as you did with him.

"I'm sorry."

Your voice is hoarse from crying, and you sincerely apologize to him. But he shakes his head.

"I'm grateful to your mother. Even though I had spent many years trapped inside that doll, meeting you was the greatest thing in my life."

His eyes are filled with affection, and he strokes your hair in warm, comforting movements, expressing his adoration for you.

"So it's my turn to make you happy."

"Good night."

You are happy everyday, and it's all thanks to the old doll your deceased mother gave you.

"Happy birthday."

He brings you over to a tea table filled with fresh scones and your favourite drinks. You sit down wearing a gown he designed specially for you–white with purple laces, his colour. As tea time starts, Cael bows to you like a prince from a fairytale. He takes a seat.

"Did you know that faes mate for life?"

He smiles at you from across the table, resting his chin on his folded hands as he stares at you endearingly.

"So please be assured, I have no intentions of ever leaving you. But even then..."

He leans forward to hold your hand.

"You're still afraid of me aren't you? That I'll abandon you the same way you did to me."

Finally, you show signs of life and flinch imperceptibly. Guilt bears down on you like a heavy chain of sin, and you lower your head even further.

"I'm really sorry, I shouldn't have treated you like that."

"What are you talking about?"

He comes over to you and holds you close, presses his cheek against yours the same way you did to him when you first met.

"Well, you shouldn't think about that right now, you must still be in grief." And when he brings up your mother, tears well up in your eyes again as he hugs you, trying to comfort you.

"You can hold me tight, and dream a nice dream."

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paintersknife · 1 month ago

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can’t imagine living in a world where authors aren’t allowed to explore darker themes and topics through literature

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paintersknife · 1 month ago

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modern* cael | a guide to handling your girlfriend's amnesia

Whilst attempting to recover your memories of your father, you end up losing your memories of the past few years instead—including the part about how you're on your way to be the future Mrs. Anselm.

8.1k, mostly fluff + slight angst + some suggestive stuff, flashbacks + amnesia, takes place sometime after hot springs event, reader is mc, series: none

"WHAT WOULD YOU DO IF I lost my memories?"

A question, innocently asked. Cael thinks nothing of it at the time—thinks nothing at all, actually. The sky is blue, the grass is green, you love him, and he loves you. Therefore, there's only room for one answer, the same one as yours.

"I'd help you get them back," he says. Gently. Patiently. Though you seem to have come to terms with the fact that the amnesiac Cael you saw was your own doing, the experience seems to have to left you clingier than normal. "I'd tell you about all that we've seen and done together. The good, the bad, and—"

Even in the darkened room, he thinks he can see you grin.

"And the weird?"

He chuckles softly. "It sounds like you have ideas."

You start exactly where he expects you to, with the man who was once Darya's lover. An orb-shaped third wheel that gave relationship advice—and pestered Cael every chance he got. When it came time to part ways with him, you were rather sad.

As if, to you, Darya's lover was no different from a friend you made on one of your own journeys.

Next on the list is the time they both spent in White City, as beautiful as it was when it stood tall and proud. But rather than the cleansing ritual that demanded all travelers leave their negative emotions behind, or Darya coming to destroy the city, having lost her mind after the loss of her lover, what sticks out to you is—

"And you were so young! And this tall." you exclaim, gesturing in the dark. A dreamy sign gives way to a fit of giggles. "You were so cute."

Trying to fight back a smile in your presence is a fool's endeavor. It spread across his face anyways, warm and fond—and though you likely can't see it either, he feels as if you simply know. You snuggle closer and hum in satisfaction.

"I see," he says, amusement dripping from every syllable. "So, in your eyes, I'm no longer cute."

A muffled protest escapes your lips, though undoubtedly half-hearted. From your voice alone, he can tell you're pouting, happily unhappy—an oxymoron, if he's ever heard one—that he's derailed the conversation.

"You're always cute," you murmur, and he takes his victory with a faint laugh.

MEMORIES ARE A FICKLE THING, fragile yet everlasting—it takes great skill to painstakingly manipulate every element of someone's past to offer them a coherent illusion. To this day, Cael isn't sure how his senior managed to wipe your memory so thoroughly that no traces of your father remain. Even he, arguably an equally skilled prefect, cannot manage such a feat.

And yet, here he is, against his better judgement, fiddling around with your memories in hopes that he can undo Prefect Crimson's finest work.

Fitting for such an endeavor, a pile of notebooks containing information he compiled on the subject sits nearby, on the floor beside your bed. The pillow cushioning his knees, though unnecessary, deflates as he stands up, wiping the sweat of his forehead awkwardly. You insisted upon it, though he's half-certain you were teasing him for his age, and he found he couldn't deny you in that moment.

The thing is, one hand rests on top of your forehead, though the ritual has long since concluded. The other hand holds onto yours, having never given up your warmth for even a moment. Even when he felt his ponytail loosen, he merely gritted his teeth and soldiered on.

As he watches your peaceful form, he can't help but sigh.

When you brought up the possibility of re-tampering with your memories, he'd been hesitant. You did not remember the times your heart could not forget Godheim, but he did. And from then on, he simply had no reason to mess around like that.

All this to say, he, Prefect Silver of the Thousand Empires, is afraid of messing up—not for the first time, in these past few months.

"Cael…?" A groan—and the faint squeeze of your hand—draws him out of his thoughts. You blink blearily, your free hand coming to rest on your forehead as well. "What…"

"That's right," he says, squeezing your hand back, "How are you feeling?"

"My head…" You complain. "Where exactly did I fall from?"

Almost immediately, you attempt to sit up. Cael presses down on your forehead gently, quietly reminding you to rest for a bit longer. You comply, without complaint, though a frown tugs faintly at your lips. In his heart, he harbors no doubt on whether you consider him fussy; still, he accepts your silence gratefully.

"Cael—" After a few minutes have passed, you call his name again. "—where are we? This doesn't look like my room. It doesn't seem like a hotel either."

And with that, his heart drops.

If you aren't pulling his leg, it means something definitely went wrong. The fact that you remember him at all is a good sign. That narrows the amount of explaining he'd need to do by a lot. There's also the simple fact that he's not sure he'd be able to keep a straight face if you forgot him.

"What's the last thing you remember doing?" he asks.

You frown, watching him as though he's the one who's lost his mind. "We were about to go to France for the summer. For Van Gogh, remember?"

"What year do you think it is?"

"2022…?" This time, you actually do sit up, your hand removing his own before he can make a move. It goes back to where it sat on your forehead, your grimace saying much about the state of you. "Did something happen? You look…pale."

Cael bites back a grimace.

"I'm fine," he says reassuringly. "I simply…wasn't expecting that answer."

Raising one eyebrow at him, you joke, "How hard did I hit my head? What is it, 2035?"

Somehow, it manages to pull a weak smile out of him.

YOU'RE STILL A GIGGLY MESS, by the time you let him go.

And if someone is to assume that phrase implies that his limbs are no longer bound, they would be incorrect. Though his hands are now free, you waste no time in throwing your legs over and in between his own. He thinks he should snap a photo of this moment, for the next time you complain that Beanie feels more like his cat than yours.

Like owner, like pet seems to ring true in this situation.

"You know—" The words come out with a gasp, a brief prelude of silence before you devolve into another fit of giggles. You're laying on your back, and the start of your next sentence is marked by the sound of your hand hitting the mattress. "—I think the first thing you should do is tell me that we're dating."

He quirks an eyebrow, well aware of your motives. And though you can't see his expression, he knows you've read him correctly when you shift your head onto his shoulder. Your hair is soft, and tonight, it smells the same as his own.

These days, he can understand your shy mood during hotel stays when the two of them would use the amenities offered, instead of bringing their own.

"After all, I used to write Mrs. Anselm on the margins of my notebooks."

Cael snorts, shifting his arm to accommodate the way your hands insist on wrapping around it. "And now you scribble it every else."

And he does mean that.

He's seen his last name traced on napkins at a restaurant and on the base panel of your laptop. On the fabric of your tights underneath a table—and on the smooth pages of your textbook during class. Your phone case is not immune to the treatment either, and by now, half the student body must be convinced you're in a tragic love that will never be reciprocated.

"Well, it's not like we can let anyone know!"

The vision of you, with your lips pulled into an angry pout and your cheeks puffed, comes to him easily. It becomes the catalyst for his laughter, soft and gentle—enough to disarm you completely. Yet, by then, you've already pinched the inside of his arm.

You rub at the spot gently, as though a pinch from you has ever left him wounded.

"In a few years," Cael promises.

CONTRARY TO YOUR WISHES, CAEL does not start with the part about their relationship.

Understandably, you have questions, and many of them center around your college of choice. From the day you learned of his workplace, St. Shelter Academia became the school of your dreams—you were hardly subtle about it, and perhaps you never intended to be.

For the you facing him now, the thought of them going their separate ways may as well have be a nightmare. One carefully concocted to attack your worst fears, head on. So, Cael softens his tongue the best he can, hovering somewhere between the man he is now and the man he once used to be, and you look at him as if he hung the stars and the moon.

And in the middle of his detailed explanations, which he suspects you've half-tuned out, you notice something tucked away in your desk drawer.

You've been fluttering around the room in a daze for a while now, thoroughly enraptured by the design sense of your future self. It was only going to be a matter of time before the topic began shifting towards Godheim—and all that entails.

"What is this?" you ask, flipping through the pages of volume three of your manga. The curiosity in your eyes dims the more you make sense of its pages, until you look upon your creation with dread. "Is this…my manga? Why is the heroine with the emperor?"

Cael is sitting on the edge of your bed, his legs crossed neatly at the ankles. He lets you run through your thoughts out loud. Some of them are borderline conspiracy theories, and others make his smile falter, though not enough for you to be able to see his grimace.

His favorite one, in a dark humor sort of way, is mind control.

You—the one from 2025—would find it quite funny.

"No to all of those," he cuts you off.

You've been pacing around the room, with your hands in your dark hair. They form little pigtails, the kind you always complain you can never get right. He worries for your hair. For you, and the headache you'll have later.

"Quite a bit has happened in between," Cael says calmly, as the memories of that time flood his mind. What he remembers most is that meteor shower, the moment when the cracks seemed to begin repairing themselves. "There was a period of time when you and I did not speak to each other."

You bite your lip.

"But we're fine now." There is no question in your words. Only a statement, spoken in a distressed tone. And the answer you seek is a resounding yes. "Or you wouldn't be here."

As if sensing his owner's emotions from downstairs—or perhaps Beanie is simply tired of being excluding—a meow sounds from outside the door. A question, and the sound of his paws scratching at the door.

Let me in, a voice that sounds remarkably like your rendition of the cat's human voice yowls in his ear.

"Is that…a cat?" you ask. Your earlier worries seem to have disappeared, replaced with pure, unadulterated excitement at having a furball of your own. "Do I get a cat?"

With an exasperated sigh, he opens the door for Beanie.

The spoiled cat walks in, rubbing his chubby cheeks against Cael's leg. To him, the scene feels not unlike the first time you met Beanie. You crouch down beside the cat, eyes sparkling in delight. This time, Beanie does not spurn you.

Instead, he merely looks at you curiously, as if he can sense that you aren't quite the same human who feeds him every day.

"Hi kitty," you whisper, your hand hovering in the air, above his fur.

"This is Beanie." As he introduces to you the second love of your life, Cael mimics your sitting position and smooths over Beanie's fur. "He's yours."

FOR A FEW MINUTES, THERE is silence.

Then, the discussion begins once more. The subject, this time, is Beanie. A long-running joke in their relationship is that Cael happens to be the favorite parent—and you are simply someone who feeds Beanie every so often, with startling regularity.

Every time you bring it up, he becomes more and more convinced that it's perhaps rooted in an actual insecurity. Like now.

"Do you think Beanie will still like me?" you ask, a yawn interrupting you halfway.

Cael suppresses his instinct to mother you in favor of answering your question. Telling you to go to sleep has never actually worked—he's not so much of an idiot that he can't figure out why you're always tired in the morning, even when he's not staying over.

"I don't see why not," he says sincerely, remembering how despondent the little guy was when you were in the infirmary for three days—all thanks to Cael's most obnoxious colleague. "He adores you."

"Mhm, I know." Your voice is soft. He thinks you might be thinking of the same thing, or the other times you returned from your long journeys. "I won't make him worry."

The silence that follows tricks Cael into thinking this is the end, once again.

But you still have more to say, and he wonders how much of your own worries have yet to be revealed. You must've worried about how to break the news to Beanie—that perhaps Cael wouldn't be in his life in the same way as before.

"I won't make you worry either," you promise.

His gaze softens. "I know."

WHEN YOU REPEAT HIS WORDS back at him, it becomes easy to see why you're skeptical of the truths he's revealed to you. The first time around, when he informed you of your mother, you had already witnessed the depths of his cruelty and learned of his mission. Your travels through Godheim—through its past and its future—also lent him much credibility.

Right now, Godheim is simply the nameless otherworld of your manga. And its trio of protagonists—the maiden, the emperor, and the knight—exist only in its pages, as a mimicry of the love triangle that actually existed.

Or, from the perspective of someone stuck in 2022, the love triangle that will one day exist.

"So, you're actually an alien," you repeat slowly, as though it may make him reconsider his words. It's the same tone he used on you when you mixed up the laundry detergent with dish soap. "I'm also an alien, but only half. And I tried to stop you from destroying the world?"

Unfortunately, as he happens to be very correct, it does nothing to hinder him. Rather, he feels a childish part of him that once went dormant with the fall of White City quietly urge him to be, in your words, a smartass.

"A world," he corrects.

You shoot him a withering glare before proceeding to match—and perhaps exceed—his energy. "Right. A world. The world of my manga, which I wrote."

Cael nods thoughtfully, ignoring the way your glare transforms into the most incredulous of expressions. "That sounds right."

"I'm starting to wonder if you're the one who hit your head."

"LET'S SAY THIS DOES HAPPEN, and you do lose your memories," Cael says, pressing his lips into a thin line. "Would you believe me if I told you about what transpired in Godheim?"

You've wrapped yourself around half of him like an octopus, in such a way that the only comfortable place to put his other arm is over you. The digital alarm clock to his right reads 1:00 AM, but the only symptom that can be attributed to your sleepiness alone is your vaguely nonsensical declarations.

Like the one you shoot off in response to his question, one paired with a snort and, he imagines, a roll of your eyes.

"If I can land you as my boyfriend—" Taking a moment to nuzzle into his shoulder, you pause. "—aliens kind of seem…more realistic, don't they?"

Raising an eyebrow, he parrots your words back at you, in a tone that makes it plainly obvious what he thinks. "Aliens. More realistic?"

To the average human living on Earth, aliens are fantastical creatures of all shapes and sizes—some with, and some without, the intelligence they themselves possess. The most common are colored green, with a penchant for shapeshifting. And if not, then it means they usually do not possess a humanoid body.

Cael, as someone who might be considered an alien himself, would argue that you getting a boyfriend is a far more realistic option for a girl who knows nothing of travelers and prefects—and the empire they belong to.

"Trust me on this one," you say, your voice half-muffled. "It might come in handy one day."

He thinks of his own devastation in Godheim, when the timeline would renew, leaving only the memories of a past that no longer existed in his mind alone. That must be the closest to what you felt when the Cael of your own creation could not recognize you. If he never witnesses such a thing again, it might still be soon.

"I hope not," he mutters.

You laugh. "Me too."

There's a joke at his expense waiting to be made. And you're hardly one to disappoint. Your voice pitches higher, taking on a distinct quality that can only be described as baby talk. You let go of his arm and lay your head down on your hand, propped up by your elbow.

"Can you imagine forgetting about the cutest—"

The positions flip.

As he pins you in place, you giggle, unaffected by the implied threat. It takes kissing you—on the lips, on the cheeks, on your eyelids, and anywhere else he can find—to get you to abandon your train of thought, but even so, his hard-won peace is only temporary.

The moment you pause to catch your breath, undoubtedly smiling up at him with a mischievous grin, is the moment it goes away.

"Sometimes, he even gets jealous of himself."

AFTER FORCEFULLY CHECKING FOR ANY bumps on his head and finding nothing at all, you observe him suspiciously. Beanie has already left by now, having realized that there's nothing of importance for him in the room. It's just the two of them, and whatever dialogue that must be going on in your mind right about now.

At some point, the two of them had swapped positions. You sit on the edge of the bed now, and Cael stands nearby, one hand in his pocket. Every so often, you remember to kick your legs in the air aimlessly.

In this way. an eternity seems to pass.

Cael waits for your verdict with all the eagerness of a man heading out to the battlefield, one wrong move away from losing a limb. He's taken back to the months when the two of them were only cordial, hardly as close as they once were—and definitely not as close as they are now.

Finally, you seem to reach a consensus with yourself.

"What else?" you ask, with a sigh. "I've never known you to pull my leg. Any other riveting stories you have for me?"

By his calculations, the next time that he can fix his mistakes will be a week from now. The cooldown has nothing to do with any energy exerted on his part, but rather, what your body is able to handle. In theory, the procedure itself should be a quick fix.

And, well, he did promise you he would tell you about your relationship status, if you ever happened to forget.

"You have a boyfriend," he says carefully, keeping a close eye on your expression.

"Oh," you say, sounding disappointed. He wonders about your reaction to his next words—if you'll perk up like a dying flower exposed to magic. "That's nice. I'm sure he's nice."

"It's me," he adds.

The current expression on your face speaks much about the state of your mind. You blink rather forcefully, and your tense smile seems to be permanently frozen onto your lips.

"…It's not nice to pull someone's leg like that, Cael," you chide him. "Aliens, I can believe—"

He quirks an eyebrow. "You can believe aliens?"

"But this is—" Sputtering, you begin to gesture wildly in the air. "Is this April Fools' day?"

Your words from before echo in his head. Aliens kind of seem…more realistic, don't they? To think you would be right about that—Cael watches the current you comb through your hair and wonders, not for the first time, about your priorities.

By now, you've started searching for your phone. It occurs to him that perhaps you weren't joking when you asked him that. But, by the time he opens his mouth, you've already learned that it's actually March right now.

"It is not," you mutter, sounding shocked. You don't even seem to have the strength to point any more. "You—we—we're dating."

"That's right," he says gently. "If you're curious, I—"

"Prove it." You cut him off, all of a sudden, your words carrying an intensity he doesn't often see. "If we're dating…then you've probably kissed me before, right?"

"HAVE I EVER TOLD YOU that you're a good kisser?"

"A few times," Cael says, sounding faintly amused. "What brought this on?"

You have your arms wrapped loosely around his neck. From where his hand rests just below your shoulder, he can feel your chest rise and fall. Every so often, a small exhale escapes your lips, when you remember that holding most of your breath in is bad for you.

You shrug. "I was just thinking, if lost my memories, I wouldn't know you were a good kisser."

He waits for you to continue your train of thought. But you offer him nothing more in regards to your stray thought—instead, you're oddly silent. Still, he knows better than to assume the discussion's end.

Burying his face in the nape of your neck, he waits.

"I think—" Your hands assume a more comfortable position on his back. "—that might be the first thing I check."

Cael raises an eyebrow. "And nothing else?"

It's said that a person's personality is often tied to their memories. So, upon losing their memories, it's entirely possible for them to act like a different person. Assuming the premise of the situation you've put forth involves you entirely forgetting him, he can't help but doubt the validity of your claim.

If you retain your memories of him, however—that may be a different story.

"You can be the responsible one." As you giggle, your hands curl into fists. And as you begin to count, you put down a finger for each number. "One kiss. Maybe two."

"I can't imagine that an amnesiac faced with a man claiming to be her boyfriend would be so quick to jump into my arms," he says dryly.

You hum one of the love songs that have been playing everywhere recently. It's your politest way of telling him that he may be correct, but he is also very wrong. On his back, your thumbs and index fingers form the shape of a heart, after a few clumsy attempts at drawing one instead.

"Why not?" you say finally. "As I recall, someone else we know seemed to really like me."

Cael can point out that it was his adult self, with his adult self's feelings, all he wants. The truth is, he isn't really sure if that's the case. It's evident that there's much he doesn't know about his life before the Empire—and then there's the complicated matter of you traveling back in time to meet him.

If the day comes where it turns out his younger self was somehow involved with you, Cael doesn't think he'd be surprised.

"I think I'd really like you too," you murmur. "If there's such a thing as soulmates, I'd like to think that's us."

LUNCHTIME SEES HIM IN THE kitchen, his hair still tied up and an apron tied at his waist.

Yesterday, you said you would want something unhealthy and easy to cook. Something greasy and fried, so thoroughly awful for your body that it would help you cope with what you'd lost. So, he bought a frozen pack of fried chicken and french fries—and he decided against getting buns, just to keep things simple.

He's in the middle of frying the first batch of chicken—having gotten himself out of the previous situation by half-jokingly instituting a one kiss per day limit—when you poke your head into the kitchen.

"So…boyfriend." You step out from behind the wall. "Can I help in the kitchen?"

The gleam in your eyes only promises disaster upon him. It's almost as if you never lost your memory at all. Muscle memory prompts you to tie your hands behind your back and lean forward, the very picture of innocence—in a few minutes, he suspects your arms will be wrapped around his waist.

Your definition of helping tends to be loose at times, but you've spent enough time in the kitchen that he feels comfortable assigning you to the chopping station.

It is then he remembers once more that this simple moment of domesticity is all too new to you.

There's a smile on your face, giddy and uncontrollable. Ordinarily, you'd feign a pout. Insist there are other ways you can help—ones that involve holding his hand, leaving you to grab whatever is he can't at the moment.

His lips thin into a straight line, a compromise to the frown that wants to come out instead.

You don't notice. You're already reaching for your designated apron. Once you've tied it around yourself, you flash him a bright grin, and he can hear your thoughts—the very same words you said the first time you wore it.

We match.

A week, he reminds himself.

Soon, lunch is fried. The unhealthy aroma of frozen fast food wafts through the first floor of your house, and he suspects the same is true for half of the second floor. He did make sure to close all the doors in the house so the rooms, he figures, should be fine.

And as he's setting up the table, you seat yourself in your chair and stare. More of that muscle memory, Cael thinks. He's used to being stared at—you've never hidden your thoughts on his beauty.

And yet, somehow, a simple compliment leaves him at a loss.

"Have I ever told you," you whisper, as he walks away to grab something, "that you look beautiful with your hair tied up?"

There's a lump in his throat. It stops him from offering you a snarky Often. So, he smiles faintly at you and hopes you don't notice what it's meant to hide.

EVEN WITH GREASY FAST FOOD in front of you, you can't seem to take your eyes off of him.

There's something almost reverent about the way you watch him. It takes him back to a time when you knew nothing—and believed wholeheartedly that Cael would always be there, no matter what.

Enough time has passed that the knowledge of how the next week will play out has begun to settle in. Part of it still feels like a dream, as though he might wake up and you'll chase the faint ache in his heart away with a steady stream of kisses.

When he vowed to be his most authentic self in front of you, you had already seen the worst he had to offer. The only place to climb, at that point, was to climb up.

In the present, Cael isn't sure how much of the world-destroying alien part of his explanation has stuck.

"Cael," you speak up suddenly, setting down a half-eaten piece of chicken down on your plate. "Are you really my boyfriend?"

Upon finishing up the piece in his own hand, he asks faintly, "Is it that hard to believe?"

You snort. "You've seen yourself in the mirror, right?"

At the end of the day, you are his girlfriend. It isn't so much of a surprise that the you in front of him and the you locked away in your memories are so painfully alike. Even down to the way your gaze changes, a hint of incredulousness swimming in your purple eyes.

He regrets not asking what he should do if you remember him—just not as your boyfriend. It should be fine to treat you normally, right? You've only lost your memories, and nothing else.

And in the event that he can't get your memories back, it might be a good idea to start getting used to this.

"You're beautiful," Cael offers, his longing evident in every syllable of his confession.

Scarlet blooms across your cheeks. Suddenly, you're a bit shy, tucking a strand of dark hair behind your ear. For a moment, normalcy seems to return to the household.

Coughing politely, you mumble, "I wasn't fishing for a compliment."

The thanks that follows your words comes out as a whisper, almost imperceptible, if not for the fact that he knows you so well. He feels himself relax a bit as he bite into a singular fry.

He's not giving you enough credit—you've already proven you're willing to love his flawed self. More than that, you seem to take an immense amount of glee in finding out that he is, in fact, not perfect. Even now.

And then, you open your mouth, and it's enough to startle him into forgetting what it is he was worried about.

"Does that mean I get an extra kiss?" you ask eagerly, your earlier shyness having vanished in only a moment.

Almost automatically, in a bland tone, he answers, "Ask me tomorrow."

"Okay!" you reply cheerfully, as if you didn't believe, for a moment, he'd say yes.

WHEN NIGHT FALLS UPON HARP island, and you begin to yawn, it becomes increasingly obvious that they must discuss living arrangements. And the opportunity comes when you rest your head on his shoulder and close your eyes.

For most of the day, he helps you familiarize yourself with your current friends and acquaintances—and lets you mourn the loss of your old ones. And then, there's the matter of your tstudies. You deliberately chose a weekend after your midterms, when your load would be the lightest.

But you need to know where your classes and what they're for, with only a day in between today and Monday.

Needless to say, you're incredibly spent.

If the expression on your face is not enough to sell it, the way you cling to him does.

Affection has always come easy to you. And when your walls are at their lowest, it comes pouring out of you, aimed at the nearest you hold any ounce of affection for. When Cael first properly entered your life, he deduced that allowing such a thing would increase your trust for him.

So, for you, his only boundary was meant to ward off any romantic pursuit.

It worked spectacularly—that is to say, not at all.

"Cael…" you mumble. "I'm sleepy. Can we stop?"

The clock reads 11 PM. Though you act differently, he's aware that this is perhaps the earliest you'll be sleeping in a while. Holding back a sigh, he turns off his laptop, then turns to you.

"You've had a long day," he says, finally, his tone gentle.

"Mhm, can you carry me up? And…" You yawn, cutting off his exasperated response. "Can you stay?"

Cael wonders what might be going through your mind right now. Without his deduction abilities, he feels oddly vulnerable—a notion he hasn't related to in months.

"Alright. It might be good for you to have someone familiar with you tonight," he says, painfully aware of how much he misses his own version of you. "I'll sleep on the couch. So, come get me if you need anything."

"No…" The noise you make vaguely resembles a whine. You wrap your arms around his neck, hands grasping at the fabric of his collar. "Stay. A little longer…"

He can only smile weakly. "Just for a little bit."

"Mhm…I'm not gonna—" A yawn cuts off your words. "Don't wanna wake up."

In the end, Cael must concede to you and your vice grip.

When he sets you on the bed, you cling to his shirt and refuse to let go. You've done this before a few times, mostly after you began dating him—and he, a Prefect of the Thousand Empires who could easily remove himself from your grasp, has never had the heart to escape.

In the week that follows, all his nights happen to follow a similar pattern.

HERE ARE THE FACTS: CAEL goes to sleep with one girlfriend and one cat. He wakes up with one of them laying on top of him. Given their distinctly human-shaped form, it is definitely not the cat. In addition, he locked Beanie out, in case it could be overwhelming to wake up to that.

Therefore, Cael's girlfriend is, for some reason, laying on top of him, their legs tangled together and her intense gaze boring holes into him.

"Good morning." You've stacked your hands on top of each other—and on top of him—which is the base upon which you rest your chin. "…boyfriend."

Bleary violet eyes blink up at the woman trapping their owner in place. Cael's arms, however, are the only part of him that can freely move. And move they do, of their own volition, gingerly wrapping around your waist as they do every morning.

"Good morning," he croaks out, vaguely aware of the troubles awaiting him for the next week. Liore will almost certainly know that something is wrong with you, as will the paragons. That, however, is for future him to worry about. "Go back to sleep."

You ignore him, and the very clear message his closed eyes send. Poking his cheek, you tell him, "Let's go on a date."

Cael cracks one eye open. "Right now?"

"I have to get used to things at St. Shelter, don't I?" Your eyes are sparkling. They're beautiful, like amethysts in the sun. You're beautiful. He wants to sleep. "You're the only one who can help."

He has to be responsible.

With a sigh, he opens his eyes. "I'll make breakfast. Give me a minute."

The world immediately goes dark. Cael is, of course, aware of the dangers of leaving you unattended when you're brimming with energy. Tiredly, he drops a kiss on your forehead and tightens his grasp on you.

Not another word escapes you for the next hour.

THE CUP OF COFFEE IN HIS hand is still warm, by the time the two of them find a bench to settle down on. To call the whole experience a date, in Cael's opinion, is pushing it—interrogation is, perhaps, the better word for it.

For example, on the way to the park, you asked him about how he slept in today.

In your memories, he wakes up as the sun rises, and he's at your house before you even wake up. You once told him that you sometimes pretended he stayed the night. That if you came down at 3 AM, you would find him snoozing on the couch.

You never did, because he never stayed.

In some ways, at that time, you were a nine-to-five and he wasn't keen on working overtime. And when it did become appealing, he justified his distance with the impending goodbye. Wendy would soon no longer need Peter Pan.

Another thing you seemed to be curious about was his suddenly snarky personality. He was still the same gentle Cael you remembered, but different. Even now, as Cael analyzes your words, it seems clear you didn't mean different in a bad way.

Just different.

"So, what else do we usually do on a date?" Although your coffee is already on the cooler side, you still blow air into the cup. "Lunch?"

"Sometimes," he says. "Maybe a movie that's playing right now."

You hum. He wonders if you're remembering the time you tried to scare him by taking him—or, more accurately, begging him to take you—to a horror movie. What happened instead was that Cael had to check the backyard for any serial killers and groggily comfort you at 4 AM via the phone after you woke up from a nightmare.

"That movie would never have scared you, huh?" you ask.

He grimaces, thinking of all the inaccuracies he could've pointed out back then. "I've seen much worse."

At this point, the only horror story he can't tolerate is the thought of losing you. Not through a break up, or even in this way, with you having lost your memories, but through death—something so permanent he would have to take over the Empire to bring you back.

He thinks you—the 2025 you—have caught on, especially after the fiasco that was Spirit World.

You bob your head up and down rather seriously.

Birds are beginning to gather near their bench, likely recognizing you from all the times you've fed them before. Before leaving the house, Cael made sure to grab some breadcrumbs for your bird friends, knowing how you tend to be. Even before coming to Harp Island, this was a habit of yours.

Having taken a sip of his coffee, he's about to start digging through his bag when you ask a different question. Predictably, one that he chokes at, already anticipating how you might tease him.

"Am I the only girlfriend you've ever had?"

BARRING A FEW INCIDENTS, MOST of the week goes by quietly.

The threat of being possibly exposed leaves you hesitant to leave the house more than strictly necessary. So, although Cael went through the specifics of an average week in your life, you make use of approximately a quarter of that information.

You pass half the time by going through your stuff. The other half is devoted to pestering him for dates, usually in remote places, where the chances of running into someone are nil.

You seem to really like Greece.

You tell him it'd be nice to have the time to hunt down a flight and sit tight for hours—and there's a wistful tone to your words when he allows himself to scrunch his nose. It makes you laugh too.

And, three days before the deadline, Cael is in his office, preparing a few things for his next lecture, when a familiar ring tone cuts through the silence. Right now, you should be on your way back from your last class of the day.

The contents of your call could be anything from being "kidnapped" by Lars to actually being in trouble to having no explicit purpose at all.

"Hello?" he answers, glancing distractedly at the email from his TA about a question from one of the students. "Is something—"

"You're Emerald?" a familiar voice half-shrieks in his ear. "The award-winning artist Emerald? My favorite artist ever, Emerald?"

As usual, he lets you run through your thoughts out loud. Your chatter serves as the backdrop to his prep work. He catches the words idol, boyfriend, and dream crop up a few times. It's only when you drop Liore's name that he pieces together what might've transpired.

The local art gallery is hosting an event where they'll be showing off some of his newer works, post-hiatus. It isn't for another month, but the tickets for it were given to him in advance—a fact that you mentioned to the older woman when she offered to buy you the tickets.

You did, of course, exclude the part about it being a date.

"It slipped my mind," he responds apologetically. "I'm sorry."

And it was, in fact, a genuine mistake on his part. Given that his identity as an artist rarely cropped up in his day to day life—unlike, say, the fact that he was a Traveler—he hadn't seen the need to bring it up.

You're silent for a few minutes.

"I'll forgive you," you finally respond. "But only if you give me another kiss."

"You know I made that up, right?" he asks, unable to contain his amusement. Cael pulls his phone away from his ear. "You don't have to barter for a kiss."

Your silence soon turns into sputtering.

That's the only response he gets out of you for the next five minutes.

SOON, THE PROMISED DAY COMES, bringing with it a light drizzle.

You settle down on the bed, eyes closed, with all the bravery of a soldier going to war. Your only request is a kiss—and whatever thoughts are swirling in your head, you don't say. And as for holding his hand, you don't ask; your fingers simply grasp his hand tightly, like they had week ago.

The next time you open your eyes, Cael gets a sense of deja vu.

"Cael…?" You blink blearily, your free hand coming to rest on your forehead—where, once again, his own hand sits. "What…"

Squeezing your other hand tightly, he asks, "How are you feeling?"

"My head…" You complain, attempting to sit up. Once more, he gently forces you back down. "Where exactly did I fall from?"

As you grumble about being able to sit up and that you're absolutely fine, Cael breathes a sigh of relief. At the very least, you still remember him. And given how freely you can complain about him, he suspects that you might've recovered all of your memories back.

"What year do you think it is?" he inquires carefully.

You look at him like he's an idiot. Cael doesn't budge on requiring an answer. Instead, he squeezes your hand encouragingly, the expression on his face quietly asking you to humor him. A long-suffering sigh escapes your lips—and that's when any doubts about your memories wither and die.

"It's 2025. We were—" As a realization dawns on you, the blandness in your tone transforms into disappointment. "It didn't work."

"What do you remember about the last week?"

The expression on your face implies much about your thoughts at the moment. You open your mouth, undoubtedly prepared to give him the wrong answer, and then you seem to realize something.

Eyeing him warily, you ask, "What happened last week?"

It's as good a confirmation as any that you don't remember losing a few years worth of your memories. Cael settles down on the edge of the bed and recalls how clingy you were in that time.

As it so happens, you often tend to be all bark and not bite—until you're so used to the action in question that it becomes instinct.

"Well…" he starts, a faintly amused smile on his face. "For starters, you really liked calling me your boyfriend—"

THE NIGHT BEFORE IT ALL ends, you ask him a question—one he suspects you've been holding onto for a while.

The two of you are lying in bed, separated by the eternal third wheel that is Beanie. And if ever there's a reason to stop sneaking him treats, it would be for this. But, for a destroyer of worlds, as you like to point out often, Cael is surprisingly soft-hearted.

One distraught mewl, and it's game over for him.

On the bright side, you no longer have the twin bed he prepared for you, back when you first moved into this house. After the first couple of sleepovers, it became evident you needed a bigger bed, especially if Beanie would keep crawling into bed halfway through the night.

So, you went out and bought yourself a bed—and when Cael came over the next time, the layout of your room had changed drastically.

Never let it be said that feeling shy about something has ever prevented you from doing said thing.

"Cael…" you whisper, and rustling sounds ensue. In your attempt to shift onto your side, he hears your elbow hit the backboard. "What if—what if my memories don't come back?"

His gaze is fixed onto a point in the never-ending darkness, where the ceiling should be. In the silence, he can clearly hear your soft exhales—small reminders that you seem to have forgotten how to breathe. He shifts onto his side, and sure enough, his hand finds yours, curled loosely into a face on top of your pillow.

"Then you'll still be my girlfriend," he says carefully, then pauses. "Just—with a few holes in her memory."

Cael has pondered that same question as well. Many times, in fact; whether over a cup of coffee or in the middle of a lecture, the reminder that you've lost your memories has a tendency to creep up on him.

How will they explain it to everyone, knowing that you haven't left Harp Island in quite a while?

What would be the easiest way to help you relearn the basics of your life, knowing that you nearly fell asleep the first time?

Going forward, will living together—as addicting as it is—be the new normal? Should he start looking for an apartment the two of you can share? How would they explain it if anyone asked?

And sometimes, a little voice creeps into his mind, and it asks, What if you change your mind?

But you haven't yet. In fact, Cael suspects those same thoughts have been running through your head as well, down to the little insecurities that he can't seem to shake.

"More than a few," you murmur softly, squeezing his hand.

He closes his eyes and squeezes your hand back. "Hopefully, not more than right now."

"I think you'll be fine," you say, your words succeeding a nervous giggle. "You have a very pretty face."

A sense of deja vu washes over him and, along with it, a familiar kind of sadness. He's reminded of your previous predictions—and of the way he has to remind you of them. For as long as their relationship grows, the number of inside jokes they accumulate will grow as well.

But the ones they already had might be lost.

He can't imagine his mocking impressions of his past self will land quite as well. This, in a nutshell, perhaps describes perfectly the answer to your next question.

"What's it like to have someone forget about you?"

"Strange," he says, condensing his rapid fire thoughts into only a single word.

It is neither a good thing nor a bad thing. Except it is a bad thing, because this whole fiasco occurred due to his mistake. But that's not your fault. If anything, the blame lies with him. But if he said that, you would deny until your face turned blue.

When you ask him to qualify his single-word statement, Cael naturally struggles to describe his feelings—in a way that won't make you feel bad.

Eventually, he settles on:

"You still remember who I am, don't you?"

In your voice, he can hear the slight downward curve to your lips and the way they flatten every so slightly into a straight line. And with a sigh, you flop onto your back loudly, sending a shockwave through the mattress. Your hand slips out of his grasp and makes room for its twin instead.

"I'll put that down as 'undecided'," you say, and sigh #2 soon follows.

But silence does not.

You call his name once more, still in that fretful and plaintive tone. "What if I get my memories back, but I don't remember this past week at all?"

"Then I'll tell you all about it," Cael answers easily.

For a moment, you ponder his words. If he could look into your eyes, as though the room was illuminated by the lamp in the corner of your room, what sort of emotions would he see?

"Okay. Don't let me forget about it, okay?" you tell him sternly. He's about to ask what that entails, in a teasing tone that's sure to have you reaching for a pillow, when you add, jokingly, "I can live without the embarrassing stuff."

He smiles and lets his silence do the talking.

You acquiesce to your fate rather easily, with a sigh. "Then, let this be the last time we have to deal with any memory shenanigans…"

"Indeed," Cael says, and hopes for it with all his heart.

— happy (very belated) birthday to the local caelmc art dealer, @nekonyaniii!

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paintersknife · 1 month ago

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Oblivion

!! MAJOR SPIRIT WORLD LARS ROUTE SPOILERS !!

I was a little unsatisfied with some story threads they never really explored or utilised fully, so I'm here to fix that

Also ty to mello and my husband for letting me bounce ideas off them and with editing

Nihil. Void. Nothingness. It is the absence of everything. It is all he will ever be.

Here at the end of all things, it is fitting that only he remains.

With every fibre of his rapidly unravelling will, he holds down that cursed God. For the first time in his life, he is glad to have been created as he was; a hollow, empty shell, that he had now turned into the perfect cage. The God’s resentment and hatred mingles with his own and he lifts a tired hand to shade his eyes and chuckles. Was he wrong? Was all this not enough? It is a God after all, perhaps it will still be able to break free, leaving him alone in the fading ruins of the world that was never truly his. Perhaps all he can do is buy her enough time to save the others. But that is enough.

He remembers how the other Lords had grappled with the God that wore his body, just as he fought with fang and claw to wrest back control of what was rightfully his. He remembers the smiles they wore as they welcomed their end with open arms and the overwhelming envy that welled up within him. Death for them is forgiveness. Is peace. Is freedom. It is absolution for him too, but for him, it is only an end. In death, their burdens are lifted, but even the Void will never be able to consume his.

So as the world around him dissolves, all he can do is smile.

The memory of the way she still tried to reach for him as he sent her off sets off an ache, deep within him. It is just like her to endeavour to see the good in everything, to be avaricious enough to want to save all that she can, despite the times she’s failed to do so in those futures now lost to the void. Unlike her, he isn’t altruistic enough to sacrifice himself for the world that rejected him, not even for an airy concept such as atonement. She will figure it out for herself, when she goes on to breathe new life into the spirits that they have sent off together. He knows that her boundless kindness means she will try to bring him to that world, but he also knows that she never will be able to, no matter how many times she tries to recreate it. Not when he was never a part of the world to begin with.

He had spent hours studying the grains of sand in the now shattered hourglass, observing each crystalised possibility, watching her struggle to achieve the futures that she wants, always fearless and determined, even when faced with the unwinnable. There was beauty to be discovered in all of them, even the ones that end in tragedy. He was even able to find a twisted sense of peace in the fact that he had never seen himself in a single one of them.

There is no possible future with him in it.

Emptiness starts to consume the last remnants of all that he ever was, and his thoughts turn to the kiss he shared with her. It had taken him by surprise, how warm a human touch could be. The borrowed Light he wielded had always felt wrong, always too sharp and cool or too scorchingly hot, never the soothing comfort that others had described his brother to be. But perhaps his Sun had never been his brother, but her all along. If this was so, he would gladly be her shadow, if it meant that he could at least bask in her light.

In the grains of sand, he had seen her impart her warmth to countless others. Sometimes they look like what his brother would, if he hadn’t stolen his future. None of them resemble him. Even so, he holds on to those cherished memories that don’t belong to him, unwilling to part with them until finally, he’s forced to.

As the last fragments of his consciousness are finally unwound, all he wishes is that he could have felt that gentle warmth for just a moment longer. But in the end, all that welcomes him is endless oblivion.

#rb because i added a line that made mello yell at me #:)#i still believe they should have twisted the knife harder #make me hurt hlr

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paintersknife · 1 month ago

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"wheat grains would rather be eaten than forgotten to wither away"

Cael tells her he loves her, despite knowing she'd never remember.

How could he help it? He's still trying to learn what the consequences are.

(Godheim!Cael, Cael x little painter, graphic depictions of violence, angst, little painter x some other ml that's not cael, they are not together, lazy end, 3k+ words???????)

The snowy expanse is what covers the land of Godheim, and his heart. It blankets his feelings, buries them beneath pure white and leaves it to freeze to death.

But he doesn't care, doesn't know how to.

"It's the Silver Knight!"

Cheers of his title resound at his arrival as he returns back to the rebel base filled with innocents and murderers alike. His horse totters forward languidly, but he frets nonetheless, and holds the girl in his arms even tighter, afraid that she might fall.

"Silver Knight, welcome back! We're relieved that you've returned safe and sound."

Liam comes forward at the head if the crowd and bows forward with reverance. He's still a tad bit clumsy, and his sheath of arrows fall down his shoulder to the floor, landing with a loud clunk.

Cael decides to ignore that completely.

"Thank you for the welcome, as always."

He smiles back at the crowd, lifting the corners of his lips neither too high or too low, and climbs down the horse with care. All while gently holding the girl close to him as stable as possible.

"But I have an urgent request; bring the medics."

Liam takes a swift glance at the maiden in Cael's arms and claps his hands loudly shouting, "MEDICS! We have a patient!"

The maiden wears a bloodied gown, adorned with bandages covering painful wounds, and the sight of it is only saved by the cape the Silver Knight has draped over her. Her breathing is shallow, and every breath she takes–while peaceful–comes out as a shivery exhale, as if the cold had penetrated her lungs and turned her into a soundless mermaid.

But all in all, she is fine. Her majors wounds having been attended to by the Silver Knight himself, and Liam knows this. He smiles, beaming with pride even as the medics rush forward past him and push him aside.

"That's our lea–ow!"

Cael wordlessly hands the girl over to their healers and they take her away with care, bundling her up with warm cloth. He wonders if she'll be fine.

Liam grumbles rubbing his shoulder, "Goodness, nobody here has any decorum. Ahem!"

He turns back to the rebel and shouts with pride. "Give it up to the Silver Knight! For not only has he rescued the Goddess from the Otherworld, he has also brought her back from the brink of death!"

The cheers only grow louder.

"Hail the Silver Knight!"

Off in the distance, he spots the medics growing frantic as the girl's wounds reopen.

"All hail the Silver Knight!"

He should have been more meticulous and dressed her wounds properly.

"All hail the Silver Knight! Glory to the rebellion!"

"Enough, all of you."

Just for a small moment, his facade cracks, and the crowd quietens down quicker than they had ever done before as they hear the timbre of misery in his voice.

"The Goddess has been saved, but the Tyrant remains unpunished. Such needless praise is unnecessary."

Having given his cape up, the snow bites into his skin and makes his movements feel numb as be pats Liam on the shoulder while he leans in closer to whisper into his ear.

"The countermeasure for the enemy invasion has already started I presume?"

Liam whispers back, "Of course, sir. We'll catch them right within our own turf."

"Alright then."

He takes his leave.

"Silver Knight? Where are you going?"

The Silver Knight is known for never staying in one place for long and almost always right after returning to the base, he would leave.

Today doesn't seem to be the case.

But Cael doesn't answer, gives Liam one glance, and makes his way towards the medical tent. Confused, Liam scratches the side of his head.

"I hope he's alright..."

"How is she faring?"

Cael lifts up the flap of the medical tent and enters with a wooly blanket tucked under his arm. The medics, never having seen their leader up close before, get flustered.

"S-Silver Knight!"

He dully hears the soft clang of a washbin falling to the floor, but remains patient.

The medic clears her throat. "The Goddess is fine, most of her wounds have already been stitched up to perfection, and the salve you created is doing wonders on her injuries."

The medic's eyes sparkle as she says that. Clearly, she reveres him and his capabilities.

"Silver Knight, it's thanks to you that she's alive."

"..."

He shows no signs of having heard her. The medic fidgets awkwardly in place awaiting her next orders, and stands there for a few good minutes in utter silence before the Silver Knight raises his hand.

"Thank you for your service, you may leave now."

The medic frantically bows in pride and rushes out of the tent. Seeing that she's left, Cael approaches the sleeping girl tucked under a blanket–but it's too thin–so he sighs and replaces the thin blanket with the one he brought over, hoping to keep her warm. The stove they use to heat up the tent won't be enough, and a simple glance down is enough to tell him garments she wears will do little to fight against the bitter chill.

"Are you cold?"

He asks a question he knows she won't hear nor answer.

He catches the long spiralling stitch travelling across her forearm, and can't help but flinch. Tentatively, he grasps her wrist to lift her arm.

In the world of Godheim, any kind of painkiller that could be found in this underdeveloped era are unlikely to make it into the hands of commoners, much less them. As such, there was probably no anaesthesia provided for her during the stitching process.

It must have hurt.

"Did it hurt a lot?"

He leans in, and holds her arm closer to inspect the closed wound. The longer he looks at it, the dizzier he gets and Cael feels his heart throb uncontrollably.

He pretends it doesn't hurt.

"Tomorrow after dusk, the enemy will charge into the base camp and try to kill me. Of course, I won't let them but..."

On an impulse he can't name, he tilts his head downwards to nuzzle into her palm.

"...Would you prefer that?"

Her hand is cold. But at the very least, she's been regaining her warmth, little-by-little.

"If you do, just say it. I'll..."

He wonders how long she'll live this time.

Cael doesn't understand the cognition which drives him to make such foolish actions, and no matter how long he searches through the Empire's database, he cannot find a satisfactory answer.

He squeezes her hand one last time, before letting go and tucking her arm under the fluffy blanket.

"I'll be...back."

As he leaves the tent, he looks over his shoulder to watch her chest rise and fall peacefully in slumber just for a few seconds. But when he hears the sounds of footsteps approaching, he quickly closes the flap of the tent and turns back facing forward.

"It's you."

The medic from before looks guilty as she lowers her head.

"I apologise, but I thought that'd I retrieve some warmer clothes for her before the relocation of patients."

Cael nods, but he feels his chest twisting uncomfortably.

Fate has never been kind, he doubts it's going to start now. But nonetheless, he keeps up the mask and smiles approvingly.

"Thank you for your work. Make sure to tell Zack about the exact number of patients needed for relocation by midnight."

The medic seems happy with the praise, but stands there as if hesitating to ask him something.

"What is it?"

"Well, it's uh..."

She bites her tongue, before thinking better of it and shaking her head.

"No, it's nothing. All hail the Silver Knight."

"..."

The both of them part ways, and it's not until some time later does Cael notice the frozen drops of ice on his face.

"All right just as we discussed, move it people!"

Liam's voice is loud, but the rebels that follow after his command are as silent as prowling wolves. They move in formation swiftly and efficiently, hiding behind pre-remade spots meant to aid them in ambushing the enemy. Some rebel soldiers have been stationed in their usual patrol routes to appear unsuspecting in the enemy's eyes while luring them into a false sense of ease.

"Here they come."

This is a trap, made to gain the upper hand and take down another portion of the Tyrant's forces. And soon enough, Cael sees the palace soldiers approach.

The enemy is quiet enough, donning clothes made with white to blend with in with the snow–remaining as obscure as possible–hoping to catch the rebels off guard.

It all starts with a flame.

"FIRE!"

Flaming arrows rain down on the palace soldiers like hellfire and they hear shouts and cries ring through the night. Knowing that their cover has been blown, the enemy forgoes all plans of secrecy and make their way to directly attack the main base.

"Remember our one true goal, kill the Silver Knight and end it once and for all!"

"Rebels! MOVE!"

Out in the corner of his eye, Cael sees a soldier launch an attack on his side, before an arrow skewers his neck.

He will not die today, so he draws his sword and plays his role as a leader.

War is war, there is nothing glorious about it no matter how small scale and he sees those both old and young fall down to be taken away by the grim reaper, blood pooling down and drenching the whole camp with a sickly smell. The smell only grows stronger, as Cael drives his sword through the heart of an advancing enemy.

But none of this really matters when all of them will come back to life again once the timeline resets, so he doesn't have to think about the morality of his actions. Not yet.

At the very least, he knows he is someone foul, as he beheads another enemy and watches their blood splatter on white cloth.

'White cloth?'

He freezes, as he sees clean clothes flutter past him and realises they were travel clothing made specially for the evacuation of patients. They should have all been taken away during the relocation.

Why is it here?

"Silver Knight!"

Zack–the one in charge of the relocation–comes up to him while swinging his daggers at an approaching enemy and renders them immobile in an instant as they scream in pain, blood spurting out from their severed arm.

"Some of the enemies have hijacked the caravan! Most of the injured have been escorted away safely but-!"

Usually, Cael would not care. A dent in his own forces yes, but not worth fretting over ultimately.

But she could be there.

"AARGH!"

Another enemy falls down, and Cael vaguely registers the scene of blood scatter on the ground like blossoming roses.

"...Thank you for informing me. I'll go look for them myself, tell Liam about this and go to the east of the camp. Prepare to immediately provide protection, I'll be sending them your way."

"Orders received!"

He doesn't understand why he's doing this. None of this would matter at all, this timeline is doomed. Her dying now or later would make no difference.

So what is driving him to move forward?

Cael keeps his sword at ready while moving through the chaos and bloodshed, he sees a man with a broken arm kick aside a burning tent to free some rebels trapped under the wreckage, and recognises him as one of the patients meant for relocation. The man looks up and recognises his leader immediately.

"Silver Knight!"

"Go to the east, I will not tell you twice. Prioritise yourself."

The rebel has no choice but to obey his leader, uses his uninjured hand to salute, and leaves.

Cael continues to sift through the crowd in search of her, but with every minute that passes, he feels his heart sinking lower and lower, clouding his sense and judgement.

He feels as if he were stumbling through utter darkness, with nowhere to go and nothing to hold on to, and it scares him.

This is irrational, and unnecessary. She's going to die anyway, she's going to fail this timeline even if he saves her.

"Go!"

He hears her voice.

Immediately, he turns to the source of it, and sees her blocking an enemy's attack with her Illustra, protecting two young injured rebels, who look around her age.

Of course, even now she's still trying to protect other, without any regards to herself and doesn't even realise the enemy sneaking up on her.

She's going to die again, as always.

Everything plays out slowly, like a static movie flickering on and off, incomprehensible.

What the blade cuts down is not him but her, he was too late, again.

"...Cael?"

"..."

It stinks of blood.

"Is that...you?"

He stares down at her mutely, unable to answer as her blood soaks her clean clothes again for the nth time, but she doesn't care, and stares back up at him with near innocent confusion as if asking;

Why was he doing this?

The enemy falls to his knees, but before he dies, he yells, "THE SILVER KNIGHT IS HERE!"

"MY LORD!"

Zack is here and tries to rush over them ,but the enemy now knows where they are and surge forward to suppress him.

"The Silver Knight is here! Kill him!"

Blades and blunts of all kind move towards them and he holds her even tighter, hoping to protect her with this inhumane body of his. He ignores the violence directed to him, and hunches himself over her to keep her out of their sight.

Even if she's still going to die, he can protect her from this much pain, right?

He doesn't bother counting every blade that runs through his body, cutting him apart and drawing blood like spilled wine. But even as they stab him over and over and over again, he can't feel anything else except for the his heart growing lighter in relief.

She's failed this timeline again, but at least he has the privilege of being by her side in her last moments, pretends he deserves to be by her side.

"Cael."

But she's not as happy, and struggles to keep her grip on him, her body growing weak and the blood making her hands slip across the fabric as she clings.

"I love you."

Her hands drop down, and she can't fight against it any longer as the light in her eyes fade, death's butterfly kissing her eyelids closed.

"I've fallen in love with you."

He recalls the age where he would spent his free time near the edges of the ruins of the White City, flipping through his textbooks and never quite understanding what "love" was, thinking at some point it was something he could consume.

She won't remember his confession at all but it's fine.

At least he's finally found his answer, even if it hurt less when he never knew at all.

The world turns to static and everything else is lost on him.

The girl sees the clock's hand strike at the axis and feels the timeline reverse once more, and vaguely hears three words echo across the universe.

"I love you."

"How have you been?"

He asks her a question out of politeness, but she nods back eagerly.

"I've been great! Even if almost everyone went back home during the New Year's, I wasn't lonely at all!"

She recounts her experience to him eagerly, telling him stories about Beanie's antics, and the time she had spent with her beloved. But when she reaches a certain point, she quietens down slowly and averts her eyes.

"?"

He wonders why she's stopped all of a sudden, but waits patiently for her to continue.

"...And I saw you too. The you from the past."

Cael feels his whole body tense up, what is she referring to exactly?

"It was the time you took me out to the art carnival."

She pats him down on the couch and he takes a seat as per her cue, watches her scurry off to retrieve a beautiful music box, with a small statue of her standing out like a fairy.

He recognizes the design.

"I think the future me wanted to show me how much you cared, about all the effort you had put in for my sake, even if it was all by my mother's request. Still..."

She smiles brightly.

"I'm grateful."

Cael thinks he could die.

But he doesn't plan on worrying her, and responds to her appreciation. "Your welcome, I'm glad I could make you happy."

His response is stiff, and she realizes that.

"Cael? May I...ask you a question?"

"What is it?"

"Did you love me?"

"..."

How astute and straight to the point. Never did he think she would call out on him like this.

"Yes, I did."

He doesn't intend on lying to her however.

"I even told you that once before."

She tries to keep a straight face, but ultimately fails, as her grip tightens on the music box as if she were looking for reassurance, and courage.

"When?"

He smiles, and shakes his head.

"That is my own selfish secret to keep, I hope you understand."

Her mouth opens and closes, wondering what to say next. But her phone rings and once glance at the name of the caller is what prompts her to pick it up immediately.

"Hello?"

Her voice has become considerably softer, the person on the other end of the phone is probably her lover.

Cael idly casts his gaze on the music box, watching as the small statue made in the image of the girl he loves spins and turns around. That same girl throws him a nervous look every once in a while as she continues talking on the phone, worried for him after his throwaway confession.

Everytime she does so, he smiles back, trying to reassure her.

"It's time for you to go, isn't it?"

Her call ends, and she looks back at him with a guilty expression, confirming his question.

"It's alright."

He gives her a smile filled with absolute sincerity.

"I said so didn't all? All I wanted was for you to be happy."

Beanie comes up to bunt his head on his legs, so Cael bends down to pick him up and set him over his lap.

"I got what I wanted the most."

The girl stays silent, ruminating on his words. She wonders to herself, is that really all he wants?

The answer is yes.

So she returns him a pained smile.

"Thank you for everything, Cael."

Beanie yowls, demanding pets and Cael acquiesces to his demands and starts to stroke his head.

The doorbell rings and the girl brightens up, rushing towards the front door and he sees her glow brighter than any shining star in the sky, as she meets face-to-face with the man she loves.

It's all he's ever wanted.

He turns Beanie over to pat him on his fat stomach.

"It's about time for dinner, and since she's going out, how about I take care of it for you?"

Beanie meows happily, contented.

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