#like shes made of cobbled together parts and has missing limbs and she isn’t an amputee??

[angelic-waffles]

Someone on twt was talking about Fnafhs and I was like “Holy shit! I watched that!”

Well sorta, I watched it but I didn’t understand Spanish when I watched it. So, I just kinda watched it and didn’t know what was happening

[lena-in-a-red-dress]

The Darkest Timeline, Part 9

Living with Andrea feels like slipping into a second skin. It's familiar, yet entirely foreign to Lena after the coziness of Kara's apartment. Andrea's condo is all bright lights and sharp lines, aesthetic over material comfort. Lena keeps her sunglasses on, swallowing against the onset of a migraine.

"Make yourself at home," Andrea offers. She peels off her coat and hangs it on the stand beside the door.

Lena hugs her bag of belongings to her chest. "I'm actually pretty tired..."

"Oh, of course. Sorry. Here, I'll show you the bedroom."

Lena follows her deeper into the condo, and breathes a sigh of relief when the bedroom proves to be dimmer. The second thing she notices is that the bed is unmade, a fact Andrea immediately tries to rectify by twitching the covers back into place.

"Yes, I'm still a slob," Andrea jokes. "I've got an extra pillow somewhere around here..."

Lena meets Andrea's gaze. "I can take the couch--"

"What? No! This bed is huge-- we'll both fit no problem." Andrea smiles. "It'll be fun. Like a sleepover."

Lena remembers their sleepovers, all giggles and limbs beneath the sheets. Lena remembers feeling carefree with Andrea in her corner. She remembers how deeply it had cut her to see her best friend wearing the medallion that bore the symbol of Acrata.

"I lost my memory," Lena blurts.

Andrea falls still, surprised by the revelation. When she stares, Lena rushes to fill the silence.

"Five years of it, roughly. So if there's anything I need to know, please-- tell me now."

In an instant, Andrea's features crease in concern. "So you don't... you don't remember selling me CatCo? Or-- Acrata?"

Lena's scowl deepens. "I remember you stealing the medallion and letting me believe that I had lost the last remnant of my mother, of that's what you mean."

"No, I mean..." Andrea trails off. In the end, she sighs. "Okay-- maybe you should sit down."

Lena sits on the edge of the bed and listens as Andrea tells her everything. From the deal she made in the temple to the powers granted to her by the medallion itself, how Leviathan said they would one day call on her, but never did.

Lena doesn't believe it at first, not until Andrea demonstrates by walking into one shadow and coming out of another on the far side of the room.

"You told me that if Leviathan ever did reach out to me, you would help me," Andrea finishes. She comes to sit next to Lena, hands folding in her lap.

Lena looks at her, then reaches out to take Andrea's hand in hers. "I don't remember making that promise," she says quietly. "But I will honor it."

Andrea looks at her with tear-filled eyes. Lena smiles. "You jump, I jump, remember?"

Laughing wetly, Andrea turns and wraps Lena in a long hug. "I've missed you, Lena," she whispers. "So much."

Later that night, Lena lies awake next to her best friend, fighting tears of her own. She doesn't carry the anger that she used to, for Andrea. But that doesn't keep her from wishing it was someone else sleeping next to her.

---

In the days that follow, Lena loses herself in learning everything she's forgotten. She digs into old news feeds, charting her move from Metropolis to National City at the behest of her brother. Though the information is tainted by the fact she knows this reality isn't how her story started, it does give her an unbiased glimpse into her own life. She watches any televised interview with herself that she can get her hands on, and with Andrea's ties to CatCo, there's a shocking amount of footage to wade through.

The version of herself on the screen is charming, quick-witted, and engaging-- everything Lena feels she is not. She learns of the charity and outreach initiatives she's helmed, the profits earned by LuthorCorp's expansion to the West Coast. Everything is clean and good, but Lena can't help but wonder how much of the truth she's still missing, how much of her life was kept from the public eye like Lex's has been.

"It doesn't feel real," Lena says to Andrea one night. They're folded up on their respective ends of Andrea's couch, each sipping on a glass of expensive Malbec. "It feels like someone else's life. Not mine."

"What would help it feel more like yours?" Andrea asks.

Lena doesn't expect the question, and doesn't have an answer to give. She shrugs. "I don't know."

"Well, what does feel real?"

"My memories. What I remember from Metropolis. My brother going insane."

She vividly remembers the light of that red sun, the bite of the plastic ties binding her to the chair as she watched the world descend into chaos. She remembers the thundering of her heart in the courtroom after, confessing to wearing a wire. She remembers the way Lex's head had finally lifted; he had expected her to cooperate with the authorities after his arrest-- he hadn't imagined she would take the initiative to work against him beforehand.

But none of that mattered. Not anymore. None of that had happened here, and not even Andrea could fathom the loss she felt, knowing she was adrift in a reality completely different from the one she remembered.

"It sounds like you need to make your own memories," Andrea comments, sipping her wine.

Lena scoffs. "Fat chance of that while Lex is gunning for me."

"Then we take the fight to him." Andrea's features are hard, solemn-- though she has no reason to suspect Lex's villainy, she takes Lena at her word. She always has.

Lena nods.

"I think I have an idea."

---

A plan starts to build. Andrea's dining table soon becomes Lena's workbench as she cobbles together anything she thinks could help. Within a few weeks, Lena has the how: all she needs is the when and where. Luring Lex to a secluded place would prove difficult without allowing him the chance to outleverage her.

Their timetable is forced to the forefront when Andrea comes barreling in the front door, her hair windswept and harried.

"We have a problem," Andrea says, shoving her phone in front of Lena.

Lena takes the phone and struggles to focus on the text window. It's a new contact channel, consisting of an image and a single text message.

"Time for us to have a chat, ace."

Enlarging the image, Lena can just make out the red and blue shape of Supergirl sprawled on a cement floor, unconscious.

Lena's heart starts to pound, making her vision pulse with every beat. As she stares at Kara's unmoving form, the phone buzzes in her hand. A new text message pops up, containing a set of coordinates.

Taking a deep breath, Lena sets the phone down. She swallows thickly against the bile in her throat.

"It's trap," Andrea tells her point blank.

Lena nods. A trap it certainly is, but that doesn't change the fact that Kara is in danger. Danger she helped create. She lifts her head, meeting Andrea's wide eyes with a steady gaze.

"I'm going."

[fnlrndcllctv]

REVIEW: Final Fight Revenge (1999)

Capcom’s gaming output in the late 80’s and early 90’s was something of a revelation, even before the fighting game juggernaut that was Street Fighter II came around.

Their beat ‘em ups were particularly entertaining, with games such as Captain Commando, Knights Of The Round, Armored Warriors and Warriors Of Fate all offering up slices of “decimate opponents to progress through a stage” action from all sorts of different story perspectives.

Perhaps the most famous, and most important, example of Capcom’s brawler games was 1989’s Final Fight. The story of Cody and Guy battling through gangs of thugs to rescue the mayor of Metro City’s daughter from an evil crimelord was the perfect setting for the genre, and is still woven into the same in-game universe as the Street Fighter franchise to this day!

So, after almost a decade of sequels and spinoffs, it came time for Capcom to release an actual one on one fighting game based on the Final Fight series, and with a wealth of fighters and gameplay mechanics to lift from, fans were excited to get their hands on this.

Was it any good?

Gameplay

Fans of the original Final Fight games (and beat ‘em ups in general) will notice one of the game’s main features during a fight straight away. During a matchup, players are able to pick up and use weapons that are scattered around the stage.

It’s a fun idea, and elements of this can still be found when using specific Final Fight characters in modern Street Fighter games (Cody in particular!), and being able to knock weapons out of a foe’s hands is a blessing. Unfortunately, the weapons here don’t actually do enough damage to justify the risk when trying to pick them up.

This does feel more satisfying during the final boss fight though, as players can knock limbs off the opponent and use them as weapons.

Players each have a super gauge that, once full, allows them to perform special attacks on an opponent. These are one of the most interesting aspects of the game, as they feel more akin to something from something like Pocket Fighter than your traditional Street Fighter game, as they’re all highly tongue in cheek and cartoonish. For example, Rolento summons a helicopter to launch a deadly assault, Edi E jumps into a miniature cop car and Poison attacks opponents with sultry photographs of herself. They’re pretty entertaining for the most part, when the game actually allows you to land a hit, that is.

The controls adhere to using six buttons (2 punches, 2 kicks, dodge and taunt), but are marred by how clunky the movement is for each character. There’s also an issue with the gravity in this game, as it feels like jumping on the moon, which really ruins the pacing of a fight.

Even on the easiest setting, the AI of the computer controlled fighters will also almost certainly block most of your attacks, forcing you to grind through each match by getting time outs or chipping away at their damage bit by bit. It’s frustrating, and really drags the game down further.

Story

Final Fight Revenge’s plot acts as a pseudo-sequel to the first game, where some riots that have broken out in Metro City and Jessica Haggar, the mayor’s daughter, has gone missing amidst them.

Not only this, but a number of original members of the Mad Gear gang are getting back together to cause trouble for Guy, Cody and Haggar.

Although Jessica's whereabouts are never resolved in any of the characters' endings, the game’s developers have said that she was rescued by Mike, she broke up with Cody and left Metro City to study in Europe.

Fighting game storylines aren’t generally regarded as the best in the wider scope of video games, but this one feels like it was cobbled together at the last minute. The lack of any closure for the main story (along with the fact that the only way to know what the true ending was is to lookup an interview with the devs) when you finish a run in arcade mode makes it feel not only unfinished, but also completely unsatisfying.

Roster

Final Fight Revenge’s roster is made up of almost everyone from the first Final Fight game;

Cody

Damn D

Sodom

Hugo Andore

Mike Haggar

Rolento

El Gado

Edi E

Poison

Guy

What’s noticeable here is that the game completely ignores any of the characters that were introduced in Final Fight 2 and Final Fight 3, even as unlockable characters.

With that being said, being able to play as the entire cast of fighters from the first game (minus Abigail and Belger, of course) isn’t “bad” as such, it just feels really weak when you compare it to other the other 3D Capcom games of the era (especially the Street Fighter EX games).

Graphics

The graphics in Final Fight Revenge are possibly the biggest drawback of the whole experience.

I respect that the game was going for a more cartoonish look in places, especially during some of the characters’ special attacks, but as the fighters only have a few more polygons than the original Virtua Fighter (a title that was released more than 6 years prior to this one!), the whole thing just looks incredibly dated.

For a fighting game that was released by a major company in the months leading up to the millennium, there is truly no excuse for it to look this horrible.

Stages

The game includes a variety of different stages to fight in, each lifted from several areas in the first Final Fight game, including alleyways, marketplaces, public parks, junkyards, wastelands and more.

While there’s nothing particularly spectacular about any of these stages, they’re mostly better than the graphics of the fighters that occupy them during a match.

It’s a nice look at Metro City, if not a bit of a lifeless one.

Replayability

Besides the standard arcade and versus modes, there really isn’t much else that would warrant a player ever returning to the game once they’ve finished a playthrough.

The character endings are a single image each with some basic text, then we’re “treated” to the zombified final boss, Belger, dancing along to the music as the credits roll.

And yes, he does the Thriller dance, because of course he does.

With the rich amount of Final Fight lore from the decade that preceded it, along with the cast of characters that could have been in the game, the severe lack of content here further pushes just how much of a wasted opportunity Final Fight Revenge really is.

Final thoughts & overall score

Final Fight Revenge is an incredibly disappointing experience. Considering the sheer amount of 3D fighting games that preceded it, it’s utterly baffling to try and figure out why a game released in 1999 looks worse than games from more than half a decade before it.

While it’s definitely hard to recommend this to even the most die-hard of Final Fight fans (or fighting game fans, for that matter), it is saved by the skin of its teeth by the fact that the game doesn’t take itself too seriously and by including a number of interesting special moves.

As a concept, a fighting game based on the Final Fight franchise has so much potential, so it’s a shame to see it squandered with such a sub-par execution.

Do you agree with our review of Final Fight Revenge?

Let us know in the comments section below!

[sabraeal]

Do Not Go (Where I Cannot Follow): Part 2

(Sequel to this prompt. And, I suppose, this one.)

Below her wrists, Shirayuki’s hands are numb.

Her fingers are frozen into talons, clutching at Obi’s coat, trying to will heat into his body. He’s silent, so utterly still, skin far too cold to the touch; only hint of life the bone-deep shivers that wrack his body.

She presses tighter, closer, and wishes she had more than a horse blanket and her cape to keep him warm. The shallow hitch of his breath pushes against her belly, and she can almost hear him say, oh, you know what they say is the best way to share heat, Miss...

Panic chokes her; she buries her head in his shoulder to stifle the tears leaking from the corners of her eyes. Oh, how she hates this, how she despises waiting for rescue. How she hates not knowing.

“Not much longer,” she tells him. An hour, she only has to wait an hour. She set the flare off --

Ah, she hadn’t -- the pocket watch is still tucked between her dress and jacket, she hadn’t even thought to check --

“I promise,” she croaks, ear pressed to his chest to hear the slow beat of his heart. “I promise it won’t be long.”

Blood crusts on her coat, stiffening the fur. None of his wounds are fatal by themselves -- not even where the sword went through him -- but together he has lost too much blood. His injuries may not kill him, but the shock might. With every shiver she’s reminded he’s too weak to stave off hypothermia, that he needs to be on a bed of straw and not snow.

She has no warning but the crunch of snow, and – oh, oh, how she should have done what Obi would, and made sure their enemies were dead –

She will not let them take her.

His knife feels foreign in her hand, so unlike the ones she uses for cooking or chopping herbs in the pharmacy. It is heavier than she expects for such thin blades, and she wonders if it’s possible for the blood it’s shed to weigh it down, but –

But a hand comes heavy down on her shoulder, and she swings out, all too eager to add to its heft –

The man stumbles back, tipping bottom-first into the drift to evade the arc of her knife. “My lady!”

Her breath bursts out of her, spattering the air between them. “Jirou! Have you – are you–?”

“We saw your flare, my lady.” His mouth parts in a sheepish grin, one she’s grown so used to over the years. Something in her aches to see it now, when she feels as if her home gets further from her with each breath. “Sir Obi was right, we could see it clear --”

His gaze slides past her, to where Obi’s chest struggles to rise with his breath.

There is nothing in all her medical texts to explain what happens to the human face when confronted with tragedy. She knows every muscle, every bone, but none of them account for the way Jirou’s face subtly crumples when he sees Obi’s body.

“Sir Obi,” he manages, jaw set. “Is he -- will he--?”

Her hands clench. “I don’t…”

There are no words. The answer is unfathomable.

Another hand closes around her wrist, but she knows the touch too well to startle, even though she feels it so rarely. Its partner plucks the blade from her hands. She hadn’t even known she was still holding it.

“Shirayuki.” It’s strange how deep Ryuu’s voice has become. She left only hours ago, but it sounds deeper, more like a man’s than she remembers. “You’re all right now.”

It is as if she was cursed, and his touch has broken it. Where once she was immobile, frozen by her fear, she is no longer.

She turns to him, watching as he smoothly tucks the knife into his belt, beside one of a slightly different make. It’s made for his smaller hands; a gift. No longer smaller than her, he is not yet taller that Obi, but standing there in the clearing, breath thick on the air, she sees the man in him.

“Ryuu,” she gasps, and then he is lurching toward her, his long limbs catching her before she can fall too far into his arms.

His hand pats at her back, awkward in the embrace. Time hasn’t changed that. “It will…you’ll be fine. We can…we can handle this.”

Tears sting her eyes, and for an indulgent moment she presses her face into his shoulder, letting them seep hotly into the fabric there. With a sniff, she pulls back, eyes dry.

“You’re right,” she says, voice even. “We need to get him back to the pharmacy. On a litter, preferably. And with blankets.”

Ryuu nods, quietly nodding at the men behind her. It’s when they pull out the furs from a cart that she realizes – Ryuu had already thought of everything. He could be doing this –

“What else?” he prompts, patient, and she knows – she knows this is for her benefit. He is giving her the control she so desperately needs.

“Well,” she starts, smile tugging weakly at her lips. “We’ll need to elevate his feet. And I’ll need to see what’s in your kit…”

The illusion lasts until they reach the castle.

A mob of pharmacists and surgeons waiting for them when the cart stops. Shidan steps forward, trailing a dozen master pharmacists behind him. Suzu is not far behind, surging through the crowd to stand at his mentor’s side. His concern is palpable as he leans over the cart, taking in the pallor of Obi’s normally bronzed face, but it is Shidan, mouth bent grimly, who asks, “What happened?”

“He was run through.” She’s impressed at the levelness of her voice, the way it hardly shakes as she speaks. “It hasn’t seemed to hit anything vital, and the bleeding is mostly staunched, but he’s in shock, and hypothermia is –”

“All right.” He nods, gesturing for some of the crowd to come forward, to lift Obi onto an awaiting litter. “Let’s hope it’s as good as you say.”

Shirayuki isn’t sure what about that litany of medical emergencies sounds good, sounds positive, but by the time she’s recovered enough to ask, Shidan’s already turned from her. He steps away, all focus, directing the pharmacists behind him. When he leaves, the crowd follows, materializing litter and hands to carry Obi away.

She rises to follow as well, but Suzu holds up a hand, catching her by the shoulder.

“Shirayuki.” His voice is barely above a murmur, his eyes wide. “You’re bleeding.”

She lifts a hand to her face; it comes away dark with sticky crimson. The tree. She scraped it up on the bark, right before –

She struggles against him. “I have to help. I know what happened, what I did –”

“Please,” Ryuu says, so softly behind her. He ducks his head, eyes fixed to some point on the cobbles. “Let me handle this, Shirayuki.”

“I –”

“Oh my goodness, Shirayuki.” Yuzuri surges forward, seizing her in a hug. “I saw the flare, and I...” Her words die away as she takes in the doubtlessly ugly scrape on her cheek, the blood soaking her coat. “What – what happened? How –?”

“They were waiting,” she says tightly, and oh, if that isn’t a thing she’ll need to think more about. She’d hate to allude to a traitor to Izana without more proof than a botched mission. “We were ambushed.”

“Oh my.” Yuzuri pulls back, eyes searching. “You’re bleeding! Why hasn’t –?”

“I need to help with Obi,” she presses, but Suzu shakes his head, patting her on the shoulder.

“Just let us handle it. You’re almost frozen through.”

“I –”

“I can fix you up,” Yuzuri offers, eager.

“No, I –”

“Shirayuki, please.” Suzu’s gaze is pleading, earnest. “I won’t let anything happen to him. Neither will Ryuu.”

Yuzuri squeezes her. “He couldn’t be in better hands, if they can’t be yours. Besides,” Yuzuri reaches out, tucking a sticky clump of her hair behind her ear, “You have to give me something to do. I can’t sit around, know that Obi is...”

Her breath hitches. “That I can’t do anything.”

“Yuzuri,” Shirayuki breathes, gripping the other girl’s hand. She forgets sometimes that she is not the only one who cares, the only person Obi might think of as his home here in Lyrias.

Yuzuri squeezes her fingers, eyes bright. “I can’t do anything for him but take care of you. And neither can you right now.”

Shirayuki lets out a long, steady sigh and nods slowly. “All right. All right.”

She stares at the blood on her palms. She does not let herself wonder whose it is. “Let’s get me cleaned up.”

He arrives from surgery stitched and sterile, the blood that had caked his clothes and skin washed away by Lyrias’s medicinal waters. Shirayuki breathes easier just seeing him, her hands loosening in her robe as she takes the chair by his bedside.

“As long as infection doesn’t take, he should be fine,” Shidan tells her. She knows it already, and he must as well, but -- but there is something about hearing another voice echo the one echoing in her head that is...comforting. That makes her feel as though she is not just seeing what she wants to see.

He’s lost a lot of blood, his skin still ghastly pale, but already he looks better. They’ve left a shirt off of him -- easier to get at his wounds -- and Shirayuki’s stomach lifts, wondering how soon it will be before she’ll hear his lilting voice, hear I should have known you’d let the apprentices get to me, or, if you’d like a show there are easier ways, Miss.

“The sedative should be wearing off soon.” Shidan answers so swiftly, she wonders if she spoke aloud. “I wouldn’t be surprised if he was up for a little while when it does. You know what to dose him with, if he’s bothered.”

“Yes!” she says, a little too eager. She coughs, swallowing down her blush. “I mean, yes. Aya already brought in some roka liquor, just iin case.”

He gives her a soft, relieved smile. “I’ll leave you to it, then.”

Shidan is right, of course. She’s hardly waited a quarter of an hour before Obi groans, hand flopping uselessly on the bed, too weak to lift to his temple.

“Ah, who finally decided to hit me with a cart,” he sighs, eyes fluttering open. They seek her out first, a smile weakly spreading his lips when he finds her so close. “Never thought you’d be so heavy handed when you finally decided to get rid of me.”

“If I wanted you to go, I’d just ask.” She lets her lips part in a grin she only half-feels. “Or I’d let Ryuu help poison you.”

He grimaces, though with good humor. “I’ll keep that in mind, Miss.”

She wants to talk to him, wants to make him promise he’ll never make her worry like this again, but –

But his eyelids flutter, and he is so tired, so worn, she cannot bring herself to ruin to moment, to break his peace. So she doesn’t.

After all, there will always be later.

It is his breathing that wakes her, a gasp like a fish on a dock.

Shirayuki’s out of her seat in a moment, fingers over his pulse, taking in how fast it is, how poor his coloring, how sunken he looks –

She peels back the poultice on his abdomen, brushing away calendula and chamomile to see livid red around the stitches.

“Mallow root,” she breathes, staring at the swollen ridge of his cut. “I need --” She rushes to the door, grabbing an apprentice as she walks by. “I need mallow root, and honey, and -- and fever few. Anything, please.”

The girl runs off, scurrying down the hall as fast as her legs can carry her. Shirayuki silently urges her faster. Time is of the essence.

Infection has taken hold.

He is too pale.

Shirayuki sits with her head in her hands, trying to forget the way his skin burned beneath her palms, the way his breath still labors. He only has to make it through the night; after that the worst is over, it’s all recovery as long as she can keep the infection at bay, but –

But morning is hours away, and his face is sunken, skeletal where it rests against the pillow. In her mind’s eye, she sees him healthy, sees him shrugging off every scar with a smirk and a wink, invincible, but –

But he is as mortal as anyone, like this. Death has always clung to his coattails, but tonight it looms over him, stealing his breath, wondering if it might have its fill.

Her hand fumbles for his blindly, wrapping her fingers around his limp ones. “Obi.” Her voice cracks in the silence. “Obi, don’t go.”

Don’t leave me. Even now she can’t bear to say the words.

Why would I let you go, his voice whispers in her ears, when all I ever want is to have you closer?

Shirayuki stares sightlessly down at their clasped hands. Palms kissing over the blankets is not enough. It’s not close, not for them.

She’s on her feet before she thinks better of it, dropping her robe on the chair and lifting her knees to the mattress. There are footsteps in the hallway as it dips under her, but it doesn’t stop her – no one here would keep her from Obi, would tell her that her place was not next to him. There are no agents of Wistal’s court here to remind her of courtly propriety, and if there were, they could not keep her.

He needs her, and that is enough. If these are to be his last moments – if these are to be her last moments with him – she will spend them by his side, just as he wanted in that clearing. Just as he said he always wanted.

Even as her body relaxes into his familiar shape, she stiffens. Why would he –?

I was longing for Master, he says, and since this is memory, since this is before she knew the exact shape of his heart, she believes him. After such a long time, anyone would go a little mad.

It hasn’t stopped, he says, so much later. It’s practically a purr, but it can’t have been, not really, not then. My heart.

“Oh, Obi.” She leans her head on his chest, tears pricking at the corners of her eyes. It rises raggedly under her hand, and oh, how she never meant any of this to happen. How terrible had all this been for him, having her so close, being so close, and he –

He never had a chance; her heart had been firmly stolen before they ever spoke, even if she had not known it. And he -- he must have known, if he would only give her such sly words to tell her. Only small glimpses of his true feelings, ones that she, so blind to everything, would never have seen.

He had stayed, always at her side. And she had always looked to Zen –

She hesitates, her hand tightly wound in the sheets. Had she? Had it been Zen she turned to?

Her heart clenches to imagine Zen in this bed, in as much danger as Obi, but –

But if he was, would she be by his side?

Her stomach churns at the answer. Even as his wife she would be behind a set of grand doors, waiting for news while Izana and Haruka made plans, while Garrack was the only set of hands allowed to administer to him. She would be shut away from the realest parts of his life, as she always was. Zen was not hers, not like –

“Miss?” His voice is a croak, weak and broken, but it is the most beautiful sounds she has ever heard. His eyes open to a slit, gold peeking through the cage of his lashes. “Are you crying?”

She lifts a hand to her cheek, staining her palm with hot tears. “Oh.”

“Don’t cry.” He dropd his cheek to the top of her head. His fingers tighten on hers, too weak for much else. “You’re meant to be happy.”

“I’m s-sorry,” she stutters, trying to force the words past the lump in her throat. Each time she brushes them away, more tears leak in their place. “I didn’t realize.”

“Don’t worry about it.” He sinks back into the pillow, eyes shut, breath thready. “Have I died, Miss?”

“No.” She doesn’t mean for it to come out so harsh, but he barely reacts. “No, Obi. Why would you think that?”

He grins, sly. “I have you in bed with me.”

He sounds so much like himself that she nearly scold him, but instead --

Instead, he laughs. “But obviously that’s not what would be waiting for me. So I must be dreaming.”

Her hands shake against the skin of his chest. “Don’t say that, Obi.”

To speak something is to make it real, she thinks, but she can’t say that, not now. Not even to hear him hum, to hear him say, Ah, so superstitious, Miss.

“Did I get you home safely, Miss?” he asks, brow furrowed. “You’re not in the snow still?”

“No, Obi.” She pets the smooth skin of his chest, finger brushing over the ragged mark of his scar. “You did it. You saved me.”

“Good.” He smiles, as if at peace. “It’s only fair, since you saved me.”

“Obi --”

“I never got to tell you,” he starts, almost anxious, as if he feels time slipping through their fingers.

Her heart gives a great throb in her chest. He can’t mean to – surely now is not the time –

She’s not ready for this, she might never be ready to hear this. “I never got to tell you a lot of things.”

She manages, “What is it, Obi?”

Silence stretches for a long while, taut, the only movement from him the harsh sound of his breath.

“Thank you.” It’s hardly more than an exhale.

Her brow furrows. “For what?”

“For the cakes,” he says, so simply. “And the strawberries. And the dumplings too. Your mother was a wonderful cook.”

He must be delirious. How could he have ever met her mother –?

“I’m only sorry I couldn’t keep them for longer.” His smile turns shy. “I’m afraid I made a bit of a mess of myself that day.”

Something niggles at the back of her mind, a memory –

-- He looks like a dog that’s been wandering the woods for too long. He’s ravenous; he even eats the green tops to the strawberries --

“Shouldn’t eat that much on an empty stomach,” he scolds playfully. “That’s what you’d tell me now.”

“The boy,” she breathes. He had been so small, so different. The scars on him had been only on the inside then. “You were the boy. I looked for you for weeks.”

“I wish I had stayed.” His nose nuzzles her temple. “I could have had so much more time with you.”

“Things would have been different,” she murmurs, pressing close to him. She rarely deals in what-ifs, but tonight --

Tonight she sees a different life. “We would have been like siblings.”

He lets out a weak laugh. “I doubt I would have ever felt brotherly toward you, Miss.”

Just the way he says it, so casual, sets her heart to racing.

“Cousins then,” she compromises with a smile, trying not to show how her hands shake, how her cheeks flush. “You could have slept next to me in the loft.”

“You would have kept me up all night with your chattering,” he complains.

Her eyebrows raise. “Me?”

He grins, but it fades in a moment, his breath coming out as a painful rasp.

“You know,” she says, voice tight with fear. “You scared me for a minute there.”

His eyebrow lifts. “Did I?”

“Yes.” Her hand squeezes his. “When you said you had something to tell me.”

“Thought I might scold you for being foolish, Miss?”

She laughs. “No. I thought,” she licks her lips, “I thought you were going to tell me you loved me.”

He takes a long, labored breath.

“Oh, Miss,” he sighs. “I thought that went without saying.”

She never thought she’d see a man so at peace when he confesses. “Obi --”

And with a single rattle, he stops breathing completely.