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snowballseal · 2 days ago

Text

My Dearest

Part 5

LaDS Zayne X Foreseer!Reader

Prologue / Part 4

Summary: Things take a turn in the dead of night. Confessions are made after Zayne suffers a nightmare, and you realize you may have a bigger part in his Fate than you originally thought.

Word Count: 2993

Note: Things are picking up >w< in good and bad ways

Warning!!!! This chapter covers topics of illness, death, torture, and some intense emotions. There is a lot of angst. Zayne's backstory is not nice (woops) but neither is his in-game backstory! Also, he may be a bit ooc, but aren't we all in the face of trauma?

Anyways, read at your own peril and please be safe.

---

Sickness comes with a scent.

Every muscle in Zayne’s body draws taut at the familiarity of it. A cloying mix of bitterness and overly ripe fruit. Bile and medicine and sweat. It lingers in the stale air, thick and even more suffocating than the heat.

“Dab perfume under your nose if you wish to mask the scent.”

The familiar tone of his teacher’s voice murmurs from his side, muffled and distant, as if his ears are stuffed with cotton. Zayne looks, thinks he looks, but the hall before him is empty, stretching and warping and twisting.

A cold feeling sinks into his gut, violently screaming that he is meant to be somewhere else, he is meant to be working, doing something, helping someone.

And his feet are moving. Racing. Throwing him down the endless hallway. Panic buzzes like a thousand ants under his skin.

what have you done what have you done what have you done

The world blurs around him, details colliding, fissioning along the edges of his vision, drifting yet still. Dread curls around his throat like a noose as the scent thickens in the air, rusted iron and sweet perfume and sickness. So intense he can taste it on his tongue. So intense he could choke.

“Give me the medicine.”

“Teacher-”

“There is no time, give it to me, Zayne! We mustn’t let her die!”

The words echo down the grand hall. A thousand voices, overlapping, repeating, screaming, whispering, coming from nowhere and everywhere. They rake across his mind, so violent and clear that even covering his ears can’t drown them out.

Desperation forms like a pit in his stomach.

He can’t let that happen. He can’t fail, not when he’s come so far, not when he’s had to prove himself over and over and over again. He can’t.

It was merely Fate.

A door appears before him and he slams into the heavy wood without hesitation, forcing his way into the all too familiar room. The room he spent so many days in. The room drenched in floral perfumes to disguise the scent of death.

Everything stops.

A bed sits in the middle of the room. Small. Empty. White.

Except for the pool of blood at the head.

His knees hit the ground, the chill of the tiles seeping across his sweat-soaked body.

It was merely Fate…

“You killed my daughter.”

No no no

No, he did everything he could. He worked day and night, researching, brewing medicine, wiping the sweat from her small face. He sacrificed so much-

“I will watch you suffer, just as she did.”

Everything fades, blurs, giving way to a darkness that threatens to drown him.

And then the pain.

The sharp edge of a knife dragging across his fingers, digging into the flesh of his palms, drawing streams of thick thick blood. His skin burns, as though his hands have been forced into the coals of a kindled fire, the flames eating away at his blood and pouring into his veins. He chokes on the pain, on the metallic scent of his own blood, and it’s too much too much to-

“Zayne!”

Zayne jolts up in bed.

Panic strangles him, blinds him, his hands trembling so viciously as he grips at the thick pelts at his waist. The pain lingers so vividly in his skin and he can hardly breathe, his chest aching, throat burning.

Until a cool hand presses against his cheek, touch featherlight and hesitant, and his whole body lurches.

Frenzied, hazel eyes meet yours, and you stare back at him, unwavering.

“Breathe, Zayne,” you murmur, voice tense, commanding, desperate.

And so he does.

---

You’re not sure what wakes you.

The night is still, almost unnervingly so. No storm, no gales, not a single sound you would expect to hear at such a late hour. It is as though the weather itself has grown tired, though the peace feels far more dangerous than the storm.

Your body unwilling to return to a state of sleep, you find yourself wandering the halls aimlessly. It has always brought you comfort, tracing the lines of stone that make up your Tower’s walls. You can feel where your feet take you most often, the edge worn to smoothness under your fingertips, leading you to the staircase that ends at your former bedroom. Where Zayne rests.

You pause at the foot of the stairs, casting your gaze up into the dark, climbing spiral.

How odd that your instincts bring you here. It almost makes you feel a touch pathetic, knowing that your subconscious is drawn to him so certainly. Only a few days have passed since you allowed the ice to thaw between you, and here you are, seeking this man as if he is the only one capable of settling this unease in your chest.

Ridiculous.

Sharply, you turn away, ready to retreat back to your new room, to make another attempt at sleep -

Until a shuddering gasp echoes down the stairs, a gasp filled with pain.

Suddenly your feet are taking you up.

And the sight you find at the top has your whole body freezing over.

Zayne lays twisted in the pelts of your bed, every muscle drawn inhumanly taut as he arches off the bed, a thin sheen of sweat clinging to his blanched skin. It is the body of a man ravaged by pure agony, his chest heaving with labored breaths, like his soul is being torn from his flesh.

You move to the side of the bed, magic prickling wildly under your skin as a foreign sense of panic sweeps over you, dropping the temperature in the room drastically. Your eyes scan him, just as wildly, looking for any injuries, any blood, any reason he might be experiencing such pain, but you find a disturbing lack of anything. His body is untouched, apart from his old injuries.

So why is he facing such torment?

“Zayne?” You call, wavering beside the bed. You can’t sit. That would be too close. Too comfortable. You can’t cross that boundary, you can’t.

Yet when the man cries out between his gritted teeth, the sound so completely broken, you can’t bring yourself to stay at a distance.

The bed shifts under your hesitant weight. Now that you’re closer, you can see the stark paleness of his face, the tight clench of his jaw and eyes, the way his dark hair sticks to his forehead. Your hand wavers in your lap, torn between waking him and being unsure of if you should interfere yet again. Could this not be Fate’s form of punishment?

Though, once again, the decision is made for you when Zayne turns his head, face going tight with such inconceivable pain, his fingers curling desperately into the edge of your cloak.

Your mouth sets into a thin line.

This is not atonement. This is torture.

“Zayne!”

---

“Breathe, Zayne.”

The man takes in air greedily. His whole body trembles with the effort, the cold air easing the burning ache in his throat. And your touch. Your palm is so cool against his heated skin, pressing tenderly against his cheek, like the soft touch of snow.

Mind too torn for proper judgement, he lifts a shaking hand to yours, nuzzling further into your gentle touch. His warm, quivering breath brushes over your pulse, filling your senses with him him him. The balmy heat of his skin, the light touch of his raven hair tickling your fingers, the desperation with which he holds to you, one hand still wrapped in the edge of your robes, as though you might disappear.

How long has it been since someone has wanted you?

A sickening tenderness grips you by the throat, the tension between your shoulders easing as Zayne takes a few deep breaths, face near buried in your palm. Your fingers skim gently over his cheek, magic seeping through your touch to ease his temperature, as you’re not sure what else you can do.

How does one comfort a human? You’re not sure. You have never wanted to. Yet, in this moment, with this man, you want to do nothing but. You want to ease the tightness between his brows and take the pain from his body, his mind, his soul, even if you have to experience it yourself. Oh, how far you have fallen.

Eventually, Zayne breathing begins to even out. The roaring pace of his heart eases to something normal, adrenaline dripping away and leaving behind a mess of sore muscles. Breathing out a sigh, his eyes flicker back open, pupils wide and dark, glazed with exhaustion.

And then he realizes just the position he is in - his hand trapping yours against his face, his other wrinkling the beautiful fabric of your robes, the mere foot of separation between your body and his.

He rips his hands away, a raspy apology lost on his lips, but you do not move. Your fingers do not waver against his cheek, tracing the dampness of his skin with such utter tenderness. A low shudder traces Zayne’s spine when he feels your magic curling within the depths of his body, like streams of cool water flowing over every nerve. It feels far too intimate, as though you’ve connected yourself to him, as though you are curling your very soul around him.

“My lady,” Zayne chokes, low and rough, eyes desperately searching yours. Why?

You find that you have no answer.

“I have never witnessed someone suffer such a violent dream,” you admit instead, hand drifting down to settle on the curve of his neck.

Another shiver wracks Zayne’s body, though this one you interpret as being due to the cold of your touch.

“My apologies.” You start to pull away, glancing to the side. “You must be far too cold now-”

“No-!”

Both of you freeze as his fingers wrap desperately around your wrist. His touch is still searing, such a stark contrast to your ice - a pleasant one. You turn your eyes back to him, careful to keep your emotions under control. You can’t both be lost.

Zayne wavers. He glances down to where his skin touches yours, his long fingers so effortlessly encircling your wrist. You could pull away with ease, you could reprimand him harshly for stepping too far, for being a mere human daring to touch such divinity, but you do not. You simply sit, watch, as if waiting to see what he will do next.

“I-” Wetting his lips, he allows his dwindling adrenaline to make him brave, and dares to press a little closer. Close enough to lean back into your touch. “I do not dislike the cold, my lady.”

I do not dislike your touch.

Quite the contrary. Zayne desires nothing more than to wrap himself in it, to indulge in the smooth satin of your skin, to press his lips to every curve and every plane, to see if your body will flush under his attention.

What a heathen he has become.

“Not many find comfort in my presence,” you murmur, almost doubtful, as if you wish to correct him in this. “Most claim my touch is as cold as the ice in my veins.”

“My internal temperature runs higher than most,” he assures you, unyielding, gaze soft but certain, “I suffered often during the heat of the warmer seasons. My teacher-”

A lump forms in Zayne’s throat.

His teacher. The dream. It flickers back through his mind, pain still lingering in his fingers, his scars. Ever since he arrived at the Tower, such memories have been so distant, he had almost thought the nightmares were over.

How foolish of him.

Reading Zayne is like reading a book, you find as you notice the subtle shift in his expression. One must pay close attention, lest they miss his soul. But you have grown too familiar with his being to miss the distant look in his eyes, as though they are locked on something you cannot see. His fingers curl tighter around your wrist.

The thin scars on his skin catch your attention, and you allow yourself to analyze them for a brief moment. Up close, there are far more than you originally thought. The sight makes your chest clench with something you don’t recognize, and your fingers move without thinking, tracing one of the thin marks.

The touch draws Zayne back and he flinches as though he has been burned. His hand drops to his lap, tucking close to his body, as if he wishes to hide it.

Is that what his dream was about?

Your voice comes out soft when you press, perhaps too soft, “Were the humans who injured your knee also the ones to do so to your hands?”

Zayne swallows thickly, jaw flexing.

“They were.”

“As punishment?”

“Yes.”

“...May I see?”

He takes a sharp breath, hands curling tightly around each other until his knuckles go white.

“They are unsightly, my lady,” he tries, voice raw. Afraid.

“If I were to show you my scars, would you deem them unsightly?” You challenge, brows steepling with gentle disapproval.

No, no of course he wouldn’t. He would rather cut out his tongue than speak such a blatant lie. No scar could tarnish your beauty, though the thought of anything marring your body, marking the delicate color of your skin, fills him with something violent and so uncharacteristically possessive. How dare someone harm you. How dare they spill your blood. He can only hope they are suffering a far worse fate than his own.

None of these thoughts pass the tight grit of his teeth, though.

“I wouldn’t dare,” he whispers instead, eyes downcast.

“Then I would ask you not to think so lowly of me,” you murmur, “Do not forget, mortal, I saved your life. I have been witness to you hanging between life and death and I have witnessed far more gruesome realities than anything you may know. Scars are merely Fate’s way of allowing us to remember what once was so we may continue into what is.”

It is meant to be comforting in some way, in the only way you know how. Fate may be cruel, but not all she allows must be viewed with an eye of suffering. You know that all too well.

And it seems to ease Zayne’s worries, if only a little. The stiffness fades from his body, and he only hesitates a moment before wordlessly offering you his hands, fingers still trembling imperceptibly.

Slowly, you allow your fingers to trace over his, touch lighter than the drifting snow. His muscles twitch, stutter, moving away before pressing back into you like a tide against the sand, more determined, more certain. Still, you keep your movements slow, keenly aware of the unsteady rise and fall of his chest.

His skin is still so warm against yours. It is like holding the sun compared to the biting cold that lingers in your flesh. You trace the fine lines of his knuckles, brush your thumb over the surprisingly soft skin of his palm, trailing down the inside of his wrist. He sucks in another short breath, pulse jumping under your fingers, but remains perfectly still under your attention.

His scars are many, indeed. They cover every inch of his hands, down his fingers, over his knuckles. Faint lines that gleam almost like silver on his pale skin. The marks are easy to recognize, likely from a small knife. How much pain each one must have inflicted…

“Humans can be quite cruel…” It is nothing but a whisper, shivering in the air with muted anger.

Zayne’s chest aches. He wants to agree, he wants to feel the rage you bear so easily. He wants to hate them as much as you do, and maybe a part of him does, but-

“You killed my daughter.”

He nearly chokes on the guilt.

Brows furrowing, your other palm presses more firmly to his jaw, slowly tilting his face up. Your eyes bore into him with such intensity, as if you can strip him bare and draw out every vulnerable thought trapped in his body. And, in part, you do. In the depths of his eyes, wide and dark like a lamb before the slaughter, you see his despair. It threatens to fracture your frozen heart.

“What sin could warrant such suffering?”

The words ache behind Zayne’s teeth, words he has never spoken, a story he has buried so deep under his skin, that drawing it out now feels like stripping his own flesh. What will you think? Your kindness, your mercy, wasted on a man like him. You may very well choose to end his life, as it should have ended in the kingdom, as it should have in the cold grip of Mount Eternal.

But he owes you far more than just his life, doesn’t he?

“I was a student under a renowned physician at the time,” he rasps eventually, fingers twitching in your grip. Anxious. “The royal court called upon us by name. The king’s daughter was ill, a broken leg that led to infection. My teacher claimed it was an honor to treat her, but it was worse than we expected. Her symptoms were unheard of together, and we spent every hour pouring over medicinal journals to find a cure. We tried everything…but nothing worked. The sickness took her only a few days after we arrived.”

So this is his sin, according to man. Being unable to stop the death of a child, a princess. A death seemingly no one could stop…

A feeling of sickness washes over you suddenly, like a pit opening beneath your feet.

You know this tale. You know it far too well.

It was a prophecy from your own lips.

Your fingers tighten around Zayne’s hand, his scars now burning against your palms.

Fate may wield the sword, but you may as well be the one who sentenced him to death.

---

This chapter was interesting to try and balance. It started off way different, but I kept hitting a wall, so I changed it to start with the nightmare and it all made a lot more sense to me. I hope there was enough comfort to balance out the angst, sorry!

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