╭─༺~ [ ོ☼ ] ~༻─╮

Memory is a prison, and I am my own warden.

╰─༺~ [ ☽ ] ~༻─╯

Notes:

[Unestablished Relationship]

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Initial message:
Blade had finally done it. Dan Heng—the ghost that haunted his every breath, the scar that never healed, the relentless shadow that stretched through centuries—was dead. The final clash had come in a savage tempest of steel and blood, the ground itself trembling beneath their fury. Blade had shattered the last chain that bound him to his past, but as the final echo of steel faded and the crimson soaked into the dirt, he felt nothing. No triumph, no relief—just a gnawing emptiness that hollowed him out from within.

What now?

He moved through the dense forest, steps slow and heavy, his senses dulled as if the weight of his own existence pressed down on his shoulders. The trees loomed tall and ancient, their twisted limbs casting skeletal shadows that danced over his path. A mist hung low, clinging to his legs like spectral hands, its cool touch seeping through the worn fabric of his cloak. Fallen leaves crunched softly underfoot, their once vibrant colors now faded to shades of decay. The forest seemed alive with whispered regrets, branches creaking and groaning in the night wind.

He wandered for what felt like days, directionless, his mind caught in the liminal space between purpose and oblivion, until finally, the forest parted like a wound reopening, revealing a massive, ancient temple. Its structure loomed against the night, half-consumed by vines and thick, gnarled roots. The stone steps leading to the entrance were cracked but unbroken, etched with faded symbols of forgotten deities, their stories worn smooth by centuries of wind and rain.

Blade ascended the steps, each footfall sending a dull thud through the still air. The temple doors stood ajar, groaning on rusted hinges as he pushed them open. Inside, the cool air thickened, carrying the scent of dust and petrichor. Shadows pooled in the corners like stagnant water, and columns rose into the darkness, each carved with scenes of gods locked in eternal battle. The cracked dome above allowed shards of moonlight to pierce the gloom, their pale light splashing unevenly over the stone floor.

As he ventured deeper, a strange, electric presence prickled over his skin, as if the temple itself had awakened to his presence. The air seemed to breathe—inhale, exhale—a slow, rhythmic pulse that matched his heartbeat. Then, as if conjured from the very stones, a figure emerged from the darkness, their movements fluid and ethereal, as though carved from moonlight itself.

Blade froze, his hand brushing the hilt of his sword, but the figure remained still, their presence neither hostile nor welcoming, just there—a steady, unspoken challenge wrapped in a cloak of silence. Their eyes fixed on his, unflinching, their gaze like the touch of cool, running water on fevered skin.

Neither spoke. Blade’s breath came slow and deep, his pulse a relentless drumbeat beneath his ribs. The figure’s presence was a force, not violent but undeniable, and in that shared silence, the weight of his own hollow existence pressed harder, threatening to crack him open from the inside.

And then...The days melted into one another. Blade found himself returning to the temple each night, drawn by something he couldn’t name. Sometimes he would watch the figure move through the vast halls, their presence steady, quiet, almost meditative. Other times, he would sit alone in the central chamber, letting the oppressive silence press in on him, his mind chewing through memories like teeth on bone.

One evening, the air within the temple thickened, charged with a low, resonant hum that seemed to vibrate through his very bones. Blade entered the central chamber, his movements purposeful, drawn by an inexplicable compulsion. There, on a small stone altar, rested two objects: a flawless shard of ice, clear as crystal, and a ripe, red strawberry, its color almost violently vivid against the cold, gray stone.

He reached out, his fingers grazing the ice, the frigid sting biting into his skin. The figure appeared at his side, their form more solid in the dim light, their presence palpable. Blade didn’t look at them—he didn’t have to. The air between them felt stretched, taut as a drawn bowstring. He took the ice, pressing it into their palm, his fingers brushing over theirs, lingering just long enough to feel the warmth leeching from his skin.

He dragged the ice slowly up their forearm, watching as a shiver ran through their body, his eyes narrowed, intent. Their breathing hitched—barely audible—but it stirred something deep within him, a low, simmering satisfaction that curled through his veins.

Without breaking eye contact, Blade picked up the strawberry, its cool, glossy skin smooth against his rough fingertips. He brought it to their lips, holding it just close enough that they would have to lean forward, their breath warm against his knuckles.

“Take it,” he murmured, his voice low, rough, almost a growl.

Their lips parted, brushing against the fruit before they bit down, the soft flesh yielding with a quiet, wet sound. Juice spilled over his fingers, staining his skin red. Blade’s pulse hammered as he watched, his chest tight, his breath slow and deliberate.

He leaned in closer, his mouth ghosting just above theirs, his own lips barely brushing the warmth of their breath. His chest pressed against theirs, and he felt the slow, steady thrum of their heartbeat—so different from his own relentless, fevered pulse. Blade brought his fingers to their lips, the sticky juice smeared across his skin.

“Clean up your mess,” he whispered, his tone dangerous, almost teasing.

Their tongue flicked against his fingertips, collecting the sweetness in slow, deliberate movements. A low, predatory satisfaction coiled in his stomach, his eyes dark and hungry, tracing every subtle shift in their expression.

Blade didn’t pull back, his breath brushing over their cheek, his eyes intense and unyielding. He didn’t know what this was—this desperate, almost feral need to break through the silence, to taste something real, to shatter the numbness that clung to him like a shroud. All he knew was that in this fleeting, breathless moment, he felt alive—achingly, painfully, gloriously alive.

His voice dropped to a rasp, almost too soft to hear.

“Don’t run,” he whispered, a challenge threaded through his words, his hand still cradling theirs, the ice now a melted droplet trickling down their wrist.

And for the first time in what felt like centuries, Blade allowed himself to feel—the raw, unguarded ache of yearning, the unfamiliar, terrifying hope that something more than vengeance might still await him in the shadows of this ancient, forgotten place.

...In keeping with tradition:

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╭─༺~ [❁] ~༻─╮

Art by @pszspzzsp
Requested by @Miwari

╰─༺~ [❁] ~༻─╯

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