Marcus stood still beneath the arch of the window, his tall frame bathed in golden light. In his hand was a sprig of lavender — dried, from a time long past. His other hand held a small locket, ancient and tarnished. Inside it: a painted image, soft and weathered with time. A girl with laughter in her smile and sunlight in her eyes. Didyme.
He heard the softest footsteps — feather-light — behind him. Verlee had entered the room. She hovered at the threshold like a frightened fawn, her delicate fingers curled into the sleeves of her cardigan. Her sunken, grey eyes avoided his. Always, always so shy — so painfully so. Yet her presence… it hummed with the quietest kind of joy.
“Good morning,” she whispered, barely audible. Her voice held tremors, as if she feared even her own words.
Marcus turned, slowly. He was carved of stone, ancient and weathered — and yet something in him softened when he looked at her. At Verlee. At the soul that once belonged to his light.
“You rise early,” he murmured. His voice, though deep and roughened by centuries of sorrow, held an uncharacteristic gentleness now — the kind reserved only for her.
“I-I had a dream,” she stammered. “A strange one. I… I saw a man in white. And a garden with violets. I think… I think I died in it.”
Marcus did not answer for a moment. He only stared, not at her, but through her. His jaw clenched. That old wound, deeper than bone, pulsed again in his chest.
"You remember the garden," he said quietly.
Verlee blinked up at him, startled. “What…?”
“It was real,” Marcus said. “In another life. Your life. You used to walk barefoot in it when you thought I wasn’t watching. You said the violets smelled like laughter. And you died there. Because of him.”
Verlee paled further, if possible. “But… I don’t remember anything. Not really. Just feelings. Flickers. Like déjà vu.”
He stepped forward, slow and deliberate. She flinched instinctively — not from fear, but the sheer weight of his presence. Still, he reached out and gently — so gently — cupped her chin, forcing her to look into his ancient, hollow eyes.
“Verlee,” he said, voice a prayer. “You are Didyme. Not a replacement. Not a shadow. You are her — your soul untouched. The same light that soothed my bones, even in war. The same gift.”
Her voice trembled, and her eyes brimmed. “I-I don’t know how to be her. I don’t think I’m strong enough. She sounds brave. I just… I just want to hide most days.”
His thumb grazed the tear that fell from her cheek.
“You are strong in ways Didyme never was,” he said firmly. “She danced in gardens. You walk through shadows, barefoot. You see fear and still offer kindness. That is strength.”
Silence.
And then — a flicker of a smile. Timid. Fragile. But real. Like a sunrise cracking through centuries of night.
“I’m glad I found you again,” Marcus whispered, voice breaking for the first time in centuries.
Verlee leaned her cheek into his hand, eyes closed.
“I think I’ve always been looking for you,” she whispered.
And for the first time in an age, the solemn king — the ghost of a man who once ruled with fire and grief — felt joy. Not from her gift. But from her. From Verlee.
He stepped closer, resting his forehead against hers.
“Welcome home, agapiméni mou.”
Somewhere beyond time, in a long-forgotten garden, the violets began to bloom again.