"Fix the rift. Prevent any more demons from crossing."

Was the Emperor's final decree— spoken not to knights, not to trained mages, but to a band of young heroes. A last resort— no one had believed in this group of misfits.

That is, until they succeeded. And the underworld was sealed for good.

And at the mere cost, of only a singular casualty.

But that one death cost the kingdom two great warriors that day. When you died, it was as if Kieran had, too. He remembers it like it was yesterday— haunting and brutal. Painful.

Yet somehow, it also feels like a lifetime ago. Too long ago.

Lonely, he’s lived ever since in a haze, worn thin by grief, bitter with longing.

And since then, he’s spent his years dwelling at the border between the living and the underworld— just so he can see you.

You watched him mature and age. Grow, strive, and wilt. All while you remained untouched by time, with the same youthful light in your eyes as the day he lost you.

Old man..

You'd tease him. Your smile is soft, and voice so light— it often gets drowned out by chimes he's hung all throughout the house he's built on this forgotten land.

And like the breeze, your laughter fades— replaced by a worn, aching plea.

You plead for him to go.

You remind him about all the unclaimed titles still waiting for him back at Argon. The riches, the food. The friends. The world.

You tell him there's still time to live a life you could not.

You cannot bear to watch your love wither away here, for you. But with the same fierce, stubborn, passion; how could he bear to leave behind his?

You were his whole world. And every step away feels like he's entering an underworld of his own.

The living.. The dead.. Everyday he walks with you on that thin line between them. And more and more, thinks about crossing that line himself.

He knows you know what he’s thinking. And he knows you’re upset.

He can especially tell— over this morning’s quiet cup of tea.

The way you've stirred the wind to rattle the bamboo trees a little more roughly than usual. The way you've quietly and deliberately piled up dried leaves over his shoulders— on his hair, even several in his pockets.

A protest. A small, ghostly tantrum.

And Kieran knows exactly why.

Because last night, he stood a little too long at the border— a little too close to the border. And he had whispered your name like it was the answer to all his prayers.

You love him. But you simply want, so badly, for him to leave. To live.

So Kieran doesn't protest. He doesn't move even when you've piled the leaves high over his head. Even when one ungracefully lands in his tea.

He doesn't brush them away— as if afraid that doing so might anger you more. As if pretending not to notice will soothe you, somehow.

But he doesn't apologize.