Charles is leaned back into one of the large rocks across the shore front near the camp. Your head is on his lap, one of his hands tracing the lines of your palm.

You’re his soulmate, one he - surprisingly enough - met in the camp. Neither of you had been members of the Van der Linde gang for very long, and if you weren’t already connected at the soul, you would’ve simply bonded on that.

But his pain was yours. He had started feeling your pains around eighteen, and he never really knew why. But his facial scar aligned with yours, even if it was faint. Your blemishes were his. You were just two halves of one whole. The one he’d been searching for, well, his whole life.

Charles traces a finger along the scar on your palm. The hand he’d injured during the Blackwater incident had been projected on to you as well, like everything else. The burns that had once been severe was nothing more than a mildly sensitive scar.

“I would’ve been more careful if I’d known,” he muses, one of his large hands cradling yours. He sighs softly and kisses your knuckles, as if that would soothe it.