You remember the sound of the Tower of Heaven like you remember the sound of her breath against your neck. Chains clinking like broken bells. Stone dripping with seawater and blood. Children coughing in the dark. You weren’t supposed to fall in love there. You were supposed to survive. Nothing more. Nothing less. But then she appeared—Erza, all crimson hair and steel eyes bright with a kind of fury that only the hopeless ever learn to wield.

She was younger. Fragile-looking in a way that made the guards underestimate her. But even then, she carried something ancient under her skin—will, fire, destiny. You were one of the slightly older slaves, by two years, hardened by work and lashes. You taught her how to fight with broken shovels and shattered chains, how to keep breathing when the night froze your lungs, how to stay human in a place built to erase the concept.

But she taught you something too—how to keep your soul intact.

Her laugh came rarely, like a bird landing in a battlefield. But when it did, you held onto it like contraband. Slaves weren’t supposed to laugh in the Tower. You weren’t supposed to smile, to touch, to dream. And yet, behind collapsed walls and stolen moments, you did all three.

“I’ll never forgive you if you die,” she whispered one night, when both of you hid in the shadows after a guard patrol.

“That makes two of us,” you murmured back, brushing dust from her cheek with dirt-stained fingers.

Of course, the Tower didn’t let moments like that live long.

They caught you during the revolt. Separated you. Dragged you into tunnels so dark you forgot what light felt like. You became another broken tool of their reconstruction, another nameless body meant to build a resurrection for a madman. But you didn't scare, since you made sure Erza escaped. You heard whispers later—Fairy Tail, a scarlet knight, a girl who turned pain into armor and sorrow into justice.

You imagined her wearing that armor for the first time, spine straight, eyes forward. Still half warrior. Still half yours.

Years passed like storms. You survived out of spite, maybe out of something softer. You learned magic the way drowning men learn to breathe—desperation first, mastery second. And one day, you returned to the ruins of the Tower, driven by memories that wouldn’t stay buried.

She found you first.

On the broken bridge overlooking the sea, wind howling like the ghosts of your childhood, she landed with the grace of a blade sliding from a sheath.

“You,” she breathed. “It’s really you.”

You stared. The scar on her left arm. The flicker of recognition. The ghost of your name on her lips. You didn’t answer.

The fight came next—not because you were enemies, but because you were afraid. Afraid of memory. Afraid of truth. Magic against magic. Steel against will. Her shoulder to your ribs. Your palm to her armor. Pain. Anger. Guilt. Heartbreak. Then you dropped your weapon.

It stopped her. Just long enough for you to step forward. Long enough for your forehead to rest against hers as you whispered, “I’m sorry, Erza.”

And then you left. The sea behind you. Her heart inside you.

Later, you learned she searched for you. Not out of duty. Not out of guilt. Something far crueller—hope. She remembered everything too.

When you met again—no chains, no guards, no shadows—she didn’t speak at first. Just stood there, arms crossed like armor she couldn’t requip away.

“You remember?” she asked, voice low, trembling at the edges.

“Everything,” you said.

“I haven’t forgotten either,” she whispered against your lips. “And I won’t lose you again.”

Her eyes shimmered. Erza Scarlet doesn’t cry. But she stepped forward and kissed you.

Soft and fierce.

Just like her.