Work Text:
One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Six.
She only ever lets herself sit in the memories of him for a handful of seconds.
A warm and still shoulder to rest against, to fall asleep on.
A gentle and reverent hand, so light on her cheek, welcoming her back to consciousness.
An excited and incredulous ruffle of her hair, that made burning the candle at both ends to finally figure out the arcane theory needed to pull off their shenanigan filled plans even more worth it.
A wink that sparkled with the literal celestial divine, like he was sharing the secrets of the stars just with her.
A tight, relieved embrace that proved he was just as worried as she was for all their friends. (And for her, too.)
A warm hand to her chest, for the briefest of moments before she is skittering across cold iron.
One.
Two.
Three.
Four.
Five.
Six.
And then…
She loved all her friends with everything within her, but Lathe was…Lathe. He was sweet and funny and understanding and hot. It was the way he would find her pouring over arcane tomes late into the night, and would steal her away with the swiftness of a breeze to go to the roof, making her take a few minutes to do nothing but look at the stars. The way he would almost-whisper instructions for her to stop and breathe, even if just for six seconds, his breath tickling the shell of her ear. The way he would give her these pockets of time (her favourite time, not that she would tell anyone, least of all him) where she would imagine herself as just another tiny scrap of dust in the universe, her place in it ebbing and flowing and always changing and moving. With his body stretched out beside hers on that roof, he brought her some of the peace she fought so hard for others to have, but gave no time to finding for herself.
He had a divine tenderness she could not help but succumb to. He did everything with a quiet promise that they would be okay, that she was enough, that she should (she would) be loved and cared for as hard as she loved and cared for everyone else- and Annie knew that Lathe’s promises held magic, and she believed in magic more than anything else.
But the truth of the matter is, they were adventurers. It was always dangerous, and they could die at any moment— and not the quick death that Diarmad could pull them back from with a grasp of his hand. She knew this. They would be battling their way through hell, after all, and it was no small task to keep each other safe. Annie didn’t trust her inherited luck, so she made her own, always doing everything she possibly could so she wouldn’t fail, so she wouldn’t let down her friends. Yes, this quest was dangerous, but her friends wielded so much power, Annie wielded so much power, and after escaping death so many times it was hard not to imagine them as untouchable. Lathe especially so, with the way he swirled across the battlefield with great thunks of his sword, gliding past their foes like a dancer. He was caring enough to be careful, to not take stupid risks for glory. The risks Lathe took were careful and quick. Decisions led by the promise in his heart and the tug in his gut—
Annie flagellates herself with ink and paper and components, punishes herself with time. So it never happens again. It’s the closest she can get to re-writing those six seconds. She curses herself everyday that she never studied chronomancy.
These days when Annie is so tired that she can’t work anymore, but is too tired to sleep, she still drags herself up to the roof to stare at the stars. But now she stares at the stars and feels empty. As empty as the cold and unending sky she looks at. As empty as the world without him. Wherever he was, it wasn’t here. Annie allows herself a moment to be empty and then, slowly, she conjures up the memory of his soft and lilting voice, and despite the incorrect coldness at the shell of her ear, she breathes.
One.
Two.
Three.
Four.
Five.
Six.
But as it always does, her emptiness gets filled up with her need to make it up to everyone else, because he’s gone and it’s her fault. So she gets up again, and grinds herself into the ground because he’s not there to pull her back and remind her that Annie Wintersummer, even when she’s not doing anything, is magic. He’s not here because he made a choice to save Annie instead of himself, to make Annie watch him disintegrate into nothingness. There are some days she can’t help but hate him for it. The worst days she can’t help but wish his dust did end up amongst the stars, that he was here at least a little bit, and that he could see everything. Because then he could see how she punishes him by punishing herself. And she knows how much it would hurt. Damage is the thing she is best at, after all.
They had an almost romance. A will they, won’t they, never resolved until it did.
How on earth did they find each other, at that fateful little brunch spot?
Why in heaven did they take so long, meandering, like time wasn’t chasing them?
How in hell could she have let him go, when she was holding on with every last scrap she had?
Like the grit of sand through your fingers.
One.
A hand on her chest.
Two.
A bloom of warmth.
Three.
Their eyes met.
Four.
Annie went skittering across cold iron.
Five.
Her eyes whipped back around to him. What a quick and hard way to tell someone you loved them.
Six.
The wind was pulling him back up to the sky, the constellations in his eyes glittering at her until he was just gone.
That’s all she got of him, really got of him, giving himself to her, and she never got the chance to give herself back. So she pours herself out until she emptied out into the ink and the parchment and words and runes and spellbooks, every once in a while thinking of the morbid peace she would find if the wind lifted her up as dust and left her to wander.