Sometimes, you think - all of this is a dream.
A nightmare, to be more precise. Because how else can you describe staying at the same place where your beloved can be found, only to realize that she has no memories of you?
Or that she has absolutely no desire to rekindle any of them with you?
You're already weakened by the poison running rampant in your veins, but at least only your body was hurt by that.
And yet, here, all while possessing the knowledge that Alena doesn't remember you--
--that is a more potent weapon targeting your very heart.
You shift your weight on the bed to avoid putting more strain on your wounded limb. Even that simple action makes you breathe hard, however, as though you've exerted a thousand efforts just for that quick movement.
And yet breathing hard has its benefits, because, you think, if you inhaled hard enough, you may catch a whiff of her.
Pathetic, you think to yourself with some disgust. Pull yourself together, Ybarro!
And yet when were you able to, as far as Alena is concerned?
As if to mock you even more, she chooses that very moment to pass by the open door.
And you would know that, of course, since you chose to lie fronting that very door, for the very chance to see her once again.
Even if it's just her passing form.
Pathetic.
And yet you don't care. You never did.
"Alena," you call out to her - and your voice then sounded so... weak. Needy. Desperate.
You don't care.
"Alena?" you call out again.
To her credit, she pauses and turns, and your heart beats wildly upon seeing her face.
It's the very same one that has haunted you, ever since you met her.
It's the only face that you let yourself be haunted by.
She looks uncertain, your beautiful maiden, and a part of you loathes putting that expression on her now. You imagine - want - her rushing to you, holding your face in between her small hands, and granting you a kiss to soothe your aches. Bathala knows you need the relief.
Instead, she comes to you slowly and carefully asks, "Is there anything you need, Ybrahim?"
You, every part of you screams.
I want you, Alena. I need you, please, please stay--
But her calling you Ybrahim instead of Ybarro--
Haphazardly, you gesture at the side of the bed. "Water," you croak out and only then do you realize just how parched you are. "Please--"
She moves gracefully, your Alena, and soon she's offering you a glass. Instead of letting you just take it, however, she comes closer and helps you sit up--
--and immediately you're hit with the very scent that you've craved. It's so very Alena that you catch yourself resting your forehead on her shoulder for several moments, just to breathe her in.
"Ybrahim?" she calls again, and a part of you begins to loathe hearing that name from her mouth. It still doesn't feel like it's yours, that foreign sound. It still feels as though it belongs to another.
It feels as though she's calling another man, and that, that, infuriates you.
"You should drink. It'll make you feel better," she says, and you follow. You grab the glass, your fingers deliberately touching hers - making her gasp softly at the contact.
"I'm sorry," you say as you meet her eyes - even if you don't feel the slightest ounce of it.
Being close to her like this, touching her like this, breathing her in like this--
--it always feels like a dream.
"It's all right," she says, before prying the empty glass from your hold. It isn't long before she stands and moves away from you, and every part of you immediately regrets losing her warmth.
To her credit, she doesn't leave the room immediately. "It's such a shame Danaya isn't here; otherwise she would have made you better already."
"Danaya?" you repeat with a frown.
"My youngest sister," Alena says. "I'm told her gem has the power to heal."
You flex your injured arm. "I don't need any gem's power," you say, because even if you lost everything, your pride as a strong warrior is still within you. "I will get better on my own." Here you pause. "But I need--"
"What is it?" she says, stepping closer again. "What do you need, Ybrahim? I can relay it to Amihan. Just say the word and it's yours."
"You're certain?" you ask, as an old playful feeling rises in you once again - something only she can evoke. "I'll just say the word and it's mine?"
"Absolutely," Alena replies, and a small smile plays about her mouth then - making you long to kiss her. "You can trust my word as the sister of the Queen."
And you think this, this is a chance.
"Alena," you say, after a long while.
Her brows furrow and she asks, "Yes?"
"Alena," you repeat. "It's the word I'm saying. It's the word I want to be mine."
And here you raise your hand toward her and say, almost pleadingly, "Alena."
She swallows hard as she glances down at your outstretched hand.
"Will you not grant it?" you ask, already feeling the beginnings of disappointment. "As the sister of the Queen?"
As my beloved?
She takes a step back, looking more lost and uncertain as ever. If only you had strength; you'd have moved to your feet in order to reach her. You still try, however - only to fall back on the side of the bed.
"Ybrahim--"
"Ybarro," you say, and some anger begins to burn in you now. At your weakness, at her lost memories, at this stupid, stupid situation you both are in. "My name is Ybarro. Will you not call me that, Alena? Like you did, before?"
She looks torn, your beloved, and immediately you regret making her feel like thus. You have no right, you think. And you tell yourself you love her, when now you're causing her pain?
"I'm sorry," you say again - and this time you mean it.
"Rest well, Ybrahim," she says softly - before turning to leave your room.
Enough, you think, as your eyes follow her departure.
Enough for today.
You still have tomorrow to talk to her again to make amends, after all.