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“And this… is how my old home looked like.”
The little painter narrated as her practiced fingers drew images on the dirt with a loose pebble she found. She illustrated a quaint little house, adorned with details only someone with intimate knowledge of the location would be able to recreate. Archmage Clarence Clayden’s attention was completely focused on her story as she drew. It was mesmerizing how her command of lines and shapes proved themselves to be a far greater kind of magic than the crude spells new mages would conjure to show off.
The drawing of a house was soon accompanied by a street, an intersection, and a road leading to an old friend’s house. Whenever a maple leaf fell onto the ground, the little painter gently picked it up, and used it as a landmark for special places. An old school, a beloved park, and a favorite restaurant. Archmage Clayden found the location quite familiar—he swore he saw images of it in the water mirror. Even if he had never set foot in the painter’s hometown himself, the story was colored in a special kind of nostalgia only someone like him would know.
“I tried to ride a bike around the street here, but I kept falling off when I neared the bump by my house. I also ran into the street lamp on the corner once—”
The endearing stream of personal stories fell from her mouth one at a time, and the archmage made sure to hold on to every detail.
“—and here, right outside my house, my boyfriend from high school surprised me with a kiss after he walked me home after class. I was pretty angry that he didn’t ask for permission, so I broke up with him there and then.”
A soft chuckle bubbled from Archmage Clayden’s chest when he heard how headstrong his beloved savior was from a young age. He felt comforted to know that she took great care of herself, so he nodded his head and waited for the next part of the story. He was keen to listen to more, but the mention of a kiss made his chest feel tight. It felt like an echoing pang of pain that started around his heart and spread to his finger tips. It wasn’t the most excruciating pain he had experienced, but it was the most unfamiliar one.
When the little painter heard him laugh, she puffed her cheeks at him, as if she disapproved of his reaction.
“It was horrible. I’m sure Cael saw the entire thing, but maybe he didn’t bring it up to keep my dignity intact…” she said with a forlorn sigh, as if the embarrassment from her adolescent years was still fresh in her mind. A ghost of a smile was still present on Archmage Clayden’s lips, so the little painter decided to shift the conversation.
“What about you? Have you… ever been kissed?”
Her question seemed to echo in the vast space they found themselves in. It was a valid question, but was it welcome? The little painter realized the weight of her question only after it had left her lips, her hands flying up to her mouth to stop herself from asking anything more. Before she could take her words back, Archmage Clayden answered her with a firm “no”.
He didn’t seem bothered by the question nor did it seem like it affected him in any way. His entire life was devoted to surviving and finding a solution to save his world. Romance, even a gesture as simple as a kiss, was a luxury he could not afford.
“There was never any time for one,” he said softly, his mind deep in thought. During his decades of isolation, he indeed had never considered cultivating a budding romance. He had never been good with interacting with women, and he never dared to subject another person to share in the suffering he promised to endure on his lonesome. Still, he didn’t harbor a single regret for his nearing end; for if things had turned out even a little bit differently, he might not be sitting under this grand maple tree with his savior, and he knew he didn’t want to exchange anything in the universe for this meeting.
“Well... we have time now,” the little painter’s voice was soft, in danger of being drowned out by the sound of leaves falling to the ground, “would you like to know how it feels?”
Archmage Clayden shifted in his spot under the maple tree, as if he had sat on a particularly sharp twig. The blue eyes that were focused on the little painter were avoiding her gaze, and his lips were stretched in a tight line.
He resigned himself to participating in a lost war.
“It will not be pleasant.”
“Come on, Archmage Clayden. What’s so scary about a little kiss?”
He avoided her stare again, refusing to discover what kind of a face someone makes when they ask for a kiss. He didn’t want that memory to haunt him for all of eternity, even if it was everything he had wanted. After all, it is far more devastating to lose what he once had rather than losing what was never his.
The little painter waited patiently for a reply. An answer. A rebuke. When the archmage realized that she planned to hold on for a concrete answer, he found his voice laced with uncertainty, “...if it will make you happy…”
The little painter shook her head. “I need a yes or a no,” she said firmly.
It is far more devastating to lose what was once his, but when she made her offer twice, he wondered if he knew a spell that could imprint a moment into his brain forever, to eternally freeze this memory even if he had completely lost himself. In that sense, he will have never lost it. It will be alive in the icy prison he created, forever haunting, forever comforting.
His confirmation was but a whisper. Yes.
The little painter leaned forward, making sure to keep an eye on the way the archmage’s sharp features twitched. She breathed in the scent of old parchment electrified by overwhelming magical power. It tickled her nose. Just as she brushed her lips against the archmage, she noticed he was holding his breath. She leaned back and observed his handsome face. His eyes were wide open, observing her like she was an experiment, but they were slightly squinted as if he was afraid of what he was about to witness.
The little painter smiled at him before she backed away, leaving the comforting scent of an old tome behind.
“You don’t have to force yourse—”
Archmage Clayden interrupted the little painter immediately. He cursed the involuntary responses of his weakened, decrepit body. The words stumbled out of his mouth without much thought, much to his embarrassment.
“I want to kiss you.”
He couldn’t tell if he raised his voice when he stopped her from talking or if voices easily echoed in the space they found themselves in. Still, for the first time in a long time, Archmage Clayden felt shame wash over him.
He quickly amended his statement to save his already falling face, “would you… be amenable to that?”
The little painter smiled and nodded. Her all-mighty archmage was cute and clumsy and very capable of feeling embarrassed. He resembled a young teenager under the canopy of the maple leaves, hesitant to try something he had always dreamed of.
In another life, she wondered if she’d be given the pleasure of accompanying him on a walk home after class. To stop him right before his house, ask if he wanted a kiss, then gently press her lips to his under the warm light of a street lamp.
“Am I just… supposed to keep my lips pursed?” Archmage Clayden asked, his eyes now finding their way home to the little painter’s. Her grin reached her eyes when she heard his question, the innocence laced in it making her heart soar.
“You don’t have to. You don’t have to do anything, Clarence.”
The way she said his name was familiar, as if she had spoken it long before she referred to him by title.
She leaned forward into his space once again, this time far more familiar with his territory. She gently pressed her soft lips against his own, the sensation feeling absolutely foreign to him. The closest comparison he could think of was when he fell asleep studying ancient texts. In the morning, he’d find his papers stuck to his cheeks and lips, leaving an indent in their place as proof of his studies. He didn’t need to replay that distant memory of his youth to conclude that his beloved’s lips were pleasant, much unlike the old parchments he was so familiar with.
Archmage Clarence couldn’t make heads or tails of his feelings, but if one thing was for sure, he liked the pleasant buzz of his first kiss.
His hands were locked to his side, afraid to touch his beloved. His eyes slowly closed as if he was falling asleep, his lungs refused to take in more air, and his ears couldn’t help but pick up the soft crunch of leaves under his hand. He didn’t dare move, hoping that his savior would lead him—teach him how a perfect kiss should be.
The little painter immediately felt how stiff Clarence was. His lips were dry, a consequence of Godheim’s unending winter. They refused to move, and no other part of his body dared to touch her. The painter’s heart broke with the thought that her beloved was probably afraid of hurting her like how he so often did in the past. Still, that was the past, and this was now. She didn’t want his warm hands anywhere else but on her.
She pulled away first. Archmage Clarence opened his eyes immediately after, and when he witnessed the smile on the painter’s lips, he shifted his gaze elsewhere. His body felt like it was on fire. There were flames licking his skin, but they didn’t burn his cloak; his palms felt damp, and he felt the need to wipe them at the nearest chance possible.
Unsatisfied at how their first kiss together went, the little painter leaned in again. The archmage was surprised at her initiative, but he welcomed her still. After all, he was but a grateful man—he could never say no to his beloved savior.
“You could open your mouth a little if you wish,” she whispered against his lips, akin to the devil who tempted the first people to take a bite of the forbidden fruit. The offer sounded scandalous, but the archmage couldn’t help but be intrigued by her suggestion.
Obediently, he slightly parted his lips, and when his darling gently swooped in to make him her own, he felt like he couldn’t breathe. Her lips carefully slotted into his, a practiced gesture. It was deeper than he expected. He felt incredibly vulnerable, to have someone explore him in such an intimate way.
He felt her soft hand inch to his cheek, holding his face still to presumably keep him from running away. He wanted to run away. Until he didn’t. Until he wanted to. He felt light-headed. He needed air. But he loved the sensation of her touch and her warmth and her sweet, strange scent that could never exist on Godheim.
Archmage Clarence leaned back into the trunk of the maple tree, his body feeling flimsy, his hair sprawling amongst the fallen leaves. He didn’t dare break the kiss that had him completely at the mercy of another person. He wanted to believe that she could have killed him with the stab of a crude butter knife to his heart, and he wouldn’t have minded at all.
The little painter pulled away once she had her taste. She took quick deep breaths as if she had reached a point of exhaustion. Before the archmage could take a handful of deep breaths of his own, his beloved pulled him into her and kissed him again. Hungrily. Desperately. It was not sinful like the way lust was, but it felt like a prayer—that if she kissed him enough, she’d be able to save him from the fate that awaited him.
“Please…” in between kisses, the archmage was able to get a word out.
Hearing his plea, the little painter pulled away from him completely. She took a deep breath before apologies fell down her lips like a waterfall.
“I-I’m sorry, I got carried away, I—”
The illusion of a perfect moment melted once she said she was sorry. The archmage didn’t want her to be sorry. He didn’t want her to regret giving him a taste of passion, of love.
“Apologies… aren’t needed,” he said in between breaths. He took his time to replenish the air in his lungs, and found the taste of it foreign to his tongue. It’s as if his world had shifted slightly, and he wondered if this was another power of intense human emotions.
Once he had the chance to recover from his dizzy spell, he sat up straight against the maple tree’s trunk and coughed, “I was merely caught off-guard. I should be the one offering my apologies. I already surmised that kissing someone without experience would be rather unpleasant.”
The little painter shook her head, almost appalled that Clarence would even dare to describe the entire experience as unpleasant. He was far too harsh on himself. She took her place next to him once more, this time leaning closer to him. There weren’t any barriers separating them anymore.
“You were wonderful,” she said as she looked up at the archmage of Godheim, the view of his sleek hair and his blue eyes making her heart race. She couldn’t believe that she had him all to herself in this brief, beautiful moment, “if it were up to me, I’d kiss you until the end of time.”
Archmage Clarence felt the burning sensation once more, his skin feeling like it was set aflame while his clothes gently swayed with the breeze. When the cold chain of his monocle made contact with his flushed face, he could tell that there was a visible blush on his cheeks.
He sighed, calming himself before he replied, “time does not exist here.”
“Then I’ll kiss you forever and ever. How does that sound?”
As sweet as her voice and her promise was, Archmage Clarence felt a responsibility to gently decline it.
“No. I will not allow you to turn your back on the people waiting for you in your world.”
There was a sad smile on his face, an expression full of regret. This entire journey felt like a long dream, a happy dream that he could stay in forever, but dreams had to end, and he knew he needed to send her away before they reached the finale.
Determination was painted on his savior’s face as she tried to push the idea back once more, “then think of the kisses today as a farewell gift. I don’t want you to forget this feeling for as long as possible. Hold on to this memory for now and I’ll give you more of it when I find a way to reach you again.”
She refused a goodbye. It was a farewell, not a goodbye. Don’t let it be a goodbye, she pleaded as the night sky’s stars reflected in her eyes, tears threatening to fall.
Archmage Clarence’s voice was soft, his heart full of guilt. He didn’t like it when his little painter was sad; he didn’t like it when she cried. The entire reason for his existence was to create a world where she could live happily, but his fate became a factor for her distress. The paradoxical nature of his dilemma left him at a loss. He resorted to reaching his hand to the little painter’s cheek, gently wiping the steady flow of tears falling from her shining eyes.
Is it not an act of cruelty to give me something so wonderful, only to curse me back to a life deprived of it? , the archmage wondered as his fingers busied themselves with comforting the little painter. He gently removed the stray strands of hair that clung to the damp spots of her face, and brushed her hair with his gloved hands. When she calmed down, all that was left was a beautiful girl who seemed to hold the universe in her gaze.
“I’ll come back,” her voice was strained, “I’ll find you, and when I do, I’ll kiss you again and again until this world crumbles”.
“I pray that it doesn’t,” Clarence said, a complicated expression on his face.
The little painter’s determined glare melted into one of meekness. She succinctly apologized, repeatedly stating how Godheim was completely safe due to his selfless sacrifice. The archmage took pleasure in the sight of his savior blushing and tripping over her words to take back a jab that didn’t affect him in the slightest.
“When I come back—” The little painter started, only to be cut off immediately.
“Please, don’t,” Archmage Clarence asked, requesting her to listen to him. He pulled away from the little painter, wanting to meet her gaze properly. His side felt cold once he left her warmth, a prelude to his bleak fate.
“I don’t want to hold you back when you have such a bright future ahead of you,” he repeated, making sure that every word was clearly pronounced.
“Here again with this bright future—” frustration was etched in her every word “—you’re not holding me back, and I do have a bright future. With you.”
Hot tears streamed down the little painter’s face again as she tried everything she could to delay the inevitable. She refused to accept that he was doomed by the world he protected with his own two hands. She balled her hands into fists, her nails digging into her palms; the stinging pain was nothing compared to the grief that consumed her heart.
Clarence shook his head. He saw her future. There was not a single possibility where he saw himself. He saw himself , but not the self that housed a glacial calamity in his bones.
The archmage saw her small hands turning white from the force she exerted, so he reached out and touched her warm skin, wordlessly asking her to stop. His gloved hands were icy to the touch, but the little painter welcomed them still, allowing her hands to relax and intertwine with his.
“Humor me, please,” she begged him softly, her pride thrown out the window. Her voice was shaky, tired, and full of pleading, “just this once.”
“Let me pretend that I’ll see you again.”
She held Clarence’s hands tightly, sobbing as she made a selfish request. Unable to resist the immense guilt that loomed over his heart any longer, the archmage let go of his beloved’s hands and took her into his arms, enveloping her in his warmth. He allowed her to cry into his chest, her cries muffled by the robes he wore. Archmage Clarence had never felt so much warmth before.
Unfamiliar with the art of comfort, Clarence opted to simply hold the little painter in his arms. He listened to her cry, and hiccup, and sob, and breathe, and live . She was warm and alive in his grasp—his beloved savior who he waited decades just to see. He thought meetings like these only existed in dreams, so would it really hurt if he granted her one last request after granting his own wish to meet? Would it do more good than harm, or will it haunt her once she returns to her home world? Would it stain her memory of him if he denied her one last pleasure?
“When you come back…” Clarence’s voice was gentle and slow, as if it brought him great pain to deceive her with his words, to whisper a question he didn’t believe in himself, “will you steal all the air out of my lungs once more?”
The little painter’s grip on Clarence’s robes faltered. She slightly pulled back and looked into the archmage’s eyes, her flushed face making her look like a dewy rose. She gathered her bearings, clumsily and roughly wiping the tears on her face, and nodded firmly at the question asked. A smile bloomed on her face at the promise they both knew held no water.
Suddenly, the little painter asked a different kind of question, “was it good then?”
Immediately seeing the confusion on Clarence’s face, the little painter added some much needed context, “the kiss.”
“Did it feel good?” She politely asked, as if it was the most mundane question in the world.
Clarence couldn’t find the words to reply to her brazen question; he found his tongue tied to the point of no return. Before he knew it, the burning sensation returned to his skin, and he felt his heart jump into his throat. His eyes were unable to keep the little painter’s gaze, lest he wanted her to see how shamefully awkward he was when it came to the matters of the heart.
Unable to coax a reply out of her darling archmage, the little painter decided to go on her tip-toes and meet his gaze directly. She talked against his lips once more, and started another inquiry.
“We still have a while before we arrive at our destination. May I…?”
Clarence glanced at her face, it was bright and hopeful without a hint of grief that plagued it just a moment ago. She wanted to pretend. She wanted to act as if the limited time they had together would stretch on for eternity. He dared not to indulge in most of her requests, but when he found himself nodding at her question, maybe there was still a side to him that craved the same thing humans did. Maybe he wasn’t simply a monster that caged a cruel calamity after all.
Akin to a dance, the little painter took the lead. She cupped Clarence’s face, caressed his skin with her thumb, and memorized how he felt. When she was satisfied, she reached out to his cautious hands and guided them to her waist, wanting him to learn how she felt too. She smiled through their kiss when he obediently followed her instructions, gently nipping his bottom lip as thanks for indulging her.
It wasn’t everyday he got to kiss a goddess, Clarence thought when she gently pressed her lips to his once more. When she kissed him with all of her bare feelings, he wished that the gods above were real, and that they could make this moment never end. He’d spend the rest of his life worshiping idols carved into wood if it meant he could be pulled into another warm kiss from the person he was always waiting for. Another, and another, and another. He wanted to pray, but could god really hear cries from a place where time and space didn’t exist? If he was surrounded by dead stars who couldn’t hear him, then did he even scream at all?
Clarence didn’t want to think about what he had long accepted.
So he thought about his beloved little painter, his darling savior. He gently leaned into her space, nudging her to keep kissing him, as if the drunk feeling of love could make him forget the agony he was fated to suffer.
Because just for a while, he wanted to pretend too.