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One evening, like many others, brings Melinoë to stand before the Fated List. She ponders the prophecies written on the sprawling scroll, hands on her hips and head tilted to the side.
Just how can I…?
The thought comes to no fruition—to her left, Moros approaches from the taverna.
“Princess,” he says, bowing his head when she looks to him, “I apologize for tearing you from your thoughts.”
“No matter,” Melinoë responds, taking a few steps closer to him. She quickly scans his face: his eyebrows pinch together, oh-so-slightly. “Has something happened, Lord Moros?”
Moros looks surprised for but a moment. “I— No, nothing of note. I should avoid distracting you from your task, but…” he pauses, and Melinoë notices his tongue darts out to wet his lips. “I see you have returned, and… I suppose I’m just asking to be in your company.”
Melinoë looks at him, at how he shifts from one foot to the other, hands clasped behind his back, and then she smiles. It has since stopped surprising her that she finds Doom Incarnate to be quite endearing. “Shall we go for a stroll?” she asks, easily obliging him.
He nods, the furrow to his brow melted away as he and Melinoë begin walking about the Crossroads. They take a leisurely pace along the river, and Melinoë revels in the moment of respite. She salutes the shades on their path before looking up at Moros.
“You know, Lord Moros,” Melinoë starts, “You mustn’t think of this as distracting me.”
Moros tilts his head curiously, his hair falling over his shoulders just so.
“If I were to run myself to the point of exhaustion, it would do nothing to help anyone,” she explains, looking down at their footfalls, in time. “So I appreciate these moments with you, truly. I need…” she trails off, a bit embarrassed. “I need the rest.”
“In that case,” Moros responds, looking towards a patch of grass along the riverbank. “Why don’t we take a seat?”
“Let’s,” Melinoë agrees, following Moros to sit in the grass, crossing her legs beneath her. They sit close enough that their knees bump as they settle, and Melinoë lets out a soft breath at the contact. Neither of them shift away.
The water laps against the bank, and the ever-present cries of the shades along the river only serve to remind Melinoë what is at stake. She sighs, letting her head loll backward and closing her eyes. There has never been a moment in her life where she could truly cast off thoughts of the responsibilities that sit upon her shoulders, and now, of course, is no different.
When she opens her eyes again, she finds Moros’s gaze settled upon her. He looks away as if he hadn’t been staring—as if, suddenly, the river is the most interesting thing—and Melinoë feels a slight blush spreading over her face.
“When I first invited you to the Crossroads,” Melinoë begins, “Many were… convinced you were an ill omen. Perhaps still are convinced of such.”
“I would expect nothing less,” Moros responds, shifting his weight. “Doom is often not a welcome visitor.”
Melinoë swallows thickly. “But… Lord Moros, I don’t see you that way.”
“Princess?”
“Of course, all children of Nyx are welcome here, and the Fated List indeed served as further invitation. Our stories henceforth are intertwined… ordained by Fate. But, I…” she pauses, biting at the inside of her cheek. “Is it wrong of me, in moments of Doom, to be comforted by the thought of you…?”
Moros looks taken aback.
“I apologize if I overstepped,” Melinoë quickly adds, averting her gaze. The river roils, as always.
“No, I…” Moros shakes his head, “It’s just, you tend to fluster me.”
Melinoë looks at him, and he looks back, purple eyes glinting. A flush sits upon his cheeks, and Melinoë finds her words caught in her throat.
“Princess… If I may?”
Moros reaches a hand up towards Melinoë’s face, and Melinoë’s breath stills in her lungs. Moros’s fingertips shiver over the skin of Melinoë’s cheek, tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear. His hand lingers there, cool to the touch.
Melinoë then catches Moros’s hand in her own, her fingers curling around his as she gently guides his knuckles to press against her lips. Moros lets out a long breath, gaze flickering between Melinoë’s lips and her eyes. Melinoë attempts—and fails—to quell her racing pulse.
They hold the pose for a short time, and then Melinoë lets their hands fall. She keenly feels the absence as they part, and Moros’s fingers curl into his palm.
“Forgive me,” Moros says, then.
“Whatever for?”
He shakes his head. “It’s nothing. I— I don’t quite know what to say.” He pauses. “You continue to surprise me. It’s exhilarating.”
Melinoë grins. “You must be unused to surprises, Lord Moros.”
“Entirely,” he admits. “But please don’t misinterpret. You are the key factor here, not merely the essence of surprise.”
Melinoë opens her mouth to respond, but Moros continues, “You are incredible, Princess. Everything you have accomplished, and everything you will… I can only ask that I may continue to stay by your side.”
“Please do,” Melinoë says, holding Moros’s gaze, “For as long as you wish.”
It is the best permission she can give—for Doom, it seems, has already settled in place in her heart.