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The edges of the world are soaked in a broken story.
The world is in disarray, the cruel poetry of a mad author, leading all to the end.
They called him The Ghoul. Like a merciless god, he’d managed to govern the seemingly lawless Wasteland, a story old enough to be passed down through generations. A reign of terror, in every sense of the word. The good get punished, so do the bad, and the world remains stagnant.
Until the hero of prophecy rises from under.
Bearing the number thirty-three on her back and boundless hope, she’ll be the one to put an end to the madness. Bring order to the Wasteland, prosperity.
So she had read, so she was destined to fulfill.
“You don’t have to go if you don’t want to.” The voice of her brother seeps through the musings in her head. How many times had she heard the story? How many times did she convince herself the prophecy wasn’t about her? Chuckling, she turns back to her brother, caressing hairs for reassurance.
“It’s not about what I want, you know that, Norm.” She refutes, stepping away to put her shoes on, stuffing a small pack inside one of them. The handcrafted dress she wore made her look more like a princess than a warrior. She didn’t question it. After all, the prophecy so dictated it; the girl in the yellow dress, her hair flies free with the wind, eyes wide and brimming with unapologetic optimism. It was precise.
It was her.
The edges of the world crackle in the weight of the years that had gone by, the fortress of the villain overlooks the underground vaults keeping them secure.
Norm shrugged in response to her words. They’d gone through the same song and dance for a while now. It felt a little unfair to have his sister journey to defeat the tyrant when rumors spoke of his eventual, natural demise. To have a prophecy go unfulfilled could spell unspeakable horrors, so did the overseers say.
“You might not even have to fight him, with how weakened he seems to be.”
“I sure hope so…” But for different reasons. She knew her brother hoped she’d kill the man – everyone hoped that, but…
The prophecy’s end was ambiguous enough to give her hope. If she was the girl of prophecy then, maybe…
“Well, I should get going. It’s almost time for the trials.”
“Right,” the boy glances at his Pip-Boy, the radiation levels on the surface start to decrease rapidly, the sky starts to dim. Once more, the fortress opens up. And the younger brother stares at his sister, still unconvinced by the turn of events. “Come back home safe, Lucy.”
“I will, I promise.” She knew not to make promises lightly, but she rode on the hope of being able to keep her words. All of them.
And off she went. Sent with the blessings of her family and only her Pip-Boy to accompany her. She rose out of the vault, up the street and deep into the woods, to the Ghoul’s Fortress.
The gates automatically lower themselves for her and so begins her mission.
“Okey-dokey,” she hypes herself as she takes step by careful step.
Every trial is too easy, it almost feels like an invitation. And though she wonders, she knows not to stop. Press on, regardless of what lies ahead.
With each trial, she went deeper into the fortress. She had been running for a while now, stumbling with a giant, elegant door. As her hand reaches for it, the door slides open to reveal a big, empty room. It is the one room that stops her from searching for the next test. It’s mesmerizing, kept clean… Simple and beautiful. For a moment, she takes it in, the echo of her shoes reflecting a world that could have been. If she didn't know of his person, she'd think he had designed this place for…
“You took your sweet time, darling.” The voice is familiar, though it's her first time hearing it in person. The drawl it carries is undeniable. Lucy turns over to the source of the voice and finds the ghastly appearance of a man, in formal attire, ill-suited for his state.
He walks with the confident swagger of a poised man, not the monster the books wrote about. She knew not to judge books by covers, but witnessing the famed herald of the end so directly acting as a person threw her off.
“Ghoul…” She calls, the man tilts his head in amusement when he finally reaches her. She can see his eyes clearly, deep and yearning. How long has he been here, isolated? And why is she worrying about that, after all the things he has done? His isolation has been self-made, he has made his fortress impenetrable until now. Her voice breaks as she tries to brush her doubts away, the racing of her heart almost audible. “I’ve come to…”
“To put an end to me.” He completes for her in a whisper, he sounds so sure it almost destabilizes her. Though she cannot break her gaze away from him, she shakes her head, eyes wide, swallowing light. She has rehearsed this time and time again…
“I’ve come here to… bargain.”
“Bargain?” He asks, breaking eye contact to study her. “You have nothing for me.”
“Nothing but myself. I’m sure, if you and I talk, we could reach an agreement.”
He pauses, his thoughts had come to a screeching halt the moment she mentioned herself. And he’d repeat it in his head, he’d dissect the meaning as he stared back… And raised a hand, offering it to her like a prince would a princess.
She doesn’t hesitate though he had expected her to. Her hand lands softly on the palm of his own. When he tightens the grip, she does not whimper, she is not startled. She faces him as she had before. Slow, he places his free hand on her hip and she allows him to, as she instinctively places her own free hand over his shoulder.
“A dance, then?” The girl asks, he chooses not to answer. His feet start the step. Step by gentle step, a waltz that she follows to the letter. “You’re fond of the lost dances, huh?” She speaks in between nervous chuckles, he does not say a word. Instead, his eyes are on her as he spins her around the entirety of the ballroom.
The prophecy spoke of the dress, but never did she expect to be treated like a princess for it. Maybe, The Ghoul was fond of yellow, of princesses… But every time she meets his gaze, he is staring at her eyes, instead. Absolutely nothing else.
And when she holds onto him tighter, she takes a shaky breath… Ancient cologne and flowers. Her perfume and his. It’s easy to get distracted by the moment. This was the man—the thing she had to kill. If she were to follow the overseer’s recommendations, she wouldn’t have even said a word… And yet, they spin, they dance, they stare at each other like nothing else has ever existed.
For a moment, she wonders if nothing else truly does exist. Eyes open, woken up from a dream. And her heart leaps with joy, celebrating this brief moment in time. She knows that so does his own, and it confuses her.
“You said you wanted to bargain.”
“Oh–yeah… I don’t think killing you is the solution here.”
“You’d show mercy to a killer? To the one that ruined all your lives?”
“I… I know it sounds nonsensical, you don’t need to tell me. They’ve all said the same thing. But, even you deserve a just trial.”
“That’s a stupid notion, Lucy.”
“It’s–” she pauses, making a double take. The ring of her name freezes her body, causing her to stumble. She lands safely against the grip of his hand, the way his arm wraps around her.
“Easy there…” He whispers, leaning her back up.
“You know my name?” She asks and he hesitates. Acted nonchalance doesn’t help when her eyes insist on finding an answer in him.
“Everyone does.”
“That’s not true… How do you know?”
“Does it matter?”
“It does… If you knew who the person of prophecy was, then… why not stop me?”
“It’s obvious,” he whispers and, still, her head tilts, eyes waiting for an answer. She seems desperate, concerned. He can’t resist her, not when she looks at him like that. “I want the prophecy to happen.”
“You wish to be defeated?”
“It’s complicated.”
“Can’t you tell me? You allowed me in, after all.”
“Don't mean I was willing to answer every damn question you have.”
She recoils, a small pout forming as she tries to keep herself from pushing forward. Yet, as she remains close to him, standing, she places a hand over his shoulder again.
“Do you wish to be defeated, Ghoul?”
She holds him in place. He knows he can push her, she knows that as well. And yet, she stares intensely, intently, she waits for the answer that is rightfully hers.
“I…” he sighs and the ticking of the clock stops.
A loud sound is brought forth, an announcement of the end of the day arrives; midnight. It rings loud, harsh against the crystal floor, threatening to break it all apart.
Three bells and the Ghoul's legs start to lose strength, he topples down against the pressure. She tries to hold him, succumbing to his weight and slumping against the ground, holding him. His head lies perfectly against her lap. When he opens his eyes, it is her who he sees. Finally, a smile starts to form.
“I want you to see me die.”
As if those were the words of her most beloved, her heart drops. She finds herself unsure on where to place her hands, settling one on his chest, the other around his head.
“Wh–What? What are you—”
“You don't need to understand. It don't matter now… It never did. But I wanted you here.”
“Why–? Why me? Is it because I'm the prophecy?”
“Hah…” Even the exhale of his laughter is ragged as he can't help chuckling. “You still don't get it, huh? …Who do you think made the prophecy up?”
Lucy gasps, eyes on him. It makes no sense… Does it?
“But why…? I just don't understand?”
“You’ve always made things hard on me. You can’t help but push me to spill my guts all over the floor.” Another weak chuckle comes as he braces himself, his head turning just for a little. He can’t look away from her for too long. “I wanted to see you, exactly as I remembered you the first time we met, all those centuries ago.”
“You know me?”
“I knew you, who you were. Who you have been, every single lifetime.”
By instinct, her upper body backs away before she leans over to him. Brows furrow in both confusion and the tones of sadness her heart refuses to let go of.
“I don’t…” She sighs. “Why didn't you look for me? Why didn’t you tell me?”
“I have. I did. Before, every single time. And every time you were taken from me.” His breathing trails exhaustion, an odd mixture of satisfaction. For how long has he kept those thoughts to himself?
At the train station. After our café meeting. After the world was saved. And now, at world's end. He keeps it, keeps a good part of it in. The weight of it pushes tears out against his will. She doesn’t realize exactly when his hand had reached for her cheek, caressing it so knowingly. There’s no memory for her to cling to; no train station, no cafés, no worlds saved or ended. Instead, she is here, with a man she is supposed to know but doesn’t. And she suffers still, her heart screams for him, reflected in a soft whimper.
“My power is waning, but I needed you to know, for once… For once in my last lifetime.” A cough mixed with a growl interrupts him, he knows he is losing the battle and he panics, trying to breathe properly. The yellow dress, their first and last dance, even the cruel memories of losing her, of having to lose her – they help him survive for longer.
“I love you. I’ve loved you enough to grow mad, enough to destroy the world just to say it, just to see you, to feel you.” Selfish as he was, he smiles to himself, admiring the view of the teary eyed lady he has loved for so long. She doesn’t know him, not here, not this last time… But she feels for him regardless. And as she cries, anger seems to seep in.
“You’re cruel… You’re so cruel.” She scolds him, shaking his body firmly to try and keep him awake. He musters up the energy to keep half-lidded eyes on her.
“It was the only way I could make sure you arrived. Destroy the world and make Lucy save it… My last gift to you.” His hand slides down from cheek to neck, to chest, to the thunderous beatings against rib-cage. That heart of hers could destroy worlds, could move even the lost parts of himself, spell the very end of the world.
And rebuild it for the better. Rebuild him, once every little lifetime she had. Every small meeting, every small act of kindness.
He wants to say his good-byes. The ticking of the clock rings louder in his head, the darkness starts to pour in. His hand starts to fall, she catches it and rests it against the man’s own chest, to the weakened beatings against a broken cage.
Lucy leans in while lifting his upper body as much as she can.
Before his last beat is spent, the prickly touch of a stimpak graces his body along with the sting of a kiss against his lips.
It’s not supposed to heal him and yet… the beat continues on borrowed time, his hand finds its way to the back of her head, pulling her closer, keeping her locked there for longer. Much, much longer.
When they part, she eyes him, teary, but with a confident smile.
“My first gift to you.”
The edges of the world soak in a broken love story, to heal one last time.