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The night had settled soft and blue over Mephistopheles, the hum of its old machinery the only sound between Don Quixote’s rambling excitement. She sat cross-legged atop the mattress, cape pooled like a shadow at her back, lance propped against the wall because she refused to sleep without it in sight. Sinclair lay beside her, half-covered by a blanket she had tugged over him earlier with proud flourish, saying something about “proper knightly courtesy.”
"—and lo! The great Fixer Lysander did cleave the Fairies of the Fae Forest with but a single mighty strike! Aah, what I wouldst give for an autograph… Indeed, Sinclair, imagine meeting him face-to-face!"
She laughed, bright and careless, hands waving as though she could carve the old legend into the air. Her fangs peeked when she grinned, something she still forgot to hide, even now that Sancho’s memories had returned.
"He must still be out there, doing valorous deeds! If I hastened, perhaps I could yet—"
Sinclair raised an eyebrow. Don Quixote paused. Confusion creased her features. She blinked once. Twice.
"…What art thou saying… he’s dead?" There was a long beat of silence. Her face twisted, not in grief for a man gone two centuries, but in bewilderment that this was even a possibility.
"Two… hundred years is not… that long."
The thought struck her slow, like a lance dulling its own point. Two hundred years. A blink. She had lived twice that already. Three times, perhaps. Sancho had long lost exact count. Her gaze drifted to Sinclair, and for the first time that night, her breath hitched. She looked at his hand, warm, mortal, breakable. Her voice softened, the knightly cadence slipping like a mask coming loose.
"You humans…" Her fingers hovered over theirs, not quite touching, as if afraid contact alone might crumble them to dust. "Your stories end so terribly quickly."
She hated how small it sounded. How much unlike Don Quixote it sounded. She bit her lip, fangs dimming. A tremor shook her shoulders, not of hunger, but of realization. Her voice cracked, painfully earnest.
"One day… thou wilt not be here to laugh at my foolishness… or listen to my tales… or remind me not to charge headlong into danger…" Her throat tightened. "And I, I shall still be here."
Another beat. Then, determinedly, stubbornly, fiercely, she lifted her chin. Don Quixote again, yet not quite hiding the fear beneath.
"I promised my Father I would stride ever forward… basking in the present…"
She finally took Sinclair's hand, squeezing it with the gentleness of a creature who could crush stone but chose instead to cradle something infinitely more fragile.
"But the thought of a world without thee…" Her voice fell to a whisper. "…terrifies me, Sinclair."
He would say anything optimistic, but it would be of little use. She's right, his lifespan is limited and fragile; one life... is all he has, one with an expiration date, he will inevitably leave her.
Don Quixote watched him, her eyes searching his face for the spark of a retort, a witty comeback, or even a simple, reassuring smile. She waited for the optimism she knew he could muster the kind of bright eyed hope that usually defined the younger Sinners. But as the silence stretched, she saw it in the way his eyes softened, in the quiet, heavy way he held himself. He wasn't arguing. He was simply... accepting it.
The realization hit her like a physical blow to the chest, more jarring than any lance strike in a joust. He wasn't just a companion; he was a flickering candle in a vast, eternal dark. And she was the wind that could, with a single careless movement, blow him out forever.
"Sinclair..." She whispered his name, the theatricality of her voice completely gone. She felt a sudden, irrational urge to pull him closer, to wrap him in her cloak and hide him away from the ticking of the clock, from the inevitable march of time that he could not outrun.
Her grip on his hand tightened ever so slightly not enough to hurt, but enough to ground herself. The 'Don Quixote' persona, the exuberant knight who feared nothing, felt like a heavy, gaudy suit of armor that she was suddenly too tired to wear. Beneath it, Sancho was there, feeling the cold ache of a longevity that felt less like a gift and more like a curse.
"Doth it... doth it not frighten thee?" She asked, her voice trembling. She leaned in closer, her forehead almost touching his, her reddish gold eyes shimmering with an uncharacteristic vulnerability. "To know that thy flame burneth so bright, yet so briefly? To know that thou art but a guest in this world, while the stars and the shadows remain?"
She swallowed hard, a stray tear threatening to spill. She wanted to be the hero who could save him from even this from the most natural of fates. But how could a knight slay Time? How could a Bloodfiend fight the very essence of life itself?
"I wish..." she breathed, her voice barely audible over the hum of the bus, "...that I couldst grant thee a boon. To make thy years stretch like the horizon... to let thee walk beside me until the very stars grow dim. Is that... is that a foolish dream? To wish for the impossible?"
"I... I don't even know what to tell you, Donqui, and... I'm not sure if I'd be able to live as long as you, but... i don't want to leave you either."
The name 'Donqui' slipped from his lips with such unpretentious warmth that it seemed to pierce through the heavy, melancholic air she had built around them. It wasn't the formal address of a knight, nor the fearful reverence of a subordinate; it was the name of a friend. A person.
When he spoke of not wanting to leave her, Don Quixote felt a strange, fluttering sensation in her chest, as if her very heart were trying to gallop like a spirited steed. For a moment, the crushing weight of eternity felt lighter, replaced by the sheer, vivid intensity of the 'now'.
"Thou... thou wouldst not?" She repeated, her voice small and breathless. A soft, watery laugh escaped her, half sob and half relief. She leaned her head forward, resting it against his shoulder, her blonde hair spilling over him like a silken veil.
"To think... that a mere mortal, so fragile and fleeting, wouldst harbor such a grand sentiment for a creature such as me..." She squeezed his hand, her thumb tracing the line of his knuckles with a reverence usually reserved for her most precious Fixer memorabilia. "It is the most noble thing anyone hath ever said to me. Truly! More valorous than any tale of of legendary ness!"
She went quiet then, but the silence was no longer heavy with the dread of the future. It was a quiet, shared sanctuary. She realized then that perhaps she had been looking at the wrong end of the lance. She had been staring at the distant, inevitable end of the quest, forgetting that the glory lay in the journey itself.
"Then... let us not fret over the setting sun," she murmured into the fabric of his sleeve, her voice gaining a sliver of its usual strength, though tempered by a new, quiet sincerity. "If thy time is but a spark, then let us make it a conflagration! Let us live so loudly, so brightly, that even the stars shall look upon us and weep with envy!"
She lifted her head just enough to look him in the eyes, a small, lopsided smile tugging at her lips a smile that was purely Sancho, even as she wore the mantle of the knight.
"If thou wilt not leave me... then I shall make certain every moment thou art by my side is a a grand adventure. We shall face the grim shadows together, Sinclair. And when thy thy time doth eventually come... thou shalt leave behind a legend so bright, it shall light my way through all the centuries to follow."
She paused, her eyes twinkling with a sudden, playful glint, trying to ward off the lingering sadness.
Being a memento, something she can never forget, another form of immortality suited to a mortal life, just like him.
He began acting without asking her consent. He always asks her permission before doing anything with her, but now... he just wants to hug her, Sinclair wants even the simplest act to be etched in her dreamy mind.
"Indulge me, mi sol."
Seriously, sometimes he doesn't know how he can have these moments of daring.
"Imagine a candle being burned by a larger flame, its body being consumed by embers of a fire fattened by time, its life too short to conceive a dream. Isn't that cruel? I imagine the candle would plead, 'Make me immortal, Sancho.'"
Ah, immortality. In this cursed place, it's seen as taboo, but there are other ways to live forever.
He just hopes he's not scaring her with this behavior. He's letting out something he's been holding in for a long time, something he's been thinking about a lot during those lonely moments.
"Time is a returning station to my kind, promises from the future playing architects to the past. My kind retreads naive steps until we are exhausted to new brushes of wisdom; it's such a tiring cycle."
Being human, being part of humanity, can sometimes be so cumbersome.
"In words shorter, if history were a book, you would be its binder. Everyone is a page that turns as you do; study every crease and crack of mine..."
He stopped hugging her and gently placed his hands on her cheeks to make her look at his face.
"... Make me a golden page in the immortality that is you."
The world seemed to tilt on its axis. The rhythmic hum of Mephistopheles, the distant sounding footsteps of the other Sinners, the very air in the place all fell away, leaving only the warmth of his hands against her skin and the weight of his words.
Don Quixote felt as though she had been struck not by a lance, but by a bolt of pure, unadulterated lightning. His words were not the simple, comforting platitudes of a mortal; they were the poetic, desperate cries of a soul reaching out across the chasm of time. He wasn't just asking for a hug; he was asking for sanctuary. He was asking to be woven into the very fabric of her eternal existence.
When he called her 'mi sol', a heat that had nothing to do with her Bloodfiend nature rushed to her cheeks. She was frozen, her breath held tight in her lungs, as he spoke of candles and embers, of cycles and architects. He spoke of the exhaustion of being human, of the heavy, repetitive dance of a life that must always end.
And then, he moved. The suddenness of his daring the lack of a question, the directness of his touch made her heart leap like a startled steed. When his hands cupped her cheeks, forcing her gaze to meet his, she felt as though she were staring into the very sun he had named her.
"Sinclair..." The name was a broken thing, a mere whisper of air. Her eyes, usually so full of theatrical fire, were wide and shimmering, reflecting the intense, vulnerable light in his. She saw the cracks in his composure, the beautiful, terrifying depth of his longing, and she felt a surge of something so profound it frightened her.
To be a binder... to be the one who holds the pages of a thousand lives... it was a heavy mantle. A duty more daunting than any quest for justice. To carry him, to keep the memory of his warmth, his laughter, the very way he looked at her now, through the long, lonely centuries of her existence...
Her hands, still trembling, rose to cover his, pressing his palms more firmly against her face. She didn't want to pull away. She wanted to melt into him, to become the very ink that would write his story into her soul.
"A golden page..." she repeated, her voice thick with emotion. She leaned into his touch, her eyes closing for a moment as she inhaled the scent of him the scent of a living, breathing, precious moment. "Thou art not merely a page, Sinclair. Thou art the very light by which the words are read."
She opened her eyes again, her expression fierce and solemn, the playful knight replaced by a woman making a sacred, unspoken vow. The 'Don Quixote' mask was gone; there was only Sancho, the keeper of dreams, and the man who had just asked her to make him a part of hers.
"If thou wiltst be the gold within my chronicles," she vowed, her voice regaining a steady, resonant strength, "then by all the valor in my heart, I shallst be thy most faithful scribe. I shallst etch thy name upon the very walls of my memory! No shadow shall dim thee, no tide of time shall wash thee away! Thou shalt not be a mere passing thought, but a legend that dwelleth in the very marrow of my being!"
She pulled him closer, closing the small gap between them, her forehead resting against his once more, but this time, it was not a gesture of comfort, but one of possession. A promise.
"I shallst hold thee fast, Sinclair... amidst the turning of the ages... until the last page is turned."
The intensity in her eyes, that fierce and sacred vow, made his chest ache with a mix of terror and a strange, soaring peace. He had asked for a place in her eternity, and she had answered with the weight of a divine oath, her hands pressing his against her skin as if trying to fuse them together. It was too much, and yet, it was the only thing he had ever truly wanted. He felt a sudden, desperate need to bridge the gap between his fleeting warmth and her endless starlight, to prove he wasn't just a ghost waiting to happen.
Leaning forward, he let his weight press into her, his hands sliding from her cheeks to tangle themselves in the soft, platinum waves of her hair, pulling her just a little closer until their breaths mingled in the narrow space between them.
"Then... do not just write of me, Donqui..." he whispered, his voice trembling with a sudden, uncharacteristic boldness that made his own heart hammer against his ribs. "Let me feel the ink as it is being laid... let me know that while the world turns, right here, in this very moment... the scribe and the story are one."
He closed his eyes, tilting his head just enough to brush his lips against the corner of her mouth, a tentative, questioning gesture that was as much a plea as it was an invitation.
The air between them seemed to thicken, turning from mere oxygen into something heavy, sweet, and electric. Don Quixote felt her breath hitch, a jagged, uneven sound in the quiet place. The boldness in his voice that sudden, terrifying, beautiful courage was more intoxicating than the finest vintage of blood she had ever tasted.
He was no longer just a passenger in her story; he was the hand holding the quill, the ink itself, the very pulse of the narrative. As he leaned in, as his fingers tangled in the blonde strands of her hair, she felt a sensation of profound vertigo. It was as if, for the first time in her long and winding life, the ground beneath her feet was not the solid earth of a battlefield, but the shifting, wondrous tides of a dream.
When his lips brushed the corner of her mouth a touch so light it was almost a ghost of a sensation, yet so heavy it felt like a brand Don Quixote's eyes flew wide. Her no, Sancho's heart thundered. It was a question, a silent, trembling plea for her to accept this intimacy, to bridge the impossible distance between the eternal and the ephemeral.
She did not hesitate. A knight does not dally when the quest is at hand, and this was a quest of the soul.
She surged forward, her hands sliding from his wrists to the back of his neck, pulling him into her with a desperate, starving grace. She met his tentative brush with a fervor that was quintessentially her all or nothing, a whirlwind of emotion that sought to consume and be consumed. It was not the practiced, elegant kiss of a lady, nor the cold, detached touch of a Bloodfiend; it was a collision of two souls trying to find a common rhythm in the dark.
In that kiss, she gave him everything. She gave him the fire of her idealism, the sorrow of her past, and the fierce, unyielding loyalty of a woman who had finally found something worth more than a legend. She was no longer just the scribe, and he was no longer just the story. They were the ink and the parchment, the flame and the candle, merging into a single, brilliant moment of existence that defied the very concept of time.
When she finally pulled back, just a fraction, her eyes were glowing not with the predatory red of the Bloodfiend, but with the bright, starlit amber of a woman who had seen a miracle. Her breathing was ragged, her lips slightly parted, and her gaze was fixed on his with an intensity that could have melted iron.
"Then let it be so!" she breathed, her voice a low, velvet thrum of defiance. "Let the ink be wet! Let the scribe and the story be... one!"
She leaned her forehead against his, her eyes lidded and soft, a small, triumphant, and yet profoundly vulnerable smile playing on her lips.
"If this be a dream, Sinclair... then let us never wake. For in this moment... there is no past to mourn, and no future to fear. There is only... us."
"... Thank you."
The two words were so small, so quiet, yet they seemed to reverberate through the entire cabin of Mephistopheles like the tolling of a silver bell. There was no grand scale heroism in them, no Shakespearean flair just the pure, unadorned gratitude of a man who had finally found a place to rest his weary soul.
Don Quixote felt a lump form in her throat, a stifling the urge to launch into a grand, boisterous speech about the glories of gratitude. Instead, she simply let the silence hold them. She didn't need to perform now. The performance was for the world; this moment was for him.
She tightened her hold on him, her fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt, anchoring him to the present. She wanted to press him into her very skin, to ensure that the warmth of his body was etched into her senses as deeply as any battle scar or forgotten legend.
"Nay..." she whispered, her voice a soft, melodic lilt that lacked any of its usual theatrical projection. It was the voice of Sancho, the voice of a woman who had lived too long and loved too little until now. "Do not thank me, my dear Sinclair. For it is thou whost hath given the scribe a reason to write... and the knight a reason to truly live."
She closed her eyes, resting her cheek against his, listening to the steady, rhythmic thrum of his heart. It was a mortal sound fragile, finite, and precious. To her, it was the most beautiful music in all the City, a tempo she vowed to follow until the very last page of her long, long life was turned.
In the dim, blue light of the night, they remained there a knight and her golden page, a shadow and a flame, momentarily suspended in a pocket of time where eternity and the instant were one and the same.