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The black sun shines dully down on the fallen City of Fog, a gloomy mockery of the golden sun in that wondrous dream. Sylvester almost resents Clementine for it, for showing him that beautiful fantasy, only to fall back into this burning world.
But he returned by his own choice, and he knows that she meant well, in her own way.
In the brief reprieve of first light, when the abominations’ activity is at the lowest, Sylvester wanders the streets at the fringes of Londinium. His mind is far away, though his senses remain alert. It’s habit by now, when walking through the city swarming with dissolutes. Here, the streets are empty, the dilapidated houses abandoned—or so he thinks.
There is no sign or warning before the presence abruptly appears behind him, taking him off guard.
“Finally.”
The hoarse, masculine voice comes from directly behind him, far too close.
Sylvester startles violently, the silver key in his hand emitting pure light, the ridges digging into his palm. But then he hears it.
The rustle of featherless wings.
The churn and groan of fathomless seawater; the abyssal deep.
About to summon his awakeners, Sylvester freezes, silver light dimming.
He knows that unearthly sound, this crisp aquatic and mineral scent.
He knows this smothering warmth, enveloping him, gathering him into his arms.
“Caught you.”
The words are a low, dangerous growl in Sylvester’s ear. Something slithers over his waist, binding him as tightly as the arms clutching him to the person’s chest.
The long, pale tail could only belong to one person.
Emotion surges, throat closing up and, for a moment, Sylvester is unable to breathe.
“Pontos?” The name comes out in a whisper.
No. No, it’s impossible.
He knows this.
Realization has Sylvester’s heart sinking.
“Am I… dreaming again?”
Pontos’ chest rises and falls in a deep sigh, nose buried in Sylvester’s neck. “Maybe I’m the one who is dreaming.” He squeezes Sylvester, voice turning gentle and coaxing. “Let me see you, little one. It’s been too long.”
Sylvester silently shakes his head, not daring to turn around, fearing this fragile hope will shatter like glass, another cruel illusion.
But then Pontos coughs, small and suppressed, and Sylvester catches the faint scent of copper. Alarm has him turning hurriedly in Pontos’ arms.
“You’re injured!”
Sylvester has never seen Pontos so ragged, his skin turned pallid, his clothing torn and stained. More worrying is how the abyss beneath the fissures on his chest flows sluggishly, the ethereal glow turned dull and sickly.
“Ah, this?” Pontos casually wipes the blood from the corner of his lips. “There was a small toll to pay. Give it a few days and I’ll be as right as rain.”
“You… what did you do?”
Pontos captures the frantic hands patting him over. He brings them to his lips, one at a time, and presses a kiss to the knuckles; one, and then the other… leaving behind a stain of sanguine on the pristine white of the gloves.
“A trivial matter. It wasn’t as difficult as you might imagine… seeing as I already marked you.”
(In the eternal hunt, the one marked as His prey is fated to fall into his hands.)
Pontos marked him? When?
Sylvester should be upset about it, angry even.
But all he can think is: Is Pontos really here?
Concentrating on the silver key, Sylvester can sense it—the link between them, unbroken.
He is. It’s really Pontos, here in the flesh.
“Whether you go to the ends of the earth or beyond doesn’t matter. I will find you.”
The tail cinches tight, reeling Sylvester in.
There is nowhere you can escape.
“The things that are mine, I will never let go.”
It’s a threat, a danger, and maybe Sylvester will care about it later, but now he just feels a profound relief, his endless worries carried away by the tide, the hollow ache in his heart filling with warmth. He has to bite his lip to stifle a sob, blinking the dampness from his lashes.
The tears are kissed from his eyes, the rough hand gentle on his face.
“You are mine,” Pontos says. “Forever.”
It’s a tender promise; an ominous pledge.
…I’ll scold him later, Sylvester thinks, snuggling in, allowing himself to be trapped in strong arms.
For now, he closes his eyes, wallowing in the warmth of affection.
He isn’t alone anymore.
This person will be by his side.
Always.