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The snow-dusted plains of Aidonia were always grey, even on those rare days when the sun's gentle rays pierced past the fog of winter that constantly hung over the kingdom of death. There, the wind did not howl so much as it murmured, threading through frostbitten hills and combing through silvered brick and marble to hush the world's ceaseless echoes and lay it to peaceful repose.
The kingdom's temple loomed, its shadows looming like frozen ribs painted onto the earth's surface, clawing at the sky as statues laced with hoarfrost cast their indifferent gazes onto both dead and living.
Just ahead, the plaza lay quiet. Castorice stood at the precipice, at the edge of the stairs that separated temple from plaza, the hem of her cloak brushing against cool stone as she walked, her steps soundless, towards the plaza's center. Aidonia had never been a particularly lively place, but there was something about this stillness that eluded her, still. Something different, hazy, that she could not place.
This was a place she had not seen for what felt like an eternity, and where they first met. The very first place that Castorice ever saw her.
It all felt so familiar. Achingly so. The burn of it settled in her bosom like an old wound, near and dear to the dull thrum beneath her ribs. That fragile little thing reminding her that she is, somehow, still alive.
She had not meant to return here. Not tonight, not ever, perhaps. Memories of her were not something Castorice often allowed herself to revisit—though her longing and adoration would never truly wane. Some things, she has learned, are best left alone, lest the pain cleaves you open.
But dreams were cruel things: they took you away from the repose of sleep, unbidden and unconscious, and held you face to face with the sharpest things in the world. Here, it was Aidonia, draped across the landscape of her consciousness like a cloth pulled taut over her eyes. They cared little for what you intended, and you need fight Time simply to break free.
Now, back then, they were little more than passing strangers—the girl who held death in her hands, and yet another normal citizen of Aidonia, noble and Duchess she may be. Nothing more, but nothing less, too. It would not be until Okhema that Castorice truly learned who she was: her name, the music of her voice, the brilliant shape of her smile. The warmth and weight of an unflinching gaze upon her visage, one who would not flinch away from the girl who held death in her hands, and free of ulterior motive.
They were worse than strangers, now. Strangers, at least, did not catalogue the absence of the other. They did not regret, did not endure the hapless cruelty of loving someone you could not save.
And yet—she could feel her before she saw her. It was a warmth that had long been lost to her, something like the gentle rays of sunlight that every so often pierced through the snow-white world. It lingered behind her, the familiar weight of the gaze that now pricked at her back, demanding her attention.
Castorice did not turn. Rather, she could not—not yet, because laying her eyes upon her would make it real, and that would mean acknowledging, once more, the ache that had taken up permanent residence in the hollow of her chest, ever since the day she lost her.
The snow was falling again, dusting the world in soft, powdery white, and still Castorice did not turn. She wanted to, though. So terribly it hurt. How long had it been since she last saw her? How long since she last heard the sound of her voice? How long, wondering what was happening to her most beloved friend? Apparition this may be, but Castorice could not help but want.
Enna.
"You're doing that thing again," came the voice behind her, light in a way she had not heard for so long. Not since before everything had happened and Castorice was left alone. Each syllable Enna uttered felt like a new puncture, digging into her flesh and sapping her of her already waning strength. "The thing where you stand very still and pretend you don't know I'm here, even though we both know you're scarcely holding yourself back. Like a very pretty statue, Castorice."
The snow was still falling. Castorice closed her eyes, and the world went dark behind her eyelids—still, she could feel Enna there. If she tried, she felt she would have been able to sense Enna's every breath, every infinitesimal movement of her body, though that could not have been possible.
The silence stretched between them, taut as a string pulled to its breaking point. Castorice's fingers curled into her cloak, her knuckles pale and pink against the thick dark cloth as snowflakes fell onto her lashes, melting into trails of water and snow that did nothing to calm the warmth calling out to her.
"A very pretty statue," Enna repeated, the soft sound of footsteps moving closer as the air shifted around her. Here was a warmth that was almost alien in its familiarity, and how terribly Castorice longed to draw herself towards it until they were pressed cheek to cheek, chest to chest, hip to hip. "You know, most people turn around when their name is called. It's often considered polite." Enna sighed, a sound so painfully human that Castorice felt her resolve crack just a little more.
Her throat tightened. Castorice imagined Enna standing just behind her, a ghost that was close enough to touch but not yet touching, and felt herself crumble into dust. Caught in the snow's gentle descent, Castorice turned.
And there she was.
Enna looked just as Castorice remembered her—the very same delicate features, the very same tilt to her mouth, the very same eyes that pierced through her being. You could scarcely tell, but the falling snow clung to her hair like powdered sugar, catching the pale light of the sunless sky. She stood something like two paces away, close enough that Castorice felt herself longing to close the gap, to drink deeper in the sight of her.
"Efyre," Castorice breathed out, voice strangled as the name came out cracked at the edges, worn from disuse.
"Cassie," Enna answered, her expression flickering with something soft and hurt before she smoothed it away, replacing it with a soft smile. "Would you like to dance?"
The words hung in the air between them, swirling with snowflakes, and Castorice felt her heart—stubborn thing—stutter in her chest. She blinked, her mind struggling to catch up to the moment and the request being asked. "Dance?"
Enna's smile widened. "Yes, a dance," she said, extending a hand. It was smooth, just as it always had been, and almost too much so. "Unless you've forgotten how after all this time. I seem to recall you being rather good at it. I'd like to take your hand in a dance, now that I can."
Castorice's gaze dropped to the offered hand, and something within her splintered.
She remembered those hands, remembered wondering what it would feel like to feel them against her skin, to have Enna's warmth pressed tight against her. She could never have, because Enna was the very last person Castorice would risk, but she remembered longing. She still did.
"You shouldn't," Castorice said softly, looking at Enna with a begging look in her eyes. She did not—could not—move closer, though every fiber of her being screamed at her to do so. "I could—"
"You won't," Enna said, cutting her off. "You won't hurt me, Cas."
"I cannot," Castorice whispered. "I cannot bear the thought of—"
Enna takes a step closer, narrowing the gap between them to but a single breath. "This is a dream, Cas," she says. "And I am a doll. If not here, then where else? Tell me you don't want this. Stop thinking about what you should or shouldn't do and tell me that this isn't what you want."
What a treacherous thing that was.
Castorice wanted many things. She wanted the black tide's cruel advance to halt. She wanted peace and for the sunlight's embrace to hold every person. She wanted to press her palm against Enna's chest and feel her warmth and heartbeat wash over her, pretend that they weren't what they were and that everything was different.
She wanted to save her. She wanted to hold her. She wanted to be with her. She wanted to let her go and to keep her impossibly close, wanted to imagine for just a moment a future with her that did not end in tragedy.
Unconsciously, Castorice's hand lifted, trembling. It hovered in the scant space between them, and like this, she could feel the warmth radiating from Enna's palm. A trick of her mind, perhaps, but then again, all of this was. Right now, nothing mattered except the way Enna was looking at her, waiting for Castorice's answer like it was the only thing in the world worth waiting for.
"I want—" Castorice started, before swallowing down the words that lodged themselves in her throat like shards of glass. "I want so many things."
"I know."
The snow silently fell between them, indifferent. Castorice's resolve, already fragile as the snowflakes, shattered entirely.
Slowly, her fingers closed around Enna's, gentle, as if handling fine porcelain that could break with a wrong twitch.
The moment their hands met, Castorice held her breath, waiting for the inevitable moment when her touch would bring ruin and everything to shatter around her. She waited for the dream to splinter, for Enna to disappear away from her once more, for wakefulness to possess her in cold reality.
But none of that happened—just Enna's fingers curling around hers in turn, warm and solid enough that Castorice felt something in her chest give way. For a moment, she wondered if this was reality, and she had simply been trapped in a nightmare the entire time leading up to this.
"There," Enna said softly. "Was that so difficult?"
"...I suppose not."
They settle into a loose hold, Enna's hand settling on Castorice's waist, swaying together hesitantly to the whistling sound of the wind.
There was no music, and Castorice's movements were as careful and measured as if she weren't holding Enna in her hands but a cloud of mist and starlight, unable to bring herself to close the gap that still remained beneath them. Still, it was as wondrous as anything could ever be.
"You hold me like I'll shatter," Enna murmured, her breath warm against Castorice's cheek. "I'm not made of glass, you know."
"You are far more precious," Castorice replied, "and I am so afraid that you'll disappear again."
Again, Castorice says, as though she'd ever found Enna again. Out there, in the waking world, Enna was still gone—had been gone for so long that Castorice had learned to stop expecting, hoping to see her again. It did not stop that stubborn feeling anyway, burrowing into her ribs and refusing to be removed, no matter how many times she tried to suppress it. This, too, was likely one of its machinations, a fantasy meant to give her the same fruitless, painful hope.
Enna's grip on her waist tightened, just barely, the pressure of her fingers against flesh a stark reminder that she was here, now, and that Castorice need not mourn right this moment. "I'm not going anywhere," Enna said, but the words rang hollow despite the certainty she said it with. She was gone. She had already left, already lied, already betrayed, and Castorice knew this—and she did, as well—but still, Castorice smiled and believed the transparent lie, and they swayed together like the world had not already ended between the two of them.
"That is a terrible lie, Efyre," Castorice said, her voice carrying no reproach—only resignation.
"How funny, that there's no blame in your voice," Enna murmured.
The dance, if their timorous sways and steps could even be called that, slowed, growing closer to two people simply holding each other than anything close to a proper waltz. Castorice's free hand came up, hesitant and still ever so gentle, to cup Enna's cheek. She did not press her hand against the skin, merely resting her palm against the cool surface, as if feeling out for the faint warmth that still lingered beneath.
"You were afraid," Castorice said gently, her thumb tracing the delicate architecture of Enna's cheekbone. "And I do not fault you for fear. I never have."
"You should," Enna said, and Castorice listened as her voice steadily began to shed the upbeat mask it had been carrying. "I know this. You know this."
"Tell me," Castorice urged, her voice a soft thing, no louder than the snow falling around them. Something in her knew that this—all of this—would be nothing more than her unconscious mind's hopeful delusions, and yet. "Tell me, Efyre."
Enna laughed—a short, brittle sound that held no humor. "You want the full confession, truly?" She pulled back just enough to look at Castorice's face, meeting her eyes. "Fine. I was a coward. Nothing more, nothing less. I couldn't—" Her breath hitched, a soft, choked sound that she swallowed down with fierce will. "I couldn't bear the thought of becoming nothing. Of becoming a memory that faded. Of you forgetting me."
"How could I ever—"
"You would have to," Enna interrupted, and now she was cracked open in front of Castorice, her mouth spilling out all of the things she had long kept locked away. "That's what happens, isn't it? People die, and they cross, they go, and the living move on. That's how it should be. Perhaps they'll think about the dead some other day and they'll be sad, but they will move on eventually, and our world will simply go on its path. It's peace, for both the dead and the living."
Her fingers tightened against Castorice's waist, a desperate grip. "But I didn't want peace," Enna continued. "I wanted you. I wanted to stay. I needed to not be forgotten. And I knew—I knew you would have tried to convince me otherwise because you're good, Cas, you're so terribly good, and you would have done your duty even if it destroyed you. So I made sure you couldn't. So I betrayed you."
The words fell between them like stones dropped into still water, each one sending ripples through the dream's fragile surface. Castorice listened, her expression unchanging until she closed her eyes, and let out a soft, shaky breath.
Around them, the snow continued to fall, dusting the plaza in white. Somewhere in the distance, the temple bells began to toll—a sound that belonged to memory, one that had not existed in Aidonia for a very, very long time. Their swaying had utterly stilled.
"This… is a blissful lie," Castorice said, soft and low. "But we're dancing, and here I am talking to you, and none of this will matter when I wake."
She opened her eyes, and smiled. "You're here, I'm here, and I am holding you," Castorice said. "What more could I possibly ask for?"
Enna bit her lip, laying her head on Castorice's shoulder. "You're too good for me," she murmured against her skin. "Far, far too good."
For a long, long moment, neither of them spoke. Just soft breaths and the snow falling around them—the scant warmth of each other's presence. Castorice's arms find themselves enclosed around Enna, relishing the feeling of a body against hers, what more her beloved's.
"For what it's worth," Castorice says. "I don't believe I could have ever forgotten you."
Enna smiles, and the expression transforms her, back to the cheerful girl she had once been. She lingers there for a moment, cheek pressed against the curve of Castorice's shoulder, reluctant to surrender the warmth. But, slowly, she leans away. Her fingers trail along Castorice's arm as they assume their previous positions—Enna's hand on Castorice's waist, their hands intertwined. They fit together like this, as if they were fated to.
"Won't you dance with me again, Cas?" Enna asked, as if Castorice had ever truly been capable of refusing her. "Please?"