--?--:

I’ll find you again, I promise.

*****

“In this world we're just beginning.”

It begins in darkness.

The stories always tell you that Adam lay with Eve, Isaac prayed for Rebecca, and Boaz sought Ruth out in a wheat field. They tell you that Paris stole Helen away in the night, and Menelaus mustered all the Greeks, sailed a thousand ships, and set fire to Troy. They make a great many weep as Romeo calls out to Juliet before they meet their deaths within the week. Elizabeth Bennet and Mr Darcy. King Henry VIII and all his wives. Gus and Hazel lamenting the fault in our stars.

But they don’t tell you that the stars spell out other names, other paths, other constellations. Constellations of softer fingers trailing across smoother skin, of flowers being threaded through hair, of lingering glances cast at someone I want to be – or to be with? – or the absolute denial and non-belonging one has in relation to the overall canon.

It begins in darkness.

Humankind wandering through dark fields, shivering in ice caves, settling beside rushing rivers. It is mankind who have sought military power, monopolised force under the banner of a state, but humankind is not only made of the tales of men.

It begins in darkness. A spark. One that threads its way through time, unseen and unheard.

*****

XVIII:

Miss Irene is the loveliest lady that Seulgi has ever laid eyes on.

Seulgi thinks that it is unfair, sometimes, that Miss Irene is as beautiful as she is. Is God fair? Surely, the Lord Almighty looked upon her more closely when he sculpted her delicate limbs, when he placed her large doe eyes on a perfectly immaculate face, when He shaped her lips, and painted her teeth white such that she could be nothing but captivating when she spoke. Speaking to her makes Seulgi’s ears burn, makes her light and as gay as ready to burst into song as the skylarks of the morning.  Thinking of her fills Seulgi with an ineffable fondness, and she certainly does not know how to not think of Miss Irene. Being around her makes her entire being thrum with a foreign lightness. Everything about her urges Seulgi to pen down little verses, deftly hiding them from the world because oh, if Miss Irene isn’t to read them, no one else shall.

How can she possibly be any less than Kang Seulgi?

Father tells her that Miss Irene is not as they are. Miss Irene hails from a family of no proper estate to speak of. Miss Irene cannot be presented in any season, Seulgi, no. She is not fit to be presented. Don’t you understand? Yes my dear daughter, she’s here to teach you, but it does not mean that she’s going to—

Seulgi tunes him out whenever he tries to remind her that Miss Irene is a lot less than the Kangs. Seulgi does not understand. Miss Irene is beauty personified, far prettier than Venus in Florence. Her hair is not blonde nor is it as curly as Venus should be, but Miss Irene’s hair is thick and dark and falls across her shoulders like the sketches of waterfalls that Seulgi finds in father’s old journals. Journals she’s pilfered from father’s study when father was out at a meeting or other, letting her take a glimpse into the world father walks in in the world outside, in a time before her mother left them.

“Seulgi?” She perks up at the sound of her melodious voice. “Are you done with your breakfast yet? We should get started with our morning lessons.” The sound of her light footsteps gets louder and louder – or could it be that Seulgi’s heart is thumping more loudly in her ears?

Miss Irene is a vision.

***

XX:

No, no, no.

Shells explode outside.

There is little time to move the dying and the dead.

It cannot come to end like this.

The girl, she has to save her.

Why?

(She doesn’t know.)

“Come on, Irene, get out of here!”

“You’re in shock, aren’t you? Come on. We’ve got to leave! The Japs are about to arrive, you idiot! We’ve got to go.”

“Irene, Irene!”

“Come on, we’ve got to get you outta here—"

“The Koreans are going to die anyway. We don’t have time.”

“Irene!”

He tugs on her bloodied hands, pulls. Drags.

No, no, no, no, no—

*****

--IV--:

The widest smile she has ever seen on her mother’s face appears when her father walks under the arches of the gateway. As he makes his way into their house’s compound, Seulgi watches as her mother embraces her husband with unprecedented exuberance.

She also watches her mom’s face fall slightly, her eyes sharpening and her lips tightening, when her gaze falls on the girls that the guards drag behind them.

Seulgi’s gaze is merely one of curiosity, and she lets her eyes linger on one of the girls longer than she should, and her nurse tugs on her arm to draw her attention to her father, whose opened arms wait for her to return his embrace.

She obliges. She even says that she misses him.

But as she hugs her father, the girl that she’s watching locks gazes with her, and she fights the shudder that threatens to run through her body at the simultaneous intensity and emptiness that her eyes hold.

*

It’s not appropriate, the nurse tells her.

Seulgi doesn’t care: she asks for her anyway.

*

In the evenings, it is Irene who brushes Seulgi’s hair. It is a quiet and private ritual, one away from prying eyes. Every evening, it is Irene is the one who picks up the washcloth to scrub at Seulgi’s neck, her small hands passing over Seulgi’s bony shoulders, to scrub at the girl’s collarbone.

Seulgi lets Irene pick her clothes. It is something Irene is good at, even though she prefers the plainer and neutral colours while Seulgi personally prefers the brighter ones. Irene says that they are too garish. Seulgi just lets Irene do as she wishes.

Irene is parsing through Seulgi’s belongings again. She picks through the ornaments inside, taking them out one by one to polish them. Seulgi is supposed to be painting something, but not much has materialised on the canvas, of course.

Then Irene gasps. Seulgi starts, and immediately gets up to go to her side.

“What’s wrong?”

Irene bites her lips, hesitating.

“It’s okay. You can tell me anything.”

Irene gazes up at Seulgi’s, her large eyes unsure. “This… pin. Was made back where I…”

The pin in Irene’s hand is golden, with a lapis lazuli stone embedded within. “Oh. It is. From where you were. It was a gift, I think, from…” Seulgi her head to the side, struggling to remember who gave it to their family, in a better age. “…I know that my parents were gifted this, aeons ago, before. The king and queen gave it to us, said it was a gift from…” Seulgi’s eyes widen in realisation. “You must have it.”

“I cannot possibly—”

“You cannot,” Seulgi agrees, “wear it in public.” Irene makes a strangled sound at the qualification. “You can wear it here, in front of me.”

Irene gasps. “I, really cannot—”

“Is this defiance, I hear?” Seulgi retorts, but with no bite in her voice. “You can have it. It is a gift. Take it.”

Irene’s eyes are wide, questioning, as she takes the pin and puts it into her hair. You’re beautiful, she wants to say, but she doesn’t. Irene turns around to look at the mirror, and the smile she breaks into is as radiant as the morning sun.

Seulgi’s heart catches. Is caught. Has been entangled in this for the longest time.

*****

VIII:

She’s jostled from her sleep by a sharp pull on her arm, a vice grip that insists she get off this very instant. Before she can even utter anything, a hand clamps over —

She nearly bites it. But it’s a familiar hand. Her sister. Oh.

Thunder roars outside. Thunderous footsteps follow. There are yells and screams and jeers and taunts and all she can hear is the screaming, oh, it doesn’t stop—

They are both pressed against the wooden walls for a moment before her sister lets her go. “You need to hide. Now.”

“What about you?” She asks, breathlessly. “I cannot—”

A mirthless laugh. “They’ve already killed my husband and my sons.” Her sister shifts, pulling away from her, and she realises that her back is now wet and the smell of blood fills the air. “There is nothing left for me.” But she’s promised to the chief’s son in the next village. She has someone and somewhere to go to. If she runs now, there might be hope still.

“They are dead, surely—”

Her sister lets out a sigh, and she knows then that her sister will never leave this village. That she’ll die here with her husband and son tonight. She bites her tongue, swallowing her words, before she promises her sister that she’ll live and then she tears her way into the night.

The night is choked with the remnants of the dying. Flames rage everywhere, and it’s all she can do to trace a path out of the village—

Everything has been torched. The army leaves nothing standing. The smoke is laced with the familiar smell of charcoal and the wrenched stench of burning flesh. The horses are screaming in the stables as they are left to burn. She plucks up her skirts to leave, she must survive because no one else is going to be able to live to tell of the atrocities—

Then pain.

A spear, sticking out of her abdomen. She looks up to see the face of a woman, her face merciless but remorseful all at once, unfamiliar and yet familiar all at once.

Who…?

The spear twists.

She cries out in pain, but as she slumps forward, knowing for certain that death has come for her, the last thing that she thinks of is the pained confusion printed across the woman’s painted face.

*****

XVIII:

Daybreak:

Miss Wendy feeds the paper into the fire, remembering Seulgi’s hoarse whisper: if Miss Irene isn’t to read them, no one else shall.

*****

XXII:

“They say in heaven, love comes first.

We'll make heaven a place on earth.”

There she stands, in the moonlight, silver hues glancing off her pale skin.

Gravel crunches beneath her leather boots as she walks with her legs shaking towards the neon glow of the pink, purple, and aqua in front of her.

When was the last time that she’s been out on the streets like this?

She doesn’t remember.

She doesn’t remember when she’s last smelt the faint salt in the air, the cool breeze that carried the salty-fishy odour, one that spoke of warm summers and languid days stretched out on a crumbly bed of sand. She doesn’t remember when she last felt the thump of the bass vibrating against her ribcage, nor does she remember hearing the refrains of this song before.

There is nothing more to it. 

Courage, Irene. Courage.   

With that word, her heart hardens and the world crumbles around her, the streets collapse, and all that remains is the draw of The Velvet.  

*

Her hands are trembling a little as she calls for another glass. Would she have been this bad with liquor? She’s only had one drink, but she can feel the flush high on her cheeks. Is this what it’s like for everyone else?

She glances around. No, everyone seems perfectly fine. In the dim lights and the layers of makeup that cake over faces – she can’t see much of their faces – but she’s sure no one’s as red as she is.

She calls for the bartender again, but he doesn’t seem to hear her.

Are all bartenders this frustrating?

It’s humiliating, but she doesn’t know what to do.

What else can she say about all of this?

Who can she ask for help?

Everyone around seems to know each other. Maybe it’s time for her to leave. She’s not made for this sort of place. Her parents were right, damn them, but still. Her initial curiosity has festered and all there’s left is a bourgeoning desire to be out of a crowded room full of sweaty bodies, out there in the moonlight and salty sea air.

Then someone claims the empty stool next to her. Gelled hair. Pompadour. Too much gel.

“You look new here! Want another drink?”

“Um…” she squeaks, unsure of how to respond. “I…”

“Oh come on. You’re probably thirsty by now, your lips like that. Your gin’s on me.” Too much alcohol in his breath too.

“Oh, there you are!” A girl’s voice cuts through their conversation. She’s wearing the shiniest skirt that Irene has ever seen. And her top is a tessellation of colours that match the neon glow of the club. The girl levels a sweet smile at the guy. “Thanks for keeping my friend company. But we’ve got to go.” 

A tug at her arm. She glances down to stare at the girl’s arm. The tug becomes more insistent. Irene doesn’t hesitate anymore, and they free themselves from him.

“Thank you.” Irene nods, dipping her head slightly.

“No problem.” The girl then bites her lip, just a little bit. “That guy… he shouldn’t be in here. Guys aren’t really meant to come in here. But oh, sorry, you don’t even know who I am. I’m Yerim, by the way.”

She smiles, for the first time tonight. “I’m Irene.”

“Ah, a newcomer. There’s someone pretty new here for tonight too. You should meet her. She’s nice.”

How did they all know that she’s not been around before? Is it that obvious?

Irene also doesn’t really feel that she has a huge choice in the matter, but she doesn’t really care. By Yerim’s side, she feels a lot safer. They press through the crowd trying to bust out moves to the groove, and make their way through gold streamers. She might get lost if she was alone, but Yerim seems to know where she’s going.

Pushing open a panelled door, Yerim drops onto a seat opposite the most beautiful person that Irene has ever seen. No one should be able to drape a simple frayed denim ensemble on themselves and look this alluring. It’s unfair. Practically criminal.

The person looks up from something that she’s tapping on, slight confusion appearing on her face before she sees Yerim and smiles, her eyes disappearing entirely in a way that makes Irene’s heart stutter. If she ever turns that smile on her, Irene is sure that her heart will simply cease to beat.

“Hello. I’m Seulgi. You are?”

Oh, yes. Her heart has stopped beating.

“Irene,” she supplies, barely pushing the word out of her lips.

She shudders as she pulls her pink fur jacket more closely onto her skin. It’s not gotten colder, and in fact the temperature that Irene feels in her cheeks has probably skyrocketed by this point, but she really doesn’t want to let Seulgi know that she’s so utterly affected by her appearance.

“Both of you are new here,” Yerim says lightly, jerking Irene out of her thoughts. She’s grateful – if she stares any longer at Seulgi she’d probably start drooling. “I’ll… leave you be.”

Irene turns to Yerim, a desperate look on her face. “Where would you be?”

An arch of an eyebrow, then a laugh. “Around. Bye!”

She’s gone before Irene can say another word in protest.

She wants to cry.

She’s just not that good with people.

What should she say? What is she going to say?

Oh my, can she just leave yet?

Oh my god, Irene -ah, you’re in front of a gorgeous girl and the only thing you can think of is leaving, again?

(Coward, have courage!)

“Uh, uh, hi!” She says, suddenly and too loudly. By the upward jerk of Seulgi’s eyebrow and the confused smile on her face, she thinks so too. “Um, um, what I mean to say is that… you’re um, really pretty!” Okay, that’s totally not what she meant to say. What did she mean to say again? “Oh, no, uh… Ah .”

Irene rubs her palms on her denim skirt, suddenly feeling very, very out of place, and very, very underdressed compared to this lovely lady in front of her.

Seulgi just smiles, somewhat encouragingly and reassuringly. “You think I’m pretty, hmm?”

“Uh…”

A laugh. It’s a wonderful sound. “Let’s just say you do. You’re really flushed! Did you drink without eating?”

“Uh…” She’s beginning to think that she’s forgetting how to speak. Her cheeks just flare redder as she jerks her head in an affirmative.

“Really, Irene? Let’s go get something to eat then.”

*

They leave. Yerim spies them when they leave the club and she laughs.

They find some diner, some place decked out in the 60s – probably because that’s when it’s from – and Seulgi buys them burgers.

The burger is still warm by the time they make it to the beach, and between each bite of the burger, she stares at Seulgi as the other girl talks and fills what would otherwise be silence.

Seulgi finishes hers really quickly, so she asks a bite of Irene’s. Irene really doesn’t mind that Seulgi smudges her burger with lipstick, and finds that there’s a ridiculous sort of thrill/amusement/satisfaction in claiming the bits of burger that’s been coated in the other girl’s red. She’s really, really thankful that Seulgi seems to really like talking, and she’s only all too glad to listen to whatever Seulgi has to say.

The tide rises. The tide falls.

There is a gentle swish and swoosh of the waves, and a certain lightness to the wind. Her skin grows slowly gets coated in a layer of humidity. And she finds that she doesn’t care for anything but the girl in front of her. Seulgi’s lips move in the prettiest way as they let out her words. The hollows of her neck are simply enchanting. 

There is a beeping sound. Seulgi looks down at the strap on her wrist.

“Oh. I’ve got to go.”

“What?”

“It’s 11:59. I’ve got to go.”

“Ah. Right.”

“I’m sorry, Irene. I might see you again.”

She barely has time to push out a “Yes, please,” before Seulgi gets up and bolts away from her.

And she’s gone.

She wonders if it’s a mistake, her being so quiet. Her being so hesitant. Her not daring just a little bit more.

*

Irene begins to wonder why she always needs rescuing.

“Hi. My friend’s only got 6 months left. Do you mind?”

“I uh… No, no. Excuse me.” Her face pales as she shies away.

“Seulgi!” She nearly squeals before she restrains herself. Woah. So that’s how Seulgi blows people off – that’s pretty cool! “I can’t believe she just…”

“Yeah, she tried hitting on you.” A chuckle. “Things have gotten less bad for the community over the years... so…”

Irene’s eyebrows stitch together. “I guess it’s been a while. But no one wants to tell me just exactly how long it’s been.”

Seulgi just smiles and prompts, “That’s how it is. So…”

“Oh. I’ve got a couple of weeks left before the pass over.”

“No, not that, silly. But I’ve got a few months left, if you must know. Give or take.”

Irene grins. “That’s alright. Here, there’s forever.”

Seulgi just shrugs. “Don’t go all Jewish on me, Rene.” Irene’s mouth is infinitely drier: Rene. She finds that she likes the sound of it.

“Hey, I love this song!” Seulgi suddenly exclaims. “They played it last week!” An eye-smile. Oh god.

Irene’s brows knit together more intensely, her head tilting to the side. “Who sang it?”

Seulgi’s head spins towards her, her eyes widening. “Belinda Carlisle, in 1987.”

“Oh,” is all Irene can say. “I wasn’t around by then.”

Tendrils of hair are swept away from her face. “Ah. Come on, dance with me.”

“I…”

“You’ve never been to a place like this.” Seulgi doesn’t even bother phrasing it like a question. Red tinges Irene’s cheeks. Seulgi probably thinks that she’s juvenile.

“It’s okay.” Irene’s cheeks burn further as Seulgi grabs Irene’s stiff fingers and somehow guide her towards the dance floor.

It’s very bright.

“Hey, just do what I do! Like this!”

Irene’s cheeks just burn further as Seulgi’s fingers graze against her thigh as she sways to the beat, her arms moving in deliberately jagged movements, her hips rotating in effortless fluidity.

Irene tries to follow. She really does.

All it accomplishes is an awkward jerk of her hip.

Her cheeks and ear can’t really get any redder, but Seulgi laughs and leans closer to say, “Okay, I see that this really isn’t your thing.” And: “I really can’t believe I’m saying this – this place is terrific – but do you want to leave?”

Oh yes, yes please.

*

“Your house is really big.”

“Apartment,” Seulgi corrects with a light smile as she moves to turn the Walkman on.

It’s so small, and ooh, it has this display that you can touch! Seulgi hands it to her as she sees Irene reach for it. The shorter girl fiddles around with the device, swiping at the screen.

“Now playing: Would U… it’s Korean? Huh. This is so weird. Didn’t we just have a terrible uprising?” Irene pokes at it for a bit more, and voices aloud, “Oh. It’s a 2017 thing.”

“An uprising?”

Irene shrugs. So… more than three decades? She pushes the circular button below the display and swipes around more. The screen flashes into a… game? The graphics are crystal and crisp and there aren’t any pixels!

“Are these… games? Woah. SEGA and Nintendo would die for this thing.”

Seulgi chuckles. “SEGA has long submitted to Apple on this front. Not that SEGA tried venturing out of their niche… Oh! Kodak filed for bankruptcy in 2012.”

Irene’s eyes widen. “Seriously? Kodak? Film and photo giant Kodak? Are we living in the same universe?”

“Apparently so. You’re here, aren’t you?”

“Technically, I am not. Neither are you.”

“Fair enough.”

Seulgi’s smile fades, just a little bit. And Irene hurriedly cuts in with a, “Oh! There’s Sonic on this thing!”

*

It’s to the slow melody of Time to Love’s piano refrain that Irene finally dares to kiss Seulgi.

She’s imagined this moment, lots of times, wondering what it’s like to finally kiss a woman. What the fuss is all about. What she got into all this mess for. Why did she get into all of this when she can’t even swallow her doubt?

And oh, it’s great.

Sure, their noses bump into each other and Irene just blinks at the sheer absurdity of it when they stare into each other’s eyes, grins on their faces, as they both process what Irene tried doing. Tried being the operative word here. Then Irene her lips in nervousness and realises that it’s slightly tinged with Seulgi’s strawberry lip balm.

And then when she tries to free them both from their awkwardness, she only manages to tangle their limbs together. Somehow.

“Irene,” Seulgi giggles, “our noses don’t have to be collateral damage if you want to kiss me.” There is a spark in her eyes – amusement? Irene can’t really tell.

“Sorry, I just…”

“Never done it before?” Seulgi’s eyes soften. “Don’t worry.”

Legato. They are melded to each other.

It is hard to think when her blood thrums vivacissimo, her heartbeat a rollercoaster staccato.

She is kissing Seulgi, and she wonders why she has never done this before. The soft whimpers escaping and her fingers clawing at her back makes grab her silky hair a little tighter as she presses a little harder against hers.

***

I have found you, in the world of unreal things. But where are you?

***

“Let us die young or let us live forever. Heaven can wait.”

                                                                      *****

XV:

She brushes her hair and pulls it into a crown of braids. By her bedside is a misshapen pile of flowers, wilting. Five lobes. Blue, pink, and white, delicate and small. Yellow centres. If she closes her eyes, she can almost believe she’s back here by her side—

“Please, don’t forget me—”

“Then stay.”

The weight of inevitability hangs between them and she her tongue is sour and bitter from the resignation and regret that she cannot seem to be rid of.

Fingers trail down her shoulders, fingers hardened from bowstring, tracing a pattern of swirls and circles, a path between the moles that are scattered across her shoulders.

In apology. In farewell.

*****

XXIII:

They watch the stars. That’s all that they do, towards the end.

In Seulgi’s hands rests the chip that she’s removed from the stores, she flips it in her hands.

Seulgi, they said, you are still here. Irene had signed her name to you half a century ago. You should be the one to remove Irene from the system. A farewell, of sorts.

Do you really want to live forever? It won’t do the continue the myth that their cookies were living. The Irene that that Seulgi knows is long gone, removed from the system that suspended her poor life for a few decades. A few decades too many. Seulgi chews on her lips, rubs her fingers against the smooth skin of her own hands absently. There is artifice in everything, but an artificial life in an artificial world of artificial people is something that has gone in and out of vogue.

Seulgi wonders if all this is as artificial as the Cookie system. The flood of everything, an inundation of knowledge lived in different skins and different times. There was a time where she – is it really Seulgi? – that painted her face with the bright white of lead carbonate and lined her eyes with black charcoal before they marched off to battle, with Seulgi a conduit between those that have passed and those that haven’t, with Seulgi revered for that ability, with Seulgi at the front of these expeditions.

Blood and bone fused together to conquer different lands, to die on different soils, nervous systems constructed to fire different memories, tears wept across the shoulders of different mothers— how much of them are hers?

Irene, in San Junipero.

Is that Irene hers?

Irene knew a Seulgi transplanted into the simulation.

They are perhaps the same Seulgis who grew up playing Zelda on Nintendo, fiddled with Kodak films, and snapped photos atop the Mont Blanc with a Canon, but she wonders how much she can claim that they are the same people. That Seulgi didn’t know that in a few weeks, she’d be Restored, that she’d be Remade by the hands of humankind.

In a dark room, the chemicals worked on her system, fixing the telomere ends of her chromosomes, threading new proteins into the damaged keratin in her hair, and filling her body with renewed vigour. Everything, down to the tiniest cell, was repaired.

Everything would never be the same again.

And so, she waits.

***

?:

One day, I will find you again.

In the darkness, in the light, I will be by your side again.

***

XXIII:

In the first half of the century, few people are born to this Earth. There is no point, when you can replicate yourself. There is no point in procreation if you cannot die.

Or at least, few people that Seulgi knows of are born to this Earth. In the city that she lives in, they are warded against the dead and the dying outside. They do not leave the perimeters, not truly, not when the outside is a sun-scorched, disease-ravaged land that even their restored systems struggle to handle. Anyone who dares to venture out would be placed under quarantine for the months.

Seulgi spends her days holed up in her tower, performing the tasks required of her to keep the city in motion. The Seulgi of the SEGA-days would be envious, her being able to compute complicated arithmetic as quickly and easily as she can now. Pringles-Seulgi would give up five whole cans of Pringles to be able to stuff a millennium of history into her head for her college entrance tests. Seulgi now would give anything to wrench all these memories out of her system. To give it all up.

But she doesn’t.

Instead, there are some days that she spends holed up in the tower, having cleared the task logs for the day. Then she spends her days using a sparingly small amount of ink and paper, her letters tiny and even, recreating the little verses that the Seulgi of previous centuries had tried to write.

She shakes her head. It’s a foolish endeavour. She was a child then, a fan of Shakespeare, prone to silly thoughts and dreaming of castles in the air. But there is a certain comfort in recreating the poor attempts at emulating Shakespeare.

Shall she compare Miss Irene to a summer’s day?

***  

XXV:

There is the song of skylark.

They roam where old Acropolis used to stand, tracing their way southwards along the coast. It’s been six centuries too long, and Seulgi’s tired of this existence. Tired of everything. But she and the others still persist. It’s they, who survived the turn of the millennium, who were the first to leave the city’s confines in the north to wander southwards, charting a slow journey down. They say that the caps have begun to freeze again. They say that the older coastlines are beginning to return.

That cannot be right. The sound of skylark? Are her memories sounding out in her mind again?

In the year 2531, there are no birds.

She shakes her head. It must be the heat getting to her. She’s familiar with heat and drought, she who once rode across desert plains in another lifetime in a bloodied war to keep the Muslims out of Iberia. In her younger days, she spent months in the Sahara on a quest to capture images of every tribe that would let her do so. Her skin would brown and peel and brown and peel again, but that was when she was happy.

The millennium wears on her.

Sometimes, when she sleeps, she thinks of the instances where Irene was lost to her. When consumption, or tuberculosis as they later call it, claims Irene. Or the time when she killed her. Or when she died before Irene in the middle of a tent, the desperation of a stranger/not-a-stranger as Irene struggles to take her with them – probably without knowing what even compelled her thus. Or the lifetimes where she left her, for war, for another land, for another destiny.

The song of skylark.

She bends down to pick up a piece of metal, a twisted small thing. It’s dusty. Wet. Covered with grime and sand. The song of skylark rings in her ears. Louder and louder. So loud that she can barely hear the crash of the waves. It rings. She knows that if she cleans her newfound item, she’ll uncover two pieces of vitreous blue stones clinging as best as they can onto the golden pin.

Skylark.

*

An adagio of life and death:

There are blisters on her feet, callouses upon her palms, and they are nowhere near what they seek. They know nought what they seek. It is windchill and frozen winds and scorching suns and torrential downpours.  

She leaves the others. Tells them that no man should go where she goes.

And so she continues downwards.

At first, it is only darkness. There are black stalactites and stalagmites that jut from the ceilings and reach from the ground, uneven patterns that trace their way into the depths of the earth. It appears as if a ceaseless dark cavern, here to swallow all that have left the world of the light.

Do you really want to live forever? At some point through the centuries, she has grown weary of everything. There is nought to live for if one is alone.

But the mechanism of life is a funny thing.

There is something that compels her to take in breath after breath, to inhale and exhale, to continue letting her lungs release and in pressure over and over again. Her heart beats for nothing. Synapses fire in her being without knowing why they are illuminated. Her blood flows through her body even though she does not deserve it, having spilled the blood of brothers, sisters, daughters, sons, and lovers alike.

Forever and ever is a worthless goal.

As she continues walking, she understands that down here, there are no stars. She will not be able to watch the stars from here. She has refashioned her pin into a ring, and if anyone’s to cast any light, they’ll be greeted by the wink of blue.

But down here, she hears the roar of a river, she hears the ring of the skylark, the song of promise.

Here, life will not be forever.

And so she continues.

*

There is a fading light, and the roar of the river is deafening.

The song of skylark.

She is waiting for her. She sees her, a pale figure standing in the shadows of this dark realm. She stands at the waterside in this fading light, a small smile on her face. She is insubstantial, barely a wisp of a soul.

Irene. It is to her that she has walked all the way here.

She is here to return to dust, to forget the way the dappled sunlight falls on them outside. Down here is a land of forgetting, but it is here that everything is permanence. In the darkness, nothing changes. Strike a match, and it will go out.  

She’s lost her way for centuries. She’s lost her a great many times. And now she’s followed her into death, found her in the land beyond all lands. Unification means certainty, and the only certainty is the end. She walks up to her, removes the ring from her own fingers and pushes it onto a finger far paler and far more insubstantial than hers.

Charon glances up at them, a slow smile spreading across his face. This age would soon come to an end. He feels it in his bones. Clotho has spun enough of this age. Lachesis was down to the last of Clotho’s designs, and Atropos hovered over them. This much was certain. There is nothing left to tell of this age.  

I’ve found you. Like I promised to.

I never doubted it. Took your time, you did.

I’m sorry—

There are no apologies between us, hush now.

I love you—

Shh. I know. I love you too. Did you compare me to a summer’s day?

You’re laughing at me.

Of course I am. You made me wait.

Oh. Well. I wanted to apologise—

A laugh.

And yes, I told you not to.

Well then. Onward?

Anywhere, with you.