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An agonized cry echoed, before a dull thud followed as the clanging of a blade rang clashing with the ground.
Red eyes, red, not that vile gray that exuded lifelessness, widened impossibly as an anguished scream tore from his throat, imposing body staggered backwards, rough hands entangling and pulling on golden strands of hair as if it were the source of his distress.
That disgusting gray, it was finally gone, it betrayed everything about his personality, his soul, who he truly was deep down inside. However it could be the only solace she found whenever he’d turn against her, the same for all of them, really.
That lovely ruby shade reclaimed its place, oh how she missed that red… the very color her tattered clothes were now painted in, blood gushing incessantly as it spilled forth in torrents down on the ground.
Honestly she preferred the anger, the hatred, any emotion, anything that would indicate it was him and not that demon commanding his being.
Her strength was long gone, now the only thing holding her upright was the will that transcended lifetimes worth of suffering and torture, but even that was slowly withering, deserting her again.
In a desperate effort to avoid succumbing to exhaustion, her hands came to support her weight on the ground, trying not to heed the scarlet puddle that was rapidly growing below her.
Penelope could feel the ropes of time starting to pull her back already, once more cursed to restart from the beginning, forcing everyone to forget everything that had transpired, trapping them all in a new cicle of torment.
And with the collapsing of her body, came the stabilization of his.
Shakily breathing in and out.
One…two…three…
He was back, Callisto could move, could control his body again. Could think for himself, without an artificial sentience polluting his consciousness like that poisoned dagger did with his system lifetimes prior.
He could see clearly again, hear everything… and hear he did as another thud followed the previous, this one more heavy.
Looking up, his mouth ran dry and his heart dropped to his stomach.
A figure of a girl sprawled limply on the cold ground, bathing in her own blood, pearly skin becoming paler by the second. The brilliant threads of her hair, now a mess of matted burgundy and magenta sticking to her bruised limbs and face. The faint rise and fall of her chest was almost imperceptible as she struggled to win a battle against death.
He scrambled and crawled trying to reach her in time, to hold her for just a second, only a fleeting moment before she left, before she closed her eyes forever, abandoning him to the sins that weighed him down the path of madness like an anchor.
The fabric of his white pants tainted in the lukewarm liquid pooling around them.
“Princess!” He spoke again after what felt like an eternity, and it was of course to call out for her.
“My love, please look at me” the Prince implored desperately as a well-known pressure built up behind his eyes, he blinked rapidly to chase it away.
His beloved opened her mouth, uttering something barely above a whisper before crimson liquid bubbled out of her rosey lips, coughing as the blood diminished the oxygen in her lungs even more.
This time there was no stopping his tears as he tried in every way to cease all the bleeding, removing his gloves to press the fabric against the larger gashes on her broken body, using his cape to envelope her whole from the cold that bit her skin.
“My darling, please stay—stay with me,” he begged the dying soul in his embrace, hoping to latch onto the last remnants of her awareness.
She gasped weakly, coughing and choking as words failed her, “you…”
Callisto nodded numbly, bringing to his cheek the hand she tried to raise unsuccessfully. “It’s me, dearest. I’m here,” his voice cracking towards the end.
She took a sharp intake of breath, after which she started mouthing weakly.
He hunched down, bringing his face closer to hers, hoping to hear what she was trying to say.
“How—how…could you..?” Her words a pained murmur as her face scrunched up in sorrow, ragged puffs of breath brushing against the shell of his ear.
It was not what he had expected to hear nor was it what he hoped it would be, but far be it from the truth.
‘How could he?’ Callisto wanted to know too.
How could—dare he still hold her so tightly to him, refer to her with such tenderness that could melt any who yearned for love?
How dare he be so close to her when all this time he’d been so far?
How dare he expect her to still love him after everything he’d put her through, after all the crude punishments?
How dare he stray from her, when all she wanted to do was save him?
When truly thought through, not even he could comprehend how it could have happened in such a way.
“I don’t know” he whimpered, pressing his forehead against hers, their tears mingling together making it impossible to distinguish which were his and which hers.
She was trying to speak again. He gently brushed aside strands of her bangs that covered her teary eyes.
“I…” she blinked slowly to readjust her focus.
“I ha—” another breath out, “I hate you… so much,” Penelope hiccuped.
“…so, so much,” she repeated morosely as her head lolled to the side, her eyelids grew unbearably heavy.
A moment passed and then another.
The silence was disturbed, quiet sobs increasingly growing louder.
“Open your eyes—NO! Don’t close them! Please!” His begging was for naught, the girl in his embrace steadily becoming a corpse.
The last words of his beloved, where she admitted harboring hatred for him. Every word was like a burning knife that pierced through his heart, only to be mercilessly ripped out seconds later.
And Callisto couldn’t for the life of him resent her for it. Instead he loathed himself for making her feel such towards him; he was supposed to make her heart beat in elation, not in terror, making it stop afterwards.
He was so good at ruining everything in his path, wasn’t he?
And now he lost the only person he loved more than life itself.
He planted a soft kiss on her hand that he'd been holding this entire time, pressing his trembling lips on its cold back, placing it carefully on her chest afterwards; the previous action smearing drying blood on the corner of his mouth: golden Prince now looking as the monster everyone thought him to be.
Long fingers wavered as they slowly caressed the freezing flesh of her face, with a touch so gentle one might think she was made out of glass and he was doing everything in his power to not leave any blemishes behind. As if he wasn’t the reason for her imminent passing, he didn’t even hesitate earlier when he cut her down without mercy.
The tears she’d spilled were still fresh and running, he tried to dry them, she shouldn’t be crying like that in her final moments where he could only hope she rested.
The new smudge of crimson on her cheek almost made him swallow his tongue, he’d completely forgotten how he tried and failed to close her cuts. Only then did he notice the mess around them.
Oh gods above, there was so much blood .
It was all his fault. It was all because he couldn’t snap out of it earlier, he should have fought harder, yes. Even after she tried so hard to bring him back, to wake him in every way, he still succumbed under that cursed power until it was too late.
Callisto was a man that prided himself to be of honor and discipline, as he strived for perfection in everything, meticulously calculating any outcome and action long before it even happened. He’d waited impatiently for the day when he would finally ascend the throne that was rightfully his, proving wrong to any who placed even the smallest bit of doubt in him. Yet it was all meaningless now, all his morals burning up in flames.
He was no better than his Father after all, they had a lot in common: they both drove the women they loved to misery. The realization made his skin crawl.
Dolefully he hunched down, gathering the broken girl impossibly closer to him, almost as if trying to become one with her. It was difficult to see where she finished and he began, even if he was fully aware of the fact that he did not deserve to hold her like this, to taint her body with his dirty hands.
The notion of time became irrelevant as he remained hunched for god knows how long, weeping quietly, sobs muffled by her cooling corpse whose heart ceased its beating; the pain pricking his every bone, making it seem like they were about to snap. The whispered string of apologies doing nothing to help the mending of the irreparable crack that split the tragic couple whose love still burned alive through lifetimes.
There was the numbness that came with it all too; maybe from the pain, maybe from the grief, the feeling couldn’t be deciphered. He blamed the tiring tingling on the uncomfortable position, but there was more to it.
When he looked at her again, Callisto noticed with dread that she was fading away.
His breath quickened and his heart hammered against his ribcage, as if it would break out at any moment.
Her figure became dimmer and dimmer, a shadow ready to evaporate.
He watched her disappear, unable to do anything, clinging onto her with every inch of his being, crying uncontrollably, until he was hugging nothing but the bloodied cape she was wrapped in seconds earlier.
There was no time for him to regain his bearings or mourn the loss, as the ground shook, his surroundings tilted, throwing him off balance, falling on his side disoriented.
The shadows at the corners of the room expanded, stretching everywhere like elaborate spiderwebs, devouring everything in their wake until every ounce of light was gone.
It felt emptier than before as the smallest movements echoed in the endless obscure space.
As a myriad of different sparks exploded around, regretfully he slowly recognized them to be all the different outcomes and past interactions of what was once their present.
Their very first meeting bled into different endings, from Penelope perishing helplessly by his sword, to others where she made it just in time to see the light of another day, even if it meant that she had to struggle against tetanus for days and nights on end.
The trial where she was wrongfully accused only to be executed because the people closest to her failed to protect her, and others were someone was decent enough to vouch for her innocence in his absence.
Even the most measly of things like a fork was able to take away her breath.
Or a misstep that priced her heavily, as her frail body crashed against a window, breaking its fine surface, getting cut into the flyaway shards, only to finally meet the ground with a brutal impact just as the fireworks exploded on the sky above, drowning out the horrified screams of the onlookers.
As he watched and remembered feeding her poison after she’d tried to stop that lowly thing for the umpteenth time, Callisto felt his heart bottom out.
He could recall the day clearly now, remembered the anger that was not his; in a drunken state he made way to the duchy like a lunatic, murderous intent oozing out from his every movement. The vial of poison shimmering with its deadly glow, weighted heavily in the pocket of his uniform.
The way he barged through countless oak doors in the manor, with such force they threatened to come undone from their hinges.
Alas he came to stand face to face with the woman of his heart, her lovely features twisted in pure terror as he grasped the vial, fluorescent green light illuminating his dead, gray eyes .
That harpy had somehow snuck her way behind his back, with her hand she hid a sadistic grin of enjoyment, the pupils of her blue eyes flashing a disturbing red for a split second. And later leaving the room faking dejection, but not before aiming a victorious smirk at the real victim who was moments away from meeting a dead end like clockwork.
He took agonizingly slow steps towards Penelope, clearly bent on squeezing every drop of fear out of her, as he mockingly swirled the liquid with a swift twist of his wrist. The poor girl, now on the ground, pushed herself further away for every step he took forward, scrambling backwards as she pleaded innocence incessantly, desperately calling out to him to snap out of it.
They both knew that no amount of supplicating would stop what was to come.
When he seized her unhealthily thin wrist, she cried in pain, letting out a distressed shriek, his rough hold promising an ugly bruise. Yanking her up to her feet, like a puppet with no strings, cornering her against a wall, his hand catching her jaw and prying her mouth open forcefully, as her eyes widened in horror, tears spilling out.
The bottle was unsealed and the viscous poison dumped down her throat ruthlessly, drained to the last drop.
The anguished screams that came after, were to be forever ingrained into him. The way she crumbled to the floor writhing in agony, vehemently scratching her throat, nails sharply digging into flesh, trying to alleviate in every way the burning that won’t cease, not until the last breath was drawn.
He recalls how his subconscious was trashing deep inside of him the longer his eyes watched her, how it tossed in desperation alongside her, how he truly wanted to do something to put an end to her pain, wanted to die with her, take the same poison she had to share her agony, but it was suppressed violently as his body remained stubbornly rigid like a statue.
Later on when he regained his consciousness and snapped out of the daze for good, his wrath was unstoppable; he managed to get a hold of that filthy thing and tortured it in the dungeons of the palace until the body it possessed died. He then proceeded to burn everything to ashes, destroying with his own hands the empire that was meant to be his, killing those who tried to stop him, and once he was satisfied with the chaos, he drank the same poison that he fed to his beloved, to atone for his sins even in the slightest, downing a considerable amount to ensure he died from it.
What a macabre ending.
Remembering it felt like being tortured, his hands clutching his head, teeth gritted, the memories becoming too much.
How had he gone so wrong?
Her life was stolen many times, even before the arrival of the dreaded demon, by the smallest mundane activities that spiraled into gruesome incidents.
And now every moment shared together, be it good or bad, were the only residue of her existence.
The ghost of a touch grazed his shoulder, and he turned sharply towards the feeling only to find more emptiness, his own expectations killing him slowly.
Only a distant light that seemed to shine at the end of the infinite tunnel he’d been transported to, rays of blinding white meeting a figure at its center, casting a long shadow on the ground.
The feeling of hope was always the last to perish, and Callisto afforded himself to be delusional, advancing with long strides.
When she turned, he was irrefutably lost.
Gone was the blood that stained her body and clothes, milky skin back to its flawless nature, covered by a gown so simple but oh so enchanting one might’ve thought it to be crafted by some goddess, and a smile so bright it rivaled the shine of the stars. He almost stumbled and fell at the sight.
Faith restored, his legs moved on their own accord, not being able to withstand another second without her.
He ran, and ran, and kept on running like a madman.
Even if he’d tried to be optimistic, he knew better than to completely disregard any sudden change.
His doubts were proven correct once again. The closer he got, the more her mirthful expression changed into one of misery.
The more he neared, the more her appearance twisted.
The pristine white of her gown sullying in carmine splotches, expanding on the fabric by the second, transforming into a canvas of agony.
He prevented her fall just in time, catching her in his arms at the last second, just like he had lifetimes ago, when she deliberately drank poison to escape. Choosing the embrace of cold death over him.
Her lackluster emerald gaze bore indifferently into his, despite all the blood loss.
In a second her lips turned into a derisive grin, as one of her hands snaked into his hair, tugging down harshly.
“It’s all your fault.”
The air caught in his throat. Her voice was cold, apathetic, slicing through him painfully slow.
No matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t pry loose her hold, he remained glued to the spot, stomach churning anxiously, until she shoved him down with unnatural strength.
“How could you have believed that I would wait for you after everything you’ve done?”
Callisto tried to speak, but his lips remained sealed apprehensively.
He wanted to beg her to stop, to plead in every way for her to find within herself that last grain of love she had for him, selfish as it was, he granted himself that leisure.
“I will never love you.”
The sound of flesh being cut underneath a sharpened blade made goosebumps blossom on every inch of his body.
Only when a trifle of crimson that tasted like iron came out of his mouth, did he realize that the disturbing ripping of skin came from him. There was no pain, only the hollow emptiness that grew by the second.
The tiny droplet dragged its way onto her palm as she gripped his jaw fiercely, trickling down on his clothes, letting go of the forceful grip after her eyes scrutinized his horror-stricken face.
When a heel-clad foot pressed down onto his chest, Callisto pliantly gave away underneath its force, his head slamming into the ground, a wet sensation licking at his scalp, his golden hair tinting red.
Penelope’s expression gradually morphed into a sadistic one, seemingly deriving pleasure from his distress.
Slowly she lowered herself with the grace of a swan, her gentle hand settling onto the hilt of the dagger that penetrated his lungs, twisting slowly, as more blood poured out. Funny how their roles reversed, now with him being the one dying, as she tore him to pieces at an agonizingly slow pace.
Spitefully looking down at him, she ripped the steel out, throwing it in some faraway corner.
“It will always be your fault.”
Her stare savage, almost predatorial, and he couldn’t help but feel like helpless prey that was about to be ferociously devoured.
“Always.”
With a sharp inhale of breath, his eyes snapped open.
The urgency with which he sat up in bed should have disrupted the sleep of the woman beside him, but looking at her, she appeared as peaceful as ever. Her skin was void of any injury, and the steady rise and fall of her chest somewhat reassured him.
It had all been in his head, again.
Callisto had lost count of all the nightmares that became a recurrence after the fall of that demon.
How he wished those were just nightmares. But no, they were not.
Callisto didn’t know when exactly, but after the passing of a number of loops, he and the other four culprits started to remember. Albeit merely bits and pieces at the beginning, their memories got stronger and clearer with the passing of each loop.
So far it had been hell living with all the atrocities he’d committed.
Despite Penelope’s gentle coxing, and how she’d told him that it wasn’t his fault, Callisto kept struggling to believe it. He was supposed to do better, be better, if only for her sake. So far he hadn’t done a good job.
Just as another wave of repulsion hit him, the gentle stirring of the figure next to him made him flinch. It was uncharacteristic for him to be so jumpy, lately it happened more than he would have liked.
He turned slowly, mindful as to not make the bed creak underneath his shifting weight.
The soft moonlight that peeked through the small crack between the curtains, cast a long streak across the dark room, running right across her neck, and not for the first time he wondered just how cruel fate could be with him.
He gulped, the sound absolutely deafening in his ears.
Callisto willed his shaky hand to be steady, but even as he moved his fingers closer to her face, the trembling didn’t cease, only seeming to get worse.
Just a touch, just a little contact, it was all he needed to dispel any doubts that she wasn’t some form of imaginary ghost. His Princess, his love, she was there, alive and breathing next to him, her strong heart pumping at a stable rate.
His fingertips grazed her cheekbone, the tickle being enough to set him ablaze.
Feeling the touch, her tranquil expression scrunched up into the smallest of frowns, a quiet sound of disapproval resounding from her mouth. Her subconscious awareness made him almost jump off the bed, his hand withdrawing briskly as if he’d been scorched.
He was utterly terrified that even the tiniest contact they had with one another, might take her away from him again, or he might unintentionally hurt her. Just the mere thought made a strong feeling of nausea crawl up his throat.
Making as little noise as he could, the young Emperor climbed off the bed.
Callisto watched in awe as his delicate darling rested soundlessly, so serene she almost looked unreal, and he ached, ached so much because, did he really deserve this?
After everything, he had dared to try his luck, and pursued her, even if he was convinced he’d meet a brutal rejection down the line. Unpredictable as she was, his Princess proved him wrong once more. Even if it took time for their relationship to mend, they managed to find a way, like they always did. They had to.
Callisto resisted the urge to bite down on his fingers to restrain himself from reaching for her again. She was just so beautiful and he—he wouldn’t know what to do if she were to walk out of his life.
The more he watched, the more his imagination sprang out of control. At this point he was torturing himself, the pain was self inflicted. It was all part of the hate that still ran so deep within.
She sighed softly in her sleep. Such a mundane thing, so simple, yet it was enough to trigger something so unfathomable, of chasmic depth, stirring a feeling so strong it felt consuming.
His nails dug into his palms, with a conflicted frown he turned, beelining towards the bathroom.
Once inside, he closed the doors, heavily leaning on them, gripping the doorknob tightly, the magical lights turning on as soon as his presence was averted. At least he escaped the darkness tailing him.
He was trembling, that much he knew, but why? Everything was fine, they—she was alright.
“What the hell is wrong with me?” His voice guttural, and oh so defeated.
There was a pressure that kept getting stronger, pushing up his abdomen, reaching his throat. It was suffocating.
His body was unbearably heavy, and he struggled to stand upright. Stumbling, he made it a few steps forward.
His heavy palm landed clumsily on the edge of the marble sink, grip almost slipping from the smooth surface.
His other free hand went to his neck, fingers digging, scratching, almost trying to peel layers of skin away, much like Penelope had all those loops ago when he fucking poisoned her —and heavens above , he was about to vomit.
Despite the surfacing feeling from his stomach, there was this—this fucking clog in his lungs that just won’t go away, the air won’t pass through like it regularly should, the imaginary shortage of oxygen was dizzying.
Despite the width of the room, he felt so trapped, so caged, so… lost.
His breathing pattern accelerated, desperately trying to get his faulty lungs to work, hand going from his neck to his chest, massaging the area around his collarbone in circles.
It wasn’t working. Nothing was working.
The light button-up shirt was too stuffy, too tight, it squeezed around his torso painfully. In a fit of hopelessness, he tore the collar open, the top buttons ripping from their threads, bouncing on the ground, and he coughed, coughed like the air wasn’t enough and too much at the same time, coughed despite the burning in his throat.
His forehead glistered with cold sweat, golden hair getting attached on heated skin by damp droplets.
He could feel his heart pounding in his head, the way blood rushed to his ears, how even the silence faded out, and he couldn’t even hear his own breathing. It reminded him of the long gone time where he collapsed due to the poison after he and Penelope got out of that cave during the hunting tournament. The feeling was so similar, however the two instances differed, no poisonous toxins were present in his system at the moment, he was as healthy as he could be, physically at least.
Blindly he reached for the faucet, and once he heard the water pouring, he put his still trembling hands underneath the icy cold stream.
Beneath the flow of the gelid water his hands start to move hastily.
His skin felt dirty, absolutely stained. Even as he reached for the used up soap bar, and began to wash away every inch, from his palms, his fingers, all the way his wrists, it seemed like the dirt was taunting him, refusing to yield under the water’s steady flow.
Callisto had to get rid of it.
’This is useless’.
Why was he here again?
’I have to...’
Why—why was he standing in the same forsaken place as always, as every night this happened?
‘…scrub it all away’.
What the fuck was he trying to achieve?
’Purge any and all impurities.’
Even as the remnants of the soap bar consumed, bubbles dissipating, his scrubbing did not cease, instead becoming more erratic.
Callisto didn’t even seem to register the way his palms began to wrinkle from the prolonged exposure to the water, or the way his skin started to crack from the lack of proper care and moisture. Perhaps he kept on going from sheer desperation of feeling something, anything that would signal he was wide awake and not a prisoner of abysmal nightmares.
There were so many scars accompanied by reddened spots, increasing by the second on the extents of his tarnished hands.
The sight overlapping that night . The night that kept haunting him, the night he escaped when he startled awake earlier.
It felt like he was in a furnace, but at the same time the chills spanning through his body gave the impression he was standing in the middle of the unforgiving snowstorms on the grounds of war that were won over long ago by him and his people.
He splashed water on his face, failing to notice how it was so carelessly done, it drenched part of his hair and the collar of his shirt.
Callisto didn’t even know when or how but he looked up, his crazed gaze meeting its twin in the reflection. The mirror showing him in what state his appearance got reduced to.
Simply put, he looked like absolute hell. Most of all, no better than what he looked like on that night.
So alike he could see it. With it the many other times he fell down the wrong path.
The mirror seemed to gradually become a window, opening right upon all of his misdeeds, seeing through his own reflection’s eyes all of his betrayals.
A sick joke of his imagination, how now instead of his image, there standing in the mirror she stared at him with that broken and disappointed expression he was all too familiar with. Callisto knew that if he opened the door, he would see her sound asleep on the bed, probably still in the same position he left her in, curled up like a cat amongst all the covers to block away the cold she disliked… but it seemed so real , he just couldn’t help it.
Unable to hold himself back, he reached for her reflection , trembling still present, to try and soothe her even if a little. He couldn’t bear to see her in pain, his soul ached.
His touch, feather-soft against the clean surface of the glass. Just as his fingerprints left their mark on the mirror, a pained whimper left her lips and he retracted his hand immediately, a veil of horror descending upon his face as if someone had just ripped his heart out.
“When will you stop killing me?”
The image changed again and now, his reflection was staring back at him. His own face filled him with so much anger.
’Yes, Callisto. When will you stop killing her?’
“Shut up.” He rasped out hoarsely, pure fury simmering its way up in his chest.
’Ah… perhaps we’ll never know, because, isn’t she just lovely when death descends upon her?’
“Stop it.” His grip on the sink tightened.
The reflection barked out a sardonic laugh. ’Look at you! Utterly risible. Why would she even love you?’
Callisto wanted to make it stop, to cease this torment… yet it was true, the realization slowly driving him to the edge of insanity.
‘Aww, what’s wrong? Can’t even deal with the consequences of your actions now? Hah! You’re such a pathetic Emperor.’ He didn’t even dare to look at the mirror for fear of what he might find, not even when a taunting remark all but stomped on his nerves.
’Remember this: there will always be blood on your hands . You’ll forever be stained. And it’ll always be by her blood.’
He took a sharp inhale, as if resurfacing from below the waters of the ocean after a long time, yet at the same time gasping as if someone had pierced his lungs irreparably.
There, in the mirror, he stared at a version of himself, a version that was covered in blood and cold murder.
That will never happen again— he swore it would never be repeated. NEVER ! Not again . Swore on his crown, on his damned empire, and his heart, he’ll sooner destroy himself before anything comes to that.
And destroy he did, as his fist collided with the mirror’s fragile surface, pressing his fist forward with a crazed scream. Now a hole stood in the place where a face like his had been, endless sharp fragments flying around, some shattering on the ground, others getting lost in some faraway corner, and a few cutting his flesh.
His shoulders lowered, the tension dissipating.
plop…plop…plop…
Crimson liquid dripped down on the stony surface of the sink, a stark contrast between alabaster white and burgundy, his fist still tightly clenched, sharp shards digging deeper and deeper.
When he finally retracted his arm, there was a faint crunching, as if the glass was getting crushed further, small remnants slipping beneath and tearing open scarred skin.
His hazy gaze focused even if for a moment, zeroing on the hole in the mirror, from which small trails of blood slowly trickled down.
Apprehensively, his eyes shifted from the mirror to his hand, holding it with the other, the sight enough to make his breathing patterns become even more uneven. Ruefully he realized that the cause for his blurry vision was due to the tears that kept on descending down the corners of his eyes; he wiped them away harshly, sniffling as he did so, with a feeling of shame for such a childish act.
Callisto was by no means a stranger to the sight of blood, nor did he have a weak stomach, however there was just something about how the blood seemed to stain his hands after what happened with her . It haunted him.
A sense of trepidation mixed with anxiety engulfed him, and in between the cracks of his hardened facade peeked through the child that cried himself to sleep for months with despondency in his heart, after he was sent to the gloomy grounds of war.
His hands were shaking again, and they were bloody.
The crimson liquid did not belong to her, he was somewhat aware of it, and yet…
His gloves— yes his gloves, he needed to put them on immediately. Like every day, when he hid his hands from fear of looking down and seeing blood. Her blood .
Callisto reached hastily into his pockets, blindly pulling out one of the many pairs of gloves he kept in every pair of pants he owned. He did not care about how the multiple minuscule shards penetrated further into his skin as the expensive fabric of the white gloves was tugged down to his wrists.
The violent outburst that got triggered earlier was bound to have drawn someone’s attention, and true to that possibility the door of the bathroom slammed open with little to no grace, and in came a distraught looking Empress, making his hurried motions halt.
“What are you doing?” She bit out with a waver. In retrospect, it sounded unnecessarily harsh, considering their current situation, but Penelope couldn’t help it.
He had no words to describe this— no words to answer her question. The only thing he managed to do was take a hesitant step back for every one she took forward. Noticing this she halted in her tracks, lifting a cautious hand as if reaching for him, like one might do with a fearful small animal to not scare it away.
“Callisto?” She asked tentatively.
“Don’t…please don’t,” he pleaded brokenly, still backing away even after she stood unmoving.
Even if he didn’t finish that sentence, Penelope knew exactly what he meant, ‘don’t come any closer, I don’t want to hurt you.’
Even when he was the distressed one, Callisto never failed to put her first, the mere thought tugged at the strings of her heart like little else could.
From her peripheral vision she saw the carmine trails that still descended; could hear the occasional dripping of water from the hastily closed faucet, finally registering the absolute mess.
Immediately she snapped her head in his direction, so fast it was surprising she didn’t get whiplash.
He still held his wounded hand with the other, unconsciously doing so, the white of the cloth covering them now soaked in scarlet liquid. Raw emotions were embedded in his face, a mixture between regret and wretchedness, and she almost choked on her own spit at the sad sight.
Even as he pushed himself further away from her when she began her advance towards him anew, this time she did not stop.
Before Callisto could even open his mouth to sputter another string of pleas that would hopefully discourage her from approaching, Penelope grabbed his wrists briskly, tugging him into her embrace. She stubbornly wrapped his arms around her waist, pushing his face in the crook of her neck and entangling her fingers into his hair.
For a few moments they remained as still as statues, until the dam broke for good. Gradually his shoulders began to shake and he was finally able to let out all the pent up frustration and sadness that ate at his nerves like a corrosive curse.
Pliantly she caved underneath his weight, making sure to carefully lower the both of them to the ground while supporting his body with hers, his legs giving away.
With every sob and shudder, Penelope only held onto her husband tighter, rubbing his back encouragingly and whispering a gentle coaxing into his ear, much like he did with her every time she cried her sorrows into his chest. Seeing him in such a state did something inexplicable to her, and she felt like crying with him, but she knew she had to stay strong, for the both of them.
“I’m here. You’re not alone, I won’t leave.” I promise.
Neither had any idea of how long they stayed like that, it seemed like hours passed, but in reality it was a little more than ten minutes, yet in those moments his grip never slackened.
After he calmed down, Penelope pried his hold loose, bringing his hands up to her face, not minding in the slightest about the blood that smeared on her skin as she rubbed her cheeks onto his palms affectionately. Even as he gave another wet sob at her gesture, she continued.
Peering into his teary eyes with a watery smile, her little broken laugh wavered. “Callisto, they’re clean.”
He knew what she meant. Clean of her blood.
“They’re clean.” She repeated, as their foreheads came to rest together, an old show of affection of theirs that managed to get his breathing under control again. She felt him nod silently, as he listened to her words of reassurance, the last of his tears dripping down his chin accompanying hers in their descent.
Penelope was very much aware of his periodical nightmares, but knew he heavily disliked talking about them. She guessed ages ago what they were about, and they brought unpleasant memories to the both of them. If he didn’t bring it up, she won’t push him.
His fingers twitched ever so slightly in her hold, and when that happened she inspected his wounds, frowning while scrutinizing each bruise and scar, like they held a hidden secret.
Those damned gloves, she’d burn them all to ashes someday. Penelope knew about his fixation of having those gloves everywhere, even if he tried to hide it. To her, nothing about him remained a secret for too long.
However, glove-burning duty will have to wait, now she needed to treat his wounds accordingly, because while it was true that his healing abilities were out of the ordinary, it would be bad to leave them be for too long.
“Let’s get out of here.” Her voice was so very gentle, as she guided him outside of the mess that was their bathroom, carefully maneuvering around the shards on the ground, and leading him to sit on their bed.
Callisto gazed around absentmindedly, looking at the lights that Penelope had presumably turned on when she rushed to see just what other disaster he caused.
Even when she came back from collecting the equipment necessary to clean up his scars and started caring for his injuries, he kept on pondering on the decisions that led to this moment.
He looked up from his hands, where his wife was making quick work to eliminate any residue of glass, moving his gaze to her face— her face which was etched in deep concentration. Her beautiful aquamarine eyes could only be described as tired, and he felt guilty for disrupting her sleep in such a frightening way.
Truth to be told, Penelope felt a significant shift in emotions long before he decided to punch that mirror.
Not long after he departed from her embrace, she groggily felt around the bed for the pleasant warmth of her husband, only to find his side empty. Her gut feeling was rarely mistaken, and it made her sit up to scan around the room, finding it empty; her gaze zeroed on the light creeping from underneath the door that led to their bathroom.
Penelope kept her eyes fixated on that door, on that light, waiting attentively for any telltale sign of something bad happening. Just as she started to reason with herself that she was being paranoid for the umpteenth time, it came. The crash had her jumping up and out of bed in a frenzy, covers flying to the ground, and she almost tripped on them in her haste, her heart hammering frantically.
No matter how much time passed, she still marveled all the way at how he didn’t even flinch as another shard was extracted from his palms and placed on the towel that served as a tray to house all the materials she needed. His endurance to pain was truly amazing.
While she was having her own train of thoughts, Callisto reminisced on his nightmare. The words she’d spoken were still roaming around his head. He knew she never said those words, that despite having the same countenance as his wife, that person in his dreams was not his Penelope.
It was only a manifestation of his guilt, its essence twisting into a horrible lie what truly had been; despite that, a big part of him knew that even if it was not her, the words she’d spoken were well deserved, and if someday his wife decided to tell him such things, he won’t resent her for it.
“I’m sorry.” The apology was uttered absentmindedly, before his brain could even register it.
Penelope halted her work, looking up in surprise. “What?”
Callisto finally spoke up after a long time. “I said I’m sorry. I made you worry for nothing… again.” It was not the entirety of why he was apologizing, but it was part of it.
He looked so utterly defeated, she couldn’t even believe that this was the same man that everyone thought to be a bloodthirsty maniac. If only they knew .
Goodness, this man was going to drive her over the edge of insanity. Penelope knew from the very beginning that Callisto Regulus wasn’t good for her blood pressure, he did things to her heart that should be forbidden.
For a little while she said nothing, too taken off guard to do anything. After a few moments she sighed in exasperation. “You’re an idiot.”
“Huh?” Of all the things she could’ve said, he didn’t expect her to openly ‘insult’ him— but then again, his Empress was probably the most unpredictable person he’d ever met.
Her lips twisted into a frown, pairing it with her trademark glare, targeted specifically for when she heavily disapproved of his ways, and he evaded her gaze again.
Callisto clucked his tongue. “Why are you so mean, dearest? Aren’t you supposed to comfort me— hug me while telling me that everything is going to be alright?”
She could not believe his words, and it showed in her visible skepticism. “No. You truly are an idiot. Otherwise why would you refer to your worrisome state as ‘nothing worth worrying about’?” The last words were emphasized sternly.
“Ah, that— I didn’t actually say it…” Callisto trailed off.
“But that’s what you meant. Honestly, I might just hit you if you don’t shut up and let me work.” And it was true, she had every intent on smacking some sense into her dense husband.
He could only grumbled in return, “…but I am sorry, I didn’t mean to make you worry like this again. I couldn’t help it.” The tip of his ears reddened, “please don’t be too angry at me, my love.”
She stared at him like one would do with a ghost. Penelope couldn’t handle it anymore.
“Ack— Princess! What are you doing?!” He yelped as one of her hands sneaked into his hair, and pulled harder than what it would’ve been liked.
“You parsimonious bastard! Do you have any idea of how much you scared me?!”
“My love! Please let go!” Despite his distressed cries, he put no force into trying to pry her hold loose.
“Once I’m done with you, you’ll think twice before spouting nonsense!”
“I’m sorry! I won’t do it again—“ his apology cut off into another pained shriek.
“Stop thinking about useless things. It’s irritating!” She kept on holding his hair tightly.
“I will! I’m sorry!” He grasped her wrist softly, despite her ruthless hold.
Penelope pinned him with a disapproving glare, ceasing the shaking of his head, her grip loosening, and he seemed surprised about it.
“Why’d you stop, Princess?” She did not respond to him, only glaring further.
His hands, which were yet to be fully bandaged, pushed her fingers into his hair encouragingly. “You can keep going. I expected this from when I shattered the mirror. I knew you’d be angry, so… keep going until you deem necessary.”
In that moment, he looked like a kicked puppy. It was almost unnerving.
“You should really follow your own advice.”
He blinked, startled at her words. “What?”
“You told me multiple times to stop having useless thoughts, yet you don’t even follow through with what you say.” His wife harrumphed, probably having had enough of his shenanigans.
“Ah, it seems that I did,” his voice became smaller towards the end, looking everywhere but at her.
“Has anyone ever told you that you’re very incoherent?”
“Well, you just did. You always do.” He remarked, while pouting like a child that just got denied candy.
Sighing, she let go of his hair completely, knowing that in the end she couldn’t be angry at him for too long, deciding instead on finishing bandaging up his skin; once she was done, Penelope observed her work, giving an appreciative hum at the result, later on letting some of her healing magic slip through the bandages and into his scars.
He twitched once he felt the warm links of her magic working on knitting back together the broken threads of his skin, and she smiled at his reaction. She had to admit, he was kind of cute whenever he was startled or surprised.
Getting up, she took the towel with all the items on it, being mindful to not drop anything, and brought them back where they belonged.
As she returned, Penelope discerned Callisto’s appearance, and took another shirt from his wardrobe, which was similar to the one he was wearing but clean and still intact.
Wordlessly she helped him take off his current shirt, haphazardly throwing it into the floor and dressed him in the new one, her fingers making quick work on fastening up all the buttons, leaving only the three near the collar undone, like he usually wore them.
“Shouldn’t you change as well?” He pointed at the bloody splotches left by his hands when he held onto her, cringing at the mess he’d made yet again.
“It’s only the robe that got dirtied,” said robe was discarded quickly, and right as she always was, her diaphanous nightgown was devoid of any stain, its silky lining swishing by as she got into bed.
He watched her, a slight blush dusting his cheeks, turning away when she caught his stare. In that moment he felt like a boy that was inexperienced in physical matters regarding lovers, despite him having already seen all of her and vice versa plenty of times.
“Well? Are you coming, or do I have to drag you in?” She taunted amusedly. If she put two and two together, she still decided to not mention his embarrassment, and for that he was grateful.
The witty remark died on the tip of his tongue as he saw her open arms, expectantly waiting for him.
Her chuckle finally seemed to snap him out of his stupor, and he’d never embraced her faster, his arms wrapping tightly around her waist as he buried his face in the crook of her neck, trying to hide away from the entire world, the covers enveloping them whole.
Callisto breathed her in, a dizzying daze overcoming him. The delicate sweet scent was intoxicating, and he felt like he might drown in it.
He could feel her fingers threading through his hair, this time however it was in soft strokes, her nails grazing his scalp and nape gently, as her other hand rubbed soothing invisible patterns on his back, her touch so maddening it made goosebumps rise on every inch of his body.
He peered up at her, resting his chin on her chest. Despite their lack of conversation, the silence was a comfortable one, and he felt truly at peace.
That moment didn’t last long, as his capricious wife flicked him on the nose. He frowned at her. “What a cruel woman you are.”
He was met with a victorious smirk, “and yet you love me.”
A heartfelt laugh bubbled up his throat, and he could do nothing but let it out. “That I do my darling, that I do.”
“Say it.” She demanded imperiously, emerald eyes twinkling with mischief, her tone befitting her position as Empress, the mesmerizing aura he was enamored with trickling in.
He was slightly taken aback by her request, was she making fun of him right now?
“Well?” Penelope ran a finger down his face.
He grinned, pushing onto his forearms to hover over her. “And what if I don’t?” The Emperor challenged stubbornly.
Their faces were barely a breath away, as he already started to close the distance between them. Just as they were about to meet in a kiss, she placed a finger on his lips, stopping him from advancing.
The dissatisfied scowl that took over his feature was enough to make her burst into a fit of giggles.
He became hyper aware of the warmth of her skin as her finger kept him away from her face.
Propping up onto his elbows, he closed his eyes and kissed her fingerprint, later taking her hand in his and planting another kiss onto its back. “I love you.”
Her laughter ceased immediately, as a blush crept up her face. His sincerity and bold demeanor always succeeded in rendering her a speechless mess.
“Not so smug, are we now, my darling Empress?” He taunted, and she turned her face away disobediently.
“I said it. Your turn now.” He coaxed, peppering open-mouthed kisses up her neck, and onto her face, enjoying the process a little too much.
Instead of complying, she wrapped her arms around his neck, bringing his face closer to hers, their lips finally meeting is a sweet yet passionate kiss as she pulled him in.
His irritation subsided somewhat, she still evaded his requests by trying to shift his attention elsewhere with different actions, and annoyingly enough it was working like a charm, as it always did.
Callisto did get lost into her with each touch. No matter how much time had passed, his beloved still had an enthralling effect on him. It was as if he was put under an enrapturing spell, which he did not mind in the slightest.
Regretfully they parted for air, and she took the chance to brush a stray hair out of his face.
“I love you, my Prince.” It was barely above a whisper, but he heard it anyway, grinning like a lovesick fool when her words sank in.
Callisto could feel his cheeks heat up, hiding his face into her chest before she could take note of his flustered countenance and tease him for it.
“Try to get some sleep. You need it.”
Callisto didn’t even realize his exhaustion, and hummed at her soft-spoken suggestion. His head came to rest just above her heart, his hand holding one of hers, the steady rhythm of its beat lulling him into a soundless sleep.
Penelope smiled, blinking drowsily before her eyelids grew too heavy. She fell asleep shortly after him, his calm breathing instilling a sense of peacefulness into her.
The two of them embraced each other, limbs entangled, their dreams now a serene plane of pure bliss, devoid of any darkness, knowing deep down that they had each other and it was all that really mattered.