The Past That Leads to the Present: Part 2

Rows of books passed in multiplicities of color and paper, their stories just as much of a blur as he tried to keep pace with Aria, now almost to the third floor. He couldn’t explain why, but he had a feeling she was headed for the far back left corner—a special section she used to visit when she was little; it was always filled with some of the most unique finds: books about flower language, rickety spirals with scribbled notes on stories-to-be— Every time she visited the corner, she’d pick up a no-name book—the same one each time—that she’d designated as “The Withered Flower”. It was a story about a girl who would venture out into the same field every day after school, watering the same withered flowers until it finally rained again, and she could retire from watering duty until the next withered flower appeared.

She admired it for several reasons, but most of all because she viewed the withered flowers as a symbol of resiliency and strength, hanging on for as long as possible until the next rain or unlikely child-waterer. The little girl symbolized the innocence of the human heart, and its compassion for other lives—even non-human ones—and how, despite her busy school schedule and evenings of homework, she never missed a day of watering. The withered flowers were her little secret, and nursing them back to health was her job, a role she was adamant no one else could fill. Her tenacity inspired Aria from a young age, teaching her to have empathy for all life, forming the foundation for her later friendships and relationships.

As she grew up, she found interest in things aside from the library: boys, clothes, makeup, and yet more flowers. She still loved her secret corner, hidden in the books, but she didn’t have much use for the same dilapidated novellas, incomplete notebooks, and fourteenth-century recipes, though the occasional undated poem riddled the shelves at times, too.

“If there’s still an entire other half to her past, then this must be where she comes across the essays she mentioned when we had that dream…” But that didn’t answer the burning question of how she ended up collaborating with the devils to begin with. “So, what happens next? Assuming this is where you find the essays, just what led you to be so reckless after?” he wondered. “I know you, Aria. You were always careful, no matter what it was. To just throw your life away isn’t like you.”

He watched, cautious, as she flipped through the pages of a “supposed” forgotten playwright’s autobiography before digging into the shelves for something, hopefully, a little more substantive. Pulling a canvas-bound book from the shelf, she tried to stifle her giggles, unable to keep her composure as she read the name on the front cover.

“Who would ever name their child Rimran Timseth?” She read the title on the front cover of the book, as if the author’s name wasn’t bad enough already: Why People Thought the Earth was a Balloon: A Series of Essays by Rimran Timseth. “I don’t know what’s worse. The fact that this is actually a well-researched dissertation, or that people were dumb enough this even had to be published.” She cringed, though she couldn’t help but feel like whoever Rimran was, he’d wasted his life trying to explain how the world wasn’t a balloon to people who probably also thought it was flat—whatever sense that made. “Yeah, you’re going back on the shelf.”

She rummaged through the shelves a little more, finally coming across another book. Strangely enough, Brendan found he could smell the leather binding, and it was strong. It must have been laying around on the back of the shelf for years, just sitting, unopened as the inky pages festered. Aria undid the dry, leather strap that held the book closed as it crumbled apart in her hands. Nervously, she looked up, but no one was around. She kicked the broken strap under the shelf like she’d just committed a crime.

“This thing is eerily similar to the book I found in Madame Lucero’s shop way back in Seria. The binding is the same, and the cracks in the leather are in many of the same places, just less worn.” But what surprised him most wasn’t the similarity between the two books: the author’s name was visible on the front cover—opposite of the one in Seria that lacked an author but had a title. “D. Stemmer, huh? If this is the same book, why does this version have an author but no title?”

He peered over Aria’s shoulder as she focused her attention on the actual pages but, even though the ink had faded in many places, it was just legible enough that the book itself appeared to be readable. He skimmed the title page, discovering it was another series of essays, but there was no publisher, date of publication—not even an editor or preface.

“These essays… I feel like whoever D. Stemmer is, the world didn’t want their work to see the light of day. All of this feels so planted to me, this entire situation—the accident, these essays...” What bothered him most was the fact that, after the accident, there was never any discussion about the drunk driver or their identity, no police reports—nothing. “Now, there’s a hurting girl who is too easily influenced by anything that promises the impossible.”

He turned around, staring at the bookshelf where Aria had pulled the book from. “I wish you could hear me when I say we can’t bring the dead back to life. We can’t just ‘rewrite the world’, no matter how bad, how unbearable, it gets.” He kicked the floor. “Dammit! If I’d just dragged her out of that bedroom myself, we could have avoided all of this! This feels way too planted to me, and I don’t like it. The whole situation…”

A series of shadows danced along the back wall, relishing in the dim light as they shifted in both shape and size. He ignored them at first, figuring it was probably a couple of kids chasing each other through the aisles in a game of silent tag… until they became increasingly agitated, striking crucifying poses, serpentine-like shapes devouring smaller, human-like, shadows—some depicted what he assumed were tentacles, wrapping around the necks of their flailing victims until they fell motionless. He watched carefully, scrutinizing every new depiction as the images continued to shift.

“Now I get it…” Brendan’s body tingled with an electric chill. “Of course they played with the mind of a broken girl because how easy could that be? She relinquished all common sense for the chance at the impossible.” A shadow skirted past his cheek; he didn’t flinch—not even a muscle twitch. “Ha… Ha! I can feel my blood boil!” Aria was fixated on the mysterious essays, oblivious to the enigma that lurked behind her. “You. Can’t. Have. Her.”

Glaring red eyes pierced his soul, exacerbating the building rage that smoldered beneath his skin. He shivered, an adrenaline-induced chill, but it was a familiar chill. An intense, uncontrollable fury pounded against his chest, an arpeggio of rhythmic heartbeats fueled by the tempestuous legion that thundered through his heart.

“Now I understand what happened,” he laughed. “This hell you bastards have created… What makes you think you’re so sanctified, so free to exert your influence on a helpless girl? Azael… Once the most powerful devil, only to be outdone by a nobody who marched up to your throne and stole your crown…”

“You do not fear me, Greyriter boy? The second in command of the Reverse Royalty, only mere steps behind our king?” Azael’s form evolved as the devil’s shadows grew into wings of decaying feathers and branching bones. Sets of bony fingers trawled across the walls, leaving blackened streaks in their wake. “Do you not wonder why, after all this time, I am only just now presenting myself to you?”

Brendan didn’t waver. His irises flickered like the tongue of a bonfire, outshining Azael’s own sanguine eyes. Not only had Aria been set-up, but he’d walked right into Azael’s, albeit simple, trap. The devil was flexing its muscles, shifting shadows a warning—a power game. He wasn’t supposed to be here, with Aria, half in her world, half removed from the present time; his mere presence was a threat to the devil.

The plan was simple: Azael likely intended on devouring Aria right here. She would never see the future, a day where she could escape the demons in her mind. There would be no reunion with Lacia, no more dates with Brendan, no victory over Lucifero— She was a crucial component in the fight against the devils, in stopping their Rezertia. If she never lived to see the day she met Lacia again, what exactly would that mean for the world? Azael’s plan was buried deep, and far more tangled, than Brendan could currently dig up and unravel.

“Why would I fear something that is already afraid of me? You’re aware there’s something controlling this reality, something not even I can explain, and that frightens you,” Brendan said. His face had become a terrifying mixture of both rage and elation. “I know why you’re here. You just didn’t plan on me being here. You find pleasure in watching her struggle, savoring her negative thoughts. If you can ensnare her past, there is no future for her present… Those essays weren’t written by Ahzef, despite how Mikaun made it sound—they’re yours.”

“Perceptive, as Mikaun relayed,” Azael’s shadow continued to climb up the wall, “but you’re missing an integral piece of information.”

“It doesn’t matter what kind of information I’m missing because there never was a way to bring the dead back to life. You played on the emotions of a poor girl who’d just lost everything.” His blue eyes were a sea of calm, a contradiction to the rage that pressed for an explosive eruption. “You’re afraid of her,” he whispered.

Azael hissed insidiously.

“See,” he said, locking eyes with the devil, “we continue to complete your little puzzle game the more time passes, and here’s the next piece you missed.” A new, leather-bound book appeared in his hand: the record from the hospital Mikaun had given him. “The Searing Wounds event, something Licht never fully got to explain, was more than just an accident—what it was perceived to be.” He slid the straps off the front as he turned to the first page.

“What is this? A history lesson?” Azael growled, shadowy teeth forming a crooked mouth.

Brendan began to read: “The Searing Wounds event, as the surviving members of the Lhumin and Greyriter families have come to know it, was more than just an accident. The world may come to tell the story of a conflict between two magical families, yet the truth remains far more complex. This was an attempted Rezertia led by the devils of the Reverse World against the Princess of Earth. Let this record show the full extent of the universe’s darkest days.”

A devilish arm sprang from the wall, flesh curling around the bare bones. “Excuse me,” Brendan cleared his throat, “I wasn’t done yet.” A powerful mana field repelled the attack with ease, reflecting Azael’s arm back towards the wall. “You devils all play the same game: you play your king first, instead of moving a pawn to test your opponent, to ascertain their playstyle. Why? Why submit the king to checkmate at the onset of the match by diving straight into enemy territory? You find yourselves surrounded and outnumbered, in check, ready for someone to shout ‘mate’. Either you’re incredibly stupid, or it’s on purpose…” He narrowed his eyes, mere slits. “Just what are you trying to do? I’m not stupid enough to believe a full frontal assault is your only attack plan, but when I say this past will not define the future you seek, I mean it.”

“Then consider this a warning, Brendan Greyriter,” Azael growled. “When we meet in the present, you will know fear unlike any other you’ve ever known before. You can’t keep yourself and the girl safe forever.” The devil’s form began to shrink as its shadow coalesced, ceasing the sickening shadow-puppet shows of death. Devilish laughter rumbled through the library like thunder. “Her heart is as cold as the ice around your—”

An embellished arrow of golden light struck the devil’s shadow, anchoring it in place with a metallic clink. Azael halted the retreat, acutely aware of the arrow caught within its metaphysical form as the shadows slinked across the walls in serpentine patterns. The insidious taunting and rage vanished, replaced by an air of commanding power.

Relief washed over Brendan, but it felt different, like it had been forced on him. The rage that threatened to wash over him mysteriously vanished, leaving a lovingly-warm sense of compassion in its place. Magic— Someone was using magic, but it couldn’t have been Aria—she wasn’t even aware of herself—her own abilities—yet. It wasn’t possible for her to have any influence on the current reality, but what was reality, exactly? Something real? A state of current being? What defined the space he found himself in?

He felt like someone had thrown him into a wave pool, unable to make contact with the ground beneath his feet, battered by relentless waves. For the first time, he could describe that same, strange feeling he’d experienced two years ago—while he was still with Licht and Mana. It was a disturbance, in the most generic sense, yet it was more than that. He was a puck on an ice hockey rink—one of hundreds scattered about the glaze. If someone shot a puck into the hundreds of other motionless pucks, they’d skate across the frictionless surface, colliding with other pucks until they had all been influenced by the original in some way.

Up until now, he hadn’t been able to describe the feeling, not even when he was with Licht in Madame Lucero’s shop. Now, he finally felt like he had an idea of what had happened: somewhere on that same hockey rink, someone or something had fired a new puck into the hundreds of other pucks, disturbing their inertial harmony. Thinking about it further, he concluded that the other dimensions must have some kind of motility—some kind of ability to move freely—within a fixed space. But just how fixed was the space?

“So… Did we create an entirely separate dimension just now? Or, I guess, it would be more accurate to say, ‘whoever just showed up.’” Aria was no longer part of the current reality. She had been returned to her original timeline, unaffected by Azael’s manipulating presence. “That just leaves the three of us, now. Azael, whoever just created this weird space-time, and me.” Dust particles floated motionless, suspended in the unmoving air as another arrow pierced Azael’s shadow dead-center, anchoring the devil in place.

“Let the boy finish,” a familiar woman’s voice came from behind. Azael growled, frustrated. “I believe he’s just figured something very important out.”

Brendan did a one-eighty as he came face-to-hooded face with his new hopeful-ally, floating several feet above the ground. She donned a loose-fitting shrine garb, illustrated with falling petals bathed in crimson juxtaposed against the garment itself, a dazzling midnight-blue with the same crimson trim. Still, the hood was large, obscuring her face in pale shadows. As if by design, her rosy lips pierced the shadowy veil, rouge against a frosty, maiden-like canvas. Her sleeves, however, were the most peculiar, reminding him of curtains; they folded back into the seams like some kind of clothing-specific pulley system as she extended her arms. Was she… stretching?

“Why do I get the feeling she’s been watching me? Like she’s been waiting to make some grand entrance this whole time?”

His eyes drifted toward the skirt of her garb, also littered with the same solemn petals and just as peculiar as her sleeves: the same striking midnight-blue, finely pleated to match the elegance of her figure. A subtle, diagonal cut offered an asymmetrical charm, grazing her lower left thigh with daring precision, gracefully brushing the knee of her other leg—an unlikely, but charming, sophistication. It wasn’t until she brushed her hand against her thigh, pulling another gleaming arrow from its holder beneath her skirt, that he realized he might know her.

Elastic straps pinned a pair of opaque black stockings to her legs, dangerously threading the boundary between garment and flesh. She’d chosen to top the outfit off with a set of striking, strappy platform heels, their black sheen a contradiction to the bold colors of the rest of her outfit. There was only one person he knew that loved red lips, flashy entrances, and garter belts so much, not to mention—after securing a better look—the symbolism of the petals that fluttered across her outfit: remembrance and hope, death and sacrifice.

She gave a fleeting smile as she squared her next shot. “Please, continue,” she said.

“I want answers later but, I guess, for now, it’s better to focus on Azael,” he figured, sweeping his bangs away from his face. “She’s right. It’s not just about what I felt, though. What I felt was one of two things, but there’s something I need to confirm before I can say definitively.” He cleared his throat. “Regardless, the dimensions, normally at-rest, have been acted upon, losing their potential energy and replaced with kinetic energy. Someone or something has caused them to move when they should be static—not dynamic. We are moving through space and time in unprecedented ways. So now the question is, whose side does this change favor?”

He turned his attention back to the journal in his hand, reading: “It has been said time and again that history is written by the victor; that is true in this sense as well—we were horribly defeated. Our only saving grace was that Chiipha’s princess at the time took up the fight with us, but even together, the two princesses were still outmatched. We were able to flee at the behest of Chiipha’s princess. But, sadly, she took her own life to prevent the devils from acquiring her power. Earth’s princess was utterly defeated, humiliated, and then killed.” Brendan looked up for a moment.

“Please, read a little more, if you would,” the woman coaxed. “There’s still more for you to learn.” She seemed fascinated by Brendan, using him like some kind of scapegoat. How much did she know?

He stuck his thumb between the pages, saving his place, addressing Azael first. “See, I know that you are the most unique out of all the devils in the Reverse Royalty. Azhef has the power to give and take life, the Binary Twins fight together and can seemingly warp reality, Kuria can shapeshift and move through most kinds of matter, and Lucifero gains strength by eating dreams, but you,” his mouth curled around the final vowel, “you can transform past and present realities so long as there is no written record. I’m right, aren’t I?”

The devil roared with rage-filled laughter as a truck-sized shadow clawed at him. Bookshelves crumbled to dust as the books themselves exploded in puffs of paper; the shadows had caused them to regress in time—bookshelves before they had been constructed, books before they had been printed or even thought of. The woman grabbed him by the collar as the claw raked the spot where he’d been standing moments earlier. He stumbled back, colliding with a still-intact bookshelf. His fingers trawled through the shelf dust, slipping off the sleek, wooden finish as he landed on his tailbone.

“Dammit,” he winced. “Good thing I didn’t lose this thing, though.” He quickly staggered to his feet, holding the journal in his hand like a trophy. His rear muscles ached from the fall, but he figured it was better than being hit by whatever that attack was. “Anyways,” he continued, still wincing, “if a written record of some form does exist and can be manifested, that power—yours—is rendered obsolete. Whatever record can be obtained and presented in the current moment keeps you from altering that specific reality’s past or present. It’s frightening,” he admitted, “but not something that can’t be countered.”

Azael’s ominous laughter tore through the library again. “You fail to understand one thing, Greyriter. I can erase your entire reality with just a single word if I so choose. Tell me, do you prance around, wielding a formal record of your past and continual present? Shall we find out?”

“Absolutely not,” the woman asserted. “He has a written record right here.” Another leather-bound journal floated before her, pages fluttering as the sound of a scribbling pen rose from the paper. “You will be unable to exert your malicious influence so long as I am present. This boy’s life, his past and present, have been and are being recorded in this very journal as we speak. How bold are you, Azael? Will you manifest yourself and attempt to challenge the two of us?”

Her lips curled into a red smirk. “But you can’t do that here as this is no longer a true past or present. It is, literally speaking, the past, but one that wishes to be forgotten so desperately.” She nodded at Brendan, his queue to keep reading. “Before he begins again… Are you aware that your power only works if you have managed to infiltrate the past of your victim? You can only manipulate the present if they are alone and there is no one else around to share the current reality.” Azael was silent. “Not a very useful power, is it?”

“Looks like you’re a bit useless at the moment, so let’s learn a little more about the past,” Brendan said, reopening the same journal from earlier. “To our surprise, however, the devils left something behind—a human child. We did not know who or where her mother was, sadly. That night, we decided to name her Aria, in reference to the stars above. We were fortunate, but the child even more so. We knew she was special, but we also knew the devils would not return for some time to come.”

The woman added additional context. “Approximately two decades ago, the princess of Chiipha was forced to submit to the devils during a subsequent, attempted-Rezertia. Where things get interesting is in the way you so sadistically mutilate your victims, but only the princesses… Before the last attempted-Rezertia, Earth’s princess was humiliated, paraded around in front of the very people she swore on her life to protect, and thus brutally mutilated. She would succumb to her wounds hours later.”

“This sounds a lot like what happened with Chiipha’s princess… And a lot like a story I was just told by a certain someone…”

The woman ignored him. “Earth was without a princess at the time—a specific ceremony had yet to be enacted, therefore the duties could not be inherited.” She put a finger to her lower lip in thought. “Really, it was more like the future princess’s mother was too ill to enact the duties required of her, hence why the ceremony could not be performed right away. Mind you, this was quite some time ago, if you recall.” She pursed her lips together. “Actually, that last part was probably new to you.”

Azael’s shadow began to retreat as the woman finished. “You think you understand us, but you are far from understanding just how close your world is from annihilation—reconstruction without the need for dreadful humans.” The devil fled, leaving haunting words as a parting gift.

The woman turned to Brendan, extending a hand. “That one won’t be back for a while, so don’t worry about him getting away. Azael is strong, but not without a weakness. Besides, there is much we have to talk about, later.” Brendan watched as her eyes shifted to a figure sitting in the middle of the aisle. To his surprise, it was Aria; she was stuffing the book of essays into her sweater. “Now that the blight that is Azael is gone, this particular dimension can return to normal, hence why you are able to witness her past again. Of course, we must also discuss her, but I think we should fast-forward for now. Wouldn’t you agree?”

He took her hand; it was warm and buttery soft. “It may be selfish of me to say I was dragged into all of this, but I’m not sure how else to put it. If I don’t understand her past, and our future, it’ll only hold us back—all of us.”

“Good answer,” the woman said cheerfully. “Let’s begin about two years from now.”

***

“Happy sixteenth birthday, Aria,” her grandmother smiled. “You’ve come a long way. Is there anything you wanted to do?” She handed her a neatly wrapped gift, embellished in golden wrapping paper.

“Thank you, Grandma but, no, not really.” Her hands caressed the smooth paper, gliding across the surface of the gift. “Really, all I want to do today is to be here.”

She nodded. “I understand. Then, let’s do something only a grandma and granddaughter can do.” She winked at Aria who couldn’t help but smile.

Aria’s fingers dug into the paper, tearing it in streaks before she stopped, fingers gripping the edges of the box. “Grandma, you know I love you, right? I’ve changed a lot in the last couple of years and—”

“I know, sweetheart—trust me. I did raise your mother after all. You have her same stubborn streak.” Aria’s fingers fumbled at the edges of the gift. “Don’t worry. Your parents are looking over us right now, I’m sure. They’re probably just as anxious to see you open your present, and I have a feeling it’s going to help ease your mind a little.”

She stared at the scars on her hands, a faint reminder of the accident. “Well, I just wanted you to know… I know I haven’t been the,” she paused, trying to think of a word, “easiest thing to deal with, but thank you for putting up with me.” She unwrapped the rest of the gift, revealing a white cardboard box filled with pink tissue paper. Taped to the inside was a small plastic baggie, but she figured she’d save it for last. “Grandma…”

“Well, what is it?” she asked, delightfully eager.

Aria lifted a sleeveless, lavender dress from the paper; the color was soft with a gradual fade to black toward the bottom of the skirt, emboldening the silky fabric. Ruffles across the top relinquished the otherwise-formal appearance; it reminded her of fleeting, late-summer sunsets, clouds cast into hues of lavender as night slowly overtook the fading sunlight. The A-line style embellished the fabric, giving it a more-refined look. She stood up as she held it out, eyes running over every stitch and seam they could find. It was incredibly well-made and unlike anything she’d ever seen or worn before.

“The cold shoulder look too, huh? Someone really wants me out of the house,” she joked. “Or… they want me to go to prom this weekend.” She lowered the dress, revealing a sincere smile.

“Looks like you caught me.” Her grandmother threw her hands up. “I’ve been working on that for quite some time now. Slowly at first, but I knew it would make for a great birthday present someday. You’ve grown into a wonderful young lady, Aria. Really.”

Tears filled the corners of her eyes, but she managed to hold them back—there was still more inside the dress box. She removed the taped baggie first, retrieving a small bracelet. A yellow crescent dangled from the center of the beading cord, surrounded by several other charms: to the left, a trio of lilac stars hung at offsetting lengths; another trio of stars wound their way around the right half of the cord, and with the adjustable strap, the bracelet was a perfect fit.

“There’s still one more thing I have left to give you, but you have to close your eyes, ok?”

“Ok, ok,” Aria giggled, laying the dress in its box. “No crazy surprises, though, o… k?”

A hug—her final birthday gift was a hug, something she’d never really given any thought to. Was it that she’d grown numb to the idea of empathy? Someone else’s love and affection? That she was simply… unlovable? Hugs were just two people pressing their bodies up against each other. What was so special about that?—at least, that’s what she used to think.

It had taken two years to come to terms with the accident and the loss of her parents, but more importantly, it had taken her two years to finally come to terms with herself. Her grandmother hugged just like her mother used to: a light squeeze as she massaged her shoulders. Whenever she needed someone to listen to her, even through incoherent sobs, it was always her mother who came to the rescue. Her grandmother’s hug reminded her that the world wasn’t filled with as much evil and disgust as she thought; she would never forgive the driver who’d taken her parents’ lives, nor would she forgive herself for shutting herself off from everyone else.

The first several months had been incredibly trying, but the first few days were indescribable: she’d managed to land herself in the Emergency Room on the third day—she hadn’t eaten a thing, and was in the early stages of severe dehydration from all of the crying—water as far from her as her parents were, guilt caught in her throat, threatening to suffocate her with its steely chokehold as she frequently found herself gasping for air in the middle of the night, her own hands wrapped around her neck—the first and second days.

“She was in so much pain… Poor girl. I wish I could have done more for her back then,” the woman from the library sighed. “Well, shall we move on?” Brendan nearly jumped into the ceiling. He’d been so engrossed in the moment and Aria’s swirling thoughts he’d completely forgotten about the woman he’d just met. “There’s still more to see.”

“Err… Yeah, let’s go.” He had so many questions, but one in particular really bothered him. “She acts and talks so much like her… But… Who am I even thinking about right now?”

The woman smiled at him. “Take my hand.”

“Take your ha—”

The floor vanished from beneath their feet, leaving only empty space where an entire living room had been moments earlier. His stomach dropped, half-expecting to fall through the sky as he came crashing down, except he hadn’t moved. The only thing that had changed was his surroundings.

“If you’d taken my hand, I could have negated that falling sensation you just experienced.”

“Ok, but you gave me like half a second to process that. You could’ve told me we were going to be standing in the sky,” he said, tapping his foot on thin air. “Is this thing going to shatter like glass or something if I tap on it too much?”

She giggled, covering her mouth with a sleeve. “He hasn’t changed.” She turned her attention to the sprawling city beneath their feet. “You see that building right there?” She pointed to a large, dome-like structure. “That is the high school Aria currently attends in this past, Miruna High, but it’s from this point on that things get rather dark, I’m afraid.”

“What do you mean?”

A puff of cloud floated under his feet, briefly obscuring his view of the school. He followed its shadow as it rolled across the ground until it was torn apart by the wind. Everything would look the exact same five years from now: traffic lights would be posted at the same intersections, rows of housing subdivisions would sprawl across the southern half of the city—backyards warring for space with the adjacent mountains—the same potholes in the streets, crumbling curb ramps— It would all still be there; just thinking about it gave him chills, but so did the thought of the next five years of Aria’s life.

“Yes, it gives me chills, too, Brendan.” She grabbed his hands. “To answer your question—”

A quick burst of wind stole the words from her lips as it knocked her hood back, sunlight fully illuminating her face; her cheeks flushed bright red. Tufts of blonde curls unraveled in the breeze, falling over the front of her shoulders. Afternoon sunbeams transformed her honey hair into shimmering gold, caressing the backdrop of the sky. She stood there, mouth half open; words caught in her throat as she struggled to find the right ones to say before retreating behind her curtain-like sleeves.

Brendan wasn’t sure if he gasped or if it was the wind. If his shock was a bolt of lightning, he would have struck right then and there. The wind whipped around him, the only sound in a world filled with noise: the rush of blood in his ears, heartbeat in his chest, oxygen filling his lungs— It was brief, but as soon as he saw her face, several more pieces of the puzzle came together, but that single, momentary glimpse, trudged up a long-forgotten memory, one he never wanted to forget again.

His voice was full of bewilderment. “I thought maybe— Just maybe it was you, even back at the RV… But to see you standing here, in front of me, right now…” He let out a frustrated sigh. “You gave yourself away back at the hospital, too.”

“No, no, no, no.” She squealed in dismay. “This— I mean— I wasn’t—”

“What are you even doing here, Millee? How and why are—”

“Brendan!” she cried, “it’s too soon for you to know, so stop asking!” Her voice was filled with embarrassment and frustration of her own. “You—”

“No. No more excuses. No more facades. I think it’s time for an answer—many answers.” His voice was calm, but insistent. “Tonight is the night of the prom, isn’t it? When Aria ran away.”

“I— We haven’t even gotten to that point yet. How do you know that?” She peeked around the edges of her sleeves, furrowing her brows. “You—”

“Honestly, I always knew something felt different about you. I thought maybe you could use magic, but I never saw or felt you use it, no matter what kind of situation presented itself,” he paused before taking a step towards her, “but I think I understand now.”

“You don’t.”

“I know you better than you think, Millee.”

“You really don’t.”

“And maybe you’re right. I mean,” he chuckled, “just look at where we are now—standing at the precipice of the start of the future. But,” Millee inhaled sharply, ready to deflect whatever he threw at her, “I do know that you’re incredibly talented, smart… and that somehow, you were Lyra.” He looked down at the city, then up at Millee. “She was never an actual person, was she?”

She exhaled, only slightly relieved. “You’re right. You’ve grown and learned a lot, Brendan, but there’s still more to the story that you’re missing.”

“Is there, Milady?”

She spun around faster than he could blink—some kind of world record, for sure. Her amber eyes and plump lips told him exactly what she was thinking. She was terrible at hiding her emotions, and her thoughts, for that matter. Her eyes danced around in their sockets, the synapses in her brain running on fumes and no snack breaks.

“How did you know?” she whispered softly.

“Because it’s you, Millee. The day we were all gathered in the cafeteria, you jumped as soon as you knew something was up. You were there, in the back of the crowd, and it wasn’t the hailstorm that shattered the windows. It was you, wasn’t it? And Lacia… Sure, she wasn’t watching where she was going, but we were on opposite sides of the room.” He tore into her, scrutinizing everything. “You brought Lacia, Mana, and I together—”

“So, you’re just going to yell at me, then?” she shouted, throwing her arms down. “Do you consider other people’s feelings or are you as dense as you’ve always been?”

“Why are you mad at me for calling you out?” he fired back. “I don’t claim to know how fate works, but you’ve always had this quirky little side to you that just makes things work! I don’t know if I should call you spoiled, or if I should be thanking you. These last two years have been hell, and it’s not something I would have ever chosen for myself or anyone else, but I know I have a responsibility to make sure the world doesn’t get nuked by a bunch of fucking devils!” He stopped, catching his breath as he allowed his temper to simmer. “I’m doing this because I have people I care about.”

Millee held her arms up to her chest. “Ok! I get it! I’m sorry, but I have people I care about too, you know! It was wrong of me to manipulate the three of you like that, but you don’t have to act like I’m such an awful person!” Tears welled in her eyes. “I don’t want to fight with you, Brendan. That’s not why I brought you here…”

He sighed. “I’m not accepting your apology.”

“But why?” she cried, voice quivering. “Everything I did was—”

“Because you’re not the one who was wrong and have nothing to apologize for. I’m just—exhausted,” he realized. “I can’t even remember the last time I laid my head down to take a nap or had something to tie me over between meals, but even those have been scarce.” He pushed his hair back with his hand, reflecting the sun. “I’m sorry for yelling at you. My exhaustion isn’t an excuse, but I hope you understand how frustrating all of this is. You threw me and Aria into the middle of a desert while you tried to play the hero—again. Not only that, we left Mana behind and no one knows where Lacia, Licht, and Hika are.”

“No, I do understand. Trust me when I say you’re not alone… Everything I told you back in Chronid was true—including my familial heritage.” She clutched her shoulder, pinning her arm to her side. “I could take all of this makeup off and you’d see just how tired I am, too, but that doesn’t mean we can just give up… I’m… scared, but I have to do my best.”

“Why erase my memory of you, then? Did you mean for the spell to eventually fade? Was this meeting predestined?” Questions spilled from Brendan’s mouth like an overfilled bucket. “Everything else is starting to make a little more sense, but there’s so much about you that remains a mystery. I’ve always wondered about you, though. The quiet girl, but with an air of such confidence… You tell me I’ve grown. Have you looked in a mirror lately? You’re the type of woman that could topple a world government in a day— You have that kind of stature.”

She blushed—an unexpected compliment. “Again… Everything I did was to protect you, yet you managed to get involved anyways.” Her lower lip quivered. “While I appreciate the empowerment, let me be clear: I didn’t do those things you said I did—the glass, Lacia’s clumsiness… Those were all completely natural. The only role I played, back in the cafeteria, was preparing myself for the inevitable encounter with Earth’s princess—my counterpart.”

“That just leaves me with more questions,” Brendan sighed. “Who is designating princesses around here, and what determines which world you have to defend? Can you swap between them, or do you have to, like, live in that specific world or whatever?

“No… Not exactly…” She steepled her fingers in thought. “As far as I’m aware, there’s not anything that tells you what you have to do or that you’ve been “chosen”—you just… know. I don’t really know how else to describe it. Like—” She threw her arms down again. “You ask too many questions. I’ll put it simply: I have to be the intermediary right now. I can travel between both worlds because I know Lacia is not ready for what’s ahead. Do you know how scary that is, knowing that at any moment, the life I knew could be gone in an instant?” Her voice grew soft. “Do you know how the last Princess of Chiipha died?”

“The devils, right? They drained her of her powers, like you—Lyra—said earlier, but then how does that make you…” Was he only getting half the story? “A ceremony was never held to quote-on-quote “crown” the next princess, so how do those duties just… How is that suddenly your responsi—”

She cut him off. “I had to stretch the truth a bit, but I thought maybe it’d scare you off and you’d just… go home, but now you’re more motivated than ever! How am I supposed to deal with that?!”

“Then don’t deal with it! No one says you have to do this or that, right? So, just, I don’t know, take a break, grab a coffee— But that brings up another important point.” Millee rolled her eyes. “You’re worried about losing the life you’ve made for yourself, everything you’ve ever known. Do you have any idea what Lacia has been through? One day she’s fine, the next, she’s waking up covered in blood with no earthly idea what’s happening.” He closed his eyes for a moment, tempering his frustration. “She had to give up everything she knew. Not only that, can you imagine the hell she went through, getting kidnapped and then taking her own life just to save everyone else’s?”

“Why would I know all that, Brendan?” she snapped.

She was aware of how heartless her comment seemed, but she was careful not to trigger the landmine under her foot. If she overstepped her boundaries, she risked blowing up her relationship with Brendan—a fatal mistake that could upend everything everyone had fought so hard for. At the same time though, she had to be cautious of the ice beneath her other foot. If she moved too quickly, she could slip and miss the one chance she had to explain not just herself but everything else, too: the princesses, time-shifts and parallel worlds—even gods and devils.

She stared into Brendan’s eyes, irises a shade lighter than the blue canvas they stood on. Who was he to question her authority and reasoning? She was the one with all the knowledge and power; his strength and repressed traumas couldn’t match hers. The bog that threatened to suffocate her was deeper than he could ever imagine, yet he insisted on sticking his nose where it didn’t belong, like always. Of course she wanted to explain her life to him, but what good would that do if his heart was already set on another girl? Why was she trying to get him to understand Aria’s past? When was it her turn?

“Heh… I can’t even come to terms with my own emotions. He stands there, so stoic, but he’s just as fragile as I am. Why? Why do you insist on caring so much about me?”

“Millee,” he started, “tell me the truth. How long have you—”

“Been the princess of Chiipha?” she finished—abrupt. “Four years— Approximately two and a half before the Reverse Royalty began their pursuit of Earth’s princess again.” A large cloud blotted out the sun, engulfing them in shadows. “Look, Brendan. In order for you to understand my story, you first have to understand Aria’s,” she blurted. “Why, though? Why am I doing this?” She took a deep breath, settling her nerves. “We’re moving on.”

“Millee!”

“We,” she pointed at Brendan then back at herself, “are not a thing anymore.”

“What does that even mean?” he gestured.

“You’ll find out later,” she said, pouting.

Before he could react, the scene changed again. “Must be real convenient for you to just poof off wherever. Unbelievable. How did that even devolve like it did? Whatever just happened, I can’t shake the feeling she just cursed me somehow, probably something to do with luck around women,” he muttered.