𝐒𝐏𝐀𝐑𝐑𝐎𝐖 | 𝟏𝟖+

xxxiv. the end's beginning.

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‎‎‏‏‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎𝑪𝑹𝑨𝑺𝑯𝑯𝑯. Glass shatters onto tile from an open door across the bedroom.

‎‎‏‏‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎"No!" A morbid howl wrecks the silence, the cry for mercy to the reaper of death to pardon him from what's to come. "Fuck, no!"

‎‎‏‏‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎Elowen lifts from the sheets of Morrow's bed, only to find them empty of her mate. Her silver irises follow the trail of destruction—musical compositions spilling onto the hardwood, all while a cello remains destrung and harp dented and tumbled. There, in the opening of the ensuite washroom, stands Morrow before a broken mirror.

‎‎‏‏‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎She tiptoes towards the were-wyng, watching the muscles and wings upon his back heave with every heavy and agonising breath. His black hair remains a wild mess upon his head, pulled in the midst of frustrated tugs, dampened from a morning shower. Knuckles clench against the sink, fingers now fully tainted with the blight. Unlike the middle of the night when he shifted into his human naked form, he now wears a pair of black trousers that cling low on his hips.

‎‎‏‏‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎Within the distorted shards, the reflection of his meadowed hues find hers in a kaleidoscope of green.

‎‎‏‏‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎He turns his body around, a movement so swift that she feels the breeze from his wings slap against her cheeks. There's nothing kind about him at this moment, nothing that speaks of soft edges and his vulnerable heart.

‎‎‏‏‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎"I told you not to get close to me," he growls, his low voice curdling the blood in her veins with heat.

‎‎‏‏‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎She gulps, wishing the blush on her cheeks would fade. "You don't understand—"

‎‎‏‏‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎"Oh, I fucking do," he takes a step closer. "Are you aware of what you've just done? Of what this disease will do to us?"

‎‎‏‏‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎"Morrow, I—"

‎‎‏‏‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎"Look at my hands!" he grits, raising his palms just inches from Elowen's face. "I can't watch you become like me. This was supposed to be my fate, not yours. Not ours."

‎‎‏‏‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎It's in the rhythm of those words that her mind-link to him ignites, and the images and sensations that corrode his thoughts flood into her own. She thought his irritation rooted itself in his own demise, in his own pending death.

‎‎‏‏‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎Instead, he could care less about his own self.

‎‎‏‏‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎He thinks of her, how his own end will become her final chapter. Isn't that what he's vowed to never do? Tabrien comes first, not her, and yet, that's not how this song seems to flow.

‎‎‏‏‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎His inner thoughts clamp down on her creature with a sharp bite as a way to get her to stop prying inside his mind. Ever since Morrow wears that claim on his neck, her mind-link to him has been clearer and easier to navigate. It's no longer dominated with him, but rather, balanced between them both.