THE HALL WAS silent save for the dripping of blood on stone. Medea’s jaw hung open, quivering as she clutched Robin to her chest, her sword vanishing in a wisp of blue flame as if burned to ash and scattered on an unseen breeze.

“R-Robin…?” she asked, voice so very small.

It wasn’t real. None of this was. Not his slowly stiffening corpse or the warm blood coating her hands.

It was only a dream.

It wasn’t real.

Time seemed to slow as the temperature plummeted. Medea’s harsh breathing slowed, escaping in puffs of white that lingered too long in front of her face. The blood coating her fingers that’d once been warm with life—Robin’s blood—cracked with the sudden frigid chill as she shifted in place on the floor.

The temple bled away around her, the stone floor and walls vanishing as if they’d never been. In front of her stood a door; massive, fit more for giant than man, and made of some darkened material that could’ve been stone or steel. It was all but covered in rime, and an icy chill emanated from within, whatever lay beyond cold enough to freeze her bones. Medea felt a gaze lingering on her neck as she stood before it.

One by one, frostbitten fingers wrapped around her throat.

Open the door.

She took a step closer, compelled by an urge she didn’t understand.

Open the door.

Just a few steps more and it’d be within reach.

Open the door.

She raised her hand to the frost-covered portal, so close she could almost touch it.

OPEN THE DOOR.

A roar shattered the silence and whatever strange compulsion possessed her, and Medea found herself standing in an open corridor overlooking a familiar courtyard. She recognized it immediately; much of her childhood had been spent wandering the Archives’s halls, the building set in the side of Mount Tartarus itself. Past the courtyard just below the corridor lay a beautiful city, the Kingdom of Tarthos a grand sight beneath the sun’s brilliant rays, and so very unlike the sickly green hue of her most recent visit.

At once, a violent gale buffeted her where she stood, all but blowing her off her feet. Above, a serpentine colossus parted the clouds, twisting through the air with malevolent grace belying its monstrous size, twelve gossamer wings folding against its body as it plunged from the heavens. It roared again, vibrating her bones as she clutched at the sharp pain in her head. There came a small pop as her eardrums burst, the roar growing to a dull ache accompanied by a tinny ringing. Medea fought back the nausea turning her stomach and looked up into the eyes of the Mad Titan as it bore down upon her, two matching incandescent rubies of rage come to deliver her death. Its jaws spread wide to reveal row after row of wicked teeth, the very mountain quaking before the serpent’s approach.

Just as it swallowed the mountain and her along with it, Medea gasped, opening her eyes to a familiar dim light and walls of grey stone. A thick must hung in the air, mixing with the scent of burning candles. She ran her hands up and down her body, unsure of what’d happened or how she’d managed to survive the Titan’s assault.

Movement in the corner started her as Rook slipped a ribbon between the pages of the tome in his hands, snapping it shut. “You’re awake, then.”

He stood and approached, holding his hands in the air. “Though you understand not a word, I should hope you recognize I mean you no harm.” His voice was soft and low as he knelt to offer her a hand. “Come. I’m sure you’re exhausted.”

Medea gaped like a fish, glancing between his face and his outstretched hand. Then she looked to the spot directly across from her, noticeably emptier than it’d been the last time she’d been here. Fear gripped her heart as she remembered what it was she’d been doing, and suddenly nothing seemed so important as the question burning on her lips, one which spilled forth as a request and a demand at once.

“Where is he?”

Rook’s eyes widened.

————

Robin’s chest rose and fell in a fitful sleep, clothing drenched in sweat. Though whether a symptom of his burns or something she’d done to him, Medea didn’t know. Her mind told her it was the former, but her heart wanted nothing more than to drown her in blame and regret. After all, there was no way to know she hadn’t made his condition worse somehow when she’d stabbed him through the chest.

Her hands trembled as she remembered the warmth of his blood, drenching pale fingers she’d once believed too thin and too small to hurt anyone; worse, she remembered how good her sword felt between them, bringing with it a feeling she’d never before known.

Power.

Enough to do as she pleased. Enough to take what she wanted.

It chilled her as deeply as the rime-wreathed door. The shock and the fear on Robin’s face as she’d hurt him were etched on the backs of her eyelids, springing forth whenever she dared to rest. It’d been a dream, she knew… but it was also more than any dream, the blood on her hands real, its warmth as true in her mind as the beating of her own heart. Her power was dangerous… and not just because part of her would do anything to feel it again.

After a lengthy discussion with Rook wherein she’d described her experience in the dream (leaving out the part where she’d murdered her companion) and Rook had reiterated in his own terms what Robin had already told her, they’d each turned in for the night.

Rook relocated one of the beds to another room nearby, rather forthcoming about his unwillingness to sleep next to strangers, and offered to do the same for her. Medea had politely declined. She couldn’t leave Robin alone, not as he was. What if she had made him worse? What if he died while she dozed peacefully in another room because she couldn’t be bothered to observe his condition? She would never forgive herself. And so she’d stayed and begun her watch, dragging another bed close enough to Robin’s to sit comfortably with her knees drawn to her chest.

As the night wore on (at least she thought it was night, there were no windows in the temple) Medea found herself starting awake in a panic each time she accidentally drifted off, certain her negligence had caused Robin’s death, only to find him in exactly the same state as before.

At one point she’d forced herself to rise and retrieve a pail of water, pumping it through the hand-cranked well connected to what Rook informed her was a natural underground reserve, and very likely the reason the temple was built there in the first place. Despite his insistence this was a place of learning, the building had clearly been designed to weather some kind of storm, a threat the Syrenese people considered great enough they’d need to retreat behind barriers hidden beneath the ground. Titan, Blight, or something worse she didn’t know.

Finding a clean cloth proved slightly more difficult, but only because she hadn’t known where to look. Everything in the temple, up to and including the linens, was remarkably well preserved to the point she suspected aetherial manipulation. In her day it would’ve been absurd to consider tidiness a task worthy of the Confluence’s attention… but she had to admit it was a luxury to which she could easily become accustomed.

She’d managed to stay somewhat calm during the expedition, but when faced with the prospect of returning a moment too late to save Robin from choking to death on his own bile, or worse, the fear crept back in, her footsteps becoming ever more frenzied as she all but sprinted back to the room where he slept, spilling water left and right in her haste. He was still there; alive and breathing, just as she’d left him. Though she heaved a sigh of relief, Medea still wasn’t quite convinced her panic was unwarranted, and wouldn’t be until she was certain Robin was safe.

With deft fingers, she unwrapped his bandages, holding her stomach much better this time around. Perhaps she’d grown accustomed to the sight, or perhaps it simply paled in comparison to what she’d done to him.

She ran her fingers over his skin, gently feeling the grooves in his flesh and the many scars she’d been too distracted by shame, or later his burns, to notice. His chest was rigid and firm; certainly more muscular than supple. It seemed appropriate… for Robin’s heart was nothing if not guarded.

If only muscle could halt steel. What horrific violation would her blade leave in Robin’s flesh when she drove it through his heart? She didn’t want to know… didn’t want to think about it at all. But the feeling of his flesh parting like the skin of a fruit would not leave her, nor the blood that spilled as the juices, sticky and warm with the life she’d stolen.

She sighed, reaching for the pail of water and a washcloth. She knew little of healing and wasn’t sure if rinsing his wounds would help or hurt, opting to leave it until she’d had time to consult Rook. The man seemed to know his way around a fire. Instead, she soaked the cloth and placed it on Robin’s forehead, hoping the cool water would provide relief for the inferno raging beneath his skin. She soaked another in preparation to wipe some of the sweat from his body, unable to think of anything more useful to do while she waited around to see if he would live.

Medea had thought herself in too poor a mood to feel much of anything other than dread, but as she worked the washcloth down Robin’s body, slowly wiping away the accumulated sweat glistening on his abdomen, an inferno of her very own beginning to rage, she realized perhaps she’d been mistaken. Suddenly, she no longer felt quite so justified in her role as concerned caretaker, instead abruptly reverting to the role of foolish girl with no idea what she was doing—one who’d stripped her companion naked to grope him in his sleep.

She froze in place, eyes traveling to Robin’s to find them mercifully closed. For some reason she’d expected him to wake in that exact moment. Although… would it matter if he did? Robin certainly hadn’t seemed shy about his body before… and she had seen him already. Would he begrudge her this simple curiosity? He certainly hadn’t sought her permission before he’d stolen her lips, and in fact, one might even consider the price of a mere glance paid in full. That, and her intentions were noble. Or they had been. At one point.

She sighed, pressing her face into her hands. Who was she attempting to fool? Such a level of self-imposed delusion did not seem healthy. Beyond that, where did she expect such a thing to lead? She knew little to nothing about Robin’s past, and if their shared nightmare were any indication, there were a great many things she didn’t know about his present as well.

Of course… while the things she’d seen in the nightmare had been horrifying, particularly the things being done to the countless corpses bearing her image, Medea found herself strangely certain none of it was born of malice towards her. In fact, she’d had more doubts about Robin’s character before they’d begun the Tempering.

Although his words at the end had been perhaps unnecessarily cruel, she’d found them easy enough to forgive; she’d been having the same thoughts since they’d met, after all, and her retort had been no less harsh. Truthfully, they were possibly the most honest words she’d ever shared with another person, and some part of her was relieved they were no longer buried deep beneath layers of propriety.

Regardless, Robin’s scathing remarks toward her paled in comparison to the sheer hopeless certainty in his voice when he’d spoken of his inability to change and the wrongdoings of his past.

And although it was true he’d been enraged to the point of violence… so had she, and Medea had never once raised a hand to another. It was obvious in hindsight neither of them had been in their right minds… but even then it seemed Robin’s anger had been directed elsewhere. That at the end he’d offered his hand while she’d driven her blade through his heart told Medea which of them had truly allowed rage to guide their actions.

She found herself sighing again, absentmindedly wiping down Robin’s thigh with the cloth, her eyes inexplicably drawn to his lips as she recalled the first and only kiss of her adult life. It’d been… sudden, ending just as quickly as it’d begun. Though not truly a romantic in any sense of the word, even Medea would admit the circumstances surrounding the occurrence were so poor it’d been all but drained of any meaning it might’ve otherwise held. She wouldn’t blame Robin for that; it was still an experience she preferred to have over the nothing she’d had before; doubly so when any breath drawn might be her last.

Though perhaps it’d been Robin’s very treatment of said event that’d left her feeling hollow. By his own admission, she’d been found wanting. At first she’d been embarrassed and disappointed, but strangely, she grew more frustrated with the thought the longer she dwelled on it. Was it her fault Acolytes of the Confluence had little time for frivolous pursuits? She didn’t think so. Robin may have said her inexperience wasn’t a bad thing, but it certainly didn’t seem a good thing either.

Of course, in her opinion, Robin’s habit of shameless exposure gave him no moral leg to stand upon in that regard… or any regard concerning her inexperience with the opposite sex for that matter. She needn’t take romantic advice from some… brazen… brandisher.

She scowled down at him, wondering how exactly he’d managed to get underneath her skin without ever saying a word. Or being conscious.

She climbed onto the bed, leaning in close with the intention to thrash him and perhaps finish the job she’d started in the nightmare, but before she’d even finished the thought she’d already pressed her lips to his, this time holding the kiss long enough to truly experience it. When at last she pulled away, Medea wasn’t quite certain what exactly she’d just done… which was perhaps why it took longer than necessary to notice Robin was awake and staring straight at her.