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An inferno crackles around Dan Heng, flames filling the corners of his vision, smoke and ashes rising from the remains of their destroyed train car. And yet he’s barely aware of any of it, because in front of him, in his arms . . .
Stelle is bleeding out. Bruises mar her beautiful face, streaks of blood running from open wounds on her chin, her collarbones, her knees. His eyes dart frantically over her body, scanning for worse, even as smoke inhalation threatens to strip away what remains of his consciousness.
The wounds are everywhere.
And Stelle is limp, dreadfully limp, her head supported only by his trembling hands. Her silver hair falls sideways over her face — and Dan Heng’s attempts to brush it behind her ears are futile. Her eyes are closed, lips ever-so-slightly parted, as if on the verge of calling out to him.
Aeons, what he would give to hear her voice right now. Just unconscious, Dan Heng, she’d reassure him. Don’t be silly.
With the control that remains in his hands, Dan Heng seizes hold of her wrist. Please, please, please.
Nothing. No pulse, no familiar thrum of the Stellaron under his touch.
The tears he’s been holding back spill over as he wraps his arms around Stelle, pulling her close and burying his head in the crook of her neck, whispering her name as if in prayer.
For once, she doesn’t hug him back.
The scene shifts, and Stelle is alive and well in front of Dan Heng.
But he can’t even manage a breath before she’s ripped from his side, hands fumbling for her flaming lance as a mara-struck soldier pulls her away.
A cry of fury rips from Dan Heng’s throat as he summons the ancient waters around him, channeling their energy from his fingertips until a violent surge of water bursts forth, aimed at the soldier.
The soldier lets out a pitiful scream as the water carries it away from Stelle, farther and farther, drowning it mercilessly — the wretched creature will pay for what it’s done to his companion —
Stelle sobs, and he instantly rips his gaze away from the creature.
He’s at her side in an instant, and that instant is all it takes for him to notice that her hands are pressed firmly underneath her ribs, staunching the blood flow of a wound. Crimson liquid blooms quickly over her white shirt nonetheless, seeping into the fabric and staining her fingers.
This is his fault. He was the one who’d selfishly brought Stelle to Scalegorge Waterscape — and of course she’d agreed to accompany him. She’d never turn Dan Heng down.
“Stelle,” he gasps, placing his hand over both of hers with as much tenderness as he can.
He can’t heal her. Only Bailu can do that — but where is she?
Gone. He’s failed to protect her, he’s failed to protect Stelle . . .
“Dan Heng,” she whispers, and despite it all, he makes eye contact with her.
“It’s not your fault,” she says, tilting her head, that crooked smile he loves so much gracing her face. And then her whole body is tilting, and she’s falling again into his arms — no — no —
And then — and then — the two of them are embracing in the safety of the Express. They’re curled up on the Parlor Car’s cushions, the train car empty save for the two of them, and Stelle is in Dan Heng’s arms.
She’s talking about fond memories from the Seal Slammers tournament, hands gesturing wildly as she recalls Dan Heng’s insistence on wearing those ridiculous glasses (he’d done it because it made her smile), the first time she met Bubbles, even someone named “Pie-non” (Phainon?) — and listening to her, he finally breathes a sigh of relief.
He pulls her closer and rests his head carefully on her own.
Stelle trails off, looking at him from the corner of her eye. “Dan Heng?”
“I’m glad you’re okay,” he whispers.
She laughs, but her eyebrows crease in worry. “Why wouldn’t I be?”
“No reason. Stelle, I —”
But of course, of course, she tenses in his arms, suddenly short of breath. Her hand comes at once to rest over her heart, her skin heating up, hotter and hotter and hotter, until it’s nearly unbearable to touch. Dan Heng can feel his skin searing. Still, he doesn’t let go. He won’t lose her again.
“Dan Heng,” she gasps, “it’s time . . . the Stellaron, it’s out of control, I don’t want to hurt you —”
And then her skin is glowing, crackling with heat and light, spreading outwards from her core to her fingertips. She’s screaming in agony, and he’s helpless, and then —
She wrenches from his arms and runs, runs, runs.
The scenes speed up.
An icy lance stabs through Stelle’s chest. Beasts ambush her in the Shackling Prison. Castorice fails to bring her back from death. A Titankin’s arrow embeds itself in her flesh. The Stellaron consumes her. She bleeds out in his arms. The Doomsday Beast destroys Stelle before he ever has the chance to know her.
And Dan Heng — Dan Heng watches Stelle die, over and over and over again, her blood streaming into the rivers and lakes and oceans of the cosmos until it becomes one with his own.
She dies a hundred times, a thousand times, a million times, he loses count, until —
“Stelle,” he gasps.
And finally, mercifully, his eyes open.
Stelle is alive. She’s laying down next to him in their bed, golden eyes wide in concern.
“Dan Heng?” she says softly, hand coming to rest on his chin.
Stelle’s wrapped in his arms, so close that the heat of her Stellaron warms him from the inside out. His tail is draped gently over her legs. And she’s breathing, her chest rising and falling in tandem with his own.
His throat closes. He doesn’t trust himself to speak.
Instead, Dan Heng leans in, brushes Stelle’s bangs to the side, and kisses her forehead.
His lips linger there. Stelle’s skin is warm. She is real.
Stelle waits for Dan Heng to speak, her finger tracing reassuring patterns against his skin.
Nightmares aren’t uncommon for Dan Heng, but ever since the Express’s time in Amphoreus — ever since he and Stelle had started spending nights together — he thought he’d been blessed with release. And maybe he had parted with the types of dreams he’d used to have. A past life he’d been hesitant to claim, the voice of a man who’d hunted him down for an eternity — ever since he’d made peace with Dan Feng in Amphoreus, these scenes were few and far between in his dreams.
But he still can’t let go of his greatest fear.
Dan Heng finally pulls back. “Stelle. I’m sorry for waking you up —”
She presses a finger to his lips, and the tenderness in her eyes steals his breath away once again. “Please don’t apologize.”
She tilts her head. “Nightmares?”
“Yes,” he begins. “About you.”
She gasps dramatically. “Was I a monster? Don’t worry, Dan Heng, not even the Stellaron could make me one.”
Dan Heng shakes his head, surprised by the laugh he lets slip out.
“The monster wasn’t you,” he confesses, “but me.”
Stelle sobers quickly, reaching for his hand. “Do you want to tell me?”
And so, she listens as Dan Heng recounts his failure to shield her from a hundred, a thousand, a million deaths — some of the scenes a mirror to reality, others conjured entirely by his imagination. He spares Stelle the grisly details, but they replay vividly in his mind.
“When I met you, I introduced myself as the Express Guard. But I’ve failed that duty many times, and for that,” he says finally, “I’m sorry.”
Apologies aren’t enough, Dan Heng knows. Who is he, if he can’t protect Stelle even in his dreams?
He averts his eyes, unable to face her. For a moment, it’s silent.
“Oh, Dan Heng,” Stelle whispers, her voice warmer than any sunlight, “don’t you remember?”
And then her arms are around his neck, and she’s kissing one of his cheeks. “This one is for when you shielded my body with yours in the Shackling Prison.”
She kisses his other cheek. “This one is for the time you disembarked from the Express to come to Penacony, just because you knew we were in danger.”
His eyes close of their own will as Stelle plants a kiss on his forehead. “For pulling me out of the fire when we crash-landed on Amphoreus.”
A kiss to his nose, “for jumping in front of me when we were battling Nikador” — and one to his chin, “for sending nymphs to watch over me while I sleep.”
Dan Heng’s cheeks warm as Stelle pulls back and grins at him. “Oh, and how could I forget?”
Stelle’s eyelashes flutter as she presses her forehead to his, her voice unfathomably sweet. “For searching for me for one thousand years, for pulling me out of the memoria tide, and for bringing me home to you.”
Her lips meet his. Her kiss is tender and slow and reassuring, as if they have all the time in the world. Stelle tastes of the tea he brewed for her just before bed — it’s earthy, and rich, and . . .
And Dan Heng, his heart beating so quickly he’s sure she can feel it, melts into her embrace. If the cosmos was perfect, they would stay this way forever, her safe in his arms and he safe in hers.
They part, reluctantly, after what is all at once minutes and years and ages. Stelle takes his face in both her hands and smiles.
“So,” she says, “never apologize like that again. I have never felt safer than when I’m by your side. I’ll keep kissing you if that’s what it takes to prove it.”
And coming from her — coming from her, Dan Heng has no choice but to believe it.
His skin is still tingling. He rests her head on hers.
“Okay,” he murmurs. “Then . . .”
“Then?” Stelle asks.
“Will you give me more?”
Stelle’s laugh is the most beautiful sound he’s ever heard. “I thought you’d never ask.”