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And the sun will never rise for me again.

The sun will set and then rise again. The roses will grow back as thorns. You will love, then love again. Nothing will be lost; rather, it will be reimagined. And you will not be alone.

“Then I’ll stay with you until it no longer burdens you, and every night afterwards.”

There was no such thing as a former King. Either you were a King or just fucking dead.

“Spirits bound to belief, to wonder, to the things humans once needed most. Guardians, in a way.” A hint of fondness touches his voice. “They walk the edges of your world—protecting children, dreams, hope. We are all cut from the same cloth.”

“You’re like the snowflakes I create,” I continue, quieter now. “Each one is unique. Beautiful in its own way.” My thumb brushes away the tear slipping from the corner of her eye. “And I have never made one as beautiful as you.”

“There is nowhere you can go where I won't follow. Not even your dreams are safe from me.”

“Of all the wonders of the world, you are by far the most bewitching. A truly magnificent canvas for my magic.” The words fall from my lips like the snow from the sky—quiet, yet undeniable.

Her eyes search mine, probably looking for a sign that my words are untrue. She will find nothing. Still, I let her search, itching for her to uncover my soul, the essence of my being, the darkness—and stay.

Her life hits me second. Shoes scattered in a corner, a wayward sock here and there, her make-up bag on the ottoman at the foot of her bed. It's vibrant, and hers, and a sudden rush of gratitude overcomes my senses that I get to experience this—her—firsthand.

It suddenly makes complete sense to me why the protagonists in horror movies explore whenever something feels wrong. It's something so simple and mundane, it's curiosity, and yet its pull is magnetic—holding onto me until all rational thought is erased.

“Everything that happens once can never happen again. But everything that happens twice will surely happen a third time.”

"Listen to your heart. It knows all things, because it came from the Soul of the World, and it will one day return there."

Because, when you know that language, it's easy to understand that someone in the world awaits you, whether it's in the middle of the desert or in some great city. And when two such people encounter each other, and their eyes meet, the past and the future become unimportant. There is only that moment, and the incredible certainty that everything under the sun has been written by one hand only.

"Everything in life is an omen," said the English-man, now closing the journal he was reading. "There is a universal language, understood by everybody, but already forgotten. I am in search of that universal language, among other things. That's why I'm here. I have to find”

He was sure that it made no difference to her on which day he appeared: for her, every day was the same, and when each day is the same as the next, it's because people fail to recognize the good things that happen in their lives every day that the sun rises.

You can justify anything. If you're narcissistic enough to believe that the universe conspires for and against you-which we all are, deep down-then you can convince yourself you're getting signs about anything and everything.

“Because it’s impossible to burn something as bright as you, Odin.” 

He was a contradiction. He was in his forties, perhaps, but his hair was as white as a moon’s glow that framed his face, which seemed carved from the very bones of the earth. Youthful, yet otherworldly with veins, dark and spiderwebbed, marred his exposed arms and neck.

She was dangerous. And I knew that. But I don’t think I could recognize that the safer she felt to me, the more dangerous she was.

“I’ll always find my way back to you. It’s just you and me against the world.” I tell her as I smooth her brown hair from her face.

The dagger digs into her pet’s neck as he tentatively walks, never taking his eyes off her. She halts in the center of the room, every inch a queen of ruin, and fixes me with a glare sharp enough to draw blood. And I am entranced.

A familiar onyx throne-like chair sits near a window. It’s the bright crimson couch in the picture that catches my attention. Next to it lays a seemingly innocuous spilled glass of wine. It’s a depiction of the room in my dreams.

A lone tear runs down my cheek, and longing tugs at my chest. A hollow pain that I can’t make sense of pangs through me. Everything is a bit fuzzy, like something or someone is missing. Why does it feel like the wrong person is telling me these things? Why do I feel immense, bone-deep sorrow?

“You can’t outrun your past because it’s already happened. You can move on and let it harden your heart, or you can choose not to let them break who you are. It takes time, it takes work, but you don’t have to let it change you. Because fuck them. Don’t let them win. Don’t let them see they broke you. Be who you were always meant to be. Because you are a magnificent creature. And anything but a curse.”

“Why do I keep ending up here? I know it’s a dream, yet I don’t wake up.” I walk over to stand before him. “And always with the dresses.”

I lift my head and grin. “The gods can’t help you, but I can.”

“Oh look, your stray found you again,” I grumble.

Aerovus grumbles. “Is he truly our problem? Do you plan to bring home every stray you find?” Eyes narrowing, impatience flows off of him in waves as he glares down at me.

“I’d gladly hear your story. You’ve obviously been wronged. I want to see your fire, your passion. The fire in your eyes burns bright as a star. I will banish your nightmares forever, keeping you safe within my embrace. You can rage like an inferno and explode like a nova. Whatever you need.”