WE ARE WHAT WE WERE AND ARE NOT;
AND SO WE MEET AGAIN,
OUR HEARTS IN SHAMBLES.
It was easy to revert to old habits of warping instead of walking. Everything about her was old, ancient, worn. Like cloth stretched so thin the fibers snapped and frayed yet remained stubbornly intact by sheer defiance or having no other way to exist.
Sometimes Hilda wonders if she is the latter, not the former. Perhaps she is interchangeable, once a bright Witch under the light of freedom by one beloved to her, validated and embraced by her fellow kinsman and perhaps aside from them, her dearest friend, a King with a heart of purest white. A makeshift family led by a Conductor, Witches and a noble King. It seemed like nothing could have ruined their crusade - nor tore them all apart from one another.
But not even the sky above was kind, and the seventeen year old she had been once should have known. Should have known that the stars were the only faithful thing in the heavens and (do not forget the Moon!) and how the sun would always set on things tender; kind, to be cradled against your breast like a priceless treasure.
Far more valuable than the concept of an immortal life - something that Hilda had only formerly been freed from. Or rather chose, with quaking pieces of a heart, to spin her cog with the help of a boy - a man - who had extended his hand, familiar yet not, and wonderfully so. Someone she had come to cherish in a way that her soul often buckled with the weight of how much she felt his kindness had shed light on all the bleeding, endless places.
( But he was not who she sought today. )
The Royal Library was full of secrets, tomes, magic information, spells - useless to humans, but back when Witches were to be lauded, even more so now, Hilda recalled the first time her young hands had perused a book within the crisp, clean air of Lambert Castle. She recalled warm brown eyes and cups of tea, and as she continued to quietly step within its parameters; she stopped. What was this familiar sensation? The twitching of her hands; the brief dilating of her eyes as behind a shelf, she saw golden hair - and a sea-colored gaze that had once been that warm brown.
She watched for a time, perhaps a few minutes, maybe more, as he perused a book in silence. He’d been under lock-down since his revival from being that thing that had never been him. The Xeno she had adored as a beloved friend would have never harmed or hurt anything. So how much was it like, to feel, the weight of his own sins that were in a sense, absent yet present? Different from the Witch who had borne all the sin and cruelty unto herself in order to uphold a world that despised her and still barely repressed the urge to spit at times if she were not in the company of Alto or her Harbingers - no, perhaps that was it.
They were too afraid. Her heart had never strayed in good intent, but her soul had become bloodied and shredded, and the girl with the breeze in her snowy hair and the sunlight in her smiling eyes had vanished…
Only now was she beginning to resurface….and she could feel her stirring even now, reaching out for the familiar presence who had caused great pain, dead, alive, it mattered not. Xeno was alive - and she wanted to truly see for herself, for the other’s sake…..if it truly was him. She wasn’t so trusting as the others. A Millennia did such to a person.
Careful to keep her face guarded, she took an audible step into the open aisle to lock eyes far too old than they ever should have been, barely flickering with the light of something that could not be deciphered. She opened her mouth once - and cursed her weakness of heart, voice barely escaping sounding like a brittle tea leaf.
Her voice, deeper now, still carried the same lilt of how it pronounced his name, and something like her heart went with her own sound: Would she feel the warmth of this library once again? The way they had once sat reading books earnestly with one another, was she naive like in the past? Her heart locked itself, and Hilda hated it for it.
The Royal Library was silent, ever a sanctuary of solitude. Time and time again would Klaus retreat between the confines of the bookshelves, far away from the constant hustle and bustle of the knight barracks. He had lost his place amid that fray, and there was only so long he could stay locked within his room before the walls suffocated him. He had thumbed through the books on his shelves countless times, and a pen and paper could only take him so far away from his turbulent thoughts.
But here... here he could find peace. The vast sea of books before him provided endless relief; tales of triumph, of sorrow, of love, of family... Spanning pages of the history of his beloved Kingdom, and the legends of his past adventures told in hundreds of ways. Each author had a different take, but all had one thing in common--- every name erased from the tale save for one: his dear friend Elcrest. He gravitated towards those most often, his heart aching to reminisce in the times long past even though his name fell absent upon their pages.
He had yet to take a seat, a book instead clutched in his hands while eyes as bright as the clear sky danced over each and every word. Klaus had opened the book with the intent of skimming it, judging every detail that was retold of the tale long lost to time. But no matter the inaccuracies, his beloved memories resonated with the stories it told, and he found himself standing engrossed in the middle of the lonely aisle.
A distant sense told him that someone was approaching and the feeling of eyes upon him dug into his flesh, but still he kept his nose buried in his book. If someone else was in there, then so be it. He only wished to escape from the reality he lived in, not meet eyes with the disgust of all who looked his way.
Nothing could tear his attention away, not until a single word--- a single name hit his ears.
That name... his name. The very name he tossed away once more in favor of the one that lay in a bed of bloodstained lies. His heart ached hearing it; ‘Klaus’ was much less painful upon his ears. Under that name he could protect the beloved king that once was, as forgotten to time as he may be. No matter the sin it held, it kept him grounded to the heavy reality he lived in, even as he sought to drift away to the time that was stolen away from him. Through all the ties he had made and broken in this age, Klaus was the name he was known by to all... All except one.
There was only one left who would ever call him by that ancient name, spoken by a soothing voice he could never forget, and through the bitter cold crawling upon his skin was a glimmer of warmth. His heart twisted unbearably when called by the name he lost every right to hold, but it was the only name he would ever wish to be called by her.
“...Hilda?” His voice was low, hesitant. A part of him begged to stay silent and hide away between the pages of his book, but he couldn’t possibly ignore her. All the agony in the world couldn’t keep him from responding to his dear old friend. The book folded around his finger, loosely holding his place in the tale that had robbed both of them of their place beside their lost friend.
He ached to say more, but the words caught in his throat. His legs ached to step closer, but the fear of her backing away kept him rooted. He stood in silence, staring at the woman before him with soft eyes shadowed with an endless sorrow. He was frozen in place, as though he stood face-to-face with nothing more than a haunting ghost. But that was wrong--- Hilda wasn’t the ghost here... he was.
His silence would only make matters worse, he came to realize. If he felt such sorrow from the sound of her voice alone, he couldn’t imagine the weight she must have felt seeing him stand there like a distant specter, ready to fade away at any moment. He wouldn’t dare move towards her, but he had to act. Even within his beloved hideaway, there was no place for him to escape.
He forced a smile upon his lips, the corners of his mouth straining to hold up a brightness that could no longer reach his eyes. He couldn’t offer her the same warmth she had always known, the sun within his eyes long since eclipsed by the moon, but the least he could do was feign the ever-radiant familiarity he once possessed. Faking was the only thing he did best anymore, after all. “It is... good to see you again.”
