We Won't Give Up On Love [Romance/ Slice-of-Life]

[Rarified Time, Lost in Darkness]

There was a dark room, illuminated only by the blue-white chroma of a stuttering computer screen. Everything smelled of dust and urine.

Cal sat on the bed, his head bent downward, looking lifeless. His hair was long enough to reach his ribs. Hugging him from behind was Freya. She was resting her head on Cal's shoulder, speaking in a quiet, calming tone.

"There was once a woman who lived in a tower. The tower was placed on a coin of grass and dirt. That coin was suspended in a sky. That sky was suspended in a universe. Around it all, the void swirled. This was time in eternity. Infinite foretime and infinite aftertime. You never really consider it, you humans. You spend your entire lives inhabiting a single strand in a tapestry. No wonder none of you can determine its shape or color."

She laughed. "This woman was me, by the way."

Cal's answer was short and robotic. He didn't move at all when speaking. "I know."

"I watched from my tower," Freya continued, apparently not noticing Cal's apathetic tone. "I watched the torrents of history, happening all at once. I was there yet distant — present yet past — separated from every other thing. I was not an ego, I was a conception. It's quite lonely, really. Imagine being witness to every event, and yet not being able to participate in any of them. Rapunzel in her tower. Merlin on Avalon. I was an existence like that, I suppose. Let me tell you, little Pascal. Let me tell you the secret. Everything exists all the time. Every world, every monster, every god, every story. They blur, they contradict, and they rhyme with themselves. You'll go mad trying to exist in a place like that. Therefore, there is only one thing you can rely on. Me. Time. Chronology. Without chronology, existence eats itself."

Her voice had fallen lower and slipped properly into the cadence of a storyteller.

"One that summoned me was a wizard from Assyria. I asked him what he wanted of time. He told me he wanted to live forever. I told him if he wanted that, he ought to write a great work or build a church that would never fall. Then I cut his head off. And I was back in the tower."

Freya tapped Cal's forehead in a strange, playful kind of way, like her recitation of her past was a mutually fun activity.

"One that summoned me was an onmyōji from Heian-kyō. I asked him what he wanted of time. He told me he wanted possession over time, to control it, to bend it to his will. I assented to his request, picked up his soul, and threw it through the fourth dimension, where it is screaming even now. And I was back in the tower."

Another tap. Her fingernail grazed his forehead.

"One that summoned me was a little bit cleverer. She was an occultist from the Russian Empire, obsessed with the Kabbalistic Tree of Life and such things. She had correctly deduced that, without giving consent, there was not much I could do to her directly. I asked her what she wanted of time. She said she wanted knowledge, to consult with me, to learn from me the secrets of the universe and of existence. This was when I learned of the importance of love. So I spoke with her, gained her trust, and then eventually gained her consent. She loved me, you see, and would do anything to have my body and my mind. I assented to her lusts, and then turned her body into dust by accelerating her subjective temporality. I thought having attained her love, I would persist in this world, in this chronology. It turns out that love does not exist if the physical container for it has been extinguished. And I was back in the tower."

The fingernail was piercing the skin slightly, and was very cold.

"The last that summoned me was a thief from Manchester, the type of man left behind by Britain's post-war age of austerity and capitalist dogma. He did so quite accidentally, yet he was a wily fellow, and didn't trust me at all — not one word I said — no matter how I spun it, no matter how I tried to appeal to his desires or passions in order to attain his love and consent. Eventually, he consulted thaumaturgic texts and had me sealed in a far-away land, where I waited the better half of a century for one to find me, one who could give me the type of existence I desired."

"That was me," said Cal.

"Yes," purred Freya, "that was you. Finally, I have attained all I need: the love and the consent. I will exist here ceaselessly, endlessly. That's why I need you, Cal. That's why you have to promise you can't love anything more than me. Ever. You don't want me to vanish. I know that, and you know that. Who would care for you then?"

The darkness in Cal's eyes flickered in the stuttering light of the computer screen. He tried to move half-heartedly away from Freya, but her cold arms locked around his waist, preventing him from escaping.

"I'm never going back to that tower," Freya murmured in his ear. "There is nothing I won't do. You don't want to end up like the others who summoned me, do you? Or your parents?"

"What do you mean by that?"

She kept on speaking, like she hadn't heard his question. "If you want to be together forever, you must swear this, little Pascal. Only what we have is real. The next time someone says they love you, know that they will be lying. Never declare your love for another. You promise, don't you? Follow those promises until the day you die. Never forget this. You don't want to send me back to the tower, do you? You don't want me to be sad, do you? You don't want me to be angry, do you-"

The door to the bedroom swung open suddenly, casting a slant of sunlight diagonally across the room. Freya evaporated into the air instantly, as if banished by some ward. Standing in the doorway threshold, her long dark hair up in a ponytail, holding a tangerine in one hand, was Adelaide Clermont, Cal's adopted sister. Adelaide had a wary look in her eyes as she confidently entered the room. She was already dressed for culinary school, a blue cotton jacket over her white chef jacket.

"Smells like a butt in here," she remarked.

Cal looked at her listlessly, so stunned about being thrown back into the natural day-to-day mode of existence that he couldn't formulate any sort of response to it. It was like being shoved head-first into a bucket of ice-water after sitting in a languid, hypnotic heat for many hours.

"Still not talking to me? Adelaide grimaced. Her eyes roamed the cluttered, dusty room, clearly unsatisfied with what she was seeing. "Well, that's nothing new. You could at least try communicating with Mom and Dad, though. I know all of you don't get along very well… but… Well, it would just be nice. Catch."

She threw the tangerine underhanded, and Cal caught it. "Your typical breakfast, milord. What a strange little ritual we have here. Don't even lie to me, I know for a fact you haven't been eating while I'm not here. But you're going to have to fix that habit. Remember that I told you I found a good apartment near my school, in the old quarter? Well, I finally got all the paperwork sorted and all the money stuff settled, so next week I'll be dipping."

Adelaide looked at Cal for a moment, trying to gauge the emotion in his face. "Were you just sitting here in the dark by yourself? I know school is off for you, but…"

She trailed off. Cal shrugged, anxiously picking at the skin of the tangerine with the tips of his dirty fingernails.

"That's not good, little bro."

He shrugged again.

The corner of Adelaide's mouth twisted. "Well, fuck me, I guess, for trying to give a shit. You know, Mom and Dad might actually try harder if you put in a modicum of effort in-" She stopped herself, closed her eyes, and found her patience again. "Sorry for cursing. I'm worried, okay? I thought when you first came here, things were relatively good between us, and now…"

Adelaide took another breath, this time trying to regulate the sudden emotion coming to her throat. "Just… try to do some more stuff outside of your room. Just because you're doing online classes doesn't mean you should stay cooped up in here all the time. It's bad for you. You'll start paying attention to bad voices in your head. You need to drown that stuff out."

She reached forward and squeezed Cal's shoulder, which he did not withdraw from. "Eat the tangerine, okay? I also want to do a farewell dinner for my last day here. I'll make anything you want. Look at me."

He looked at her, trying to keep the shame from his expression.

"Cal…" Adelaide paused, trying to find the words that would get through to her odd, obstinate younger brother. "I know we're not… like real siblings or whatever, but…"

She stopped, shook her head in annoyance, and retreated back to the doorframe, trying not to step on the trash and clothes on the floor. "Not the time or place, sorry. I need to run, anyway. Mom told me to remind you that you've got an appointment with that therapist today, or whomever she is. At the usual place. Noon, I think. Okay, I really do have to go. You want the door closed?"

"Sis…" Cal said in a quiet voice.

Her eyes widened, and Adelaide stopped, one hand on the knob, an expectant, hopeful look coming over her face.

He closed his mouth, opened it again. Then something cold touched his chest. "Close the door, already."

"Fucking hell, little asshole," Adelaide spat, and slammed the door, her frustration finally over spilling over. Cal could hear her voice from behind the door as she retreated down the hallway, ranting to herself. "Honestly, why do I even try?"

It was silent in the room again. Cal took a shuddering breath and lay down on the bed. He felt like crying, but somehow it seemed ridiculous and fruitless to even try to concentrate his emotions in such a way.

"Clumsy fucking interloper," hissed Freya in his ear. "Nothing she says is true."

"Eyes up, kid," the woman sitting across from Cal said. "You'll never be able to communicate with anyone if you're not staring them straight in the face."

It was noon. Delilah had met Cal, as she always did, at a burger joint a few minutes down the road from his house, in the little town that lay adjacent to the high ridges decorated with evergreen trees and the mansions of the wealthy. She was panting, out of breath, scarfing down an order of two cheeseburgers and a soda drink. There was a suspiciously claw-shaped tear in the left shoulder of the heavy coat she was wearing, despite it being the middle of summer.

Cal tried to obey her, but only got about halfway there, and ended up staring at her Adam's apple, which was very pronounced for a woman.

Delilah watched her him anxiously. She was a young woman with dark brown skin and black curly hair that extended past her shoulders. She seemed unsure how to interact with the teenager in front of her, or how to begin the conversation, so instead she started rubbing her eyes in annoyance, where a dull ache was persisting below the brow. She would need glasses soon if her contacts kept irritating her eyes like this.

"I want to talk about what we discussed last time," Delilah said finally, willing herself to keep her hands on the table. "Goddamn it, what was that, three months ago?"

"Yes, Ms. Kalvakuntla," replied Cal.

She glared at him. "Don't make me kick your ass, kid. I refuse to have this argument again. De-li-lah. Got it?"

"Yes, Ms. Delilah."

"Better," she tried to grin, but the listless expression on Cal's face was sucking the joviality out of the conversation. She coughed. "I feel like we've been avoiding the point for our last few sessions, sparse as they are. I want to get back to what we were talking about when we first began meeting, after the funeral."

Delilah spoke carefully, delicately. She had known Cal on and off for about three years and knew him as a particularly withdrawn and obstinate young person who didn't talk easily about his feelings. Every time she attempted to broach the topic of what she feared was happening, it was rejected pointedly, and she would have to begin again from scratch, rebuilding trust with Cal and attempting to make him open up once more. But she had a sense now that her opportunities were drying up, and that if she didn't soon penetrate to the center of the issue, she would not have another chance to get to the bottom of the mystery surrounding this boy.

The moment Delilah mentioned the funeral, Cal's eyes found hers. His dark eyes betrayed no emotion besides a certain tenseness, like a spooked animal that was bending its hindquarters to prepare an escape.

"I want to know where we're at," continued Delilah, watching to see how Cal's face reacted to each word she said. "Do you remember what you told me, the very first time we met? In this very place?"

Cal didn't answer.

"You told me you were scared of the woman."

Cal flinched. "I didn't say that."

Delilah's brown eyes narrowed slightly. "I remember it very well. You talked about her a lot in our first few conversations — those first few months. Remember, a pale woman with dark hair? And then… at some point, you stopped bringing her up."

Cal held his belly. His stomach was growling, but he didn't touch the cheeseburger that Delilah had ordered for him. "I don't remember that."

"Okay," Delilah said, withdrawing a little in her probing. "Take a bite of your food, kid."

"I'm not hungry."

"Eat up, anyway. Otherwise, it's just wasted money."

Cal tentatively took a small bite of the burger. It tasted like nothing to him, and he immediately wanted to spit it out.

Delilah raised a hand to rub her eyes again, then resisted the urge. "Mr. and Mrs. Clermont are still paying my consultancy fees, Cal, which means I still have an obligation to do what I can for you."

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"I don't remember a woman."

"Fine. Alright, then," Delilah's voice was curt. She was trying not to lose patience. "Let me bring up something else you talked about before. You said you felt the trajectory of your life had been permanently altered in a… you said it was in an 'inorganic' way."

Cal nodded apprehensively. "Yes."

"What was inorganic?"

Cal rested his hands on the burger plate, but did not touch the food itself. "Like… how everything happened. How it progressed. I don't think my life was supposed to be like this."

"How do you mean that?"

"There was a moment when things should have been normal, and they weren't. There should have been continuity from a single thing. Then I would have been able to understand. But that never happened. Maybe I can't remember the moment. Maybe it happened before I was born."

Delilah shook her head. She was rapidly losing her ability to understand what her client was saying. His dark eyes were looking right through her, seeing but not seeming to comprehend her presence as something real. She found that she felt afraid for him.

"Kid-"

"Dad showed a drawing once," said Cal. After his previous taciturn manner, it appeared that he couldn't stop talking now. "It was a bridge. Dad, my real dad. It was a bridge for something. He never showed me the stuff he worked on, but that day was an exception. I guess he was in a good mood for some reason. He had drawn a diagram on graph paper, with little handwritten notes connecting to parts of the bridge. He had a big smile on his face when he showed me that. 'Your dad is going to help build that,' he remarked. He said, 'Lots of people are now going to get lots of places.' And I remember thinking that was a nice thought, at the time."

"What was a nice thought?"

Delilah didn't know what else to say. She was getting creeped out, a little. Cal had never spoken like this before to her, and the haunted look in his eyes was starting to make her skin crawl.

"That it would be nice," Cal replied simply. "If you could cross a bridge, and you could be somewhere else. I still think that."

Before Delilah could think of something to get the conversation back on track, Cal jumped to another topic. "Ma'am," said Cal. "What do you do when you're sad?"

"Sad?" Delilah arched an eyebrow.

"Yes. When you're tired and sad — like words and thoughts don't follow one another anymore. When it's hard to connect things together, and you'd rather do nothing?"

Delilah pursed her lips. She wasn't a therapist, and certainly not for a kid as disturbed as Pascal Clermont, but she recognized in his tone that there was an alternative request buried underneath this line of questioning. He was trying to communicate to her something without wanting to say it out loud.

Delilah took a deep breath, straightening out the torn sleeve of her jacket. "When I'm sad? I don't know if I get sad, Cal. The most I allow myself to feel is lethargic or discouraged. I can't allow myself to get sad; I'm much too busy. I'm sorry, that's probably not a very helpful answer. My parents are not people very in touch with their emotions, and that's the way they raised me — it was a very strict, proper kind of upbringing. They believed in dignity and practicality, doing what you could with what you have without complaining about the shit you can't change." She shrugged. "They were upper-class Komati from Telangana, born in the 20th century. I don't know what else to tell you, Pascal. Mental health wasn't really a topic of discussion in our household."

Her mouth twisted slightly. "We clashed about that, and a lot of other stuff. It's why I haven't spoken to them in so many years. Hell, I've barely said a word of Telugu in the last decade. I don't even still carry the name they gave me. But… I suppose I still model myself on them, in some ways: standing up straight and confident even when things are tough or scary." Without realizing it, Delilah's fingers had gone to the claw-shaped tear on her jacket. "I still love them, after all. I want to be like them and don't want to be like them. I guess relationships between parents and children are complicated everywhere."

Delilah shook her head, breaking out of whatever memory she had been occupying. "That's not what's important, because you shouldn't be following my example. When you're sad, Cal, or if there's anything you feel you need to say, I want you to utilize the resources that you have. You can tell me, or tell your parents. Otherwise, it'll just grow and get worse."

"I think they hate me."

"What?" Delilah blinked.

"I think they hate me," repeated Cal. "Mr. and Mrs. Clermont. I don't think they care what happens to me."

"Why would you say that?" said Delilah, even though personally, she had been thinking something similar for a while. The Clermonts had been remarkably disinterested in communicating with her regarding their adopted son. "You shouldn't think such things without evidence."

Cal shrugged. "I don't know. We don't talk. We don't eat together. It's like I'm living the same life twice." He looked at the burger in front of him again. "I don't think they used to hate me when I first arrived there. I wonder what changed."

"Can you tell anybody else? How about your sister, Adelaide? Could you tell her if something is wrong?"

He didn't answer.

"Cal," Delilah allowed her voice to regain some authority, in an attempt to force out helpful information. "I've told you this before, but in my opinion, you're in danger. Something happened to you that day of the crash, and you've been holding onto it all by yourself the entire time. And I'm sorry to be blunt, but I need to know what that thing is because…"

Her voice fell into a more gentle tone. "Because… I'm worried, Cal. I can tell just by looking at you that something is wrong. That something frightening is occurring, and that you're scared to speak about it. Tell me, please. Tell me about that woman."

"There was no woman," Cal said these words like he was repeating them off a cue card. "That was a mistake I made. There wasn't a woman at the crash. There wasn't a woman in the woods."

Delilah shook her head once more, uncomprehendingly, but when she pushed again, Cal once again fell silent. "Fine, Pascal," she said, switching back and forth between his nickname and his full name, as was her habit. "Let me put it another way. You're thirteen, aren't you? So it's been three years since the accident."

"I don't know,"

"You don't-" Delilah stopped herself, refocusing. "It has been, Cal. You're thirteen. I have your birthday in my files. Your parents — your current legal parents, that is — they provided me with your personal information when they allowed me to take your case."

Cal shrugged.

"What's this?" Delilah said, unsure if this was some sort of bizarre teenage rebellion manifesting. "What? Do you disagree with what I said?"

"No," Cal said, sincerely. "I just… if you say so."

"You mean you don't know yourself?"

A strange expression passed over Cal's face. "Time has been funny, recently. It's hard for me to know precisely."

"Then let's just say you're young. No, you are!" Delilah said, her voice increasing in volume when she saw a flicker of defensiveness in Cal's eyes. "You're young, alright? You might not understand what that means, but so much more is going to happen to you in your life. Whatever feels overwhelming and impossible to overcome now will one day be a memory. That's why I need to trust me, even if your emotions feel like they're breaking out of you-"

"Shut up!" Cal was surprised by the fact that he was yelling, and his voice instantly resettled into its typical volume as he hid his face in his hands. "Just shut up, please, Ms. Kalvakuntla. I can't do this anymore."

Delilah looked like she had been struck. Her brown eyes were wide and uncertain. "Pascal… please."

"I can't," Cal repeated, running his fingers through his oily hair. "I can't do this. I don't want to talk about what happened. I don't-"

"You need to tell me what happened!" Delilah interrupted, again finding her resolve. She could sense the boy slipping away from her, drawing more incessantly into himself. "Anything you can. What did this woman say? What did she tell you?-"

Cal spasmed, his arm swiping across the table and catching the plate of food in front of him. It hit the laminated tile. The plate shattered, and the burger launched its contents all over the floor. The constant trill of background conversations went a little quieter as a concerned-looking employee came over to the table, whom Delilah placated with an understanding look and some hushed words.

"I'm sorry," Cal said quietly, once attention had shifted from their table and the mess had been cleaned. He covered his face with his hands. "I'm sorry. I don't do things like that."

"It's okay." There was a defeated look on Delilah's face as she spoke, as if startled by her own powerlessness in this situation. She considered reaching forward to squeeze Cal's hand, but thought better of it. "I'm sorry, too. I didn't intend to make you so upset."

"I'm sorry, Ms. Kalvakuntla. I can't talk to you anymore about what I'm feeling — about how I feel." Cal was looking at the spot on the floor where he had thrown the plate of food. "I don't really feel anything anymore, I think. I don't know. There are only impressions of things I remember feeling. It's like I've been punctured. It's all gone. It has been for years. And I don't want to talk about it. And I don't want to think about it. I just wish…"

He stopped, his throat tight. "I just wish none of this had ever happened. That's all. I wish I could go back to when I was born, when I was something more smooth and unblemished. I want to go back before I was born, and let someone else choose whether I should have existed."

Cal looked at Delilah for a long time. She tried to say something, but couldn't find any adequate words, so instead, he nodded to her and rose. "We're done, right? That's the hour."

"Yes," said Delilah, not moving from her seat. "But…"

"You've done enough," Cal said. "Thank you for trying."

He headed out the door, out of the air-conditioned space, and into the hot sun. He never met Delilah in that place again.

A year passed. Nothing happened.

The stench in the room got deeper. It got dark, and it got quiet. The processes of life slowed. All fell into miasma.

A year passed. Nothing happened.

His hair and fingernails were very long, and his skin was very pale. Adelaide called him over the phone sometimes, but never came to visit — she was too busy living her life. Eventually, the only time he left the room was to go to the bathroom or pick up the food that had been delivered to the front door. Mr. and Mrs. Clermont had given him a credit card. As long as he didn't spend too much money every week, they wouldn't bother him. Sometimes, Freya would let him sleep in her lap, and she would tousle his long curls and sing to him songs in languages he didn't understand.

A year passed. Nothing happened.

Nothing ever happened. Nothing would ever happen again. It would all just be the same, forever. It would not change. It would not evolve. It would not ever die. And then-

"Okay," said Freya's voice, matter-of-factly, breaking the still and humid air. "I'm weary of this now."

"What?" Cal croaked, in a voice that indicated he had heard her but couldn't comprehend the words. He was wrapped in a stained white linen, lying perpendicular along the length of the bed, his head and feet dangling off both ends. "What do you mean?"

Freya stretched languidly, her long pale body contorting strangely in the flickering light of the room. The paleness of her skin seemed to intensify the shadows that blended around her form.

"I've had enough for this, for now," said Freya, bending her arms and swaying above where Cal was resting, going in and out of sight in the dark room. "Establishing a point of contact is all well and good, but I believe it's time for me to move on. There are other 'loves' to find. Other creatures to torment."

Cal shook his head, unable to understand.

"Little Pascal," she cooed, "you didn't think I'd stick around always, did you? I may be immortal, but a few years is a respectable amount of time. I've put my work in. Now, I must find others who will stimulate my existence. Don't worry, you'll always be special. You're the linchpin, after all. Your love keeps me anchored in this world. I sincerely appreciate that."

"You're…" It was difficult for Cal to talk. He had barely spoken the last few days, and his mouth felt sticky and dry. He fumbled with a hand, looking for a water bottle, but it had vanished somewhere between the bed and the wall of peeling paint. "You're… leaving?"

His mind was too frayed and slow to properly follow what Freya was saying. He felt a little feverish, and it came as an immense relief when he felt Freya's cool palm rest upon his forehead. He shivered and let out a little gasp of pleasure. Freya smiled at this, her white teeth shining in the dark, and she stroked his brow in a leftward direction.

"Of course I'm leaving," Freya said. "Time waits for no one, not even you, Pascal. You… you have so much waiting for you. But remember, none of it will ever compare to what you're feeling right now."

Cal licked his lips, trying to speak properly. "You said… you told me… that you would protect me. That we would be together forever."

"Hmm?" came the disinterested reply. "Did I say that? Are you sure you're not misremembering?"

"I… I…" Cal said, tripping over his words. He wasn't sure. His memories were a tangle of thorns, pricking him whenever he attempted to access them. "You said…"

"I think I remember what I said," Freya responded, still stroking Cal's forehead. "I know more than you. I'm smarter than you. I wouldn't ever make a mistake like that. I can recall every word I've spoken since the day I came into existence. I've never said anything of the sort to you, little Pascal."

"You said…"

"We're not discussing this," said Freya, her voice hardening. "Don't make a fool out of yourself. Are you going to be an adult about this?"

In response, Cal clasped his arms around her chest and pulled himself against her, the same way he had as a child. He began to shake with sobs.

"Please don't leave. Please. Please." Cal rubbed his nose, trying not to get snot on Freya's clothes. "Don't leave. I… I love you. Please don't leave. I'll be all alone."

An expression of intense satisfaction came over Freya's face, and her eyes glinted with something resembling glee. With a strength that surprised Cal, she pushed him down on the bed with one arm, pressing down on his legs with her body. The old, musty bed creaked under the weight of the two bodies.

Cal didn't know what to do. The details of the room and Freya's face, which was now leaning close to his own, were flickering in the light of the computer screen, the details abstracting themselves and growing surreal. His head swam again with a feverish ache. His body felt hot and hyper-sensitive.

"You love me… do you?" Freya grinned widely. She was resting one hand on Cal's chest, under his stained shirt. The other was playing with his long hair. "Ah, I get such a rush from those words. You haven't said them to me since you were a little boy. You had that same look in your eyes, even back then. A kind of fiendish curiosity and understanding. An open mind that cannot help but try to decipher the motives of others. You were perfect for what I had in mind."

"You're heavy, miss Freya," Cal said, not knowing what else to say in such a strange position. He still had tears in his eyes from earlier.

"I'm heavy?" she repeated happily, almost mockingly, her black eyes seeming to swirl in their sockets.

The hand that was on Cal's chest went lower, tracing his belly button. She leaned her body forward again, putting even more weight on Cal's legs and lower torso. Every part of her was incredibly cold.

"Y-yes," stammered Cal.

"But you love me. You don't like it when I'm on top of you like this?"

Freya giggled when Cal opened his mouth in a state of shock, almost akin to terror, unable to speak.

"You're heavy," Cal repeated, after another minute of Freya laying on top of him like this. He tilted his head towards the door. "I need to… am I allowed to leave?"

"No," said Freya, cheerfully.

"Am I allowed to leave?" said Cal again. He was so disoriented by Freya's words and actions that he began to repeat himself without realizing it. His head hurt. "I think I need to go to the bathroom. Am- am I allowed to leave?"

"No," Freya tilted her head. Her long dark head tumbled over her shoulder onto the side of Cal's face. "You're not allowed to leave. You stay right here."

She looked around, observing the dirty, dark room. "You stay right here. Forever. You stay here even after I leave. You stay here even when you leave. That's what love is. Inhabiting one moment, always. There is nothing before this moment. There is nothing after this moment. What is happening right now, between me and you… that Pascal Clermont… is what will constitute your being until the day you die. Don't resist. Don't understand it. Just feel and accept it."

Her hand found his hip. "How old are you now, little Pascal? I always lose track."

The question, innocuous in itself, sent a jolt of terror down Cal's spine, and his body lurched slightly under the weight of Freya's body. He felt like he was falling through outer space slowly, without air.

"I'm…" He didn't want to say it for a reason he couldn't articulate, but the intensity of Freya's gaze even dragged the words out of him. "I'm sixteen."

"Sixteen?" Freya repeated thoughtfully. "Eleven years since we've met. Old enough, then. Shall I take your virtue, Pascal?"

He couldn't respond. He was trapped underneath her. His throat was constricting beneath some impossible, supernatural force.

"Mmm," pondered Freya. "Perhaps it would be a suitable reward for you before I leave, for being such a good boy after all these years, for following my instructions so dutifully. Although… I suppose it isn't up to you. I shall take it if I desire it. It would be impossible for you to resist. That would seal our connection more than anything else. You would be mine entirely. So…"

Freya's eyes wandered, a sort of dissatisfaction coming over her pale face. At that moment, she didn't look human at all.

Then she leaned back, taking some weight off of Cal's legs and lower torso, clicking her tongue. "Ah, forget this farce. I see only the child. It would be distasteful, even for me."

Then, without elaborating further, she got up from the bed. Cal still lay frozen on the sheets. She looked at him. "You can talk, now."

Cal opened his mouth. He couldn't speak.

"I will be leaving you now, little Pascal. Oh, and don't be embarrassed by your body. That's normal. In fact, I think it proves our love. You'll never feel the same way, no matter who tries to love you in the future." Her mouth twisted in a smirk. "Rather… now, you'll always be thinking of me in such moments, won't you? That's just as well. It all comes out to the same result."

He couldn't speak.

"No last words for me? No more pleading?" Freya's voice became stern. "You can talk now."

"Am… I allowed to leave?"

Cal didn't look at her or anything else as he spoke.

"No," said Freya, looking at the door. "You stay right here. If I come back to play with you again, I'll be expecting you to be waiting for me, like the good child that you are. Here's one last gift from me, to remind you, in case you forget what a world without my love can be like. What I can make it become, if I desire. Are you afraid of the dark? You're not, right? You spend so much of your time in it."

"No," said Cal, finding his voice at last. "I'm not."

"Let's fix that."

Freya snapped her fingers, and the entire universe vanished.