Archive of Our Own ^beta

Narrator 1: For Elizabeth, war didn't end when the last shot was fired and the smoke cleared—nor when society began, little by little, to move forward. It didn't end when soldiers like herself returned home and normalcy turned into a wonder sought after, or when veterans attended gatherings that took place in community halls supposedly unsullied by performance or judgement.

War didn't end in freedom. It ended in formality. The transition may have been as clear as possible on paper, with signed ceasefires and televised speeches, but as Elizabeth watched officials declare the battle finished, she knew with certainty that she'd never be the same.

That was fourteen years ago, six years shy of being two decades. She was twenty-six, newly discharged and ridden by the aftershocks of ash and ruin, trying to settle into a life far too quiet for someone who had once learned to sleep through radio chatter, harsh weather, and even shelling from both sides, given that her body was attuned to distinguish between danger and mere noise.

And still, even now, that same ache entrenched in her heart lingers.

Narrator 2: But deep beneath it, she carries a fragile belief that there must be something worth hoping for. Ever since the urge to find beauty in herself and in the world grew within her, it's manifested as an inescapable desire.

At first, it was hardly a feeling. Just a shift that would, in the inevitable future, make a world of difference.

She remembers meeting Nerissa—a music therapist, now her partner—at Titlewave Library. Raora had insisted that she ought to attend the Thursday program about melody and healing. Elizabeth hadn't wanted to go, but on the days Nerissa incorporated her piano skills, a reluctant smile tugged at the corners of her downturned lips.

She remembers seeing a glimmer of hope in the gesture of splitting an orange—deliciously ripe and worth its weight in sweetness—with Gigi on a somber day full of leaden skies and murky streets overcasted by the occasional lightning strike. She had been half-asleep, unsure of what to say without dampening the moment, but it felt like an unspoken promise: she is capable of softness.

She remembers leaving imprints in the snow on the way to the bus stop, where the air always smelled like rain and cypress. The path was proof of her presence, her existence. A midnight grocery run became a magical gateway to an alternate dimension where nothing was real except for the route the bus took and the cereal on the top shelf.

She remembers taking a walk on a lazy Sunday, oblivious to the fact that Nerissa was debating on whether to be the one to text first. She didn't. And while she hesitated at home, Elizabeth stopped mid-trail underneath an old oak tree to watch sunlight appear in ephemeral flashes between the leaves swaying back and forth. It wasn't just the motion she loved, but also the way radiance insisted on reaching her, even through the narrowest of openings.

Narrator 1: You see, it's the little things her attention gravitates towards. But there came a point where the absence of even a speck of optimism—toward anything, or anyone—was enough to quiet her completely.

More often than not, it was herself she didn't have faith in. This time, it was her fortieth birthday that triggered it. Self-doubt crept in and furnished her thoughts with stagnation masquerading as safety, compelling her to stay in bed long enough to see two whole days through.

Nerissa had tried, though she knew there would be a definite breaking point. She knew the signs, yet went through with her plan as best she could: a piece of store-bought cake would end up on Elizabeth's nightstand, alongside a new notebook with scribbles of half-finished song lyrics in Nerissa's calligraphy. A new piano piece would be played while Elizabeth was a room over, trembling with goosebumps as she silently cried and wished for a version of herself who could open the door.

A version of herself who could sleep soundly the days leading up to her birthday, and could be awake on the day of without dread establishing a residence in her mind. A version of herself who could feel rightfully celebrated, and who could trust that a gentle kind of love belonged to her.

Nonetheless, the hallowed-out version of herself stayed under the patchwork comforter while the candle Nerissa lit slowly flickered out on the kitchen table, replacing the centerpiece of artificial flowers.

Until, on the second morning, Nerissa thought, Now is enough.

(Narrator 2: Blunt and final, but not ill-intended.)

She would go on to sink her body into her own side of the bed, then roll toward Elizabeth—who sat languidly, posture naturally slouched as she emulated a withering bouquet. She stared blankly at the wall with her raincloud eyes.

Silence dawned on them, tense with expectancy, and Nerissa reached out, folding her arms around Elizabeth's body from behind so that their shapes curling into each other looked like quotation marks.

Minutes passed. Words seemed impossibly hard to articulate. But eventually, Elizabeth rose. She walked to the dresser and put on her last clean pair of fuzzy socks, bracing herself for the cold of the hardwood floor.

After eating bacon and scrambled eggs for breakfast, they repainted the bathroom walls the same dim shade of blue as before.

Narrator 2: "For old times' sake," Elizabeth had said, brush in hand. "And simplicity."

The color wasn't special, but it was theirs. Thus, it was familiar. And during a week where existence either felt too substantial or too meaningless, Elizabeth clung to simple familiarities.

Narrator 1: When the paint dried, a potent smell hung in the air around them. For a good while, Elizabeth sat on the sofa with a throw blanket wrapped around her as Nerissa listened to songs from the TV, proudly recalling how she figured out the app’s workings by herself. 

Ten minutes in, Bobby moved from his spot under the kitchen table and plopped down next to Elizabeth as if it were second nature to do so. Scratching behind his ear, he lowered his head onto her thigh, slowly blinking up at her with patient trust.

God, Elizabeth thought. I don't deserve you, sugar. You're too good for me. The words came easy, without warning. The words enkindled a mental spiral. I don't deserve a lot of things . . . not even Nerissa, really.

Narrator 2: Nerissa, who treated everyone with a kindness Elizabeth could not muster most days. Nerissa, who had so much room in her heart to hold love for just about everything. Nerissa, who once assured her, "The important thing is that you're here." Nerissa, who adored her and Spring and moonlight and the colors red and blue when they glided along the walls, cast by the tinted lights outside.

Nerissa, who soon turned and said, "What if we took Bobby out? Might do you some good. Bit of air. Stretch your legs. Just . . . together this time. Not only me."

Narrator 1: And now, here they are.

They stroll along the sidewalk, just three minutes away from Zenith Peak. Elizabeth loops Bobby's rustic-colored leash around her wrist three times, then adjusts her satin-lined beanie over her ears. Her notebook—Nerissa’s birthday gift—rests snug under her arm.

Against a backdrop of lush green, she stands out like a sore thumb. One might say she belongs somewhere grayscale, storm-lit. Perhaps even—

Narrator 2: [interrupting] But it would be quite over-critical to do so. Staying true to yourself is the most important thing, and some people, like Elizabeth, carry their own weather as a form of honesty. Nothing to be ashamed of, standing out or fitting in.

Narrator 1: Alas. To each their own, as they say.

Narrator 2: Indeed. Having said that, some might argue her disposition has become quite dull, now that her unapologetic—or rather, candid—good spirits have been washed away. But we assure you, our beloved reader, hope is never lost on anyone.

Now, back to the present: Elizabeth sighs, eyeing the clouds through glasses speckled by fingerprints. Tutting, she wipes them off with the hem of her shirt, the pads of her fingers gently circling over its filmy surface, and shivers when the wind slightly picks up.

Elizabeth: [nonchalantly] "Not exactly warm out, is it?"

Beside her, Nerissa holds a leather tote bag weighed down by a hardcover book and a ziplock pouch of walnuts. She reaches in and grabs two treats when she sees a squirrel dart across the road, then tosses them out in front of the nimble little guy.

Nerissa: [teasingly corrects] "I did say it was warm enough. Not that it was as warm as you like it."

Narrator 1: Elizabeth shrugs, finally laughing in an unabashed manner again—

Narrator 2: [chipping in] For the first time in an entire week, we must add!

Narrator 1: Yes, of course. For the first time in a week, she laughs freely, shoulders shaking as she does so.

Elizabeth: "Nuh-uh. Same thing—"

She starts to speak, but Bobby jolts forward mid-sentence, pulling hard on the leash. Her knees nearly buckle from the sudden intensity, muscles straining easily with the lack of strength.

Narrator 2: As this happens, Nerissa is already moving—her hand halfway out of the tote, eyes flitting toward Elizabeth. She lets the woven strap slip off her as she steps in, voice low but firm.

Nerissa: "Don't fall on me now, sweetheart. I've got you."

Grunting as a non-response, Elizabeth recovers quickly. Then she spots it: just ahead, the same squirrel from before clutches a walnut like a prize, unaware it's left another one behind. Elizabeth breathes in, slow and deliberate, and huffs out an order, ignoring her fallen notebook. 

Elizabeth: "Down, boy. Down."

Bobby listens. He may be curious and hyperactive, but he's well-trained by both her and Nerissa. He sits obediently on the concrete, his tail thumping softly against Elizabeth's leg as he looks up at her with wide, pleading eyes, as if asking for permission.

They have a small ritual: jogging side by side, exhilarated by the sheer rhythm of movement and breath. And just from his expression, she knows that he wants to get a closer look at the furry friend.

But exercising, regarding Elizabeth's stamina and motivation, is easier said than done these days.

Elizabeth: "Not today, Bo."

Bobby whines in protest whilst Nerissa bends down, picking up Elizabeth's notebook to then hand to her; an unwarranted apology pools in her eyes before a single word makes it past her lips, and Elizabeth has to swallow the lump in her throat like choking on smoke.

There's no doubt that she's thinking about how useless she may seem, even now. Exhaustion lives inside her bones, embedded deep. She's fragile, in terms both literal and figurative. Nerissa is as kind as ever, though, and that almost makes it harder to bear. Almost.

Nerissa: [sweetly] "M'sorry. Are you okay?"

Is she okay? 

Narrator 1: Elizabeth—'Keeper of Ghosts.' Has she ever experienced what it truly means at its fullest, or grasped its quintessential depth?

Elizabeth—'Stubborn Flame of Scarlet.' Can she name what she wants, even if it leaves nothing of the person she thought she had to be?

Narrator 2: Elizabeth—doing her best, even when everything has been thrown into shadow. It may seem futile, but it is in the trying.

Elizabeth: "Better than I have been, I think."

Nerissa: [tentative, but understanding] "Mm-hm. At least today is safe from the freezing rain, too."

Elizabeth: "Yeah." [Silence.] "Oh, brilliant."

Nerissa: "Hm?"

Elizabeth: "Nothing, just . . . Knowing my luck, my poor plants are probably wilting as we speak, and rain—"

Nerissa: "Oh, don't worry. I made sure to water them. But as you say—'Some rain would've gone a long way!' I agree even more now."

Elizabeth herself feels like a raincloud, dampening everyone's sunshine. At this thought, her countenance dims, and Nerissa's voice trails off.

Elizabeth: "I'm sorry. I know I've been hard to be around lately. Hard to . . . be with, even."

Nerissa: "I mean, I don't mind anymore. You've always been a little quiet."

The both of them gently chuckle at the absurdity of that statement.

Nerissa: [rephrasing] "Really quiet. Hell, I didn't even know what your voice sounded like for the first couple weeks. You're, like, stuck in your own head all the time. And I used to think that maybe I needed to pull you out of it somehow. Help you open up. Or something.

"But that was just my faulty assumption. I was always around people who brightened any room, presented themselves as these social butterflies that never left aside time to breathe, or be on their lonesome for a little while. And I thought that was normal.

“Turns out . . . Well, your quietude isn't something to fix. Obviously. It's something I consider myself lucky enough to be trusted with. It's a kind of home, you know? For you. And I'd love if you’d let me in, especially when words don't feel like the answer."

Narrator 1: The mute hush of the day replaces Nerissa's melodic voice, and Elizabeth allows the quiet to settle around her—neither resisting nor fully welcoming it.

It feels like a cloak: warm, steady, and enclosing, yet still a reminder all the same. And when she next speaks, her tone reveals a vulnerability too raw to conceal.

Elizabeth: "War's why I am the way I am. I don't think there's another version of me left, and I'm sorry. When I stayed in our room, all I could think about was how maybe it wasn't worth surviving, just to end up like this. Just to be a forever shell of my old self."

Nerissa: [with a soft, aching smile] "You've given quite a bit of yourself to the war, to the past. But there's still so much love left, and it's yours to give . . . to yourself, this time." 

Elizabeth only hums in agreement, staying silent so she doesn’t spoil the optimistic mood with even more cynicism than she’s already poured into her speech.

Narrator 2: In other words, she doesn’t refute the truth, because once again, we would like to re-establish: hope is lost on no one. 

~

Once they arrive, they sit together on a bench directly overlooking Nadir Lake with Bobby lying just at their feet, nestled in the dappled shade of the tree overhead.

The May winds kiss Elizabeth on the nose with a gentle breeze, the kind Nerissa would offer if her own nose weren't currently buried in a book, her reading glasses catching glare like a halo. She wordlessly turns a page, focus narrowing her lips into a thin, concentrated line, until her beloved breaks the silence.

Elizabeth: [joking, yet curious] "Why'd you wear it, anyway? Thought you didn't feel the cold."

She's referring to Nerissa's knitted scarf she now dons around her neck, smelling of the former's signature cherry blossom perfume. Its brown, autumn-colored hue is significantly more distinct when paired with the muted blues and grays of Elizabeth’s clothing.

Nerissa: "Well, I don't know, maybe because it's cute! Don't you think so? Even on your mopey self."

While she meant it lightheartedly, the second it lands, she realizes she must've unintentionally hit a nerve: Elizabeth noticeably slumps, solemnly looking away, eyes unsure of what to zero in on up to where they inadvertently land on Bobby's form.

Not for long, though; the scintillating waters are made to get lost in—with the total scale of its magnificence and magnitude—and she isn't one to deny that. 

Elizabeth: [tone detached, far-off] "I'm not mopey. I've just been . . . properly knackered. Worse than usual, too, and so I needed a minute. Or two days, apparently."

Narrator 1: She purposefully leaves out many things. She purposefully keeps things unsaid in an effort to not "speak them into existence", as she'd put it.

As expected, this doesn't alter anything. What it does do, however, is give her a sense of security like 'I'm okay, as long as my failures aren't voiced' and 'I'm okay, so help me God.'

But God hasn't answered in years, and she doesn't see Him changing that anytime soon.

Narrator 2: But anywho, Nerissa: she shakes her head, rubbing soft circles along Elizabeth's palm. Ever-the-anchor, Nerissa holds her steady, carrying fondness for the way she trembles under her hold, but doesn't pull away.

Nerissa: [voice mellow] "Hey, no—I get it. I'm not trying to make you saying something you're not ready to."

Sighing, Elizabeth looks beyond the freckled-meadow of Nerissa's shoulder, eyeing a squirrel scurrying up a tree with an unsalted walnut stuffed in its cheeks, a humorous reminder that one less snack remained in Nerissa’s bag.

Elizabeth: "Thank you, love."

Smiling despite herself, she refocuses her gaze to her notebook, hoping the words she is desperate to write will materialize onto the page before her.

Lately, she's taken up the craft as a way to ground herself. Apart from counting the things she sees around her—and listing goals or places she wishes to travel to—she writes poetry and addresses letters either to herself or to nobody at all.

But at the moment, all she's written in ten minutes is the opening: 'Dear Rissa, my sweet songbird.'

Amorously, the history between them stretches itself across that sentence. It is the closest she can get to believing that she is deserving of a soft-burning life. The flame that ignited and awakened their bond refuses to fade; it is gentle, but equally never-ending.

Exhaling her worries into the midafternoon air, her weary, yet attentive eyes map out of a trail of wrinkles on her skin, starting from the cusp of her shadow-dappled wrist to her knuckles that have known the ache of holding on. When that one ends, she seeks out another, then another, then another.

There are a myriad of truths to this. The most apparent one is the fact that they all, in some manner, represent age.

But the handful of people who know about Elizabeth past all facades would tell you that it represents the years she spent wasting time, and the years she spent making up for it by enlisting into the military.

(Narrator 1: She had done this at age eighteen, just months before the war and the first birthday she'd spend alone, shaking uncontrollably while silent sobs racked her body and tears vanished down the drain.)

It represents the nights where she'd pray while stationed in the barracks, hoping to wake into another day. Then the mornings after the war where she sat on the porch for hours on end, looking out at fields full of flowers and being unable to stop herself from involuntarily envisioning them as war grounds.

Regardless of how this field she's among in the present could not possibly be any further from a remnant of war, it's still a haven for recollection. She never thought she'd breathe this easily in a field again—not after believing she wouldn't live to see the day she made it past warfare.

Narrator 1: It feels liberating, yet shameful. How did she outlast the thousands who once marched beside her? Could she ever forget the names, the routines, and the birthdates of her comrades? 

Nothing makes sense to her. The incessant violence claimed her spirit and her sense of self; without mercy, it carved its name into her so deeply that when peace did arrive at long last, it felt too good to be true.

Even now, certain things feel good to be true, and having the opportunity to grow old just happens to be one of many.

Whilst subconsciously tapping her calloused fingertips against her knee, she looks out at the distant lakeshore where a figure is walking a German Shepherd alongside someone else. The sound of distant laughter makes her lips curve into a faint, sorrowful grin.

Elizabeth: "Do you think there's beauty in getting older?"

Narrator 2: She asks this question abruptly, her voice hesitant and petal-soft, and watches Nerissa's expression shift in real-time: her subtly-arched eyebrows furrow, and her raven-black hair spills like a river of ink onto the peak of the backrest as she turns. Before responding, she rests her book flat against her lap and marks her place with Shiori's handmade bracelet.

Nerissa: "I think there is a lot of beauty to it, though most don't really view it in the positive light that I do. Not when they're young, I mean.

"But I'm certain that it's true despite the doubt, anxiety, and fear surrounding it—especially for you, darling. You've earned your time to heal, and the rest of our lifetimes will be spent learning how to mend ourselves alongside each other.

"I have my fair share of things I need to work on, too, and that's just fine. Perfection is the end of the road, I think. And we're both far from it."

Elizabeth: [suppressing a cry] "Have I ever told you I thought I'd be nineteen forever? Isn't that quite . . . depressing?"

Nerissa closes the gap between them without another word, moving to cradle Elizabeth's jaw and lull her into relaxation. Fleeting hands of dusk then trace the brink of a sun-kissed collarbone, prompting a delicate shiver, before brushing a strand of hair behind Elizabeth's ear with care rooted in the soil of long familiarity.

Elizabeth: [remarks in soft protest] "Oh, honey. Your hands are freezing."

In spite of her words, she doesn't make any attempt to move. In fact, she does quite the opposite: she snuggles even closer, her adoring gaze lingering on Nerissa's eyes—framed by a rounded face, they glint under the lamppost's incandescent haze.

Dimples press into Nerissa's cheeks the moment she lets out an under-the-breath laugh, simultaneously wiping away the few tears that did manage to fall.

Nerissa: "Sorry, not sorry." [Pause, brief moment of relief.] "No, but really. I'm glad you've made it this far. And I'm proud, too. Extremely proud."

Her words marinate in the silence for a brief minute until she abruptly slides her notebook into her bag. She sits down on the grass, back against the bench, and leans on Bobby, giving his snout two delicate kisses.

Elizabeth: [lighthearted, but confused] "I love you, but what in the hell are you doing?"

Nerissa: "Pressing my skin to the earth to know I'm alive. Something I'd recommend you do if you weren't so averse to getting a bit of grass on you."

Effectively in a better mood, Elizabeth takes the answer at face value and laughs, fully aware that Nerissa's right—but then her eyes widen, a sudden idea sparking across her face like a lit match.

Elizabeth: "I have an idea, actually. Can you hand me a flower?"

Nerissa: [caught off-guard] "Oh, sure. I don't see why not."

Elizabeth: "Silly girl. Thank you, again."

Elizabeth begins working carefully, not at all discouraged by the stillness of her surroundings, and is surprised to see her hands capable of holding beauty without shattering it. 

Each flower is tucked into place, woven through dark strands of Nerissa's hair with tenderness and warmth. At first, a single daisy is near her temple, but soon enough, there's one here, and another there, and all of them are exactly where they belong.

Nerissa: [softly, half-smiling] "You're being suspiciously gentle. Should I be worried?"

Elizabeth: "I don't want to mess this up."

Nerissa: "It's just flowers, Lizbeth."

(It is not just flowers. It's love.)

Elizabeth: [still focused] "No, it isn't."

The breeze hums around them like it's listening. Bobby snores, now hidden under the bench. Above, clouds drift; below, the lake's mesmerizing surface shimmers with ripples of sunlight. But Elizabeth doesn't look away from the flowers she braids into Nerissa’s tresses, only stopping when the last petal is as secure as it is beautiful.

Elizabeth: [pulling back to admire her deliberate weaving] "There. You look like someone the ocean could fall in love with."

Nerissa: "And what do you look like?"

Elizabeth: [without doubt even so much as brushing her voice] "Like someone who tries."

Before Nerissa has a chance to answer, her phone buzzes multiple times from inside her bag. Eyebrows raising, she reaches in quickly, fingers fumbling as she pulls it out to check the screen. Elizabeth, silent yet entranced, watches a particular daisy catch the light and flutter with movement. 

Nerissa: [immensely relieved] "Oh, good. Just Gigi spamming the chat with seal GIFs again."

Elizabeth: [exhales a laugh carefree enough to display artless joy] "Which chat?"

Nerissa: "Advent of Justice."

As she speaks, she shifts her phone so Elizabeth can see, just as two new messages appear in succession.

GeeGee: my babygirls are ignoring my seal self??? :(

Ceci: nobody wants to rub ur little seal bellay

~

Later that night, Elizabeth finally manages to compose her thoughts and write something worth cherishing. Although it's not a letter, but rather a love note. Written on ripped-out notebook paper, laying on the edge of Nerissa's lamplit nightstand for her to find in the early morning hours:

Elizabeth: [voiceover] "Dear Rissa, my sweet songbird, I unravel like a sudden thunderbolt of wintertime blues. My oceanic lover, I promise I'm becoming something softer than just survival, something lighter than sorrow. I remain faithful to the version of myself that keeps the door open. Until death do us never part.”