⚛︎ things my heart used to know

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The weight of waking again was a cruel burden. Every muscle ached, as though his body had traveled leagues, though it was his soul that bore the distance—tired, beaten, done. At least this time, awakening was not so violent. Peaceful, even, though there was a haze to it. The kind of faded sensation that comes with dreams, where the body moves slow and the world carries that strange, mystic light.

A heavy sigh rumbled from deep within his chest. Was this yet another punishment? Another price for the life he took? Was he doomed to wake in a new world, a new hell, dragging this lifeless soul through new bodies for eternity? He wanted to be done. To end this cycle.

Still, he was this dreaded creature. The lonesome wolf. A cruel irony. The same scars marred this form, the same dark complexion, the same weary gaze. It changed nothing. Then or now. He was still an ugly beast in the mirror, no matter how long he stared. That hadn’t changed at all.

Atreus longed to remain there in the lush grass, longer—much longer. If he stayed long enough, perhaps he’d wither into a new life, a new punishment. Perhaps he’d be one step closer to fulfilling whatever pitiless purpose the stars had set upon him. But he couldn’t. His mind betrayed him, flashing images of his old life—what once kept him from lying in his chambers all day. Her.

Another punishment. The stars always knew. Why else would he think of her now? Now, when his life was ruined to the high heavens, and he was gone. She’d have forgotten him by now, surely. After all, he’d been nothing more than another captor in her life. And she was young—with years ahead of her, far beyond his cold stone walls. Walls, he realized, she must have hated. He’d kept her from the world, kept her for himself. He deserved this hell.

His eyes drifted downward, too heavy to lift, as if sadness dared strike him. But he wouldn’t let a tear form. Not now. Instead, he forced his aged body upright, into this new land where fate had thrown him once more. It was warmer than the last. The trees stood unfamiliar, and the ground, of a hue untouched by winter’s bite, seemed unusual beneath his paws. His people had never set foot on warm earth untainted by snow. Atreus cast a wary glance about, trying to make sense of it all.

Birdsong drifted from the distance, even under the cloak of night, and flowers bloomed bright and wild amid the lushness of green grass. She would’ve loved those. If this was a curse, why was it dressed like a daydream?

And then he saw it — or rather, saw her. A figure, standing among a patch of wildflowers, bathed in the moonlight’s cold, blue glow.

He stayed at a distance. As he always did. The same hardened gaze, shoulders squared as though bracing for a blow, the way he had stood when he was a king. Yet when he looked closer, he saw them—those reckless eyes, and fur that carried the warmth of her scarlet hair, soft and curling. Her scent, honeyed and thick with cinnamon, stirred something in him that he dared not name. For a moment—just a moment—his gaze softened with her image.

This was no new life. This was a dream. An unpleasant mockery of one. And just as he thought it, there she was. Perfect. Here.

If only he could keep his head below the clouds, stop meddling with the stars’ visions. But no—there she stood. And if he could have her for one night, one last night, would that be so wrong? Would that make him as greedy and selfish as before? Would holding her image in the comfort of his mind truly damn him further?

He halted, a paw instinctively reaching toward her, but he stopped himself. It’s a dream. This will be gone by morning. Would he regret taking this moment of peace? This brief serenity? Only to wake with the cold beside him once more? What a terrible waste. But he had to. Even if this did not bring closure, he had to try.

Atreus descended the sloping hill, each step a question, each step a demand for an answer as he neared her. Her frame came into full vision now. This was how he dreamed her—every detail he cherished. He had always feared forgetting her likeness.

In this dream, what would she say? Would she sound the same? Would she rage? Scream about how he’d kept her locked away, kept her from the world, kept her for himself? Would she remember him here? Did she care?

Now, he stood before her, no longer the cold statue of a man. He was falling apart at the seams, and he knew it. Afraid to reach out. Afraid she’d vanish just as she appeared. Because if she did, he’d have nothing. And gods, he was selfish for it.

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