A Curse - Eternal, Unbreakable

The moon is reaching its peak in the night sky, its silver light playing in the curls of the fog surrounding the high, white walls of the museum. Its halls are dark and empty, silent except for a pair of soles clicking against the marble, echoing off the arches and ceiling into the halls and corridors.

But here, in this room, they cannot be heard yet. Dome is lying on his bed, his body unmoving and his breath even, his face relaxed and slack as he's deep in slumber. Khatha looks at him from where he's sitting, perched on the edge of the mattress. He's been looking at him for hours.

Katha has loved him before, many times and with many different faces.
He's met him as a soldier, a fisherman, a maid, a peasant, and the son of a king. This time, he inhabits the body of a boy with strong brows and a pretty curved nose, tall, lean, handsome, a little impish, maybe. It doesn't matter to Khatha, because he still just sees him, no matter what face he wears or what body he walks in. He has lived so many lives, dying and being reborn again in countless shapes, but Khatha would recognise him everywhere. It's the pull he feels when he sees him, age-old and familiar, taking hold right behind his navel: warm golden light clashing with terrifying certainty, relief with fear, lightness with dread. He knew even before he saw him, felt the return of his tether before their eyes met. And he knew for certain when he saw him carrying white flowers, because the first time he died, Khatha buried him with a branch of baby's breath laid on his chest underneath his cold, unmoving fingers. Now, he holds them each time he returns.

In all that time, during all those lives, Khatha only lived one. His is endless after all. People often think that's his curse, immortality, the pain of being dragged back from the afterlife through brimstone and glass, each time more ragged, each time more excruciating than before, because the more often he cheats death, the harder he clings to him, his claws burying into Khatha's skin and lungs, tearing the flesh off his bones before he escapes him. But Khatha's true curse is this: remembering, in excruciating detail, every tender moment, every gentle touch, and every loss.

He never remembers. His curse is the bereavement of forgetting.
 
There's a light knock on the doorframe, and Khatha is ripped from dwelling on the past, throwing a quick glance over his shoulder to find Triphop hovering in the entry and keeping a polite, respectful distance.

"How is he?" Triphop asks, his eyes on Khatha and obviously pretending not to notice the way he's sitting too closely by Dome's side, his face trained into neutrality.

"He's still sleeping," Katha replies, trying to make his voice sound steady, casual, and less agitated than the turmoil in his chest indicates. "He really knocked himself out this time. It's been almost a day, and he hasn't woken up once."

"You shouldn't be so stern with him," Triphop tells him calmly, his back straight and his hands politely clutched behind his back, but the knowing look in his eyes betrays any formality. "He has to get used to this life and learn his powers. If you want him to trust you, a gentle word might be wiser."

"He has no regard for his own safety, and he doesn't even understand why. I need to make sure he keeps his powers in check, lest he'll-" Khatha stops himself, pursing his lips and shaking his head. Triphop knows; of course he does, he has to. He knows that Khatha walks this earth as long as he keeps finding Dome, and that Dome will be tied to this world as long as Khatha walks it, unable to leave it behind and rest.This is their fate: to find each other, love each other, then lose each other, so each of them can live forever. Neither of them knew the price they'd have to pay when they wished for an eternity together under the moonlight.