Don't Fear The Reaper

{xxviii. i had the time of my life fighting dragons with you}

"Whatever our souls are made of, his and mine are the same."

-Wuthering Heights by Emily Bronte

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I awake to a pale gray sunset and rain-bitten wood.

In terms of comfort, this is one of the worst places I've woken up. My eyes are at level with the rusty nails sticking up out of the planks I'm laying on. The light that comes in is diluted and dim.

It's only after a moment that I realize I'm in my treehouse. And I feel like I've experienced a million deaths. As I slept, my bad dreams came back to haunt me, taunting me with visions of blood and black tears. Before that, it's blurry, but I try to recall what got me here. Going to Will's grave, being taken to The Citadel of Souls by angels of death, escaping through the vents, finding Mor's true identity... and running away with Oleander, before falling asleep in his determined grasp.

So much confusion, so little time left to be confused. However, luckily, I'm not as drowsy as the last few times this has happened. In fact, as I remember what took place just before my reign of nightmares, I bolt straight up, nearly hitting my head on the plastic spyglass reaching out the window.

Oh, that telescope. Somehow, it changed everything. Just for a moment, I glance out, past the cornfield, locking my eyes on Will's rotting treehouse. There's no boy in a red hoodie looking back at me. But I didn't expect there to be.

Thunder claps on the horizon, and I'm snapped back to the present. I can hear people talking below me - three raspy voices, two male and one female.

"You have limited time, William." Oleander.

"Very limited. And you know we're willing to help you, but some things are inevitable." Amara.

"I know. I just want to say goodbye." Mor.

There's a lull in the conversation, and then I hear the whoosh of capes. Somehow, I know Amara and Oleander are flying away. Leaving me alone. With my soulmate.

I hear creaking. Slowly, I turn around, to see the person I prayed I'd see.

It's Mor, of course.

His hair is messy, and he's thin - so terribly thin. His black shirt hangs loose off his ribs, falling in and out with the wind.

But his face... I don't know how I never figured it out before. It's unmistakably Will's face, beaten and bruised and starved to the skull.

His black eyes catch mine. For a moment, my heart stops beating. And then I'm running to him, and he to me, and we collapse on top of each other, his cloak blossoming around us.

He wraps his arms around me, and that skin that previously felt so polarizingly cold feels warm once again. Mor's no monster. Mor is Will.

We sit there intertwined, our bodies shaking. My neck heats up, but my heart feels calm. For a moment, I forget about the Reapers and my fate and the fact that I'm practically hugging a walking corpse. All I know is him and I, Will and Lila, King and Queen, Hamlet and Ophelia. We were supposed to live together forever.

Dreams don't always come true.

It feels like only a second passes before we pull apart, ever so gently. Mor - Will - sets his forehead against mine.