The grove pulsed faintly with life, its air thick with the earthy aroma of roots and sap. The acacia trees, ancient and thorny, stood like solemn witnesses, their twisting branches reaching skyward. Faouzia stood at the edge of the grove, her fingers grazing the satchel slung across her shoulder. Inside, acacia thorns lay nestled, ready to pierce her skin in the delicate rituals of her arbormancy. Her thumb lingered on the faint scars running along her forearm, traces of countless sacrifices to her craft.
Across from her, Faust leaned on his staff, its alchemical symbols catching fragments of sunlight that filtered through the canopy.
The distance between the woman and man was both literal and figurative—a chasm born of endless arguments and unmet expectations.
“You don’t understand,” Faouzia said at last, breaking the silence. Her voice was steady, but her tone carried the weight of exhaustion. “You’ve never understood. You think you’re helping me, supporting me, but all you do is press. Press until I feel like I’m suffocating.”
“I’m not trying to suffocate you,” Faust replied, though his grip on the staff tightened. “I just want to be there for you. To support you.”
Faouzia let out a sharp laugh, one devoid of humor. “Support? Is that what you call questioning every choice I make? Judging every risk I take? You see these thorns—” She opened her satchel and held one up, its point gleaming. “Every time I use them, I feel your disapproval. You don’t trust me, Faust. You never have.”
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“That’s not true,” he protested, stepping forward. “I just worry about you. You’re anemic, Faouzia. You’re hemophiliac. Every time you draw blood, you’re gambling with your life.”
“And you think I don’t know that?” Her voice rose, sharp and cutting. “You think I haven’t lived with these risks my entire life? You treat me like I’m fragile. Like I’m a problem you need to solve.”
“I don’t mean to,” he said softly. He looked away, his brow furrowing as he searched for the right words. “I just... I see you working under the stars for hours, exhausting yourself with your astronomy, with your maps and charts. I see you bleeding into the earth to make the roots listen. And I think—if I could just help you—if I could lighten your burden, you wouldn’t have to do this to yourself.”
“That’s where you’re wrong,” Faouzia said, her tone softer but no less firm. “I don’t need you to lighten my burden, Faust. I need you to trust me. To see me for who I am, not who you want me to be.”
Faust hesitated, her words cutting deeper than he cared to admit. The rhythm of his chronomancy ticked faintly in his mind, time itself a mechanism he longed to control. “You’re right,” he said finally, his voice low. “I haven’t trusted you. I thought I knew what was best, but... I didn’t listen. I’m sorry.”
Faouzia’s expression softened slightly, though skepticism lingered in her eyes. “And what are you going to do about it?”
“I’ll listen,” he said, meeting her gaze. “I’ll stop trying to fix you. I’ll stop treating you like a puzzle I need to solve.”
Her arms crossed over her chest, her posture guarded. “You’ve said that before. Why should I believe you this time?”
“Because this is the last chance,” he said quietly. “If I fail again, I will lose you. I don’t want to lose you.”
Faouzia studied him for a long moment, her fingers brushing the edge of her satchel. Finally, she nodded. “This is the last time, Faust. You're right.”
As they walked deeper into the grove, the trees seemed to listen, their branches shifting in the faint breeze. Overhead, the sunlight began to fade, the first stars emerging in the darkening sky.