> “All it takes is faith, trust, and pixie dust.” - Tinkerbell

The hands of the clock on the wall were engaged in a slow dance toward the midnight hour, marking the end of the grand opening at Morningstar. The ambience was thick with the fading traces of chatters and reluctant goodbyes. Tired but satisfied, musicians were breaking down their stages—guitar cases snapped shut, the soft thud of a drum being sealed away, all forming an odd symphony of closure.

"Perdita, would you be so kind as to make sure the silverware is stacked properly?" Adamastor's voice, tinged with a weary satisfaction, echoed through the salon as he glided across the floor, collecting dirty plates and empty glasses.

"Sure thing," Perdita answered, scrubbing the countertop with a cloth, her movements as graceful as they were efficient.

The door to the store was ajar, a faint glow seeping through the gap. Nord was most likely inside, storing over the counter her new appointments and adjusting them to her calendar.

No one saw Baal as he began to ascend the stairs, pressing his palm flat against the wall for support. Each step was a battle, his face contorted in pain. It felt like a jackhammer was splitting his skull open, the relentless throb skewing the edges of his vision into a haze.

He halted for a moment, clutching his head. "Dammit," he muttered under his breath, swallowing hard against the nausea that swelled within him.

A warm droplet trickled down his forehead, navigating the contours of his face. He swiped at it hastily, his fingers coming away stained with blood.

His other hand tightened its grip on the wall, knuckles going white.

"You alright there?" Perdita's voice floated up the staircase, a hint of concern woven into her words. She had caught sight of him from the corner of her eye as she looked up to replace a misplaced wine glass on the shelf.

"I’ll be fine," Baal managed to choke out, his voice barely above a whisper. "Just… I’ll be fine."

"A good night will wear out the liquor," Perdita said with an honest smile, her words laced with understanding. She turned away, refocusing her attention on a stubborn stain on the bar counter. With a sigh, she gave the cloth in her hand an extra twist and scrubbed harder.

"Yeah," Baal breathed out, more to himself than to her. "Let's hope so."

As he took the final steps that brought him to the landing, the words hung in the air behind him, mixing with the dissipating notes of a night that had once been alive with music and laughter. In the quietude, Baal felt the weight of each syllable, the invisible tug they exerted on his already sinking heart.

With a soft click, Baal shut the bathroom door behind him, sliding the lock into place. The four narrow walls of the restroom closed in around him like a protective cocoon, buffering him from Perdita's concerned glances and the glaring void left by Nord's absence. The tiles were cold against his skin as he sank to the floor, overcome by his physical agony.

Just as he was about to surrender to the encroaching darkness that clouded the edges of his vision, there was a soft but persistent knock on the door.

"Papa?"

His heart lurched at the sound of Kirara's voice, tinged with a note of fright that she rarely ever displayed.

"Kitten, I'll be alright. Go to bed," he rasped, the words coming out in a hoarse whisper.

"Papa, I'm coming in!" The door handle rattled, jiggling against the locked mechanism. "Let me in; there's blood everywhere."

"Go to bed! I won't say it twice!" Baal attempted to shout, but his voice was frayed at the edges, and the exertion drained what little energy he had left.

Grimacing, he used the side of the bathtub for leverage, trying to hoist himself up. The room swayed dangerously as he reached for the faucet, his hand trembling. As he turned the cold water on, it hit him—Kirara was right. Traces of his blood were smeared across the tiles, staining the porcelain sink and dotting the floor like gruesome paint splatters. His own reflection in the bathroom mirror looked like something out of a horror scene: haggard, blood-streaked, and unrecognizable.

With his vision blurring, Baal fumbled for the stopper, plugging the bathtub drain. He allowed the tub to fill with a mixture of water and his own diluted blood, the swirls coalescing into a disturbing maroon. His mind was teetering between consciousness and a nightmarish stupor, caught in the liminal space where pain and relief converged.

Clothes clinging to his skin like a second layer, Baal plunged into the icy water of the tub without a second thought. He winced as the cold bit into his skin but welcomed it, desperate for any form of relief. Each droplet that splashed against his face felt like a minor blessing, a fleeting distraction from the agony that consumed him.

And then came another knock—soft, tentative, but persistent. He didn't have it in him to utter a word, let alone send Kirara away again. The knocking persisted, unyielding, grating against his already frayed nerves. He yearned for silence, for a moment of solitude to gather the shattered fragments of himself.

But the moment never came.

A sudden, forceful bang splintered through the locked door, swinging it wide open with a crash. His body remained still as though the last remnants of his will had dissipated into the water. He felt fingers gently brush the wet strands of hair from his forehead, their touch tender yet filled with urgency.

"Baal? Baal, what's happening? Where did you get hurt? Did you bang your head?" Nord's voice—tinged with a blend of alarm and concern—pulled him from the edges of his stupor.

Baal's heart sank. Of all the people he could not face in this state, it had to be Nord. Words caught in his throat, knots of explanations and excuses he couldn't bring himself to unravel.

"Nord," he croaked, his voice barely audible, "I can't... not now. I don't want to explain again."

Letting her see him like this, vulnerable and broken, twisted the knife of guilt deeper into his conscience. And yet, in that moment, a part of him felt grateful for her presence, for the unspoken understanding that filled the room. He wanted to say so much more, but the ache, both physical and emotional, strangled his words before they could take flight.

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Nord's fingers skillfully navigated through his hair, probing the skin beneath for any injury. When she reached the tender scar tissue where his horns once were, He remembered the first time she had discovered those scars, the mingled expressions of concern and confusion that had coloured her face. Now, those same questions loomed in the air, but he was too drained to address them, and the ache in his heart made even the thought unbearable.

"Kirara! Kirara!" Nord's voice broke through his wistful reverie, filling the room with an urgent intensity. "Bring me my phone, now! Just go!"

Phone? The word jolted him. For a split second, Baal wondered if he had somehow woken up and was back in their apartment. Would he wake up to a normal morning—coffee brewing, the aroma mingling with the scent of freshly made pancakes. A morning when Nord would be by his side, and they'd head off to their tattoo shop, just another day in a life he once knew.

The thought of their old shop—its graffiti-covered walls, the buzz of the tattoo needle, and the laughter of their friends—flooded his senses.

As these fragments of a simpler past flickered through his mind, Baal felt a pang of longing so acute it was almost a physical pain, adding another layer to his already unbearable condition.

Nord's eyes met his, snapping him back to the present. Though she had caught a glimpse of the nostalgia that had momentarily clouded his gaze, she said nothing. Her eyes were searching, their depths filled with a complicated mix of worry and something he couldn't quite identify—perhaps a shard of the love that had once been their whole world.

The silence between them stretched on until it was broken by Kirara's hurried footsteps and the appearance of the phone in Nord's hand.

Nord's eyes flickered to the phone screen, her fingers swiping deftly through a labyrinth of folders. "If you're not going to tell me again, then maybe you've already told me," she mumbled, her voice tinged with fragile hope. She navigated to a specific folder marked '2013/23,' perplexed to find it subdivided into numerous subfolders, each cryptically labelled. What caught her attention were the initials that prefixed each one—BB, MMA, US, and others she couldn't quite decipher on a quick scan.

"BB... Baal Berith. Those are about you," she reasoned, speaking more to herself than to Baal. She glanced at him, his face contorted in pain, his body marred with drying and fresh blood. She began a frantic search for a folder that might match his condition. "BB Blood? No... What would I call this? What name would I give it?"

Pulling her gaze away from the screen, she looked at Baal, her eyes searching his for a clue. "What do you feel?"

"It hurts," Baal murmured, his voice laced with an exhaustion that transcended physical pain.

"Where?" she pressed.

"Head."

Nord's fingers hesitated for a moment before she saw it—BB_Headache_Urgent. Her heart pounding in her chest, she tapped the folder open. Inside were a text file and five video files, each marked with a sequential number from one to five.

Her thumb hovered over the text file. She didn't know what she'd find—maybe instructions, maybe confessions, maybe insights into the man beside her who was both a stranger and the cornerstone of her past. Whatever it was, it felt like a lifeline in a sea of questions.

Taking a deep breath, she tapped open the text file, her eyes scanning the words that filled the screen.

Nord's eyes narrowed as she read the first instruction on the screen. "One, get inside the bathtub with him. Keep water lukewarm. He likes it cold, but it doesn't help him relax." She dipped her hand into the water beside Baal, wincing as she felt its icy touch.

"Kirara, ask Adamastor for warm water, but tell him not to boil it! Go, now!"

Kirara sprang to her feet, dashing out of the room with a quick, "Yes, Mama!"

Nord turned her attention back to the text. "Point two: place a wet towel from mid-head to his forehead." Balancing the phone on her skirt, she reached for a nearby towel and soaked it in the chilled water. Gently, she wrung it out before draping it carefully across Baal's head, covering his eyes in the process. A soft moan escaped his lips, his body reacting even if he was too drained to articulate his relief.

"What's next?" Nord murmured to herself, her eyes flitting back to the screen. Her fingers were slick with water as she scrolled down, searching for the next step that would guide her through the labyrinth of Baal's suffering. Each instruction felt like a breadcrumb on a trail that she hoped would lead them both to some semblance of peace or at least temporary relief.

Nord's eyes returned to the text: "Three, check his eye colour." Gently lifting the damp cloth from his eyes, she used her thumb and index finger to carefully part his eyelids. She scrutinized the irises, puzzled. They were darker than she remembered. The life force within them dimmed as if a vital spark had been extinguished. Was this the sign she was supposed to look for? The instructions were infuriatingly vague on this point. With a sigh, she lowered the cloth back over his eyes. The last instruction simply read: "Play." What did that even mean?

Perdita entered the room, her arms straining under the weight of a pot filled with warm water. Together, they poured it into the tub, diluting the colder water surrounding Baal.

"It'll balance out in a few minutes," Perdita assured her, moving closer to whisper. "Mr. Berith hasn't been well for a few days. His room... I'll need to give it a thorough cleaning before he can—"

Perdita didn't finish the sentence, but she didn't have to. Nord understood, and a swell of regret filled her. Baal had been complaining about not feeling well ever since he arrived at the manor, but she hadn't really understood the severity of his condition until now. He just said It hurts.

"Help me get out of this dress, please," Nord requested, shifting her gaze back to Perdita.

Nord felt the deft fingers of Perdita work through the laces of her corset, unfastening the hooks on her bustier with practised ease. As Perdita untangled the black ribbon of her skirt and petticoat, Nord leaned down to unbuckle her boots, sliding them off her feet.

"You can go now. I'll take it from here," Nord said, her voice tinged with gratitude and a newfound resolve.

"Is there anything else I may assist you with?" Perdita asked, her eyes meeting Nord's, sincerity reflected in her gaze.

"Take his things to my room," Nord instructed.

Perdita nodded, a silent understanding passing between them. She exited the room, softly closing the broken door as best as she could behind her.

Careful not to splash water onto her phone, Nord stepped into the tub, positioning herself behind Baal. "Okay, here I go," she murmured, more to herself than to Baal, who shifted slightly to accommodate her.

She took a deep breath and tapped the screen to play 01.mov.

Baal's eyes widened in confusion as the screen came to life. He lifted the towel from his eyes, squinting at the pixelated figure. "What the..."

His voice was choked with incredulity as his gaze met the digital version of Nord on the screen.

"Having a bad day?" the video version of Nord cheerily inquired, a radiant smile filling her face. "Well, if you're seeing this, I have some great news. First, you're not alone. I'm with you, so that seems to have worked out. I don't know if I've been able to retrieve my memories yet, but I have a backup. Don't panic. I've got you, Baby."

Baal leaned in closer to the screen, puzzled and captivated. "What are you talking about? What..."

"Look, I wouldn't leave you alone. Never. I didn't choose South over you. I chose both of you," the video Nord continued, her eyes misty as if on the verge of tears. Then she tapped her hands on the table rhythmically and broke into their song, her voice wavering, hitting notes that were endearingly off-key.

And Baal laughed. Not a cynical chuckle but a genuine laugh, as if a dam had broken inside him, releasing a torrent of suppressed emotion.

"What did you do?" he asked, still chuckling, eyes searching Nord's face for an answer, “What the fuck… how… I deleted everything… how?”

Nord was at a loss for words. She didn't know what her past self had done, what the mysterious plan had been. But as she saw Baal's face, alight with something that looked like hope—or maybe just relief—she understood that whatever her past self had intended, it had worked.

So she reached over, took his hand, and squeezed it, poising her cheek against his head.

“Just remember I love you whenever you feel blue,” were the last words of the video.