Charlotte opened her eyes, squinting against the brightness. It was blinding, almost oppressive. Her throat felt raw, too, as if she’d eaten a baseball bat. Why was it so hard to breathe? Attempting to raise her hand, she felt a sharp pinch and saw an IV port embedded in her arm. Confusion swirled in her mind. She turned her head, following the tube from the port up to a drip bag, wondering where she was and what was happening.

A voice softly narrated a story, something about…a mill? It was soothing yet surreal, like a dream she couldn’t fully grasp. The urge to drift back to sleep was strong, but she had a question. Shifting slightly in the uncomfortable bed, she caused the storyteller to pause. It was just as well; the story made no sense to her in this dazed state. She remembered laughing with Fritz, then he’d gotten sick again, and then…nothing. Panic flickered at the edges of her consciousness, but she heard the voice again and felt someone take her hand. “Lottie?”

A weak smile tugged at her lips. “Klaus,” she whispered, her voice barely a croak. “I’m in the hospital, aren’t I?”

Klaus, with his refined features and piercing gaze, looked every bit the stoic protector—and like he hadn’t slept since the dawn of time. “Yes,” he confirmed.

Swallowing, she winced.

“You had a breathing tube,” he explained gently.

Well, she supposed, that made sense.

His voice grew even softer, almost hesitant. “Lottie, do you remember what happened?”

The concern in his eyes made her heart ache. She wanted him to cheer up and—the truth was, she didn’t know. Her brain felt like it’d been packed in cotton wool. Fragments of memories appeared and disappeared: the sunlight catching the brush strokes, hearing a crunch on the gravel. “I….” She knit her brows together, fighting through the fog. “Marta.”

He nodded, encouraging her gently.

“I was so…stupid,” she moaned. “Fritz…he said no, but I snuck off.”

“You weren’t stupid.” His voice was warm with reassurance, an anchor in the sea of her confusion.

She shifted again, glancing at the book on his knee. There was a dull, throbbing pain around the edges of her consciousness, which made even the smallest movements an ordeal. “How long have you been reading to me?” she asked, curious in spite of herself.

“Not long,” He assured her.

“You’re at the end of the book,” she observed, licking lips that felt like sandpaper and coughing. “I feel bad for asking this but…what’s it about?”

He held up the worn paperback, his face softening with a nostalgic smile. “This is Krabat. It was my favorite book when I was a child. People say it’s about black magic,” he added, “but it’s really about love.” A much younger Klaus had marked a number of pages and he turned to one, his voice taking on a subdued, almost reverent tone as he began to read. “There’s a kind of magic that must be learned with toil and difficulty, line by line, spell by spell, the magic of the Book of Necromancy. And then there’s another kind,” he finished, his voice growing softer, “that springs from the depths of the heart, from caring for someone and loving him.” He shut the book with a muted thud and placed it on the table beside him.

A nurse’s footsteps echoed down the hall, in the ensuing hush.

Charlotte guessed, “And our hero chooses the latter?”

Klaus nodded, his expression serious. “Krabat is a magician’s apprentice, at the enchanted mill,” he explained. “At first, the skills he learns are harmless, like how to turn himself into a raven. Ultimately, though, he craves more—and so he makes a pact with the Devil, through his master, for true power. And comes to learn that, to break it, he must risk his lover’s life.”

Charlotte tried to process this information. “How?”

“Through a challenge,” Klaus explained, his voice low and intense. “His lover against his master. Whoever loses, dies.”

“What happens next?” she prompted.

Klaus leaned in slightly, his voice steady but filled with emotion. “His master offers him another way out. Krabat can let his lover go, give her the freedom to live her life in peace. All he has to do is stay behind, bound to his master’s will. But Krabat refuses. Instead, he puts his trust in her.”

Charlotte’s brow furrowed in concern. “And what does she have to do?”

The narrative has been illicitly obtained; should you discover it on Amazon, report the violation.

Klaus met her gaze, the intensity of the story reflected in his eyes. “She must distinguish Krabat from the other apprentices, not through sight or touch but through what’s in his mind.”

A soft smile touched Charlotte’s lips. “And she can?”

“Because he thinks only of her,” Klaus answered. “While the others think only of themselves.”

Relaxing into the thin pillow, Charlotte considered. “So his nature never changes.”

“No,” Klaus agreed. “Neither does hers.”

As his words hung in the air, Charlotte’s mind drifted, floating on a cloud of half-formed thoughts and feelings. This wasn’t just a tale of magic; it felt like a mirror to their lives. Klaus, much like Krabat, had an unrelenting master—but he wasn’t completely a servant. She wondered, in a haze of half-sleep and medication, if bringing out the good in someone marred by shadows was even more miraculous than changing them entirely. Love could reach those hidden, tender places even in the most troubled souls. There, in that hazy space, she found a fragile yet radiant hope. Love, in all its messy, unyielding glory, might just be the key to their salvation. And with that thought, a comforting warmth spread through her. In love, there was always a flicker of light.

Gazing up at him, her smile grew. “Do they live happily ever after?”

His expression turned thoughtful, almost regretful. “I like to think so.”

She listened to the rhythmic beeping of the machines, the sound a strange comfort amidst the pain. “Don’t hurt Fritz.”

Klaus’s eyes met hers, searching for something. “Will that make you happy?”

“Yes,” she murmured, her eyelids fluttering as exhaustion threatened. “This wasn’t his fault, and he has someone at home too.” Her thoughts were hazy, but she knew Klaus probably wanted to eviscerate her friend for letting this happen—even though he’d truly, truly done his best.

Klaus adjusted her coverlet with a tenderness that brought a lump to her throat. “Soon,” he promised, “I can bring you home.”

“Home?” she echoed, trying to grasp the concept through the growing fog in her mind.

“Where I can keep you safe,” he reassured her, his fingers tucking a stray lock of hair behind her ear.

“For how long?” she wondered aloud, her voice tinged with the childlike innocence the drugs induced.

“For forever,” he replied.

“So much talk about the future,” she remarked dreamily, her eyes half-closed. “But no actual proposal.”

Klaus stilled, his gaze intense. “Do you want one?”

She nodded, finding his question both endearing and amusing. “Yes,” she replied softly, the word almost a sigh. “But not now. Not when I can’t even sit up.”

Whatever drugs she was on were more powerful than she’d thought. Her thoughts swam in and out of focus, and she felt like she was floating, as she toyed with the silver band on his left ring finger. German men typically wore their wedding rings on their right but, even so, it was clear that the SS-Ehrenring represented an equal commitment. A grinning skull and crossbones was flanked on either side by runes; running her fingers over them, she grimaced. “This really is so ugly.”

He slid the ring from his finger, letting her hold it up for closer inspection. “The runes represent victory, faith, camaraderie, light, and hope.”

“And the skull?” she queried.

His expression grew somber. “You must be a willing sacrifice.”

She turned the ring over in her fingers, noting the weight of it. There was a date inside, along with two names. One was Klaus’s. The other belonged to the current head of the Schutzstaffel, one Reichsführer Röll. There was an abbreviation, too: S. Lb., which stood for Seinem Lieben. His beloved. “This was a gift, from the Reichsführer?” Klaus never really had explained that part.

“More of a loan,” he clarified. “I can only keep it, while I’m living.”

She wrinkled her nose. “Morbid!”

“There’s a memorial,” he shared. “In Büren. At Wewelsburg Castle. When an SS man dies, his ring is sent back and added to all the others, in a chest. It symbolizes his ongoing membership in the order.” He averted his gaze, his tone betraying a complex mix of pride and resignation.

She slipped the ring back onto his finger, feeling a pang of something she couldn’t quite name. “That must be huge,” she marveled, her eyelids too burdensome to lift.

A nurse entered, his no-nonsense demeanor brooking little protest as he checked her vitals and replaced the IV bag, treating Klaus like a piece of furniture. The last thing he did before leaving them alone again was give her an injection, filling her with a peculiar glow. “I wish we both fit into this bed,” she confided, glad that Klaus was at least here with her.

“So do I.” His voice was filled with longing.

“And I wish we could go somewhere else, where none of this mattered,” she added, her voice growing fainter as the world around her grew fuzzier. She imagined them flying over the city as ravens, just like in Krabat, looking down on all the human obligations that no longer held meaning.

But when he spoke, inexplicably, his voice was sad. “Then we wouldn’t be us.”

She wanted to tell him not to be ridiculous, that soulmates always found each other, but her lips refused to form the words. She wanted to ask after Bessie, too, and a thousand other things; Bessie would have to join them, and then she’d eat Klaus’s flowers, and his gardener would quit and….

When sleep claimed her, she was still holding Klaus’s hand.