Kirsty couldn't imagine what she looked like now; she wasn't even certain how long she'd been crying, or when she'd started. He had led her here what must have been hours ago; through the halls of the Labyrinth, which felt only slightly less threatening and more inviting by his side even in its strangeness, to his chambers tucked away from any peering eyes or curious whispers. This room was hers, and he had given her permission to wander as she pleased while he took care of what he had to.

When he disappeared, however, she found exploring didn't interest her; instead her mind turned inward to the numbers and to Frank and Tiffany and her father, and somehow all of these things had come together and descended on her in an avalanche. Sitting here on these soft sheets and holding the steel blue quilt around herself, Kirsty felt the first overwhelmed sob rise to the top of her throat, and when it spilled out all of her agonies followed it. She cried, loud and unheard, mourning her father and her innocence and any certainty she might have had about the future. She was bound to somebody in this strange new world, but without the Earth she knew or the strange serenity that had come with believing she knew her future, she felt overwhelmingly lost and alone. There was nothing she could do but cry.

That had been some time ago. She had tired herself out now, and as the Cenobite opened the door and looked at her she imagined her eyes must have been swollen pink. She half-expected him to admonish her for crying, as he had the first time they met, but instead he walked to the side of her bed and sat on its edge, one or two feet away from where she was hugging her knees to her chest. She swallowed and slid herself a little closer, not wanting to feel so far away from the man who was apparently more important than she could have ever imagined. He reached towards her after a moment's consideration, and when she didn't pull away he brushed the back of his finger against her cheek, wiping away a tear.

"I thought they were a waste," she said, her eyes meeting his. The slightest crease in his brow was the only indication of any emotion behind that calm expression. He pushed the stripe of dampness from her cheek, the leather on his thumb worn from age and unexpectedly soft on her skin.

"In most cases, yes," he said, his hand moving to her other cheek to repeat the action, "but I suppose... there are exceptions to every rule." His voice still wasn't completely restored, but it was more Cenobite than human. His face and form were completely restored; how his pins had returned, she wasn't sure she should ask. Instead she cleared her throat again, trying to put words to her thoughts, to fill the strange silence between them.

"You need not speak if you do not want to, Kirsty," he said, and the way he said her name was comforting in a way she couldn't explain. It was as if she had waited her whole life for somebody to say her name with the softness he did, the way he made it sound in her ears.

"I do want to," she said, letting him push a curl of hair from her face, "I'm just uncertain what I should say." Was he touching her for her sake or for his? She found she didn't mind either option. Finally something coherent rose above her clouded, muddy thoughts. "You... apologized earlier. Why?"

He exhaled, and she only knew it was a sigh because it couldn't have been anything else; he tucked two strands he'd curled around his fingers behind her ear and pulled his hand away. She found herself disappointed by that, just a little.

"... The photo that you found," he started to say, "was taken before the end of the war. The man in that photo was..." he hesitated, eyes moving oh-so-slightly to each side as he searched for words, "...a different man from the one who opened the box. The man that I used to be," and the emphasis on "I" seemed to be more for himself than for her, "was not someone with much reason to be proud. I had been immersed in vices." He paused again, and she saw a flash of deep, shameful blue in his eyes even as his lips only frowned the slightest bit. "I was addicted to opium," he said, "and alcohol, and women. I knew that it was not a place worth staying in, but I could not bring myself to leave. That was the man who apologized to you." Kirsty nodded, absorbing everything he said, but she still felt she was missing a piece.

"But apologized for what?" She asked, and he closed his eyes.

"Perhaps I should start from the beginning. It might be helpful for both of us."


The Prince was not a man who particularly liked to share parts of himself, but Elliot wanted to tell her everything. Slowly the two sides of himself had merged into one, and he found himself thinking of them not of individuals but as perspectives, two facets of himself that would work in tandem with each other from now on. The first decision he made from this new perspective was surprisingly simple, and that was to be honest with the young woman sitting just inches from him on this modest blue-sheeted bed.

He told her about the first timer - she wanted to see the blur again, and when he showed her his wrist she ran soft fingertips over it with quiet curiosity. He told her about how it counted down to thirty-three years and he'd expected, had thought he'd known, that it was counting down to meet the one he was always meant to meet, and how he'd been wrong. He told her about the second timer with sixty-seven years on it, which just sat and waited without moving until his transformation, and how he'd never been sure what it meant until it finished counting.

He explained - in short sentences and minimal details, finding it hard to revisit that place, a pain he couldn't savor - how the war left him scarred and frightened and unable to relax. He did not mention his family, shame blanketing the memories as he remembered their letters and faces, and instead simply told her that he left England for India when his vices stopped working, chasing down anything to make him feel something again.

He told her about running away.

"I spent the years after the war despising what I'd become," he said, looking at his wrist, "and thinking that the timer was a damnation."

"For what?" As he'd spoken Kirsty had taken to asking more questions, making more remarks, and he found that didn't feel like a problem. Watching her slowly unfold from the frightened ball she'd been when he first entered was almost relieving, and now she was sitting on the side of the bed with him, eyes no longer swollen and her expression one of quiet interest.

"For you," he said, and her eyebrows knit together. "I still believed that it was counting down to meeting... my soulmate, I suppose, and I couldn't imagine anyone at all being happy while bound to me. Not when I was addicted and miserable." She frowned and looked down at her own wrist, and he could hear the suggestions of emotion coming off of her - doubt, indecision. He almost reached for her cheek again, tempted to peek into her mind and hear just what she was thinking about, but he found her voice, how she chose to speak those thoughts, to be much more interesting than the unfiltered source of them. "Does that trouble you?" He asked, and she shook her head.

"It's... not that." She held up her own wrist, looking at the little blue numbers. Twelve hours, had it really been twelve hours? It felt like eternity and an instant all at once to him. "When... this showed up, I didn't think it was..." She took a breath and started again. "I wasn't waiting for anybody. I didn't really know... there was more than one thing it could be."

"What did you think it was?" Now he was curious, because these numbers told him so much about the people who bore them, and he found himself utterly intrigued in the life and mind of Kirsty Cotton. She closed her hand into a loose fist and smiled sadly.

"You know, maybe I should have questioned it more... it was Frank that told me." A quiet fury sparked in his chest, but he silenced it to keep his attention on her. He would save his wrath towards Frank for later. "I thought... this was counting down all the minutes in my life. Completely." For the first time she laughed, but it was small and sad. "I thought... I really thought I was going to die in that hospital room. But I didn't. And I didn't really... plan for anything after that." She gave another small laugh, pushing her bangs from her face. "I didn't really... think I'd get any further than that. I don't... know what to do with myself."

"Perhaps rest would be a good place to start." She looked up at him and nodded, exhaustion settling in her gaze. "I imagine we could both use some time to recover from today." He started to stand again. "If you need to find me, simply ask. The corridors will show you the way. Rest well, Kirsty."

"Wait." He had already started to turn, to retreat from such a strange and vulnerable exchange, when Kirsty's hand reached out for his own. She stood up, swallowing a little. "...Thank you. For saving my life."

"You are certainly welcome, Kirsty," he said, and after a moment's consideration (and a moment of human sentiment), he lifted her hand and gently kissed the back of it. Another moment's thought and he turned his grip, pressing another kiss to the numbers on her wrist. She turned a soft shade of pink in her cheeks at that, and he allowed himself to smile. "Rest well."

"...You too," she said, but before he could pull away she took her hand back with his. He watched with interest as she studied his own numbers, and then she leaned forward, brushing her lips against his skin.

He felt like a foolish schoolboy with how that made his pulse pick up, but then she smiled, a shy smile just for him, and he banished the thought of being ashamed of it. He had waited one hundred years for her, and if she was going to make his heart race, then so be it. She let go of his hand, and he nodded at her, resisting the urge to lean forward and kiss her lips. He desperately wanted to, but there was only so much emotion he could handle in one night. Instead he brushed the side of her face one more time before pulling away.

"Good night, Kirsty," he said, and he left her in her room. The last sight he caught as he closed the door was her sitting back down on the bed, reaching for one of the pillows and pressing her hand into it. The door shut with a faint click, and he stared at it for a moment. He finally forced himself away from the door and toward his study, determined to immerse himself in his work until he felt something close to normal again.

The Prince delved into his writings; for all of the chaos of this last day, he had learned a considerable amount from studying Channard that he intended to record. He lost himself in writing, dark ink on old and thickened parchment, until finally he found himself at the end of the day's observations. There was much more to learn, to examine, but the Prince was absolutely exhausted. Perhaps he needed rest after all.

As he rose from his desk, he reached across its polished black surface to lift a small glass sphere from a clawed and bladed pedestal, an ornate little thing he'd been given decades before. He turned the ball in his hand, watching the mirrored disk inside slowly turn on its sideways axis.

"Show her to me," he said, and the mirror spun into a blur that melted into an image of blue. Kirsty lay on the bed in a simple nightgown, eyes closed, a mask of serenity on her tired face. Content, he set the sphere back down and watched the image fade. With one last thoughtful glance, he walked away from his desk and made his way towards his bedchamber, where rest and time for contemplation awaited him.

There was a strange future that lay before him - he was no longer just himself, his understanding of this world had changed, and he now had a companion in the form of a truly remarkable young woman. As he thought about her sleeping form, the peace on her face, he let exhaustion settle into his own shoulders. The Prince took one glance at the numbers - sixteen hours - before covering it once more. Kirsty needed the rest, and so did he.

The future could wait until tomorrow.


So this is a blast to write, but I think I'm going to put a pin in it for the time being so I can focus on my other projects. Thanks to everyone who's been reading, and I hope you enjoyed it!

edit: don't… write when you're half asleep. You get important details like what your POV character was addicted to wrong. OTL