He rides out to the coast on a white horse, and anyone watching would think there was a girl to save. But the princess died a week ago—her funeral was grand and all the kingdom was there and her killer gave a moving speech—and the prince is alone, and the horse needs new shoes, and the sun overhead is unforgiving.

He reaches the ocean at sunset, sweat still gleaming on his brow. It has been three days since he left his castle and it will be more than a month before he returns. The summer home of his childhood is built on a cliff by the shore, and as the smell of the sea reaches him, he collapses, sobbing, upon the neck of his horse.

This is one of thirteen endings to his story. He will not remember it when he wakes up.

It is ten-thirty and the doorbell rings for the fifteenth time. You finally mute the mic on your conference call, though the action pains you: This next deal will make or break the quarter, after all. "I'm coming!"

There is only one person who could be here at this hour, and he has a key. He's probably lost it already. The man has no respect, no common decency—

Every caustic reprimand that you have saved on the tip of your tongue dies away when you open the door. Your next words, once you find them, are dangerously quiet.

"Again, Grimm?"

Jake grins, or tries to. The expression is at once replaced with a grimace as he slumps against the doorway, clutching his right arm, where something dark stains his sleeve. "I'm fine," he says breathily.

The air outside is humid, stifling. The open door welcomes it and half a dozen mosquitoes. You grab Jake's good arm and haul him inside, already filing through your list of excuses as to why you've got to bail on business tonight.

"Oh, shit," says Jake, though his voice is barely audible, "The conference call."

Your heart leaps a little. You've become a sap these days; it doesn't take much to impress you, and Jake rarely remembers your work schedule. "It's fine," you say. "I'll make up the loss later."

"I'll—go to Mom's—"

"You're already here," you say, sitting him down gently on the couch. "Just breathe."

That's when you see the other stain blooming across his ribs, dangerously close to his heart, and you close your eyes for a moment to placate the tears that want to fall. Somewhere in the background, still on call, you can hear Hayashi ask for you.

"You can't keep doing this," you whisper.

"I have to, Will—"

"No," you say, opening your eyes, reaching for the first aid kid beneath the coffee table. You unzip his hoodie and hike up the shirt beneath, wincing at the wound and the bruises that mark his chest, his neck. What was it this time? A manticore, or something? "You don't."

"I lost my amulet, but if I had it I—"

"You didn't." You bite off the words more than you say them, even as you wipe off a wand with an alcohol swab and tap it to his side, healing most of the wound. It's deep—there'll still be scarring. You unravel the roll of bandages while Jake uses the wand on his arm. "Your luck will run out eventually, Grimm. Not aging doesn't mean you can't die."

"I know that…"

His tone borders on petulant: He's already regaining his strength. You allow anger to colour your fear, now, shifting away from his outstretched hand even as you wrap the bandages around his ribs. "So act like it."

From your office comes the recognizable click of a Skype call ending. At least he has the sense to shut up and look guilty.

Still watching him reproachfully, you put everything away and pull down a blanket from the top of the couch. "Get some rest," you tell him as you stand up. "There are water bottles in the fridge if you need one."

"Are you going to bed?" he asks. He's clinging to his arm again like it's not already healed.

"You'll bloody the sheets," you say, and you mean for the words to come out bluntly but your voice shakes instead.

"The old man tells me you're still mad at him."

"Just grab me a pack of Marlboros and let me go, will you, imbécile ailé?"

Winged idiot.

Puck pushes off from the counter and picks up your regular brand of cigarettes. "Can I see some ID, Prinz von Scheiße?"

Prince of Shit.

"Ha, ha."

"No, for real."

You level a dark, threatening stare at him. He meets it with equaling menace.

"Look," he says, "the longer you stay pissed at Jake, the longer he stays here, and the longer he stays here, the longer I stay here. The longer I stay here, the more hours I have to spend at this godforsaken job; the more hours I have to spend at this job, the worse your life will be. Got it?"

You snort. "What about your girlfriend?"

"Who, Sabrina? You think she wants anything to do with me right now?" Puck tsks. "You're out of the loop, Billy."

You finally fish out your license from your wallet and hold it out over the counter, making a mental note to ask Daphne about Sabrina later. "There. Happy?"

Puck pulls the cigarettes out of your reach. "No. Jake is sulking all around the damn house because you won't talk to him. You're so scared of him dying and you'll still waste both your lives giving him the silent treatment?"

"It's what he deserves," you mutter.

"What he deserves is someone who's going to support him—"

"I'm not going to support him putting himself and you in danger."

"Hey, don't pretend you give a shit about me."

The words sting, for some reason, probably because they don't sound like a joke.

"I've got enough people acting like they care," Puck adds, thrusting the Marlboros forward, "I don't need that. I just want Jake to be happy."

You frown as you hand him your change. "And I really do want you to be safe, Puck."

He shrugs. "Just talk to him," he says. "Please."

You have taken to going on walks this year, in the evenings, through the fields at the edge of town. This night is chilly with the first breath of autumn when Jake falls into step beside you.

You've still barely spoken to him since that night, despite Puck's insistence. It's been almost three weeks since you said more than a tight good morning. It feels strange, then, that his presence should settle you, even though you didn't know you were unsettled to begin with: It is warm and whole and—glowing, almost, like moonflowers in the dark, like pulsing white jellyfish at the edge of the sea.

And you think: The sea?

The sea is cold as it washes over your bare feet. You shiver. The water is fluorescent blue: All along the coast, moon jellies are dancing their festival dance; summer has brought out the best in them, even as the light seeps from you with the waning tide. The wind rushes loudly through your ears, answerless—

The sun will rise, soon, and gulls will follow the curve of the earth to where you stand, but for now

"Are you alright?" asks Jake.

You trip a little on your next breath, gasp while he rushes in to grab you by the waist. Your hand is tense as you clutch at his shoulder.

"I'm fine," you say.

Jake's frown persists. "Another memory?"

"Why is this happening?" you mutter. Visions have plagued you before, but never for so long, or so vividly. Jake presses upward, offering to shoulder more of your weight, but you push away from him gently. The backs of your hands still meet at every second footstep. "A good five centuries without a single thought of it and then—"

"What was it this time?"

It's a question he almost never asks. You shake your head. "I don't—the ocean. Jellyfish? I don't know."

He blinks. Then laughs. "Jellyfish," he says. "I didn't know you lived by the ocean."

"I didn't," you say, and he looks at you curiously.

You grimace and turn away. There is an enormous emptiness to that memory, a loss, vast and unwieldy, which has no place in this timeline. For all you cannot remember when or where or why, you know its very existence is dysphoric. And you might scold Jake at times, or keep him at a distance, but he is still a steady beacon compared to the rest of your faltering life, and this memory is an aberrance in the space where he smiles—a darkness overcasting light, a knife in the flesh of something sweet.

You cannot possibly impose such brokenness onto something so whole. So by way of explanation you say, "It was beautiful," and, technically, it is not a lie.

His posture eases. He smiles, like the thought of your happiness in itself is contagious. Your heart drops, rises, flutters with the effort of loving him—you slide your hand into his, suddenly, let his callouses scrape like rough kisses against your palm.

"Thank you," you mumble.

"For what?" he asks, sincerely.

"For being here." You do not specify what you mean by here, but it means in my life as much as it does with me, right now.

Later that night, your legs tangle at the end of the bed. You have one hand caught in his wheat-blonde hair. His cheek rests against your collarbone, his breath against your skin; his hand is curled like an infant's at the dip of your breastbone, innocent and thoughtful.

"What are you thinking about?" you murmur, as you let your touch fall to the base of his neck, to his spine, to the dimples of his lower back beneath a T-shirt that's too big for him.

His fist tightens against your chest. "Your heartbeat," he says, "Listen—" His voice catches in his throat.

You grasp his hand, unnerved. "It's just the same as yours, Grimm."

"Okay," he says, tracing a finger over your collarbone. Then he shifts slightly: "But like, how many more times has it beat than mine—"

"Infinity over infinity," you whisper, and kiss the side of his nose, the curve of his cupid's bow. He relaxes in your arms again. "You're immortal now, too."

He reaches up, tilts his head, lets his fingertips brush lightly upon your cheek. His eyes are almost frightening in their depth; every time he looks at you, your heart falters with the weight of it. Affection washes over you like a

wave, constant and beating, the heart of the ocean thrumming loud against the shore. Your heels are dug into the wet sand toward which the water keeps rushing, furious and excited. Your legs have made tunnels which will be washed away when you stand. The sun is pleasant and merciless; the effort of absorbing it has made you weary, calm; the water, trying to mother you, cradles you to

"Will," says Jake, "My hand."

You look down. His fist is turning white where you hold it in yours. You quickly let go, and he shakes it with a face between a smile and a wince. "You gotta remember I'm kind of a wimp, man."

That's a lie. In the last two decades, Jake has defeated more monsters than the Everafters in this town have in two centuries. It is not just the magic. It never has been.

You kiss him, warm and full like his weight upon you. "I'm sorry," you murmur.

He meets your eyes, brushes his fingertips against your cheek. "It's okay," he says. "I'm okay."

You press your lips to his again and this time he chases your mouth as you pull back. You can feel his cheek against your lashes when you close your eyes.

Here, you think, is where a stronger man would say I love you.

Instead, you ask, "You're not going to do anything insane again, are you?"

He strokes back your hair, curls his fingers toward your scalp. His words are a faint tickle at the corner of your mouth. "Not if I can help it."

You still, then, and do not kiss him back.

"Will?" he says uncertainly.

"What's that supposed to mean?" you say. "Not if I can help it—like you can't help it?"

He pulls away from you, frowning, his hands still fisted against your shirt. "I just mean—it's what I do, Charming—"

You tug yourself from his grip and he rolls onto his side away from you, annoyed. "What the hell, Will?" he says.

"I can't—handle this anymore, Jake, I've lost enough people—"

"You knew what you were getting into when we started this—"

You bury your face in your hands, bring your knees up. "God, did I?'

"Hey, listen. You think this is easy for me? You think I sometimes wouldn't rather just stay at home and maybe not get nearly killed on a weekly basis?"

You lift your head, appalled. "You know as well as I do that you'd get cabin fever in a day—"

"That doesn't mean there aren't easier things for me to do," Jake argues. "I could travel and not chase down goblins and spell tomes and cursed anklets and who knows what the hell else. But there are people that need protecting—"

"Who's going to protect you?" you cry, voice cracking.

"I don't need protecting!"

"Really? How many times have you showed up bleeding on my fucking doorstep, Jake?"

He stares at you, blue eyes wide.

"It's what I do," he says again helplessly, as he crumples back onto the bed.

You blink the wetness from your eyes. It is a few moments before you can collect yourself enough to speak.

"Grimm," you say. He doesn't respond. You let your hand drift to his knee. "Jake, I'm sorry."

"I don't want to hurt you," he says, choked, "but it's not—I can't change. Me, my life, everything; I wish I could give it up for you, but—"

"I'm not asking you to do that," you say.

He turns over and gazes at you desperately. "Aren't you?"

You stare at him uncertainly.

"Maybe this—" He gestures between you, not meeting your eyes. "Maybe it isn't—maybe we can't."

"What?" you say, stricken. You would not call yourself an optimist, but these past few months, actually leaving him—his teasing, his touches; his clever smile beneath your lips, his calloused hands between your own—his profile, pensive, in the sunlight—leaving this—never once occurred to you.

"What are you going to do?" he says suddenly. "If I don't come home, what are you going to do?"

And you see it, then, not distant enough for comfort: He hasn't called in two weeks and you've spent every afternoon since Sunday waiting for him on the front porch. You see the kids run up instead, and your heart drops—you already know what's happened—but you still need to hear them say it, even though it hurts, even though Daphne has tears in her eyes and Sabrina's cheek is tucked toward Puck's shoulder while he pulls her in close.

And your life falls apart for the third time.

You push down the thought, this image frozen and clear in your mind, like you've done so many times before. You push it down deep, until you're numb, until you almost laugh. "You're not suggesting—"

"It's not impossible, Will. Isn't that what you're afraid of? If it happens—if I don't come home," he repeats, "What are you going to do?"

You keep your gaze trained on the wall across the end of the bed, heart pounding in your chest. Numb, you think, you force upon yourself. To feel is to break, now. Stay numb.

You can't respond to that question. You won't. He'll know how much he means to you, how much you think your life alone is worth these days.

Jake's fingers brush against your cheek. You turn to look at him. He is smiling up at you hopelessly. Quietly, like he understands—like he ever could—he says, "It might be better to break your heart a little now than break all of you later."

You can only turn your face away and continue to fill your head with white noise, settle into that cold, unfeeling blankness you found yourself in after the war. Jake pushes himself out of bed and scratches his head with a nervous laugh. "I'll—stay in the guest room for now. Just—think about it."

He's halfway out the door when, still staring at the strewn sheets, you manage to utter, "Grimm."

You look up. He stops, turns a little. "Yeah?"

His hair is a mess from where you were teasing it earlier, his eyes the blue of the sea where it's most deep. You reach out a hand. "Come back to bed."

His face lights up in a grin, that crooked thing that always makes your heart leap. But even as he swings in your direction, he hesitates. "Are you sure?"

All your love and your fear and your aching, too-certain affection surge back into you at once. You're weak for him; you always have been. One day, maybe, you'll be stronger, but at least for tonight, you'll hold him tight to your chest, kiss him until you forget again what it is you're afraid of. "Yes," you say. Your outstretched hand falters for a moment, betraying you—but he doesn't notice. He curls up by your side, and you kiss him deeply, and the pain ebbs: You decide, then, that from now you will leave all the worrying for daylight.

You wake up first, as always; make your coffee and then his. You both take it black, so there's no fanfare. Breakfast today is simple, too: cheese omelettes with onion, tomato, pepper. He walks in sleepily to you flipping the first egg, his shirt somehow looser fitting than it was last night, wheat blonde hair a tousled mess atop his head. The sunlight falls across him with a relaxed, arrogant grace.

He runs his hand along your waist as he walks past, leaves a dusty kiss at your temple before sitting at the counter and propping his head up with his hand to watch you cook.

Jake is not a morning person. It's the only time of day he's ever quiet. It used to throw you off, because you always knew him in the context of banter, of boasting, of giving unwarranted advice. But you've found his silence to be more honest and expressive than his speech, which is flighty and full of pretense, and permanently amused, as if taking anything seriously would make him responsible for it.

The truth is that Jake Grimm treats life like a masquerade, and most of his faces fall away when his words are taken from him. He has given this much of himself up to you.

"You forgot your coffee," you say, motioning to the mug by the sink.

"Later," he mumbles, waving it off.

"It's going to get cold."

He folds his arms on the table and tucks his head deeper between them. "Mm."

He's never going to wake up if he doesn't drink it, so you bring it over along with his omelette and thread your fingers through his tangled hair as he downs the mug. He leans against your chest when he's finished and holds it up hopefully.

"Caffeine isn't good for you," you say uselessly, as you take it from him and pour him a second cup.

He laughs. His voice is still rough with sleep, and it makes your heart ache. "Says you."

"I do," you reply sternly. You tip what's left of the batter into the pan.

He lifts the mug to his lips and smiles. "You know what, Will?"

"What?"

"You're the loveliest hypocrite I've ever known."

You shake your head and finish cooking.

"So I was thinking," he says, as you set your plate down and sit next to him. "About last night."

You pause your fork in spearing the first bite of your breakfast. The truth is, you don't want to talk about it. You told yourself you would worry about it in the morning, but morning has come, and now the issue only seems petty and embarrassing and pointless.

He continues without prompting. "You're right. I've been—reckless. It's my job, yeah, but I guess—" He looks at you. "I never really thought I had anyone to worry about me."

"Oh," you say.

He rubs his hand across his neck, laughing. "Yeah. Oh. Like, my family's one thing, but—" He sighs. "And I never had anyone to worry about."

You eat your eggs.

After a while, he lifts his head, smiles at you. "So I'll be more careful. I'll help it."

You stare at him a moment, at his blue eyes, the faintest of laugh lines at his mouth. At the bruise still staining his right arm and the light rise and fall of his chest. You want so badly to believe him.

"How much more careful?" you ask.

He just laughs. "What's that even supposed to mean, Charming? You want a percentage?"

And he turns back to his breakfast. You watch him in profile, your coffee still untouched.

God, do you want to believe him.

"So what are you afraid of?"

You push off from the ground and sway halfheartedly: back, forth, back, forth, until you're slowing to a lazy halt. You've been here for the better part of an hour, but the chain of the swing is still cold beneath your fingers. Beside you, Daphne kicks her legs up high. Any further and she'll go flying upside down around the dubious metal bar where the swing is attached.

"I'm afraid of him dying. Obviously."

"This might sound weird," she says as she swings past, her voice swinging with her, "but I think that's kind of the surface level fear here."

"How can death—"

"It isn't the death, Billy, it's the living."

"What?"

"Without him," she finishes. You can feel the air of the movement as she rushes by. "You're afraid of living without him. That's why you keep giving him all these second chances."

You watch her swing past again, thrown off. "Well, yeah, I guess. Kind of. I mean, I do—"

"Love him?"

"Care about him," you say resolutely. "Deeply."

"Yeah, why do you do that, anyway?"

You are not about to tell a thirteen-year-old, and Jake's niece, no less, about the way your chest seizes every time you look at him, about the way you've gotten used to waiting to open your best bottles of wine until he comes home. But she must see something in your face, because she laughs a little bit, slows down in her swing until she's aligned with you in the quiet, cricket-chirping, peak-summer stillness.

"So how are Puck and Sabrina?" you ask suddenly.

She shakes her head. "Not good. I take it you've heard."

"I've heard… enough."

"They're figuring it out."

"Really?"

"No."

You snort.

"They're figuring themselves out," she says. "That's the important part. They'll come back to each other when they need to—they always do."

"It's strange," you say. "Seeing them apart."

Daphne reflects on this a moment. "Not really," she says finally. "They're still them, you know? Sabrina's still—stubborn and… fighty and threatening Dad that she'll leave the house…" She smiles. "But she'd never do it. She cares about the cases here too much. And Puck is moodier lately, I guess, but he's still jumping headfirst into every adventure he sees, so… And it's not like they weren't fighting even when they were together, anyway."

"That's true," you concede.

"The difference is, like, Puck is hanging out with the pixies again and learning he's actually kinda good at this politics stuff—and Sabrina remembered she had other friends, and she's restarted her judo… It's good for them. It'll be good."

You kick dispassionately at the sand, at a complete halt now.

"It's the same for you," she says.

You blink at her, unknowing.

"You and Puck and Jake and my sister—you're all the type to make your partner… part of you, in the way that you don't feel like you're you without them—but Puck and 'Brina were themselves way before they met. And you were you before Jake. Even before Snow. You don't—it sounds mean, maybe, but you don't need him. And I don't know what he thinks, but—look, he made it past Briar, right? It's the pits, but you bounce back. You make it."

"I don't…" Your face is heating up; you're almost speaking under your breath. "Of course I don't need him."

"Of course you don't," says Daphne mildly. "Of course not."

Then she pushes off from the ground and takes one last swing forward before leaping off into the sand, stretching her arms out for balance as she lands. She grins and reaches for your hand, pulls you from your seat as you follow with reluctance.

"Come on," she says. "Let's go home."

It is cold today. Outside, a storm is brewing. But the coffee shop is sinfully warm, and empty save the two of you, and, your conversation with Daphne and the preceding near break-up almost forgotten, you are more content than you have been in a long time.

You blow lightly across the top of your mug and watch the steam curl toward Jake, following his gaze to the deepening sky. "What's the matter?"

He bites his lower lip briefly, tapping an unsteady rhythm onto the dark wood of the table. "There's something about this storm, man… I don't know. I'm getting bad vibes."

You tense, hands frozen around your mug. "Bad vibes, or like—" A pause. "Bad vibes?"

He meets your gaze, shakes his head. "Feels like magic," he says.

Your expression darkens. You set your coffee down, your voice low even to your own ears. "You're not taking this storm alone, Grimm."

"Of course not," he says lightly. There is a clap of thunder in the distance.

Then the rain starts. It is heavy, swift, brutal, a Flood of the kind God promised against. Jake stands up without warning. "We're leaving," he announces. "Sabrina? We're going. You need a ride home?"

Sabrina comes out from the kitchen, dusting flour off her hands. She takes one look outside and nods fervently.

"Good, because that wasn't really a question."

"Holy shit," Sabrina mutters, as the wind visibly picks up, rattling the trees. She unties her apron as you rise from your seat, slipping on your coat. You tuck your hands into your pockets and cast a worried glance at the window.

Jake kisses your cheek, too quickly for Sabrina to notice. He puts one hand against the door. "I'll pull up the car. Wait right here."

Something in your chest throbs in protest. "No, Grimm, I'll go with you—"

He rolls his eyes. "Didn't you just get your stuff dry-cleaned? My coat's waterproof. I'll be one minute, Will, the car's right there."

He does makes sense, and you don't want to leave Sabrina alone. But behind him, the trees are bowing to the wind as the morning descends further into almost total darkness. You're gripped by an instinctive sense of horror; it's dizzying, almost. You try to shake it off. Your voice still quivers when you say, "Be careful."

He flashes you a grin, one he probably thinks you find soothing. "Don't worry," he says.

Then the town is lit by lightning, casting him into a silhouette. The wind howls through the open door—he is gone—and the thunder follows. It is a deafening sound,

heartstopping, and the waves are tumultuous. Even the moon is lost to every rising crest. The blackness of the night and the water is tantalizing, but you take the last of the sails down. This storm is marvelous and terrifying, the peak crescendo of a symphony: colossal waves, a sky like spilled ink, wind strong enough to knock you where you stand. The rain pours down your neck, soaks through your coat, your shoes. You take in a lungful of salt, sea, what little air you can—and you stare, enchanted as you are terrified—

You are surely as wet as you were in your memory, but you're on land again, and as you blink you see that Sabrina is dragging you toward the car.

"Where's Jake?" are the only words your mouth wants to wrap its tongue around.

"Where were you?" Sabrina retorts, digging her nails deeper into your forearm. She shoves you toward the dingy Ford, which is unlocked, which is always unlocked, a fact which now seems unnerving, and pushes in front of you to crawl into the passenger seat.

You stare blankly for a second before finally coming to your senses and getting inside. Sabrina is breathing heavily, her head tilted up to the ceiling.

"What the hell?" she says when she's regained her breath, turning to you accusingly. "Not a great time to go Raven Baxter on me, Billy."

"Sorry," you say, running an agitated hand across your face. "I don't even know—forget it. I—" You're a broken record. "—where's Jake?"

"You really don't remember," says Sabrina, shaking her head in disbelief. "He magicked himself straight to the river. Said something about—" And here her voice drops, "—sirens."

"What?"

"I know, that son of a bitch is going to get himself killed—"

"Fuck. Fuck." You sound hysterical even to your own ears. God, you trusted him; you're an idiot; you never should have— "Why didn't you go after him?"

She stares at you, incredulous. "Are you kidding me? I couldn't leave you. He'd kill me."

You seize up, suddenly, and stare out the windshield, at the onslaught of rain, listen to it pound against the roof while the wind wails through gears of Jake's beat-up car. The fear in your chest revolts and compresses, balling up into something harder, colder, more determined.

"Where are the keys?"

Sabrina frowns. "You're holding them."

You look down. There's Jake's keyring, held tightly in your left fist. The sensible thing to do now does not at all align with what you want to do.

You start the car.

"It's too dangerous," says Sabrina, with little enthusiasm. You both know she'd be doing the same thing. You grip the wheel and head for the river, rain and wind and lightning be damned.

They've already dampened his concussion, put him to sleep. Daphne is murmuring a string of spells as she wraps his bloody thigh in hexed bandages. Red sits on the other side of the bed, carefully penning runes into his broken arm, and Puck is at the foot, his hands folded on the sheets. His head is bowed as if in supplication.

Sabrina stands by your chair with her arms crossed, surprisingly quiet.

"He'll be fine," says Daphne for the dozenth time.

"We know," you and Sabrina say.

An uneasy silence settles over the room. You focus on Puck's wings as they flutter, carefully follow the fluorescent light as it falls diluted between thin pink veins.

Above you, Sabrina sighs. You nudge her hand gently and she shakes her head at you, pulling back.

"Every time," she says quietly. "Every time I wonder if it's going to be his last fucking act of bravado."

You say nothing. You're not going to delude yourself anymore with the idea that you might be able to stop this, stop him; he's as relentless as a hurricane, and more dangerous. Instead, you shift to the left. Sabrina looks down, notices you've made room for her; an expression of weariness passes over her face, and she sits besides you with all the weight of a soldier who, while victorious, has seen too many dead bodies too young.

She leans her head on your shoulder. You let your own head rest on hers. A length of time passes and you assume that Sabrina has fallen asleep until she whispers, "Are you scared?"

You pause. You think back to your anger, your heart pounding, your tears as you dragged him bloody from the riverbed.

"I was."

"And now?"

Her hair brushing against your cheek feels like the wind light upon your face

the smell of salt

"I'm tired," you say. You suppose you have been for a long time.

You try to fight it but in the end, you let exhaustion take you. Your dreams are scattered memories of a life you used to live.

The prince has not let go yet of the sound of her laugh, of the feeling of her hand resting delicately on his arm. But his sadness has washed away with the sea, his anger and rebellion died down into something simple, calm. He unfolds his fingers and there is a sand dollar in his palm; his breath is light in his lungs, and the sea is still. Even the sun seems gentle now, cascading warmly over the shore.

He will have to go home now, fight his brother, take the crown, for himself as much as for her.

His story is at its beginning again. This, eventually, he will remember.

When you wake up, there is sunlight peeking through a slit in the curtains.

Sabrina is asleep on your shoulder, Jake now tucked in tightly on the bed. Dust shimmers in and out of view with the light and it feels right, whole. You have not felt this much yourself since you kissed a girl in the woods a long time ago, when her eyes fluttered open and you fell in love the first time.

You close your eyes and breathe deeply, feel your pulse hasten, slow. Back then, that was where you were meant to be.

In the darkness, Sabrina's breath is a pale sound, unfitting for the strength you know she has. Jake's is heavy, even with sleep, shaky on the intake but still comfortingly, painfully familiar.

The world turns on its axis in time with your heartbeat. This is where you are meant to be right now.

You open your eyes and just like that, your life falls into place gracefully, completely. And everything is still.

You're at his side when he wakes up, still staring at the window, at the sun as it creeps higher toward the frame.

"Will…" His voice is faint.

You tilt your head toward him. He gazes at you helplessly.

"Here," you say, handing him the glass of water that has been sitting on the side table since last night. "Drink."

He gulps it down, grateful. "You shouldn't have lied to me," you say, as soon as he is finished.

He sets the empty glass down abruptly. "I know, Will, I—" He struggles to sit up, wincing. "I know. I'm sorry. And I know—that's not going to cut it—"

"No," you say, because this, at least, you have decided. "That cuts it."

He lifts his head from his hands and stares at you.

Cherish him for now, you think. Bedhead and wide eyes and cuts and bruises and all. Cherish him for however long you can: be it for two more weeks, be it forever.

"I'm so glad I'm alive," he says finally, his voice weak.

"Me too," you say, and slowly he captures your face in his hands, his expression twisting with the effort of leaning forward. You move to meet him.

"I mean it," he says, like he never meant it before. "For you, I'm glad I'm alive."

Your voice catches in your throat. His breath is short, you think. He needs to rest. You could put him back to bed, leave him be, calm yourself and come back to this another day.

But you have spent enough of your life waiting. The words thunder in your ears, though you never raise your voice: "I love you," you say, and instantly something terrible and and enormous and bitter falls away from your heart.

Surprise flickers across his eyes for only a moment before his gaze softens. "I love you too," he says. It is hushed, awed, and the words come to him like he has not lived thirteen lives for their sake, which you are thankful for.

He kisses you, soft and quick, like a person's first breath upon waking up.

"Go to sleep," you murmur as you pull back. "Get better."

He smiles at you lovingly, tiredly. Moves to take your hand. "I'll—" He sucks in a breath. "I'll try to stop… this," he finishes lamely, motioning to himself.

"No," you say quietly, pushing back his hair from his eyes. "That's your life. That's—you."

You can feel his skin tighten beneath your fingers as he furrows his brow. "No. I mean it. I'll be more careful. For real this time. I—" He swallows. "I promise."

Your heart leaps. He has never promised you anything before—you do not think he has ever been one for promises. For commitment. You do not even expect to be able to hold him to it, but it means something, that he is willing to try—that he is willing to believe it for you. "Okay," you say softly. "Thank you. I'll be here when you come home. If—you come home." You don't meet his eyes, instead tightening your grip on his hand and squeezing gently.

There is a long silence. Finally, he says, "You're serious."

You look at him. He is watching you with wonder, with affection, with a deep, deep sadness that cuts you to your bone. "William Charming, I swear to God, I'm going to do everything I can to make sure I don't leave you alone again."

His knuckle trails across your cheekbone, your jaw. "But thank you," he murmurs. "I want to know you'll be okay. In case."

You lean your cheek into his palm. You're crying a little at last, but the tears are a welcome relief. "Yeah, I'll be okay." The saltwater falls against your lips, leaves a stain on your tongue as you speak. I'll be sad, you think. I'll be angry. I'll hate you a little. I'll be myself; I'll be me. I'll love you again. "I'll be okay."

He kisses the tears away, from your eyes, your cheeks, your mouth, replaces them with pieces of himself. You wrap your hands in his shirt, kiss him back fiercely, desperately—only let him go when his heart beats too fast, and then you stay by his side until he falls asleep.

The ocean in winter is different, greyer. This side of the Atlantic is emptier than the coast you once knew. It smells the same, though, and the sun is bright and as you tuck your hands into the pockets of your coat.

Your breath escapes you in a cloud of white. You wonder about the world, for a moment, about your life—whether either has really changed at all.

Jake tugs gently at your arm. "Will."

You stop walking and turn to him, silently letting your lips brush his forehead, weaving the fingers of your right hand tightly through his left.

He leans against you, his voice quiet between the wind and your coat. It is just him and you right now, isolated from the rest of the world. "What are we doing here?"

"I'm just reminding myself," you say, as you face the ocean, hand in his. "People here always talk about happy endings."

Hesitantly, he poses: "You've found yours?"

"There are none, Jake," you say, but you're almost smiling.

He frowns in response. "You're not happy?" he asks.

"I've never been happier in my life," you reply, and it is the truth. "But it's not over."

"Oh," he says, realising. And you're caught unduly by how sure his smile is as it spreads wide and radiant across his face. You lean back against him, warm at his side, feeling new, suddenly, and so hopeful. Clean, like the waves breaking white on the shore have wiped you of your centuries and brought them back brighter. Happy endings, sad ones—it doesn't matter; it continues. You live and you change, or you die and you don't, and either way, always, you return to yourself.

You fall in love along the way: once, maybe, or four times. You learn to be fond of the past, to let the future be. You tilt your head to kiss the boy you love, and revel in him. Today he tastes of salt, of stubborn air, of the sea. And together you beat dutifully onward.

The prince stands content in the arms of his lover. He has forgotten what it is like to weep. The sun sets in a cascade of pink and blue and grey upon the ocean, bittersweet and somehow fragile, exquisite and inseparable from the dawn.

This is not an ending to his story.

The truth is that there has never been one.