He didn't need to ask.
The rink was still alive with cursed disco and neon regret. Lights pulsed like a divine migraine, and the music was… questionable at best.
The floor gleamed, polished and chaotic. He had fallen six times. Possibly seven. She hadn't fallen once.
"God of balance, my ass," she'd muttered, skating backward—effortless, smug, and ethereal. She didn't fall. He did.
He'd hated it. And loved it. And her.
By the lockers, he found a pair of skates—his, glittered and dented, as if the universe had tried to warn him.
Inside: a note.
"You kept falling. But you always got back up. Keep going."
The streets of his realm bent to let him pass—twisting, reforming, parting around him like even the chaos knew: this mattered.
He ducked into the restaurant where tables moved on their own, and the fruit screamed if you peeled them wrong. Where menus said you'll know when you see it, and the servers wore blinking masks that sometimes wept.
They'd eaten something here that turned their tongues blue. And something else that sang opera in their stomachs.
He remembered the way she'd tried to make sense of it all—and failed, gloriously. Laughing so hard she had to clutch his arm, just to breathe.
On their table: a napkin. Still stained with blue soup. A message written in sauce:
"You let me laugh. You didn't ask me to stop."
"Go to the place where we dreamed out loud."
The park was quiet.
The carousel didn't spin. The swings barely swayed. But the air still carried the memory of her voice—soft, wondering, a little scared.
"Did you ever want kids?"
He hadn't. Not once. Not for centuries.
But that day, with her fingers brushing the rune on his wrist, her eyes open and unflinching…He'd wanted it. He wanted them. With her.
She would have that. Someday. Because she deserved everything.
Tied to the bench where they sat was a ribbon from her hair—tangled, sun-warmed, familiar.
He reached for it, and a whisper followed like a breeze:
"You said they'd be trouble. You smiled like you wanted them anyway."
"Now go to the place where the stars waited."
The glass platform suspended in velvet-black space welcomed him with a soft hum.
Stars spun above and below. Nebulae danced like silk unraveling. This place had always been sacred. His quiet. His stillness.
She had walked into it like she belonged—like she understood what it meant to look at infinity and not be afraid.
They hadn't spoken here.
They had just… been.
At the center of the platform, a glowing constellation bloomed. It took him a moment to see the shape—her hand, reaching for his.
In the center:
"You made me want forever. But first, one more moment."
"Go to Brigitte's."
He was unraveling—one memory at a time.
One thread. One heartbeat. One whispered echo of her.
He didn't want another clue. He wanted her. Or maybe… just something to hold.
By the time he reached Brigitte's realm, he was spent. Emotionally shredded. Quiet in a way he rarely allowed himself to be.
Her counseling office was empty. The tea, still warm.
On the table waited a final note.
"Go as far north and east as you can in your realm."
He didn't walk the last leg. He couldn't.
He teleported. Chaos cracked around him like lightning—frantic, pulsing, desperate. North. East. Farther than he'd ever gone. Past the edges of his madness. Into the unknown.
And still—he wasn't ready.
He didn't expect her.
Standing barefoot in the grass, framed by the wild twilight of his Realm. Hair tousled by wind. Smile soft. She didn't speak.
She just held out her hand.
And she pulled him toward a door.
One he hadn't made.
It was chaos-carved—but laced with symmetry. With balance. A blend of two hearts stitched together in wood and magic. Hers. His. Theirs.
When she opened it, he felt it.
Magic. Memory. Time.
The room wasn't massive. But it felt endless.
Inside:
A wall lined with videos—silent loops of them, flickering like memories too sacred to speak aloud.
—Their first dance in the hallway.—The day he made her laugh so hard she snorted mocha out her nose.—Her, asleep on his shoulder, a book still open in her lap.
Photographs, enchanted and alive—Her laughing. Him watching her. Them, blurred and beautiful, caught between motion and stillness.
Statues, not of gods, but of moments:
—Her hands on his chest, fingers splayed over a heartbeat.—Their foreheads touching, breath mingled in the aftermath of a fight.—A tiny version of them curled together on the couch, runes of comfort glowing faintly around them.
Objects, small but intimate:
—A ribbon from her first dress.—One of his cufflinks, still bent from the day she yanked him into a kiss.—A broken feather from one of his illusions—framed in gold like it mattered.
And above them all, carved into the ceiling in delicate, swirling runes:
Her eyes. Dozens of them. Every glance. Every look. Every time she saw him—not as a god, but as Malvor.
He didn't speak. Just breathed. The silence stretched—thick, reverent.
Then—
She stepped behind him.
Wrapped her arms around his waist. Rested her cheek between his shoulder blades.
"Happy Birthday, my chaos."
He exhaled like the wind had been knocked from him.
"This is your gift?" he whispered. "This?"
She smiled.
"No. This is ours. You gave me a place to be. I gave you a place to remember.
Now you never have to forget us."
And for once…
Malvor wept.
Quietly. Gratefully. Like a god who had been worshipped for centuries—but had finally, finally, been loved.