You'd find her where you always did. An open, spanning field of verdant green and countless wildflowers. The flora grows in a thick carpet, nearly waist high and dwarfing you. You know where Aoife is, though. Just as the two of you remain unchanged, so does this place. It's the closest thing to home.
She's there just within a clearing surrounded by dandelions and daisies and fivespots and yarrow. There's a notepad in her lap and a pen, and you can only assume she's drawing. She always was more artistic than you could ever be. Aoife's gaze falls to the feather quill in her hands; she doesn't really see it—eyes focused on some sort of mote that flits by her vision—but she pretends. It is brought close to her face and rolled between fingers, inspected oh-so closely, before being set back down into her lap. Finally looking at you after making you wait just an agonizing moment, she speaks.
“You found me.”
Aoife does not need to say anything else. She does not need to for you to know. It is an eidetic memory nestled into your skulls—something raw. You are two sides of the same coin, always doomed to orbit each other. It is inevitable in the universe of finite possibilities—a commodity so rare in this existence.
She loved you nonetheless, even if she could feel it coming; could sense the end drawing closer and closer. You were so handsome and sweet to her—such a pretty, darling little sight—that her only wish even now would be for you to stay a while. That's part of the curse, isn't it? The urge to embrace, to love, to hold. To be there even if at some point her blood would be on your hands. The people would call her a victim for what you'd done; she'd called herself a martyr—you the angel.
You both mean so much to each other than anything to everything.
