BREATHE | bubbline ✓

" i'm not leaving you "

FLAMES — EVERYWHERE SHE looked, fire engulfed everything in sight. Phoebe swallows thickly and surveys the scene achingly slowly, hoping to find somebody, anybody out there amidst the wreckage. Anybody willing to help.

She couldn't run, let alone walk — both her legs had been crushed in the burning rubble of the house she lived in, her arms torn through with cuts and burns, and the muscles in her neck were screaming in agony as she laid her heavy head down to rest.

Rest. She needed rest. The only respite she could get after hours of struggling...was the image of her in her mind.

Marceline...I'm sorry.

Phoebe closes her eyes, concentrates on the feeling of gravel pressed against her cheek. She had to hold out as long as she could; hold out long enough for Marceline to return from that long trip.

Oh, how long more?

"Burn the witch!"

The crowds were growing. They stood, pointed — some grimaced in disgust, some covered their gaping mouths in shock and fear, but it was all the same. None will help. None have helped.

"Burn her!"

And then there were the priests, standing just a few feet away, clutching crosses, bibles and rosaries in their shaking hands, convinced that they had rid the world of another evil.

"This is the end of you, witch." The head priest, torch in hand, stands over her, looking down in disdain. "The Devil will never have God's loyal people in his grip."

Fool, she thinks. The Devil was already walking the Earth — and she knew that he had told the church about her.

Phoebe digs her nails into ash. Marceline...where was she? She has never been one for crying, but when she feels the dull ache and throb of her bones and muscles, a tear springs to the surface.

Was this it? Was she going to go without seeing Marceline one last time?

And then, like an ill-timed mirage, Phoebe hears her voice. It was just a split second. Her vision swims as she tries to focus, but all she could really make out was the blur of the onlooking crowd.

"Phoebe!"

There it was, the voice she'd recognise anywhere.

She breathes in; the smell of burning wood stings her nostrils, the stench of blood grows thicker, the screams echo louder.

Her mouth parts and she feels her lips crack. "Marcy...stop...please."

The sound of tearing flesh pauses abruptly, and Marceline rushes over to her and crouches by her side, pulling Phoebe close to her chest tenderly.

"I'm..." Marceline chokes; her tears are mixed with blood and tears. She grips Phoebe tight. "I'm sorry. I'm so, so sorry..."

Her eyes are soft, brimming with grief. She runs a thumb across Phoebe's cheek, and wheezes out another sob.

"I can still save you, my love," Marceline murmurs. She looks so, so sad, yet as ethereal as she had always been, her face illuminated by the flickering flames.

"No..." Phoebe shakes her head slowly. "Marcy, just go. Go, before they hunt you down with pitchforks." She tilts her head to the side to survey the carnage Marceline had unleashed. "You've...You've killed enough as it is."

"Not nearly enough to avenge your honour." Marceline growls quietly.

"Marceline," Phoebe pleads, though there was not much force. She raises her remaining shaky hand to hold the one Marceline has on her cheek. "Look at me. I...I'm not surviving this."

Marceline grasps it. "You are," she blurts out, "You are going to be okay. You have to be—I—I can't live without you, Phoebe. I can't. You know that."

"You can," Phoebe says weakly. She feels herself slipping away, though Marceline was gripping onto her body with all her life. "Marcy, go."

Marceline doesn't budge.

"Marceline," Phoebe coughs, "go."

She merely holds her tighter. Claws dig slightly into her skin, and she burrows her head into the crook of Phoebe's neck.

"Marcy," she sighs, "please don't be difficult." In the distance, she could make out the lights of torches headed their way. "Quickly, before they get you too."

"I'm not leaving you, Phoebe."

"Yes, you are." With her remaining strength, Phoebe shoved Marceline away from her. "You're not entirely immortal. Now go!"

Marceline opens her mouth, black hair unruly, mussed, blood splattered across her face and body like paint. It would be the last time Phoebe would see her.

"Go," Phoebe bites her lip as it trembles. "Go, I'll find you again, if there are second lives. And—" She glances out to the dirt path that led to their burning cottage. "—I'm sorry we couldn't be happy in this one."

"You have nothing to apologise for!" Marceline snarls, pointing to the rapidly-approaching torches. "It's those damn bastards—"

Phoebe shakes her head. "There's so much more to it, my love."

The words felt unnatural on her tongue, foreign. She had never called Marceline 'my love'. It had always been Marceline's to say. But now that they have escaped her mouth, she wished she had said them more — the look on Marceline's face, mixed with fear, grief, despair, was love.

A love that Phoebe was convinced she would never have again.

She reaches for a sharp wood splinter sticking out of the rubble.

"Don't worry, I won't let myself be killed by those savages." Phoebe turns back to Marceline, hoping that the small, forced smile on her face was enough to send her on her way.

"I can kill all of them without you even blinking an eye!"

"But you won't." Phoebe shakes her head weakly. She props herself up as much as she could with her one arm and drags her body to a section of crumbled wall. "Not today. Killing them just means that you're...murdering innocent people who truly believed that I was a...threat to their community."

Marceline stands, fists clenched, her expression stormy.

"It's not their fault." Phoebe holds back an agonised groan. "It's not. You...know it."

Marceline looks down at her, blinking furiously. "Phoebe, I'm not leaving you."

Phoebe smiles just as Marceline lunges forward. "Yes, you are."

And she plunges the wooden stake into her chest.