LND : KEEPING UP WITH LINKON

04 : wanderer. 🫧

( PLEASE HEED! )

WARNINGS : mentions and hints of death, mental illness (depression + unspecified), trauma. while none of these topics are covered in depth and this piece does not romanticise or make light of them, those who may be affected by such content are to heed with caution. definitely still fluff, just with a bit of hurt. after all, there can only be sunshine and rainbows after rain.

WANDERER.
A self-insert, in which MC/Delima is transmigrated into the deepspace and meets Rafayel.

_ _ _

"My name is Delima, or Deli and sometimes Lima, and it means pomegranate. I am a woman, as far as I'm concerned, and I am from a tiny country in Asia. My name is Delima, or Deli and sometimes Lima, and it means pomegranate. I am a woman, as far as I'm-"

"Pomegranate?"

"Yes," the woman smiled fondly at the mention of the fruit. Then, instantaneously, her face fell and appeared grim and serious, "pomegranate... Do you even have fruits here?"

"Is that even a question?" Rafayel eyed her incredulously.

Delima nodded slowly, "well, yeah. Ah, you did offer me an apple earlier, so you do."

"Of course we do!" he looked even more offended after she recognised the truth.

"Good. Then, I'll take you to pick them in the fall!"

He paused, recalling today's date, "in fall? It's only March, though?"

"Mhm."

_ _ _

There was something completely amiss about the whole situation—about her story, her world, and, most of all, her uncanny behaviour. She seemed familiar with his world. And he could not forget the scent of melancholy and longing that lingered on her; it was floral, sweet, and magnetic. Something about her kept him up at night, and kept him wanting for more.

It was late in the evening, well past midnight yet hours before the sun would arise. He had sneaked a bottle of wine from his cellar into the studio, and begun working on a painting. As with most of his work, Rafayel never had an idea in mind—it always came to him. This time, he started by sketching a pair of eyes using his charcoal pencils. He cared not whether his hands were marred by the colouring as he smudged parts of the canvas. By the time he had even registered the time, he had finished the painting.

Her.

A single tear slipped from his eyes, the very eyes that contained the universe that she saw. The painting that he had not fully beheld until its completion was in fact his interpretation of beauty. He painted her eyes, her gaze, and the sheer emotion and vivacity that existed in them.

He wiped his cheek with his sleeve and took a deep breath. His art was never about 100% accuracy, but as the saying goes "art imitates life." And it was ever clearer to him that she had not been staring at him with eyes of curiosity, but eyes that bore an ocean of insanity, pain, and despair. His breath caught in his throat and he felt his blood run cold. He didn't think twice and sprinted out of the studio and back into his home. The few candles he had lit remained burning, their flames swaying softly with the night breeze.

Delima.

Rafayel's body trembled as he stood at the door of the guest room. He reached out a hand to open the door when a sound caused his movement to halt. It was soft, and barely above a whisper, but he heard it as clear as the sky on a good day. Vividly. She was muttering in her sleep, and more than that, she was sobbing. His heart became porcelain—shattering into a million pieces as it fell to the floor. His eyes welled up with tears, but he held them back.