Empress of Self-Ruin

Chapter 38: Our Little Garden of Hell

Despite the glorious distraction, Calypso slept badly the rest of the night. She wrestled with bad dreams for the better part of it, and he wrestled with her, beside her. It was a tiring thing to see such a prideful person waste her anger on dreams, but having experienced the same things over and over again ever since the regression, he understood how terrible a nightmare could be. So he did what he could—he stayed.

His hands held hers—it felt good to hold onto things, he decided. When there were more nightmares. When there were none.

Her cries that tore through the air sounded like a broken howl. Sometimes, her voice caught and got stuck in her throat. She hyperventilated, unable to let it out, stuck in her dream. Sometimes her eyes weren't even closed. She looked at him, unable to see him. Sometimes she called his name and other ones. Mean ones. Not so mean ones.

Him.

Her mother.

Her father.

Her brother.

Her uncle.

Constantine.

Phoebe.

Even Electra.

The name that she wasn't supposed to know in this timeline—it solidified that Calypso also remembered the past timeline.

Then Calypso also said something about a baby.

And Kim Taeyang.

Who is Kim Taeyang?

The name sounded very foreign, yet strangely it gave him a strange feeling, like...

Unfortunately, he didn't have much time to think about it. His focus right now was to help Calypso get through her nightmare—just like what she always did for him whenever he was battling his own.

He called her back to reality. He stayed up until she could sleep again.

He thought about it as he held her small frame, which seemed to get even smaller day by day. How hurt Calypso must have been... She never did tell him what exactly it was that haunted her. Told him to stop asking, so he did. There must be a reason for it, but fuck. He hated whatever it was that was hurting her. He hated it so much. Especially because he knew that he was one of those reasons. He hated himself for it, for hurting her.

Still, he wished for Calypso not to hate him.

Please don't hate me too much.

Because, more than you hated me, I probably hated myself more.

Oh, but this is just pure selfishness, right?

With Phoebe... he had done the noble thing–or at least he had tried. The memory of that day flashed in his head. Constantine held a blade against Phoebe's neck and how even though he had hesitated for a moment, he knew deep down that he wouldn't put down his sword and give up the empire for her; he would have let her die if it came down to it, and the only reason he had surrendered was because the bastard started threatening him with Calypso's safety. That was why he felt guilty and had tried to save her from being wrongly accused by the court.

But with Calypso, he never wanted to do the noble thing. He loved this vulnerability, this rawness where he could just be himself. Not an emperor, but Arsen.

He wanted to take care of her. He wanted her to let him. He wondered when he became so selfish.

Or was love actually the creeping, screeching monster?

Did that mean he never loved Phoebe if he was able to let her go so easily? If it was already painful enough, he knew the other option was worse.

Selflessness could be selfish, too.