Final Brushstrokes of a Tragic Romance || BxB | MLM

XXX THANK YOU IAN

After consulting the head healer of the village, a chilling realization settled in my stomach. His voice echoed ominously in my mind:

“Theo is trapped in a realm of dreams, ensnared by a curse we do not yet understand.” The weight of his words felt like chains around my heart.

I glanced at Theo’s still figure, the familiar contours of his face now a pale mask against the starkness of the bedding. His usual spark was absent, and it filled me with a sense of urgency. The healer had mentioned that I had the potential to connect with those ensnared in such cursed sleep—perhaps my lineage from Cadesoin granted me that gift.

My heart raced as I remembered the stories of my ancestors, those who could delve into the minds of others, traverse their thoughts and fears like an ethereal bridge. I focused on Theo, my friend, my muse. I can reach you, I thought desperately, if only I can find the way in.

I closed my eyes, reaching out in concentration, the forest slipping away until I was enveloped in darkness, feeling like I was moving without moving, drifting deeper until a warm glow began to flicker ahead. As I drew closer, I saw him—Theo, or a younger version of him. A child, probably no more than seven or eight, dressed in small princely garb, his face aglow with innocent mischief, his laughter bright and free.

“Theo?” I called, but he didn’t respond. He was caught in his own moment, unaware of me entirely, and I hesitated, watching him spin with unrestrained joy. He was so young, so carefree. His laughter reminded me of sunlight breaking through the clouds, of a life untainted by darkness.

He twirled around, arms wide, his face beaming, but then the ground beneath him began to darken, cracks splintering out in thin lines around his feet. His laughter faded, his smile faltering as he looked down in confusion. And then, before I could move, flames burst from the cracks, consuming the ground around him.

“No!” I shouted, reaching out as his small form toppled backward into the fire, disappearing within seconds. I could almost feel the heat against my face, the smoke stinging my eyes, but I pushed forward, determined to find him.

The scene changed, dissolving into shadow and reshaping itself around me. In the distance, I saw a figure—a teenage boy this time, taller but unmistakably Theo, though his shoulders were slouched, his face weary and downcast.

He sat alone, back hunched, a canvas and paintbrush in his hands, the colors on his palette dull and muted, like he’d sucked the life out of each one. Even from here, the sight of him was almost painful; he looked as if every bit of joy had been carved out and replaced with something heavy, something lost.

“Theo?” I called again, my voice softer now, as though afraid to shatter the quiet sadness surrounding him.

He didn’t look up, his brush dragging slowly across the canvas, painting in shades of black and gray, strokes that turned to shadows. The image took form—a face, though I couldn’t make out whose. His expression was unreadable, his focus intense but hollow. He was here, and yet, he wasn’t.

I took a step closer, but the shadows around him began to spread, swallowing the canvas and covering his hands. His gaze lifted teen turned into  the Theory I know , his eyes dark and distant, as though he didn’t quite recognize me.

“Ian…” he whispered, almost like a question, his voice tinged with something between hope and disbelief. “What… what are you doing here?”

“I came looking for you,” I replied, my throat tightening. “I didn’t… I didn’t realize you were going through this alone.”

He looked down, his fingers still smudged with paint, and laughed—a brittle, humorless sound. “You shouldn’t be here. This isn’t something you should see. You shouldn’t have come.”