Invisible String - Cregan Stark

Twenty two~ Talion

The melody came slowly.

It was not a song of grand mourning. There was no rise meant for crowds, no lament shaped for remembrance. It was a small song. A private one. The kind sung beneath one's breath beside a dying fire, meant only for those close enough to hear.

I played softer than I ever had before.

My hands remembered what my mind refused to dwell upon. The notes wove together, split apart, then found one another again.

I let the music say what my voice could not—that I understood. That I saw them. That love like theirs did not vanish simply because it had been twisted into opposition.

My fingers faltered when an image rose unbidden.

Jace.

I could not imagine a world where I raised my hand against him. Could not fathom a crown or cause strong enough to demand such a thing. The thought hollowed me, left me trembling in a way the night air alone could not explain.

If the world ever asked me to choose between duty and Jace, I knew—with terrifying clarity—that I would tear it apart before I chose.

The melody softened, slowed, as though it too had grown weary.

Three funerals. Four, had we been told of my grandsire's.

The thought landed heavy and unwelcome.

So many in so short a span that smoke and turned earth blurred together. Faces overlapped in my memory, grief stacking until I could no longer tell where one loss ended and another began.

I was so tired of graves.

Tired of standing still while the world buried pieces of itself. Tired of being part of the reason men died, even when their deaths had saved my life. Tired of carrying remembrance when all I wanted, for one selfish moment, was to set it down.

The lyre trembled in my hands. I leaned into it, pressing the wood against my chest as if it might steady me.

The song changed then.

It sank lower, deeper, the notes stretching like hands reaching for something just beyond grasp. I played for peace—not the peace of silence or endings, but the quiet that comes when pain is finally allowed to rest.

If music could do such a thing, I wanted it now.

I wanted it to reach them wherever they were—together or apart—and tell them they were not judged here. That they were not measured by banners or blades, but by the love that had bound them so tightly the world itself had failed to separate them cleanly.

The wind moved through the grass, carrying the sound outward. Stone shifted above. Merrax exhaled—a low, rumbling breath that rolled through the air like distant thunder. I felt her answer the music, her presence settling around me like a watchful cloak.

She was near. She always was.

I kept playing, though the melody broke into fragments now—half-remembered phrases, wandering notes that returned without purpose, the way grief does when it no longer knows where to go.

Then the space beside me shifted.

I felt it before I saw him.

My fingers faltered. A note wavered. When I glanced sideways, Jace stood there, a few steps away, paused beneath the weight of everything he wanted to say and could not.

I kept playing.

After a moment, he sat beside me. Not carefully—he never does anything carefully on purpose—but he did not crowd me either. Just close enough that I could feel his warmth through my sleeve. Without a word, he slid an arm around my shoulders.

I leaned into him at once, the tension easing just enough to remind me I was still alive. His hand rested at my upper arm, firm and grounding. His thumb pressed once. I'm here.

The music continued, softer now.

I felt him holding himself as carefully as I held my sorrow, as though we were two halves finally permitted to exist in the same space again.

Jace stared at the grave, jaw tight, eyes bright with things he would never speak aloud. I knew what burned in him. I felt the anger, the rage—dragon-hot and barely restrained.

I pressed my head to his shoulder. His chin rested against my hair.

I closed my eyes. His arm tightened slightly. I am here.

"You shouldn't be here," I murmured, though the words carried no weight.

"I know," he said quietly. "I didn't want you to be alone."

We sat as twin shadows stitched together. I played on, the music no longer only for the dead, but for this moment—for survival, for loss held too close, for the miracle of still having each other.

At last my hands tired. I let the final notes fade naturally into the air. Jace did not move. Neither did I.

And for the first time since everything went wrong, I breathed without feeling as though I were stealing air meant for someone else.

We stayed there long after the music ended—not because it erased what had been lost, but because it reminded us of what remained.

Together.

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A/N: I'm sorry for the late chapters, December has been a very busy month. I hope you all enjoyed the new chapters! Please comment and let me know what you think!