"A promise whispered in the night, forgotten by morning light."
( ~Annie Flame~)
CHAPTER FIVE: The Name You Shouldn't Speak
Elara agreed, "I'll find the truth myself then."
Silence spread all over the room.
His hand hovered just inches from her face. As trying to touch her face but holding them back. "Good," he said with a bitter smile on his face.
"Why….this expression?" she mumbled.
She almost reached him back.
Almost.
But then—
Like a wave crashing over her—
Grief.
A memory:
A sharp sound of a knife piercing through something. Shattering of glass.
Screams swallowed by metal and the world going black.
Blood all over the surface.
A man similar to Lazareth lying on the floor.
Her body froze like something was holding her.
Her hand recoiled like she had touched fire.
"No," she whispered, voice raw.
"It is not real. I didn't do it."
Lazareth flinched—only slightly.
But his eyes darkened like a storm forming behind glass. Like he anticipated it.
Elara backed away, shaking her head, tears pooling and spilling before she could stop them.
"Ikilledsomeone," she snapped.
"Do you hear me? I killed someone." She sounded like a mad woman losing her last of sanity.
Lazareth pulled her closer.
"Calm down…look there's nothing my love. Try to breathe."
Elara snapped back to reality, breathing heavily. She found herself in the arms of Lazareth. There was no blood or screams anymore. But the same old mansion.
She quickly pulled herself back.
"What was that? Did you do something to me? "
Lazareth stood there silently.
The same painting of the woman similar to her which wasn't there a moment ago was now hanging on the wall.
"What is this doing here?"
"Oh so now I understand…," she said with a mocking expression.
"I don't care who you think I am—what games you're playing. This is all because of her, isn't it?"
"That woman in the portrait. She looks like me, but I'm not her."
"I agreed to that stupid thing but was it your plan all along. Why are you testing the last of my patience? Just kill me already!" She shouted.
Lazareth didn't even flinch. Just a sad expression hovering on his face.
"I can never my love…"
"Don't call me that. I'm Elara, not your lover and just Elara. Not some woman from a stupid painting dead and gone a long time ago." Elara shouted again looking in his eyes. "And you need to get over her. I'm a fucking human. A human!"
She pointed at the wall like she could stab the painting itself.
"She's dead. Dead. Dead. Dead."
"And you're using me as her substitute. Right?"
The room pulsed.
The flames in the fireplace cracked.
Something unseen slammed a door upstairs.
Lazareth stood still, silent, as if letting her wound herself with her own words.
But then… he moved.
Not rushed. Not aggressive.
Slow, controlled yet dangerous.
The kind of stillness predators had before the strike.
"You say her name like it's filth," he murmured, his voice lower than before.
"Like our love I've held all these years is a curse to you."
She tried to back away farther—
But the wall was already behind her.
His face, once ghostly serene, now carried a cold fury.
Not loud.
Niether violent.
But brutal.
"We had nothing. We never had. You're just confusing me with someone else. And I had someone else I loved. My long dead fiance, not you. I still only love him."
"You speak of him," he growled,
"Like I wasn't your first. Like I didn't bleed for you long before that man ever existed. That man was never worthy of you like I'm."
"Do you think just because you can't remember it, this curse never existed? The promises you made while the world hunted us? I still waited and waited. This love was the only thing which made me hold on to my sanity."
Her lip trembled, but she clenched her jaw. Why was it so painful? Seeing him hurt. But she didn't stop.
"I didn't promise you anything."
"No," he said darkly, voice dipped in venom,
"Because you've convinced yourself you're someone else."
The air shifted.
The candlelight twisted into long shadows that crawled up the walls like fingers.
Lazareth stepped closer—not walking, but appearing, inches from her face.
"But that's the thing about souls, darling."
"I remember—even when you lie to yourself."
She turned her face away, refusing to look him in the eye.
But his hand gently cupped her chin, forcing her gaze back to his.
Not hard.
But unyielding.
"You can burn the diary. Rip up the painting. Deny my name like it's a sin."
"But you will remember. No you have to remember because that is what your fate, our fate, you can't run away from it."
Her heart thundered.
"And whenyoudo," he whispered,
"You'll regret saying those hurtful words. Again."
Lazareth said before disappearing into thin air.
Again his expression. Something Elara will not be able to forget.
---
That night, Elara didn't sleep.
Because she couldn't.
Because every time she closed her eyes, she saw his same undeniable expression.
In past lives. In lace gowns. In blood. In fire.
In kisses stolen beneath chandeliers and in bodies buried beneath floorboards.
Because something was cracking in her head little by little.
Not loud—but steady.
Memories.
Old ones.
Not hers. And yet… hers.
—
Lazareth didn't show for a few days. All Elara's mind continued to crack fragments of unknown memories randomly in her mind.
Then one morning, the windows were all boarded shut.
Every clock was stuck at 3:13 AM.
She opened the closet—and found dresses that hadn't existed the day before.
Antique and dusty, her size.
Similar to her style.
A note tucked inside one sleeve in the same elegant handwriting:
"I still remember everything about us. It may be hard for you but please..."
"Try not to forget it again."
—