Page 57 of Revert
A tremor sparked behind my eyes, not a headache this time, but ashift. My breath caught as a single image unfolded—Castiel absent of his usual seriousness,smiling. Sleeves rolled to his elbows, soil on his hands, a half-finished trellis rising behind him. Dirt smudging my cheek, dimpled from smiling. A crown of garden blossoms in my hair.
Rather than blurring, the details sharpened. And for the first time, the echo didn’t fade, butlingered. As if the hidden part of me that had locked it away was finally ready to bring it into the light.
I let the vision wash over me, admiring both its clarity as well as the warmth and security it invoked—a pocket of joy I hadn’t known could exist in Thorndale. Slowly, I turned back to Castiel to find him watching me intently.
“We came here before. Often.” For once it wasn’t a question, but a quiet certainty. One I still didn’t quite understand, but which I could no longer deny.
Something flickered in the depths of his eyes as he held my gaze—grief, hope, and something even more fragile. “Yes,” he said softly. “We did.”
I stood still, the breath of memory brushing against my skin. The space between us felt charged, threaded with the fragile gravity of something returning.
Castiel stepped closer, his movements slow and careful, as if afraid any sudden motion might shatter whatever fragile thing we’d begun to recover. He lifted a hesitant hand and gently brushed a leaf from my hair. But once it was gone he didn’t withdraw, as if the invisible wall that once held him back had crumbled alongside my own fear. Instead, his touch lingered, just long enough for my breath to catch again.
“You always used to get leaves tangled in your hair,” he murmured. “No matter how careful you tried to be. “It used to be a game to see how many I could collect. But for the promised prize, the effort was well worth it.” His gaze flickered briefly to my lips before hastily looking away, shadowed by a flicker of pained longing.
A quiet laugh escaped—too soft to be a memory, too natural not to be. “How like me, to craft a prize I’d secretly long for myself.”
He smiled faintly, the expression fleeting but real. His hand moved, not to withdraw, but to trace a strand of hair behind my ear; the backs of his fingers brushed my cheek, warm and steady. The simple gesture sent a ripple through me—part shiver, part surrender.
Neither of us spoke. We didn’t need to, not when each exploratory gesture felt like its own kind of conversation, familiar and new all at once.
His hand dropped to his side, but he didn’t move away. The warmth between us remained, a tether I wasn’t ready to break. I wanted to follow it, to trace it back to every beginning we’d once had—until I knew each one intimately.
In that moment, time held still…but eventually, it moved again. He turned towards the deeper shadows behind the ruined walls. “There’s something I want to show you.”
He reached for my hand. This time, I didn’t hesitate. I laced my fingers in his once more, letting him lead me into the heart of the ruin towards whatever waited there, like a recollection ready to awaken.
The ground grew softer beneath our feet, patches of moss giving way to a worn path barely visible beneath the overgrowth, yet still well-tread, as if once walked dozens of times. Each step felt familiar, like venturing deeper into a forgotten memory. Ivy parted at Castiel’s touch as he guided me through a crumbling arch at the back of the ruin. Sunlight slanted through the trees in dappled beams. Just beyond the shadows, the air shifted—quiet and gentle, almost expectant.
We stepped into a hidden clearing…and I stilled. Golden daffodils swayed gently in the filtered light, their delicate faces lifted towards the sun. Some were just beginning to bloom, others fully open, bright and unguarded against the earth. They clustered at the base of a twisted birch tree, defiant against the ruin’s decay.
Tucked among the fallen stone, they flourished in secret. I hadn’t seen daffodils in any of the ornate flowerbeds of the courtyard in the palace grounds, as if every trace had been stripped away. But here they grew everywhere.
For a moment, I forgot to breathe, captivated by the soft yellow blooms swaying before me, their familiar perfume wrapping around me like the breath of summer. They reminded me of home, of my father, of the warmth I thought I’d left behind. And yet the ache they stirred had less to do with the past, and everything to do with the man standing quietly beside me.
“I wondered if daffodils grew anywhere on the palace grounds,” I murmured. “I’ve looked for them before, but they were hidden this entire time.”
“I learned long ago that the things I cherish most must be kept must be concealed.”
“There are so many.” Their presence felt almost too dreamlike to be real. I knelt to reverently trace a bloom, in awe of the resilient way they rose through the cracks of old stone. “It’s amazing how life can still emerge from the ruins.”
He reached towards one and caressed a petal between his fingers, his gaze almost wistful. The motion stirred the bloom gently, releasing its fragrance in a soft wave that reached me like an embrace.
“They don’t belong here,” he said softly. “The soil is too shallow, the seasons too harsh.” The corner of his mouth lifted upward with a touch of pride. “But I kept trying. Replanting, nursing them through frost. They always came back…even when I didn’t think they would.”
A flicker of warmth passed through me as I looked back at the blooms, touched by an echo of joy I couldn’t quite place. Silence bloomed between us, light and delicate, before I finally found my voice. “Daffodils are my favorite flower.”
“I know,” he said, quieter now. “You used to say they reminded you of sunlight on the coldest days.”
My throat tightened, heart stuttering as I looked away. That was what Father used to tell me during the long hours I’d spent by his bedside. I had no memory of ever sharing something so tender with Castiel. For him to know it, I would have had to trust him deeply.
Then I saw the tree. At first, it looked like any other in the grove—its bark mottled with age, branches half-bare. But something about it kept drawing my gaze, a quiet pull in mychest, as though my heart remembered something my mind could not.
I stepped closer. Carved low on the trunk where the ivy hadn’t reached, were two names. His…and mine. No titles, no symbols of alliance or duty—justCastielandBernice, joined by a small, crooked heart.
I reached out, fingertips brushing the weathered carving. The letters had softened with time, but were still legible. Not written for performance or show, not meant for anyone to see at all. A secret, carved in a place only we would return to.
“We used to sit beneath this tree,” I whispered. “Before the court, before the masks. We’d talk for hours about everything…and sometimes about nothing at all.”
