Merlin, he was awful. Had he always been like this? Had she been played the fool, blinded by what she thought was love? Or had she merely been an [i]exception[/i], as if she hadn’t been living proof that the old ways were flawed?

What did it say about her that, knowing this, she couldn’t make herself leave? Wasn’t she supposed to be better than this? Phoebe had no answers beyond the warmth of his hand, the way her skin lit up with millions of sparks when he squeezed her hand tight. It seemed a pathetic reason to ignore the bile he spoke. 

It was stupid, really. She shouldn’t want his help. He’d thrown in with the wrong sort, the sort that would very much like to see her stripped of a wand, at the very least. But Merlin, he was offering it, and she was so tempted. He was here, alive, and holding her hand and it was like the past ten years hadn’t happened. Except, the chills were starting properly now, and she had known nothing of grief back then.

“You—“ she couldn’t think straight anymore. It was near impossible to string words together. Everything was swimming in golden lights and shadows. She squeezed her eyes shut. How was the room still spinning? Her fingers clutched onto his hands desperately, but Phoebe couldn’t spare a thought to hate herself for it. It was a monumental effort to get the words out with some semblance of coherence. “I just… w-want to to g-g-go home.”