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Chapter Text

[. . .]

"My love, listen to me..."

[. . .]

Chapter 1

Burning Sapphire

[. . .]

When Marinette wakes, she expects to be in her bed, healthy as can be.

What she does not expect is waking up to an unbearable throbbing in her head and the taste of metallic crimson on her tongue. The startling pain prompts her to release a hiss from her parting lips, swallowing and grimacing at the parched itching in her throat and the onerous rust clinging to her bones that becomes prominent when she unconsciously reaches for her skull with her hand.

Ugh.

Her eyes flutter, adjusting to the sunlight that comes into the room fiercer than she remembers. The warmth kissing her skin has her scrunching her brows in simmering irritation, questioning why on Earth the unforgiving blaze is coloring her shut eyelids a vexing vermillion. Has her maman opened the trap door to let the air in? It would explain the smell of pottery and plant life, though why her mother decides to do so while she's sleeping is beyond her.

Didn't Plantie die a couple of days ago?

Marinette cannot pay it any attention.

She's far too diverted by the miserable state her body has decided to remain in as she turns away from the light.

Unsure of whether to get up to take medicine in case she's getting sick or to meddle in misery for the duration of this abrupt ache, Marinette rubs the moundy flesh of her forehead in an effort to soothe the pulsating weight that grows the further she rouses from a slumber she doesn't recall falling into. Her mind struggles to form a thought from beyond what got her here, and for a second, she considers calling her mother for help.

Except, when she shifts her body, her unmoving hand grazes against brocade silk, and the touch stops her cold. It's the very kind she's been saving toward for two birthdays now—rare, coveted, and unmistakable. She knows it instantly from the raised designs pressed beneath her fingertips, from the smooth, wax-like glide of the fabric as it crinkles faintly under her hand.

She takes a handful, and the fabric presses together.

This has to be a dream.

Stranger and stranger still, Marinette forces her eyes to open fully to take in the delight of the material she's been hoping to get for her latest project that she's yet to catch up on, thanks to everyday life. The silk is rich beneath her fingers, patterned in a way that hums of wealth, of hands far more skilled than hers, weaving its story.

It takes a lazy second, but Marinette finally manages to look, just to pause.

This doesn't look like her room.

As a matter of fact, Marinette is twenty. She hasn't lived in her parents' bakery for over a year now. This is no homey, cheap apartment complex, either. Stone walls breathe old shadows, air spiced faintly with incense, too heavy and far too still.

Blearily, she squints at the shadowy figure inclined with their knees tucked below them, a few feet from her. Broad shoulders roll with ease beneath what appears like dark robes, posture exact, not casual but perfect. A figure emerges from the gloom—sharp angles, skin kissed bronze, a jaw like cut stone. A face. A very pretty face with emerald eyes that shine brighter under the invasive sun, eyes that don't merely look at her but pierce, weighing her like a secret.

"Huh?" Marinette's boggled mind blurts out, taking in the first feature that clarifies itself, even through the haze. She's just so tired. "What's a supermodel doing in my room...?"

She never receives her answer.

Her mind shuts down, fatigued by her lowly efforts to return to the world of the living.

[. . .]

Unbeknownst to the beautiful woman who seems to have gone asunder into the realm of sleep again, Damian al Ghul straightens further from the perched position he has spent the last two hours observing her from.

He kneels atop a low stone dais set against the chamber wall, knees tucked neatly beneath him in the traditional stance of discipline his grandfather once demanded. The weight of his presence fills the silence; even seated, the new Head of the Demon looks like a figure carved into the architecture itself—unmoving, patient, and sovereign.

It's a stark difference to the bafflement he'd felt only a few hours prior, when this woman landed unprompted into his arms.

"It is her," His mother's voice confirms, smooth and certain, from just behind him.

Talia al Ghul steps forward from the watching shadows with unhurried grace. The faint rustle of fine fabric whispers against the stone floor, intent in sound. Her beauty is as commanding as it is ageless—sharp cheekbones are framed by cascading waves of the richest browns of hair, eyes the color of polished jade catching even the dimmest light, and lips curved in an enigmatic half-smile that conceals more than it reveals.

She tilts her head ever so slightly, scrutinizing the woman draped across the carved wooden chaise. The woman's fragile form and the words she uttered—etched deep into Damian's chest and fate alike—hold her attention, though Talia's gaze is measured, weighing, already calculating what this presence might mean for him.

They linger on the woman's bare, wordless chest.

Damian remains still, dismissing the wanton balm of irrational warmth that coils around his heart. "Was there any doubt?" He asks, never straying his eyes away.

His mother studies. "Some," She admits. She uses the sleek, sharp tip of her blade to pitch the woman's head up for a better look. The angle of her jawline is almost sharper than the blade itself. "Her beauty is undeniable. Perfect for you, my son. It only raises the question of whether she was chosen by our enemies to seduce you properly," She states in careful calculation, angling her head in a manner that makes sure she's giving her full attention to the twenty-one-year-old Demon Head.

Damian raises an eyebrow.

Talia's gaze lingers on him, sharp and appraising, before flicking toward the girl once more. "The last two they sent were pitiful, hardly worth your notice," She remarks, her voice smooth yet edged with disdain. "I had assumed this third would be no different. Another act of desperation, their final insult. Yet much to my surprise, this one is not only different, but destined." She hums. "It seems, my son, that even fate has chosen to indulge in your discernment."

Damian offers no reply, his silence as cold and immovable as stone.

His mother reads the dismissal easily, sliding her blade back into its sheath with practiced elegance. "Very well," she concedes, her tone carrying both authority and amusement. "I'll leave her in your care. But do not linger too long over your beloved, my son. The day of your consummation is yet to come."

Her boldness stirs no flicker of reaction in Damian; her words fall away, unheeded, against the iron wall of his indifference.

He tracks his mother's departure only at the edge of his vision, watching her figure dissolve into the shadows with the servants trailing behind her.

When the chamber falls into silence once more, Damian allows his hand to drift to the armored plate over his chest, fingers pressing lightly over the covered words as his gaze settles on the slumbering figure sprawled across the chaise. The glare he casts is thoughtful, edged with caution, weighing the danger veiled within her beauty.

Though he had never imagined her face before, he can't dismiss his mother's claim of the woman's loveliness.

Her skin carries the smoothness of porcelain, warmed faintly by a peach undertone. Black hair frames it in lustrous waves, soft as raven feathers and carefully kept. Her lips are gentle, almost downy, but it's her eyes that haunt him the most—sapphires bright and unclouded, the same gaze that had caught his earlier and refused to release him until she fell back into her exhaustion. A delicate nose and the natural flush across her cheeks complete the portrait, giving her the kind of radiance poets might waste ink upon.

Bathed in the filtered sunlight, she could almost be mistaken for a goddess—by anyone but him.

For Damian, nothing has changed.

Not from the first time he was told of her as a child, nor now, after seeing her face. His mother might believe time and proximity will temper his skepticism, that her presence will warm something inside him that his grandfather had killed. But in his eyes, she remains what she has always been: a complication, a liability, and perhaps, a threat to the League.

Since learning at a young age that he harbored a soulmate with an idiotic set of words, he's been indifferent. His grandfather had, at first, claimed him burdened with a weakness like the rest of the population. His cruel remarks condemning his existence had made Mother angry, so much so that Damian had seen her kill many men as a vent source.

Though Damian never discovered or cared for as to why. His grandfather had been correct in his assessment.

Had.

Because of that anger, his mother had sought out a private elite to research the permanent mark on his heart and soul. It took nearly a year to uncover something beyond what fate allowed that pleased his grandfather so greatly that Damian had been forced to accept that he couldn't get rid of what tethered him to his scarce humanity.

"A woman of limitless power," The Hooded Elite who practiced black magic announced, bowed and calm in front of the standing Head. Damian was seated to the side of his Mother's rigid right arm at the time, taking in the information with a grain of salt.

Just because fate has given him a soulmate of striking beauty does not mean Damian will accept her.

Beauty, after all, holds no sway over him.

He had been surrounded by it his entire life—reflected back at him in the mirror, embodied in his mother, who had taught him that his worth was forged in discipline and legacy, not appearances. He had seen beauty in more subtle forms as well: in the quiet order of a garden at dawn, in the stillness of a mountain shrouded in mist, even in the grace of animals he dares not grow close to.

To him, beauty is not a gift—it's a distraction, and attachments born from it are nothing but liabilities.

Everything that his soulmate represents so far is a bore. A chore. Someone that he must let in, even though he doesn't know how or want to.

But.

Damian isn't cruel enough not to give her a chance, either. If it pleases his mother's notable temper, then he'll allow the girl some leisure. She has the right to prove herself worthy of his interest; if she does eventually grasp it, he'll even consider her ruling by his side.

But for now, Damian is fine. He can do everything himself as he was born to do. An accursed Soulmate, said to be the strongest woman of this time, is a passing thought unless proven otherwise.

Standing, Damian gives his betrothed one last, abiding look before vacating the room.

He has duties to attend to.

[. . .]

Marinette wakes up a second time.

This time, however, she's not as disoriented as the first. No, the instant she opens her eyes and blinks past the cooling breeze of the night sky, she sits up, alarmed and questioning why she's in an open, sanded area decorated in marvelous silks billowing entrancingly, rather than in her apartment in Saint-Étienne. Her head whips around, her heart lapping at her throat, bewildered.

There is colorful plant life all around her. Trimmed vines line the walls, hanging loose many assortments of flowers in current bloom. Flowers that Marinette knows are not native to France, nor should they be thriving, because France is cold this time of year.

I'm not in France.

She makes to move to figure out where she could have gone, faltering briefly to thumb the product of fabrics and pillows she lies above, checking herself for clothes.

She's wearing her white sundress.

Wait.

She rubs her head, feeling cold and hungry.

She was supposed to visit her parents today. Which she remembers being late for, so she went to use Kaalki's teleportation and—

The sound of worn, huge doors opening has her snapping her head in the direction of it.

Her eyes widen when she takes in the man who enters through the doors.

Standing tall, clad in dark armor with a black cape cascading down his back, a stranger's piercing emerald eyes hone in on her with an intensity that challenges her to dare and gaze back. His hair is black as midnight and his skin a bistered wood, glossed by the moon's glow. In his right hand, he grips a long, gleaming sword that immediately has her hackles up, despite knowing that any form of weaponry cannot pierce her skin anymore, thanks to her meddling years as Ladybug.

For a second, her mind splits in distraction.

Wait. Where's Tikki?

Before she can subtly pat around for her little friend, the man, seeming momentarily astounded she's awake, finally approaches her.

Marinette doesn't move. She knows she should. She should be furious, demanding to know why this stranger dragged her to some unknown place without so much as a word of consent. Yet instead, she finds herself distracted, caught up in the severe, polished handsomeness of him. The symmetry of his features, the measured precision of every motion, is... It's ridiculous, but for a moment, she simply stares.

He stops his approach, no more than a foot away from where she lies.

"أنتِ مستيقظة."

Her mind blanks.

Crud. What did he just say?

His emerald eyes narrow at her silence, reading her too easily. His scrutiny presses down on her.

Then, flatly, he states in perfect French: "You only speak French, don't you."

Her brows lift in bewilderment. Kidnapper or not, how on earth could he know that? Unless... unless she'd mumbled something incriminating in her sleep. The thought makes her face heat.

"Ah—yes?" she blurts, the word tumbling out before she can think better of it. Then, scrambling, she waves her hand as though that could soften the ridiculousness of the moment. "Wait, no—I mean, I also speak Mandarin and English. Cantonese too." The list pours out in a rush, unbidden, as if that detail will somehow improve her circumstances.

And even as the words leave her mouth, she wonders if she's cracked her skull somewhere along the way—because she's actually considering small talk with her very probable kidnapper.

The considerate look she receives from said potential kidnapper after her statement makes her raise an eyebrow. "Nothing more?" He sounds disappointed.

He cannot be serious.

"Is there a requirement now when it comes to kidnapping?" She deadpans, analyzing him now that the fog of his attractiveness fades to reality. There's not much she missed. Besides his immediate weapon, she can't see any more of them, nor any evidence that leans into sinister intentions. Besides possible weaponry that hides beneath the armor in quickly accessible areas, she won't know what he plans on doing to her unless he makes nuanced, distinguishing movements.

There's also the matter of how he got her here.

The only conclusion that comes to mind is she must've misused Kaalki's teleportation power, but that's very out of character for her. Marinette hadn't done anything to trigger Kaalki enough to be sent somewhere that feels like it's riddled with death.

No... maybe not death.

It feels too eerily similar to Plagg's energy.

The handsome stranger offers no reply. Instead, his hand lifts, reaching for her face with calm, deliberate intent. Marinette panics a bit and moves faster. She surges to her feet, intercepting him mid-motion and catching his wrist before he can touch her.

For the briefest flicker, surprise breaks through his stoic mask before he buries it again beneath that practiced detachment. His hand flexes against her hold, testing her strength with subtle shifts, but her grip remains firm, unyielding. His eyes cut away from her for just a moment, down to where her fingers lock around his wrist, measuring the defiance that refuses to yield to him.

A few tense minutes go by, where he strains various times to see if he can break free.

He'll be more disappointed, she thinks. Because she's a Guardian and because of her ownership of the True Ladybug title bestowed by Tikki, Marinette has received powers of her own in her civilian form. No longer is her strength lacking; rather, now, she has the power to stop even continents from colliding—in suit, planets.

It comes with the job of babysitting little Gods, she supposes.

It's both a blessing and a curse.

She’s about to let him go, admonishing herself for her sudden reaction, when he suddenly uses his other hand to incapacitate her. Or, she thinks. Because she grabs that one too the instant she notices the quick sweep, keeping the sword held in it upright, away from her face.

"You're strong," He observes, finally relenting. His muscles go slack. He looks impressed.

That annoys her. She lets him go and steps back completely, frowning warily. He keeps the distance. "And you tested that by trying to attack me…?" What the heck is wrong with this guy?

"Yes," He tells her like she's stupid.

Sniffing disdainfully, she crosses her arms. "Couldn't you have just asked me? Instead of, oh, I don't know... being violent?"

They both stare at each other.

He levels her with an unreadable expression. "...You wake up in an unfamiliar place with a man who is possibly your kidnapper, and that is your main concern?"

"Ahah!" She points at his face, and she's mildly impressed he doesn't flinch, "So you admit you kidnapped me!"

"I did nothing of the sort," he replies, voice even, detached. "It was you who came to me, here."

Marinette furrows her brows. "And where exactly is here?" She gestures around.

"You appeared before me in a beam of light," the stranger recounts evenly, his gaze fixed on her with unnerving intent. "As for where you are—that, I will not share. You trespassed on ground never meant for outsiders, and the fault is yours alone."

Her eye twitches. He can't be serious. "Then I'm leaving," She tells him, stoic and completely over it. Her parents must be worried sick about her. She won't stay here and entertain a crazy man who may or may not know she has powers. "I am not remaining somewhere against my will, especially with a man I don't even know."

His eyes sharpen. "You will not leave," The stranger declares dangerously low.

Marinette looks unimpressed. "No? And who says?"

Her fight reflexes snap awake, cataloguing weaknesses with machine speed. The softest target she finds is his stomach—a curve of padded armor that, if she can drive her heel into the seam, will collapse inward and press into the flesh beneath. Maybe she's wrong; maybe the padding is tougher than it looks. Still, anywhere will do. It's a blunt calculus: strike hard, strike fast. Arrogant or not, she knows the force she can muster, and she trusts it to unmake him.

Once she figures out where she is, she's going to incarcerate the heck out of him for taking her away from home.

"I do." He enunciates each syllable with the slow precision of a proclamation, as if she's supposed to recognize him as a celebrity or something. "My name is Damian al Ghul, Demon Head of the League of Assassins." He leans closer, voice low and certain. "As Head, I order you to remain. Defy me, and you will learn the meaning of cruel consequence." He declares slowly with promising intent, looming over her short frame.

Damian, huh? She considers his words, but the familiarity with the name doesn't last long. Whether she knows him or not, he shouldn't be talking to her like that.

Before she can push his head back from invading her personal space, she hears and sees several shadowy figures land around her. Her affronted countenance drops to a placid cautiousness, taking her eyes off him to look around. The count of individuals rises to about thirty. Thirty-five, to be precise. Easy pickings, though Marinette can never be too sure. She doesn't know if they have Miraculous-Forged weaponry that may hurt her. She needs to tread lightly.

"You'll obey," Damian declares.

Okay. Nevermind.

Well, she concedes in disappointment, looks like I have to fight on my day off.

"Nope!" She chirps before kicking him in his midsection and running off.

Her attack must've been unexpected because it landed hard enough to send him reeling into the ornate wall, the crack spiderwebbing across plaster that probably costs more than her entire apartment. There's no time to feel guilty for it because she's already bolting through the doors without a backward glance, running headlong into her own reckless plan before doubt can catch up.

The shadows pursue her immediately.

She has no idea where she's going. As soon as she's out of the imposing doors, she's met with torch-lit, long pathways going in every which direction. There are tall halls she weaves through when she chooses a path on a whim, following the compass of the bright stars scattered in the sky. It's only on her fourth course that she curses to herself because she could've simply jumped out the open window in the original room she was in and escaped through there.

Idiot, idiot, she repeats, checking back to see if the shadows are still on her ass.

They are. And they're multiplying.

She can't call on Tikki or Kaalki. They're nowhere to be seen.

She's going to have to rely on her wits, this time. As always.

At each end of the tracks she takes, there are continually many opponents waiting for her. They swarm in greater numbers, slicing at the air she once stood on, forcing her to either jump over them or shoulder through them to continue her hopeless escape.

It arrives at the point where she must engage in combat. There are simply too many.

Without breaking a sweat, Marinette sweeps her legs, shoots her arms out in consecutive punches, dodges, and effortlessly brings down groups of some, uncaring of the blades endeavoring to slice her skin. Her hits release shockwaves that bring them down like bowling pins, which lets her have a clear path she can escape through.

Unfortunately, like the pests they are, more come to replace those she knocks out.

They all have some form of armor. Their faces are hidden, and they all rise, uncaring if she's broken a bone to incapacitate them. They're ruthless. And annoying as fuck.

She goes on like this for a long while. Swatting them away, limiting her strength to not traumatize herself more by looking at organs if she's not careful.

Finally, finally, she brings her elbow back to dislodge the last of the assassin-like individuals she's only ever seen in movies.

They fall amongst the bodies circling her.

She exhales roughly, bringing the fallen strap of her dress up her shoulder. That prompts her to inspect herself. Her heart drops. Her dress is in tatters.

This one was my favorite, she internally mopes, turning around to finally leave.

Except just out of her reach, the stranger whose name is Damian stands completely unharmed.

"You passed the test," Damian Stupid al Ghul says, walking up and over the motionless bodies. He looks annoyed, so she opens her mouth to tell him he's insane, but then his words catch up to her.

She lowers her fists, baffled. "What?"

"You are worthy," He restates, peeking to his right where one of the assassins groans and tries to get up, just for him to boot him down.

Marinette makes a noise of confusion. "Worthy for what?"

"To be my wife."

A pin drops.

What?!

Chapter Text

[. . .]

" رَبُّ السَّماءِ، فيك الرجاءِ

في عينيها أرى الحياةِ

آتِي إِلَيْكَ مِنْ هَذا الكَوْنِ

أرجوك، رَبِّي، لَبِّي نِدائي "

[. . .]

Chapter 2

Elusive Chrysolite

[. . .]

The whispering psithurism of the towering trees drape shifting shadows across her form.

A restless breeze tugs at her tangled hair, teasing the hem of her dress, and carries the long white strips of torn fabric fluttering over the lifeless bodies scattered nearest to her. Torchlight, fickle yet unrelenting, casts its glow across the Demon Head's austere features, lighting each step he takes forward with the striking certainty of a promise she doesn't want to find out.

Marinette wastes no breath.

"No."

Her answer comes sharp, unhesitating, though softened by the civility he doesn't deserve.

Amid the ring of fallen bodies, Damian and Marinette stand opposed. The air between them remains heavy with the copper sting of blood and the smell of metal chafed one too many times against stone.

He doesn't react to her refusal. There's no shift in stance, nor a flicker across his face that would betray what he thinks. His posture remains exact, with shoulders squared, chin lifted, and the same, glistening blade at his side catching the torchlight, as if waiting for her answer all along. He continues to stare at her, expression unchanged, with no reveal of any of his intentions.

The silence presses harder than any reply. Marinette can't tell if he weighs her words or discards them, just that his presence, unyielding, feels like some ancient stone beneath her feet. Like something cold, solid, something that gives nothing away of what lies within.

It's a bit... uncanny.

She feels cold—the breeze of twilight filters through the incisions of her latest creation. "I'm... flattered, really," She adds genuinely, and her continued statement doesn't change a thing. Encouraged, she continues: "But I can't accept something like that. For starters, your first impression could use some work. Forcing a girl to fight her way through an elite squad of..."

"Assassins," He says in her momentary pause.

She blinks. "Right. Assassins. I don't think making me fight through a horde of them—and forcing me to hurt people in the process—is the best way to convince me to be your wife. It was cruel, and it could've been avoided if you hadn't backed me into a corner. And my second reason? I barely even know you." She cannot believe she's talking to the leader of a cult of assassins, right now. She should be angry. Infuriated. Terrified, even, because if they had Miraculous-powered forgery, then she could've been seriously harmed.

But like the understanding idiot she is, all she feels is vexed sympathy for denying a future wedding he seems so earnest about. As twisted as it is.

Maybe Kagami is right when she tells Marinette she's too nice for her own good. Marinette should be knocking Damian unconscious and taking her escape to figure out her situation, not halting her plan to inform the man of the wrongdoings that a normal person should know are immoral.

Maybe it's more Plagg's influence than Tikki's—curiosity killed the cat, after all, and Marinette is shamed to confess that she is a little too flattered (but mostly floored) by a gorgeous man's proposal. Hence why she might, maybe, perhaps, be stalling instead of looking at the reality (where Tikki is missing since she's yet to have seen her anywhere), that she's facing nothing but the torn clothes on her back.

Is she delaying her impending freak out? Yes. Is she doing it via healthy, normal measures? Haha, no.

"That is easily remedied," Damian replies without hesitation, his tone even and unshaken. "There is no urgency. We can take the time to become properly acquainted before the union is made official." He speaks as though the matter is already decided, with his certainty unbending. To Marinette, it only cements his delusion—a fresh entry on her ever-growing list of red flags.

A pretty guy finally likes me, and he's crazy. Why is this my life?

She rubs her temple, exasperated. "No, Mr. al Ghul—"

"Damian."

Marinette pauses. "...What?"

His gaze doesn't waver. "You may use my given name."

"Um... I'll stick with your surname, for now," she mumbles, trying to regain her thread. "Anyway, I don't think you're hearing me."

"I hear you well enough," Damian replies smoothly. "You do not know me. That is easily corrected."

Oh my God.

"Maybe I wasn't clear enough," Marinette says with a frown. Kagami has told her more than once that bluntness isn't her strong suit, and she knows it's something she needs to work on. "I don't want to know you. Not after you tried to hurt me."

Liar, Plagg's dry voice needles from the corners of her mind. She ignores it. Whether it's her imagination or one of the lingering side effects from Miraculi, she refuses to give it weight now. Master Fu hadn't been all there, and Marinette's not going to wonder if she's heading down the same path she'd been shoved into against her will.

Damian's face is devoid of emotion. "You are not hurt, nor can you be. You show exceptional combative skills, and your skin is impenetrable to the specially forged weaponry of the League. You handled an impromptu attack with the finesse of a masterful warrior."

Marinette shakes her head. So much for keeping my powers secret. "Okay. I'm not going to enter a rabbit hole trying to teach you what it means to try to hurt someone. My question is this: what if I didn't have all those qualities?" She challenges.

"In that case, you would be dead—unworthy to bear the title of my soulmate," the Demon Head states with cold precision.

Marinette feels a faint ache tug at her chest. He could've at least worded it with more kindness. Her luck with men, it seems, remains as cursed as ever. Still, though. She can respect the brutal honesty for what it is. He makes things clear and easy enough for her to distinguish why getting with him would be a terrible idea.

"Then I want nothing to do with you," she replies flatly. Her eyes catch nothing amiss. Even after another refusal, he remains the same. It's like he doesn't care. "I don't know why you think I'm your soulmate, or why my worth to you hinges only on how well I can fight, but I want no part of that. If you want me as your wife, then you need to accept every part of me—flaws included."

Not that she intends to say yes to him. She isn't sure why she even bothers arguing her point. She's not staying here long.

Damian doesn't so much as blink. His voice is level. "There is no need. You are without flaw. Everything you are already fulfills what I require."

Her lips lift into a rueful smile. That was... surprisingly sweet. Or would've been, if they'd come from someone else. "Thank you, but I'm not who you're looking for." Maybe if he were a childhood friend telling her this, it would've been different. But they've just met. And the only reason he calls her perfect is because she proved herself useful.

Damian hums. "You must be. You are my soulmate." He says this like it's a fact.

She keeps her face carefully blank. "Okay... Why do you think I'm your soulmate? Those only exist in the spiritual plane." Rarely, she adds dismally. The vibes a person mirrors are sometimes in sync with one another. Marinette learned this when Tikki explained why Adrien wasn't made for her.

Someone else has better romantic synergy, Tikki had said.

Marinette later became depressed at the knowledge that she and Adrien could only be the best of friends, but she got over it soon enough when Plagg began to teach her how to tell which soul was made for whom. It served as a distraction until it didn't. The couples and friendships she brought together were worth every penny of her tragedy, though.

"Incorrect," Damian's voice sinks its claws through her train of thought, causing her to draw herself back into the conversation that should've been over an hour ago. "Soulmates manifest in the mortal plane through words etched upon the skin. Other differentiations exist, though they are exceedingly rare. In our case, fate bound us the moment we spoke our first words to one another."

Marinette is extremely confused. "Uh. I'm sorry, but I don't recall having any words on my skin. Ever."

Damian looks at her chest shamelessly. "Then care to explain to me why my first words to you are written across your chest?"

Marinette looks down, uncertain of what he means—

There are golden words of a foreign language above her left breast.

She stills. "These... weren't here before," She murmurs, baffled, reaching to scratch at them. She pulls back with a hiss when it burns, and in front of her, Damian continues to watch in eerie silence while her skin mends itself back together.

"Careful," He murmurs, and she snaps her head up at him, horrified. "Recently founded soulmates run the risk of serious injury. You cannot touch your soulmate's mark unless you are fond of bleeding to death."

Marinette's face drops to a grimace. "Are you serious?"

"Very."

She runs a hand down her face. "Is there anything else I should know that will make this situation even worse?" She grits, suddenly immensely regretful of her choice to stand around and humor the delusional man. This is what she gets for avoiding her problems.

He inclines his head slightly. Something about that looks condescending. Coupled with his imposing height, the gesture makes him seem all the more superior. "...Are you truly ignorant of the concept most in the world are familiar with? Children are taught about soulmates by the time they reach five years of age. Unless you have lived in confinement of necessary knowledge your entire life?"

Marinette stares at him.

He keeps going. "You do not lack critical thinking skills. Your strategic maneuvering and the creative methods you used to take down my battalion are meritorious. Surely, throughout the trials of your life, you have looked at your reflection somewhere and questioned what my words on your chest could mean?"

She inhales, tired. 'My words,' he says. Marinette adds to the list: possessive. "I never questioned them because I never had them before. And no, I've never been confined. My parents are lovely people. If soulmates were a physical, mortal thing, I would've known."

Damian tilts his head like he knows something she doesn't. "Then why don't you?"

Marinette frowns, unsure. "I don't know."

Their conversation enters an abysmal silence.

They are left to observing each other once more; Marinette, mentally processing his words and the resulting severity of where she could be stranded, and Damian, memorizing his future lover's expressions in case she ever betrays him.

Marinette is thankful Damian shuts up because she grimly takes up this reprieve to compartmentalize that she is farther away from home than she thought. Initially, she believed she must've woken up in a different country. It's happened before when Akumas still hunkered around before the defeat of Hawkmoth. One bad hit from a sleeping Akuma and Kaalki or Pegusus had to use their power to send her somewhere else.

But learning of Damian's confusion and the patterned, beautiful lettering stitched onto her skin has brought her to a worrisome conclusion.

She's on Earth, alright.

Just not on her Earth.

She's in another damn dimension.

That explains why Alix isn't here to pick me up and put me back, Marinette concludes.

Then her heart drops to her stomach.

And Tikki isn't here.

Hastily, she reaches for her ears to feel for her earrings—they're still there.

She relaxes, but the solace of still having her Miraculous isn't enough. There are too many things she's missing. Kaalki, Kaalki's Miraculous, her phone, her purse... Too many variables.

"You're scared."

Marinette looks up at him again.

His eyes are searching. "Why?"

"What?" She blurts.

"You are afraid," he observes again, his voice softer this time, almost deceptively so. "You should not be. You have already solidified my belief that, should I challenge you, I will lose. I am humble enough to admit that," His tone remains calm, as though stating a fact rather than offering comfort.

It's creepy.

"Um..."

He's swift to continue. "Tell me—do you guard a weakness I can exploit? Is that why you are afraid?" He steps closer, and Marinette instinctively retreats, only to collide with a cold body behind her. A startled yelp escapes her as she flails, tipping backward, but before she can hit the ground, Damian's hand closes firmly around her arm, pulling her upright against the solid weight of his chest.

She tenses, snapping her head to look up at him, bewildered.

He stares back down. Slowly, his hand on her arm drags down in a single, gentle stroke, ceasing when his palm holds hers.

"Ahah, um..." She side-eyes him, making a bit of distance, glancing at the appendage. "No, no weakness...?" When she feels his thumb caressing her hand, she gains back her wits and snatches it away. "No. I'm not afraid."

Thankfully, he drops his hand. "Worried, then."

Marinette makes a face. "Sort of," She admits.

"Of what?"

She scratches the back of her neck, shivering at the increasing prickliness of the cold. She might enter hibernation if it's any damn colder than this. And this is coming from inside this tremendous labyrinth! Though it makes sense because there's no roof to go off of, hence the rows of trees covering it all. They're... unfairly pretty, too.

Ugh.

Damian takes notice of her discomfort and steps back, giving her some space. "This is not the place for discourse," he states evenly as his gaze flicks over their grim surroundings before settling back on her with unwavering intent. "We will continue where the air is less... polluted."

She looks down at the bodies, hiding a wince. Is he not going to do anything about that?

Damian is already turning away.

She holds her head. I guess not.

Once again, neither his tone nor his bearing betrays a single thought. Marinette becomes keenly aware that Damian is far more calculating than she first assumed. His responses are devoid of inflection, yet he speaks with a certainty that makes it seem he knows truths about her she hasn't admitted to herself—truths she isn't supposed to be. It leaves her wondering just how much he conceals beneath that composed exterior.

Still, she reminds herself, his mastery doesn't extend to force. He admitted as much: if he challenged her, he would lose. Both of them understand that nothing he does could bind her here—not against her will.

This makes Marinette feel only a slight bit better.

But.

The weight of his awareness—that she is otherwise undefeatable—loses all meaning in the face of one undeniable fact.

I'm in a different dimension, Marinette thinks glumly, nodding to herself and deliberately ignoring the faint, mesmerizing gleam in his emerald eyes. I don't know this world.

She has to stay.

...For now.

[. . .]

The room Damian leads her to mirrors the one she woke up in.

Walls of warm caramel are adorned with an array of flowers, some she can identify with careful study: rhododendrons, Himalayan monkshoods, delicate saussureas, and the rare blue poppies of alpine meadows. A few clusters of primulas peek from shadowed corners, their bright petals contrasting against the soft greens and golds of the room.

They're in the mountains. The Himalayas, then. The flowers give it away, and the only reason she knows is because she's been here before. She's been everywhere on Earth at this point, considering her job as a hero. Or, well, former job.

Through the open windows, the mountain view is far grander, and a shiver reminds her why she's cold.

Is this even my world? She wonders, quickly averting her gaze before Damian can read any hint of plotting in her expression.

Her eyes drift to the silken drapes, soft and flowering, that sway beside the open walls where the greenery ends, containing a muted sage that brushes against intricately engraved pillars. Bits of furnishings catch her eye: low cabinetry, benches, daybeds, and a divan arranged with meticulous care. Under her feet, a vast forest-green rug sprawls across the stone floor, embroidered with the golden floral patterns echoing the walls.

She takes a moment to marvel at it, letting the quiet beauty anchor her, before following after Damian, who takes a step toward the center of the room.

Damian lowers himself onto a diminutive velvet cushion in front of a low, wooden spheroidal table, meticulously arranged with an assortment of treats. Small platters hold spiced yak cheese bites, delicate barley and apricot sweets, and tiny honey-drizzled walnut cakes dusted with powdered cardamom. Bowls of fresh mountain berries and dried goji berries add more color, while steaming cups of green tea infused with other possible Himalayan herbs complete the spread.

Marinette hesitates near the table, unsure if he expects her to sit. When he gestures subtly, she takes the only available spot across from him, perching on the cushion with measured caution.

He observes her quietly.

She sweeps her eyes over the delicacies, lingering on the spiced yak cheese bites and the honeyed walnut cakes, then looks away. Hungry she may be, she can't bring herself to trust anything placed before her. It's also creepy that he had a convenient room ready for their discussion. She hadn't seen him tell anyone to fix this all up.

Damian notices. "Are you hungry?" He asks calmly. His hand indicates over the table. "Take what you require. That is why this is here, after all."

She studies him, trying—again—to read his intentions. But nothing surfaces. He is disturbingly unfeeling, appearing like a model of control that borders on robotic. Those emerald eyes, too bright, like leaves with golden sunlight shining through them, fix on her without so much as a flicker of distraction. She thinks that if she shines a light in them, it'll reflect.

The vehemence of them presses against her, and she can't help the tiny frustration coiling tightly inside her chest.

She can't figure him out. Not even a hint of what he thinks, what he feels, or if he even feels at all.

This entire time, he's been nothing but blank. Just... empty.

She swallows. The gaze is captivating, but there is a coldness beneath it that makes her skin prickle, as if demanding a silent challenge of who looks away first. But she can't look at anything but him. It makes her feel inexplicably aware of him in every way.

She doesn't know what to feel other than wary.

"It's alright," she murmurs, waving a weak hand. "I've eaten already."

"I see," Damian replies. A slow, deliberate tilt of his head carries no anger, just a quiet, inexorable certainty. "It is, of course, your choice whether you eat anything or not." The words are polite, but his stare remains unblinking and just as unsettling, reminding her that this is likely just his illusion of choice. There's something he isn't telling her, and Marinette is determined to find out what.

A beat passes before he adds, almost like an afterthought, "Consider it nothing more than an apology for my earlier... misjudgement."

Marinette eyes him warily. Suspicion prickles at the back of her mind, telling her that this is not all that it seems. But maybe she's just anxious. Something about him is contradicting two clashing thoughts: that it's nice if he does intend this as a lackluster apology, but there are, for sure, hidden motives that she can't, for the life of her, figure out.

She feels like she's being rude. Maybe Damian does mean well, and here she is, judging him.

Don't let guilt make your decisions, Kagami's hissing voice echoes in her thoughts.

Marinette sweats.

She doesn't know what to think.

Without breaking eye contact, Damian reaches for a piece of dried apricot, takes a bite, and chews slowly. It's as if he's trying to show her that there is nothing wrong with the food.

That constant, unnerving watchfulness makes her stomach tighten more than any hunger pang.

Okay.

Suspicious or not, Damian ordered someone to prepare this food, and the least she can do is appreciate it. If poison or such happens to be in it, it's fine. Her body will flush it out. Again, thanks to the ingrained powers of the Miraculi. She has an advantage over him.

She reaches for the honey-drizzled walnut cakes first.

The sticky residue coats her index and thumb, and she takes a small bite of a corner wedge.

The taste bursts over her tongue—sweet, rich, laced with a subtle spice she can't immediately name. Against her better judgment, her expression softens; she perks up despite herself.

"This is... good," she admits.

"Naturally. I allow only the finest chefs to prepare every meal. Anything less than exemplary is unworthy of consideration," Damian states, his tone clipped and factual.

She doesn't quite like that response, but she does like the food. "My compliments to the chef, then," She mumbles, and takes another bite. She can hear Kagami scolding her for her dismissive nature (considering Damian had tried to kill her, who's to say he won't try via poison?), but the walnut cakes are speaking louder.

Damian continues to watch her. Surprisingly, it doesn't make her lose her appetite.

Whatever power she used from Kaalki must've taken a lot, because suddenly she's so hungry.

She polishes off the first walnut cake in seconds, then pauses, fingers hovering uncertainly over the tray. Damian inclines his head in the barest of gestures—permission, or perhaps expectation—and she shyly plucks up another before she can overthink it.

Content as she is to enjoy a free sweet treat, she wonders if she's shallow for being easily pleased over the act of being given good food. It's one of her love languages, after all. Nonetheless, Marinette doesn't dismiss the obvious of what transpired earlier—she was chased to be killed and technically told she only survived due to natural selection—but his generosity to feed her is an act to be appreciated.

He waits to speak again until she devours her fourth one. "You have said you prefer to be asked."

She pauses and makes a noise of acknowledgment, cheeks full.

Damian doesn't look fazed. "Are you poison-resistant?"

Marinette suddenly has a bad feeling about the sweet delicacy she's feasting on like a pig. She chews a few times and swallows. Her tongue darts to catch a stray crumb on the corner of her lips before speaking. "Yes, I am. All of them." She purses her lips. "...Why are you asking?" She narrows her eyes suspiciously. Her tongue feels around the inside of her mouth for an acrid or bitter taste. Nothing numbs.

Damian looks considerably impressed. "You have a wise eye. The cakes are the only dish on this table not laced with poison."

Marinette chokes on the bite she's just swallowed. "I'm sorry—what?"

"...This is one of the trials I must test you on. But you proved yourself plenty," He answers.

She lowers the new piece she was going for, annoyed. "Okay, thank you for asking," She gives him the stink eye. "But what is with you and trying to kill me? I thought you wanted me to be your wife!"

"So you accept," Damian is swift to mishear.

"No!" she blurts, feeling a vein in her forehead threaten to pop. She wouldn't have died from poison—again, an effect of being the Guardian of the Miraculous (thank you, Sass)—but it's the principle of the matter.

He leans back, hopeful glimmer gone. "These tests are necessary. Perhaps you forgot, but to be deserving of being my wife, you must be powerful."

No, she didn't forget. She's just flummoxed as to why she needs to potentially die to be worthy.

And this is supposedly my soulmate?

"You're insane," She huffs. She refuses. This dimension may be soulmate-oriented, but Marinette feels everything but love. She'll go back to her dimension soon if it's time constituted (or when she finds an alternative solution), and this whole mess will be over with.

He doesn't reply.

So she takes that as her cue to continue. "First you refuse to inform me of where I am and assure me that this is not a kidnapping attempt," She raises a hand and juts out a finger, "Next you order me around," Another finger, "Then you try to attack me with assassins that you claim would have killed me if I wasn't strong," A third finger, "And last but not least, you were going to poison me. Why are you so insane? Actually, let me rephrase: why are you so interested in getting rid of me when you contradict yourself by wanting me to be your wife?"

He opens his mouth—

"No," She interrupts, and he shuts it. "I don't want to hear this nonsense about being 'worthy, '" She air quotes. "There's something more than that. I know there is."

His jaw locks.

She settles down, upset. "I don't understand. And I don't know if I want to, but seeing as I'm stuck here for the foreseeable future, I'm going to have to. So you need to fess up, Mr. al Ghul."

"Stuck? " He reiterates, completely glossing over her rant. "You are ably capable of escaping this place. What do you mean by stuck?"

Marinette gapes. "That's what you got out of all of that?"

"No. I will answer your question after you answer mine. Why do you believe you're stuck?" The calculative steeliness in his eyes expresses a planning lilt of further advantageous purpose.

Discontented, Marinette retorts, "That's not how this works. I asked a question first, and I deserve my answer. If you answer mine honestly, then I will answer yours the same." Kagami would be proud of her retortive conduct. It's not one Marinette is prone to using, and the fact that she has to do so to get her points across is sad.

He listens, surprisingly. "I was not pleased with my ceremonial arrangement with you, initially. I am still not."

Marinette furrows her brows, but she doesn't interrupt.

He tilts his head at her silence, something fleeting disappearing across his expression. "As you said, you hardly know me. I, in turn, do not know you. If you wonder why I am displeased, it is not with your supposed misconduct. I understand your stubbornness on the matter of our matrimony perfectly." His voice drops lower. "I am displeased because I want to hear what you think."

Marinette gives him a flat stare. "Really."

His eyes narrow, but his composure doesn't slip. "Yes. In addition to your appearance, you seem intelligent and cautious. All are requirements for my betrothed. My words are not meant to persuade or wound; I speak plainly." He holds her gaze, unblinking. "You are not like the others my enemies have sent. I do not say this carelessly. Nearly every woman I have known has been dangerous by nature or by training—allies, rivals... family. My mother, among them."

He leans back a fraction, voice softening the slightest of ways. "So understand that I am not captivated by beauty, nor by mere skill at combat, despite what you may think. Those things are... irrelevant to my person."

Her mental voice suggests that he's the most confusing mama's boy she's met.

Damian continues, his tone plain but harboring the faintest undercurrent of something she can't name. "No, I won't deny that your strength is necessary—necessary for what the future may demand if you and I were to marry. But personally..." His eyes gleam in the low light, the hint of something devoted crinkling the edges. "No other woman has held my interest. Perhaps because most tried to kill me. But you..." His pause stretches, gauging her reaction. "It is your unpredictability that compels me most."

He looks, for the briefest moment, as though the admission tastes bitter on his tongue.

Marinette's lips part in wonder. "Um... you say that like you're about to puke."

He hesitates before answering. "I don't know whether this curiosity comes from the soulmate bond or me."

"Oh." The fall of his statement makes her slightly dizzy. She sets her hands on the table, tapping her fingers. It all makes sense, now. That's different. "So you're saying you don't like me because you didn't expect to like me? And that disturbs you because it might not be of your own volition that you do? Because you want things on your terms?"

"Precisely."

"Wow, okay. That's..."

"Absurd?" He juts in, and she flutters her eyelashes in confusion.

"What? No. It's unexpected, is what I mean." Marinette feels dumb. She didn't even think about asking him to elaborate on the whole soulmate thing. He could be interested because he's allegedly (from what she feels off of vibes besides the evident branding of his first words to her) attached to her. It serves as an excuse for his erratic back and forth about wanting her to be his wife, but not about his homicidal conduct.

She sighs.

Potential murderer or not, she isn't spiteful to a hurting soul doing things against their will. "It must be difficult, not knowing whether what you feel truly belongs to you. I'm sorry you have to live with that. People call soulmates a blessing, but when one heart isn't willing, it becomes a weight the other can't set down. Love should never be forced. Everyone deserves the freedom to choose who they give their heart to."

He looks surprised. She doesn't say it or admit it to herself, but seeing emotion on his face is relieving. "...Yes. You understand, then?"

"In a way," She says, thinking of Chat Noir and Adrien. Their soul bond was not meant to be romantic, even though she had wanted it to be after everything. It's something she has to live with.

"You don't have to make me your wife just because your soul mark says to," She tells him earnestly.

"It is not that simple," He responds. His face is blank.

Marinette thought not. "Is there a way to remove a soulmark?" She asks.

He shakes his head. "Unless I kill you."

That explains a lot, she thinks, irked.

"It is your turn to fulfill the deal," Damian declares, quick to change the topic before it embarks into sentimental territory.

She forgot about that. "You might not believe me," Marinette drones.

He doesn't say anything.

Her shoulders lower, defeated. "I'm not from here."

"That is evident," He drawls sarcastically.

She rolls her eyes. "I meant I'm not from this world. Or Universe."

She expects him to accuse her of being a liar. She's pleasantly surprised when he takes in the information with an elegant stride. "That explains why you did not know of soulmates, then. You know some knowledge of them, nonetheless—do you have it differently from where you're from?"

This is an interrogation, isn't it?

Marinette shrugs. "I guess? At least, for the general populace. The whole thing about soulmates back in my dimension is more like a dream. Nobody has a visible soulmate. No words, signs, or anything to indicate, you know," She gestures in a particular direction. "It's rare for a soul to have a bond in my dimension. If you do, then you're lucky. But there's no way to tell unless you're a highly intuitive person. Like me," She flashes him a tired smile.

He nods. "Is there reasoning for your sudden appearance after twenty years?" He questions, calmly reaching for the tall glass of water to his right.

She smacks it out of his hand before he can take a drink.

They stare at each other.

She shrinks, hearing the glass make a dull thud on the wet carpet. "Sorry. You said it was poisoned?"

"The drinks are not laced with any."

"Oh." You could've said that.

He's looking at her in the same way he had earlier. Intensely. But his eyes look... different.

She has no idea what he's thinking.

The doors open, and Marinette startles when two servants come forward and hastily clean up the mess.

Marinette doesn't say anything until they leave, lingering on their backs. "They look scared," She accuses.

"Naturally," Damian responds, placid. "Do carry on."

Marinette will deal with that later. "Right... Well. In truth, I don't know how or why I came here. The last thing I remember is getting ready to visit my parents," She partially lies. She doesn't tell him about the portal issue just yet, in case the Miraculous exists here. She highly doubts that, but it's a precaution.

"I see. Is that why you were afraid earlier? Because you discovered you are stranded here?" He looks like he's fishing for a weakness.

Marinette lets him have it. "...Yes." She bites the inside of her cheek, uncomfortable.

He becomes quiet.

Marinette observes him ponder.

Eventually, he talks again. "...You may stay here. Until you find your way back."

She widens her eyes. "...Are you sure? I don't want to disturb—"

"Put aside your doubts," he says evenly, voice cool enough to slice the air. "I will grant leniency this once. Do not mistake my clemency for weakness—betray this trust, and you will face consequences."

He says that so monotoneously that it sounds comical. It's nothing sort of how he treated her the first time, all glares and scowls. But then again... looking at his face one more time, it seems that glares and scowls are his usual. She's just somehow gotten used to it in the short time they've interacted. And his voice always has a bite, but somehow, Marinette can tell that the edge isn't there.

There's something missing.

Marinette smiles faintly, and then thinks better of it. "Okay," She allows, "Thank you."

Somehow, someway, the permanent crinkle between his brow softens ever so slightly.

[. . .]

Damian doesn't take her to a guest room.

He guides her into the traditional ceremonial chamber they are expected to share until familiarity dulls the strangeness—his mother's suggestion before she departed for America. Fortunate timing, he thinks; had she stayed, she would have delighted in the girl's defiance and made certain Damian never heard the end of it.

Which reminds him. He has yet to know her name.

They both enter the chamber.

Its air is thick with the scent of burning incense and pressed cedarwood. The walls are repainted with intricate mandalas, muted gold, and deep crimson that glimmers faintly underneath the torchlight, making the designs seem to shift in the dimness. Two low, separate beds stand parallel on either side of the room, draped in dark silk and framed by carved wooden headboards etched with sigils of the league.

Between them rests a narrow table bearing a bronze water basin, a small oil lamp, and a bowl of pomegranates meant to symbolize ritual union, though their distance from each other declines the formality of the arrangement.

Damian never thought this day would come.

And now it's here, and he doesn't know what to do.

"You have not told me your name," Damian states, internally repulsed at the realization that they will need to sleep next to each other. He does not trust her yet. Appearances can be deceiving, and he would prefer that someone with her power be down in the cells, away from him. But he's no coward. He also doesn't want to put her down there, and he deduces that it's due to the soul mark's influence.

He honestly has no opinion on her. She's pleasant, too pleasant.

And Damian doesn't know what to do with that.

"My name is Marinette," She says, much lighter than before. The caution is still there—plainly written in the guarded hunch of her shoulders and the way her hands linger close to her. But her eyes are softer now, subdued by the act he had shown her. He reminds himself it was just a strategy, an exercise in observation, nothing more. He wanted to study her responses, to learn how she bends without breaking, and he has his results.

But when she offers him the faintest smile, fragile but genuine, he finds the thought flickering—unbidden, unwanted—that it suits her.

Just like her name. Unique, perfect for her.

Again.

He doesn't know what to do with that.

He looks away. His heart makes an irrational, remorseful squeeze. "...No surname?"

There's a wait in her answer. "...This won't bite me back later, will it?" She asks, and he is faintly amused by her caution.

She's funny, a bit oblivious, and she doesn't realize Damian isn't going to do anything to her. It's also smart. He would have been disappointed if she gave the information away so easily.

"No," He replies honestly.

Marinette takes a moment to answer. "...Dupain-Cheng."

Interesting.

Very common ones, when separate. Damian will look into both and see if she has any lineage here, in this different world. He's not so sure that she may be lying about her existence, but the evidence that backs up her story is there. The random portal and the fact that it opened up in a place where little to no magic can find it raise too many questions that are easily answered by the concept of different realities.

"Very well. You may use the washroom to wash and dress up. I have arranged three sets of clothes for you," He instructs, hoping she heeds the command so that he may have a moment alone with his thoughts.

She doesn't. "You got my measurements?"

Yes. He had.

He got them when she was still unconscious.

Damian recalls when he caught her in his arms while he was taking requests from his subordinates. Unlike his Grandfather, who murdered those who suggested slight changes in the League, he took them under consideration and let them live.

When the last of the day walked out of the huge double doors, Damian got up from his throne to turn in for the night when he felt a hissing presence emerge above him. On reflex, he darted his head up and was met by a white, opaque portal dropping the body of a woman.

He caught her without thought, feeling like something was urging him to.

The sight of her was jarring—familiar.

He immediately had a room prepared for her.

It was there that he ordered the servants to take everything they could of her—a blood sample, her measurements, a piece of clothing, etc, to determine her affiliation to the League. The blood sample could not be retrieved due to an abnormality that foiled the machine, and, counting on the vexing urges to do things that he'd never done for anyone before, the oddity of that dilemma caused Damian to think back on all those years ago when he was told about the prophecy of his soulmate.

It had been a damning thought.

Once the girl (the third of this year who showed up unannounced, but the first not conscious) was situated, he checked his chest in a mirror when everything was done just to make sure his suspicions were correct and froze.

His black words became gold.

He hadn't told Marinette of that. If a person's soulmate was killed, their words became gray for natural causes or red if it was by man's hand. Many other colors allude to different constitutions of soulmates; a range of blue for family, yellow for friendship, and green for enemies. Only a romantic soulbond appeared over the heart in a bold, gold stroke. As far as anyone was aware, black didn't exist. Or wasn't supposed to.

(Never mind that, because of its color, that was the only soul bond Damian could keep. The rest scattered around his body, he had to cut or burn off himself.)

Now, with her answers, he speculates that the eye-catching ebony meant they did not exist.

That she did not exist.

But now she does.

"You were unconscious. I took liberty with the opportunity."

Marinette's face contorts, and Damian soon realizes his mistake. "You do realize what that implies, right?"

He almost grimaces. "If you are wondering if I took advantage of you, then you should feel ameliorated to know that such an atrocious act appalls me. I do not allow an abomination like that to exist in the League either. Those who do are tortured and executed." He tries not to think about his mother. The story of how he came to be never sat right with him. Never enough for him to stew over, but just about for him to feel wrong for existing.

She turns away, uncomfortable. "...Thank you for the clothes, then. It's not ideal, but I appreciate the thought," She says.

Damian doesn't say anything about her misplaced gratefulness and quells when she takes his silence as her cue to leave.

When she's gone, he approaches the bed closest to the open window and sits down.

He's not going to sleep tonight.

He blames the soulmate bond that he feels solidify in burning chains whelved around his bruised heart. That despicable thing has forced him to act vastly differently with her than with anyone else. She would be in a cell. Or simply gone, because her power is something he cannot deny. She'd be anywhere but here, sharing a room with him.

Damian is not so indulgent. He's his mother's son and the Grandson of the Demon himself, and with the lineage comes a ruthlessness all populace is well aware of. He is not kind. He is not considerate. He is not justice.

Anyone in the woman's—Marinette's position would have had their tongue ripped off and later killed for their insolence. No one speaks to an al Ghul in the manner she does.

And yet, he finds himself reluctantly leaning toward it.

He cannot explain the frustration that fraternizes with a levity he's only felt when he has the time to look at animals. She brings a sordid peace, lingering in the root of her soul that calls out to him like a siren in a drowning fit of salted ocean water.

She's not even aware of it.

The subtle glances, the leaning body language.

Suddenly, his mother's warning not to dote on his soulmate makes sense.

Suddenly, his grandfather's claim that having a soulmate is a weakness makes sense.

Suddenly, knowing of his father's unhealthy, pathetic attachment to his mother makes sense.

Damian is ashamed to confess his dread for his future. If his soulmate bond consumes him, will he doom the League?

Will he doom himself to fate?

A force like her is not to be reckoned with. The injury that knotted itself back together when she probed at her soul mark earlier had been interesting to watch, if not detrimental. She is indomitable, strong, and can regenerate. All effects of Lazarus Water, though, as far as he's aware, she's never dipped in. She is everything the League wants.

If his Grandfather were still around, Damian is certain he would have worshipped the girl and pushed her to have a child with him in less than a month.

For a moment, Damian's eyes become a hateful, glowing green.

Killing his Grandfather had nearly cost him his life, thanks to that vile uncle of his, Dusan al Ghul, the White Ghost, who had attempted to revive the man and succeeded.

He has not been the same since—unfeeling and vacant, just as he felt when he crawled out of the horrendous, toxic green waste when his father had failed to stop the attack from Ra's al Ghul from killing him. And then the rage. That damned rage.

Every drop of it was wasted on his Grandfather, who had deserved to die twice over for his attempt at taking his body in deplorable rituals, because his host body was decaying from radiation poisoning, and he conveniently needed to transfer his mind into another host body, which was the sole reason Damian had been created. His mother had committed an atrocious act, all for the sake of Ra's al Ghul's obsession with immortality.

Damian had to kill him.

The results of his death were freeing.

Just for the epitome of chains to clasp around him again, this time in the form of a beautiful, obstinate woman who refuses to yield to his command.

Her tactlessness should have been enough to trigger the damage the Lazarus Pits did to his mind four years ago. But she has not. She can't.

His body becomes unmoving.

She can't, he realizes.

His hand lifts to touch the side of his head.

His mind has been quiet.

A coiling warning churns his guts.

The whispers are gone.

[. . .]

In the meantime, within the lumbering solace of the crystalline lavatory with exquisite edifice that she can only dream of ever obtaining, Marinette stares at her reflection in the gigantic mirror.

Her long hair is cut unevenly, mocking the years it took to grow out. The loose remains of a low ponytail frame her face in disheveled strands, accentuating features worn and weary. Dried flecks of blood trail from her chin to her brow, dark against the faint freckles scattered across her skin. Dirt smudges beneath her eyes deepen the shadows of exhaustion, lending her an almost surly cast.

She's a damn mess.

Her torn attire only serves to enhance her dreaded look. The bubble sleeves of the hollow-out embroidery dress have become thin strands of white fabric barely holding themselves together. The bottom half of it has nearly come off; it hangs by a thread, exposing her thighs and the undershorts she thanks Kwami for remembering to put on.

The snow color dribbles with crimson drapes, and Marinette raises her knuckles, eyeing the prominent bones slathered in blood.

There was no need for violence.

Her eyes close, and she exhales tiredly. The earlier cakes threaten to emerge from her stomach.

She'll brood over her forced hand tomorrow. Recuperating her energy is the best option for now.

Giving one last glance to the mirror, she steps away, but not before doing a double-take.

There's no—

She scrambles closer, sharpening her concentration on her earrings.

They have the ladybug print.

Is Tikki—?

"مولاتي."

Marinette jumps with a squeak when an unknown gravelly voice echoes in the desolate washroom, whipping around to the entrance.

A woman dressed in white from head to toe bows on her knees with her face planted on the tiled floor. "I am Servant Zaynab. I am here to bathe you," She says with surprising clarity despite her face hovering centimeters above the ground. Her French accent is off but concise, hinting that she's been speaking it for years. And still, Marinette is baffled to hear what she says.

"Bathe me?"

"Yes," She states. She doesn't dare move an inch. "مولاي has ordered it."

Marinette shakes her head. She has no idea who that may be. "Um. I refuse?" She grabs her chest to settle down her heart, carefully avoiding the words. "There's no need for it. I can bathe myself." Kwami. Now she's been sent a servant who'll wash her. What's next? To be spoonfed? She's going to hate it here.

"As مولاتي wants," The woman declares, and Marinette blinks.

Well. That took much less of a fight than she initially thought.

Except she doesn't move.

"Uh..." Marinette walks closer, crouching, concerned, "Are you alright?"

"مولاتي has not dismissed me yet."

Marinette winces. "Oh. Okay... then I guess you're dismissed?" Marinette backs away to let the woman do so, watching with irritated melancholy when she exits by walking backward, still bowed at the waist. Marinette then glances at the comically large tub, eyeing the products on display, "Wait!"

The woman comes rushing in and crouches down to the floor again.

"Okay. You don't have to do that," Marinette grumbles, but the woman doesn't listen, so she just asks her question. "Do you know which products are for which body part?"

The Servant Zaynab proceeds to list them off without a beat. "The large lavender, coconut bottles are for hair. The three tiny green bottles of cucumber are for the body, and the yellow container is a scrub for the dark pigments of the skin. The pink glass jar is an Apple Blossom body lotion that must be applied after the bath. Rosemary Extract and Patchouli Body oils are optional but highly recommended. Vanilla Moisturizer and other face essentials are labeled accordingly. A turmeric mask is best for the skin, followed by a Ricewater wash. Is there anything else مولاتي needs?"

That's a lot to process, but Marinette has the gist of it. Slightly giddy at the assortment of products available, she answers the woman honestly. "No, I've got everything. Thank you, Miss Zaynab." There's a hesitating silence before Marinette adds unsurely, "You're dismissed?"

The woman leaves, and Marinette doesn't stop her this time.

With her gone, Marinette's previous alarm returns in full force.

My Miraculous is active.

The dimension traveler faces the mirror again.

Okay, she breathes deeply. There could be a good explanation for this.

There can't be. She should be in full Ladybug gear if that's the case. Could it be possible that her Miraculous had become just another piece of harmless jewelry when she arrived here?

She'll have to test it.

"Tikki," She whispers, anxious and dreading the inevitable result, "Spots off."

Chapter Text

[. . .]

"حبيبي

All the diamonds in the world couldn't faze me,

they don't shine as bright as you."

[. . .]

Chapter 3

Fetching Blue Lace Agate

[. . .]

Marinette numbly stares at the steaming vegetarian-variegated meal stationed in front of her.

With a slouched spine and newly trimmed hair dangling low to hide the proportions of her face, she sits on a lilac cushion, ignoring the suppliant ray of the sun on her back. The spherical fire in the sky basks her new attire oscillating from the gelid currents of the outside world—a virescent kaftan dress with golden embroidery around the neckline, sleeves, and waist. Black Tourmullines adorn the silken material, running down the front of the gown tied in a golden, woven thread. A rose gold pendant of a grisly, horned animal carved with an 'R' presses against her forehead, its chain draped over the loose, transparent veil on her head enveloping freely on her sides and most of her back.

A fit made for royalty.

Marinette feels far from royal.

Since discovering that her Miraculous is obsolete and Tikki is nowhere to be found as of last night, Marinette descended into a sick misery. She didn't get any decent sleep because of the dwelling anxiety that eventually faded out into a looming resignation, stuck tossing and turning throughout the night in sleep clothes that fitted her too perfectly. It didn't help that the bane of her issues was awake just across the room, watching her without shame.

His eerily unmoving shadow sent frequent shivers down her back every time she turned to face away from him, making her slumberless situation worse. The ice venturing through the glassless windows didn't help matters either. She was cold, miserable, and alone in the room with a man she didn't know.

(Maybe Marinette was seeing things wrong, but she thought she saw his eyes glow a haunting green.)

When morning came, she was so out of it that she mindlessly allowed the servant of the evening prior to tailor and groom her in the proper garb that according to her, Damian had ordered to wear.

Now here she remains, in a new, kaleidoscopic, and ample room made up of tables and silverware, sitting across from the Demon Head who keeps doing a poor job hiding his repetitive glances at her right hand's ring finger. The colors of his robe, not armor, are similar to the beautiful dress she wears that Marinette doesn't have the heart to study, considering it unnoteworthy—she is much too despaired that she is stuck in a foreign world.

Alone.

"My mother will be returning in a month."

Marinette lethargically raises her head to look at him. It's his first time speaking to her this morning, and his expression is no different than how it was last night—cold and distant. She immediately decides that whatever he has to say won't be worth her time.

Blank-faced, Damian is seated ramrod straight, hands fisted on his lap.

She doesn't say anything.

"She will expect the engagement accepted," Damian continues in the ongoing silence, eyes fretting over her face.

Marinette raises an eyebrow. "It's not," She reminds.

He clears his throat. "I am aware. It is unacceptable."

She narrows her eyes. "That's not my problem."

Damian has nothing to say.

She sighs. The awkward flare that creased between his brows hides slowly enough that Marinette notices it in her sleep-induced state. "Sorry if I'm snappish," She mutters on righteous habit, unkinking her back and rubbing the sleep out of her eyes. "I didn't sleep much, so forgive me if I'm being... brash." She makes a face. That's one reason. The other is her lack of a way home.

Maybe if Tikki were around she wouldn't feel so shitty, but since she's evidently not, Marinette has to make do with just herself.

Which isn't a problem—she can take care of herself.

Marinette would just rather she wouldn't be alone dealing with this. Having someone familiar would greatly diminish the dread poking at the surface.

Her apology is ignored. "I have forged the rings."

"Huh?" Marinette mumbles, regarding him.

He snaps his fingers and a servant dressed in all black stalks inside quickly, bowing lower than the small boxes above a beige pillow they hold high. Damian takes them without looking, and snaps his fingers again, dismissing them. The servant is quick to scurry away.

Marinette doesn't like that. "I hope you're treating them with respect and dignity," She chides with a croak to her voice, side-eyeing the servants quietly waiting against the walls. They all look down, some covered with just their eyes exposed, seemingly trying their best to remain invisible. The faces she can see are carefully put together, but the slight tremble in their laced hands has Marinette feeling disturbed. It's as if one wrong move will punish them cruelly.

He ignores her again. "You must put this on," He says, taking one of the boxes. He slides it across the table's edge within her reach.

Marinette furrows her brows and grabs the box, opening it—

Her puzzled expression falters into a deadpan.

"No."

"You must," Damian says calmly.

"I won't," She closes it. She feels woozy. Her hands are shaking. "I'm not marrying you. You haven't even gotten me flowers or—or anything. We haven't gone on dates—and even if you asked, I'd still say no. You blew it." How many times is she going to have to repeat that?

Just leave, she tells herself. Just leave. You can handle everything on your own.

Except if she does, and she gets lost, the odds will be against her. Just because she has super strength and indestructible skin doesn't mean she won't thirst or starve to death. If anything, her appetite has only grown with the addition of her powers. A terrible drawback, in her opinion.

"So you've said," He sounds increasingly aggravated.

"And you haven't listened," Marinette snaps.

They have a brief stare-off.

"Is it not to your liking?" Damian questions, narrowing his eyes in disapproval.

Marinette tries her best not to lose her temper and cause Damian to lose a good selection of his head. She gently sets the box (that she'll throw otherwise and cause the injury if she doesn't put it away) down. "It's beautiful," Marinette hisses through gritted teeth. She's not lying. The gemstone is unlike one she's seen before. It's different from what the Miraculous are forged under. Glaucous in color, the uniqueness of it is otherworldly, shaped as a teardrop.

Fitting, she thinks.

"But as I said," She glares, "I'm not going to marry you."

She must have finally struck a nerve because the Demon Head doesn't say anything. Just with his aura alone, the room plummets into a horrific cold at her refusal, and though Marinette is visibly unaffected, she questions slightly what it is about him that radiates so much calculated chaos. His very being emanates death itself, and were she not a being of creation, she knows she would be choking just as the servants are doing their best to hide.

His taught frame exceeds a promising, deadly, rage.

But he doesn't do anything to her.

Without a glance or word, he gets up silently and stalks away with the grace of a fumed chicken, slamming the door on his way out hard enough for the impact to ring her ears. The slap of it vanishes the tension in the room. He leaves Marinette the beautiful wooden box, an unintentional mocking of her loss of Miraculous.

Though she has yet to suspect he knows of the Miraculous, Marinette can't help but be offended that he chose a miniature, wooden hexagon box to present the ring she didn't have a say in selecting.

As if I'd pick one out, anyway.

Marinette slumps further in her comfortable seat, running a hand down her face in frustration. I need to get out of here, she plans, though where will she go? Is there more land away from here? Is this a similar Earth?

Tikki, I wish you were here, Marinette sulks. She would have known what to do.

And probably have an answer as to why he's so much more discordant than Adrien ever was.

"بلدي متفوقة, shall I clean up today's breakfast?" Servant Zaynab softly inquires, keeping still against the wall amongst the other servants who look eerily like statues.

Marinette wants to tell the woman not to call her anything just in case she's addressing her higher than she seems, but she doesn't know what that means. She doesn't speak Arabic. Nobody is better than her here.

Marinette grabs a silver utensil and picks at the food. "No, it's okay. I'll finish my meal," She mutters, lifting her hand to wipe at her eyes. They've gone dry.

I'm so tired.

She'll figure out a way out of here.

She will.

For now, she'll just have to take dealing with the Demon Head a little longer.

(If she checks to see if the food is poisoned, then nobody is none the wiser.)

[. . .]

Marinette doesn't see Damian for the rest of the day.

She spends it inside the same room as the previous night, catching up on sleep. Either she drank something laced with melatonin or her body's failing on her but when the servant escorted Marinette to the dorm, it took about thirty minutes of meaningless scrutiny of the wall for her to sag on the velvet silks of the bed, drowsy, on the verge of sleep. The last thing she remembers is a pretty red flower blooming at her touch.

Her dreams are not kind.

Demons inducted with torture and death chase her soul, quelling when she finally has enough of running and being terrorized that she screams at the top of her lungs for everything to stop. A black jaguar skulks around her when that happens, snarling and snapping at her after she calms and holds a hand out for it in remorse.

Remorse she feels for defending herself.

The scene is ever-changing, coming to a close in a gloomy garden she cannot escape from. The fog encloses around her, intending to suffocate, but she labors through it, not to be deterred. The jaguar is there, digging its nails into the midnight earth, backing her into a corner of jet, sharp, iron fences.

Yet she does not fear it. She unfurls her body in an embrace to let it leap at her because something is begging her to reconsider, just to wake before its jaws can sink into her forgiving neck.

When she wakes with a startle, it's in the same room, just darker. Her eyes look at the flower against the wall in wild deliberation. The chill on her back has her exhaling, releasing a contrasting plume of carbon monoxide.

It takes a moment for her to gather herself and stretch her taut limbs.

The afternoon, then.

The dream is long forgotten upon hearing the door to the chamber open minutes later into the silence of scrutiny, causing her to whip her head and lock eyes with the man she annoyed this morning.

"You're awake," Damian murmurs, slowly closing the door behind him as his eyes take on that faint glimmer that insinuates a pleasure she cannot name. It's the same look she's received when he came to talk to her after engaging in combat and when she called his name. Nothing she feels violated over if she's honest—just... an odd contemplation that she hates to admit suits his face.

Marinette props herself on her elbows, groggy but guarded. "...You came in?" She asks, eyeing him up and down. The same resplendent-lined, green robe covers his shoulders with golden-armored shoulder pads, shrouding the black thobe. He's as flawless as he came in to greet her in the morning.

"Once, for lunch," Damian allows.

Marinette exhales, closing her eyes. Right. Lunch. She forgot about that.

No wonder her stomach's been hurting.

Why didn't someone else just wake me up? Marinette grumbles, though she concedes it's not their job to. She's just angry and frustrated. She's been since she got here.

She hates feeling like this. It's not in character of her—has Tikki's absence affected her this much?

It can't be the bedlam of this place. Everything feels off like there's a time displacement that tricks her into thinking it's one way when it's another, but Marinette can tell there's magic here. It's hard not to when Damian reeks of it. But the chaos about it all shouldn't be sucking her creation dry, unless this is another result because of Tikki's absence that she may or may not have just connected the dots to.

This has made the situation slightly worse.

She wants to blame Damian for her situation, but she won't. It's not his fault she's stranded herself here like an idiot.

But it is his fault he keeps bothering me with a marriage proposal.

Annoyed once again, she decides she doesn't want to talk to him. Not after this morning. She's less enraged, but his insistence doesn't cease to make her blood boil. A no means no, and if he wants to be pig-headed and pray otherwise, she won't be civil anymore.

Turning her back to him, she lowers into the bed, mourning that she won't get any more quality sleep now that he's returned. He's going to watch her like a creep again.

His footsteps are audible when they approach her side of the room. Perhaps intentional? Marinette hasn't heard him walk. His training as an elusive assassin bleeds through everything he does. It would have been impressive if she wasn't technically his prisoner. In a way.

Suddenly, there's a scent reminiscent of Salmon en papillote, a favorite of hers.

She dares peek an eye open.

There's a silver cart perched by the bed made up of three dishes. Salmon en papillote as she suspected, Chocolate soufflé sitting neatly in the center oozing the delicious goodness of fudge, and a Salade Niçoise adorned beautifully.

How the hell did he get that in here without making noise?

Marinette shoots back up. "Um?" She looks to the side, giving a patiently stationed Damian a confused look. "What's all this for?"

"You did not eat Lunch," He answers steadily.

Marinette immediately narrows her eyes. "I didn't expect you to care. Since, you know, you don't seem to respect what I want."

"I can do what I want," Damian elucidates neutrally, hands folded behind his back. His tall stature has his cold gaze fixated on her, intent on making her feel inferior. "You are in my palace. You are to follow what I say, lest your hospitality is taken away. Refusing otherwise is an opprobrium on your part."

Marinette scowls. "Guilt-tripping me into submission won't work," She tells him, even though it does and makes her feel like shit. But she doesn't owe Damian anything, not if he's being an asshole.

Damian doesn't look like he cares for what she has to say. "It's not guilt-tripping if it's fact. Here I am, giving you the best the League has to offer, yet you deign to deny me."

Marinette stands up and gets up in his face (which is not much, since he's considerably taller than her). "If you expect me to accept anything, which, I'll remind you again, I won't—" She pokes his chest, hard, pushing him back, "Then you're sorely mistaken. It doesn't matter which tactic you use to attempt to manipulate me into your ridiculous wedding cause, it won't work. You're not kind to me. Whatever you say to me won't matter."

Damian's expression doesn't change.

Bitterly, she looks away and steps back. "If I'm bothering you, then I'll leave. I don't intend on staying somewhere that forces me to marry someone who's tried to kill me when all I needed was help." Marinette can't help but feel like she doesn't have the right to demand someone else to keep her fed and clothed. She's not bluffing, though. Even if it means she'll suffer out there, the last thing she wants to be is a disturbance.

As if I'm not already.

"Then go," Damian says.

Marinette closes her eyes, releasing a puff of air.

She shouldn't have expected anything more.

"But make no mistake that I will hunt you down, regardless of power advantage," He continues, which prompts her to snap her head up to stare at him incredulously.

Instead of his face, she sees a bouquet of pink carnations, orange tulips, purple hydrangeas, and blue hyacinths. All different assortment of flowers that mean love and remorse, held by the calloused hand of the man who just threatened her he'd chase her down if she decides to leave. Her eyes trail after each detail of every flower, searching for the catch, incensed at the fact that he didn't express his regret verbally. Does he even understand what the plants mean?

"Is this an apology?" She dares ask, withholding herself from taking the proposed gift. Marinette isn't a pushover.

Damian keeps holding the flowers. "You mentioned earlier that I have not given you flowers," He says, and Marinette crosses her arms suspiciously. So he does listen. "I brought you this. And gifts. Chocolates," Abruptly, he reveals a velvet box tied with a white ribbon to her attention with his other hand.

If he thinks this will persuade her, then he's delusional—

"If you allow me to bring you to another room, I have many more gifts to offer from."

"Why?" Marinette can't help but blurt. Room? He has to be kidding. "Are you trying to convince me to marry you?" Again? She mentally adds.

"...Partly," He admits readily. Marinette's scowl returns. "But I am also conceding that you are correct."

She squints at him. "Correct that I'm a human being too with a right to reject your marriage proposal?" Marinette drawls, desperately hoping the rumble in her stomach abates. Chocolates do sound good right about now.

"You are stubborn enough," Is what he replies with.

It clicks for Marinette right then and there. "You can't admit you're wrong, can you." He's the stubborn one!

Damian scoffs. "You mistake my words for cowardice. If I am wrong I will say so."

Marinette hums, thinking. "Doesn't sound like it. You can't admit you're wrong because that means you'll have to say sorry," She notes with slight childish glee, finally reaching for the bouquet and taking it. The flowers faintly chime with a glow, blooming further into spread, vivid colors. Damian notices, clenching his fist when her soft fingers brush with his. "And, correct me if I'm wrong, but I don't think you've ever said an apology before in your life."

Damian stays resolutely silent, assessing her.

She tucks the flowers close to her chest. As angry as she is, she'll be damned if these blossoms aren't beautiful. For an assassin, Damian has good taste. Not surprising though, Marinette darts back to look at the blooming wall next to her bed, his choice of flowers is pretty, pattern-wise.

"Do you know what they mean, Damian?" She innocently proceeds, lightly pinching one of the petals from an orange tulip. The slip of his first name almost causes her to go off-course, but she composes herself before the irrational closeness of his name gets the better of her.

"Of course," He says.

Marinette sighs. She goggles the food that is becoming colder the longer she meddles with the Demon Head, seeking relief from her hunger that her hurt heart is reluctant to partake in. "I'm not accepting your apology," She tells him bluntly.

A heavy silence settles in the room.

"I don't think I can forgive you for your earlier transgressions."

Damian takes in a breath. "Why?" He mourns, failing to mask the frustration in his tone.

Marinette side-eyes him. "You tried to kill me."

"And ultimately failed. Thus, I did not."

"You still tried," She states, frowning. "You might not have, but you could have. That's not okay, Damian."

He looks like he doesn't understand.

Marinette doesn't know whether to be annoyed or concerned. "Do you understand what I mean? You tried to hurt me."

"That is how it is for the League," He expresses, for once, sincere rather than mocking. "To be my wife—"

"And how was I supposed to know?" She barks, and he snaps his mouth shut. "And even if I did know, how does making an attempt on someone's life make it okay?"

He tuts. "I don't expect you to understand the customs of my people."

"You're right. I don't. I wouldn't have ever wanted to kill you. I still don't, even after all that you've tried doing to me," Marinette says.

Her statement serves to crack his composure. For a moment, Marinette sees a raw disbelief twist in his carefully knitted presentation. It goes away fast like all other times she sees a vulnerable side to him, and though Marinette hates to assume, she can't stop herself from wondering if his lack of emotions is a trauma response from a punishment during childhood.

Marinette curses herself for feeling sympathy.

"...I don't believe you," He finally articulates vehemently minutes later.

Marinette shakes her head. "Fine. Don't. I don't have to prove anything to you. But this isn't about how I won't kill you—this is about how you tried to kill me and why I refuse to want anything to do with you. I won't deny your kindness, Damian. You have given me shelter and food, and I am extremely grateful because of it. But when you hang over the deposition of marriage, none of what you do feels sincere. It tells me that you're only doing this because you want something from me. If it's not sincere, then why should I bother getting to know you?"

Her probing question at least renders him stumped for an awkward minute.

Marinette waits for his inevitable, irritating, response.

What he says next has her reconsider her initial image of him. "...You have my solemn promise that I will not make another attempt on your life. I cannot guarantee perfect safety because you are in the League of Assassins and as such, you are vulnerable to an attack from our enemies or outside parties foolish enough to take my bounty. I will not express remorse for the ways I was taught to accept you, but I do... regret... that I have made you believe I don't wish to know you in the genuine sense."

Marinette's expression slackens slightly.

"I am not qualified for sentimental prospects, especially a soulmate bond I never wanted," Damian sets the box of chocolates next to the two small receptacles containing the rings of this morning. "I see no merit in having a weakness to my person. But seeing as how neither of us have a choice in the matter, I have decided to follow through with the bond to the end." He vaguely gestures around her. "You are, unfortunately, much too intriguing for my soul bond to ignore."

Marinette sighs, tucking her shoulder-length hair behind her ear. "So you're telling me you can't actively control some of the things you do?"

"When it comes to you?" He wrinkles his nose, "Not at all."

Marinette groans and looks skyward. "Seriously?"

He scoffs, offended. "Very. You are to blame, after all."

"Me? My fault?" She exclaims, gawking at him in high dudgeon.

"Yes. For being... riveting."

"Is that an insult or a compliment?"

"Take it how you will."

She points at his face. "You are annoying." She shoves the flowers back to him, "And I don't want to talk to you anymore. You..." She rubs her temples, frustrated, "You make my head hurt."

"Likewise," He drawls.

"Just..." She bites the inside of her cheek while solemnly looking at her socked feet, plopping herself onto the bed. "Just... I think it's best if you leave me alone for now. I need to process your really bad apologies," She mumbles, and she can indeed understand he was trying to apologize. They weren't good, far from it, really, but she could at least feel a little less wronged knowing that he tried. She isn't going to forgive him, probably not for a while, but thinking about forgiveness is better than wanting to castrate him.

Lethargic, Marinette peeks at the cart of food. "...and thank you," She says, looking back up at him.

He awaits her statements with intent suspense, detailed by his leaning body language and his plumbing eyes.

He reminds her of a cat, with those big, emerald eyes of his.

The image dissipates from her mind before it can make her laugh. She doesn't feel like laughing right now. "It's nice of you to make sure I'm fed."

Damian hums. "See to it that you consume enough," He eyes her figure like a researcher intent on discovering its secrets. "I was not aware you had quite the appetite."

Marinette's cheeks bloom into a raging red. "Are you calling me fat?"

He deadpans. "No. Don't be ridiculous. Your weight is due to your muscle mass."

Marinette isn't surprised he knows her weight. "Just go," She groans.

"You don't have a right to dismiss me," Damian sounds annoyed.

Her eyelid twitches. "If you want me to actually consider your proposal, then you should let me have the space to think on it," She hisses, sounding out each syllable in boiling rage.

Damian sniffs. "Very well. Once you are done being difficult, do let me know. I have gifts I must bestow to show my sincerity on the matter."

Before Marinette can protest that gifts won't change anything, Damian stalks out of the room, closing it with a gentle creak.

She pinches the bridge of her nose.

One step forward, two steps back, it seems.

Chapter Text

[. . .]

" Sois mon protecteur quand je traverserai le Sahara

Emmène-moi là-bas, emmène-moi là-bas et—

Aime-moi comme une rose du désert."

[. . .]

Chapter 4

Weeping Sodalite

[. . .]

Damian gives her the desired space.

He remains to observe from a distance, always one step behind a wall or hidden among the shadows, but he has stopped attempting to engage with her per her request. A surprising feat, really, considering it's been a week since she professed her undesirable feelings to him and he has yet to pop at the seams like she expected him to. It's mean of her to think so, but he started it. So.

Marinette takes what she can get.

She's been evaluating her stranded situation meticulously during the week, sticking solely to her room and the dining room, trying out every power that would benefit the situation behind closed doors. None of her teleportation spells work, regardless of whether she tries to go somewhere she has already been to. She blames this on it being a different dimension, as there is a strong possibility that the worlds aren't the same.

(Scratch that. They aren't the same. Period.)

Her alternating time spells don't bother to make themselves known when she casts them, either. Doing so renders her weak enough to hurl the food she's been so graciously given, stacked tasks she feels profusely guilty about when servants are quick to clean it up.

(She has decided not to touch those connotations anymore.)

Not even her creation spells work. She tried manipulating a portal into existence, but without Tikki, she lacked the strength to create anything physically.

She is well and truly stuck here. Unless someone from her dimension locks into her creation energy and takes her back, she can do nothing. And even then, that'll be nearly impossible to do. There are infinite realities; who's to say they will ever find her?

None of her circumstances look good. Her permanent powers remain—the strength of a thousand planets, immortality, durability, and magic itself. But the rest of her practices are practically non-existent. She can sense foreign magic in this place; plagued and heavy with chaotic destruction, the source of it desperately attempts to cling to her, its opposite.

And she's pretty sure this energy is Damian. He's probably not even aware of it.

(Or the displacement of Time, perhaps, but that's another can of worms she doesn't want to open.)

This brings Marinette to her finalizing and condemning theory: the soulbond is the reason for entrapment here.

So long as the two of them are bonded, there is nothing she can do.

By the 7th day of Damian's gifted silence, Marinette falls into a deep depression.

Nothing rouses her out of the luxurious bed. Not even the kind servant Zaynab who has grown to at least look at her when she talks once Marinette established she wouldn't hurt her for doing so. Marinette sticks to her bed in her sapphire chemise, drowned hair soaking through the pillow covers after her lonesome bath just an hour prior.

She's trying not to cry. Dismissing and reassuring the servant that she'll spend her day wallowing took every ounce of her social energy, and as of now, all she wants to do is sink into the comfort of the bed and rot there. It's unbecoming for a retired superheroine like her. She's battled against impossible odds and won, for Kwami's sake. Marinette's not one to give up, but with how her odds look, she severely doubts her chances of escaping this place.

Her reddening sclera has her blinking the building tears away, endeavoring to keep them at bay. But it's no use. Tumultuous thoughts unravel and she succumbs to their punishing grief.

Marinette cries.

Softly, quietly, she weeps, accepting a fate she cannot hope to escape from. Perhaps she might. There is a slim chance.

But that could be years from now.

Maybe decades.

Maybe centuries and Marinette loathes for the thousandth time that being named Guardian has forced her to age significantly less, to the point where Wayzz assured her she'd live for nearly a thousand years.

A damn thousand. All of it likely spent stuck in a world she hardly knows.

But Marinette has hope that her friends will try their best. Her mind is cruel, however, for she dreads that they will waste their lives trying to do so. Dimensional Magic is not to be messed with, after all. It's nearly as horrendous as Time Magic.

That's why Alix understands her the best. She, too, has to live for a long time. As is the family tradition, Marinette supposes.

She sniffles, closing her eyes.

Her lone wish is that whatever it takes to get her home, she hopes she won't be too late. She doesn't want to come back to all her friends gone. The curse she bears knowing she'll outlive them all has already taken a toll on her psyche, making the loss of Adrien's potential to be her one and only appear like a thorn on her side compared to this. If she loses the chance to watch them grow too, Marinette thinks she might fall into the abyss of death.

Her hands bunch the silken material of her nightgown, clenching it close to her heart, right above the letters that have bled more than a dozen times since she discovered their existence. Scrubbing her skin raw has downsides to this idiotic bond, and Marinette has tried to tear the skin of the golden letters, but to no avail. They regrow, growing tougher skin she isn't sure she should be grateful for or not.

She never asked for this.

But like everything in her life, they come at her before she can decide if it's worth keeping.

She turns her body to face the other side.

Her eyes adjust to the dim light of a torch, locking on a glowing green.

Marinette exhales roughly. "Do you never sleep?" She croaks in half-hearted annoyance, rubbing her eyes in hopes that her tears aren't evident. It'll be too much if Damian also has night vision.

He steps forward, basking more of the candlelight onto his empty expression. "Some," He reveals. He looks a bit caught off-guard that she's speaking to him. Not much of a reaction there. She hasn't spoken to him until now. "My body requires significantly less sleep." Like the opportunist he is, though, he takes this chance to talk to her. She can tell by his stance. Leaning forward eagerly.

It's almost cute.

Almost.

His statement makes Marinette wonder if he has powers too. Is he also cursed to live long?

Such silly thoughts.

"I've never seen you sleep," Marinette points out, but her attempt at conversation makes the inside of her tongue feel like ash. She has no one else to talk to and does not desire to speak, yet here she is, extending what's bereft of her social battery. Marinette hates that she craves the presence of another.

"I do not trust that you won't kill me," He responds accusingly.

Marinette understands. She's not scared of him, but she doesn't trust him. Not yet. "I get it. I won't, by the way," She sounds mum even to her own ears. "Killing someone makes me feel sick." Her mind conjures the many victims she was able to bring back to life using her Ladybug Cure. And many she was not able to save, because the Miraculous Cure does not work on regular muggings and kidnappings. The strife of death took a deep toll on her throughout her teenage years.

He comes just a little bit closer, staring down at her. "That weakness will rid itself with time."

Marinette hopes the fuck not. "It's not a weakness not to kill," She states.

Damian tilts his head.

Marinette decides to sit up, shoving her dark locks behind her shoulder. She doesn't miss the way his eyes follow the movements. "I've seen my fair share of death. I hate it. To take someone else's life is..." She trails off, frowning with uncertainty. "I don't know. Wrong, I guess. I'm not so much of an optimist to think that sometimes situations won't lead to death, but to willingly do so when there is a better option around is wrong."

Damian's been looking at her attentively. "I see," He says, and takes her in differently, with something akin to reluctant wonder. "I wouldn't know anything about that. Death has always been a constant, as well as a demand."

Marinette pauses. "You've been forced to do it as a kid?"

"I was," He allows.

Something cracks inside her chest. "That's cruel."

"Such is the duty of an heir," Damian says, not even remotely upset.

But Marinette can't help but feel... inclined to believe there's more to what he says than that. Marinette won't call him out on it, though. It's not any of her business as to why his duty as an heir was to kill people in whatever method he's done so, and so Marinette judges that the trauma he harbors is his to discuss in his own time. Marinette sure as hell won't pry but she won't deny the favor of giving a listening ear if he needs one.

So she tells him. "I can't imagine having to live that way," She communicates in earnest, looking him in the eye. "You're free to talk about your experiences if you'd like. Carrying that—"

"I don't need your pity," He says, but it's without bark.

Marinette searches his face. Devoid, as always. "It's not pity. I just... Is it wrong if I say that it could be a trauma-bonding experience?" Her question is meant to bring a bit of light into the conversation, but her heart isn't in it.

The joke falls flat.

Marinette looks away. She doesn't blame him for not laughing. It was a stupid joke anyway. She's just not right in the head, right now. Sleeping hasn't been helping either, bringing in memories of that damn panther over and over again, and she always wakes up before it can touch her. There's no explanation for it. It's just about murder and death being near. Murder. Death. Over. And over. And over again.

A sudden, horrible, thought occurs to her.

Dread pools in her gut, choking her throat at a dawning realization. "I don't want my kid growing up in this," She blurts out loud without thinking, and it's fucking ridiculous because Marinette hasn't thought about having a kid since she was sixteen and hopelessly in love. It makes no sense for her to clamor such an absurd thing out of the blue.

Yet, she knows better. She's already thinking of a damned future that she isn't sure is absolute yet, thinking about all the negatives that's yet to come. She has a soulmate. Allegedly romantic. At some point, the soulbond will go against their wishes and have them love each other. This will eventually lead to more intimate dynamics, which then creates a child, and—Marinette just won't have a kid. That's been the plan, but this situation has made it definitive.

What a stupid thing to think about.

Damian's expression twists into something akin to shock. As best as it can be shown on a face as serious as Damian's, anyway. "...If we are to have an heir..."

Marinette bristles. "Stop, no," She holds up a hand, "We're not going to talk about that." What the heck? She's not in a million years having a kid with him!

"You mentioned it first."

Marinette covers half of her face, holding her head in dejection. "I didn't mean to. There's just—a lot is going on in my head." She just wants to cease to exist at this point.

"...What ails you?"

Marinette snaps her head up.

He looks... constipated.

"What?" She blurts.

"You are clearly in distress," He motions at her sagged figure, "And I have come to study fifty-seven books on psychology to familiarize myself with telltale signs of mental illness. You are showing symptoms of Major Depressive Disorder. You must talk about your feelings. It is beneficial."

Marinette internally questions if it's beneficial for him or her. "You read psychology books?" Something tells her he's done more than that.

"You are using an evasive tactic. Doing so will not help—"

She shakes her head and he quiets down. "No, no, I'll answer your question, don't worry, I'm just... confused. Why did you do that?"

He stares at her blankly. "I have thought about your reasonings prior. To understand you better, I read an extensive library on the study of the human brain. It has come to my attention that you suffer from an inferiority complex as well, hence, why I am making moves to uplift your downtrodden self-esteem before it is too late to do so."

Marinette's swelling gratefulness at his odd gesture dies the instant the rest of his sentence comes out of his mouth. "I do not have an inferiority complex," She deadpans. Or Major Depressive Disorder, for that matter. Though, maybe Damian's hit the nail on the head. Regretfully... she has thought about a suicidal way out with fewer repercussions. But that doesn't mean she wants to die! She'll relive again, being an immortal and all, and—ugh. Damian might be right.

"Why else do you not subject yourself to the lavish living of the Demon Head's betrothed?"

Marinette grimaces. "Again with this?"

Damian nods with a scoff. "Of course. It has always been about 'this'," He quotes mockingly. It serves to sour her mood further. "That is why I've been observing you closely."

"That's not creepy at all," Marinette drawls. (The weird, 14-year-old girlish part of her that never grew up is meaningfully flattered. She's obsessive to a sincere fault. For someone else to reciprocate some form of it... she hates that it makes her feel... wanted.)

Damian continues without missing a beat. "You treat the servants as compatriots, though with significant hesitation when they do their duty. I know it is not fear that holds you back," His eyes take a smug glint to them and Marinette sniffs disdainfully, "I figure that you are lacking in confidence with your newly acquired position. Whatever dress-wear I provide for you is set aside for plainer fabrics suited for the dead of night. You seem to require a lot of nutrition but when it is offered you deny it, and instead ask if you can cook it yourself. You are used to being independent, but your reticence and confusion make it seem as if you don't deserve to be treated as a high-esteemed woman in power."

Marinette runs a hand down her face. "Did it ever occur to you that maybe I'm not used to it?" She grumps, side-eyeing him. She rearranges her position on the bed so that she's sitting with her legs crossed in the center, leaning forward with both hands propped on her thighs in aggravation.

Damian looks bored. "What do you mean? You are a powerful woman. Surely there are worshippers at your disposal in your dimension."

Marinette gapes. "You're kidding."

"I am not." He has the gall to look offended.

Marinette corrects him. "My power doesn't define me. I'm just a regular woman who works and goes home and likes hamsters."

"Hamsters," Damian drones.

Her leg bounces, annoyed. "Yes. Hamsters. They're cute."

His eyes take on a different light. "...You like animals, then?"

Marinette hums, pursing her lips. "Yeah. I love all life." She is nicknamed Mother Creation for a reason.

Damian suddenly looks very pleased. "Then you shall be overjoyed to know I have several at my disposal."

Marinette straightens. "...Really?" In a place like this? she almost adds, but doesn't.

"Really," He repeats, and honestly. He's just pulling her leg at this point. There is no need for him to reprise words like this. She stays quiet, though. The hopeful prospect of animals is a welcoming spark of energy she hasn't felt in days and she's afraid that arguing with him might blow it away. It doesn't deter her from making a face at him, though, and she's a bit amused at the smirk that he sends her way.

Is this considered flirting?

She blanks.

No. No, this isn't flirting at all. She knows flirting. This is a discussion with childish proportions to it. That's all.

She doesn't realize that her expression goes slack physically, unable to mask the suddenness of it. Damian hesitates, even, and that she notices. He holds his hand out, too. Perfectly poised. Unshakable.

Yet, uncertain, because he hovers it between them, close enough to extend and brush the stray hairs tickling her face away.

Marinette looks at it, then at him, then back to it again.

She takes it.

"Come," His voice has become a whisper now, and Marinette lets him tug her close, leading her out of the mattress with careful consideration. "Your animal companion awaits."

Something warns her of claws, of green eyes, of black fur.

A panther.

"It's a cat, huh?" She murmurs, but his face gives nothing away.

The way he squeezes her hand is all the answer she needs.

[. . .]

She's right, of course.

Among the towering gifts both wrapped and unwrapped of every kind of thing, even objects she has no clue of that might be culturistic to this dimension, lies a sleeping cat adorned in a pretty green bow, free to roam. There is no cage around to keep it, and she wouldn't have seen it in the abysmal darkness had Damian not tugged her hand back and pointed to the black kitten slumbering its life away, belly up and head looped back in comfortable bliss three steps in.

Marinette ignores the rest of the room that took three hallways to get to, immediately cooing at the tiny being.

"So cute!" She squeals softly, letting go of Damian, and he lets her. He steps back to give her room to kneel.

She does, but she makes no move to touch the little creature. "Is it a boy or girl?" She asks lowly, content to watch it sleep. It must be deeply asleep if it hasn't roused yet. That may be partially Marinette's doing. She has an in-depth aura to soothe animals, especially cats. Black ones are no exception and seems that out of every breed, they seek her out the most. Good influences from years of using the Black Cat Miraculous after Adrien gave it up, she digresses shamelessly.

The sight of the kitten combined with the memory of the seventeen-year-old handing over Plagg and the ring gives a painful tug at her heartstrings.

"Male," Damian answers in a low timber.

Marinette feels like crying. It's just so cute.

(She remembers Adrien being that cute, before.

Before everything.

Marinette thinks it's better not to remember what used to be.)

"He is yours."

She chances a glance up at Damian, smiling ruefully. "I don't know... There's room for him, but he doesn't have all the required cat necessities—"

"Taken care of," He dismisses with a wave of a hand.

Marinette's smile broadens. "You wouldn't mind?" This isn't her home. But if Damian's offering...

Damian looks at her, piercing emerald eyes assessing. "No," He murmurs, almost shy. But Damian doesn't do shy, so it sounds more brutish. But Marinette gets it. "You are lonely."

Marinette's smile falters, confused. Never mind.

He looks back down at the cat. "I am often busy. I thought it best to endow to you this cat, in case you become bereft of me."

A bold claim, she thinks, but she understands the sentiment. He's not technically wrong, either. She may find his presence a bit... pretentious, but anything beats being alone. She has a cat, now. Part of her thought Damian had been tricking her initially, seeking her out to attach herself to the little guy (which happened in a heartbeat) and then slaughter him before her very eyes.

But she's being dramatic. Damian doesn't seem the type to do that, either. He's not cruel. At least, he hasn't been yet. Jerking and accelerating, yes. Invigoratingly irritating, absolutely. But cruel? No. Not truly.

Her eyes trace the small, visible fangs of the kitten jutting out of its maw, and she feels nostalgic.

I'll put him in our shared room.

Our.

She lets out a chuckle of disbelief.

It's hard to stay mad at Damian. It's hard because she's not an angry person. Damian is trying to help her, even though it's with an ulterior motive. He could be worse. He could be so much worse.

It's not an excuse for trying to kill her at first, but...

But this is very thoughtful of him.

She's tired. It's not his fault he has to deal with her, now. Just like it's not her fault that they are soulmates and there seems no way out of it from each party. She's sure Damian has tried. She has tried, as sad as it is. She thought that when she met her soulmate, she'd feel... complete. Happy.

But she doesn't.

She's sad. So very sad.

She is far from home, stuck to follow the whims of a man who makes it clear he doesn't want to be with her. Not in a way that matters. He demands her to be his wife, but he doesn't love her. And that's normal. She won't force him to. It's just...

Her hopes and dreams have come falling, is all. Butchered by a mistake of her own doing.

Yet. He has already told her he wants to see this through. For other reasons rather than ones she might've wanted, but... It's something.

Whether it's good or bad, she'll have to judge for herself.

She'll give herself another month. Just a month, and if she remains here and she maxed out all her options, maybe then she'll consider his betrothal. Though, that's a bit of a stretch. Marinette doesn't love him. She barely knows him.

But she could, eventually.

If he plays nice, if he's sincere.

So far, giving her this cat has earned him some points (as shallow as that is).

She stands, turning to him with new consideration. "Thank you," She whispers, and the meaningful way he looks at her makes her feel exposed. But she's used to that, so she doesn't challenge his stare—instead, she thinks, recounting past events.

She hasn't been communicating all that she wants if she's honest. There's a lot she wants to talk about with Damian, but their rocky relationship has disallowed her the motivation to. He doesn't listen. But he does listen, too. He's very confusing.

She doesn't know if he's trying. But this... This might count for something at least.

He has already confessed to reading books to best understand her.

Perhaps...

Perhaps she's been too hard on him.

Breathing in, she hugs herself to protect herself from the biting cold, resigned. "Damian."

He perks up even though he's looking at her already.

"I'm not going to apologize for how I've been treating you since we met," She begins cautiously, eyeing his reaction. He gives none. "I was upset that you tried to kill me. I believe that is something anyone would be upset about, yes?"

"Yes," He allows, though he sounds a tad begrudging.

She smiles anyway. "But I'm going to say thank you for respecting my space," She's being lenient there. "I know you have a habit of... staring," Her eyebrow ticks at his harrumph, "But. You respected my wish to think on... everything. And. And I want to trust you," She licks her dry lips, suddenly nervous. She doesn't know if it's a good idea after everything, but she wants to do it. She's tired of feeling like this. So... lonely. So angry. So sad.

(She prays she's not experiencing some form of Stockholm Syndrome. She'll really be embarrassed with herself then.)

"And I—"

"Not a wise decision," He interrupts.

She blinks at him, caught off-guard.

He stares at her. Sincere, for once. "I am aware I have not given you any reason to trust me. You have informed me of this time and time again. I believe it is best that you don't. I am capable of much more, and this Soulbond—" He cups a hand to his chest, glancing down at hers, "—this Soulbond is but a means to an end. I humbly ask you just one thing. To be civil amongst each other." He swallows.

She wilts on the inside. In secret.

Well, she thinks, defeated yet oddly relieved. There goes that.

"Oh."

He tucks his hands behind his back, returning to his original idle pose.

She rubs her temple. "Then why do you keep asking me to be your wife?"

"Because it is expected of me to," Comes his easy answer. She snaps her mouth shut. "I am to woo you, to make you an ally and produce an heir to continue the lineage. I do not have to love you."

Somehow, that comment stings. She knows that. She knows that he doesn't have to love her. She knows a lot of things, it seems, and doesn't think about it enough to stop her emotions from barging into her heart.

"It is the same for you. You do not have to love me. You do not have to trust me. That is asking for too much. I cannot give you the same, so therefore you should not be inclined to give me the same." Marinette knows he doesn't tell her that he's come to understand this because of all his studious reading. Her words alone wouldn't have helped.

Marinette gazes at him, eyes wide with something akin to heartache. Her letters throb. She doesn't like it.

(Are these feelings her own? or Foreign?

They feel scarily different, with a weight of possessiveness.

It's as if they are risking their best to convince her that these emotions are her own.)

"So then what's all this?" She gestures to the entire room somewhat wildly. "Why give me this?" These gifts are for her. He's told her before. He could've just been nice to her instead of making an attempt on her life multiple times. He could've not told her anything. As much as she appreciates him for his honest words, she can't understand why he bothers her if his goal is just to make a lonely wife out of her.

"I don't know," He admits. He makes a face of repulsion. Disappointed in himself.

Marinette stands there, quiet.

Processing.

"Okay," She nods.

Damian tilts his head. "Okay?"

"Yes. Okay," She hits her fist to her hand, abruptly determined. She thinks she understands a bit, now. "We can be cordial. We can be nice to each other, as long as we keep the same energy, right?"

He gives a suspicious nod.

"Okay. Good, then." She looks at him hopefully, "I understand. Trust takes time to build. I won't force you to do anything for me, ever. I just ask that you won't do that to me, too." She's insinuating the betrothal. She knows that he knows that it's the postponed wedding she's talking about.

She almost expects him to deny it. It won't be the first time.

She's pleasantly surprised he doesn't. "...Fine."

She rubs her arm, pondering. "Maybe... Maybe if we get to know each other, we can be friends."

He looks put off. "...If that is what you want," He grunts.

She shakes her head. "It'll only happen if the feelings are mutual, Damian. I won't demand anything from you."

Damian looks away.

"...Very well."

In that instance, both occupants in the room freeze when they hear a very light yawn. Nearly inaudible, but to their trained ears, it's as loud as day.

Marinette looks down at the cat, lighting up, previous conversation pushed into the back of her mind. "Kitty!" She exclaims, crouching, jutting her arms out in front of her, gently asking the rousing cat to jump into her awaiting palms.

The cat turns over, bulbous green eyes sending her careening into a time that used to be.

"He is awake," Damian observes, and Marinette feels his burning gaze as she waits for the cat to sniff at her hands. "What will you name him?

Marinette bites her lip, suppressing her boisterous proclamations of joy when the cat is quick to become putty in her hands.

She almost names him Adrien.

"I think..." She begins, raising the kitten to her face and nuzzling the little guy who readily accepts her love. "...I think I'll name him Damian."

She looks at Damian, morbidly curious about his reaction to the name.

She doesn't expect him to look so pleased.

[. . .]

Marinette doesn't trust herself much to make good decisions. So a part of her is banefully appreciative that Damian has voiced thoughts that she, in secret, shares.

The next morning, as she heeds the call of her companion Zaynab with the kitten Damian bundled in her arms to accompany her, Marinette enters a deeply meditative pondering.

The other part of her—the confused, irritable side that has manifested and been battling her sanguinity—can't quite believe anything that was said the night previous. Trust goes a long way and believing his word for it is foolish, as naive as she may be. But. It's hard for her to shake the habit of giving the other person the benefit of the doubt. He didn't have to make an effort to win her over. He could have simply kept demanding and left her with no choice.

And she still technically doesn't have a choice.

She can't leave. Damian has told her that they are bound together and that he has no business outside of Nanda Parbat to take care of.

(The discovery of where she may be doesn't, surprisingly, give insight into where she is. She's never heard of a place like that.)

And soulmates can't be apart for more than a day, according to him.

Something else to keep her chained, she supposes. She asked about the risks that come with that, all of which involve death. So. Not fun.

(Slow death. The torture of enduring the gradual slicing of the heartstrings until your heart quite literally breaks sounds immensely unappealing.

Or a disease Damian mentioned called Heart Rot, where the blood that pumps into the heart begins to corrode and diminish in red blood cells, causing eventual heart failure.

In a way, she realizes Damian was protecting her. The knowledge of that makes her feel helpless.)

Standing where she is now, with little kitten Damian in her hands snoozing his life away, she follows after the servant Zaynab for breakfast in contemplative thought. She'll have to do some convincing for Damian to attend with her. She has to know and figure out if there is another form of power out there that can help her go home. Also if by some off chance that Kaalki is in France, because she remembers using the horse miraculous. Whatever combination of alien magic she bumped into must've not appreciated her use and landed her smack in the middle of a dang Assassin Cult. She has no clue what it may be. The hope relies on outside possibilities from this encampment.

The issue at hand is whether Damian will accept her leaving this dimension for her own.

Dismal, she understands he wouldn't.

What to do, what to do.

Sighing, she resigns herself for another day to waste. She'll need to think more about it before she can act.

All seems calm. The usual stride, the tranquil frosty breeze kissing her neck, hands, and face.

That is, until the new tentative friendship Zaynab is cut in half right in front of her.

A horrifying, gut-wrenching shock paralyzes her in place as crimson spurts over her face.

"Well."

The gravelly, artificial voice that announces itself as the splattered body drops in two has her jumping back while squeezing the kitten nearly painfully close to her chest, eyes widening and centering on a man with a mask. With a single hole on the orange half of the obscurity on his face that reveals a sinister opaque white, the other half of the mask is as black as the clothes the man wears, focused on her. Attached to the black bodysuit are all forms of overlapping, heavy armor, weapons, and the sheath of the same blade he used to kill her servant.

Zaynab is dead.

"And I thought the rumors were fucking with me," The man continues in a low timber as he swiftly flicks his blade to the side of him, ridding it of the iron petrichor. "The League's new broodmare. Heard you're worth millions, right now. Where's your sore loser of a betrothed?"

Marinette's tongue is in knots.

Her throat burns with a mindless noise of despair as her shaking eyes rake across Zaynab's corpse, drifting between her and the man nearly an entire body's worth taller than her. She can't say anything. An unbearable, ripping emotion is stabbing her insides.

The chuckle that escapes the murderer trickles cold fury down her spine. "Ah. Submissive and pliant. Very good choice of that brat to make. I half expected his soulmate to be just as irritable as he is, but you're a pleasant surprise. A fetch on the eyes too," The man steps closer, angling his blade with a lilt to his voice that makes her want to puke. "Hold still for me, sweetheart. This won't hurt."

He charges.