The Chronomancer and the Twins of Time

Marrakech — Elena’s Suite, La Mamounia

The door to my suite is just slightly ajar—enough to raise the small hairs along my arms. The sensation at my breasts persists; the soft ooze of golden liquid already warns me. I exhale, less startled than resigned. It can only be one of two people.

I push the door open. Tarmo stands by the balcony, outlined in latticed shadow, the city’s pulse a haze of lanterns and distant drums behind him. He has shed his usual armour: no jacket, no shirt, bare feet on tile, a glass of something golden turning slow circles in his hand.

He doesn’t greet me right away. Instead, he studies the Marrakech nightscape as if weighing whether to let me cross the threshold fully into this moment.

I drop my bag, exhaustion forgotten, some small part of me relieved at the absence of subterfuge. “You followed me, didn’t you?”

Tarmo turns, smiles tired and unguarded. “I tried not to. Thought a little distance might keep things simpler. But you are in Marrakech, alone with a city built from stories? I lasted four hours.”

My voice is dry, edged with tired humour. “Is this visit business, pleasure, or prophecy? Because I’ve had quite a day.”

I cross the threshold, letting the silk of my dress whisper my mood. “Complication? Comes in so many forms lately.” I meet his gaze, steady, refusing performance. “But you already know that, don’t you?”

He watches me, eyes flicking to my leaking breasts, registering the wet dress, the current of fate running beneath it.

“You are looking radiant.”

I feel the pulse of the nexus that has always tied us shimmer a little harder. I look at him—truly look—and see the man who has chased me across continents and aeons for reasons neither of us will ever entirely own. The desire is there, steady as the connection and the lifetimes shared, but so is something more: need, regret, the urge to claim a little happiness in the cracks of all our moving pieces.

He draws closer. “Just tonight. No strategies, no games. Marrakech between us and nothing else.”

I exhale, tension knotting and unravelling at once. “Just tonight,” I repeat. For a moment, I believe it could be true.

“Why are you really here, Tarmo? Tonight, in my private, borrowed world?”

He crosses to me, the air thickening. Closer, his presence is a velvet threat, protective and predatory, promise and puzzle.

“Because,” he murmurs, voice dark as molasses, “I feel like a rook in Alekhine’s gun.”

He stops, searching my face, as if he’s trying to read my next move.

He brushes a loose strand of hair from my forehead, almost reverently. “You look tired,” he murmurs, more observation than empathy, “but more yourself than you have in years.”

I almost laugh. “What does ‘myself’ even mean, anymore?”

“Just this,” he whispers, eyes locked on mine, “just you—untranslated.”

His lips meet mine before I can reply, slow and searching, as if every separation we’ve endured must find a new answer on my mouth. My hands rise, finding his shoulders—familiar ground—yet every touch feels new, mapped by how much has changed and how much remains.

He leans into the kiss, desire tentative, as if asking permission for something he already knows I will grant. I break away, just enough to speak.

“You always did come at the worst—or best—possible moment.”

Tarmo’s laughter is low, frayed at the edges. “It’s not timing. It’s a compulsion.”

Clothes are shed with little ceremony but infinite care; my dress pools at my feet, silk sliding over skin that is softer, fuller, more charged with meaning now than ever before. Tarmo’s hands skate along curves he knows and ones he must rediscover. His mouth travels the map of me: jaw, neck, the delicate edge of my shoulder. I shudder, eyes closed, pulse thrumming with memory and new sensation.

Tarmo hesitates as his hands brush the arch of my ribs, feeling—sensing—what’s changed. His thumb pauses at the edge of my breast, searching my face. I meet his gaze, searching for judgment, finding only awe.

“I missed you,” he confesses, voice thick. “Not just the thrill, not just the old chase. I missed being allowed to be with, inside you.”

Tarmo’s mouth claims mine, and I surrender beneath the press—a surrender that is all choice, not helplessness. His hands glide down my arms, unhurried; his palms are warm, reading me anew. Every contact—a thumb brushing my wrist, knuckles grazing my jaw—is at once familiar and startling, as if old paths have been overgrown and memory and desire must map them together.

I twist my fingers into his hair, pulling him closer, hungry for the taste of him: salt and longing, the city’s dust, that faint echo of vodka. His tongue teases my lower lip, coaxing a gasp out of me that melts into a sigh.

He pauses, just for a heartbeat. Then he cups my breast—fuller now, my body inscribed by this miracle I carry. His thumb circles my nipple, feather-light at first, and the sensation coils low in my belly. I arch into his touch, my body answering, electricity running up my spine.

“Can I taste it, please?” he murmurs. I nod, and his hands close around my breasts as his mouth latches onto my nipple. He draws me closer, his grip tightening, and then looks up—eyes wicked.

“They’re mine, my precious.” I giggle at his joke and let myself fall back on the bed.

He watches as I settle, then unbuttons his pants. My breath catches as I see his surprise.

“You’re not wearing underwear?!”

I.Ph.