The One That Got Away

THEY WERE RIGHT ALL ALONG

"Give me one good reason not to kill you, witch!"

Layla stood still, barely breathing, eyes wide with confusion, as the man she loved and thought she had lost forever held a sword to her throat. A few minutes ago, they had just laid eyes upon each other. Tearful and ecstatic, she was ready to fall into his arms when, to her utter surprise and disbelief, she saw him marching towards her drawing a sword, eyes overflowed with fury and hate.

Total silence engulfed the pub and nobody dared to move. Except for Margaret. Layla watched her with the corner of her eye as she approached carefully, placing her hand on his arm. "Please my dear boy, don't do anything rash," she whispered, her eyes wet with unshed tears.

"Margaret, stay out of this!" he snapped, never breaking eye contact with Layla, never putting the sword down. "Don't be fooled. This," the word fell with disgust out of his mouth, "is nothing more than witchcraft!"

Layla gathered every ounce of courage she had in her. She didn't understand what was going on, but she did know Alex. Her best friend. Her knight. Her beloved.

Her voice came out soft and trembling. "Alex, it's me, Lay-"

"Shut your mouth witch or I will slice your throat!" The roar startled her and she moved slightly, resulting in a small cut from the sharp sword still attached to her throat. Tears started escaping her eyes, but neither from pain nor from fear. The hostility coming from him in waves was shattering her heart to pieces. He continued, his eyes darting for a fragment of a second to the wound. "You weren't very well informed, witch. Nobody calls me Alex." He cocked his head to the side as if measuring her.

On seeing the blood in Layla's neck, a gasp escaped Margaret. She sank into her knees in front of him, hands lifted in a pleading stance. "Please, Xander, please don't hurt hir!" she cried. Despite everything going on, Layla didn't fail to notice how the woman called him.

"Margaret..." he said, his tone warning. But the old lady didn't seem willing to give up. She rose up and, even though her face was still wet, she had ceased crying. She was panting, a fierce determination now written all over her face.

"I know you, boy, since you were born. Look at me when I'm talking to you!"

Layla watched wide-eyed as for the first time since he walked in, Alex, or rather Xander as he now preferred to be called, took his eyes off her and turned his head to Margaret. He still held the sword to her neck though.

"Maybe you been right," she heard the woman saying with a mild but firm tone. "Maybe she is a witch."

Layla panicked. Had she lost her sole ally? Had the woman changed her mind all of a sudden? Fortunately, the next words coming from her proved otherwise. "But what if there is a chance, a tiny chance, something else is going on? What if the gods decided to return hir to us?" Margaret turned to face Layla, tears falling again, a kind yet sorrowful smile on her lips. "I found hir again as I once did before, sad and lonely." She turned to Xander. "She is so much like hir, my boy, so much! Don't you owe it to yourself to investigate first? Don't you owe it to hir?"

One of the soldiers that accompanied Xander appeared from behind him, placing his hand on the arm holding the sword. "She is right, commander. If anything, we should take her to the king first."

Layla's mouth fell as she immediately recognized Chris, Liv's boyfriend. Before she could think about it any better, the words escaped her. "Chris! What are you doing here? Help me! Tell them who I am!"

He gazed at her, frowning in confusion. "You recognize me?"

She paled, her mind unable to process the facts. Now both Alex and Chris, who behaved like total strangers, were staring at her, clearly expecting an answer. Actually, every set of eyes inside the pub was now upon her with immense interest. She remained speechless, unable to react.

Xander seemed to think about it and finally removed the sword from her neck. Margaret rushed to place a cloth on the wound, pressing to stop the bleeding, while Layla darted her eyes from one to the other, not knowing how to respond. She decided to try honesty, keeping her voice low and steady. "Chris, it's me, Layla. Liv's... Liv's friend. Don't you recognize me?"

The men looked at each other skeptical. Chris was the first to speak but not to her. He addressed his partner. "This is making less sense by the minute. Let us take her to King Lucius and see what he has to say." To her relief, the commander nodded in agreement. At least they wouldn't kill her on the spot. But before she had any time to relax, she saw him removing a pair of handcuffs from his belt.

"Fine, but she will be restrained." He moved to tie a dumbfounded Layla, when Margaret intervened again, blocking his way.

"Oh, come on child, is that necessary?" She scoffed. "I been with hir for some time now. The girl is practically harmless!"

Xander stood still, gazing into the woman's eyes. He seemed to be on the verge of losing his patience with her. "Margaret, I am really trying here. Please, step aside!"

Layla watched the interaction. She saw the woman backing away, but it was sorrow and not fear that was prominent in her eyes. There seemed to be a lot of history between the two of them. She remembered her saying she knew him since he was a baby. But she didn't recall Alex ever mentioning a Margaret.

Was it possible? Was it possible that this Xander was not her Alex? Was it possible that he was an identical version of him with the same name?

As much as it was possible, an identical version of her existed with the same name. As much as it was possible, Alex coming back from the dead.

Just when her mind was about to fry, she heard Alex-Xander speaking to her.

"Give me your hands."

He was now standing in front of her, cuffs ready to bind her. She looked in his eyes, only to be met with the same hostility. She averted her gaze, throwing her head down, offering her arms to him. After hesitating for a second, he grabbed them forcefully.

There it was again, just like she remembered it. 

Electrocution.

Her head snapped up, their eyes meeting once more. He was gazing at her, looking perplexed and frustrated, almost dropping the cuffs from his hands. Chris, who stood aside watching, grabbed him by the shoulder. "Are you well, commander? Do you want me to do it?"

He didn't answer him immediately but kept staring at her, a multitude of emotions parading through his features. Confusion, sorrow, longing, hope, pain until finally, darkness settled anew. He shook his head as if to disperse a fog clouding his brain.

"I am fine," he said and placed the cuffs on her wrists.

Xander grasped her by the arm, dragging her along with him. They exited the pub, Margaret following behind in a hurry. She managed to catch up with them and started pacing beside Layla.

"Don't worry child, I'll be with you all the way," she offered the sweetest solidarity.

Layla looked at her, feeling only gratitude. "Margaret, whatever happens, I want you to know I am grateful for everything you've done for me." She threw her head down, staring at the cobbled street, a bitter smile forming on her lips. "You are actually the first person to treat me with such kindness in a while." She raised her eyes towards Margaret, only to find the poor woman ready to burst into tears again.

Xander tightened his grip on her, stealing the attention. She caught him with the corner of her eye, side-glancing at her. Was that a warning to stop talking? Or an act of reassurance, the protective instinct escaping his facade of animosity?

She focused on his strong hand wrapped around her arm. The contact was burning her skin. He emanated a heat that, despite everything, still felt affectionate, still filled with longing and desire every pore of her body. She was unable to fear him, to hate him, to lose faith in him. A notion shone in her mind. They were right.

The languishing poets and the lyrical songwriters. The passionate dreamers and the stubborn optimists. The amorous authors and the rom-com filmmakers. The yearning fools, the lovelorn teenagers, the outrageously naive, the hopelessly romantic. They were right all along.

True love never dies.