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“Love, like alchemy, requires sacrifice. And I am very good at giving things up. Just not you.”
– Rhinedottir, from an unpublished treatise titled On the Myth of Free Will and Other Inconveniences
Alice loved puzzles.
She adored realms wrapped in logic, structures that bent reality, things that shouldn't exist — and yet did.
So when she stumbled into The Hollow Archive, a place whispered of in ruins and madmen’s notes, she smiled.
Books that wrote themselves. Time that looped only when you stopped watching. Artificial stars flickering like dying gods.
And in the center of it all: her.
Rhinedottir.
The infamous "Gold."
---
“You’re late,” Gold said, not looking up from the dissected dragon embryo on the slab.
Alice tilted her head. “Late for what?”
“For becoming inevitable.”
---
Rhinedottir had no need for friends. She made them. From bones. From will. From starfire and ambition.
But Alice was different.
She was chaos wrapped in charm. A mind like a prism. A laugh like a detonation. Her theories broke laws Rhinedottir hadn't finished inventing.
And worst of all—she left.
Every few decades, she wandered away. To see other stars. Touch other gods. Taste other forms of madness.
And Rhinedottir waited.
And studied.
And planned.
---
> “You could leave again,” Rhinedottir said once, as they observed a newborn artificial lifeform spinning in its tank.
“I might,” Alice replied, playful.
“What would I need to create to make you stay?”
Alice laughed.
Rhinedottir did not.
---
When Alice brought another guest — a Celestia exile with silver eyes and too many questions — Rhinedottir smiled.
Politely.
And three days later, the guest disappeared.
“I told you,” Gold said softly, examining her black-gloved hands. “Curiosity kills. But I’m different. I resurrect.”
Alice narrowed her eyes. “Did you kill them?”
“Not at all. I simply removed a variable from the equation of us.”
---
Rhinedottir’s obsession grew quieter. Sharper. Subtler.
She began crafting life that resembled Alice: with her wild eyes, her reckless smile. None of them survived long. They lacked will.
“I’m flattered,” Alice teased once, discovering the failed clone-room.
“You should be,” Rhinedottir replied.
---
She began binding enchantments to Alice’s tea, not to control her—but to track her.
She began replacing the mirrors with versions that whispered doubts. Not lies—just half-truths. Enough to make Alice look over her shoulder.
“Are you trying to gaslight me?” Alice asked one day.
Rhinedottir turned, her eyes glowing faintly gold. “Don’t reduce me. I’m rewriting your epistemology.”
Alice laughed. But it sounded nervous.
---
Rhinedottir never claimed to feel love.
She claimed to analyze it.
But even gods lie to themselves.
So when Alice vanished one cycle, no note, no warning—just a burned sigil where she used to stand—Rhinedottir’s composure cracked.
The Hollow Archive closed its gates.
The artificial stars dimmed.
And the gods she had crafted began to dream of flame.
---
Alice came back.
Seventeen years later, in real-time.
Not aged. Not harmed. Just tired.
“I got caught in another world,” she said, half-truthful. “Things got messy. You wouldn’t like it.”
Rhinedottir studied her. Quiet. Calculating.
“You never said goodbye.”
“I thought you didn’t believe in sentiment.”
“I believe in control,” Gold whispered, stepping close.
Alice’s smile faltered.
Rhinedottir gently touched her cheek.
“You belong to me.”
Alice swallowed.
And—for a moment—she didn’t argue.