11. Isla

The moment my foot crossed the threshold of the old house, the weight of time pressed against me.

The air was thick, infused with the damp, earthy scent of moss-covered stones, of dust that had settled over the years, and of forgotten stories that lay dormant.

It was an odd mixture of desolation and age.

The chill in the room made my skin prickle.

As I moved further in, my fingers trailed the faded wallpaper, the textures rough and brittle.

The once vibrant patterns, though now almost invisible, whispered tales of days long past.

The echo of my footsteps filled the space, a lone sound in the haunting silence, only to be occasionally interrupted by the distant cawing of a bird or the subtle rustle of some critter hidden within the walls.

Thillak's voice cut through the stillness, softly narrating our shared history in this very house.

And as he spoke, the grim surroundings began to transform before my eyes.

The dilapidated furniture faded, replaced by visions of cozy armchairs and warm fireplaces.

The cold, lifeless air started to pulse with life.

And then came the smell.

At first, it was faint, like a distant memory that lingers at the edge of consciousness.

It was the unmistakable aroma of freshly baked bread.

The smell became more pronounced, filling the room and overpowering the mold and decay.

The warm, comforting fragrance of yeast and flour sent shivers down my spine, not of cold but of recognition.

In the periphery of my vision, images flickered.

Fleeting moments that danced in and out of my consciousness.

A younger me, laughing and kneading the dough.

The fiery oven, crackling with anticipation.

The sound of bread cooling on the window sill, its crust crackling softly, a symphony to my ears.

A voice, distinctly Thillak's but different — softer, more youthful — called out to me from the past. "Try it," he said, a teasing lilt in his voice.

In my hands, the warm loaf of bread felt solid, real.

I could feel the crust's rough texture, the heat radiating from its center, and the slight give when I pressed it gently.

I tore a piece off, the sound echoing like a nostalgic tune.

The bread was soft and chewy on the inside, with a crust that was the perfect combination of crisp and flaky.

Lost in this whirlwind of sensations, I barely registered Thillak continuing his tale, of how we had lived, loved, and found solace in this very house.

Of how this had been our sanctuary, our home.

But it wasn't just the story that took me back; it was the raw emotion, the sense of belonging, and the deep, unshakeable bond that resonated with every word Thillak spoke.

I felt a deep pang of recognition, of longing.

A tear escaped my eye, rolling down my cheek, carrying with it both sorrow and joy.

Then, the most vivid of all memories flashed before my eyes.

The kitchen, alive with laughter.

Me, covered in flour, attempting to shape the dough while a younger Thillak playfully teased and dodged the occasional playful swat.

The sheer happiness of that moment was palpable.

The laughter, the love, and the feeling of being complete.

The scene slowly faded, and as I returned to reality, my gaze fell upon Thillak.

But it wasn't the Thillak of now.

It was him from that past life.

His face was younger, free from the scars of time, but his eyes — the same eyes that had always looked at me with boundless love — were unmistakably his.

He stood there, a silent guardian of our memories, watching me with an intensity that made my heart race.

A soft smile played on his lips, mirroring my own.

The weight of our shared history, of countless lifetimes and endless love, settled between us.

We were here, in this moment, but we were also there, in the past.

Bound together by a love that defied time.

As the day's last light streamed through the broken windows, casting a warm glow around us, I whispered, "I remember."

The past and present collided, and in that moment, everything made perfect sense.

* * *

The remnantsof our old haven now took a new form, one that was startlingly vivid.

The starkness of the ruins seemed to have been replaced by an opulence that was reminiscent of ancient Rome.

The worn-out bricks transformed into elegant pillars.

Cold, forgotten chambers became airy courtyards with blooming flowers, roses and lilies filling the air, making it heavy with their perfume.

The stone beneath my feet felt different — smoother, cooler, like the fine tiles of a Roman villa.

The distant sound of fountains could be heard, and the gentle touch of a breeze carried whispers of laughter, chatter, and the distant melodies of lyres and flutes.

And right there, at the center of this breathtaking scene, stood Thillak.

He was clad in the garments of a Roman nobleman — a toga of the finest white linen, a deep purple sash around his waist, and sandals that laced up his calves.

The sight of him was otherworldly; it felt as if I had been transported back to an age where gods and mortals mingled freely.

His face, so familiar and yet so fresh in this setting, was even more handsome, if that were possible.

His eyes, however, remained the same — deep, intense, filled with a love that time couldn't diminish.

As I looked down at myself, my plain clothing had been replaced by a flowing gown in a shade of soft pink.

The fabric felt delicate against my skin, the intricate golden patterns shimmering subtly as they caught the sunlight.

My fingers, now adorned with rings, reached up to touch a wreath of fresh flowers that crowned my head.

The petals felt soft and velvety, the gentle aroma grounding me in this surreal experience.

Everything was in overwhelming detail.

The air was rich and slightly sweet, possibly from the ripened grapes nearby; the background hum of bees diligently at work, the sensation of a soft shawl draped over my shoulders to protect against the sun.

Even the warmth of the sun felt different, kinder, a gentle caress rather than a scorching blaze.

But as I tried to move, to reach out and touch the world around me, the sharp clarity began to wane.

The sounds became distant echoes, the vivid colors started to merge and fade.

In a matter of moments, the grandeur of ancient Rome evaporated, leaving behind the crumbling vestiges of the abandoned home.

The pillars and frescoes, the laughter and music — all gone, as if they had been mere illusions.

The loss was sudden and overwhelming.

The wave of emotions — a mix of awe, joy, nostalgia, and now, a deep sense of loss — threatened to drown me.

Two worlds; the one from our shared past and the current reality, was jarring.

Without thinking, I rushed over to Thillak.

I stumbled over the uneven floor, but it didn't matter.

I needed to be close to him, to anchor myself to something real, something constant.

As I wrapped my arms around him, I felt his warmth seep through, steadying my trembling form.

He was real.

This was real.

His arms closed around me, firm and reassuring.

He held me close, his chest rising and falling in a steady rhythm that I tried to match.

The feeling of his fingers stroking my hair was a balm to my frazzled nerves.

"It's okay," he whispered, his voice deep and soothing. "It's just the past trying to break through. We're here, in the now. I've got you."

The fear began to ebb, replaced by a profound gratitude.

With him by my side, past or present, I was home.

Tears blurred my vision, and I buried my face deeper into his chest, letting his strength envelop me.

With each passing second, the haunting beauty of our past life faded, leaving behind only the poignant memories and a love that refused to be confined by time.

* * *

The air grew palpably thickeras we moved deeper into the house, every step bringing a new rush of memories, like water being poured into a cup already full.

When we stepped into a particularly large chamber, something stirred inside me.

The room, though worn down by time and neglect, held an undeniable gravity for me.

Its faded splendor called out to me, echoing with whispers of bygone days.

"I remember this room…" I murmured, my voice laden with a combination of awe and perplexity

My eyes roamed over the remnants of faded wall paintings and broken furniture.

The ceiling was high, and large windows adorned one side, though they were now covered with layers of dirt and grime, only allowing streaks of sunlight to break through.

Thillak looked at me, his eyes searching mine, as if trying to find a piece of that past within them. "This," he began, taking a deep breath, "was our suite."

As soon as he said it, the memories rushed back in full force.

The rustling of the curtains, gentle and rhythmic, played in my ears like a soft lullaby.

The snapping of crisp sheets from a bed freshly made, and the muffled laughter that often followed such domestic joys.

We indulged in the fruit, lounging on our bed, the center of our shared universe.

I moved forward, almost in a trance.

The ground beneath my feet felt different — soft, plush, like the luxurious carpets that once adorned our suite.

Tentatively, I placed a hand on an ornate desk, the wood cool and smooth beneath my fingertips.

But something felt different.

My hands… they weren't the same.

They looked slender and adorned with intricate jewelry.

And my skin… it was green!

My clothes too had transformed.

I was wearing a long gown made of fine fabric, its folds cascading down in a waterfall of pastel shades.

My hair, typically left loose or tied in a simple ponytail, was now pinned up elegantly, with strands of pearls woven through.

Closing my eyes, I could feel the pulse of this place, as if the very walls held the essence of our love, preserved for eternity.

The room seemed alive with memories, each corner holding a story, each artifact a testament to moments of joy, passion, sorrow, and hope.

But amidst all this, one sensation was conspicuously absent — the touch of Thillak.

As if sensing my thoughts, I felt a gentle hand on my shoulder, guiding me to turn around.

And there he was, past life Thillak, looking as regal and breathtaking as ever.

His clothes mirrored the grandeur of the era, and his face, though familiar, had that distinct glow of youth, of a life not yet burdened by the countless challenges and adversities that time inevitably brings.

His eyes, however, were the same — timeless pools of love and longing, bearing the weight of lifetimes of memories, of promises made and kept, of love declared and reciprocated.

He moved closer, the distance between us melting away, and just like that, the weight of centuries dissolved.

There was no past or present, no boundary of time.

There was only us, two souls eternally entwined.

"I've been waiting for you," he whispered, his warm breath tickling my ear, sending shivers down my spine.

The sensation was overwhelming — the depth of emotion, the sheer intensity of the moment.

Tears welled up in my eyes, not of sadness but of profound gratitude and joy.

Here, amidst the ruins of our past, our love was reborn, as vibrant and alive as ever.

As his lips met mine, the world faded away.

It was a kiss that transcended time, a testament to a love that defied the very laws of the universe.

In that instant, amidst the echoes of our shared history, we were once again whole, two halves of a timeless love story, forever bound by destiny.

* * *

Thillak'spowerful arms wrapped around me and squeezed me tight.

His hands drifted down, one clasping my full breast, the other my abdomen.

He pulled me gently to him, and I felt his raging cock on my back.

He was horny and I had never once turned down his advances.

I turned around to face him and saw that familiar misty look in his eye.

I kept my eyes on him and, as if obeying his psychic command, slipped down my underwear and hitched up my dress.

My underwear hit the floor not once, but twice, as my consciousness intercut between the past and the present simultaneously.

Thillak scooped me up in his arms and lifted me easily onto the desk — the very same desk in both times.

In the past, Thillak raised his kilt-like uniform while in the present, Thillak let his pants fall down.

In both times, his cock bounced at having been freed from its constraints.

He angled his cock toward my opening, placed it there just a moment, and then slid it inside me.

I hissed through my teeth, feeling both acts of penetration at the same time.

It was shocking and exhilarating at the same time.

He began to stroke in and out of me, taking his time in warming me up.

The desk groaned but it could take the punishment.

I wasn't so sure I could, despite the countless times we had done this over the centuries.

He slammed hard into me, making me moan, and in the past, I looked over at the ornate mirror hanging on the wall, and watched as my hulking fated mate worked me over.

There was no mirror in the present and I had to be content with our shadows writhing on the wall instead.

I sat up and was almost face to face with my lover, and he buried his lips on mine as he continued to spear me.

I groaned with each forceful slam as he kicked up a gear and hammered me hard.

I wrapped my arms around his powerful, muscular shoulders as I felt my end approaching.

My legs wrapped around him, pulling him deeper into me, begging, desperate to feel him.

He placed his hands on my hips and pulled me harder onto him, drilling further into me.

I wailed as he took another orgasm from me and caught it on his lips.

Finally, grunting under his breath, he growled as he slammed into me another dozen times, spilling his delicious seed into me, and I took it all, every last drop.

I scraped my nails over his scales and nibbled at his erect nipples.

And he fell into me, holding on tight.

And in that mirror, I saw myself looking back at me, each of us wearing a small smile, and perhaps, not only was I looking into the past, but my past self was looking back at me too.