So Long, Madl

So Long, Madl

Orter Madl x Reader

Summary: You smiled through it all. Through the endless sea of expectations. You wore the mask so well they almost believed it. Sometimes, you almost believed it too. Until one day you realized: You could wait forever, and he would never fight for you the way you deserved. And he wouldn’t notice until you were already gone.

Author’s Notes: This can be read as a stand alone fic or as Part 2. This Fic is inspired by So Long, London by TS.

Warning: Angst. One Sided Love. No comfort ig.

—⛥— Pulled him in tighter each time he was drifting away —⛥—

The ballroom hums with laughter, clinking glasses, whispered rumors. You can feel every stare digging into your skin. Of course, you are the engaged to a Divine Visionary. and a Divine Visionary is basically the highest honor a magic user can receive in the Magic Realm.

Across the room, Orter is standing stiffly near the marble columns, speaking to a foreign diplomat. The crowd parts like waves for him. Always for him.

You reach for his arm, fingers brushing the stiff fabric of his uniform jacket. You heart pounded so much it felt like it would burst any second.

"Orter," you say softly, smiling like the cameras are already on you. "They're starting the speeches soon. We should-", His eyes flick to you, sharp and cool. “…go.”

For a second, your thinking he might shrug you off. Instead, he nods once and lets you loop your arm through his. Clinging on him tighter than you should, pulling him closer, tucking yourself against his side as the photographers snap their pictures.

He doesn't pull away

….but he doesn't lean into you either.

“Smile," you whisper through your teeth, smiling so wide it hurts. "Just for a moment." He bares his teeth in something that might pass for a smile.

The hollow space between your bodies feels like a second skin. As the crowd applauds the hosts, you clap along, still holding on to him. You're afraid if you let go, he'll drift away again - disappear into his own private, unreachable world.

And when he turns his head slightly - to check the time, to study the exits, to think of everything but you.

—

Later, when you look at the photos splashed across the papers, it almost looks real. The perfect couple. The shining future. Wondering if anyone else notices the way you pulled him in tighter each time he was drifting away…

—⛥— My spine split from carrying us up the hill —⛥—

The Madl estate stood against the evening sky like a wound stitched into the land, its black stone towers casting long, cold shadows across the gravel drive.

You adjusted your grip on the small gift box in your hands - an offering for Orter's mother, a meaningless token wrapped in gold foil and good intentions. Having spent hours choosing it, hoping it was enough.

The butler barely glanced at you as he opens the heavy door. Inside, the house was a symphony of low conversations and clinking lasses. You smoothed the front of your outfit and stepped inside anyway, feeling the weight of a thousand expectations settle over your shoulders like a mantle you never asked to wear.

Across the room, Orter stood near the fireplace, arms crossed, his face half-lit by the flames. He didn't move toward you. He didn't even smile.

Still, you crossed the room to him, every step measured, every breath counted. “Hello," you said, your voice soft but clear, offering him everything you had in one word. He gave you a nod, nothing more.

The silence stretched thin between you, and so you filled it the only way you knew how - by pretending it wasn't there.

You turned to his mother, who was already watching with the kind of tight-lipped disapproval she reserved for outsiders and disappointments. Extending the gift with both hands and a carefully rehearsed smile, “Thank you for hosting us," you said. "I thought this might suit your collection."

She took the box as though it might burn her fingers. “A thoughtful gesture," Her voice held no warmth.

You swallowed the ache rising in your throat and forced yourself to stand straighter. The evening blurred into a performance. You moved through the small family gathering, accepting wine you didn't want, laughing at jokes that weren't funny, answering question after question about the upcoming wedding, the future you were supposed to build brick by brick.

Orter stayed at your side, but only in the physical sense. He spoke when directly addressed, but otherwise he was a ghost, haunting the edges of the conversation, offering you no support, no reassurance.

It was you who smiled. Who reassured the family that yes, the guest list was progressing, and yes, the alliances would be honored, and yes, the heirs would come.

It was you who carried the heavy history of two powerful families on your back while he stood silent, letting you bear it alone.

You caught his eye once, across the rim of your glass. Begging, in a way you hadn't meant to.

Please. Help me. Please.

However, Orter's gaze slid away before it could meet yours. The humiliation was sharp and immediate, a crack splitting down your spine. You thought you might be sick.

—

Later, much later, when the guests had dispersed into smaller circles and the halls grew quieter, you found him outside on the balcony. The night air was sharp and smelled faintly of woodsmoke and frost.

Orter leaned against the stone balustrade, his head tilted back to stare at the stars. He looked beautiful in a way that hurt - all clean lines and cold detachment, as unreachable as the sky he was studying.

You stepped into the cold beside him, wrapping your arms around yourself to stave off the chill.

"I tried," your words were barely a whisper ripped raw from somewhere deep inside you. “I tried so hard to make tonight perfect."

Orter didn’t move. Only a small shift in the set of his jaw betrayed that he had even heard you.

You waited, willing him to close the space between you, to offer something, anything.

But Orter said nothing.

The silence settled between you, thicker than the night air. Turning away first, because if you stayed, you might start crying, and you knew better than to cry in front of him.

Not because he would be cruel - cruelty required engagement; but because you thought he simply wouldn't notice.

Grippind the railing until your fingers ached. In that moment, you realized something you had refused to believe for far too long:

‘How much sad does Orter thinks i have in me?’

—⛥— My friends said it isn't right to be scared —⛥—

The café smelled like burnt coffee and something sickeningly sweet - probably the jar of honey Kaldo had pull out the second you sat down.

You stared into your untouched tea while he scooped a glob of golden syrup into his cup without shame, stirring it lazily.

"You're going to give yourself a sugar coma," you murmured, voice thin with exhaustion.

Kaldo shrugged, the faintest smirk tugging at his mouth. “At least I'll die doing what I love," he said and tastes his drink before stirring the sweet substance in it again.

You huffed a small laugh, and for a moment, it almost masked the heaviness curling tight in your chest.

Almost.

Kaldo's golden eyes flicked up from his mug, sharp and assessing, despite the lazy air he wore like a cloak. He didn't say anything - he just waited, letting the silence stretch until the words inside you started to crack open on their own.

"It's Orter," you said finally, your fingers tightening around your tea. "I... I don't think he wants this. Us. Me."

Kaldo gave a low hum, somewhere between thoughtful and unimpressed. He set his spoon down with a soft clink and leaned back in his chair, one arm slung casually over the backrest. “What happened?" he asked, though you got the sense he already knew.

Staring down at your lap, you swallowed the next words nearly splintering on your tongue. “I'm scared, Kaldo. Every day, I'm scared. Scared that if I let go for even a second, everything will fall apart - that he'll decide it's easier without me."

Kaldo was quiet for a beat, tapping one finger against the side of his mug. Then he spoke, voice dry as sand:

"Sounds exhausting," he said. "And mind you, I can't even be bothered to hold a conversation with someone if they put less effort in than my breakfast toast."

You let out a startled bark of laughter - too loud, too raw - and then immediately pressed a hand to your mouth, embarrassed.

Kaldo just grinned, the expression crooked and lopsided.

"I'm serious," he said. "Relationships aren't meant to be some one-person marathon. You're not supposed to be the only one dragging both of you up the mountain. If you are..." He shrugged, as if the answer was obvious. “Maybe you need to ask why the hell you're climbing with someone who'd rather let you break your damn back than lift a finger."

You stared at him, wide-eyed.

Kaldo leaned forward then, resting his elbows on the table, voice dropping low and steady. “You're not a burden," he said. "You're not disposable. And you sure as hell shouldn't be scared every time you breathe next to some & who's supposed to love you."

The tears prickled at the edges of your vision, hot and shameful. You blinked them away, but Kaldo noticed. He didn't make a big deal of it - didn't reach out dramatically or speak softer like you were made of glass.

Instead, he shoved the jar of honey toward you with a sly little tilt of his head. “Here," he said. "Sweeten your tea before you drown yourself in it."

It was ridiculous.

It was perfect.

You choked out a laugh that turned into a sob halfway through, and Kaldo just leaned back again, letting you fall apart quietly, the way real friends did.

Outside, the rain blurred the world into watercolor gray. Inside, for the first time in a long while, you felt something almost like hope.

Maybe you were allowed to want more. Maybe you deserved someone who would meet you halfway - who would love you without you having to bleed yourself dry for it. Maybe it wasn't too late to save yourself.

—⛥— Two Graves, One Gun. —⛥—

The study was warm with the golden light of a low-burning lamp, the scent of old parchment and ink thick in the air.

Outside, the world was slipping into evening, shadows stretching long and thin across the grounds. You stood near the window, one hand pressed flat against the cool glass, heart hammering painfully in your chest.

You couldn't keep doing this - couldn't keep carrying all the weight alone. Kaldo's words had rooted deep inside you over the past few days, stubborn and persistent.

You found Orter seated at his desk, shoulders hunched as he scribbled notes onto a scroll, utterly consumed by whatever latest obligation demanded his time.

It would be so easy to let it go again. To sink back into silence, to pretend you didn't feel yourself slipping further away…But something in you rebelled. Something small and fierce that still remembered what it was like to be chosen.

You crossed the room before you could lose your nerve, standing just beside his desk.”Orter," you said, voice quieter than you intended.

He looked up almost absently, his quill stilling in his hand.

You twisted your fingers together in front of you, a nervous, childish gesture you hated but couldn't seem to stop, “Can we talk?" you asked, forcing your voice to steady.

He regarded you for a moment, then set the quill down neatly beside the scroll. “Of course," he said, with that calm, measured tone that always made you feel small.

You drew a slow breath, the words nearly choking you on the way out.

"Do you love me?"

The question hung there between you, fragile and breakable as spun glass.

Orter's face didn't change immediately. He sat back in his chair, studying you with that same sharp, unreadable gaze he wore during council meetings.

The silence stretched on so long you thought you might shatter from the weight of it.

Finally, he spoke, voice careful. "I prefer your presence over anyone else's…", he said. "I suppose I- ….. value you."

You froze, the words sinking in like stones.

Not an I love you.

It wasn't the same. It would never be the same. You pressed your nails into your palms, desperate to anchor yourself. Still - he seemed to sense something faltering in you, because he added, almost awkwardly, "I know I haven't... demonstrated it well. i’ll try. I promise."

The breath you'd been holding escaped in a ragged exhale.

Maybe it wasn't everything you needed. Maybe it wasn't everything you deserve.

But it was something.

You nodded, your smile brittle at the edges.

"Okay," you whispered. "Thank you." And for a moment, you allowed yourself to believe it could be enough.

—

The next few days were different. In small, tender ways, Orter tried. He lingered in conversations a little longer, asked you about your day without his eyes drifting back to his work. He brushed your hand in passing once, a fleeting, almost shy gesture that left your heart stumbling in your chest.

You walked together through the gardens one evening, and he slowed his pace to match yours - no longer striding ahead like he always had.

He even laughed, once, a low sound so rare you turned your head just to be sure it was real. There were nights where he sat beside you in the sitting room, a book in his hands, your knee brushing his under the small coffee table.

And when you leaned your head against his shoulder, he didn't pull away.

For the first time in what felt like forever, you dared to hope. Maybe this was what healing looked like. Slow. Imperfect, But real.

Maybe, if you just held on a little longer, you would find your way back to each other. You smiled more, You spoke without second-guessing every word.

But hope is a delicate, breakable thing.

It started small.

A missed dinner, a hurried excuse, papers left scattered across the sitting room where he was supposed to be meeting you. Apologies spoken with a distracted kiss to your forehead and a promise that "next time" would be different.

It never was.

The dinners faded. The garden walks ceased. The gap between you widened again, a slow, inevitable drift that no amount of smiling or hoping could bridge.

You found yourself sitting by the window one evening, cradling a mug of tea grown long cold, staring out into the rain-streaked darkness.

Waiting. Always waiting.

The front doors opened somewhere down the hall - Orter, late from yet another meeting, another duty that took precedence over the promises he'd made to you. You didn't rise to greet him. You didn't even turn your head. The tea in your hands was cold and the room as well. And in the silent ache growing inside your chest, you understood:

You could wait forever, and he would never fight for you the way you deserved.

—⛥— A moment of warm sun, but I’m not the one —⛥—

You didn't leave in the dead of night. You left in the golden hush of morning, when the manor was still heavy with sleep and the gardens were drenched in silver mist.

There were no angry words. No slammed doors. No final confessions to rip apart what little was left. You simply walked away leaving a small, but intimate, letter behind.

“My knuckles turn white from how tight my grip was; holding on to your quiet resentment. Every breath felt like I was inhaling the rarest air because I didn’t even know if you ever wanted to be there. I searched for clues hoping to find any that indicated that you loved me - so I’ll break off this engagement before I die on that altar waiting for that proof. So Long, Madl.

Yours Truly, Y/N”

You folded it neatly and placed it on the small table by the front door, beside the vase of withering flowers he hadn't noticed dying. Then you slipped through the gates, your feet light, your heart heavy, the cold morning air biting at your cheeks like tiny knives.

—

The first days in your new home were strange and hollow. The cottage was small - barely two rooms and a crooked porch - but it was yours. There were no marble halls, no stiff family portraits watching your every move, no endless parade of duties tightening around your throat.

For the first time in years, you could breathe without counting each breath. You painted the walls a soft shade of blue. You opened all the windows and let the wild air in. You slept with your hair in its natural state, your arms sprawled across the bed, unafraid of taking up too much space.

Slowly, you began getting color back into your face - the shadows under your eyes fading, the tightness in your chest loosening, the laughter returning in small, uncertain bursts.

And yet,

Some nights, when the world fell silent and the fire burned low in the hearth, you found yourself thinking about him. About the life you almost had. About the boy you once believed could love you, if only you were good enough, strong enough, patient enough.

You thought about the gardens where you used to walk side-by-side, your fingertips brushing. About the river where he once tucked a strand of hair behind your ear without thinking, a rare, thoughtless tenderness you had clung to like a lifeline.

You thought about the way he said he would try - and how, for a few cruel days, you had dared to believe him.

It made you mad as hell.

Because you had loved that place.

Loved him.

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Epilogue

One afternoon, in the midst of cleaning, you found it. A book. Nestled between the yellowed sheets lies a single pressed flower and few grains of sand tumble loose, catching the light like tiny shards of memory. The flower, fragile and carefully preserved, and the sand, coarse and wind-worn, speak of a place far away-long buried in time but never truly forgotten.

The breath hitched painfully in your chest. You hadn't packed that book. You hadn't even realized it was missing. There was no note. No signature. But you knew that he had found the book.

Orter had placed the flower there, slipped it into your things without a word. It wasn't a grand gesture. It wasn't enough to change anything. But it was something.

Proof that somewhere, in the shadowed corridors of his heart, a part of him still reached for you - still missed what he had broken.

Closing the book gently, pressing your palm to the cover. You didn't cry. You simply stood there, in the soft golden light of your new home, feeling the quiet ache of what could have been.

And then set the book down on the windowsill, where the sun could reach it.

And you kept moving forward, Because love wasn't supposed to feel like surviving. It was supposed to feel like living.

And you - finally - were ready to live.