Fuck, the things that had happened to them never really left them, did it? Romeo had said after all your long life, you can’t still believe in justice, can you? and Antigone could, did, must, but she believed in the weight of the trauma they carried around, too.
How long had he been trapped in the labyrinth? She supposed it depended on the telling, but also supposed it didn't matter. Long enough. Long enough to leave a scar thousands of years later.
Could you even call it a scar, though, when it was so much a part of you that there was no separating you from the wounded tissue? Take the stories that had scarred them away and what were they? Nothing. Forgotten. Long, long dead, or never imagined at all.
But no, they were here. Remembered. Hurt. Sick with it, sometimes. They were the ones who had to keep living with it.
"Not a labyrinth," she repeated. "Just an elevator. It's 2020. CE. We're in a shitty department store in a storm. This'll teach us for trying to keep out of the rain." She tried to give him a smile, but it really didn't work.