He ought to be positively panting by now.

Yet the sword in his hand doesn’t feel any heavier than when he started, any kind of body fatigue failing to set in and leaving him with every ounce of snap-string tension he began with.

Jack hums, running through position one, seven, and four again, lunging and parrying with fluid ease born of a muscle memory he cannot recall learning. Every maneuver is calculated and sure, defensive and sleek. The moves of a soldier. A well trained killer.

He ought to be exhausted, his mind surrendering numbly to the physical exertion till he has no energy left to heed the thoughts racing ceaselessly through his mind. He conjures up an impression of what breathless felt like. With no need of oxygen and no lungs to fill, it’s a poor charade of what physical exertion might have been. He can’t seem to get the rhythm of gasping right, the action superfluous and making him feel ridiculous.

He tosses the sword to the dirt in frustration, raking both hands through his hair with a grunt.

There will be no rest from his damned internal consciousness here. He’ll have to seek another activity to blank his mind. He’s pondering, scrubbing at the stubble he died in, what could possibly be a strong enough distraction when the pricklings of other-worldly magic pluck at his skin.

He feels her long before he sees her. The tingling of his hair set on edge, the spread of gooseflesh along his forearms and neck - it’s familiar and welcome. Intimate in a way he’s come to adore and crave.

And this time it’s infused with a blissful sense of relief. The militant hold of his shoulders ease and his eyes flutter close as her power washes over him. It feels like a baptism. One he’s long feared he might never be granted again. He honestly did not expect she would offer this delicate parlay.

“Oh Electra, forgive me,” he immediately sighs, the words spilling forth in an impulsive rush he’s unable to control.

Perhaps it’s the fear of their connection waning again before he’s gotten the chance to tell her everything he’s waited years to say. He’s come to understand that this contact between them is precious and conditional. He abused it last time, the guilt gnawing him hollow and keeping him sodden with despair. Hundreds and hundreds of days he’s replayed their last encounter, every frame of the memory paused and rewound and replayed until he can recreate each second at a whim.

The sheen of yellow candlelight at her breast; the way her eyes flew open and caught on his when she imploded; the way she turned into the space on the bed where his corporeal form should have been and tore at his heart; the way the light in her beautiful eyes flickered and died when he betrayed her and fractured something sacred between them in one quiet confession.

He can pull them all from memory now. He can replace every fumbled step with the right words that would have reignited the fire in her eyes. He’s had lots of time to obsess about being unable to change the past.

They are the reason he’s so quick to assuage her anger with him, knowing the burden of their shared grief lies solely with him. He is ghost enough for both of them - there is no room for these spectres of unspoken apologizes anymore.

Jack turns, face contrite. “I behaved atrociously, abominably, and you have every right to- to be- furi-”

He falters, her expression giving him pause.

“Electra? Where are you?”

He’s just taking in the electric swirls of color behind her, eyes darting over the unfamiliar landscape, It’s alarmingly vivid - so much so than anything he’s seen through her death magic of the living world before. Somehow she herself is brighter - is such a thing possible? He shifts a few steps, gravitating towards her naturally. Worthless to protect her from the threat he feels spiking as he looks down into her face, but instinctively trying regardless.

“Darling,” he says, voice pitched low with concern. He raises a large hand to trail fingertips along her golden outline as he sometimes does when the need to mimic comfort arises, “Are you alright?”

When the pads of his fingers are met with warm resistance instead of shimmering straight through, he recoils with a gasp.

And remembers what it’s like to have the breath knocked from his lungs.