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You shouldn’t have been anywhere near the dungeon. You’re no adventurer, you’re a barmaid who was in over her head when she thought that selling drinks on the entrance floor would earn you extra coin.
It did, for the record. A full satchel of gold that you had cradled in your hand, ready to depart to spend it as quickly as you had made it. Good food, maybe a few drinks for yourself, perhaps even a new pair of boots to replace the tattered ones you wore now.
And then the ground shook.
At first, it was barely noticeable, if not for the pebbles of stone that came loose from the ceiling and walls. The few adventurers that had gathered around didn’t pay it any mind and continued to bargain for supplies.
Then it all happened so, so awfully quick.
With a roar, the entire dungeon shook, trembled. Entire stones and bricks disconnected from the walls around you. People started to yell, to scream, scrambled for the exit of the dungeon. Rubble started to pile up in the entrance, which felt so small now. You tried to make a run for it, this is just an earthquake, it’ll be safer once we’re outside , you thought.
“What the hell-” A tallman that had been running beside you turned back, sword drawn. Instinctively, you turned too, confused. And then you were face to face with a horde of bicorns, lit up in flames. Their neighs of pain were like nails on chalkboard, and the smell of burning flesh filled the space. A group of adventurers that had been trying to free their comrade from a fallen slab of stone only had enough time to look up, before they got trampled by the monsters.
“This- no, the entrance is- people said it’s safe -” You mumble to yourself. You don’t remember when you fell, but you must have, collapsed on the cold floor with your hands muddied and bloodied.
You look towards the staircase the bicorns had initially came up from, and it was encased in fire, flaming fingers that torched anything within their reach.
A humanoid figure limped through the flames, already so burned that you couldn’t even make out their race or gender, only charred flesh and hollow eyes, and as they opened their mouth, smoke escaped. They could only matter a single word before they collapsed dead before your feet.
“ Demon .”
When you wake, the world has fallen into a deadly silence. You’re laid on your side, and as you open your eyes, you see the ruins of the dungeon, you see corpses of monsters and humans alike. The flames had died down, only ash remains. You try to sit up, but all the feeling in your right arm has left except for a dull ache. When you try to call for help, you can only cough up soot and blood, and the strain tires you out quickly.
The tears burn when they run down your face. You can’t stop them.
It takes all your might to lift your head enough to look down your body, and you're greeted with the sight of a clearly broken leg in a pool of blood.
You let your head fall back down.
I’m going to die here , you think. You think of the friends that will wonder where you’ve gone. Your apartment that will accumulate dust until it eventually will be emptied and resold. A lover who’ll go on to court someone else, learn to be happy without you.
You sob and cough, choke on your spit and blood. In the empty quiet, the sounds of your own misery fills your head.
And then you hear the soft tapping of steps. A pair, then a group, that approaches closer and closer.
Voices shuffle and mix. Someone laughs. Someone else sighs. Most of them sound clinical, disengaged.
Your heart pounds. It’s people, it’s saviors- You spit out the blood that had pooled in your mouth, and you pray that you can produce any kind of noise to signal you’re there. Somehow, you manage to roll over on your stomach, and you force yourself to look up, and you sob out your cry for help.
In front of you, a group of elves stands within the ruins. There's maybe five or six, all dressed somewhat similarly. One of them, short and lean, is covered in blood. That one points at you, wide eyed.
“Yo, that one’s still alive.”
They surround you and suddenly it feels less like you’re being saved, but rather interrogated.
“Are you an adventurer?”
“What happened here?”
“Did you see it ?”
“Did you talk to it ?”
They haven’t tried to help you up yet. They haven’t tended to your wounds. They haven’t even sat you up, your body still in a mix of your own blood and dirt. Some of the elves give you looks of curiosity, others muster you with suspicion. You can’t help but notice that most of them are carrying a weapon. Somewhere behind them, you can still see the outline of a corpse. The tallman that had first noticed the bicorns.
“I don’t know– I’m sorry, please-” You manage to stammer out despite the pains.
One of the elves- tall, with a long braid of hair- stretches and sighs with disappointment. “She’s useless.”
Useless. The word dripped with poison. You have no idea what they would do with you if you couldn’t be of use to them- if anything, they might just leave you on the dungeon floor to a slow, agonizing death. Involuntarily, you start sobbing again. “ No, no, no , please, I’m sorry, help me.” With your good hand you try to reach out to them, and the tall elf recoils with visible disgust. The short one has their hand over the handle of a dagger, twitching.
It’s over, I won’t just die, I’ll be killed -
“Oh, you poor thing.”
The group of elves startles, then parts, to let another elven woman walk towards you. As she moves, the lean muscles in her bare legs and arms flex, pale skin covered in countless jagged scars in various stages of healing. Her hair is parted into multiple ties, held together with gold clips that twinkle whenever a source of light touches them. She is wearing the same uniform as the others, though her cape is a different color.
She looks down at you with eyes of molten gold. There's the pity and worry you were looking for, she leans down and brushes a gentle hand over your head. There's a sword at her hip, too. “Sweet thing, you’ve gone through too much, haven’t you? Can you stand?”
You shake your head no as you swallow another sob. This is what an injured workhorse must feel like.
“I see…” The woman pets your head again, brushes strands of hair away from your eyes, then turns to one of her comrades. “Helki, please carry her back with us.”
The elf she addressed turns to her with shock, offended. “Vice Commander, you can not be serious…!”
The short elf, the one covered in blood, snorts a laugh. “You’re aware that this one is not a kid, right? That’s a full grown tallman. You can’t just adopt her.”
“Well, no…” She shrinks back and timidly rubs over some scars on her arm, she won’t meet the other elfs eyes. “...But she’s hurt. Perhaps she’ll remember more once she feels better. We’ll take her back.” It’s a command, you can tell, even though she says it more like a request.
The one named Helki scowls, though he still bends down, wraps your good arm around his neck, and helps you up. Pain shoots through your leg, sharp and all the way to your hips, and you bite your lip to suppress a whine, trying to preserve some of your dignity even though you just ugly-cried and begged for your life a moment ago.
The vice commander of the squad approaches you, you can tell she's shorter than you by more than a head now that you stand. She puts a soft hand on your cheek, passively brushes her thumb across the tears. “Do you know your name?”
You want to say it. It’s on the tip of your tongue. And yet, you can’t find it. Suddenly, the tears come again. Your own name, where you’re from, who you are- Somehow, none of it comes to mind. Your mind is a black hole.
At the sight of your distress, she cradles your face in her hands, shushes you with a gentle voice.
“It’s okay, don’t worry, it’ll come back, let’s get you safe and comfortable first.” Her skin was warm on yours, only now you realize how much you’ve been freezing, you can’t help but lean into her touch. She smiles, kind and patient. “You can call me Milsiril.”
The canaries- that’s what their group is called, you clued together- took you onto a ship, though you had slept through most of the ride, either because of the calming tides, or because the medicinal herbs they made you chew had finally numbed all the pains and aches, physical and emotional.
Your sleep is dreamless, and you’re thankful for it.
Hours must have passed, when Milsiril gently shakes your shoulder to wake you. She tilts your head with her brow furrowed, she touches your forehead. “Oh, dear, you’re burning up…We’re almost home, don’t worry.” Home, the word is bitter. You don’t have a home, don’t know it at least. But Milsiril says it with confidence, and she’s still willing to help you, so you choke it down.
Helki, with more eye rolling, helps to carry you out from the cabin onto the deck. The sun is already setting on the horizon, bathing skies in gentle pinks and oranges. The ship has already been docked and you find yourself in the middle of a large, busy harbor, mostly populated by elves. A cold breeze washes over you and you shiver, goosebumps racing up your skin.
From behind you, Milsiril drapes her cape over your shoulders.
The canaries part ways here, it seems. The tall elf with the braided hair accompanies two others into the streets of the harbor and they disappear into the crowd. Milsiril, Helki, and you enter a horse drawn carriage that had been waiting, the coachman nodding towards Milsiril with familiarity.
You sit next to her, Helki across from the both of you, with his arms crossed. He glares at you, rolls his eyes, then addresses Milsiril. “The crown will not recognize this as impounded evidence if she doesn’t remember anything.” He seems to have no qualms about talking about you as if you weren’t there.
Milsiril fidgets with the fabric of her armor, eyes downcast. “She is not evidence, she is in my care. If she happens to recall something later, we will come back to this. The crown will not interfere.” She glances at you, then smiles, softly. “Do not listen to him.”
Truth be told, you couldn’t listen even if you wanted to. Though the pain is still subdued with medicines, there’s a deeper ache in your bones and you feel fatigued. You let your head fall against the side of the carriage, whisper wishes of sleep against the hardwood. It doesn’t come. Each bump in the road shakes the carriage, shakes you awake, makes you aware of the pain in your leg and arm and core and head. A partially hard bump makes you hit your head against the side wall, you groan in response, a wave of nausea stirs your stomach.
Milsiril reaches out, guides your head to fall onto her shoulder. “It’s still a long ride, you need your rest.” You can feel the comforting warmth radiating again from her, and she smells sweet, of cotton and flowers. She wears warrior's clothes but all she radiates is softness. Helkis' gaze, offended, annoyed, jealous? , pierces you, but you’re too tired to give thought to it. Instead, resting on a stranger's shoulder, in a land that is as foreign to you as your home is, you feel safe enough to fall back asleep.
The dreams find you, this time.
Trapped in a labyrinth of flames, you wander aimlessly, you run, bare feet scraping over shards of white stone- no, bones. Millions upon millions of shattered bones, skulls that look up to the ceiling, to see nothingness. Within the flames, you see people screaming, begging for help, but you can’t stop running, or the flames might catch you too. You’re being chased, not by the fire, you don’t know by whom, or by what, but you can hear the sound of hooves behind you, drawing ever closer, shattering bones beneath them to dust, you’ll be shattered too if you stop. You turn a corner, but it’s a dead end. The flames lash out towards you, grasp and pull on your clothes, behind you there’s the neigh of the steed that chases you, if you look back, it’ll trample you. The neigh is a scream of agony, it’s breathing down your neck, it’s saying something , but you can’t hear it clearly over your pounding heart beat.
From within the flames, a figure emerges, a smiler brighter than gold, and she reaches out her hand. Her fingertips graze yours, and within a second you’re entirely aflame. It doesn’t hurt. You can see your flesh crack open and blacken, can smell your hair burn away- It doesn’t hurt. She pulls you into her embrace- The steed behind you neighs again, louder than before, you can hear it clearly this time, a warning, an announcement- “ Demon. ”
You awake, drenched in sweat, gasping for air.
The burning sensation is there now, in your bones, your eyes, in your stomach. It's paralyzing, so much so that you can't even lift your head without agony.
You're in an unfamiliar bed. Panic sets in. Where are you, why does everything hurt, why do you feel like you forgot something extremely important, danger, danger, danger -
Someone lays a cold, damp towel on your forehead, gently dabs away the sweat and tears on your face. “Oh dear, did you have a bad dream?”
“Milsiril…”
She seems pleased that you remember her name. The memories of your journey gradually come back to you- everything before the journey doesn't. Milsiril helps you sit up in bed, and you get a view of the entire room. It's plainly furnished, a bed, a wooden desk and chair, a bookshelf housing large tomes with colorful covers, and a variety of dolls, different in shapes and sizes, scattered throughout.
Milsiril has changed into a white cotton dress, and a pale blue poncho that covers most of her arms, hiding away those scars you already got a good look at. She sits at the edge of your bed and musters you with tired but kind eyes.
“How're you feeling?”
“It hurts…everything, I mean…”
“Poor thing, I'll get you some more medicine.”
She waves her hand in an elegant motion. Before your eyes, the dolls that were scattered on the floor now stand up and jolt to life. They twitch and jitter as they go about their work- fetching a bowl with a dark black liquid, carrying a wooden spoon, a group of them push a basin with clear water into the room. Magic… !
The dolls approach you, soulless black button eyes, they climb the bed, climb on you, they barely weigh anything but they give you the creeps regardless. One of the bigger dolls, a fairy, starts balancing some of the dark liquid on the spoon and holds it towards you.
“You have to drink up to get better.”
“What even is tha-'' You try to speak up, but the doll uses the chance to stick the spoon in your mouth; You choke, cough, but end up swallowing the medicine regardless. It’s bitter, like liquorice, and it only makes your nausea worse. More dolls climb on top of you and lift the entire bowl to your lips. Milsiril simply turns to re-wet the towel on your forehead.
You can’t get away, it’s just dolls, but your body hurts too much to try to resist. You swallow more and more of the liquid, some spills down your chin in a dark, oily trail.
“There, there…The doctor will be here soon to reset your leg, you shouldn’t have to be awake for that.”
But you don’t want to sleep again- You didn’t even get the chance to ask where exactly you are, what will happen to you now, what has happened to you- Milsiril pets your hair, hums gently, and you want to ask her so many things. Before you can, the nausea in your stomach twists further, it spirals through your guts, spreads up to your lungs, you think you’re going to throw up. You don’t throw up. Your vision blackens. And you’re asleep again.
Milsiril didn’t lie to you, at least.
You awake again, in the same bed. When you look down at your legs, your broken leg has been bandaged and put in a brace, and it doesn’t hurt as severely anymore. Your injured arm has been bandaged too, when you flex and relax your hand you can finally feel all the nerves respond accordingly again. You’re not entirely pain free, but your existence feels less miserable. At least when you briefly forget that you can’t remember .
You sit up in bed and realize you’re alone. Except for the dolls, at least, which sit inanimate back on the floor.
There’s a window by the bed, and when you look out you can see a large garden, with high walls. It seems to be early in the day, the sun still rising and shining on various flowers in all colors imaginable. Another elf in plain clothes is hanging up sheets on a clothesline. It seems peaceful. You close your eyes, hope to hear maybe birds singing-
There are no birds, but what you can hear is quick steps on the floor above you, and the laughter of children. You wonder if those are Milsirils children, she certainly seems very motherly. You vaguely remember one of the canaries mentioning adoption when you encountered them, but your head is still swimming in what is probably a mild concussion.
Soon, Milsiril comes to see you with a relaxed smile. She holds a hand to your forehead again, then cradles your face as she brushes your hair out of the way. She sits down at the edge of the bed, her movement elegant and reserved. “How’re you feeling? Your fever seems to have died down.”
“I feel better, thank you…” It doesn’t hurt to speak anymore either, you feel like all the ( forced ) rest you have gotten was really needed after all. You swallow again, wet your throat, before you look back up at Milsiril. “Where are we?”
“My home. Please see it as your home, too, while you rest.”
That answer…wasn't exactly specific, but you let it pass for now.
“Thank you, really. I still don't really understand what happened…”
“Please don't worry about that, it's all over now.”
You break eye contact and fidget with the blanket on your lap. “Something horrible happened, and now I don't even know who I am -”
Suddenly, Milsiril leaps forward and pulls you into an embrace. Gently she cradles your head as she holds you close, her hand petting your hair, fingers threading through loose strands. “It's scary, I know, so you don't have to think about it anymore, okay? It's best that you don't have to remember all those horrible things.”
“But-”
“Hush now, the stress isn’t good for your weak heart. I’ll take good care of you, so you can let it all go.”
A comforting hand runs over your back in repetitive motions, and you can’t help but inhale some of the sweet smell that lingers on Milsiril, soothing like a lullaby. The two of you remain there for a bit, it’s like you can feel all your stress falling off of you when she holds you. But eventually, she lets go, straightens up, and she smiles. “I let someone draw a bath for you, so you can get all that dirt and grime off of you.”
You haven’t even noticed how filthy you still were, under your fingernails there was black dirt, and dried blood was sticking to you. You must reek of sweat, and a wave of embarrassment washes over you when you think that just a few seconds ago, Misiril was so close that she must have endured your stink.
“Right, that’s.. a good idea, thank you.”
You make an effort to scoot to the edge of the bed to sit and stand up, but before you even get there properly, Milsiril is by your side, and supports standing you up on the side of your broken leg. “Oh, you shouldn’t-” You practically tower over her, and now you weren’t just anxious about your smell, but the weight you were putting on her.
However, she seems not to mind, and the task of supporting you seems almost effortless to her. With your arm over her shoulder, you can feel her lean muscles flex- she doesn’t look like it, but she has to be incredibly strong.
You arrive to a porcelain tub in an adjacent room to yours, filled to the brim with warm water that smells of aromatic oils. Just touching the surface of the water with your fingertips makes you involuntarily sigh with relief. You sit on a small wooden stool next to it.
Milsiril gathers some towels as you struggle to take off the dirty dress shirt you’ve been wearing- While your arm is no longer numb, its range of motion is still limited, and buttons have seemingly become your biggest enemy.
She watches you struggle for a little bit, her face hard to read. Then, Milsiril approaches, swats your hand away with ease, and begins unbuttoning your shirt.
“Woah-”
She makes it look like it’s the most natural thing in the world. You watch her long, graceful fingers (-they are pretty and pale and scarred just as much as the rest of her body) do quick work of the buttons you struggled with, and she brushes your shirt off of your shoulders. All the blood in your body that you didn’t leave on the dirty dungeon floor is now rushing to your face. Surely you’re sweating even more now. You don’t dare comment on it, since Milsiril doesn’t say anything either, instead she’s already folding your shirt neatly to put it aside. So instead you sit there, topless, face red as a beet. And you still have your pants on.
Quickly you fiddle with the string of your pants, undo the ribbon, and try to shimmy your hips in just the right way to slide your pants off, you don’t want to be more of a burden or embarrassment-
Milsiril is watching the struggle, again, unfazed.
She walks closer again, lifts you up under your good arm- oh god, your breasts are almost in her face, you cover them quickly with your arm as best as you can, while Milsiril completely removes your pants- Her face remains neutral, and she says something about the brace being allowed to get wet due to magic, but you can’t even focus because all you hear is your blood rushing through your body and your pounding heart beat.
You’re entirely naked in front of this stranger who's been caring for you like an injured bird. If there's any occasion to sink into the ground and disappear, this is it.
Milsiril helps guide you into the tub, her hand now a cold contrast to your flushed skin. You settle into the water, the warmth should be comforting but now you feel like you may overheat soon. But it still feels so good, refreshing, renewing, reinvigorating. Instinctually you submerge your head just for a moment, get your hair wet, relish in the feeling of separating from that first layer of grime.
You come back up to the surface, and watch as Milsiril holds a sponge into the water, then she takes hold of your hand and begins to gently scrub at the skin.
“Oh, I can do that myself-” You hesitantly try to grab the sponge, but she pulls it back.
“You should just focus on relaxing.” She musters your face, then averts her gaze, and you notice that her cheeks are flushed as well. “Let me help you.”
Again, she takes your hand, carefully as if you could break. She wipes down your skin with the sponge, gets under your nails, rubs up to your shoulder. You let her lift your arm, even let her do the embarrassing task of wiping down your armpit, but it’s so hard to refuse her when she seemingly cares so much.
“Tallmen have such beautiful long limbs…It suits you well.”
“Ah..thank you..?”
Milsiril is diligent in her work, scrubs down your neck, your other arm, she doesn’t shy away from sinking her arm further down into the water to gently scrub over your chest. You turn your face away from her, it's embarrassing- and it feels good , which only makes you feel more guilty. It should be a clinical cleaning task, yet the way she gently rubs around the curves of your breasts feels too close- not close enough- the heat of the water is getting to your head- You don’t stop her.
Afterwards, she cleans your legs, your feet, makes you sit up so she can scrub over your back. Your skin feels alive, as if it had been suffocating under the dirt and sweat and blood, and could finally breathe.
Milsiril tilts your head back slightly, and dabs with a wet rag at your face. In this position you have to look up at her, exposed, vulnerable. She wipes over your cheek, your brows, your chin. She halts, then, slowly, wipes just her thumb over the bottom of your lip.
You audibly swallow. You don’t know why. It feels like something is about to happen, suddenly you can’t read what's behind her gloomy, golden eyes. She might drown you right here. She might kiss you.
The moment passes. Milsirl lets go of your face, turns to grab a comb. She proceeds to brush out the last bits of stubborn grime out of your hair, applies oils to it, rinses it. Her fingernails scrape over your scalp and it chases goosebumps up your skin.
You already feel less embarrassed about your bare skin when Milsiril helps you out of the tub again and begins to dry you off with a towel, she didn’t even offer, just took the task upon herself as if it were normal.
Soon she has you dressed in a light, satin robe, that smells overwhelmingly of her, and while she commands some dolls to bring away your dirty clothes, she puts your wet hair in a loose braid.
Coming back into the guest room- your room-, the sheets have already been changed, and the window opened to air the room out.
Milsiril helps you lie back down, and the fatigue from just having moved around settles into your bones.
“Milsiril, I can’t thank you enough for your, ah, hospitality.”
“It’s the least I can do. I couldn’t just have left you there for dead, poor thing.”
“I know that right now I’m in no position for it, but I promise I’ll repay you, any way I can.”
She takes your hands in hers and brushes her thumb over the skin.
“There is no need-”
“ Mother. ”
You both turn towards the door. There, a young child stands. A tallman, just like you. He stares at you, large blue eyes, and he musters you with a furrowed brow.
Milsiril stands up immediately and puts a protective hand on the child's head, brushes through his unkempt locks of hair.
“Kabru, what’s the matter?”
“There’s a messenger at the door for you.”
She leans down and puts a hand on his cheek. “Thank you for telling me, but you shouldn’t be in this part of the house.” Her tone is gentle, but warning. “Wait for me in the garden.”
The boy takes another look at you. He looks angry, or maybe frustrated, or just questioning. Then he turns and leaves with quick steps.
Milsiril turns back towards you.
“Your child?”
“One of them. He’s such a sweet child, but I’m afraid his soul might be a bit too adventurous for his own good.” She smiles. “You two have a lot in common, I believe. I’ll send someone with a meal for you while I’m gone. Do eat up, it’ll help bring back your strength.” Before she leaves out the door, she brushes her hand across your cheek once more with a smile.
You lose track of time so easily. It may have been weeks, maybe even months since you came into Milsirils home.
But you’re finally at a point where you can walk again, though not for long distances, and you can do most tasks fully by yourself again, though Milsiril still accompanies you to every bath to wash your back and hair for you.
The servants, other elves, and even Milsirils children have started to speak with you more, and see you as a friendly, temporary housemate.
Most of your days are spent in the large, luscious garden. You’ve started to dig into history books, learned about all the native plants around you, and played with the children- all adopted, none biologically hers, you’ve learned.
It’s a peaceful existence, and for a while you’ve made peace with the fact that there was a life before all of this, that you simply could not remember, and really didn’t need to remember. It was behind you, and Milsiril has given you the key to a new life.
And then it hits you, all at once. You pour some water for one of the children, the jug heavy and cold in your hands while the sun stands high in the sky. And then you see yourself, somewhere else, in a smoke filled pub, you’re not pouring water, you’re pouring beer and wine, and all the customers look at you with familiarity and warmth, and sometimes there’s someone playing music in the corner and you spin and laugh and clap.
You remember that you were in a dungeon, close to your home, and someone had told you that you could make some easy coin there, if you needed it.
You remember that everything fell apart around you, and that people died, and that the dungeon and your home went up in flames. And that you had only read tales of demons and never thought that you’d see one with your own eyes.
You drop the jug with water to the floor, and it shatters into hundreds of little pieces.
Milsiril, who had been seated at the table reading, looks up at you. Her golden eyes are fixated on you, worried.
“I…I remember now. I remember who I was, I remember the dungeon, I-” Your voice falls quiet. “...I remember the demon.”
Quicker than you have ever witnessed someone move, Milsiril stands, and is by your side and she pulls you into an embrace.
“Oh, sweet thing…”
“But- But I also know who I am…It was all so scary, but I have to get back home, my friends- my f-” you stammer, your entire body shaking. Tears prick at the corners of your eyes. The horrors you remember, you can feel all the wounds in your body start to ache, but your heart aches too, for your true home.
“My poor, sweet thing. You don’t have to think about these scary things anymore.”
“Huh?”
Milsiril is petting your hair again, gentle, comforting. There's a sharp prick in your arm.
You wonder if she always carries that syringe around.
With all your strength, you pull out of her embrace and stagger backwards, fall to the ground. Your vision begins to swim, as Milsiril instructs dolls to guide her children back inside the house.
You feel bile rise to the back of your throat.
“I-I-I wanna go home…” You manage to stutter out.
“Dear, you are home. You’ll remember that soon.” She sits next to you, and breaks your fall as you collapse, unconscious.
You don’t know how long you’ve been asleep, but you wake up in the guest room- your room, and Milsiril brushes your hair out of your face.
“How are you feeling?”
“Tired…But I think I’ll feel better if I can have a piece of cake in the garden.”
Milsiril smiles, sweet and timidly. “Of course, sweet thing.”
You don’t remember your name or where you’re from, but you’re told it’s better that way, and Milsiril has done nothing to make you believe she’d ever lie to you. Your existence here is peaceful.
You wonder where you got that bruise on your arm.