Chapter Text
The mornings no longer began with the same brightness.
Amidst several imposing wooden bookshelves stretching to the ceiling, dressed in the vastest types of knowledge, sat the elf at a small study table. Scattered papers lay beside loose books and a quill still in her hand, as if she might wake at any moment to continue her writing.
The light filtering through the cracks in the high tower's window reached Marcille's face more like an intruder than an old companion, a reminder that yet another day had arrived, bringing with it indignation.
With a small grunt and a rub of her eyes, Marcille decided to stretch, trying to shake off some of the dust from her body. She spent so much time among the books that she feared she had become almost a decoration in the library, a ghost wandering the corridors but always returning to the starting point, even though she already held every word stored on those shelves in her mind. And so Marcille continued, organizing her drafts with a sigh.
Once satisfied, she decided to proceed to her next destination.
A ritual she performed every week. Without fail.
The creak of the door was the only sound accompanying Marcille's footsteps that morning. The cold stones seemed to stare at her each time she ventured deeper into the place, down to the subterranean level. But she was used to it; for centuries, the location had shown no sign of life despite being inhabited, the silence usually broken only by the turning of pages and a solitary, sordid tread.
The only moment she allowed herself to feel was now.
Marcille arrived in front of a closed door and, with one last breath, opened it.
"Falin…"
A small room guarding all her most precious possessions. A sanctuary for all the memories shared with the most important person in her life, or what remained of her.
Marcille approached the stone altar in the center, holding a crystal vial with a handful of ashes and a graphite portrait. Once a gift, now a way to remember her – not that she was even capable of thinking of forgetting her.
Enchanted candles surrounded it as a way to contain time, alongside several diaries and sketches illustrating someone. Small fragments of past stories.
As she sat near the altar, Marcille's fingers slid over the urn while chills ran down her body.
"If only I…" The phrase died in her throat.
No matter what she tried. Spells. Rituals. There was nothing left to do to recover the one who was gone.
Falin was dead. For far longer than Marcille liked to admit.
Grief does not follow the logic of time, and for someone like her, who had lived between the boundaries of reason and magic until they intertwined as one, that moment seemed recent. As if Falin's death had happened yesterday, or worse, as if it were happening every day.
In the beginning, there had been attempts. Numerous searches for forbidden magics and dangerous pacts, just to catch a remnant of Falin's soul, fragments to feed the hope of meeting her beloved again. But all that had a price; Marcille corroded more and more with each frustrated attempt. Now only a void remained of what she once was, a guardian of what was left.
Many times, she believed she heard Falin's voice echoing through the tower. Not as a spirit, she had confirmed that dozens of times, but as a memory ingrained in the stones, in the words of the books, in the objects left behind. A light laugh coming from the kitchen. A timid comment in the back of the library. Echoes.
She used to respond to the illusions, trapped in a thin thread of memory. Clinging to any reverie she encountered. She had lost herself for nights on end searching, calling out for weeks while waiting for reflections of the past.
"If you come back... I promise I'll know how to recognize you. Even if you don't remember me. Even if you are no longer you. I will wait. I will try again." She murmured to "Falin."
What once sounded like an oath had become a curse in her life.
Over the centuries, she had encountered some... coincidences. Girls with similar eyes. Voices that sounded familiar. Names that echoed like distant reverberations: Falina, Faryna, Alyn. In each one, she searched for traces. Small fragments.
But none were Falin. Never.
Some of those girls died young. Others lived ordinary lives, unaware of the long, silent stares of an elf watching them from the shadows. Marcille never interfered. Not anymore. She had learned that hope could be as cruel as loss.
But that morning, something was different.
As she murmured promises to "Falin," Marcille felt a slight shiver run down her spine. The barrier had been touched.
Marcille then rose slowly, her muscles still stiff from the position she had slept in, and walked towards the window in the upper hall to observe the forest surrounding the tower. Or what was left of it.
The trees around had long since given up growing. Their roots gripped the soil like twisted fingers, clinging to earth that no longer breathed. Petrified trunks rose like tombstones, forming a grove of ash and stone. Nothing moved there. No wind, no birds, no insects. A mineral silence, oppressive and eternal.
Long ago, she had placed a protective barrier around the tower. Many unwanted travelers had stumbled upon the elf seeking miraculous solutions. Therefore, she had sealed the place with an enchantment layered with impossibly complex wards. She had long lost count of the last time she had a visitor.
Outside, a figure was approaching calmly among the petrified trees.
The elf's heart beat erratically as she remained frozen in place.
Could it all be just an illusion? Her mind playing tricks with her memories?
No, this time there was something tangible. A flow of real magic. It wasn't just a mirage created by her exhausted mind.
The tall, slender figure, with light hair and clad in a dark cloak, crossed the cursed woodland with hesitant but steady steps. Her gaze was firm, as if she knew exactly where she was going.
Her mind refused to comprehend.
She watched more intently. The face was still too far away to be recognized, but there was something in the gestures, in the rhythm of the walk, in the way she looked at the tower...
Marcille felt the floor vanish beneath her feet.
A name formed in her mind with the weight of an entire universe: Falin.
Her heart, that muscle that beat out of obligation, began to ache. A strange warmth spread through her chest. She couldn't stop the tears forming in the corners of her eyes.
She backed away from the window as if she had seen a ghost. With each step backward, more tears fell. She staggered until she leaned against the cold wall.
The crystal vial with the ashes remained untouched on the altar. Sealed. So who was that figure approaching?
Her mind wanted answers. But her heart, exhausted by so many, desired only a beautiful lie. That it was her. That she was back. That there had been a miracle.
The young woman passed through the last stone arch marking the tower's domain. And then, with a small smile, she looked towards the window where Marcille stood. Utterly unaware of the turmoil raging in the elf's mind, who was now on her knees, whispering.
"No... it can't be..."