The silence that settled between them in the eastern garden was no longer the fragile, hollow thing Illyen had grown accustomed to. It was not an absence, but a presence. The morning sun, having finally burned through the dawn mist, felt like a benediction, warming the chill that clung to his skin from the inside out.
He was still looking at Cael, truly looking at him. The man who had been a terrifying echo in the Hall, then a painful mystery, and now... something else. The name "Cael" felt solid on his tongue, a stone worn smooth by time, a word he had known forever and only just learned.
"The thread never dies," Illyen repeated, his voice barely a whisper. He wasn't speaking to Cael, but to the magnolia, to the sunlight.
Cael's gaze was devastating in its stillness. He didn't rush the moment, didn't crowd Illyen with questions or expectations. He simply waited, as he had promised.
"It was not only pain," Illyen said, finally meeting those patient eyes. "Remembering."
A flicker of relief, so profound it was almost agonizing, passed over Cael's features. He nodded, a single, slow movement. "It is the way back."
"But back to what?" Illyen's hands clenched. The fragments were still there, sharp and confusing. Laughter, sunlight, a promise. "I don't… I don't know the path."
"You do," Cael said softly. "You just don't remember that you know it. Close your eyes, Illyen. What do you see? Not the Hall. Not the fear. The other thing. The warmth."
Illyen hesitated. It felt like a trap. To invite the memories was to invite the sorrow that had shattered him. But the realization that it wasn't only sorrow gave him a sliver of courage. He closed his eyes.
He pushed past the cold marble of the Hall, past the confusing echoes. He focused on the flash of sunlight he'd recalled. It wasn't the open, broad light of the garden. It was different. It was… structured.
"It's… through a window," Illyen murmured, his brow furrowing. "Dust. Dancing in the light. And the smell of… old paper. And drying herbs. It's high up."
Cael's breath hitched, a tiny, sharp sound. When he spoke, his voice was thick. "The archivist's study. In the Solarium Tower."
Illyen's eyes snapped open. The name meant nothing. The place, nothing. But the feeling… the feeling was a bright, insistent pull. The golden thread.
"Take me there," Illyen said, the words sudden and sure.
Cael's composure broke for just a second. Hope, brilliant and unguarded, lit his face. He offered his hand, palm up. Not to pull, but to support.
Illyen looked at the hand—strong, scarred, steady. He remembered the phantom pain of this hand slipping from his grasp. This time, he reached out and took it. Cael's fingers closed around his, a warmth that was grounding.
They walked from the garden, leaving the magnolia to its quiet vigil. The Tower was on the western side of the great house, a place Illyen had instinctively avoided. It felt too tall, too full of things he wasn't ready for. But with Cael's hand in his, the fear was muted, replaced by a thrum of anticipation.
The door to the study was old, the wood dark and smooth. Cael pushed it open, and the exact scent from Illyen's fragmented memory washed over him. Dust, aging paper, and the faint, sweet-sharp smell of dried lavender and chamomile.
The room was circular, its stone walls lined with towering, cluttered bookshelves. But the entire western curve was a single, magnificent arched window, and the late morning sun poured through, illuminating millions of dancing dust motes.
A woman stood by the window, a copper watering can in her hand, tending to a row of potted herbs. She was older, her silver hair in a practical braid, her face lined with a wisdom that looked as ancient as the stones. When she turned, her sharp grey eyes widened, first at Illyen, then fixing on Cael with a sudden, fierce protectiveness.
"Elara," Cael greeted her, his voice even.
"He should not be here," Elara said, her voice low. She set the watering can down with a definitive thud. "It is too much. The Tower is full of triggers."
"It is where he led, Elara," Cael replied, his grip on Illyen's hand tightening almost imperceptibly.
Elara's stern gaze softened as she looked at Illyen. "My lord," she said, her tone gentle but firm, as if speaking to a child. "This is not the place for you. It will only bring hurt. Let me take you back to the gardens."
"The light," Illyen said, pulling his hand from Cael's, though he stayed close to his side. He was drawn toward the window, toward the stream of pure gold. "I remember the light."
"Of course you do," Elara said soothingly, stepping forward. "It's a lovely room. But—"
Illyen wasn't listening. He walked into the center of the sunbeam, his gaze falling on a large, flat-topped desk. It was covered in maps, books, and a single, empty crystal vase. His fingers ghosted over the wood, feeling the grain.
And the memory hit him.
It was not a flash. It was a deluge.
The dust motes were not dust motes; they were the vibrant, dancing light of a decade past. He was in this room, but he was younger, his laughter echoing off the stones. He was leaning over this very desk, sketching a constellation onto a star chart.
"You're drawing it wrong," a voice, bright and full of mirth, said from behind him. "The Swan's head is this way."
A hand—Cael's hand, unscarred and vital—reached over his shoulder, a piece of charcoal in his fingers, correcting the line. Illyen had leaned back, resting his head against Cael's chest, tilting his face up.
"I'll never get it right," he'd sighed in mock frustration.
"You will." Cael's kiss was soft, brushing his temple. "And if you don't, I'll be here to draw it for you. Always."
The warmth of the sun, the smell of the herbs, the solid presence of Cael behind him—it was a moment of such perfect, unadulterated peace that the memory of it was a physical blow.
"That's the promise, isn't it?" younger-Illyen had whispered, turning in Cael's arms.
Cael's eyes, clear and untouched by the sorrow they now held, had crinkled at the corners. "I will always find you."
"And I will always wait," Illyen had replied, sealing it.
Illyen gasped, stumbling back from the desk. The vision faded, leaving him trembling, the present slamming back into him. Elara was watching him, her face pale with alarm. Cael was rooted to the spot, his expression taut, waiting.
"You… you corrected the map," Illyen whispered, his eyes wide, locking on Cael.
Cael's face crumpled. He took a step, then another, until he was standing right in front of Illyen, his hands hovering, afraid to touch.
"I remember," Illyen said, and this time, the words were for Cael. Tears streamed down his face, hot and sudden. But it was not the cold despair of the Hall. It was a cleansing fire. It was the agony of a limb, long numb, finally waking up. "You said you would always find me."
"And you," Cael's voice broke, "said you would always wait."
"I'm sorry," Illyen wept, his hands coming up to grip the front of Cael's tunic. "I'm sorry, I forgot. I left you to find me all alone."
"No." Cael finally closed the distance, his arms wrapping around Illyen, pulling him tight. He buried his face in Illyen's hair, and Illyen could feel him shaking. "You're here. You found the thread, Illyen. You found it."
They stood there, wrapped in the sunbeam, holding each other up.
Elara watched them, her sternness completely gone, her hand pressed to her mouth. She had spent years trying to protect Illyen from his past, trying to sweep the broken pieces under a rug of quiet routine. She had seen Cael as a danger, a walking reminder of the trauma that had broken Illyen's mind.
Now, she saw the truth. He was not the sickness. He was the cure.
Quietly, Elara picked up the crystal vase from the desk. She went to one of her herb pots and, with practiced fingers, snipped a single, fragrant sprig of rosemary. For remembrance. She placed it in the vase and set it back on the desk.
Illyen eventually pulled back, his breath still ragged. The memory hadn't fixed him. The vast, empty spaces in his mind were still there. But one room was no longer empty. It was filled with sunlight.
He looked at Cael, at the man who had waited through an eternity of forgetting. The love he felt was a physical ache, a deep, resonant chord that vibrated with the truth of the promise.
He was tired, more exhausted than he'd ever been. But he was not lost.
"The thread held," he whispered, leaning his forehead against Cael's.
"It always will," Cael promised, closing his eyes. "Welcome back."
Thank you for reading ❤️🫶.
The silence that settled between them in the eastern garden was no longer the fragile, hollow thing Illyen had grown accustomed to. It was not an absence, but a presence. The morning sun, having finally burned through the dawn mist, felt like a benediction, warming the chill that clung to his skin from the inside out.
He was still looking at Cael, truly looking at him. The man who had been a terrifying echo in the Hall, then a painful mystery, and now... something else. The name "Cael" felt solid on his tongue, a stone worn smooth by time, a word he had known forever and only just learned.
"The thread never dies," Illyen repeated, his voice barely a whisper. He wasn't speaking to Cael, but to the magnolia, to the sunlight.
Cael's gaze was devastating in its stillness. He didn't rush the moment, didn't crowd Illyen with questions or expectations. He simply waited, as he had promised.
"It was not only pain," Illyen said, finally meeting those patient eyes. "Remembering."
A flicker of relief, so profound it was almost agonizing, passed over Cael's features. He nodded, a single, slow movement. "It is the way back."
"But back to what?" Illyen's hands clenched. The fragments were still there, sharp and confusing. Laughter, sunlight, a promise. "I don't… I don't know the path."
"You do," Cael said softly. "You just don't remember that you know it. Close your eyes, Illyen. What do you see? Not the Hall. Not the fear. The other thing. The warmth."
Illyen hesitated. It felt like a trap. To invite the memories was to invite the sorrow that had shattered him. But the realization that it wasn't only sorrow gave him a sliver of courage. He closed his eyes.
He pushed past the cold marble of the Hall, past the confusing echoes. He focused on the flash of sunlight he'd recalled. It wasn't the open, broad light of the garden. It was different. It was… structured.
"It's… through a window," Illyen murmured, his brow furrowing. "Dust. Dancing in the light. And the smell of… old paper. And drying herbs. It's high up."
Cael's breath hitched, a tiny, sharp sound. When he spoke, his voice was thick. "The archivist's study. In the Solarium Tower."
Illyen's eyes snapped open. The name meant nothing. The place, nothing. But the feeling… the feeling was a bright, insistent pull. The golden thread.
"Take me there," Illyen said, the words sudden and sure.
Cael's composure broke for just a second. Hope, brilliant and unguarded, lit his face. He offered his hand, palm up. Not to pull, but to support.
Illyen looked at the hand—strong, scarred, steady. He remembered the phantom pain of this hand slipping from his grasp. This time, he reached out and took it. Cael's fingers closed around his, a warmth that was grounding.
They walked from the garden, leaving the magnolia to its quiet vigil. The Tower was on the western side of the great house, a place Illyen had instinctively avoided. It felt too tall, too full of things he wasn't ready for. But with Cael's hand in his, the fear was muted, replaced by a thrum of anticipation.
The door to the study was old, the wood dark and smooth. Cael pushed it open, and the exact scent from Illyen's fragmented memory washed over him. Dust, aging paper, and the faint, sweet-sharp smell of dried lavender and chamomile.
The room was circular, its stone walls lined with towering, cluttered bookshelves. But the entire western curve was a single, magnificent arched window, and the late morning sun poured through, illuminating millions of dancing dust motes.
A woman stood by the window, a copper watering can in her hand, tending to a row of potted herbs. She was older, her silver hair in a practical braid, her face lined with a wisdom that looked as ancient as the stones. When she turned, her sharp grey eyes widened, first at Illyen, then fixing on Cael with a sudden, fierce protectiveness.
"Elara," Cael greeted her, his voice even.
"He should not be here," Elara said, her voice low. She set the watering can down with a definitive thud. "It is too much. The Tower is full of triggers."
"It is where he led, Elara," Cael replied, his grip on Illyen's hand tightening almost imperceptibly.
Elara's stern gaze softened as she looked at Illyen. "My lord," she said, her tone gentle but firm, as if speaking to a child. "This is not the place for you. It will only bring hurt. Let me take you back to the gardens."
"The light," Illyen said, pulling his hand from Cael's, though he stayed close to his side. He was drawn toward the window, toward the stream of pure gold. "I remember the light."
"Of course you do," Elara said soothingly, stepping forward. "It's a lovely room. But—"
Illyen wasn't listening. He walked into the center of the sunbeam, his gaze falling on a large, flat-topped desk. It was covered in maps, books, and a single, empty crystal vase. His fingers ghosted over the wood, feeling the grain.
And the memory hit him.
It was not a flash. It was a deluge.
The dust motes were not dust motes; they were the vibrant, dancing light of a decade past. He was in this room, but he was younger, his laughter echoing off the stones. He was leaning over this very desk, sketching a constellation onto a star chart.
"You're drawing it wrong," a voice, bright and full of mirth, said from behind him. "The Swan's head is this way."
A hand—Cael's hand, unscarred and vital—reached over his shoulder, a piece of charcoal in his fingers, correcting the line. Illyen had leaned back, resting his head against Cael's chest, tilting his face up.
"I'll never get it right," he'd sighed in mock frustration.
"You will." Cael's kiss was soft, brushing his temple. "And if you don't, I'll be here to draw it for you. Always."
The warmth of the sun, the smell of the herbs, the solid presence of Cael behind him—it was a moment of such perfect, unadulterated peace that the memory of it was a physical blow.
"That's the promise, isn't it?" younger-Illyen had whispered, turning in Cael's arms.
Cael's eyes, clear and untouched by the sorrow they now held, had crinkled at the corners. "I will always find you."
"And I will always wait," Illyen had replied, sealing it.
Illyen gasped, stumbling back from the desk. The vision faded, leaving him trembling, the present slamming back into him. Elara was watching him, her face pale with alarm. Cael was rooted to the spot, his expression taut, waiting.
"You… you corrected the map," Illyen whispered, his eyes wide, locking on Cael.
Cael's face crumpled. He took a step, then another, until he was standing right in front of Illyen, his hands hovering, afraid to touch.
"I remember," Illyen said, and this time, the words were for Cael. Tears streamed down his face, hot and sudden. But it was not the cold despair of the Hall. It was a cleansing fire. It was the agony of a limb, long numb, finally waking up. "You said you would always find me."
"And you," Cael's voice broke, "said you would always wait."
"I'm sorry," Illyen wept, his hands coming up to grip the front of Cael's tunic. "I'm sorry, I forgot. I left you to find me all alone."
"No." Cael finally closed the distance, his arms wrapping around Illyen, pulling him tight. He buried his face in Illyen's hair, and Illyen could feel him shaking. "You're here. You found the thread, Illyen. You found it."
They stood there, wrapped in the sunbeam, holding each other up.
Elara watched them, her sternness completely gone, her hand pressed to her mouth. She had spent years trying to protect Illyen from his past, trying to sweep the broken pieces under a rug of quiet routine. She had seen Cael as a danger, a walking reminder of the trauma that had broken Illyen's mind.
Now, she saw the truth. He was not the sickness. He was the cure.
Quietly, Elara picked up the crystal vase from the desk. She went to one of her herb pots and, with practiced fingers, snipped a single, fragrant sprig of rosemary. For remembrance. She placed it in the vase and set it back on the desk.
Illyen eventually pulled back, his breath still ragged. The memory hadn't fixed him. The vast, empty spaces in his mind were still there. But one room was no longer empty. It was filled with sunlight.
He looked at Cael, at the man who had waited through an eternity of forgetting. The love he felt was a physical ache, a deep, resonant chord that vibrated with the truth of the promise.
He was tired, more exhausted than he'd ever been. But he was not lost.
"The thread held," he whispered, leaning his forehead against Cael's.
"It always will," Cael promised, closing his eyes. "Welcome back."