Weight of the World

Chapter Twenty

—Tyr Na Vas—

Bringing Fjola home was not the happy affair she had thought it'd be. The others were thrilled, of course, and a big fuss had been made with their arrival, but as she passed Fjola into the hands of the waiting healers, the Astral One couldn't help but feel an unexpected hollowness, as though she wasn't truly a part of this, as though these weren't really her friends, and this wasn't truly her home.

Hubert had seen her sadness and had tried to cheer her up with gentle reassurances, trying to get her to see the victory they had achieved. They had fought Kellaran and lived to tell the tale. That, alone, was worth some sort of celebration, but she couldn't feel it. A victory it was, but her doubt remained.

So, she returned to her private chambers and quietly went about cleaning herself up, washing the blood and light from her arms and legs before changing into a new set of clothes, these far more comfortable than the ones she had worn before. A beautifully embroidered magenta top hung snugly around her upper body. A pair of black comfy, frilly shorts barely reached to her mid-thigh, leaving the majority of her legs bare to reveal the white sinuous markings that trailed over her skin. Both had been a gift from a city they had saved on the coast of Corlea a few months prior. The old woman who had made them for her had told her stories about her grandchildren and how much she reminded her of them. They were her favorite clothes to wear when they were home in Tyr Na Vas.

Sitting on the edge of her bed, she reached into the drawer on her bedside table, drawing out the item there into her lap. Besides the clothes on her back, this was the only thing that remained of her old life. An old, worn compass, its face cracked apart and seared along the metal surface as though it had been struck with lightning. Her mentor hadn't known what it was, and despite the many eyes that had looked it over, there was nothing distinct or discernable about it. Just an ordinary compass that couldn't help piece her memory together.

Idelle.

The name brought with it faint whisperings in her mind, too indistinct to hear. They tugged on the corners of her memory, but no amount of concentration would bring anything more to the surface. Like the last year, she remained lost in the fog that had claimed her.

A quiet knock at her door had her looking up sharply, the compass nearly falling from her hands. But then, the familiar voice spoke, asking for entry, which she freely gave. Dante entered with a tired smile and a tray balanced on his left hand. Two teacups rested there. The gestured warmed her as she rose to her feet to intercept him and take the tray from his hand. Setting it down on a nearby table, she cozied back up on her bed, legs crossed on one end to give him room on the other.

Dante had been one of the first she had met upon waking in Tyr Na Vas. Dante was a gifted mage, who had tried to help her unlock her memories many times, his patience and knowledge vast. They had become fast friends over the past year, spending so many nights together in the library researching new spells or potions to try out.

A little taller than her, Dante sat at the end of the bed, quietly removing his shoes before mimicking her style upon the bed. Violet eyes held fatigue but also genuine enjoyment being there with her. He adjusted himself, running one hand through his stark black hair to ruffle it a bit before settling in.

"Fjola is doing well, so the healers tell me," he reported with a slow nod. "She will need a few days of rest and isolation, but she will recover. A few moments later and that would not have been the case. She owes you her life."

She blushed with a shake of her head. "It wasn't just me. We all got her out of there."

"But you are the one who figured out which temple Kellaran would take her to. Without you, we wouldn't have made it in time. You should be proud of what we accomplished."