Echoes of the Past

A small hand grasped at their billowing skirt. 

The fabric tensed under the child’s grip, tugged with just enough weight to be felt but not enough to truly stop them. They did not look down, did not acknowledge the warmth at their side. Instead, they stepped forward, dislodging the fragile hold as if it had never been there at all. 

The child did not waver. 

She followed, her bare feet soundless against the scorched earth.

There was no point in pushing her away, not yet. They doubted she would listen. Humans were stubborn things, clinging to what little they had left, even when there was nothing worth holding onto. 

The ruins loomed around them, the blackened bones of a village that had burned away in a single breath. They moved through the wreckage with purpose, though they could not yet name what they were searching for. Their feet carried them forward, drawn by an unseen pull. 

Charred remains of the inhabitants caused a stench to fill the air. A few posed as they were before their souls escaped from their bodies. A mother cradling a child, a man wielding a sword, a duo huddling into each other for comfort. A guard or ‘wizard’ as the humans liked to call them, gripping onto a wand imbued with the remains of a hunted innocent creature. They had no sympathy, for the grown humans at least.

They all reeked of artificial magic, clawing and begging to be freed from their cores. The young had not yet faced the sins of their parents, as their cores were clean from the rot of stolen magic.

Their little shadow followed the same pattern, as pure as a human could be. A human would never, could never stand at the same level as the fantastical species of the land. They were meant to be at the bottom of the food chain, easy pickings for predators. Never flying above the clouds playing with the breeze, never swimming with the waves and singing to the song of the sea, no. 

Pushing the thoughts away, they kept forward until they found themselves before a door still clinging to its hinges. 

A sign above the threshold bore the faded carving of an herb bundle. 

An apothecary’s den. 

They pushed the door open, the hinges groaning in protest. 

Inside, the air was thick. Damp, stagnant, tinged with the faintest trace of crushed herbs and something sickly sweet. The shelves, once lined with glass vials and neatly bundled plants, were a thing of the past. Jars lay shattered across the floor, dried petals and broken crystals strewn amongst the debris. 

They stepped over the wreckage, sifting through what remained. Their fingers traced the edges of an unbroken vial, its contents still intact. A preservation tonic. Useful. They tucked it into their satchel. Nearby, a small bundle of various medicinal herbs lay untouched, the petals and leaves glowing faintly in the dim light. They took that, too. 

They did not question why they were here, why their path had led them through this ruined door. They had been taught long ago to trust the pull of fate. 

Their fingers glided across the shelves with gentle touches before feeling something damp. A glance showed a cherry-tinted puddle, darkened with time but not yet dried. The air stilled along with them. Only swirling when they took a breath. 

Half a step forward and they saw it. 

A figure, half-hidden behind the counter. 

The apothecary. 

The body was still, slumped against the wooden frame. Time had stolen the color from their skin, but the signs of their final moments remained. The way their hands curled slightly as if grasping for something unseen, the dried blood at their temple, the empty space on the shelves where healing salves had once been. 

They exhaled through their nose. 

They did not move immediately. They simply stood there, observing, absorbing, letting the weight of the moment settle over them like the dust hanging in the air. With eyes closed, the space behind their eyelids had echoes stirring. A voice—soft, lilting, edged with the weight of wisdom—curled against the edges of their thoughts. 

“O gentle moon,” 

A crunch of glass sounded from behind. 

“Watch over this wandering soul. May they find peace in your quiet light,” 

A shift of movement. Small, steady. 

“And may their memory fade as softly as the night. Let them rest where no shadow lingers,” 

The child was still there. 

“Where silence sings their final lullaby.” 

The small prayer had been ingrained into their head without them even realizing it. A scowl stretched across their face as they unlocked the hands that had subconsciously drawn together. They turned to glance at the child who had stepped closer, quiet as a mouse. 

She stared at the body with the same blank expression she had worn since the moment they met. No fear. No shock. Just silence. 

They felt something cold coil in their chest. 

She should have been afraid. Even now, when faced with the remnants of death, she was empty. It seemed death had already gripped the child with its icy claws, and ripped her apart. It really shouldn't have been that surprising. 

They pushed the thought away. Fingers twitching, urged them to grab their tools and write, remember, fulfill their… duty. However unwanted it may have been. Until it turned into a promise spoken in a hushed, cracked voice to an empty house. 

Reaching into their satchel, fingers brushed against parchment and quill. The feathered tip glowed faintly as they pulled it free, its magic old and comforting. They knelt beside the body, pressing paper against the wooden floor. The setup was crude, but it would have to do. 

Their quill hovered over the blank space. 

A letter. Such a simple concept that had fear pulsing deep in their heart. 

Even if there was no one left to read it, even if the words would never find their way home, it did not matter. The dead deserved to be remembered. 

Their gaze flickered over the apothecary’s hands, where one of them bore a simple silver ring, dulled with age. Married, then. A partner somewhere, perhaps lost to the same fate. The shelves, though looted, had been meticulously arranged once. A careful person. A dedicated healer. 

They wrote. 

To My Love, 

Without further knowledge, it wouldn't have much depth. 

If you are out there, know that I go with the moon at my side. 

Their hand moved with steady grace, weaving a simple and quiet farewell. Then, they reached for something deeper. 

A soft glow from their freckles cascaded over the paper. 

Soft at first, then brighter, like distant stars flickering to life. The patterns on their skin connected, delicate lines forming constellations unseen by mortal eyes. A hush fell over the room, the weight of the world pausing as magic stirred in the air. 

They closed their eyes. 

And they saw. 

The apothecary, standing behind the counter, laughter crinkling the corners of their eyes. Hands tying a bundle of herbs, the scent of mint and rosemary filling the shop. A glance toward the door, a flicker of unease. The night deepening. A sudden impact, a shattering. The crash of glass, the scream of wood splitting apart. 

A monstrous shape. 

Claws. Splatter of blood. 

Then- nothing. 

The vision faded. 

They released a slow breath, their freckles dimming, the constellations unraveling into nothingness. 

I do not know if you still walk beneath her light or if you have already gone ahead. But wherever you may be, I hope you are at peace. I was yours in life, and in some way, I will be yours in death. May my hands rest in the Ever and link with yours once more. 

They did not sign it. This letter was not from them. It was simply meant to be. Then, when the ink dried, they folded the paper and tucked it gently into their satchel and stood. 

Willingly this time, their hands joined together. 

Rest now, Silent One. The moon knows your name, even if we do not. 

The child was still there. But now, instead of blank emptiness, there was something else. 

Awe. 

Her wide green eyes reflected the fading glow of magic, lips parted slightly as if she had seen something sacred. 

They stiffened, then turned, brushing past the child without a word. They stepped over broken glass, and out into the dying night, leaving the apothecary’s den behind. 

Footsteps followed. 

They clenched their jaw. 

“Go home.” 

The words were sharp, edged with something brittle. 

The child did not respond. A slip of their tongue had let it out. As a dirty and hungry child would have no home. 

“Run off,” they snapped, this time harsher with eyes narrowing. “There’s nothing left for you here, and I'm not benevolent.” 

Still, she did not waver. Her face was still in awe, but now her hands were gripped together. A clumsy and foolish mockery of theirs. They exhaled sharply, frustration curling in their chest. But they did not speak again. 

Instead, they stepped forward, onto the open road, towards the Elven city that waited beyond the horizon. 

The child followed, but they would not care for her. Wouldn't spare food or water. If she wanted to die so badly, so be it. An easier way would be to stay in the remains of this village, her hometown. But they couldn't comment on that, for it would be far too hypocritical.