Reminisce

“When I recall sordid past, full of desperate memories, like locket and portrait in hands held fast, I ponder visions—gramarye. Eras began and eras ended, life moves on without, my soul interred in ancient thoughts, my ending not amended.”

-Excerpt from “Feelings Unrequited”

Elma recounted everything.

The betrothal. The planning. The desperation. The fear. The escape.

Zygan listened in silence, elbows planted on the table, fingers interlaced beneath his chin like a cathedral steeple. When she finished, he let out a long breath and shifted his weight, the old wooden chair creaking beneath him.

“A story told a thousand times,” he said. “And you chose a poor place to go. Lord Ulbreith owes fealty to Count Cannáed. If pressed, he would have no way to shield you from your father or the Count.”

“I know,” Elma said quickly. “But I didn’t have much say in where we ended up. It all happened so fast.”

Zygan gave her a flat look. “You could have been honest.”

“I was,” she said, defensively. “At least about that part. Deryth said you were our best chance. That you’d help.”

Zygan let out a dry chuckle. “It’s been two years, and he’s still hopeless. So he still doesn’t have other friends to lean on.”

His words weren’t cruel, just tired. Old truth, worn thin from overuse.

Elma didn’t know what to say. She fidgeted with her fork, then forced herself to finish the food, though it tasted like ash in her mouth. When she was done, she gathered both plates and walked them to the kitchen, washing them without being asked. The warm water helped, but not enough. Her limbs buzzed with restless energy. She needed movement, a distraction, anything.

Her thoughts kept drifting back to Deryth—how he hadn’t flinched when Zygan called him hopeless. Had he always been like that? Or had he simply learned to carry the weight on his own?

She wandered back into the dining room and sat again, her gaze fixed on the cooling teacup before her.

“Can you tell me about him?” she asked.

Zygan raised an eyebrow. “Who, Deryth?”

She nodded.

“He won’t tell me anything,” she said. “And the one time I tried to ask, he was upset that I pried.”

“Well, yes, he would be,” Zygan said, giving her a stern look. “It’s his business. Not yours.”

“I only thought, maybe if I understood him better, I could help.”

Zygan leaned back in his chair and let out another sigh—long, quiet, but not entirely unsympathetic. He said nothing more.

Elma tried again. And again. For the next hour she asked questions, dropped hints, even tried to guess at Deryth’s past in hopes of a confirming glance or shake of the head. Zygan wouldn’t budge. Every time she pushed, he redirected, changed the subject, or answered with maddening vagueness. By the end of the hour, her frustration sat tight in her chest like a knot.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

As I made my way through the streets of Fallon, my hood rested low over my brow. I walked with purpose, but it was a performance, something well rehearsed to keep the ghosts at bay. It didn’t work.

My boots carried me past familiar storefronts and alleys, each one snagging a thread of memory and unraveling me from the inside. The worst was the house merely a few streets away. My childhood home, just another bad memory on a street full of them.

I slowed, my breath hitching in my throat. I remembered the shouting—my mother’s voice shrill and desperate, my father’s silence like a door slammed shut. I remembered the fights, the tears, the way the house seemed to grow colder every day until my father finally left, and my mother stopped getting out of bed.

My vision blurred. My lungs refused to pull in air. Panic crept in like smoke under a door frame, choking and unseen. I gripped a lamppost and squeezed until my knuckles turned white.

But with the pain came light. I saw my mother smiling in the market square, her hand warm around mine. I heard my father clapping when I first read a full sentence aloud. They were broken, both of them, but they’d tried. Once. Those memories were like embers in the ash—warm enough to guide me back. I closed my eyes and steadied my breathing. 

Someone needed me now. I could not drown in the past. I resolved myself as best I could and carried on. Just like I always had to.

The market was bustling, the crowds noisy and vibrant. I moved from stall to stall, collecting what Zygan had asked for—eggs, bread, saltpork, a few herbs, and tea.

With the supplies tucked under my arm, I made my way back, head down but chest a little lighter. Fallon hadn’t changed. But I had.

I stepped through the door just in time to hear Elma’s voice, tense and sharp.

“Come on, just tell me!”

Zygan’s reply was calm but final. “No. It’s not my place. If he wants to tell you the details of his life, that’s his choice. I won't make it for him.”

I clenched my fist around the grocery bag, then relaxed. I dropped it on the counter without a word. The thump echoed through the small kitchen. Elma turned, startled, her expression paling when she saw my face.

“Deryth?” she said, her voice a whisper.

I looked at her, then away.

“I’m sorry,” she said quickly. “I was just—”

“What?” I said sharply. “Curious about the broken little bard? Grow up.”

Her eyes widened. “Hey. That’s uncalled for.”

“Is it though?”

“Yes!” she snapped. “I just—I feel like we might have common ground.”

That caught me off guard. I looked at her again. She wasn’t angry. She was hurting. The silence returned, thick and uncomfortable. Finally, I sighed, pushing down my own frustrations and feelings. 

“Fine,” I said. “I forgive you. Can we table this for now?”

Elma nodded slowly and helped me unload the groceries. Her motions were reserved and slow, her energy dulled, like someone walking in the rain without an umbrella.

That night, after Zygan started preparing dinner, I made a decision. Despite being disappointed at her for prying, I was certain that Elma's intentions were without malice. She believed that we had common ground, and was desperate for connection. Something clicked in my mind, and for the first time I understood her deeper than the surface level. I took her hand, wordless, and pulled her behind me.

An autumn breeze nipped at my exposed skin, and the sun hung low on the horizon. Elma said nothing, holding my hand with silent consent. Our breaths puffed into white mist, and our footsteps clapped on the empty cobblestone road.

“We will be there soon,” I said, my face burning with embarrassment. Why had I taken her hand? What was wrong with me? She followed without question, her free hand stuffed into the sleeves of her coat. Neither of us spoke for a while. But I knew we would. Eventually.