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A piece of golden straw – a tiny broken stem gleaming dully as she turns it in her fingers.
The memory of his hands, lightly touching the wheel; the smooth rattle of its' spinning; and straw, a lot of straw, collecting in the basket at his feet. He'd spin a long continued tread, and it coiled at the bottom of the basket like a sleeping snake. And then there were those short, tiny stems – bits gone unnoticed as he cut the tread, falling on the floor for her to sweep. They were a nightmare, these little pieces – even when she was done cleaning and turned to walk from the room, she'd always notice one more of them, stuck between floorboards or under the carpet, winking at her playfully as its' maker would, and she'd have to come back and collect it, cursing inwardly. He never cared for them – when she'd come and ask what to do with these cuttings, he's wave her away. 'Forget them, it's just rubbish', he'd say, and return to work. She ended up collecting them in a big sack – she just couldn't throw away such a lot of gold – such a lot of magical gold made by him. A sack of gold that could feed a village for years. A sack of magic that was too mundane for him to care what happened to it – he had bigger things to do.
A sack full of tiny golden straws.
And now they found such a piece of straw here, in this town. Found it in a storm-cellar by the farmhouse none of them remembered being there before, found it in an open cage with a spinning wheel in it.
A tiny bit of straw, appearing out of nowhere a year after his death.
A tiny piece of straw.
A sign that he is alive.
Of course it could mean nothing – there were others who mastered the craft of spinning straw into gold before, why not now? It might be something he made a long time ago, and it got somehow lost, stuck between floorboards or under the carpet... But, holding the little straw in her hand, she knows – she feels his touch lingering on it; his recent touch. She handled so many of them in the past, she could tell the ones he just made from the old ones. They grew somehow… cold the longer they were left on the floor; just spun, they were pulsating bits of magic – they became just oddly shaped pieces of gold later.
He spun this straw recently – this very morning, it seemed.
He is alive. He is here, in this town.
He is alive.
And she is scared.
She thinks of all the things she told herself over these past weeks here, after waking up under new curse: of how her failure to find him means that he is truly lost; of how she must not listen to the hopeless hope living in her heart – it is not really hope, it is her denial. Of how his love she still felt must be just her heart's delusion, its' feeble attempt to keep itself from breaking completely. Of how she must be mad to sense him so acutely; and how she must discipline herself to gradually let him go.
She remembers her fervent prayer, her last spell directed into nothingness he left behind. 'Please, just be alive. Whatever the price'.
Well, she is not mad, or in denial, or full of deluded false hopes.
He is alive.
What was the price?
What had she done?
And, if he is alive, why didn't he reach her – why didn't he let her know? Why is their bond so weak – what is holding him back?
Something terrible must be happening to him if he cannot reach her.
She knows the place where they found it, this piece of straw – in the last days it has become a place where she invariably ended her daily walk; it might have been the same for the whole past year, she just doesn't remember. She walks the town before going to bed, as he used to – she needs it to calm her mind, at least to some extent. And her feet always brought her to the field at the end of which the farm stands – without her conscious effort, as if on their own accord.
She liked this field – quiet and deserted, bleak and cold. Perhaps she liked it because it was one of the few places in town not directly associated with him, for her – everywhere else she'd go, she'd remember him with painful vividness, for they have been there together. Not this place – not this field. It was empty of memories and, staring at its' snowy surface, she could think of him without shivering with pain – without blinking away tears. Just think of him, imagining his heart resting in peace, somewhere unreachable for her, yet; unruffled, calm, as this snow. Waiting for her to join him, when her time comes.
And all that time, as she stood there thinking of him, he was there, under this snow, in the dark, in a cage – suffering; alive, yet not calling on her – remote; he might as well be dead.
What was happening to him?
She hardly listens to people around her, discussing different versions of events. They believe the farm belongs to the witch, and he must have been her prisoner. How did that happen? To imprison him, she must have got hold of his dagger – that was the only way; and how was it possible, if his dagger was lost with him? How did he come back? How did he break free – and did he, or someone else took him? These questions are important, of course, but she cannot really care for technicalities now – she needs to be alone to think: something is nagging at her brain, telling that if only she could concentrate, she'd remember – she'd understand. The pirate says that she went to search for him with Bae – but she cannot remember a single thing about their quest. So what happened? Apparently they did bring him back, but how? She needs to be alone to check his books – his secret, dark books, books he always hid from her but, after he was gone, she gained access to them: apparently his things decided they were her things, now, too and some of the magically hidden ones revealed themselves, forbidden books amongst them.
She needs to be alone to concentrate on reaching him – without holding herself back, now that she knows he is alive and in preserving their bond she is not feeding her madness.
She hardly notices the presence of the pirate whom they left to guard her – she is too busy searching among the dusty volumes, looking for the one she feels must be there, the one that will answer all her questions. And she is too busy urging her heart, prompting it to reach farther and wider – urging it to connect with him, to touch his soul with hers.
If he really is free, he'd come to her.
And then, finally and yet suddenly, it is upon her – the feeling of his presence. She can feel him, physically feel him, right there behind the door – he has come!..
God, she'll see him again – she'll see him right this moment!..
And then a man crushes through the door, and it is not him – it is his son; her partner in the quest, if they'd believe the pirate; just as baffled as she is – not remembering a thing.
They rush him to the hospital, they ask him questions, yet her mind is not really on all that, again. She is trying to understand. How could she feel him so strongly if he was not there? Could she have deluded herself, yet again? She was so sure…
She returns to the shop alone, leaving Bae in the hospital, to continue her search for the necessary books. Trying to stop her heart from despairing, from losing hope again; trying to regain her self-belief.
The book literally jumps at her; she was staring at one of the shelves in the back room, and she could have sworn it wasn't there a second ago, yet here it stands now, its' jacket dusty, its' title misleadingly innocent: 'History of Magic'. Could be anything, but she feels it is the one – worn leather seems to glow from the inside.
She takes the book from the shelf, and opens it with trembling hands – leafs through it hurriedly, cutting her fingertip in her haste. Finds the relevant page. Reads.
And her heart fills with horror.
She knows what happened now – what must have happened. Someone must have died to bring him back to life – it is all written here, clearly. And it must have been Bae… Or herself?
How is that possible, if both of them – if the three of them – are alive?
And – that is the question that is most grueling for her – how could she let it happen, like that? They must have followed instructions from the same book – she must have read that same book. How did she allow it to happen?..
She is staring at the book, staring at the page telling, in detail, how the Dark One is to be resurrected if he ever dies, her elbows on the table, her head in her hands. She sees the letters and the symbols, but she cannot understand.
And then it comes.
Clearing in the forest, silent, covered in snow.
Glowing doors of the vault, moving.
Dark figure emerging from the opening.
His sad eyes.
His scream. His body, crouching in the snow. His agonized face. His pleading look.
'Run!'
And herself, running – crushing through the branches of the winter forest, horrified, ridden with guilt, ripped apart with his pain.
She feels this pain, now, but it is a thousand times stronger – no pain remembered could be so strong; something terrible is happening to him now, this very instant. Something splits him apart, something tears bones and blood from his body; something dies in him. And she feels it, too – she is dying with him, too. There is searing pain in her chest, as if a blade is going through her, opening a chasm of darkness.
And, blinded by this pain, she sees him.
Clearing in the forest.
One body splitting in two. One magical, one mortal – dying.
Father, kneeling among wet grass and fallen leaves, holding the hand of his dying son.
Dying with him yet, finally, coming back to life – getting stronger as life seeps away from the younger body given over to him.
Wishing to turn it back. Wishing it more than anything in the world.
Voices, words, last words, echoing the words said so many years ago – obliterating the guilt and the pain of these lost years, bringing on new pain and new guilt.
'I don't want to let you go' – 'I need you to'.
The quest of so many years, fulfilled and proved futile.
Reunited. Lost to each other.
Tears on his face.
Grip of their hands.
One hand, getting slack. Lifeless.
Only one of them left now.
Human.
Broken.
A void in a place where there used to be a heart.
Trembling fingers closing dead eyelids.
Wordless whisper.
'My beautiful boy…'
Darkness.
Many things are happening in town – people hurry around, spread terrible news, gather their wits and theirs forces, plan revenge and future action – look at their loved ones with renewed affection, chastened by loss. People weep, and embrace each other for support.
And amongst all these, in the back room of his shop, a girl lays on the floor, senseless – having lost consciousness as his pain gripped her and almost stopped her heart along with his.
And much later, when she comes to her senses and people come to her, offering condolences, she is barely listening, torn with one thought foremost to her.
Among all these grieving people there is one man who grieves the most – who had lost the most; who lost everything.
And he is the only one who is alone.
She should be with him; not because she'd really help him – nothing can really help him now. She should be there because it is impossible, unthinkable that she has left him alone at this time – that she did not find a way to be by his side.
She should be with him.
And she cannot.
She failed him.