The garden was quiet after Illyen's departure, as though the night itself had drawn a veil over its breath. Cael remained where he stood, still as stone, his gaze fixed on the path where Illyen's retreating figure had vanished into the shadows of the trees.
The fountain murmured faintly beside him, its ripples disturbed by the drifting leaf that had lingered so stubbornly on the surface. He watched it circle the basin once more before it slipped over the edge, vanishing into stillness.
A faint smile curved his lips—worn, fragile, and gone almost as quickly as it appeared.
Illyen's words still clung to him, sharper than any blade: You don't. You can't. All you see is a boy you think beneath you.
If only that were true. If only he could believe Illyen's scorn, let it be enough to dull the ache of recognition every time their eyes met. But Cael had lived too long with memory to allow himself such an escape.
The stars above shimmered faintly, veiled by thin clouds. Their cold light spilled across the fountain, glinting like fragments of glass. Cael tipped his head back, letting the night sky blur in his vision. How many nights had he stood beneath these same heavens, centuries ago, when Illyen's laughter had still been bright, when their hands had brushed without hesitation?
The memories pressed close, unbidden—Illyen running barefoot through summer grass, a crimson ribbon caught in his hair; the secret look in his eyes when no one else was watching. They were ghosts that never left, shadows that bound Cael to a past the world had already forgotten.
And yet, Illyen had forgotten too.
Cael lowered his gaze, the ache in his chest tightening until it felt near unbearable. He had chosen this—chosen memory, chosen to carry centuries of loss within him. It had been a vow made with full knowledge of the weight. But no vow could have prepared him for the rawness of watching Illyen live before him again, bright and alive, and not remember.
His hands curled into fists at his sides. He could still feel the echo of Illyen's presence, the way the boy's pride had bristled, the tremor hidden in his voice when he asked—Why do you speak as though you know me?
Because I do. Because I have always known you.
But the truth was not one he could force. Not yet. If Illyen was to remember, it had to be by his own steps, his own awakening. To tear open the veil too soon would be to shatter him, perhaps beyond repair.
Still, patience tasted bitter on his tongue.
The fountain's song filled the silence once more, steady and unchanging. Cael exhaled slowly, the breath carrying with it the fragments of restraint he forced upon himself. His gaze lingered on the garden's heart—the ancient oak that rose near the edge of the stone path, its branches sprawling like dark veins against the silver sky.
How many times had they hidden beneath its shade? How many words, promises, and unspoken truths had passed between them there?
The memory of Illyen's laughter beneath those boughs struck him with such clarity that his chest ached anew. That tree had borne witness to their beginning—and, in another life, to their end.
"Not always," Cael murmured under his breath, repeating the words he had left with Illyen. The night swallowed the sound, carrying it nowhere. "One day, you'll see. You must."
The weight of silence pressed heavily upon him, but he bore it as he always had. For centuries, silence had been his only companion—silence and the thread that bound him to a boy who no longer remembered.
A breeze stirred through the garden, carrying the faint scent of roses. The petals trembled, catching faint moonlight like droplets of dew. Cael's hand brushed one of the blooms absently, the softness of it fragile against his calloused fingers.
It reminded him of Illyen—fragile, yet unyielding. Always ready to bristle, always ready to push away, and yet… beneath it, something tender still lingered. Something Cael alone had seen once before.
He closed his eyes, letting the scent of roses anchor him against the tide of memory.
Patience. He had endured centuries. He could endure a little longer.
And yet, as he opened his eyes and cast one final glance toward the shadows where Illyen had disappeared, he could not silence the truth that burned through his chest, fierce and unrelenting.
Illyen might walk away, might deny, might cling to pride and disbelief. But the thread between them was unbroken.
And one day, whether by choice or by fate, Illyen would remember.
Until then, Cael would wait. Even if it meant bleeding quietly in silence.
The fountain whispered on, and the garden remained still, a keeper of secrets too old for the night to hold.