For seven days and seven nights, Damien rode non-stop towards North Chanting, then, after a day, he saw the Raised Rock. It stood like a crow perched on a branch in the middle of a plain that stretched for miles. Black as night and as tall as the top of a giant tree, it stood alone, as if abandoned.
Damien rode past it, not without apprehension, then entered the town of Marine a few metres further on. Despite his desire to leave as quickly as possible in search of his beloved, he stopped at the only inn in the area before falling asleep.
In his dreams, a small figure ran after him, calling out cheerfully. Despite his speed, the figure caught up with him. As she reached out to embrace him, everything around him collapsed.
The scene, which had been joyful, immediately deteriorated, shattering into a thousand pieces. He woke with a start. Sweat running down his back and breathless, he wondered: what had he been dreaming about? And who was that figure? But these questions remained unanswered. His memories were fading. Damien looked out of the window; the sun had just risen. Overcome by an irresistible urge, his heart pounding and his thoughts in disarray, he set off again.
His hair blowing in the wind, Damien rode to the edge of the Vast Sea, which was so large and empty that it confronted him with memories from several years ago. The scene before him reminded him of the scene he had witnessed with his beloved wizard.
He missed him so much. His heart was bleeding like never before. Why hadn't he looked for him sooner? He knew it well, but the idea of his wizard's disappearance seemed too implausible.
How or when had he started to think that he was dead? He searched his memory before remembering. At first, he didn't think his Alaën could die like that. So when had this idea taken root? Something didn't seem right. It was as if vile thoughts had gradually replaced those that seemed most likely to him.
A vicious personality came to mind. And how could he forget that partridge? Laïla had hurt people too much. He could understand her pain, the pain of losing a loved one. Of losing someone he loved more than anything. But it had been a long time, too long. An old story.
He understood now, but too many people had suffered. His brother Lucien, Blaire, Ophélie, Sinéah and many others, he was sure of it. So someone had to die for all this tragedy to end. Laïla the sad, Laïla the hateful, had to perish. Unfortunately, her time had not yet come.
Contemplating the vast sea, he waited for hours before the clouds parted to reveal a fortress in the sky. It was immense. Then, beyond the waters, a boat cut through the waves. On board, an old man acted as ferryman. His hair was grey and his back was hunched. His face looked like something straight out of a children's story.
The boat stopped.
His time had come.
So Damien left his horse behind and walked confidently towards the shore.
'I've been waiting for you, hunter. Have you brought what is rightfully mine?'
Damien was taken aback. No one had given him even a hint. Then again, he hadn't asked, too busy wanting to get to Alaën quickly.
The old ferryman repeated his question. But Damien couldn't answer. The old man could see that his interlocutor remained silent. So he changed tactics. In a falsely sorry tone, he declared:
'Then I cannot take you where you wish to go.'
The hunter thought for a moment, then said aloud:
'I cannot wait. What if I gave you a part of myself? My hair, for example. After all, they say that hair retains memory.'
This was what the ferryman had been waiting for. In truth, there was nothing that belonged to him. No one owed him anything. But the figure who had come one evening had promised him that if he delayed the hunter on his journey to search for his treasure, he would be freed from the prison that was his boat.
What the boatman had not anticipated was that Damien, suspicious, had offered something so superfluous that he could not do much with it. Do you have bad intentions? Expect the booty you covet to be useless.
There was one rule, however. If a person wanted to enter the kingdom of Heaven, they had to leave something that belonged to them. And they had to do so willingly.
The boatman smiled toothlessly, a sign of immense satisfaction. His non-human yellow eyes reflected a delighted gleam.
Damien drew his dagger and, taking his hair in his hands, cut it off with a sharp tug. His hair, usually so long and which Alaën loved to run her hands through, was now short. He didn't care about the haircut, because finding Alaën was more important than anything else. Taking a rope out of his bag, he tied his uneven locks with an expert hand.
He boarded the boat and gave the rest of his black hair to the boatman. The old ferryman hastily took it and stuffed it into his clothes. Then he set off again.
The wind, which had calmed down, picked up again. A fine rain fell on the expanse of water. The journey, though strange, went smoothly. After a silent crossing, the ferryman dropped Damien off on an island made of sand where there was no vegetation and no population.
His guide pointed him in a direction and Damien went there. From the outset, he had been on his guard. Such greed on the part of a ferryman for an almost sacred place was disturbing.
So he gave half of the cut locks of hair and offered the rest up in prayer to the waters. Damien advanced slowly. He arrived in front of a dilapidated hut made of wood and fabric. A heavy silence hung over the surroundings. He entered the building.
Inside, a wooden doll sat motionless. In front of it were two chipped but still steaming teacups. The doll's left hand slowly reached out, inviting him to sit down. Damien did so, but remained vigilant.
The doll's painted eyes reflected a strange glow. Her red-painted mouth remained in a frozen smile. The silence was heavy, as if time had stopped and would never start again. After a moment, the puppet's wooden hand moved a second time.
With calculated slowness, it grabbed the cup in front of her. Without a word, it drank the contents, then stared at it.
Despite his vigilance, Damien realised that he could not escape drinking the still-steaming liquid.
He had wondered how he could have reached this castle. There was another way to do it, but the trap had already been sprung. He knew it. The answer lay in that cup. He reached out, took the bowl and brought it to his mouth.
Then he swallowed. At first, the liquid seemed sweet, but a viscous sensation replaced the savoury taste. He felt himself falling backwards. Before he hit the ground, he thought he heard the cry of a voice filled with sadness.
***
On the other side, in a place hidden from the eyes of the world, an amnesiac fox wizard woke with a start. What had he seen?
A deeply buried fear revealed itself to him as he stood trembling and shivering. He tried to control himself, but the panic was visceral. The vision came back to him. A man with a bad haircut was sitting with his back to him, in front of a wooden puppet drinking a cup of an unknown liquid.
The mannequin disappeared from view and what he saw froze him in horror. In place of the doll was a woman dripping with blood, a predatory smile on her lips, or rather her beak.
In the cup before her was a red liquid. Blood? No. Worse. An evil magic, black, viscous and filthy.
Then, to her horror, the man standing before this filth grabbed the cup and drank it without warning. The terror welling up inside her settled in her heart. Alaën, who could speak but not transform, cried out, hoping to warn this man he seemed to know, but his voice could not reach him. And there was nothing he could do about it.
Locked in a building that seemed unfamiliar to him and that would not let him leave. His magic was severely weakened, unable to counter the spell of this individual he could hardly remember. Twice a year, a bird visited him and brought him news, but having lost his memory, he could only listen. Suspicious by nature, he never took this information for granted. His intuition told him not to trust it.
***
Damien woke up in a huge room filled with pillars. The voluted ceiling gave the place a feeling of grandeur. He sat up and looked around before turning back to face him. He was sitting on what appeared to be an altar. Rapid footsteps broke the almost religious silence of the place and brought him out of his thoughts.
He couldn't tell if the person in front of him was a man or a woman, but what caught his eye were the blue horns on their head. Then there was their gaze. Eyes of an almost misty grey looked him up and down. With some difficulty, Damien stood up and welcomed his visitor.
'Damien, at your service,' he said, bowing.
The individual in front of him looked him up and down before replying curtly:
'Melia, pleased to meet you. Follow me.'
Then they turned and Damien followed without saying a word, despite his desire to ask questions.
Their companion, as silent as a tree, led them to a room from which laughter and singing could be heard. Opening the door, their guide gave orders in a low voice. Turning to the hunter, Melia said:
'This is the bathhouse. Wash yourself, then I will answer your questions.' They finished with a smile.
Then they left, their long robes floating in the wind. Damien sighed and let himself be led into the baths, reluctantly. Although a bath wouldn't hurt, he thought.
Servants undressed him, and Damien let them. There was no shame in being served by people whose job it was to do so. Besides, he had been used to it for a long time when he was a prince.
The hunter sank into the warm water and let himself go. He was washed from head to toe, perfumed, and his hair was cut short to reach his shoulders in an elegant square. His beard had almost been shaved off, and if he hadn't stopped them in time, it could have been bad.
He couldn't have Alaën not recognising him when he saw him again. Even if that was unlikely, he thought with a smile. Without suspecting for a moment that his quest would take longer.
He was dressed in what appeared to be a hanfu, a type of clothing Alaën had introduced him to. Just thinking about his lover made him miss him. Far too much.
He was given jewellery that jingled with every step he took, and his hair was tied up in a fine bun. Two braids adorned his temples, giving him the appearance of a high-ranking prince. It had been a long time since he had dressed like this.
Finally dressed and ready, he was led to another room where a table laden with all kinds of food awaited him.
Melia, seated at the end of the table, looked him up and down before nodding her head in satisfaction. Damien sat down without protest. With the bad memory of that vile drink still fresh in his mind, the hunter did not touch the food in front of him. He did not know what might happen if he ate even a single bite.
Melia's misty gaze lingered on him for a moment before returning to her plate. Then she declared in a contemptuous voice.
'Fear not, I am nothing like that shrew of a partridge.'
At these words, Damien's jaw clenched. He thought back to the sensation he had felt during his interview with the model. He then asked himself this question. What had she given him to drink? His instinct told him that it was nothing good. What did this person in front of him want from him? Finding no satisfactory answer, he asked suspiciously.
'And you, what do you want from me?'
Mélia scrutinised him for a moment. The man in front of her had undeniable charm. Where had Alaën found such a man? It made her want to play. To make him succumb in any way she could. And if she couldn't, Mélia would let him go. One question remained, however. Why had he only started looking for Alaën now? Mélia had no doubt about the sincerity of Damien's feelings for Alaën, but it seemed suspicious. She thought: Sorry, Alaën, I want to have a little fun. I'll give him back to you.
'Well,' Mélia began. 'Nothing more than helping you,' they finished with a frank smile, 'and having a little fun. But I won't tell you that.'
Somewhat taken aback, Damien's eyes widened, then, doubtfully, he asked:
'What's the trade-off?'
Mélia liked people who were on their guard. He is perfect, Alaën, I bless your love, but before that...
Iel declared:
'Stay for at least three months. If in three months, you have not succumbed to anything in the celestial palace, I will let you go.'
Damien weighed the pros and cons. He would have liked to, but where would he go? From this exchange, Damien understood that the guardian had little or no clue as to Alaën's whereabouts. But perhaps during these three months, his host could provide him with an answer.
Damien reluctantly agreed. And so began their cohabitation.