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The bones gather, amassed one by one, picked from the gut that digested them. You had set off on this journey in the hopes of reunification and rescue, to see her smile one more time, to hear her laughter bounce within the walls of the inn, to feel her arms wrap around you in an embrace so sweet and so genuine. It felt like family embracing you with renewed vigour, carried with a love so deep that it breathed new life in your lungs. You tasted this embrace in the late hours of the night too, when these hands that embraced you now sought to undress you. Bare bodies against barer souls, entangling under the gentle pale warmth of candles and the moon. She held you naked, nails digging into soft flesh, her voice panting your name even softer. Your lips silenced her with a mere clutch of her tongue.
And now she sat in a heap of blood and meat. Captured by a Red Dragon, slain by such a vile creature, engorged and digested, and with nothing left to look upon but memories…
These memories now sit by your knees. You are placing delicately your fingers, digging deep into the stomach for what the dragon could not consume, reaching deep within to encounter the bones that belonged to her. They are not the only bones this monster had consumed in its long life – but you know what you touch.
“Marcille.”
Her brother speaks softly. His voice reminds you of hers. The doubt is being seeded, the dream is being corroded.
“Do you remember?”
Utmost concentration is needed. The blood that perforates your fingertips still slides as you grasp, grapple, and toss the shards that you encounter. And eventually, you find the tip of the finger that once touched yours.
“I do.”
He smiles. He nods. Then he stares back at the slain beast. Together with you and the rest of your party, you dig in.
You collect the bones that make up what used to be her hands. You run through her fingers subtly; they are the same fingers that felt your touch, the same fingers that held your face, the same fingers that held your breath as she delivered kisses upon kisses upon kisses. Kisses exchanged amidst one more of those secret retreats, retreats you only whispered to one another of what they truly meant. You thought nobody else understood; that nobody else could knew.
Within those retreats you felt soft and firm, splintered by the wood of the staff she held by day. She dug the dirt to discover magic in places you could not possibly imagine. With the same dedication, she dug her fingers onto your body, admitting their fealties as she delicately made her way down to your wrists. She whispered your name in an act of passion, yourself putting your hand in front of your mouth so as to keep the secret a secret still. It is not for us to know how a secret is unmade, but it is up to us to keep its whispering flame alit.
The flame with which she torched your insides, hot breath leaving erratically, brushing against her naked body and your bare teeth. You watched eagerly as she put a single finger on your lips, whispering to you one last thing:
To stay still.
To hold your breath.
To close your eyes and trust in her.
And you stayed still.
And you held your breath.
You hold it now still, but you cannot obey her other instructions. The work requires dedication; you have to move daintily yet with assuredness, trying to account for the last digit that makes up her left hand as her brother has nearly finished with her right. It is not a competition – it never was – but it is more a condemnation on your part that you are having trouble recounting them as accurately as you thought you could recognize them.
After all, you had always been cruel upon yourself.
All you wished for was one more embrace. One more entanglement. One more day in the sun with her. A wish so difficult to make you dedicated all of your time and thinking to carving it into reality.
The time you could have spent with her now spent digging through flesh and blood, a miracle you were certain you could pull if only you believed hard enough.
You discovered her next bone, and all you can think about is how those arms wrapped around you, how you melted in her sweet embrace, how her scent when pressed so close against her reminded you of the grassy fields and the starry skies under which you both snuck out when you were meant to study.
Falin had always been strong. Stronger than you. Mentally, physically, spiritually. You drew strength from her conviction, and in turn derived mutual joy. She was the one that started following you; a prodigy in the academy, even if she did not look the part.
You feel the sternum. Her ribcage that once held her heart. It was your favourite sound in the world; to lay down and put your ear against her bare breast, to listen closely to her rhythm and her breathing. On lazy days, when the adventuring was put on hold and you had some coin to spare and rest, you would often stay up, watch for the sunrise to peek through the shutters, and sit silently and observe her slow, steady breathing as she slept peacefully and dreamily.
After all, how could you not? When such beauty was bathed by the moonlight, you swore you were in heaven. When the sunlight awashed her anew, you were reassured that heaven was yours and yours alone.
You would wake her up slowly, planting little kisses by her cheeks. Then her chin. See the smile rise on her lips, a faint “…morning, Marcille…” said. Then, without saying more, you would plant the next kiss on her nape, then her collarbone, and then everywhere you saw her exposed skin.
Maybe – just maybe – you wanted her to be awake. Maybe – just maybe – you had some very selfish reasons for her to be so.
So you nibbled, and bit, and tore into her flesh hungrily like a beast starved, making her lips sing your name louder, moaning the pleasure you wanted her to feel. She held her eyelids stubbornly closed, but her arms always pulled you on top of her. She got rid of your night gown quickly, and you got rid of her shirt with equal haste, and you both rendered your hunger upon each other. Lips biting lips, tongues caressing wounds, nails dragging against your back. And once she finally pried her eyes open, breathing heavily and laboriously after you took her breath away, you would wink and push yourself back down, planting your teeth first against her bare breasts, leaving marks of your love that you would be sure nobody else would see. You held onto her body, worshipping it like an altar, your lips and teeth continuing to spread little prayers wherever you could find. From her breasts to her sternum, from her sides to her hips, from her navel to her nether, upon which you would rest your head. She would help you reach even deeper, holding your hair and pushing you lower, your tongue unfurled, her legs clinging together.
Her taste…
Divine.
You discover the fragments of this faith; the hips and their connector. The pelvis is unharmed. All her bones have been unharmed. The dragon and its teeth did not tear her apart; instead, she was swallowed whole. The altar upon which your prayers were once answered died in ways you dare not imagine, and which your mind will not cease thinking.
Yet, there is work to be done. The flesh can be remade, world can be reworked, and Falin can live again – but first, you must make her whole again.
You start on the final part. Her legs prove easy to find. She always had such a capable stride, running as fast as Laios, turning tides as assuredly as Namari, holding strong as tall as Shuro. Long, sturdy bones, followed by delicate feet, and once again down to small fragments, to small pieces of memories, to tiny dedications and reminiscing of giggling in bed, all naked and spent, breathing returning to normal, and putting your toes in between hers, as if reaching for a handshake in the silliest of manners for a job well done.
“I love you.”
You never whispered. You simply stared at her smile, observed her eyes, and then watched her get up and put her clothes back on, for yet another day laid ahead.
And now all you have is her flesh, turned to blood; her bones, lost without touch; and your healing hand, turning death to life in ways most foul.
You had been called that once. Maybe twice. Maybe thrice. Maybe more. Much like her back at school; was it not the reason you decided to skip it together, to follow her out to green lush gardens outside the confines of your walls, where magic was boundless, endless, fearless? You saw her eyes glimmering in the sun and it was that moment that your own heart decided where it belonged.
It took years to realize, an elven understanding always taking longer than those of the tallmen; it comes with the territory, you see, as you have been told time over time again. Some species live long and thusly take longer to act. Others live short and act on instinct. You stood somewhere in-between, left in the barrier of what should be and what could be. No wonder the ancient magics attracted you so much.
O Pilitsham.
Maybe – just maybe – you could bring her back to life. Maybe – just maybe – you had some very selfish reasons for her to be so.
O Esdomus. O Villaru.
You planted her blood into your hair, and you planted your staff onto her grounds, and whispered ancient tongues of even ancient words.
Casuszameo Rotokt Artumcuks.
Words unholy, words forgotten, words forbidden.
O Konquikeo. Eoktum Kome.
Words that spelled your love.
Tumao Elm Finktow Kemesfo. Aoewauk Aentujon.
Words that should have been said out loud when you still had a chance.
Tumao Elm Finktow Kemsefo.
So now you are making the chance anew.
Aoewauk Aentujon.
Now you are bringing her back to life.
Tumao Elm Finktow Kemesfo.
Now you are breathing flesh from blood, air from empty lungs.
Aoewauk Aentujon…
And as you collapse on the ground, the exertion overcoming you, you turn and see Falin, now flesh and blood woven unto one, open her eyes again.