Chapter Text
"Focus is on wholeness of self and the banishing of any shadows."
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Memories are funny things, even though Chise knows she isn’t nearly old enough to have so much trouble recalling things with any amount of clarity. Most of the time, it feels something similar to waking up from a dream, where you can remember the feeling, maybe the whisper of formless voices or the sensation of something against your skin, but it slips through your fingers before you can remember anything more substantial. And then, later, you can recall those bits and pieces, but only if you aren’t trying, and the delicate little soap bubbles burst at the barest of prodding.
The fuzziness that tinges most of her memories makes her uneasy, and she’s guilty of picking at her sleeves, looking up at the roof or the sky with a wrinkle between her brow as she thinks harder than she probably should.
“There’s probably a reason that you have so much trouble remembering.”
She’s in the garden with Elias, sipping tea and watching bees flit lazily from one flower to the next, laden with pollen and seeming more than a little drunk. It’s early spring, cool enough to not feel baked under the bright light of the sun, but warm enough that she’s not uncomfortable.
“What do you mean?”
Making a contemplative sound, Elias adjusts his shirt cuffs, and even though he doesn’t exactly have eyes, she can tell he’s looking at her intently. “The human psyche is a fragile thing. From what you’ve told me of what you do remember, it’s possible that you’re subconsciously trying to protect yourself from things.”
“I haven’t forgotten anything,” she says, a bit defensively as she sips lukewarm tea from the china held in both hands. “If it was some sort of…defense mechanism, why wouldn’t I just forget completely?”
“You’re far too stubborn for that,” he chuckles, which makes her scowl even as her cheeks light up. “Besides, I’m sure you’d be pursuing this much more actively if there were holes in your memories.”
As much as she hates to admit it, he’s right.
“It’s like you’re trying to catch something that always strays out of your grasp,” he says, leaning over and plucking a petal from the nearest flower to their table (a daisy, she thinks). When he tosses it towards her, she instinctually reaches out, trying to grab for it, but the motion displaces the air and sends it veering away, and even then, she hadn’t been that close. For something so small and moving to erratically on the wind, her depth perception just wasn’t good enough to catch it.
“Is there anything you can do about it?”
“Oh, of course there is,” he says, waving his hand like it’s ridiculous that she doesn’t think him capable of something so simple. “And you know I’d do anything for you. But Chise, I think you need to ask yourself what you stand to gain versus what you stand to lose.”
How purposefully vague. From what she’s learned, it’s just a sorcerer thing. “Are you saying it’s bad to try and remember more about myself?”
“No, not exactly,” he sighs in a way that gives form to every single year that separates them in age. “But think about what you do remember.”
And she does, aiming for things that don’t slip through her fingers like running water or sand. There are vague, pastel-colored memories of her father, of her mother, of the happy times spent in their small house and the less than ideal instances of formless dark creatures or fanged monsters following her from school. Memories of her mother when it was just the two of them are sharper, more brittle like fractured glass, and she can still smell her perfume and feel fingers wrapping around her throat. There’s the smell of blood, hands grasping her and pulling her away from the scene.
It hurts to swallow.
“You humans are remarkably resilient,” Elias says, and his voice sounds almost fond. “I don’t think you’re hiding anything from me, but if you are, this will probably be incorrect. You aren’t forgetting specific events, just the details, as if to take the edge off. I imagine I’m much the same way, if only because when you get old enough, everything kind of loses it’s sharpness.”
Chise is quiet, looking at the dregs at the bottom of her teacup, weighing his words with the same serious expression she seems to wear when approaching anything from a problem to pleasure.
Standing, Elias smooths the wrinkles from his jacket, cocking his head in visual cue to the fact that he plans to speak, but wants to weigh his words before he does so. “I like you the way you are, I think. Perhaps it’s selfish of me to say so, but I think I could be a very selfish creature when it comes to you. I’ll do whatever you wish, but just ask yourself how valuable this is to your current situation.”
The Silky is lurking in the doorway, as if sensing her master’s departure, and hurries out to take the empty plates and cups back into the kitchen for washing. Ruth is curled up under the big tree just outside the garden’s fence, and he lifts his head to seek her out. She sends him a little tendril of reassurance when she stands, and even if he pushes back a little, he stays stationary, giving her the space to walk away from the house alone.
Before coming to this place, she thought that remembering every single detail was important. There was no future for her, so losing herself in the past was the best alternative. But whenever she tried, she just gave herself a headache and got frustrated, like trying to walk normally on a broken leg. No matter how hard she pushed, it just wouldn’t come, leaving her with nothing to distract herself to the miserable course her life was sure to take. Things would be so much easier if she could just wrap herself in the good memories, the sound of her father’s laughter or her mother’s cooking. The tears that stained her pillow would have so much more meaning if she could remember exactly why she was crying, instead of only recalling words that never fully took form but still stung like arrows.
But now, it was only in the lull between outings that she had time to contemplate these things. Too often, she found herself busy, pouring over books or mixing potions and concoctions for sale or just for practice. Ruth, as her familiar, did an admirable job of balancing her, like a moon who reflected her light. The longer they were together, the more they could communicate without words, relying on feelings and images sent through the link that bound them together. So when she did wake up, out of breath and panicked, he would almost immediately surround her with not just his physical warmth, but with a sense of emotional stability and support that dwarfed anything she’d ever felt on her own.
And then, of course, there was Elias, and ever-complicated enigma that never seemed to get any easier to understand. But he was the first member of her new family, who could protect her even when Ruth failed, and for all that they didn’t share a psychic bond, his hand on her shoulder or his skull resting against the top of her head was all it took for everything to center, slide perfectly back into place.
Simon, Lindel, Silky, Ruth, Elias…none of them cared, if she couldn’t give perfect form to the demons that haunted her. Now that her future wasn’t just this bleak, dark stretch that went on endlessly before her, was there really any reason to force it into perfect clarity? Memories grew hazy and unfocused naturally over time, so who was to say that something deep and dark was hidden there? Perhaps this was just the natural way of things, being a Slay Vega. She wasn’t supposed to live very long without interference from an outside source, so maybe her memories just decayed as quickly as her body.
This future was the important thing. There were people here, people who chose her and continued to chose her time and time again, that cared little for her past and her ability to remember events or not. Elias said he liked her the way she was now, even with her childhood an inelegant smear of paint at the back of her mind. She was still the one he’d chosen, who he’d protected and opened up to more than any others. More than focusing on those things lurking at the back of her mind, she’d rather build new memories, happy memories, that she could comfort herself with when she woke up scared in the middle of the night.
There’s pollen on her socks when she walks inside, making the Silky fuss and point and scowl until she takes them off with her shoes and hands them over immediately to be washed. Elias is working on something at the kitchen table, his jacket tossed over one of the chairs and his shirtsleeves rolled up to his elbows. He barely moves, but she can tell that he’s glancing back at her, curiosity practically rolling off him in waves.
Walking around to get a glass from the cabinet, she lets her fingertips rest on the curve of his shoulder, the heat of him even more noticeable with only one thin layer of fabric between them. She doesn’t say anything, and he doesn’t either, but even still, she can feel the tense lines ease a bit, the sigh that huffs from his mouth almost sounding like a relieved chuckle.
If they can accept her as she is, hazy memories and all, then so can she.