Epilogue Phoenix
Christmas Eve
“Gods your mom is so cool,” I said, my fingers laced with Karrick’s as we stepped off the porch into the snow-covered landscape surrounding his parent’s house. “She’s ridiculously nice.”
“You’re just saying that because she’s been feeding you homemade cookies for three days straight,” he grunted, grinning from ear to ear.
“Well, yeah,” I laughed. “And she’s not locking me up in my room like some fairy-tale princess, so that’s a plus.”
Karrick smiled, but he didn’t laugh. He was still a bit uncomfortable with me making jokes about how awful my parents had been to me. But I liked making them. It helped me process years of abuse in a more positive way.
“I’m surprised you wanted to go for a walk,” I added, pressing myself close against his warm, fuzzy body. “It’s cold as hell out here.”
“Mom wanted to make dinner,” he replied, wrapping his arm around my waist. “And there’s something I wanted to show you.”
I raised an eyebrow, squeezing his massive hand. “Something you wanted to show me? That sounds mysterious.”
“It’s not mysterious,” he said, though the way his ears twitched told me he was being evasive. “Just... something from when we were kids. I thought you might remember it.”
My heart did a little flutter at that. Ever since we’d gotten back together, Karrick had been slowly sharing pieces of our childhood that my parents had stolen from my memory.
Most of it came back in fragments, the smell of pine needles, the sound of his laughter echoing through the woods, and the feeling of safety I’d had when we were together.
But despite all the magic in the world, there were still gaps, holes in my past that ached like phantom limbs.
“Lead the way,” I said, trying to keep the excitement out of my voice. Every recovered memory felt like a gift.
We trudged through the snow, our breath forming clouds in the crisp air.
The forest around his family’s property was exactly like I remembered it from our recent visits, tall evergreens dusted with white, the sound of our footsteps muffled by the blanket of snow beneath our feet.
But as we walked deeper into the woods, following what looked like an old deer path, something started to feel familiar in a way that went deeper than recent memory.
“This way,” Karrick said, guiding me toward a cluster of massive pine trees. Their branches hung so low and thick that they created a natural shelter underneath, the ground beneath them relatively clear of snow.
I ducked under the branches behind him and stopped short.
There, nestled between the massive trunks, was a structure I recognized with a jolt that went straight to my core.
It was a fort, not the elaborate tree house kind, but the ramshackle, thrown-together kind that kids make with whatever they can find.
Branches woven together with old rope, a tarp stretched across the top that had seen better days, and what looked like a few wooden crates arranged as furniture inside.
“Oh my god,” I breathed, my hand flying to my mouth. “We built this.”
“You remember?” Karrick’s voice was soft, hopeful.
The memories came flooding back all at once, so vivid and real that for a moment I felt like I was ten years old again.
Summer afternoons spent dragging branches twice my size while Karrick, even then bigger and stronger than me, hauled the heavy logs into place.
The satisfaction of weaving smaller branches through the gaps to make walls.
The way we’d argued over whether the entrance should face east or west before compromising and making two entrances.
“The secret password,” I said suddenly, grinning up at him. “It was dragon fire because I was obsessed with dragons, and you thought it sounded cool.”
Karrick’s answering smile was so bright it could have melted all the snow around us. “You do remember.”
I stepped closer to the fort, running my fingers along the weathered wood. It was smaller than I remembered, the way childhood places always are, but it was still standing after all these years.
“Your parents never tore it down,” I said, amazement coloring my voice.
“Dad wanted to,” Karrick admitted, ducking through the larger entrance. “But Mom wouldn’t let him. She said maybe someday you’d come back and want to see it.”
My chest tightened with emotion. His mother had kept our childhood fort intact for over a decade, hoping I’d return. The thought made my eyes burn with unshed tears.
I followed him inside, marveling at how cramped it felt now that we were both full-grown. Karrick had to hunch over significantly, his broad shoulders nearly touching the walls on either side. But somehow it still felt magical, like stepping back in time.
“We spent so many hours in here,” I murmured, settling onto one of the old crates. It creaked ominously under my weight but held. “Planning adventures, telling stories...”
“You used to practice your magic in here,” Karrick said, settling beside me despite the tight quarters. “Little flames dancing in your palms while you made up elaborate tales about fire spirits and dragons finding their fire breath.”
Another memory surfaced, this one so clear it took my breath away.
Me at ten years old, conjuring tiny flames while Karrick watched in fascination, his young face lit by the golden glow.
The way he’d clap and cheer like I was performing real and exquisite magic, not just the basic spells any witch child could manage.
“You always made me feel so special,” I said softly. “Like my magic was the most amazing thing in the world.”
“It was,” he replied without hesitation. “It still is.”
The fort felt warmer suddenly, though I wasn’t sure if it was from the shelter or from Karrick’s proximity. He shifted closer, and I found myself pressed against his side, surrounded by his familiar scent and warmth.
“There’s something else,” he said, his voice taking on that nervous edge again. “Something I hid here before your family moved away.”
My curiosity piqued as I watched him reach toward a corner of the fort where the branches formed a natural pocket. His large fingers worked carefully, and after a moment he pulled out something small wrapped in what looked like an old handkerchief.
“I was going to give this to you,” he said, his ears flattening slightly with embarrassment. “The day before you left. But then your parents... well, you were gone before I got the chance.”
He unwrapped the cloth carefully, revealing a small carved figure. It was clearly handmade, rough around the edges but crafted with obvious care. A tiny phoenix, its wings spread wide, carved from what looked like a piece of cedar.
“You made this?” I asked, taking it from his massive palm with trembling fingers.
“Dad helped,” he admitted, his cheeks darkening with a blush. “But I did most of it. I wanted you to have something to remember me by if I ever left.” He rubbed the back of his neck. “Turns out, you were the one who left first.”
I cradled the small wooden phoenix in my palm, feeling the weight of childhood promises and lost time. The craftsmanship was rough, clearly made by younger hands, but I could feel the love that had gone into every cut and scrape.
“Karrick,” I whispered, my voice thick with emotion. “This is beautiful.”
“It’s nothing special,” he mumbled, though I could feel his pleasure at my reaction humming through our bond. “Just a kid’s carving.”
I leaned against him, resting my head on his massive shoulder. “It’s perfect. Thank you for keeping it all these years.”
We sat in comfortable silence for a while, the winter light filtering through the branches of our childhood fort, creating dappled patterns on the ground. Outside, snow began to fall again, soft flakes drifting past the entrance.
“I want to show you something too,” I said suddenly, straightening up. I held the wooden phoenix in my palm and concentrated, calling forth the smallest spark of my magic. Fire bloomed from my fingertips, surrounding the carving but not burning it.
The flame took shape, forming a miniature phoenix of pure fire that danced around the wooden one. It was delicate work, controlling the fire with such precision, but I’d grown so much stronger since our encounter with my parents thanks to our bond.
Karrick watched, mesmerized, as the fire phoenix spread its wings above my palm, casting a warm glow across his face. “That’s amazing,” he breathed.
With a gentle exhale, I let the fire dissipate, leaving only the wooden carving behind. “Consider it enchanted now,” I told him with a smile. “A little piece of both of us. Now it’ll never rot or split or erode. It’ll just exist, like our bond, forever.”
He leaned down, pressing his forehead against mine in that intimate way he did when words failed him. I felt his emotions through our bond, love, gratitude, and a fierce protectiveness that made my heart swell.
“We should head back soon,” he murmured, though he made no move to leave. “Mom will have dinner ready.”
“Five more minutes,” I said, setting the phoenix carving carefully on a flat stone near the wall. “I want to make a new memory here.”
I shifted on the crate, turning to face him fully. In the cramped space, this meant practically climbing into his lap, my knees on either side of his massive thighs. His hands immediately found my hips, steadying me as I settled against him.
“What kind of memory?” he asked, his voice dropping to that rough rumble that never failed to send shivers down my spine.
“The kind that would have scandalized our childhood selves,” I replied, sliding my hands up his chest to cup his face. The coarse fur under my palms was so familiar now, so comforting.
I leaned in, brushing my lips against his, a teasing touch that made him growl low in his throat. His massive hands tightened on my hips, pulling me closer until our bodies pressed together in the small confines of our childhood fort.