Chapter Twenty-Four
áedán drove us back to the Velasca Estate the next morning.
The storm had passed, leaving the landscape scrubbed clean.
I watched the mountains recede in the side mirror, thinking about the Forgotten that whispered áedán before disappearing into the water.
But then we were out of Luss, and the change in scenery drove away those thoughts.
The drive to the estate was becoming familiar.
Still, the hours in the car made my body ache, and I was relieved when we stopped for lunch.
It was just a quick sandwich and a bubbly drink, but it revived me enough to endure the rest of the journey.
We stayed away from topics involving áedán fading, focusing on inconsequential things that nonetheless made us smile.
At last, we made it to Castle Combe. The estate appeared when we passed through the gate, as it always did, suddenly there. áedán parked in the lot near the main hall, and Zephyr assaulted me as soon as I got out. He squawked angrily at me as we headed for the front door.
“I wasn't gone that long.” I tried to pet him, and he snapped his beak at me. “Hey! I've just had a long trip. You could be more welcoming.
“He missed you.” Julian stood on the front steps, hands in his pockets, looking as if he'd been expecting us at precisely that moment.
“Julian.” áedán nodded to him as we approached.
“áedán. Ethan.” Julian's gaze moved between us, assessing. “I take it the trip was productive?”
“We found the first record of the, 'The truth yields to the tale most often told.
' It was on the first full alteration of the kelpie myth.” I pulled a folder out of my bag.
Inside were the photographs I'd taken of Edmund Ashford's printer's proof, my paper on the altered stories to be published online, and my report for the Velasca.
“What do you mean, the first full alteration?”
“I mean it was the first book where the lies became uniform and the alterations ended.
It was in a book that is often used for reference.
And the man who wrote the book swears it was changed after he sent it to his publisher.
He even had a printer's proof that someone had written over in red ink, replacing the truth he wrote with lies. I took pictures of it all, including a spiral symbol drawn in a margin. Someone systematically rewrote kelpie mythology, Julian.”
Zephyr went silent, sitting beside me and watching us.
Julian took the folder and flipped through it.
His expression didn't change, but something shifted in his eyes.
“This is excellent work. I'll give it to the Outreach Team immediately.
They'll begin releasing the original accounts, adding some stories you remember, áedán.
We can't undo the damage overnight, but we can start reminding people what the real stories were and then build upon that.”
“Will it be enough?” áedán held Julian's gaze.
“I don't know. Your situation is unusual.” Julian shut the folder and lifted his chin.
“But it's more than we had yesterday.” He looked at me.
“There's something else you should investigate.
The Forgotten that attacked áedán—the fact that it spoke is unprecedented.
I'd like you to search the older Velasca records. See if there are any documented cases of Forgotten communicating before.”
“You think it's happened before?”
“I think if it has, the evidence would be in the Archive. Agnes will help you.”
áedán and I exchanged glances. I could see the tension in his shoulders, the way he held himself carefully. The Forgotten had frightened him more than he wanted to admit.
“We'll start now,” I said.
“Good. I'll let you know when the team releases your paper and the true stories.” He lifted the folder and went inside.
We went around the outside of the main hall and across the inner garden to the apartments.
Zephyr flew off, probably looking for food to steal.
After we dropped our bags in my room, we went to the Great Archive.
Even though it was after seven, sunlight slanted through the tall windows, turning the dust motes into drifting gold.
That's summer for you. Longer days indeed.
Agnes looked up from her desk and nodded once. “Julian said you'd be coming. You're looking for records of the Forgotten?”
“Specifically, any cases where they've communicated,” I said. “Spoken or shown recognition.”
Her expression tightened. “I don't recall that ever happening, but the Forgotten records are this way.”
She led us past a few stacks and into a corridor lined with bookshelves. Agnes stopped and searched a shelf, running her finger along the spines until she found what she was looking for.
She pulled down three volumes and handed them to me. “These document unusual Forgotten encounters from the twelfth century onward. If there's any record of communication, it will be in one of those.”
“Thank you.” I took the books to a reading table between the stacks.
áedán sat beside me and laid his arm on the back of my chair. I slid a book over to áedán, but he didn't straighten in his seat. He stayed pressed against me as he read.
Smiling, I opened a book. I translated the Latin slowly, running my finger along the text. Most of it was what I expected—accounts of the Forgotten attacking myths and trying to absorb them. But then I found something different.
“Listen to this.” I nudged áedán's shoulder. “A myth in 1347 reported seeing 'echoes' when a Forgotten touched him. He described echoes as brief visions. Memories that weren't his own.”
áedán leaned closer to read over my shoulder. “What kind of memories?”
“It doesn't say. Just that the phenomenon lasted only seconds before the Forgotten tried to absorb him.”
Then he angled the book he was reading toward me. “There's another account from 1502. It's the same thing. A selkie experienced a memory-like vision during an encounter. She believed she saw fragments of the Forgotten's past. The Velascan assigned to her labeled it an echo.”
“But nothing about them speaking?”
“Nae.”
I flipped through more pages. “The echoes seem to be rare. Most encounters end in absorption or the Forgotten driven off before they have a chance to speak.”
“Because if the Forgotten wants to speak, they have to fight the urge to absorb the myth's energy,” áedán said. “Or maybe it's the myth's memories they're after?”
“I haven't seen any proof of what their motivation is.” I looked from the book to áedán. “Julian told me about the Forgotten when I first arrived. He said they drain a myth's magic to try to become real again. But he can't know that as a fact. It's all conjecture.”
I found two more references to echoes in the second volume I read. Both described the same thing—brief, fragmentary visions that occurred when a Forgotten touched a myth without absorbing them. The accounts made it clear how unusual this was.
“Ethan.”
I looked up. Caelum stood at the end of our table. I hadn't heard him approach. He was probably barefoot.
“Caelum, hello.” I straightened, dislodging áedán. “We're researching the Forgotten. The one that attacked áedán—”
“Spoke his name. Yes, Julian told me. He said I could find you here.” Caelum pulled out a chair across the table from us and sat down. “What have you found?”
“References to echoes. Myths report seeing memories of the Forgotten when touched by one, but we haven't found anything about them speaking.”
Caelum nodded slowly. “Echoes occur when a Forgotten touches a myth long enough to create a connection, but not long enough to begin absorption.”
“What do they want?” áedán asked. “Why would they show us such things?”
“I've sensed their hunger and desperation. But I can only assume that they want to live again. I believe they're drawn to the magic in myths.” Caelum's expression was sad.
“Would a Forgotten feel a stronger draw to a myth similar to what they once were?” I asked.
Caelum considered this. “That's a possibility, but I don't know if they have enough of themselves left to make that distinction.”
áedán went still beside me. “When it touched me, I saw something. An echo.”
I turned to look at him. “You didn't tell me that.”
“I wasn't sure what it was until now.” He looked from me to Caelum. “I saw myself through someone else's eyes. I was younger, maybe a century so. I was laughing about something. And there was this feeling of—” He stopped and swallowed. “Love. Whoever was looking at me loved me.”
My chest tightened. “Who do you think it was?”
“I think it was my brother, Coll.” His voice was barely audible. “The love felt like that of a sibling. I don't know how to explain it, but that's how it felt.”
Caelum reached across the table and placed his hand over áedán's.
“I'm so sorry. It's very possible it was one of your family members. The Forgotten usually linger around their home for several years before drifting away. And I imagine if they remembered you even in the slightest, they would fight the urge to absorb you.”
“But they're gone.” áedán's hands clenched in his lap. “And the Forgotten don't remember anything. They're just empty, right?”
“Not exactly.” Caelum withdrew his hand and sat back. “Something in that Forgotten recognized you. Something held them back long enough for you to see that echo. That's not empty, áedán.”
I wanted to reach for áedán, but I didn't know if he wanted to be touched right then.
His face had gone carefully blank, the way it did when he was trying not to feel something.
I didn't blame him. I wouldn't want to break down in front of Caelum either.
It felt like the antithesis of what Caelum was.
“Do all myths become Forgotten when they fade?” The question had been building in my mind since the attack.
“No, and I don't know why. I can only theorize that those who become Forgotten have more determination to cling to life. That they have more will to exist, even in that diminished state. Others,” Caelum made a drifting gesture, “fade entirely. They cease to be.”
“Which is worse?” áedán's voice was flat.
“I don't know,” Caelum said. “Velas saved me before that could happen.” He stood up.
“What I do know is that if I were a Forgotten, and I found my brother, I wouldn't want him to mourn me.
I would want him to focus on surviving so he wouldn't become like me. I imagine whatever your brother showed you, it was to help you survive, áedán.” Caelum left as quietly as he'd arrived.
I looked at áedán, trying to read his expression. “Are you all right?”
“Fine.” He stood abruptly. “We should go to bed. I'm sure you're tired, and we've gone through all three books.”
He wasn't fine. That was evident. But I didn't push.
I gathered the books and returned them to Agnes, then followed áedán out of the Archive.
We walked along the path beside the garden, heading toward the apartment buildings.
The sun was setting at last, turning the sky pink and gold.
áedán walked slightly ahead of me, his hands shoved in his pockets.
“áedán—”
“I don't want to talk aboot it.” He didn't look back at me.
“All right.”
When we reached my room, I unlocked the door and stepped inside, expecting him to follow. Instead, he hesitated in the doorway.
“I think I'll go for a walk.” He still wouldn't look at me.
“Do you want company?”
“Nae, I need to think.”
“Okay, I'll leave the door unlocked.”
áedán left, closing the door behind him. I went to the window and watched until he stepped out of the building and walked around the corner. Something felt wrong. But I hated when people didn't give me space when I needed it. So, I wouldn't do that to áedán.
I got undressed and sat on the bed, thinking about what Caelum had said about the Forgotten lingering near their homes and how they had to fight the urge to absorb the ones they loved.
I didn't have any siblings, but if I did, it would crush me to learn that one of them was a Forgotten.
Even worse was the possibility that Coll had been trying to warn áedán while áedán beat him into the loch.
Yes, it was understandable that áedán needed some time to himself.
An hour passed. I showered and got into bed with a book—one that had nothing to do with kelpies.
Then another hour passed. áedán didn't return.
I waited in bed, propped against pillows, reading purely for pleasure for once.
I was starting to worry when I heard footsteps in the hallway.
The door opened and áedán stepped inside.
He was carrying a small leather notebook.
“Sorry.” He finally met my gaze. “I didn't mean to be gone so long.”
“It's fine.” I watched him set the notebook on the desk. “What's that?”
“I thought I'd write some things down. Memories. In case—” He didn't finish the sentence. He didn't have to.
My throat tightened. “áedán.”
“It's fine.” He slipped out of his shirt. “I'm fine. Just being practical.”
He wasn't fine. But I understood the impulse. The need to hold on to something, even if it was just words on a page.
“Come here.” I pulled back the covers and set my book aside.
áedán finished undressing, then crossed the room and sat beside me on the bed. I pulled him close, and he leaned into me, his head on my shoulder. We sat like that for a long time, not speaking. Then we slid under the blankets, and he turned off the lamp.
Eventually, áedán fell asleep. I stayed awake, listening to his breathing, feeling the weight of him against me. When I was sure he was deeply asleep, I carefully slipped out of his embrace and got out of bed.
The notebook was still on the desk. I shouldn't look. I knew I shouldn't. But I picked it up anyway. I just wanted a peek. So, I flipped to a random page and read. It was a sweet memory of his mother. About two sentences in, I felt like a creep. So I put the book back.
It flopped as I set it down and opened to the first page. I froze with my hand hovering over it. The first page was mostly blank. There was writing at the bottom, but as I watched, it faded. Dissolved into nothing, just like the Forgotten in the loch.
My hands started shaking. I looked back at áedán, still sleeping peacefully, then down at the blank page. His words were already disappearing. How much longer did he have?
I closed the notebook and moved it back to where it had been in. Then I slipped under the blankets and pulled áedán close. I held him as if I could keep him solid through sheer force of will. I certainly was determined. But would it be enough? Would I be enough?