Fitran sat quietly beside the stone bed, his heart heavy as he gazed at Rinoa, who lay nestled beneath the veil of sleep. Her face, a canvas of serenity, radiated an ethereal tranquility, even amidst the turmoil that engulfed them. Outside, the night had settled in, yet a silvery beam from the moon filtered through the darkness, illuminating the delicate contours of her face, casting soft shadows that whispered secrets of love and loss. Shadows danced playfully around her, mirroring the deep and tumultuous struggle that raged within Fitran himself, like a storm brewing in the depths of his soul, where guilt and despair intertwined like twisted vines in a forgotten forest.
Seven days had gone by since the fierce battle against Malakothies, each day etching haunting memories deeper into his spirit. A week's worth of sleepless nights stretched before him, an eternity filled with the echoes of his failures. Seven days since the Core Avatar of Harmony had been shattered, the brightness that once illuminated their world snuffed out like a candle extinguished by a violent gust of wind. And seven days since Rinoa had gazed deeply into his eyes, her expression a painful blend of emptiness and desperation, asking with a quiet voice, "Who am I?" That question reverberated through the depths of his soul, a mournful tolling of an unseen bell, each chime a reminder of the profound loss that lingered in the air, amplifying his acute sense of helplessness, as if he were a lone tree battered by relentless storms, longing for the warmth of a sun that no longer shined.
He had exhausted every possible remedy: soul-healing spells that flickered with a fragile promise, their warmth fleeting like sunlight breaking through the clouds, deep astral regression that took him spiraling back through the cherished memories now lost in the abyss, wrenching at his heart like a tempest demanding refuge, and even reaching out to unseen timekeepers—those whispering echoes of fate—fervently hoping to unearth a path back to her. Yet, no matter the effort, the answer remained chillingly constant: fragments of Rinoa's memory were lost, swept away by the unpredictable storm of time that erased every trace of who she had once been, much like petals in a fierce wind, scattered and forgotten.
Or more accurately, stolen.
In a mystical dimension, hidden from mortal eyes, Malakothies is not dead. He forged a forbidden archive, a sanctuary where the walls vibrate softly with the pulse of reality, resonating like a heartbeat longing for connection, where shards of shattered glass suspended in space pulse with a faint, ethereal light, glimmering like stars trapped in a twilight sky. Each fragment cradles a piece of Rinoa's soul, preserving the exquisite beauty that has been lost to the relentless embrace of time, as if the essence of spring—the bloom of life—had been encased forever in the cold grip of perpetual winter.
Within one shard, a tender vision unfolds: a young Rinoa, tears spilling from her eyes as she stands alone in the academy tower, her silhouette barely illuminated by the ghostly flicker of distant stars. Her sobs blend with the caressing breeze, transforming the air into a symphony of sorrow, each note a lament for lost innocence. In that moment, her initial magic falters, and the dreams she once cradled slip through her fingers like fine grains of sand, each loss echoing painfully within the hollowed caverns of her heart. In another shard, Rinoa watches Fitran from behind a curtain of relentless rain, her eyes shimmering softly, awash in deep crimson, heavy with unexpressed love and the aching weight of unfulfilled promises. Each drop that cascades to the ground carries the burden of her unspoken emotions, slowly unraveling her heart while the world outside becomes a blurred waltz of longing and despair.
And Malakothies... cherishes all of this with a fierce and cruel affection, an eternal keeper of secrets ensnared in profound silence, poised to reveal the dark truths that lie buried in the shadows, truths that resonate like whispers among the rustling leaves of an ancient forest, waiting to be unveiled.
"One day, I will offer it to you, Fitran," she whispered into the ethereal void, her voice resonating with a sorrowful melody that wound around the fragile time egg, a haunting lullaby that pulled at the threads of fate, as if the very fabric of destiny itself hung in the balance. In that haunting moment, Fitran felt an echo of her resolve stir within him, intertwined with guilt that knotted tight in his chest, like tangled roots clutching the earth.
"One by one. As an offering. Or as an inescapable curse."
Back to Fitran and Rinoa.
Fitran began to realize the horror enveloping his soul: a creeping dread that gnawed at him, a ravenous beast that thrived on the shadows of his thoughts. The scent of damp earth filled his nostrils, mingled with the metallic tang of rain-soaked despair. Guilt coiled around his heart, wrapping around it like the creeping vines in an overgrown forest, squeezing tighter as he confronted the heavy cost of his failures. Hope flickered like a distant star, fragile yet persistent, buried beneath layers of self-reproach and longing. The vibrant colors of life seemed muted, overshadowed by the looming specter of his choices, yet within him smoldered a determination, a resolve kindled by the memory of Rinoa's smiling face illuminated by sunlight—a beacon cutting through the fog of his despair.
Rinoa had not only lost her memories but was also beginning to experience a suffocating emptiness, a void that eroded the basic emotions that had once defined her existence. The rain held no fear; the melodies from her past that used to stir her soul now echoed in silence, leaving only a deepening abyss that swallowed all the vibrant colors of her life.
It was as if invisible hands had stealthily stolen away all the "inner associations" that once evoked warmth and feeling, wiping her emotional canvas clean.
Even worse, each night, Rinoa found herself ensnared in her dreams, drifting through murky clouds where remnants of her memories twisted into thick, haunting illusions.
In that dreamscape, she could hear a voice reverberating through the darkness...
"Rinoa, let's start again. Without pain. Without him."
Fitran held her tightly, feeling the weight of her painful absence, yet deep within his heart a chilling truth emerged, resonating like the dark echo of a forgotten hymn:
The only thing remaining of him was a cold body and a fading name.
Rinoa—who had loved with unrestrained passion, who had hated with fierce intensity, who had fought with unyielding spirit and ultimately succumbed—was still ensnared within the shadows of lost memories.
Thus, Fitran's crazy plan began:
He would step into the dimension of fragments, shattering the boundaries between memory and reality as if piercing the delicate veil separating two opposing worlds. The air grew thick with shadows, dark and mysterious, each whispering secret amplifying the biting doubt that coursed through him with every mournful step. Rather than facing the Malakothies with magic or brute strength, he would confront them armed with a profound and sincere confession: that true love cannot be recreated— but it can be rediscovered. His strong face emanated a steadfast courage, revealing hints of vulnerability, even as glimmers of unshed tears danced at the corners of his eyes like morning dew glistening on fragile petals. Each word that flowed from his lips was a melancholic melody, resonating with the haunting echoes of a tale long forgotten, as if the very clouds above wept alongside him. As he reached out his trembling hand, it felt as though he was attempting to reclaim all that had once departed, sensing a gentle wind caressing his face—a balm for his tortured soul—carrying with it the lingering scents of the past: the warm aroma of cherished embraces that once enveloped him and the tranquility that now existed solely as a distant memory, elusive as sunlight filtering through overcast skies.