Chapter 19: Dear Old Times
Barbel stood amidst a boundless expanse, where light neither flickered nor dimmed, but simply was—a soft, formless glow that stretched into eternity.
Around her, shapes flitted—small figures, delicate and sprightly, tracing fleeting patterns through the air like dandelion seeds caught in a gentle breeze. They had no faces, no voices, yet their presence was unmistakable. Their laughter, though never truly heard, hummed within the very fabric of this place, a melody of something long cherished, long gone.
One brushed past her, a gliding wisp of white, leaving a warmth against her skin. Another reached up with weightless hands, and though there was nothing to grasp, she swore she felt the tug upon her sleeve.
It was peaceful.
Barbel exhaled—a breath that did not cloud in the air, that did not strain her lungs. The burdens upon her shoulders, the weight in her chest, they had ceased to be.
The figures wove around her in effortless harmony, the rhythm of their presence undisturbed. She knew them. She had always known them. Not by name, nor by voice, but by the imprint they had left within her—a memory, an ache, a yearning that had never stilled.
They were here.
And she was here.
From the shifting white expanse, one of the childlike figures broke away, dashing toward her with an uneven gait. In its small, indistinct hands, a sword—if it could even be called that—was clutched tight. The thing was weightless, formless, flickering between a wooden training blade and something far sharper, far crueler. Yet even as the figure raised it high, even as it made to strike, there was no malice, no hatred, no killing intent. Only play.
Barbel did not flinch.
Instead, she laughed.
A sound not of scorn, not of wrath, but something light—so terribly unfamiliar that it nearly startled even herself. A laugh from a time before her voice had become a blade, before her steps had carved through battlefield and ruin alike.
The child swung. The strike was clumsy, unrefined—arms too short, stance too open. It was flawed in every way, yet perfect in its sincerity.
Barbel sidestepped, her movement slow, deliberate, a feigned struggle. She raised her arms—not to retaliate, but to play. With a gentle nudge, she deflected the strike, sending the child stumbling but not falling. The figure giggled, though no sound came, and tried again.
Again, she dodged. Again, she blocked. Again, she let them come.
Where once she had cleaved through steel and stone, where once her power had sundered walls and flesh alike, now she danced. A mock duel, a game long forgotten. A piece of a past that had never truly faded, only buried beneath the weight of grief.
The other figures gathered in a circle around them, white specters of joy, watching, waiting, eager. They swayed with the rhythm of their fight, a chorus of unseen laughter in a world untouched by ruin.
For the first time in what felt like an eternity, Barbel was not a warrior.
She was just a person playing a game that once meant everything.
She watched them—not with her warrior's eyes, but with something far older, something untouched by battle and blood. The figures danced around her, their shapes shifting, flickering between clarity and haze, but she knew them.
She had always known them.
Her lips parted, and the first name left her like a breath. "Elsie."
The small figure before her—still gripping its weightless sword, still waiting for her next move—froze. The name settled around them, shaping the formless white into something almost tangible. Elsie, the bold, the fierce, the one who had always sworn to protect the others. She had never let go of Barbel's sleeve when they walked through the market, had always begged for lessons in swordplay, and had always believed that one day, she would be strong enough to stand beside her.
Barbel swallowed. But Elsie had never been strong enough and would never be.
She watched them—not with her warrior's eyes, but with something far older, something untouched by battle and blood. The figures danced around her, their shapes shifting, flickering between clarity and haze, but she knew them.
She had always known them.
Her gaze flickered past her, to the others. They were not still, not silent—they never had been.
Her voice trembled, yet she continued.
"Jack." The tallest among them, even when he hunched his shoulders as if trying to make himself smaller. Jack, who had once lied about being afraid of the dark so the younger ones wouldn't feel embarrassed about their fears, had read stories to those too young to sleep without them, who had sworn, even with nothing to his name, that one day, he'd build them all a home of their own.
Her fingers curled. Jack had never built that home.
"May." Small hands, always sticky from stolen honey. May, who had tripped over everything in sight but never failed to get back up with a laugh. Who had pressed flowers into Barbel's hands and told her they suited her, even when she had scoffed at the thought.
The flowers had burned before the walls had fallen.
"Heath." Always the first to cry, the first to reach out. Heath, who had tugged on her sleeve and whispered that even warriors needed to rest. Who had traced nonsense patterns on her arm when she was too exhausted to move, humming made-up lullabies.
There had been no lullabies left in the ashes.
"Beth." The clever one, the schemer. Beth, who had tricked merchants into giving them extra bread with nothing but a sharp tongue and a winning smile. Who had always been three steps ahead, always planning for a future that would never come.
She took a breath, but it did nothing to steady her.
"Ross." The troublemaker. The storm. Ross, who had thrown mud at soldiers when they had marched too close. Who had never once flinched from those twice his size. Who had once told Barbel that no one was allowed to be stronger than her.
She forced herself to keep going.
"Clara." The singer, the one who had filled the orphanage with sound when silence had grown too heavy.
"Theo." The artist, who had drawn her face over and over, swearing he'd get it right someday.
"Marcy." The healer, who had patched up scraped knees with careful hands, who had always worried more for others than herself.
"Gale." The dreamer, who had spoken of seeing the world beyond their small, fragile home.
"Nia." The quiet one, who had never spoken unless she was certain she would be heard.
One by one, she named them. One by one, they became real again, if only for a moment.
Her voice faltered.
She knew them all—not by sight, not by sound, but by who they were. By the way Elsie still clutched her sword, ready to protect. By the way Jack still lingered at the back, watching over the others. By the way May's small hands still twitched as if searching for something to hold.
And for the first time in so many years, she understood.
She had been moving forward, but she had not once looked back.
She had not allowed herself to see.
Her fingers trembled.
"You're still here."
Barbel stood frozen as the children closed in around her. Their forms remained as indistinct as ever—mere outlines of white against the vast nothingness—but their intent was unmistakable. They reached for her.
She braced herself, expecting the warmth of familiar hands, the small, eager grips that once tugged at her clothes, demanding attention, demanding love. But—
She felt nothing.
The embrace should have been there, should have consumed her, but there was only emptiness. No weight. No warmth. No pressure against her skin, no slight shift in the air.
It was like trying to grasp a shadow.
Her throat tightened.
Yet, even knowing she could not feel them, she still moved.
Her arms, heavy with something far greater than exhaustion, lifted from her sides. Her fingers curled—not into flesh, not into fabric, but into absence.
She held them anyway.
She tried.
The motion was clumsy, unsure. The warrior's hands that had torn through steel and stone now trembled as they hovered over nothing. But still, she did not stop.
She could not.
She tried to press them closer, tried to bury her face into their shoulders, tried to pull them back into her grasp. But they remained as they were, intangible, fleeting, untouchable.
Yet, despite that—despite the void between them—they did not let go.
She could see them, could see Elsie's head nestled against her ribs, Jack's arm curled around her back, May clinging to her waist as though she would never let go. She saw them hold her, even when she could not hold them.
And for the first time in so long, she wished she could cry.
Her arms tightened around the nothingness.
A whisper of a voice—not a real one, not truly, but something from the depths of memory—rose within her mind.
"You're here. You're still here."
Her breath hitched.
She did not know whether she was speaking to them or if they were speaking to her.
Barbel's breath caught in her throat.
The white figure before her—small, fragile, filled with boundless energy—tilted its head up at her. Though its face was nothing but a vague blur, she could almost imagine the bright, eager eyes that once looked up at her, full of admiration, full of dreams.
Then, she heard it.
Not a whisper, not a thought, but a voice—clear, ringing, loud.
"One day, I'll become a hero and help everyone just like you're doin', Miss Flux!"
Barbel's entire body locked into place.
It wasn't real.
It couldn't be real.
There were no mouths, no lips to form the words. The air had not moved. The sound had not passed through her ears. And yet—
She heard it.
Elsie's voice.
The same voice that once called her name over and over again, that used to laugh and giggle and ramble on about everything. The voice that had been silenced long ago.
Yet here it was again, bright as ever. Unbroken.
Her lips parted, but no words came.
The small figure, oblivious to the weight that had just crashed upon Barbel's soul, puffed out its chest, full of pride, full of certainty.
"I'm gonna get real strong too! Just you wait! An' then, I'll save people! I'll—I'll be so strong that no one's ever gonna be sad again! That's what a hero does, right?"
Barbel's fingers twitched.
For a moment, she was standing there again, outside the old orphanage, the afternoon sun sinking into the rooftops, Elsie's tiny hands gripping the hem of her coat, bouncing on her heels as she made her bold declaration.
"I'll be like you! I'll protect everyone!"
She had laughed back then. Ruffled the girl's hair. Told her to worry about climbing trees before she started worrying about saving the world.
The girl had pouted at that. Had stomped her foot and insisted that one day she'd show her.
And now—
She was gone.
Barbel's chest ached, raw, torn open.
She wanted to reach for Elsie, to cup the girl's face in her hands, to tell her that she already was strong, that she didn't have to become a hero because she was already the bravest child she had ever known.
But there was nothing to hold.
Nothing to grasp.
Only light.
Only the shape of something long lost.
She clenched her teeth, her nails digging into her palms.
Why?
Why was she hearing this now? Why was she seeing them now?
Hadn't she already decided?
Hadn't she already chosen her path?
Hadn't she already accepted that she couldn't turn back?
But Elsie's voice didn't fade.
It stayed.
Clear.
Bright.
Unshaken.
And for the first time, Barbel felt something that she could not fight, could not crush, could not silence—
Doubt.
One by one, the children were lifted.
White figures, glowing softly, their undefined shapes weightless in the golden grasp of something unseen.
Hands.
Not ordinary hands, not flesh and bone, but spectral ones—each one radiant, warm, delicate in its touch. They cradled the children as though carrying something infinitely precious, something that must not be dropped, something that must not be lost again.
Barbel's breath hitched.
She knew these hands.
His hands.
Harriet.
Even here, in this strange, silent space, he was reaching for her.
The children did not resist. They curled into the golden grasp like seedlings being carried by the wind, like stars being placed gently into the sky.
Barbel could only watch.
Her knees felt weak. Her lips parted, but nothing came out at first. She swallowed, clenched her fists, and forced herself to speak.
"Is this… what it means to move forward?"
Her voice startled her.
It was quiet. Hesitant.
For so long, she had believed in only one way forward.
To never stop. Never falter. To cast aside the past as if it were a heavy burden.
She had walked through fire, through ruin, through blood and ash—telling herself that if she just kept going, if she never turned back, then maybe, just maybe, it would all mean something.
She had pushed forward, unrelenting.
Forward, forward, forward.
Never looking back. Never letting herself feel the weight of all that she had lost.
Because to do so would mean breaking.
And she could not afford to break.
But now—
The past was here.
Not in chains.
Not in regret.
Not as a weight dragging her down.
But as light.
As warmth.
As something that had never truly left her.
Her fingers twitched.
For the first time, she wanted to reach out.
Not to push away, not to let go—
But to hold.
To remember.
To keep.
Her throat tightened.
Had she been wrong?
Had she spent all this time running forward, only to realize now that the past was not something to escape—
But something to carry?
Something to cherish?
A choked breath left her lips.
She did not know if she was falling or standing still.
She did not feel lost.
The warmth faded.
Like a distant melody slipping beyond reach, the golden hands, the glowing children, the quiet embrace of memory—all of it dissolved.
Barbel inhaled sharply.
The scent of dust and stone filled her lungs. The flickering lights of the underground chamber returned, their colors dulled, the weight of reality settling back into her bones.
Her left eye, once shimmering with an ethereal radiance, dimmed. The swirling rainbow hues receded, paling to a subdued glow before settling into stillness.
And there, before her, lay Harriet.
His body was motionless, save for the faint, uneven rise and fall of his chest. Blood pooled beneath him, dark and thick, seeping into the cold earth. His golden hair, usually so untamed and alive, clung damp to his forehead.
Barbel's fingers twitched.
She knelt.
One knee pressed against the ground, the weight of her body heavier than it had ever been. Slowly, hesitantly, she reached out—her gloved hand hovering just above the deep wound she had carved into him.
"You reckless fool," she murmured.
Her voice was steady. Too steady.
She let her fingers graze his torn sleeve, just above the wound. His skin was feverish beneath the blood. Too warm. Too fragile.
Her breath caught.
"Elsie wanted to be a hero, you know."
The words left her lips before she could stop them.
"She told me once—"
Barbel exhaled, shaking her head, her gaze fixed on the broken boy before her.
"She said she wanted to save everyone. That a hero never turns away, never gives up, never lets anyone be left behind."
A bitter chuckle escaped her.
"I told her she was naive. That the world doesn't let people like us be heroes. That some fights can't be won."
Her fingers curled into a fist.
"But you—"
She swallowed.
"You believe the same thing, don't you?"
Harriet didn't respond.
Of course, he didn't.
He was barely holding on.
Barbel closed her eyes for a moment, her brow furrowing, her breath uneven.
When she opened them again, she was looking at his face—at the stubborn tilt of his brow, even in unconsciousness.
She thought of Elsie.
Of that bright, clumsy grin. The way she had always reached—even when there was nothing to hold onto.
"You're both the same," Barbel whispered.
A hero.
Even if the world tore him apart for it.
Even if she was the one who had done the tearing.
Barbel's fingers trembled as she reached up to her face.
The eye burned.
Not with pain—but with something deeper. Something twisted within her, clawing at her ribs, pressing against her lungs, demanding to stay.
She ignored it.
Her glove met her cheek, the cool leather brushing against fevered skin. Slowly, carefully, she pressed her fingers around the socket of her left eye—where that cursed, luminous thing resided.
The moment she touched it, the world shifted.
The air around her pulsed. The cavernous room of endless color shuddered as the hues that once danced freely now spiraled—rushing toward her, toward the eye, toward him.
Harriet.
Lying there. Bleeding. Dying.
Barbel clenched her jaw.
"I won't let you die."
Her grip tightened, and with all the force of her will, she pulled.
Pain. A sharp, searing heat ignited in her skull, white-hot and relentless. The rainbow light flared, streaks of every color unraveling from her eye like threads being ripped from existence.
The chamber roared with movement—swirling, writhing, rushing toward Harriet's broken body.
Her vision split.
She felt it leave her.
And in its place, darkness. Cold, empty, hollow—but right.
The rainbow hues now spiraled toward Harriet like a river breaking free of its dam, twisting, folding, coiling into the wound she had given him.
His body convulsed.
The air in the chamber crackled. The colors twisted and broke apart, condensing, fusing—sinking into his flesh, into his veins, into the very core of him.
Barbel's breath came shallow, her body growing numb as the last remnants of warmth seeped away into the cold stone beneath her.
The cavern was silent now. The colors had settled, no longer wild and untamed, but gently pulsing within the unconscious boy she had saved.
She could no longer see from her left eye. But it didn't matter.
Her vision blurred, but she could still imagine them.
Jack's boundless energy as he climbed the trees. May's stubborn little frown when she didn't get her way. Heath, always trying to act older than he was. Beth and Ross, inseparable as they were, whispered about things only they understood. Elsie—brave, bright-eyed Elsie—declaring that she'd grow up to be a hero.
They were running again, white shapes flitting through her fading mind, their laughter like a song she had once known but could no longer hear.
Her lips curled faintly, barely more than a breath of movement.
"I hope you will reach out to more people."
The words left her in a whisper, carried away by the still air.
Her fingers twitched. The cold deepened. Her body grew light, like the weight she had carried for so long had finally slipped from her shoulders.
As her eyes drifted closed, her last thoughts were not of battle.
Not of war.
Not of obsession.
But of small hands tugging at her sleeve, bright voices calling her name, and a warmth she had thought long forgotten.
Geschicht ran in, his breath ragged, his heart hammering against his ribs. "HARRIET!" he screamed, his voice raw with desperation.
From the other side of the chamber, Lucienne rushed forward, her sharp green eyes wide with horror. "BARBEL!" she cried, her voice cracking. By her side, Liselotte followed, her warm hazel eyes filled with shock.
The scene before them was grim. Harriet lay motionless, his body still bleeding from the deep wound Barbel had inflicted. And Barbel... Barbel lay still, her body lifeless on the cold stone floor.
Geschicht stumbled toward Harriet, falling to his knees beside him. "Come on, wake up!" he muttered, hands trembling as he reached out.
Lucienne, meanwhile, hesitated for only a moment before kneeling beside Barbel. Her fingers hovered over Barbel's still form. "Why... why did you have to go this far?" she whispered.
Liselotte stood behind her, silent. There were no words to capture what had just happened, no simple way to understand the weight of the loss now settling upon them.
The air was thick with color, the remnants of Barbel's final act still shimmering like dying embers.
Lucienne's trembling hands reached for Barbel, but before her fingers could touch the still-warm skin, a ripple of light coursed through the chamber. The colors that swirled across the walls shifted, drawn toward the unmoving boy at the center of it all.
A glow, soft at first, then radiant beyond measure, pulsed from Harriet's chest. Wisps of golden and prismatic light weaved through the air, spiraling around his wounds. The blood that had pooled beneath him shimmered, its deep red hue dissolving into motes of light, drawn back into his body as if time itself was reversing.
The wound across his stomach—the fatal gash—began to mend before their very eyes. Flesh knitted together, skin smoothing over as the last remnants of his injury vanished. Yet, for all the miracle before them, Harriet remained still, his breathing steady but unconscious, as if caught in a deep slumber.
The air settled. The colors, once chaotic and wild, dimmed, bathing the chamber in an almost reverent silence.
Lucienne's sharp green eyes darted toward the lifeless form of her sister, then back to Harriet, her fingers curling into fists. Liselotte stood beside her, her warm hazel eyes reflecting the remnants of the fading glow.
No one spoke. No one dared to.
And so, in the quiet of that vast, color-stained chamber, the obsession has come to an end.