The sunbeam that had been the anchor of Illyen's memory had shifted, leaving the archivist's study in a softer, more reflective light. The raw, violent catharsis of remembering had drained him completely. When Cael finally loosened his embrace, Illyen felt like a piece of finely wrought glass, newly repaired but dangerously fragile.
"Sit," Cael commanded, his voice hoarse, and gently guided Illyen to a deep, worn leather armchair near the unlit hearth. The rich, earthy scent of the leather was solid and reassuring. Cael crouched before him, looking not for a lost lover, but for his partner, assessing the damage.
Illyen simply leaned his head back and closed his eyes. The memory of the corrected constellation and Cael's kiss on his temple replayed perfectly. It was no longer a phantom flash; it was history. And the history was magnificent, but the lack of all the history around it was still a vast, terrifying void.
"It hurts," Illyen whispered, touching his temple. "Not the memory itself. The space around it."
"I know, my heart," Cael murmured. He didn't offer platitudes. He reached out and, with the reverence of someone touching something sacred, took Illyen's hands in his, rubbing his thumbs over Illyen's knuckles. "You took a lifetime's worth of pain in one moment. It's too much for the body to bear alone."
Elara, who had quietly stepped away, returned with two ceramic mugs steaming gently. She offered one to Cael and the other to Illyen.
"Drink this, my lord," she instructed, her voice stripped of its initial sharp worry, now simply concerned. "It's a simple sedative brew. Will ground your nerves. You've done more work in ten minutes than we dared hope you would do in ten years."
Illyen lifted the mug. The steam smelled faintly of honey and mint. He took a sip, and the liquid was warm and instantly soothing. He looked at Elara, seeing her not as a watchful stranger, but as a silent ally. "You knew," he realized. "You know everything that happened."
Elara nodded, resting her back against a nearby bookshelf. "I was the archivist then, as I am now. I have documented every cycle of your recovery, every time your consciousness was… fractured by the magic. I helped Cael gather the pieces, the clues. He has been protecting you not just from the Hall, but from yourself. From the knowledge that was too heavy to carry."
Cael looked up sharply. "Elara, we agreed to let him lead. Not to force the exposition."
"He is leading, Cael. He asked a question, and he deserves an answer," Elara said, firmly meeting Cael's gaze. "This amnesia, my lord, was not a curse. It was a defense. Your mind, your very soul, was shattered by the immense magical rebound of the Great Veil when you tried to repair it. The mind discarded the traumatic history, resetting you to a state of peace. Cael's presence, his absolute love for you, is the only thing strong enough to override that protection."
Illyen absorbed the explanation. The Great Veil. That name, too, felt distant but important. A purpose he had failed at.
"So, every memory I get back… it tears down the defense," Illyen concluded, the truth settling on him like a weight.
"It does," Cael confirmed quietly. "But it brings you back to me. And this time, we do it differently. Slowly. Deliberately. We stop when you say stop."
Elara moved over to the central desk. She picked up a heavy, leather-bound book that had been hidden beneath a scattering of old star charts. It was thick, its pages edged in gold leaf, and secured with a small, tarnished silver clasp.
"This is where we begin the next stage," she announced. "This is the Book of Hours. It contains your own hand. Your entries, your anxieties, your plans from the time before the Veil incident. It details the ordinary, boring beauty of your life together—the things you did every day, the places you loved. We found that the emotional fragments are the strongest anchors, but the routines and the places… they are the steady bricks you need to rebuild the foundation."
Illyen's gaze fixed on the book. It looked formidable, an intimidating record of a man he didn't know.
"Not here," Cael decided, standing up and pulling Illyen to his feet. "This room is where the shock happened. It's too sharp now. We need neutral ground. A place where you can feel secure and process without the echoes of a dozen other memories waiting to ambush you."
Cael thanked Elara for her clarity and her tea, then led Illyen out of the Solarium Tower. They didn't return to the garden; instead, Cael guided him deep into the main body of the house, following a labyrinth of silent, vaulted corridors.
He stopped before an unmarked door tucked into a deep archway, far away from the busy parts of the estate. Cael unlocked it with a key he wore on a chain beneath his tunic.
"This is the Scribe's Annex," Cael explained, pushing the door open. "It's rarely used now. It was built for quiet concentration. It has no large windows overlooking anything significant. No statues to trigger fear. Just silence."
The annex was a small, oblong room. The walls were lined with smooth, dark cedar shelves, and the light came from a single, high skylight that filtered the afternoon sun into soft, gentle beams. In the center were two oversized, high-backed velvet chairs flanking a heavy, square writing table. The air smelled of beeswax polish and aged ink. It was an island of quiet purpose.
Illyen felt the tension easing from his shoulders. This room was a blank canvas, ready to be filled with the history he was about to rediscover.
Cael set the Book of Hours down on the writing table. It landed with a soft, final thud. Then, he took both of Illyen's hands.
"This is it, Illyen. We've found the starting line. I will not read a single word of this book without you. We will go through it page by page, together. When you are rested, we will begin."
Illyen looked down at the book. It didn't look like a key to a devastating trauma; it looked like a simple record of a life. Their life.
He gave Cael a faint, genuine smile—the first Cael had seen that wasn't edged with confusion or despair. "The thread never dies," he repeated, grounding himself in the phrase. "Let's pull the thread."
The sun shifted again, catching the gold edges of the book's pages, making the title shine faintly in the quiet room, waiting for them.