The stairs up to the tower seemed positively endless.

The workshop she was supposed to navigate her way towards was tucked away in the topmost area of the backmost tower of the castle, the highest point of the building. Aoife had no earthly idea what the Enchanter was thinking when he chose to put his main workshop up here, but it definitely was not for the convenience of visitors. The thought crossed her mind that he must have truly incredible discipline to be able to make this climb every day, quickly followed by the realization that she would need to have incredible discipline to be able to meet him up here when he wanted to use this space for lessons.

It was surprising to her that he even wanted her to come here. Days had passed since their meeting in the dead of night, and neither one of them spoke of it. She'd thought about it though. Endlessly. His words echoed in her head until she wasn't sure what to do with them any longer, until she pushed them aside with the intent to never think about it again, only to pull out and pick apart the memories mere hours later. She was distracted during training and couldn't keep focused long enough to practice her reading, and finally the Enchanter seemed to realize why.

The night before, at dinner, he'd invited her up to the tower.

Well, ordered her to come to the tower was a little more accurate. However, thinking of it as an invitation somewhat helped how much she wanted to complain about the interminable climb to the top. Perhaps now she would have her answers. Perhaps not. In any case, this was a chance to see what he really did during the day, when he wasn't teaching her. The majority of the time he was simply locked away doing experiments. Aoife's heart beat wildly in panic when she wondered what he might want her to do for those studies, but though she still wasn't comfortable with the idea, she found that she wasn't as entirely fearful as before. The Enchanter had shown himself to be not only a fearsome Fae, but an intuitive person who was, she thought, not unkind when he wished to be.

The spiral staircase eventually came to an end, even though at some point she had been positive that it was an infinite climbing torture device. At the top of the stairs, there was a large, wooden doorway with a small window, but it was too high for Aoife to see into the room. Instead, she knocked.

"Um, hello? Enchanter?" It felt strange to call him that, by a title and not a name, but she didn't have anything else to use. Only a moment later the door creaked open, and his pale face came into view as he beckoned her inside.

"Welcome to the workshop."

Aoife wanted to say that it was incredible, she really did, but the only word she could think of to describe it was catastrophic.

The room was a complete disaster, to say the least. It looked like three tornadoes and a tidal wave had crashed through, and then the Enchanter had just picked up and kept on with his research as though nothing was wrong. Without cleaning up. Ever. It was much larger than she'd expected it to be, for a tower workspace, but the incredible amount of clutter made it seem smaller than it was. The room was circular, with an open space in the very middle. A fireplace with a roaring fire was across from the door, providing heat and light in the isolated space. A large cauldron hung over the fire, full of bubbling brown liquid that gave off a cloyingly sweet scent.

There was a window to the right of the door looking out on the forest, the same view that Aoife's window had, except much, much higher. In front of the window was a large, wooden table, covered in glasses, beakers, bowls, and knives. It looked like he'd been making potions and poultices for weeks without cleaning anything up! The sight of it made Aoife shudder— with that kind of workspace, you were practically sabotaging yourself with contamination for precise measurements.

Beside the table was a large cabinet with its doors hanging lackadaisically open, full of glass jars and bottles, none of which appeared to have any labels. Another cabinet appeared to be full of scrolls and books, notes and journals, practically bulging at the seams with papers. Finally, to the left of the door, there was a long, red sofa. It was the only relatively clean thing in the room, though there were a few blankets draped haphazardly over the back. Presumably, he slept up here sometimes.

She felt dizzy again, that same fuzzy feeling pulling at the far reaches of her mind, but this time didn't have time to fight it before she staggered, leaning against the wall.

"Aoife!" the Enchanter cried, rushing to support her before she slipped to the floor.

Pale face. Pale face under a red hood. A red sofa. Marks on the walls.

"You should have died from the cold..."

"I... remember," she gasped, clutching her head. It felt like her skull was going to split in two, but there was something tucked away in her mind that she couldn't quite reach yet.

"Aoife, don't fight it," the Enchanter urged. "It'll make your headache worse, and you won't be able to remember it, regardless." Aoife tried to focus on the room, pushing away the fuzzy feeling and concentrating on her current surroundings. The headache slowly ebbed and faded away, leaving her standing in the middle of the messy tower room with the Enchanter staring at her warily.

"It was you," she said softly, turning to face him. "You saved me from the forest!"

"'Saved' is relative," he said, his eyes sliding to her scars. The expression on his face almost looked pained. "I also nearly killed you."

"Why didn't you tell me?" Aoife's legs felt weak, and she braced herself on the sofa for support. "You obviously knew; why hide it?!"

"If you're connected to me, you become a target. I didn't want that," he said.

"Aren't I connected to you now?" She didn't really see the difference.

"It's... complicated," the Enchanter said with a groan, pinching the bridge of his nose as if it gave him a headache just to think about it. "You're here now because you would have been a target after the incident in the gardens. I'm trying to train you so that you'll be ready if something ever happens."

"And you need me for your 'project,' right?" Aoife asked. "Are you ever going to tell me what this thing is?"

"I gave you my word that I won't have you kill anything for me. If you don't trust anything else, trust that," he said firmly. She had the distinct feeling that it would be useless to press him for more information, so she changed the topic.

"What happened after I woke up? I don't really remember," she said, shaking her head like she could bring back the memories.

"That's my fault, too. I placed a lock on your memories."

"A lock?" she spluttered, a flame of annoyance rising in her stomach. All these years she'd thought it was the head wound— like she was probably meant to think. "What's the key?"

The Enchanter hesitated. Aoife waited patiently, motioning fot him to

"Are you sure you want it?" he asked slowly. "It isn't pretty. I also locked most of the memories of your journey from the village, in hopes of keeping you sane during your recovery."

"How bad was it?" she asked hesitantly.

"You looked... borderline delirious," he admitted. "You kept mumbling about people coming after you in your sleep, screaming sometimes."

"Screaming..." Aoife trailed off. She tried to think back to that night, but it felt like walking through a fog. She couldn't see or hear anything, and when she tried to grasp onto something solid, there was only a gray kind of dizziness.

"You have no right to keep my own memories from me," she finally said. There was little malice in her voice, though, only a bitter kind of exhaustion.

"I did it to keep you safe and sane," he snapped, indignant.

"I understand that." In many ways, she was grateful for it. If she'd woken up screaming from nightmares, her fresh start may have been even harder than it was. "What I do not understand is why you kept it from me."

What point was there in keeping that information from her? If someone found out, she would still be a target, but a target without knowledge of why anyone would come after her. After coming here, there was no longer any advantage to keeping that information hidden. If anything, it should have been advantageous to reveal it to gain her trust. His reasoning made no sense.

However, it didn't seem like the Enchanter had any intention to reveal his real reasoning. He was certainly hiding something. For now, Aoife would have to take what opportunities she could get, though.

"Show me."

There was a long pause as the Enchanter seemed to weigh her words. Aoife did not back down from her statement, did not look away as he watched her carefully. She wanted her memories back, however scarring or inconsequential they ultimately were.

"You're going to want to sit down for this," he said, gesturing to the sofa. Aoife sat without protest, looking up at him expectantly. The Enchanter placed his hand over her head, close but not touching, and spoke a single word.

"Elina."

Snow. Blood. Pain.

Red and white made up the whole world.

She wandered in vaguely the same direction for an undetermined number of days, sometimes living off roots or bark, sometimes off nothing. Some nights she collapsed in the hollow of a great tree only to wake up and find herself lying on its dead roots. Sometimes even passing close to trees or plants was enough to feel her hands grow warm and the life drain out of them.

Huge, snarling beasts chasing her in packs through the forest. Their breath smelled like rot and death, and she stumbled in a fog to get away as they nosed at her, seemingly confused. She fleetingly wondered why they didn't eat her, why they didn't get the pain over with, but Aoife blindly stumbled on until she could stumble no more.

She passed in and out of consciousness, the scenery changing every time she opened her eyes. At first woods, then fields, then stone. She remembered waking that first time, the blurry moment when she couldn't see his face, and then she saw him without the hood. He touched the shredded flesh of her arm, and she screamed in pain, though his hands were gentle. It felt like her body was on fire, burning from the inside out.

"Keep breathing. I'm not going to hurt you."

White hair, red cloak, kind face.

She woke again and he fed her. She couldn't move her left arm or her right leg. He rarely spoke, except to assure her that she was safe. Aoife flinched when he tried to touch her, so he never made a move to do so, though she knew that logically he must have bandaged her wounds.

"Who are you?" she tried to ask, but he never answered.

Once she could walk, he brought her to the edge of the Rimsilla estate.

"You make it there, and they'll treat you well. This is the last you'll see of me."

"Thank you."

"I'm sorry."

"Aoife, are you there? Can you hear me?" his voice drew her out of the deluge of memories, away from the sensory overload and back to reality. That was the point where the locked memories began to line up with the ones in her mind, where she staggered towards the house on wobbling legs and was found by the staff. However, one thing stuck out more than the rest.

"You carried me," she said quietly.

"What?" He seemed confused for a moment before nodding. "Oh, of course. How else would I have gotten you inside?"

"How long did it take to carry me up here?"

"I don't know, fifteen minutes?" he guessed. Up and back down, she thought, unable to place a memory of going back down the tower stairs. The Enchanter took a blanket form where it lay over the back of the sofa and draped it around her shoulders, even though she hadn't noticed she was shivering. It must have been shock since the tower room wasn't cold.

"Fifteen minutes," she repeated.

He held on to her for fifteen minutes up and fifteen minutes down. He bandaged her wounds. There was no telling how many times he touched her during the gaps in her consciousness, and yet he was still alive. Aoife wasn't sure whether to be elated, angry, or simply shocked, but it wasn't what she expected to hear. A tiny, bright speck of hope settled in her chest. If the Enchanter could make contact with her for that long without any dire consequences, then perhaps there was hope for her after all.

"Maybe it's only when I'm conscious?" she mumbled, staring at her own hands like they were foreign objects.

"I have no idea," the Enchanter admitted. "I've been puzzling over it, myself, though you haven't allowed me to touch you in order to test it," he said pointedly. Aoife immediately flinched away from him.

"No. No, no, no, you said no humans! You are included on that list," she stuttered, shaking her head.

"Technically, I'm not human, and you aren't fully human, either," he said with a shrug.

"You are not allowed to use technicalities for this!" she hissed, wrapping her arms around her chest.

"Fine, fine." The Enchanter held his hands up in surrender.

Aoife rubbed her temples in exasperation, shaking her head. No matter what he was hiding, she wouldn't risk anyone's life for a ridiculous test. However, she was starting to think that the best way to move forward was to delve back into the memories that she did have.

"I think there are some things you need to know," she began, speaking slowly. "I wasn't going to tell you, but it seems like you already know I wasn't just lost in the woods."

"A bloody, half-frozen corpse of a girl in the middle of the forest, screaming at me not to touch her when she obviously needs help? What could be wrong?" The Enchanter rolled his eyes. Aoife let out a shaking, breathy laugh despite herself, but sobered quickly.

"My village chased me out," she said quietly, eyes locked on the ground. Aoife didn't know where it was coming from, but something inside her was boiling over the top, and she didn't know how to stop it. "They thought I was a demon, so they picked a night and brought torches and arrows. I'm lucky to be alive."

The Enchanter said nothing. She looked up after a few seconds of silence to find him staring at her. He nodded, encouraging her to go on if she wished. Might as well, Aoife thought. He might as well know what I am.

"My mother died giving birth to me. I don't know for sure, but I've always wondered if it was my fault. My father died when I was little. He spent the whole afternoon holding me after I came back in tears, absolutely convinced I was the cause of all the dying plants and flowers around the house. He said I was wrong, but he woke up sick the next morning and died within months. The village wisewoman took in my sisters and I, and that's where I learned to be a healer. She died of the same sickness that my father did. No one could figure out what was wrong with them."

"They wanted to kill you over speculation?"

"That wasn't the same village. The one I left before I met you, that is. It wasn't where I grew up," Aoife explained. "I left with my sisters after the eldest was married, and we moved to a town near her husband's lands. I left there fairly quickly, though. I was too quiet and too reclusive to fit in there, and it was starting to affect my sister's reputation with the locals... So I left. Went somewhere only slightly more accepting of my solitary habits."

"They wanted to kill you because you were a recluse?" he scoffed, raising an eyebrow. "I'm surprised there haven't been mobs with pitchforks at my door, in that case."

"No, they wanted to kill me because the same thing that happened to Erik happened to three men in the village when they tried to confront me about how all the plants around my house were dead and dry." Aoife sighed, leaning back against the sofa cushions. Her gaze still didn't meet his eyes. "There was a drought that year, too, and they needed a scapegoat. I was an easy target."

"What happened to your sisters?" the Enchanter asked, stoking the fire.

"Anna is the oldest, currently married to Sarilorn nobility. She has a Touch of Sight, and she happened to save a duke from an assassination attempt. She's pretty, and he was kind, so I think it's worked well for them," Aoife explained with a small smile. "Sasha has a Touch of Tongues, so she can understand all languages, even animals. Remember when the Crown Prince of Fadria went missing several years ago? It turns out he was transformed into a frog by a nobleman with a grudge, and someone hauled him all the way to Northern Sarilorn. She found him because she heard him screaming out for help. Take a wild guess where she is now."

"And you didn't go with her?"

Aoife laughed mirthlessly. "Weren't you listening? I am their shackle, Enchanter. They may not be convinced that my power causes death, but they could see my Mark as clearly as you. They just didn't want to see the truth: I will be seen as an unholy demon wherever I may land, and it would only be a matter of time before that word got around to smearing my unfortunate Touch on them."

"Get through this and you won't be a shackle any longer, Aoife. You can do whatever you want with your life."

"Well, then, we should get to work." Aoife shrugged off the blanket and stood from her place on the sofa. Unfortunately, she stood with a severe wobble, almost toppling over as soon as she was on her feet. She managed to catch herself at the last moment, but was surprised to see the Enchanter reaching out as if to steady her. His hand didn't make contact, thankfully, but Aoife stared at it for a long moment, fighting the instinct to flinch away.

"Perhaps we should start tomorrow?" he suggested. There was an oddly soft tone to his voice, like the commanding edge he usually spoke with had been rubbed away just a little. She bristled at the thought that it was pity or sympathy, but he didn't seem the type to act like the bleeding heart he complained that she was so often.

No, perhaps it was something else. Guilt, possibly. It was his fault that she felt this way, after all, and the strange mix of emotions roiling in her gut over that fact was just something to untangle later. She was tired, angry, and felt the strangest little twinge of betrayal, though she didn't understand why. He'd done all that before he really knew her, after all.

Perhaps it was good, though. Good to feel the hurt now instead of later, good to build on it.

Perhaps it wasn't all guilt, she thought. Maybe the haunted look in his silver eyes held a twinge of something she'd only seen brief flashes of before. Aoife truly wondered if, somewhere behind the sass and the matter-of-fact, logical reasoning, there was a hidden trace of loneliness and empathy.

"I would like that," she said calmly. It sounded like an olive branch.