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A sea of pale mist. Gently, like flowing water, the oily brushstrokes dissolved into the soft azure of an impending dawn.
The Wanderer above the Sea of Fog. A masterpiece — unequalled and sublime.
She stood motionless, transfigured into a marble effigy, a solitary promontory amidst the floodwaters of her own restless thoughts.
The river of time drifted past the harbour of her awareness, no more than a muted, white murmur. The trickle of passing moments settled upon her skin like a fine drizzle, mingling with the salt of tears she was oblivious of.
“A most fascinating canvas, would you not agree?” came a low, velvety whisper.
Her gaze remained ensnared in the endless whiteness, adrift like a vessel unmoored, lost upon the unfathomable tides.
“It is the uncertainty hidden beneath the veil of mist that so enthrals,” the voice continued unabashed, her silence taken as permission. “The promise of adventure, the jagged crests of distant peaks that beckon the bold-hearted.”
She drew a slow, deliberate breath before rising from the depths of her reverie.
The soft rustle of her fine garments and the measured clicking of shoes upon aged parquet reached her ears like the gentle lap of waves against a forgotten shore.
She stepped closer to the canvas in front of her.
Her brow furrowed faintly, her head inclined ever so slightly as her gaze wandered once more across the hidden peaks and crests, submerged in the tangled brume.
“Longing for adventure — is that truly what you see?” she asked, her voice barely more than a breath, steeped in disbelief.
“Are you of another mind, my dear?” His inquiry held the faintest ripple of amusement, like laughter lost upon a still sea.
“Perhaps,” she returned with quiet grace, “as the poets so often remind us, it lies ever in the eye of the beholder.”
“If I may be so bold,” the voice replied, soft and earnest, “I would deem it a privilege to know how you perceive such matters.”
A rare smile ghosted across her lips. Conversation — so be it. Since her journey began, she had spoken to no living soul.
Well, none but herself.
Her gaze settled once more upon the lone wanderer captured in paint before her, and she spoke in a low murmur.
“I concede this much to you; it is the uncertainty that captivates. That which lies unseen. But, if you will pardon my humble opinion, you misapprehend the true perspective.”
A breath. A sigh.
“It is not what lies before him that stirs the heart—it is what lies behind.”
“How do you mean?”
“He stands upon the summit, his triumph secured, his feet upon solid ground,” she explained, her hand tightening instinctively around the modest pouch she carried. “And yet, his shoulders remain tense, as if haunted still by what lies in his wake. One must wonder — were the obstacles overcome truly worth it, if the reward is but this clouded, joyless view?”
“A most nostalgic, nay, melancholic interpretation,” the voice observed gently. “And yet, may I pose a question? Was the journey itself not the very purpose?”
“A philosopher’s sentiment,” she replied, her lips curling ever so slightly. “But I confess, I am rather the sort to believe that the destination is the purpose.”
“That much is apparent,” the voice answered with a soft chuckle. “And I would not dream of robbing you of that belief. Yet, if that be the case, should your focus not rest upon the hope of what yet lies ahead, rather than the disappointments left behind? Consider this — the summit was never the true destination, nor the view the final prize. That which you seek remains veiled still, somewhere beyond the mist. This crest is but a single waypoint upon a longer path.”
“An eternal wandering, then?” she scoffed bitterly, no longer bothering to mask her frustration. “Condemned to forever tread the moraines and crumbling ridges between woods and stone in bitter solitude?”
“Is that what you lack?” the voice inquired softly, smooth as still water. “Do you long for company?”
“I do not believe in ghosts,” she answered swiftly — though both knew it to be a lie. Few witches or wizards chose that path, yet… none who bore the face she longed most desperately to see.
“And yet,” the voice persisted gently, “it would seem the past walks ever at your back, a shadow cast upon the very line of your spine.”
A solitary tear gathered at the tip of her nose, poised to fall into the abyss.
“I had not hoped to make this journey alone,” the truth slipped from her lips before she could prevent it. Hastily, she brushed the gathering tears from her eyes.
No arm came to rest upon her shoulder. No hand sought to close gently over hers. Not that she had expected such closeness. Not ever again.
“Some journeys, regardless of whether they were started together, must be conquered alone,” the voice echoed around her, like a current beneath still waters.
“This was never the road meant for us. It should have been another — a shared one,” a sob broke her final word.
“Everything went so dreadfully wrong.” Her fingers tightened fiercely around her pouch, her knuckles blanching white.
“Have you, perhaps, lost sight of what mattered most?”
“I no longer recall what that destination once was,” she lied. “But whatever it became, it is no longer mine. What mattered most to me, was y…“ her voice broke once again.
She stilled for a moment then words found her again, „If the journey was the purpose, it has brought nothing but sorrow and ruin.”
“And yet, you have come here — to cure,” the voice observed gently, like a calm tide lapping at her defences.
“I owe us that much.”
Her fingers curled tightly around the edges of the relic, through the fabric of its confinement. The toll it had exacted from them was far too great for her to abandon the path now. He would have wished her to see it through.
No voice rose to break the silence.
She would find her way through the mist. Find Anne. To finish what they — what he — had begun.
A life restored… for one that had come to its end.
“I owe you that much,” she whispered, before turning at last — her composure a fragile veil, scarcely concealing the tempest raging beneath.
She was alone.
Of course she was.
Sebastian's trusted voice, nothing more than a comforting ghost of her psyche. A mere echo of her loss. Of the price he paid.