> "It's just a bug, darling," Merlin

Merlin could feel the tug of wind sneaking over his wrinkled face like a breeze through the cracks in a well-sealed door. Age had earned him the privilege to take advantage and slack in his bed, and he intended to do so.

Opening one eye cautiously, his vision blurred, and he noticed a shadowy figure looming over him. But he didn't care. He closed his eyes again, hoping the apparition was nothing but a fleeting figment of his dreams.

But Atua had other plans for him. When he dared open both eyes, they met the unsettling gaze of the elf standing above him. Her eyes, sharp as icicles, penetrated his own. She wore her elven armour, emotionless as a porcelain doll.

Merlin grumbled, rolling his eyes before shutting them tightly. "Ah, by Atua," he muttered, turning his back to her, hoping to sink back into sleep's embrace. But she wasn't about to let him go that easily.

With a swift and unyielding motion, her fingers pinched his eyelid open. "I need you," she said, her voice flat.

"Need me? Can't you see I'm in the middle of a very intimate relationship with my bed? I'm old, dammit. Let me sleep!"

Unmoved, she pressed on. "The memories of the tower are gone," she said, her voice still stoic but edged with a tension that even she couldn't completely mask.

Merlin jolted upright, his sleepiness evaporating. "Gone? What do you mean, gone?"

"Gone. Vanished, not there," Finnea reiterated, her face as impassive as ever.

"Are you saying that Nord's Me—"

Before he could finish, her hand shot up, covering his mouth as if to trap the words inside him.

"Gone," Finnea repeated, locking eyes with him.

His heart pounding, Merlin knew this was no ordinary morning, and sleep would have to wait. Something had unravelled in the very fabric of their world, and whether he liked it or not, he was entangled in its threads.

----------------------------------------

Dawn's hesitant light began filtering through the windows of the memory tower, casting a soft glow over the faces of the assembled children. Bram, Kirara, Tower, and even Dumdum—each seemed to sense the weight of the situation. Merlin couldn't shake the disbelief that every jar—containers of memories, ten years of a happy life—were vacant, bereft of their swirling darkness.

"Has the demon caught wind of this?" Merlin questioned, concern, etching lines deeper into his already weathered face.

It was Tower who answered, his voice carrying the respectful cadence he reserved for more solemn occasions. "Master hasn't yet visited me."

Kirara, her fingers twirling a lock of her hair, added, "Bram and I have been distracting him whenever he mentions it."

"So, he's in the dark... for now," Merlin mused, his eyes scanning the rows of empty jars. "I never thought I'd say this, but there is nothing more sadder than an empty jar."

"We need to refill the jars with something glowy, even if it's only a temporary measure. We have to buy time to figure out whether…" Finnea's words trailed off, her gaze serious.

"Whether what?" Merlin pressed, unable to ignore the tension thickening the air.

Tower hesitated, stumbling over his words. "It's possible the pretty lady... she remembers…"

"Everything," Finnea finished, her voice as inscrutable as ever.

"But that should be good news, right? Why the secrecy? Why…"

Finnea fixed her piercing gaze on Merlin as if she were deciphering the very contours of his soul. "You know why."

A dry swallow tightened Merlin's throat. "So, she knows…"

“Everything!”

“Everything… oh by Atua…”

"She knows everything," the elf reaffirmed, her tone betraying not a sliver of emotion.

Merlin sighed, half in exasperation, half in resignation. "Am I expected to just wave a wand and refill all these jars? Is that it?"

If you spot this narrative on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.

"Yes," Kirara piped up, her voice filled with the kind of innocent conviction only a child could muster. It was as if she thought reigniting the soul of the world was as simple as reigniting a candlewick.

Merlin threw his hands up in exasperation. "Look, magic doesn't just appear out of thin air; it needs a source. I can't conjure the kind of light we need for these jars from nothing!"

"A candle, perhaps?" Bram ventured, his eyes widening with youthful optimism.

Tower shook his head. "A candle's flame flickers too much; it's not consistent."

"How about Christmas lights?" chirped Kirara, her eyes sparkling at her own suggestion. Everyone turned to her with quizzical expressions. "Oh, yeah. Never mind," she mumbled, her excitement deflating.

Finally, Finnea spoke, her tone almost reverential. "A firefly."

"A firefly only glows in spring," Tower corrected yet again, his brows furrowed.

"I know of a place where we might find them, even now. Tower and I can go." Finnea’s voice was decisive, as if she were preparing to march into a battlefield rather than on a quest for insects.

"It's just a bug, darling," Merlin chided, his tone almost dismissive.

Finnea locked eyes with him. "Not in these woods."

The statement hung in the air, as dense and opaque as the missing memories themselves. Merlin met her gaze and understood—sometimes the most mundane elements could carry extraordinary significance for a Dryad.

"Very well," Merlin sighed, acknowledging the gravity of her words. "Go fetch us that firefly, and let's hope it holds the light we need to fill these jars again."

----------------------------------------

The forest canopy closed in, the shadows so deep they seemed to devour the sunlight. Finnea and Tower moved through the half-light like wraiths, her blade shimmering as it cleaved through the twigs and foliage that blocked their path.

Every step released the scent of damp soil and decaying leaves, a perfume of the earth's darker secrets. Somewhere distant, a creature howled, its voice echoing in the narrow spaces between trees.

Finnea had known the dual nature of the Dryads. These fey guardians could offer sage guidance or treacherous detours, a lesson she had learned with a sting the last time she was here.

Tower's eyes met hers, and he couldn't help but admire how she commanded her way as a warrior through the forest. Her mastery reassured him, but the unspoken questions hanging between them layered the air with tension.

Their mission seemed simple—securing the Dryads' help obtaining a firefly. But nothing was simple when dealing with these unpredictable forest spirits. What would the price of such aid be?

Then, suddenly, they stood before it—a void in the forest, an entrance of utter darkness ringed by a barrier of foliage, as if the earth itself warned them to tread carefully.

"It's here," Finnea's voice broke the silence.

"So what now?" Tower couldn't keep the quiver out of his words.

"It's time," Finnea replied, her expression unreadable.

Tower hesitated. "I like being me. I don't want to become something I'm not. I…"

Finnea stepped closer, her eyes locking onto his. "You and I are fragments of the same whole, bound to him. You embody his inner child; I am the vessel for his pain. We weren't meant to exist separately and not this long. You have done your part, and I have done mine. Now, there is a new quest, and neither you nor I are enough."

"I don't know if I'm ready," Tower's voice was tinged with tears, "I'm scared. I'm really, really scared."

She enveloped him in her arms, "I'm scared too, really, really scared too. But we can't complete this task separately. I'm not strong enough"

"It's just a bug!"

"I'm not talking about the bug."

"And will it be worth it?" he asked, his voice small. "Will it be a happy ending?"

Her eyes misted over, and a tear slipped free, tracing a warm path down her cheek. "Not the kind of happy ending you or I would choose. But it will be the kind that brings peace to many."

"Master will be sad!"

"No, it will destroy him, but he will live. He’ll be safe."

He looked into her eyes, finding a mirror of his own fears and hopes.

"Please," she whispered, her voice breaking, "don't make this harder than it already is."

Every rustling leaf and distant cry silenced as if the forest itself held its breath. Finnea and Tower, standing so close that their outlines blurred in the faint light, looked at each other with a profound understanding that transcended words. Their eyes locked, and their spirits laid bare before they closed the distance entirely.

Their fusion began. It was as if a gravitational pull had seized them, an invisible force willing them to become a singular entity. Finnea felt her essence swirl, blending with Towers like two colours of paint meeting on a palette.

The sensation was jarring and euphoric, like a mixture of free-falling and the rush of battle. Tower felt it too—the deep-rooted pain of Finnea's experiences merging with his untouched innocence. Both were consumed by a love and a sorrow so great it felt cosmic.

Their physical forms wavered outlines quivering as they were drawn inward. It was a collapse and an expansion all at once as if they were stars undergoing both implosion and explosion in a cosmic dance.

Their features smeared into one another, distinct and yet melding, and for a fleeting moment, they ceased to be separate. They ceased to be entirely.

Then, as suddenly as it had begun, it was over. Where Finnea and Tower had once stood now was a new entity—a young demon, or what it looked like a demon, a teenager. Short stag horns jutted from his scalp, elegant yet intimidating.

Its hair was a wild mane of red, short and dishevelled as if touched by fire. A firm tail extended from its lower back, strong and animated as though it had a life of its own. Most striking, though, were its eyes—black pits devoid of flames, like two dark wells that had swallowed stars.

He wore a pink shirt with a rainbow emblazoned across the front, which contrasted sharply with his foreboding mission. The words "Make Your Dreams Come True" stretched across his chest, an absurd yet oddly fitting sentiment given the circumstances.

He held in his hand Finnea's sword and picked up from the ground the chest plate, which covered the comical nuance of his attire.

He stood there, disoriented yet oddly comfortable in this new form. The air felt different, heavy with both possibilities and unspoken fears. This new entity was a tapestry of contradictions, woven from sacrifice and love, anguish and innocence. Yet, it felt undefined, a narrative yet to be written, a spirit yet to be named.

As he took its first step toward the dark groove, a thought brushed its newly formed mind, delicate as a moth's wing against the night.

Who am I?

The question hovered, but one thing it knew for certain: he needed to bring back a bug.