Pilgrimage [Western Fantasy] - Chapter 22

It was a night without stars, without moonlight—just a sky draped in dark velvet. Under that inky canopy, Orlando returned once again to the manor grounds. Even in the gloom, his pale golden hair glimmered faintly, like a soft beacon in the shadows—like a romantic figure from an old tale, chasing after a hidden Juliet.

But this time, the girl wasn’t where she was supposed to be.

Disappointment flickered across Orlando’s face—rare for someone often considered blessed by the gods.

“She’s not here tonight?”

“Up here.”

The sudden voice startled him. He glanced upward—and there she was, perched in a tree, balanced on a thick branch like it was the most natural place to be. Her blue eyes gazed down at him.

“Were you looking for me?”

Orlando blinked. He hadn’t sensed her at all.

Elves were born hunters—silent, precise, masters of stealth. It was a source of both pride and shame, for while the world revered their skill, it also whispered of shadows and assassins. Yet Estelle, a human, had gotten close—without him noticing.

She smiled faintly, cool as moonlight. “It’s quiet tonight, don’t you think? I thought I could hear flowers opening in the woods. What did you see?”

Orlando didn’t reply, but he saw it clearly in her eyes—behind that soft voice and polite smile, something smoldered. There was violence coiled inside her, a restrained fury lit like twin fires in the dark.

She didn’t wait for an answer.

“I hadn’t dreamed in a long time,” she said. “But after hearing your song, I did.”

What she dreamed of wasn’t peace—it was memory.

She dreamed of the girl named Estelle who used to inhabit this body. A child delivered to a grand, empty estate. A girl raised alone, her only companion an aging butler. A life where wealth came without affection, and material comfort arrived in place of parental love.

She had been raised without true guidance. No one taught her how to love or be loved. Still, she longed for it. That deep yearning led her to reach out, again and again, only to be turned away.

That, Estelle thought, was the beginning of the tragedy.

She watched the memories like a stranger behind glass—this former self who had no idea how to express her feelings properly. Her love for the Crown Prince had become obsession. Unfamiliar with real affection, she clung to the only person she’d ever felt drawn to, crossing boundaries, mistaking persistence for love.

People mocked her. They called her foolish, desperate, vain.

“Don’t…”

Estelle reached for her past self’s face in the dream—but her hand met only air. The next scene flickered into view: the girl standing in the rain, clutching flowers, eyes shining with hope as she waited for the prince who wouldn’t come.

When he did, it was only to sneer at her:

“Do you have no pride, Miss Stoker? Just seeing you disgusts me.”

The girl said nothing—only stood still, bouquet in hand, as her heart quietly shattered.

Estelle felt something was wrong. Something about these memories didn’t quite fit. It was like looking at a painting you’ve known forever—then one day, noticing a detail that never seemed to be there before.

She watched one final memory fragment. In it, the girl gently kissed a rose, tears falling from her eyes.

Then the dream ended.

Estelle woke in a fury, breaking the edge of her bedside table with a single blow. Splintered wood scattered across the floor. She stood among the wreckage, shaking, then walked in circles, humming to calm herself down.

Eventually, the house felt too stifling. So she left, quietly slipping outside, climbing a tree—and waited.

When Orlando saw her again, with her emotionless eyes and guarded face, he didn’t feel fear. He noticed the sadness buried beneath her coldness.

So he sang again.

His voice, soft and luminous in the darkness, spun a tale of a warrior who went on a journey—who faced the final judgment with nothing but love in their eyes.

“Even when time washes everything away, poetry will keep your name alive.”

The ground below shimmered like a galaxy. Estelle stood amid the starlight. Orlando smiled at her, arms wide in welcome.

Finally, she smiled too.

“I don’t need to be remembered,” she murmured. “Remembrance often comes at the cost of pain and loss.”

Orlando gazed at her, unwavering.

After a moment of silence, Estelle whispered, “People write poems about beauty, about love… but when those things appear in reality, they’re destroyed.”

She remembered the girl from her dream again—the one who kissed the rose. In that moment, she had embodied love itself.

“I want to kill someone,” she said softly. “But I know… she won’t let me.”

Estelle had searched many times—tried to prove that the old Estelle’s soul still lingered. But every time, she found nothing. Still, there were moments—when she felt rage—that her hands would still, as if someone gently smoothed her hair and whispered:

“Don’t do it for me.”

The weight of it all made Orlando speak without thinking.

“Miss… are you free tomorrow?”

She blinked. From her perch, she looked down at him—like a falling star returning his gaze. She wanted to say no. But then she remembered—the Estelle from those memories had been forced to sell off some of her favorite jewelry.

Why not see if it could be reclaimed?

So instead, she tilted her head. “Are you asking me on a date?”

Orlando flushed. “Well… if I may be so bold…”

His voice trembled, his confidence vanished. Estelle might’ve teased him on another day, but tonight, she only nodded.

“All right. I’d like that.”

They found themselves at a quiet corner of the city, in an old pawnshop nestled in a forgotten alley. Inside, an elderly man peered over his glasses, reading a thick book.

He looked up as they entered—a girl and an elf.

His eyes rested on Estelle.

“…Ah. You’ve come to reclaim the items?”

He paused, squinting. “Are you… her sister?”

Estelle placed a box on the counter. “You could say that. Are the jewels still here?”

“They are.”

He handed over a sealed parcel. “Why didn’t she come herself?”

Estelle was quiet for a moment.

“She’s gone somewhere… peaceful. Somewhere no one can find her.”

Jewels in hand, Estelle wasn’t sure what to do next. Melt them down? Give them away?

Orlando led the way out of the alley and onto a bustling street—one of the wealthiest areas of the capital. The elf’s appearance drew stares, as did Estelle’s striking beauty. Nobles and merchants whispered as they passed.

A flicker of magic warned Estelle just in time. A rock appeared under her heel—clearly a childish trick. She kicked it aside without flinching, smoothed her skirt, and walked on.

She didn’t even glance at whoever cast the spell.

“Miss Adelaide?”

A voice greeted her—Wimborne, standing at the entrance of a high-end boutique, nodding in polite surprise. But his glance shifted quickly to someone behind him.

Too late.

Estelle had already seen her.

Saint Hibel, cloaked in a flowing gown adorned with pearls and sapphires, stood just beyond the door. Their eyes met briefly.

Estelle merely nodded and turned away.

Orlando, recognizing Hibel, stopped politely and returned her bow.

“Welcome to Febiraan, Forest Heir,” she said.

Orlando, Prince of the Elves, responded with equal formality. “Greetings, Lightbringer of the Sun God.”

From the corner of his eye, he saw Estelle waiting for him—not impatient, just steady.

His heart leapt.

If not for the eyes watching them, he might’ve run to her.

Hibel noticed his hesitation. Her jaw tightened. She inhaled sharply—

Then a new voice cut through the air behind her.

“Hill? Why are you just standing there?”