In Fantasy

Epilogue

He awakens in darkness, startled by the shrill cries of barn-owls.

"Where am I?"

His head pulses with a sudden, strange pain, and he groans, his eyes closing again. Every blade of grass beneath his neck feels like a tiny pinprick against his skin, and he shudders.

A cool sensation drifts across his face, followed by a small, soft hand upon his cheek, which falls away as his features relax.

He squints as his vision adjusts, and he sees a young woman sitting beside him in a dress that shimmers like fresh snow under the moonlight. Her impossibly large blue eyes stare at him with a mixture of relief and concern.

"In... Ingrid?"

She stifles a sob as tears trickle down her face, a disbelieving smile on her lips.

"Yes, it's me," she says, and grasps one of his hands in hers. "How are you feeling?"

"How long have I been asleep?" he asks, trying to raise himself up; she helps him, though he still slumps forward even while sitting. "And why are you crying?"

"Just a few hours," she tells him as she wipes away her tears with one hand, and strokes his back with the other. "And don't mind me. I'm just —happy, that's all."

He nods without understanding, and then exhales, taking in their surroundings. They are at the edge of a forest, it seems, and beyond it there is a small lake where a group of waterfowl are settling down for the night, their beaks tucking away into their wings.

"Where are we? The last thing I remember, I was..." he trails off, frowning. "Actually, I'm not sure."

He looks down at himself, surprised – though he is not sure why he is surprised, exactly – to find himself dressed in the simple clothes of a summer laborer, with a linen shirt, dark vest, and loose, long dark trousers.

The young woman bites her lip. "...do you remember anything at all?"

He pauses. "I remember my name," he replies after a time, his gaze drifting up to her face. "And you."

She blushes as he continues: "I think something important was supposed to happen today, or yesterday." He stares at her, trying to focus. "Is that right?"

"I shouldn't have asked anything of you while you're in this state," she murmurs, squeezing his hand even as her face pales. "You need rest."

He nods, too tired to question her further. "I think you're right," he agrees, "but first, some water."

She helps him to stand and walk the short distance to the lake, then kneels with him by its edge as he weakly dips his hand into it, bringing a palmful of water to his lips.

He sighs. "That's better. Now, back to..."

He leans over the water, his hands gripping the tufts of grass at the edge so tightly that they begin to tear between his fingers.

She looks at him in alarm. "Hans, what is it?"

He touches a tuft of his hair at the front, examining it in his reflection with a furrowed brow.

"I don't remember my hair being this color before," he says, and plucks out a single strand of pure white, holding it up to her. "Has it always looked like this?"

She swallows. "As far back as I can remember," she replies, and her face darkens.

He looks at his reflection one more time before shrugging, and lets the plucked strand fall to the earth. "I'll have to take your word for it," he concludes with a yawn, laying down on the grass. "I must be delirious from exhaustion."

He brushes aside some hair from her face, stroking her cheek; she presses her hand against his, leaning closer.

"Come here," he murmurs, sleepily drawing her into the crook of his arm.

She lays with him until she can hear his heart slow to a gentle thump, his breathing soft in slumber, and then reluctantly draws herself up, pausing only to kiss his forehead.

Just above her lips, she catches sight of the white hair again—and its color is stark and strange against his auburn mane, marking him a victim to some great terror.

She looks away from it, pressing a hand to her heart, and shivers in the shadow of the forest.

"I'm sorry, Hans," she whispers, her voice shaking. "I'm sorry."