Although he knows he won't receive an answer from inside, Filarion still knocks politely before opening the door to Leonie's room. He finds her exactly as he left her after their conversation the previous night.
Leonie lies curled on the bed, sweat beading on her skin, her exhausted face turning weakly toward her visitor.
"What are you feeling now?" he asks gently, sitting down beside her.
"It's like… my whole body is pulsing. But… I can think more clearly now," she whispers.
Her headache refuses to ease; instead, waves of pain crash through her again and again.
The sensation is painfully familiar—she has lived through it before—and she knows all too well it will only get worse.
"Please, accept Dorian's help. He might be able to ease it."
Filarion has tried repeatedly to persuade her, to convince her to let Dorian soothe her pain.
But Leonie has no intention of letting him near her again—not when she knows he can manipulate her mind. She doesn't even want to see him. She had told Filarion so, many times.
And Dorian has not appeared since their argument.
At least, not that Leonie knows he spent nearly the entire night sitting silently at her bedside.
"How can I trust him? You, of all people, should know—I wouldn't even be able to tell what's real and what he makes me see."
She doesn't understand. Dorian had proven himself manipulative, deceitful, disrespectful.
Why do these elves cling to him so fiercely?
Maybe they're all like that.
"Even if that were true, I can assure you he would only do it for a reason. In six hundred years of friendship I have never once seen Dorian's intentions be impure—nor have I ever seen him cross the boundaries of any of us."
Before Leonie can interrupt, Filarion continues softly.
"That does not absolve him of responsibility. Of course not. But when someone carries the weight of an entire people on their shoulders for centuries, their knees sometimes buckle beneath the burden."
Leonie closes her eyes.
Thinking only makes the pain worse.
A part of her wants desperately to trust Filarion—but she barely trusts her own judgment anymore. Maybe she only longs, pathetically, to attach herself to someone. Anyone.
"Leonie," Filarion says softly, "in a long life I have learned one truth: the most dangerous illusions are not conjured with magic, but with our own fears and our own mind. Perhaps what you see in him now is merely the veil of your pain."
Leonie slowly lifts her gaze.
Her eyes meet his gentle, pale blue ones, and for a long stretch they simply look at one another while she absorbs his words.
Dorian hurt her—yes.
The disappointment had smothered everything else she once felt around him:
the gratitude,
the budding trust…
After all, he did free her from the castle.
He risked much to bring her here.
Had she been too harsh with him?
Could anyone be only good or only bad?
As Marcus said—everyone makes mistakes.
Should she truly judge him solely by the worst of his?
Before she can finish the thought, her body jerks violently.
A fresh wave of agony crashes through her.
She gasps, a strangled sound, unable to draw more than shallow breaths.
Filarion watches her, worry tightening every line of his face.
He picks up a small bowl from the floor, conjures water into it with a flick of his wrist, soaks a cloth, and begins gently wiping her forehead as the attack rages on.
It lasts about ten minutes before Leonie's body finally eases, her breathing deepening once more.
Several minutes pass in silence before she can speak again.
"You think… I'm going to… die?" she forces out.
Filarion's expression dims with sorrow.
"I don't know," he answers honestly. "But we will do everything we can so that you don't."
Leonie nods faintly.
She feels unbearably tired, yet the fear continues clawing at her.
"I'm scared," she blurts suddenly. "Of dying. I… I'm not ready."
Filarion gently takes her good, clammy hand between both of his.
"We are children of nature. A tünde life is only a stop along a greater journey. With the wisdom we gather, we return to the cycle of the world. We become the wind that comforts, the water that washes wounds clean, the fire that warms, the earth beneath your feet in battle. We never vanish—we simply exist differently."
A wan smile appears on Leonie's lips.
"That sounds… cozy," she murmurs, closing her eyes again.
Would she too become part of the elves' great circle?
Even after growing up among humans?
Even after knowing nothing beyond the filth of the baron's castle?
Such thoughts swirl through her tired mind until sleep finally claims her.
Filarion rises quietly and slips out into the hallway, giving her at least a little time to rest.