Chapter Eighteen – The Echo of Memory
The days grew longer as they trekked deeper into the vast, untamed wilderness. The land was different here—untouched by the hands of men and unscarred by time. It was a place of silent beauty, where the mountains kissed the sky and the rivers sang songs of ancient times. To Gilgamesh, it was a reminder of a world that had once been his to rule, before his long sleep.
Fern and Stark had begun to ask fewer questions, sensing the growing weight of the elf king's silence. Though they still looked to him for guidance on occasion, the ancient elf rarely offered more than a few words. His eyes were often lost in the distance, his mind elsewhere.
But today, as they passed a cliffside, something caught Gilgamesh's attention.
The air was still, and the temperature dropped suddenly, as if the very atmosphere had shifted.
"I feel it," he murmured, his voice barely above a whisper.
"What?" Fern asked, her steps faltering.
"A presence," Gilgamesh said, narrowing his golden eyes. "A familiar presence."
Stark stopped in his tracks, his hand instinctively reaching for his weapon. "What kind of presence?"
"Not one of malice," Gilgamesh replied, his gaze sharpening. "But a lingering one. Something from my past."
Fern glanced at Stark, and he gave her a brief nod. They could sense it now too—an energy, like an invisible force pressing against them, tugging at their very souls.
"It's coming from there," Gilgamesh said, pointing to a distant peak. It was hard to tell through the fog, but the air felt thicker near that mountain. Almost as though something was calling him.
The trio made their way toward the peak, moving swiftly but carefully. It was as if the world itself had shifted, guiding them toward the source of the disturbance.
As they reached the base of the mountain, Gilgamesh's pace slowed. His expression hardened, the wisdom of his many lifetimes clouding his features with an air of unease.
"This place," he said, his voice grave. "I know it. It was here that my kingdom once stood. Long before your world was shaped, this was where the ancient elves gathered."
Fern and Stark looked at him in surprise. "You ruled here?" Stark asked, incredulity coloring his voice.
Gilgamesh nodded. "I did. But that was long ago, before time began to slip away from me." His voice trailed off.
"What happened?" Fern asked.
Gilgamesh's gaze turned distant, and he stood in silence for a long while, as if wrestling with the weight of the memories. Then, he turned to face them.
"I was not always the king you see before you. There was a time when I ruled with power, yes, but it came at a cost. The elves had always been a race of creators and destroyers, a reflection of the world itself. We shaped the land, forged it in our image. But there came a time when the world began to fall apart under our own hands."
Fern and Stark exchanged glances, both sensing the gravity of his words.
"A great war was fought," Gilgamesh continued. "A war against ourselves. We had long since tired of creating, and the destructive nature of our existence threatened to consume us. My people fell, scattered to the winds. And I… I chose to sleep."
"Sleep?" Stark asked, confused. "What do you mean, sleep?"
"I sealed myself away," Gilgamesh said softly, his eyes distant. "Not because I feared death, but because I feared losing myself. I slept to preserve what little remained of my mind, my will. When I woke, the world had changed. And I was alone."
The silence stretched between them, the weight of his words settling over the group.
"So, this place…" Fern asked hesitantly. "It's where your kingdom fell?"
Gilgamesh nodded. "Yes. And it is where I must now face what I left behind."