A Glimmer of What Was
If asked, Sprite would answer that she missed her cosmic powers very much. But none of her Eternal family would ever dare—or be cruel enough—to ask her that. She missed the wonders her mind and hands could create, missed the glimmer of adoration that would appear in the eyes of those lucky enough to witness her illusions.
Which is why she was now curled up in bed, rotting in her thoughts.
She was allowed to mourn the loss of something that had once been as natural to her as breathing.
Then there was a knock at the door. She didn’t answer or acknowledge whoever was on the other side. Yet still, the door opened.
Sprite lifted her face briefly as Druig stepped inside. Their gazes locked for a few moments before she returned to her previous curled-up position on the bed. She felt the mattress dip as Druig sat down beside her.
She let the silence continue. And so did he.
Of course, it didn’t last long.
“What are you thinking about?” Druig asked hesitantly. It might have seemed like a simple question, but she could hear the weight behind it. He really meant it and wanted an honest answer. Still, it took him a moment to find the courage to ask.
“My powers,” she answered reluctantly.
“You miss them.”
“Yeah.”
Another bout of silence followed, this one less awkward and more contemplative. Both seemed to be turning over the other's words in their minds.
“It’s like something’s missing,” she added softly.
Druig nodded. He understood in a way. He couldn’t imagine himself without his powers—without his mind control. Even though it often walked the line of ethics, his ability had its uses. Its absence would leave a void, like a limb suddenly severed.
The silence stretched, teetering on the edge of becoming too long, when a thought struck Druig.
“I have an idea,” he said suddenly.
“What?”
He tilted his head, holding out a hand toward her. “Trust me.” The words were posed almost as a question, and almost as a plea.
Sprite hesitated before placing her small hand in his.
Druig closed his eyes, and she felt the familiar tingle of his powers brushing against her mind.
And then, it was as if the room transformed. Light shimmered, colors blooming and dancing before her eyes. An intricate illusion—a world of her own making. She saw the wonders she used to craft, the breathtaking beauty her powers had once been capable of creating. It was as if she were shaping the illusions herself.
For a moment, she let herself relish in it. Her heart swelled with a bittersweet mixture of joy and sadness.
But the thought crept in, unbidden: this wasn’t real.
She glanced at Druig, who was watching her with an expression that was both soft and unreadable. “This is your power,” she said quietly, though there was no anger in her tone.
“It is,” Druig admitted. “But it’s still yours too, Sprite. I only helped you see it.”
She looked back at the illusion, her chest tightening. It wasn’t the same as creating it herself. It made her sad, but strangely, it also brought her a sense of fulfillment. Druig hadn’t meant any harm. He’d done it for her, to give her back a fragment of what she’d lost.
“Thank you,” she whispered.
Druig gave her hand a gentle squeeze, and the illusion faded. The room returned to its dim stillness, but something had shifted. She wasn’t whole—not yet—but she was a little closer to it.