Disclaimer: Do not own. Possibly not ToX 2 compliant. Written after first playthrough on Jude's side, may have missed some canonical stuff.

Silhouette

For the first month, he could see her whenever he closed his eyes.

He could remember her just as he saw her last in the Temporal Crossroads- standing proud and tall, her red eyes framed by a mane of gold. He could feel the touch of her hand in his- soft; hesitant at first, and then tight- as if she knew that this was the last time they would be able to stand side by side like this. How, in that moment, neither had wanted to let go. He had sworn to engrave the memory in his mind, to never forget the strength- the woman- that inspired him so.

Separation didn't hurt as much as he thought it would. He had gone through the worse of it when he thought she had died, when he found his own resolve to continue forward even without her there. At least it was different now. She was still out there, he reasoned, doing what she had to. Still, it felt jarring not to see her everyday, not to hear her voice or sense her watchful presence nearby. Not when it had became something he had become so used to.

But as he coped, slowly, things returned to normal. And the adventure that had upended his life and changed his view of the world started to feel like a dream he was just waking from. Things were different now- he walked through the halls of the Medical School as a professor, no longer a student; his head held high instead of his eyes on the ground. And every once in a while, he would receive letters from his friends and family, letters that brightened up his day and reminded him that it wasn't just a passing dream.

The wounds he had received over the course of their journey now turned to scars, and his callused hands now channelled healing artes instead of bruising his foes. The battles he fought now were mostly of the mind and will, of words and ideas; rather than the harsh brutality he had grown used to on the battlefield. Sometimes, it felt odd how he preferred the simplicity of fighting compared to the political intrigues that he now had to manoeuvre.

He wasn't sure when he realized that she no longer lingered at the edge of his thoughts. When, if he closed his eyes, he could remember a flash of gold and pink, but not see her there. When, if he touched the bead she gave him, he could only feel the cool touch of glass instead of the warmth of her voice. When the memory of her hand in his felt like a hushed whisper in the midst of his rushing thoughts, not a solid engraving in his memory.

It was then that he started seeing things wherever he went- the mane of gold in the midst of a crowded marketplace; her laughter in the wind; a dancing shadow in the periphery of his vision. Always haunting him, but yet, when he looked, never there.

Sometimes, he wondered if he was going mad. His work wasn't easy, and he kept many late nights reading reports and writing his own. Spyrite technology was still in its infancy, and there were too many pitfalls to overcome, too many issues to address. It was a race against time, and sometimes it felt as though it was only his own stubbornness that kept him going. Sometimes, it felt as if his mind was falling apart, searching for answers that may not even exist.

Sometimes, he wondered if he minded- for at least in madness, he could pretend that she was there.

But he didn't let himself believe in the fantasy. He couldn't; not when he was trying to ignore the heartache that thinking about her brought on, trying to pretend that everything would be okay when he knew they could never really be together; when he knew that there would be nobody else like her in his life; when he didn't give himself time to grieve for something- for a future- that was selfish; something that they would never have.

After six months, he found the memories of her voice to be soft, unfocused. He could no longer recall her vibrant smile, the way her eyes lit up with enthusiasm and curiosity about everything. Sometimes, he wondered if there would come a time when he couldn't even remember her face, or her touch.

And in his weakest moments, he wondered what he preferred- forgetting her, or being tormented by the illusion of her presence forever.

He threw himself into his work. It stopped him from thinking, from remembering. Eventually, things started to fall into a regular pattern and it felt as though he could put those sad thoughts aside as long as he kept focus on what needed to be done. The days started to blur together, and he managed to carry on with his new life, setting aside the memories of battles and adventure- of her- in one corner. It wasn't that he was trying to forget her, or of their time together. It was just that he knew that there was nothing else that could be done about their situation- in order to save their world, they had both chosen this path.

And even now, even though there were times when he wished he could see her again- he never once regretted it. Loving her, loving who she was, meant that duty came before their own personal satisfaction. And the thought that they were on the same path still- even though he couldn't touch her or hear her- somehow made it feel alright.

It was about a year after when things started happening. It started small at first- occurrences he didn't particularly think twice about. An inkwell that he swore was empty being refilled without his notice, a window closing just as it began to rain. In the beginning, he dismissed it as mere delusion from a tired mind, but then there were the flickering lights that lasted for a few seconds longer than usual, or a gentle breeze that would fill the room even though the doors were closed.

And then one day, he heard her voice.

He had returned the night before, exhausted after a conference with some scientists from Elympios which dragged on into the wee hours of the morning. It felt like someone had taken a sledgehammer to his head as he tried to work through the difficult formulas of the spyrite-creation process to see if it could be streamlined in any way, and after a while, he had simply nodded off at his desk.

The logical conclusion would be that what he heard was a dream.

But there was no mistaking that voice- that stern, yet gentle voice that he knew oh so well. The light tone she used as she said his name, the gentle touch of her hand on his shoulder.

And when he opened his eyes, he saw her there- a shadow standing by his open window, the moonlight streaming over her brilliant golden hair, her red eyes crinkling mirthfully at him. All of a sudden, it was as if the memories he held suddenly flowed with colour again, and he remembered what it felt like to stand by her side, to hold her hand in his.

She paused in surprise when their eyes met. She hadn't actually expected to wake him- and now that she had, she wasn't sure what she was supposed to say.

So many things had happened between them, after all. So many things that went unsaid, that could never be said. They were vastly different people from the last time they had stood together in the middle of time and space, two people pursuing separate goals.

Yet, he didn't hesitate when he raised a hand in greeting. "Hey," he said, managing a bleary smile.

She blinked, and she chuckled. "Hi there," she returned.

And then he knew that there was nothing more to be said; because he could tell, from the way she stood, from the way she smiled- he could tell that she was alright, that she was relieved that he was alright; that, underneath the demeanor of the Lord of Spirits, she was still the Milla he had loved- the Milla he would always love.

And he knew, from the way her mouth quirked and her eyebrows raised so familiarly, that she could read him just as well as he read her.

They stayed there for a moment, quiet, enjoying the brief respite they had in each other's presence. And then she gave him a slight nod before her form vanished, as if it were never there. Her shadow was gone from his window, replaced only by the gentle Fennmont breeze.

There was no heartache. Only elation, a light-heartedness that felt as though he was sitting on the back of a wyvern again, his arms wrapped around her torso. A sense that everything was the way it should be.

Come tomorrow, he would throw himself into his work again. Maybe he would see glimpses of her out of the corner of his eye, hear her voice whispering on the wind in his ear. Maybe he would forget, and maybe in a year's time the feeling of her hands in his would fade into the fog of his memory.

But it would be alright- because he knew then that her silhouette would always and forever dance on in the depths of his mind.