What The Fog Keeps For Us

The village of Carrath lay folded into the moor as if it had always intended to disappear. Fog drifted low across the ground, swallowing fences and stone walls until only their tops remained, like thoughts half remembered. Elowen Pryce stood at the edge of the narrow road with her coat drawn tight, watching the gray swallow the path behind her. The bus was already gone. The sound of its engine had faded too quickly, leaving a silence that pressed against her ears.

She had told herself she was only here to finalize the sale of her mothers cottage. Practical. Temporary. Yet the moment her boots touched the damp earth, something in her chest tightened with recognition. Carrath smelled the same as it had when she was young. Peat smoke. Wet grass. Cold air heavy with waiting. The village had never let her go cleanly. It had simply waited.

The cottage sat at the edge of the moor, its windows dark, roof sagging under years of neglect. Elowen paused at the gate, fingers resting against the rough wood. Memories stirred. Long evenings by the hearth. Stories her mother told in a voice that never quite hid its fear. Warnings about the fog and what listened within it. Elowen had laughed back then. She had not laughed when her mother died and the fog pressed against the windows for three days straight.

Inside, the cottage felt smaller than she remembered. Dust coated the table. The fireplace was cold. She set her bag down and moved slowly, letting the silence settle. Her reflection in the small mirror looked older, sharper. Someone who had learned how to leave before things rooted too deeply.

You returned.

The voice did not echo. It brushed against her thoughts like a hand against glass. Elowen froze, breath catching painfully in her chest. She knew that voice. Had heard it in dreams she dismissed as grief.

I told myself you were not real, she whispered.

The air near the hearth thickened. Fog seeped through the stone as if the walls no longer remembered how to keep it out. A figure formed slowly, shaped from shadow and pale light. He stood tall, his presence calm and unmistakable. Dark hair framed a face both familiar and impossibly unchanged.

My name is Taran, he said softly. You used to say it when you were afraid.

Tears burned behind her eyes. I left because I was afraid of staying.

His gaze held no accusation. Only understanding. And I stayed because leaving was never offered to me.

They did not move closer. The space between them felt deliberate, charged with years of absence. Elowen forced herself to breathe. What are you.

Taran turned slightly, the fog curling around him. I am bound to the moor and to the village that grew upon it. I keep what must not cross when the fog grows thick.

Her chest tightened. All those stories. All the warnings.

They spoke through the afternoon, words unfolding carefully. Taran told her of Carrath history. Of agreements made long before her mother was born. Of watchers who kept the boundary intact at the cost of their own freedom. Elowen listened, fear slowly giving way to recognition. She felt the truth of him settle deep, like something remembered rather than learned.

As evening fell, the fog thickened outside, pressing against the cottage windows. Elowen lit the lamps, their glow fragile against the gray. Taran remained near the hearth, his presence steady and quiet.

Why now, she asked finally. Why did the fog call me back.

His expression darkened. The binding weakens. The moor is restless. It remembers you.

The words struck her with sudden force. What happens if it breaks.

Then what waits beyond crosses freely, Taran replied. And I am torn apart holding it back.

Fear surged sharp and cold. There has to be another way.

There is, he said. But it requires choice.

That night sleep came fitfully. Elowen dreamed of walking into the fog and hearing her name spoken from every direction. When she woke before dawn, she found Taran standing outside the cottage, gaze fixed on the moor as if listening to something she could not hear.

They walked together as the sky lightened, their steps slow and deliberate. The moor stretched endlessly, grass bending beneath the fog. Elowen felt the pull of the place in her bones.

I spent years running, she said quietly. Thinking distance would make everything lighter.

Taran voice was gentle. And I spent years watching the road, hoping you would return before the fog grew tired of waiting.

The closeness between them deepened, threaded with restraint. Elowen felt herself opening in ways she had long avoided. Yet beneath it lay a tension that tightened with every shared glance. She could not stay forever. And he could not leave.

By the third evening, the fog grew unnaturally dense. It rolled across the moor in heavy waves, swallowing sound. Elowen felt a sharp pain behind her ribs, sudden and alarming.

Taran went rigid. The boundary is failing, he said. It responds to you. To what you carry.

What do I carry.

Memory, he replied. And unfinished belonging.

The realization settled heavily. The moor had not simply remembered her. It had held space for her return. Panic surged.

What happens if I leave again.

Then the fog will no longer listen, Taran said. And Carrath will fall silent in the wrong way.

They returned to the cottage as night fell, the fog pressing close on all sides. Inside, Taran explained the ritual that bound him to the moor and the way it could be altered. He could be freed and anchored instead to a living soul. To her. The cost was spoken plainly. He would lose his immortality. She would be bound to Carrath, unable to stray far without feeling the pull of the moor in her blood.

Elowen felt the weight of the choice settle into her chest. I left because I thought staying meant losing myself.

Taran met her gaze. And I stayed because I did not know how to want anything else.

Silence filled the cottage, broken only by the faint hiss of the lamps. Elowen thought of the years spent moving from place to place, never staying long enough to belong. Of the quiet emptiness that followed her successes. She looked at Taran and saw not a cage but an answer she had been avoiding.

I do not want to keep running, she said. If staying means choosing you, then I stay.

Hope flickered across his features, fragile and bright. And I choose the weight of time, he replied. Even knowing it ends.

The ritual took place at the heart of the moor as night deepened. Candles marked a wide circle, their flames steady despite the fog. Elowen stood barefoot on the cold ground, fear coiled tight beneath her ribs. Taran faced her, his hands trembling as they finally touched.

Once we begin, there is no return, he said.

She nodded, heart pounding. I know.

They spoke the words together, voices low and steady. The fog surged, light bending and breaking around them. Pain tore through Elowen chest, fierce and consuming. She cried out, collapsing forward as if something vital were being pulled free.

Taran screamed, his form flickering violently. For a terrible moment Elowen thought she had doomed them both. Then she felt his grip tighten, solid and warm. A heartbeat thundered beneath her palm.

The fog stilled. The air cleared. Taran gasped, breath ragged and real.

I can feel the cold, he whispered. And the fear. And you.

Relief crashed over her, leaving her trembling. She held him as dawn broke over the moor, the fog lifting as if satisfied.

The days that followed were slow and fragile. Taran learned hunger and exhaustion, the ache of muscles unused to gravity. Elowen stayed close, guiding him through each new sensation. Their bond deepened through patience and care, grounded now in choice rather than longing alone.

The village changed subtly. The fog still came, but it no longer pressed. It moved like a visitor rather than a warning. Elowen withdrew the sale of the cottage. She repaired the roof, lit the hearth, let the place breathe again.

One evening weeks later, Elowen stood at the edge of the moor, watching the last light fade. Taran joined her, his hand warm in hers.

I thought coming back would reopen old wounds, she said softly.

He smiled, brushing his thumb over her knuckles. Sometimes wounds are doors the land waits for us to open.

The fog drifted gently across the grass, no longer heavy. Elowen felt the last of her restlessness ease, replaced by something steady and alive.

She had not been called back to be claimed. She had been called back to choose. And in that choosing, she found a love the fog could no longer keep from her.