Elora Heartwood is Not Insane

Elora Heartwood was certainly peculiar–at best charming and at worst off-putting. She was a gem at Korous University, beloved by her department but invisible most elsewhere. The ‘issue’ everyone had with Elora was the fact that she could hear and see things no one else could. 

Schizophrenia wasn’t entirely out of the question, but not quite in it either. She would hum to herself in the library and occasionally speak aloud to the voice she insists is not fictional. 

Yet, it was only Pierre LeCont who believed her. It was Pierre who admired her lilac hair and all of its ribbons–her strange aura and her lovely smile. It was Pierre who would free Elora from what had vexed her, but she did not yet know it, and neither did he. 

* * *

Elora sat alone in the library’s furthest-back corner. A velvet red chair accommodated her enormous backpack and stack of books, all focused on the things we cannot see. Her brows were creased in frustration as she flipped through endless pages of nothingness. Her soft purple hair spilled over her shoulders, getting in the way enough that she tied it up aggressively. 

…to the Elo Nexus where the power can be reborn… 

The voice was mid-thought when Elora spoke aloud to reply, “Will you shut up! For twenty minutes, it is all I ask of you! Twenty minutes!” Her delicate features pulled into a grimace, and the voice obeyed her. “Thank you.” She whispered in a mocking tone. Several students turned to face her, but she paid them no mind. 

Elora Heartwood was not crazy–regardless of how many had thought her to be. When she had started her doctoral degree, she suspected that there would be many who would critique her interest in the supernatural–the things that happen beyond the human senses. It was why she chose psychology as her discipline–it was proof that we do not always have to see what is real to know that it is. The same was true of biology, her second discipline. There were millions of microscopic things that had propelled us forward, that had allowed humans to survive and flourish–and whatever was happening to Elora had an explanation as good as those were. 

As good as tardigrades and abnormal psychology. 

It was precisely twenty minutes before the voice spoke to her again:

Dearest Elora, is your time not better spent pursuing something greater? 

“What is greater than knowledge?” She sniped, the edge in her tone just barely touching the line between anger and downright fury. 

Power. 

There was something sinister in the way the voice said it, and Elora had shrugged it off. She had decided, despite it being a futile effort, to ignore the voice and whatever it had to say. 

My dearest Elora, do not tell me you have never yearned for something bigger than yourself? Bigger than a pompous institution with the rich and spoiled and their pursuit of money? 

“You sure do talk a lot,” Elora mumbled as silently as she could manage while flipping another useless page. 

It had been eight months since the voice came. 

Eight. 

Since the beginning of her PhD, the voice had appeared to her as easily as a dream, but did not dissipate like one. She always had attributes that others found odd, and she had embraced most of them–the exception was Paragryn–the supposed name of the knight in her mind who urged her to converge at some ancient power source. 

Elora was well-versed in psychological knowledge–she had practically memorized the DSM-V and had been hell-bent on studying the underpinnings of Schizophrenia since she was in the ninth grade. It interested her that, in different parts of the world, voices and delusions varied. Some were considered positive, even, whereas in the United States it was considered a strictly negative attribute. 

Elora was studious and driven, but she was also falling into madness. 

* * *

She left the library and headed into the bathroom; she didn’t need to go, but sometimes when she looked in the mirror for long enough, she could convince herself she was normal. As she stared at the lilac curls flowing around her, she felt as if a weight had been lifted from her chest. 

I am not insane.

She thought to herself. She decided to put her hands under the cold tap and press them to her face. It was an effective method for calming down–stopping a panic attack–whatever she needed. She bent down to the water, bracing her face for the chill. As soon as it touched her skin, she felt better. 

As she stood, she swore a man was behind her in the mirror. She spun quickly to find him, but there was nothing. 

There was always nothing. 

She swept through the stalls, looking for a pair of shoes or a coat hanging, and saw none, so she decided to speak to the madness. 

“Paragryn?” She asked, her voice small in the giant bathroom. It echoed off the walls, mocking her as her own voice assaulted her ears. 

“Paragryn.” She said it with a fury dancing on her tongue. Her lip twitched as she canvassed the bathroom, looking again for the armor that was black as night. 

You called? 

Paragryn’s voice was clear in her ears, as if he were just beside her. She spun in a circle, looking for any evidence of him, and was again unsuccessful. 

“Don’t be a coward–show yourself!” She hissed, pressing her back to the wall in front of the mirror. He could not appear behind her now; there was no behind her. 

You must find me.

The knight said, and Elora sighed. “I just saw you…” She said, her voice teasing. If she could challenge him enough, perhaps he would reveal himself to her. 

A shiver shot through her as if her spine had been touched. She stared forward at the mirror, looking hard for movement, for evidence, for any sign of life. But as she stared at the glass before her, the only evidence of a living thing was her own heart raging on. 

“No.” She said before swiftly turning on her heels back to the library. 

Elora genuinely believed she could drown Paragryn’s voice in books and studying. She thought that the harder she concentrated on neuron transmission, the easier it would be to forget him. At least, that’s what she told herself. 

But then there were the dreams that plagued her. Any time she sought refuge in sleep, the knight would disturb her. His hands would find her soft stomach, his lips to the shell of her ear. But worst of all, she had liked those things. She had liked the feel of his hands on her skin, his hair brushing her cheek as he bent down to kiss her shoulder. 

She liked him. 

But he was not real. 

Or was he?

Elora sauntered back to her usual spot in the library, but Pierre had been there, casually flipping through her books. 

“Pierre.” She greeted him with a tight-lipped smile, her hair perfectly tied back into the bows he loved so much, but he would never tell her that. 

“Hello, Elora.” He replied, trying hard to be nonchalant as he flipped another page in the Neuroscience of Creativity, otherwise known as Elora’s book of the hour. “Why do you read this?” He questioned, gazing at her over the top of his glasses. Her lips were soft as they gently pulled into a frown. He had watched Elora for months, and he was very aware that Elora was hearing things no one else could. 

“It’s for my thesis.” Her eyes narrowed on him as she gingerly plucked the book from his hands. It amazed him how she could be so gentle yet so full of sass. Pierre grinned, his eyes locked onto hers. 

“I’d like you to come to my laboratory.” He offered, and it was so sudden it caught Elora off guard. He had sent countless emails encouraging her to participate in their most recent project, but she didn’t so much as give a reply. 

The answer was no, but Pierre didn’t like that answer. 

“Some people would find that if you don’t reply to their emails, that would mean they are not interested.” Her smile was false, but it seemed so genuine. 

“Elora…” Pierre said her name with a note of despair, and he leaned in close to her, but not so close as to disrupt her bubble of personal space. “I know you hear things, and I want to help you.” She gave him a knowing look. She shook her head ever so slightly, but didn’t she want answers, too? 

Her brain scans hadn’t given true answers, but she also conveniently left out the truth of her condition as she got them. She couldn’t tell a health care provider about the man who visited her in sleep and whispered to her during the day—she couldn’t risk how they would treat her and what it would mean for her. 

“Please, Pierre…” She started to beg him to leave her alone, but curiosity was a beast, and right now it was trying to claw its way out of Elora’s chest. He hung on her words desperately, as if he could get a pre-emptive glimpse of what they were. She sighed deeply, her curls bouncing slightly as her shoulders sagged. 

“Fine.” The word was tight and had an aura of finality. Pierre shot up, his excitement hardly contained by his human form. It was spilling out of him through his smile and his outstretched hand, which twitched with anticipation of Elora taking it. She reached up and slid her fingers into his palm, and he gently hoisted her up. 

Today was one of the best days of his life. 

Today would be one of the worst days of Elora’s. 

Do not go.

The voice warned, but Elora pretended not to hear. She no longer cared about anything else. She was desperate to be understood, and Pierre was desperate to understand her. There was a lightness in her step as they walked hand in hand to the Occult wing of Fibrocci Library. She knew this was where his lab had been, but she had never come to this wing. 

When they entered, Professor Drake stood at a table, a glowing pink fluid swirling in a beaker in his hands. He was so concentrated that he hardly registered the new person in the room. 

“What is that?” She whispered to Pierre, and his face lit up with the force of a thousand stars. His smile was contagious as he glanced at Elora. 

“Speculus Fluid—it’s magic.” His eyebrows wiggled, as if to tell her it was a joke, but something deep inside of her said it wasn’t. She snorted anyway, her amusement spilling out as laughter. 

“Professor—” Pierre started, and suddenly Dr. Drake was alert. He stood too fast, eyes unfocused as he nearly dropped the sparkling concoction. 

“LeCont!” The professor exclaimed, though Elora could not tell if it was anger or surprise in his voice. “You cannot just bring anyone in here!” The professor scolded, but Pierre was still in a dream. His eyes were soft and brown, and his dirty blonde hair was mussed by his eager hands. 

“Professor, this is Elora Heartwood.” He said her name as if he were saying a spell. It was intentional, soft, and hopeful. She was something important to these people, but she couldn’t fathom how that could be. 

“Oh my stars—” Professor started, running around the table to greet her, “Elora, I’ve heard so much.” His voice was kind as he took her hand in his, and he shook it profusely. 

“I’m sure it’s all negative.” She smiled, but it quickly melted into a grimace. 

“Oh dear, no!” The professor exclaimed as if this offended him, “You are special, Elora, very special. We wish to help you.” 

Help was a sword pointed at you, and whoever was offering their hand, and Elora wasn’t sure what she was willing to risk for the sake of understanding. 

“Help, how?” She asked softly, her voice delicate. 

“Help through knowledge, my dear. We are the Occult Department; we study the craft and its history.” Dr. Drake replied. 

Elora’s eyes widened. “The craft?” The word felt strange on her tongue. 

“It’s the general term for all of the arcane and witchcraft,” Pierre said so nonchalantly, and it made Elora physically recoil. She pushed herself against the large wooden door. To her right, a giant winged creature flew, fluttering before her as if to investigate her. She yelped, tears welling in her eyes since she could not do much else. After her eyes focused, she realized the creature was a moth. Its giant, soft wings were as large as her head, and she paled before it. 

“Nika!” Pierre shouted, but there was an undercurrent of softness in his voice, and the moth retreated and perched on his shoulder as if it were a parrot. 

Don’t trust the sorcerers or mages, Elora.

Paragryn warned, but Elora was fascinated. She pushed Paragryn’s voice to the back of her mind and pushed forward, extending a finger toward the giant moth. 

“Is this your…pet?” Her head tilted as she investigated the creature, which had giant black-and-yellow wings. Its head was unusually fuzzy-looking, so she reached forward to touch it. 

“Nika is my familiar.” Pierre patted her head, and Elora reached out to do the same. The giant creature buzzed against her, as if it were purring. 

Elora laughed, and to Pierre it was the sound of an angel gaining its wings. To Pierre, her happiness was everything, and he would do anything to prolong it. 

“Come, Elora, tell us what you hear. It’s critical for our research.” Drake gestured for her to follow, and she did. 

Today was the day that Elora’s entire life would change, but for the better, she wasn’t so sure.