‹ Prequel: Lead and Gold
Vernacular
Abandon
These old halls are so empty.
I feel as if I shall go mad, sitting here, listening to the silence. The occupants of this stone wraith have abandoned its corridors--at least, the occupants that mattered. Oliver, Maharet, Mekare--all these creatures--my friends--have gone their own way, gone back out into the world, away from our sanctuary in the trees. I yearn to follow, to find myself again, in the cities and streets, but something holds me here.
Perhaps it is some perverse duty I have assigned myself. To wander these passages, searching for ghosts. Pretending to hear their voices again, the way they used to ring. I visit Maharet's chambers, and contemplate the way her belongings only look as if they were to be left but a moment. Her intimates still lie draped across her bedposts, beckoning to me, reminding me of her promises and whispers. Her wardrobe lies open, the breeze through the windows I have broken stirring them to life. I continue to maintain this room, to clean it and remind it now and then of its uses--just in case she may need it again.
That is why I remain. I hope that they will return, return to the one place that welcomes them with open arms. They will return; and their chambers shall be lit, and alive, and these halls will breathe again.
Until then, I shall sit here, among her things, one half of their purpose, one half of their memories.
Sometimes, I think I hear them, passing through the doors, through the halls. I never call out, however, for fear of the sound only belonging to the filthy fledglings.
I do not want their blood to stain her things.
No no.
She would not want that.
I feel as if I shall go mad.
But she would not want that.
I feel as if I shall go mad, sitting here, listening to the silence. The occupants of this stone wraith have abandoned its corridors--at least, the occupants that mattered. Oliver, Maharet, Mekare--all these creatures--my friends--have gone their own way, gone back out into the world, away from our sanctuary in the trees. I yearn to follow, to find myself again, in the cities and streets, but something holds me here.
Perhaps it is some perverse duty I have assigned myself. To wander these passages, searching for ghosts. Pretending to hear their voices again, the way they used to ring. I visit Maharet's chambers, and contemplate the way her belongings only look as if they were to be left but a moment. Her intimates still lie draped across her bedposts, beckoning to me, reminding me of her promises and whispers. Her wardrobe lies open, the breeze through the windows I have broken stirring them to life. I continue to maintain this room, to clean it and remind it now and then of its uses--just in case she may need it again.
That is why I remain. I hope that they will return, return to the one place that welcomes them with open arms. They will return; and their chambers shall be lit, and alive, and these halls will breathe again.
Until then, I shall sit here, among her things, one half of their purpose, one half of their memories.
Sometimes, I think I hear them, passing through the doors, through the halls. I never call out, however, for fear of the sound only belonging to the filthy fledglings.
I do not want their blood to stain her things.
No no.
She would not want that.
I feel as if I shall go mad.
But she would not want that.