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[Laufey]

Time Flies

Time flies. That is what they say, apparently. It is a saying that really should have little or no meaning to me, were I who I used to be. How ironic, that even as so much that I would have kept is lost to me, day-by-day, this of all concepts becomes more and more clear.

Time…it should be like a river, and I a leaf, floating serenely on top of it. But now the river of time rages and roars, and I am swept along under the surface of it, ragged bits and pieces of the past torn away and left behind in the swift eddies. Lost, perhaps never to be reclaimed. I believe I ought to feel regret about this.

I strive to remember…why did I come here, to this place, today? There was some reason, I know it. Something almost entirely lost to time’s ravages, something I would remember. And this is the room of mementos, after all. Mementos. Such a curious word. As if memories might be easily trapped, stored in pieces of furniture, in painted pictures or knick-knacks. I still do not understand this concept, and that vexes me. Memories should flow easily, each one fresh and new as a single leaf upon a vast, eternal Tree. Not these dead things trapped and preserved as flies in amber. Time flies.

And yet, I will use what I have at my disposal, to see what may come of it. Now, how to proceed…there should be something here to aid me. I look around the room, and my eyes glide over the forest green silk carpet with its silvery snowflake pattern, across the elegant bed with its soft pillows and smooth sheets, past the airy curtains and…ah. Yes. There it is. Past the airy lace curtains, there are the windows. They are not real windows of course, not down here. Rather, they are painted images, cleverly made to resemble the real thing. The made-up view to be seen from them is one of branches, so skillfully crafted that one can almost see them stirring in a wind that is not there, so intricate that it is possible to make out the veins in the leaves. Between them, a sky so deep a blue that it is almost turquoise, just deepening into twilight. For there can be no sunlight in this place, not even the elf who painted my windows could achieve that. He did well, all the same, and when he was finished I rewarded him with a painless death. He had to die, of course. He had seen too much, knew too much. Knew this view too well.

There…behind the branches, it is possible to glimpse glittering spires, shimmering as pearls in deep water. I believe I used to find them beautiful…no that is not entirely correct. I found them esthetically pleasing, yes, but that is not why they are there. Rather, they and the branches are there to aid me in the summoning of a…memento. A dead memory.

The sky is the proper color, but not the angle. I was not standing at the window, I was somewhere else. Yes. Reclining on the bed. Slowly, I cross over to it, touch it with careful fingers. There is some dust, but not too much. And I cannot fault the servants, they are forbidden on pain of death from going into this room. A few muttered syllables, and the dust scatters, leaving the silky green sheets pristine once again. Now, how best to properly recreate the exact circumstances of the memory?

I lie down on the bed, careful not to rumple the sheets too badly. Still, it does not seem entirely right. I frown, feeling the charred skin of my forehead painfully wrinkling behind the mask. That is not right. In the memory, my face is smooth, still pleasing to look upon, my body strong and lithe, not a broken husk forced into this support that is basically a construct, a flesh golem. I am lying on the bed, yes. And she…

She touches my forehead, smoothing back the fine, light hair from it, and I see her smiling face, looking down. My head is in her lap, and I can feel the exquisite heat of her body from beneath the gauzy slip she wears. Above me, curtains of golden hair frame her face. That perfectly shaped oval of a face, the soft skin, the glittering eyes like jewels. I can see them clearly. And her smile. Yes, her smile, the smile of one born into divinity. Benevolent, radiant, certain of her own power and beauty. And why not? Is she not the Queen, the fair, the wise, and the eternal one? The Queen, beloved of all her People. And I…so young, yet already so powerful, surely the most powerful Archmage the People has ever seen, as worthy of her as she of me, or so it is said. So it was said, yes. Surely we deserved one another, did we not?

‘Joneleth, you have pleased me well, as always.’ Her voice, clear as crystal chimes. Her eyes, so bright. What is that expression I see in them? I cannot recognize it. I wonder if I ever could. ‘My young one…so bright a flame, so eager.’ Again, the smile. ‘Do you burn for me alone, Joneleth? For your Queen?’

‘For you.’ My own voice, younger then. Instilled with…what is it? Emotion. I cannot remember. ‘For you, my Queen, my Ellesime. I love you, now and forever.’ Forever. How lightly I used that word, then.

What is it, that sparkle in her eyes? I do not know. ‘I love you too, my Joneleth.’

The memory fades, I let go of the sheets. I have been digging my fingers hard into them, gripping them as if I could force the memories to come by force. The true memories, not these hollow, dead things. With the aid of these mementos, these time flies, I can just barely recall empty words and phrases, patterns of sunlight through a window, the branches outside it. Perfect pictures, that mean nothing. If they once held meaning, it is gone now.

Bah, foolishness! Why did I come into this place, anyway? Why do I keep coming back? There is nothing to return to here, only dust. I cannot remember her ‘love’ for me, nor mine for her, no more than the trapped fly can stir its wings in flight anew. I can barely even recall the memories of the memories of that supposed ‘love’. Soon, they too will be gone. Perhaps then I will forget this room even exists, and not keep returning to it as a dog does to its own vomit.

Perhaps that would be for the better. There are no true memories here. Only time flies.