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[attr="class","tequilas"]#2 | a memory of dust

[attr="class","margiewrites"]When would she fade from his memory entirely?

Already a year had passed, and while the seasons never changed, time was nevertheless unforgiving in its forward momentum. Time passed, hours and days and weeks and months and now it had been a year. And with each passing day, with each passing hour, minute, second, with each beat of his heart, she slipped further and further away from him.

Aran sat quietly on the low marble bench in the hall of portraits, gloved hands folded loosely between his knees, elbows resting on his thighs. His posture, his countenance, even his hair, presently none were befitting of one of his position. But that was why he came here, beneath the quiet, staring faces collected within the Hall of Memories in the Palace. Few came here, and fewer lingered before the dusty canvases.

She had come here, for many years, to speak to the likeness of her predecessor; she came for comfort, for counsel, for a connection when custom dictated her solitude. So much time he'd spent here, simply watching her. Sitting quietly on this bench as she spoke to a face she had never met, humming a song only she knew, hands gentle as she laid flowers in thanks for the one-sided conversation. Always, there was dust on her skin and in her hair and a smile on her lips.

Already a year, and her face in his memory grew ever fainter, her features blurring in his mind's eye. Seventy years, gone in one. No longer could Aran remember the curve of her smile, or the way she'd worn her hair. He couldn't remember the way she'd looked back at him over her shoulder, asking for something. He couldn't remember the sound of her voice-- but sometimes he dreamed that song she liked to sing, a melody without words.

Aran sighed quietly and closed his eyes, letting the stillness of the hall wash over him. Her portrait was here, but already it was the face of a stranger. It was familiar and not; he'd been here, and he'd looked upon it, but she was no one too him. She was no one to him now, when once she had been everything.

And yet, here he was.

When would he forget his reason for coming here? When would he forget to come at all, and abandon her memory to the dust and the dark?

His eyes opened. Standing, Aran approached the portrait and stood before it, gaze searching the flat expression that stared back at him. She was beautiful, elegant and poised, a dimple indenting her cheek beside her smile. She was lovely-- but he didn't know her.

Quietly, he brushed the thin film of dust from the surface of the canvas, leaving it clean. His fingers lingered near her face before he dropped his hand to his side and turned away. Aran did not look back as he walked out of the hall, the door shutting heavily behind him with a sound of finality.

He would not return.

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[attr="class","tequilas"]#20 | rain, rain

[attr="class","margiewrites"]Rainy days were muchly bad for Ori.

He sniffed from where he crouched within the barn, sheltering among the hay with the generous cows. So kind, so kind to him he thought, though he had to keep his tail in check, unless they tried to nibble on it again. They smelled, too, like manure and grass and sour milk, but even that was better than the rain.

The rain tickled at his insides and made his hair stand on end. His magic would not be quiet about the water right in front of his nose and all around him, even though he could see and hear and smell it. It was right there, but still his head would not be quiet.

Ori let out a quiet hiss at the water, demanding it go away-- but it would not, not right now. Not now that the Kings had decided it should fall. It was needed for some things, and he knew this. He had been learned how the rains made the plants grow, and the crops, and the flowers. And it was good for drinking. And bathing, when he felt like it.

He did not feel like it now. He was wet enough for three bath days.

With a sigh, he let all of him relax and flopped backwards into the hay. Ori giggled as a soft nose nuzzled at him, smelly and warm, followed by another and another. It tickled, and he said so, but the cows did not reply.

Rain, at least, let him meet such lovely ladies as these. Ori blew out a soft breath before turning onto his belly to crawl further into the barn. Tonight, he would be warm and safe. Tonight, he would have wonderful company, safe from rain and moon above.

And tomorrow... tomorrow he would find a new adventure.

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[attr="class","tequilas"]#29 | coming home

[attr="class","margiewrites"]Was it early or late, when the day ended at 4 a.m.? Tommy was still thinking over the question, posed to him by a bar patron, as he walked back home after his shift. Whether early or late, it was a great time to ponder this and other such philosophical questions. Like... like...?

Well, maybe Tommy wasn't really a philosophical sort of guy, and he didn't have any deeper questions to mull over in the early hours of the morning.

...was that the answer? Early? Becuase of how the expression went?

Nodding his head, he accepted it, tucking his hands into his pockets. Glad he had put that to bed, before he put himself to bed. A hum, a sigh, a scuff of his sneaker-- and he stopped, pausing to listen.

Damn, but it was quiet right now.

He took another step forward, and his footsteps were loud against the pavement. Another step, and the swish of his jacket, the jingle of his keys against the loose change in his pockets, the sound of his breathing and his knee cracking and his heartbeat and--

--and suddenly it wasn't so quiet anymore, and Tommy let out a laugh. God, shit got weird when his brain got lonely. Next time, he'd make sure to grab his headphones. Or next time, he'd accept the drive home, so he couldn't be left alone with so much weirdness.

...there was a more philosophical thought, maybe. Was he lonely?

Going from noise to silence to more silence. But was quiet the same as loneliness? Tommy thought about it for a while, but eventually shook his head, letting out a sigh. He didn't have enough brain to think over such thoughts this late in the day.

...ah. And the question started over again. Philosophy - if that even what this was - was not for guys like him.

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[attr="class","tequilas"]#12 | forbidden (a letter)

[attr="class","margiewrites"]I doubt that I will ever give you this letter, or that you will ever read it. Sometimes, it is easier to address a you that will never know the thoughts in my heart, than to speak them out loud.

The life I have chosen to lead is not supposed to be one of wanting. It is not, as you have wondered, even supposed to be a happy one. It is one where I have elected to put the greater good before my own good, to put aside emotion and thought and self-preservation and even simple happiness in order to ensure the longevity and safety of one more important and precious than myself. The life I lead is not a life I live for myself, but for another. This life is one I know you understand, though our circumstances are vastly different.

It is selfishness that makes me wonder if there might be more to this life that I have chosen. It is selfishness that has me question all I know, all I have been taught and told. It is the way the world has always been. Who am I to ask for more? Who am I to ask the world to change for me? It is selfishness, I know, and yet I cannot seem to put the thoughts to rest.

It is my duty to protect you from all harm. It is my duty to care for you, to see to any and all of your needs. It is my duty to teach, and care, and keep. It is my duty to put you above myself and above all others.

In many ways, my duty has been to love you. So how could I not do just that?

I cannot seem to find the line anymore, between what I am supposed to do and what I want to do, between duty and my own wishes and desires. It is my duty to care for you, and yet I cannot help but care for you. I have no obligation to your happiness, and yet I find myself seeking it nonetheless. I seek your smiles, and your laughter, and the sweet smell of flowers. Selfishly, I seek your happiness, because it is my own.

This is not how one such as myself is meant to act. There are rules and strictures that I was taught long ago, and that I have tried to teach you. Yet I cannot seem to stop myself from breaking them for myself, and for you. I should be ashamed of my thoughts, my words, and my recent actions, and yet I cannot bring myself to be. To feel such shame would mean I regret my feelings for you. And I do not.

As I write this, you are sleeping. When you wake, I will care for you as I always have. I will keep you fed, clothed, washed, and dressed. I will make you write and sit straight and use the proper utensils, even though I know you would prefer to use your hands some days. I will perform my duty as your shadow as you perform yours in the sun. In many ways, nothing will change once you wake.

But perhaps I will let myself love you. I will look at you with lovingness in my eyes and treat you sweetly. I will strive for your happiness, and perhaps I will allow it for myself, as well. I will be proud of you, and everything I am will belong to you. One day, perhaps I will tell you all of this. Until then, until I can find the words, I hope you can feel it and know it is true.

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[attr="class","tequilas"]#27 | bird on a wire

[attr="class","margiewrites"]"On the count of three, yah? I know you can count to three."

Ori nodded, staring straight ahead at the canvas wall of the tent, too drab to be anything showed to those who paid to see the Show. His left hand gripped at the fabric of his pants, a feeble effort to keep himself sitting still. His right... well. His right fidgeted too, even as it sent twinges of pain up to his dislocated shoulder. It was all he could do to keep himself from thinking about how sick and sweaty and gross and awful and useless he felt. He resisted the urge to look at it; he'd already been told how bad and weird it looked.

Another small shift and a hand smacked his head hard enough to make him yelp. Ori blinked up at Ciri with wide, watering eyes, meeting her frustrated expression. Frustrated, and worried, which he could understand. "And better not to move, or I'll mess it up worse than it is." A warning touch settled onto his throbbing shoulder and Ori nodded again, more vigorously this time, tears prickling at his eyes.

"Yes'm. Yeah. I'll be good. Promise."

It was such a shame, though, that it had happened like this. His most special friend was gonna come see him. She had promised to come see him, to see him perform, and he'd so been looking forward to it. It was so rare, after all, that he had anyone coming just for him. Never living anywhere for long, never being allowed out, it was hard to make those connections. His friends were with the Spectacle. His family too. They didn't have to put in any effort to come see him. For them it wasn't special. It would have been special for her. It would have meant something for her to come see.

No wonder he'd always been told he was unlucky. Because this sure felt like unluckiness. It was random, always, when his vertigo decided to affect him, as random as when his magic pulled at his senses. Perhaps if he was smarter, or better, it would be easier to predict. But he wasn't. So he hadn't been ready to be struck with the intense feeling of dizziness while balancing on a wire during the practice before the show. No one had been ready to catch him as he fell to the ground below, landing hard and bad on his shoulder.

Ciri had peeled him off the floor and brought him back to the tent they shared with Mena and Fen. The other two had quickly fluttered in to peek and make sure he was still alive, but too soon they had to leave or risk reprimand from their betters. So it now it was just him at Ciri's mercy, waiting helplessly for her to push his shoulder back into place. No surgeons, no menders, just a friend trying to do her best for him.

"On three." Ori nodded and did his best to relax, even as he knew how much it would hurt and that she wouldn't wait until three to fix him. "One." It would be on two, he was sure. She always tried to trick him, but it never worked. "Two." His stomach lurched at the sudden swell of pain, the scrape of bone on bone making him nauseous. Ori whimpered, dropping his head onto Ciri's shoulder as she held him still. "Breathe, it's okay. You're okay. Okay?"

Ori nodded again, letting himself collapse for just a moment. Too soon she'd force him up, put him in a sling, and get him back to the tents do something. Anything. There wasn't the option to sit idle under the great and terrifying Ringmaster. He couldn't perform like this, but he'd better make himself useful, or suffer worse consequences.

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