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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 Ivory 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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