The Stories We Forgot

A little bit of self-indulgence, as a treat

Sunset on the cliffside left the cottage washed in gold. Gulsong echoed faintly in the late-spring breeze. The sea, as always, was gentle. No storm had threatened the homestead since the flying ship had docked there over half a decade ago. And in all that time, the sun rarely set. When it did, the sky twinkled with stars so plentiful, to stand beneath them was to stand in a cavern of diamonds. And when morning came, it brought with it peach clouds and lovely dew.

The cottage was well-tended. The cupboards never emptied and the woodwork never wore. The irregularly-placed stones of the walkway were never so slick that the boy would trip when he sprinted across them—which he was known to do. He laughed and played in an eternity of lazy afternoons.

Not for the first time, but for the first time in a while, the air shifted, and a figure appeared on the hillside. They were tall—but not so tall as the man who kept the cottage—and short-haired, with eyes as two-toned as the grain and sea of earth itself.

At their arrival, the boy skidded to a halt, a recognition dawning on him that the figure didn’t envy. It was the feeling of realizing you’d lost track of time, but multiplied one hundred-fold.

“You’re back,” Ezra whispered, his voice still high and sweet.

“For now.” They nodded. “Where’s your brother?”

“Here.” The eldest of the Graywing siblings ducked through the doorway, and at the sight of him, the breath was all but crushed from the intruder’s lungs.

He was just as they remembered: dark-haired and sepia-skinned, graying temples and bathed in an angelic aura of multi-chromatic stardust. They knew every line of his face by heart.

“Severn,” they whispered.

“Sypher.” He grinned the same as always: as if he knew a secret no one else did. “That’s new. Where have you been?”

“Oh, here and there,” they said, their breath hitching as they held out their hand, and a book materialized in it.

“What’s this?” They asked, but the moment it passed into his grip, a shiver ran down his spine. “Is … is it about us?”

“No, but there’s pieces of you in it. And some pieces of her. Ru Ru’s in there too, if you squint. Let’s see, who else would you know?”

“I don’t believe this.” Severn thumbed through the pages, his shoulders slumping, and the author’s heart skipped a beat.

“I know.” Their voice dropped along with their eyes, and they took to scanning the fluffy, fragrant grass. “But your story … it was different. It lived only in the moment. And all those words I wrote for you, I can’t get them back.”

“No, I mean … you did it.” He lowered the book, letting out an exasperated chuckle that turned into a sniffle. His eyes grew misty. “You actually did it.”

“You were the one who helped me see that I could.” They stepped forward, and Severn drew them into his arms, the two of them embracing in a tight hug.

When they parted, Severn motioned towards the cottage. “Will you stay for tea?”

“I rather think I must.” They said, but as they turned for the cottage, something stopped them in their tracks.

It was a far cry from a castle. Tucked worlds away from an empire, a prison colony, and the twisted, aching reminders of a compromised heart. Severn was watching them with a somber expression. He reached out to take their hand, and in the moment they connected, the two of them were one and the same.

“It’s a beautiful eternity you’ve built for us,” he said, but tears sprang to the author’s eyes all the same.

“I wanted it to be so much more.” Their voice shook. He meant too much to them for this to be the end. It was all too good a story to live only in their mind.

“The world doesn’t have to know our names,” Severn said, giving their hand a gentle squeeze. “So long as you never forget them.”

“Never,” they promised, squeezing his hand right back.

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This story is dedicated to Severn Graywing, Caira Mayhem, Aru “Ru Ru Jare-Bear”, Favis Ravouren, Juno Renard, and all the other stories that built the Age of Monsters. Known by few, but loved no less for it.