He Forgets
Genre: gen, angst, drabble
Rating: G (K)
Word Count: almost
400
Summary: Paintings of circles and
symbols and the angry blots he'd used to cover his mistakes adorn
the walls, in all their heathen glory. The land lady asks if he
mightn't prefer painting her the good Lord's son in the manger
instead. post-series, Edward-centric
--
(He doesn't want to forget.)
For the first week, he forgets. He forgets when he reaches for a platter with his wooden hand and it crashes to the ground. And again he forgets when he tries to fix it; there is only the hollow clap of his hands. Then silence.
In the laughing hour, he sits in the back corner. Someone offers him a drink, and he remembers a pious town in the desert with a fountain spouting wine, and a little boy with golden hair. A thirsty little boy.
And so he drinks. For a moment it's almost as if –
For a moment, he forgets that pious town is no longer, spins a brilliant falsehood. He shouldn't have, but that is the lie he wants to feed himself. He is getting older, and finds he doesn't mind the flavor of lies as much as he once did. It must be an acquired taste, like the drink in front of him. Earthy and musty and old.
One day, he finds a lump of coal behind the house. This once would've been enough to fix a wall, build a castle. And turn ashes to gold, he thinks.
But it's been a long while since he could do that, and longer still since he'd drawn the array. Was the delta pattern inverted or not? Was the inner core hexagonal or another shape entirely? The magic is gone now, and he forgets.
For the first month, he practices. Paintings of circles and symbols and the angry blots he'd used to cover his mistakes adorn the walls, in all their heathen glory. The land lady asks if he mightn't prefer painting her the good Lord's son in the manger instead.
But all he thinks is this: A long time ago, there was another son. He had soft hazel eyes and a wide, straight smile, a love for kittens…
…and a body of steel.
Don't forget, he had vowed. Never forget.
And yet, a year later, he wonders whether it matters. Did his brother have dark hair like Mother, or was it golden like his? Maybe it was somewhere in between.
It doesn't matter. Little Brother is gone now. Gone for good.
He closes the Door behind him.
And he forgets.
--
Fin
This was written to assuage my abhorrence of writing Ed as a viewpoint character, because, really, I am truly awful at it. Therefore, criticism (in ANY form!) would be greatly appreciated.