Time runs in envy of us,
Holding our day more firm in unbelief.
- Horace [trans. Ezra Pound]
Pristine
'Honestly,' Eric says, casually - as if answering a question concerning seating arrangements, or the weather, après Katrina - and you know that he is lying. It isn't that he's bad at it, poor thing. You've just had more practice than he.
'It was so long ago. I barely remember the first couple of centuries with my maker, much less my human life.'
'My dear,' you say, reaching over and patting him sympathetically on the arm. 'I know exactly what you mean.'
At your age, what's the point in dwelling on ancient history? There is so much of it. None of you can afford to be innocent children. If he is really still the Viking, if that man is still there, tucked away at the centre of his being, doesn't that make you the Whore?
You salute Eric with your goblet, its contents the same colour as your lips. 'To forgetting.'
THE END
8 September 2009