The Chronicles Of Death

Chapter Four: The Things That Can Not Be Remembered

 Chapter Four: The Things That Can Not Be Remembered

         He healed her injuries with ease. The light green specks of his gift floated around her in a mass so thick that she could barely see her hands until he had finnished with them. Once raw and bloody, all that was left was a thin band around her wrist, a pink scar. 

        She looked at him as she tried to remember who he was. It seemed so important, yet still locked away inside her head. She wanted to ask, but she also didn't.  

         "Excuse me." She finnaly whispered meekly. She had no extra energy to speak with her normal tone. "Can you tell me who you are." 

        "I have many names." He answered. "Many more than I can remember. Demon, Devil, Immortal, Incubus, Nightmare." He looked up to her. An intense eye filled her with a heat. "But you may call me Conscious. The person dearest to me gave me that name." A great love was hidden beneath those words, and it almost seemed like they were directed towards her.   

              "Conscious, as in the conscious we are all supposed to have?" She asked, intrigued. He nodded  and for the first time since he had arrived, his face looked serene.

                 "I suppose so." He whispered. 

            One silver eye peeked out from beneath his hair, so sad and full of longing. It was such an intense feeling that could not be conveyed by words alone. Touching his face as she brushed away the strands of hair covering his other eye, she couldn’t help but feel the pleasant warmth that radiated from his skin. 

         Even though it was covered, Echoe could still see the deep scar creeping up the side of his face. It had healed well, but such a scar meant it had been a horrific wound. He stood still as she placed her fingers beside the eye patch. She felt the smoothness of his skin, the twitching of his eyelid as she slowly lifted away the silver and black cover. 

         Gasping, a twinge of pain shot through her heart. No eye blinked back at her, it was nothing but and empty space, devoid of its rightful occupant. Echoe wanted to cry out for him. To comfort him. To tell him that it was alright, that it wasn’t such a big loss, but she couldn’t.

        He lifted her hand away as he covered everything back up, silent and solemn. Its my fault, she thought. It was unexplainable, the feeling of guilt and grief swamping her.

         “Your eye,” She whispered, barely audible. Somehow sensing the guilt she held, he shrugged.

          “It happened a very long time ago, such a long time that I was able to make amends with the man who took half my sight.”  

           “But-”

          “Do not feel sorry for something you could not have changed. It was and always will be my fault that I got hurt.”

       “I don’t know why, but I feel so much anger, the man who hurt you… I get the feeling I could have-” She closed her mouth. Frown lines formed even before she was done speaking. “No, I don’t think I could have averted it. So why do I feel like I should take the blame?” Creases knitted between her brow, forming a bridge between her eyes. “Why do I feel so angry?! Why does it hurt to look at you and feel as if I am guilty?” Concious smoothed away stray hairs on her head, the motion so oddly comforting.

      She felt herself being gathered into his embrace. Tears stung at her cheeks, hot against her frozen skin. He didn’t speak and just held her tight against him. If he could cry, she imagined that was what he was doing. Silently holding onto her, like a child crying in front of his mother. Warmth refilled her body and she looked up.