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Another town, another Favor Tree, and none of them the same. You should be relieved, you think, that this tree leans and swoops along the ground a bit, that the last one’s branches tilted upwards so its base was full of light, and that the one before it weighed its boughs with fruit. You should be grateful that the House of Change here is low and winding, walls all painted darkless, hallways lit by open windows. There is nothing here to send you, lungs collapsing, fingers searching for your dagger, wandering desperately through the halls searching for the King after a nightmare. There is nothing here to remind you of the loops.
You should be happy.
Instead, you're crumpled on the ground, gasping amidst the freshly fallen leaves because it’s hit you, once again, that you’ve forgotten.
It’s a trick of yours by now, and it’s the oldest trick you know. Every moment of your life – summer-warm raindrops sliding, glittering, down your cloak, the taste of the profiteroles Bonnie made for the party in another House just a few weeks before the loops, just a little burnt, dripping chocolate, the scent of alcohol on the air and the sensation of your hair lifting from your face as you spun, desperately, in dance – each precious scene, once buried carefully in your mind in hopes that it would prove a peaceful resting place, eventually vanishes. You’d think the loss of your family, your country and identity, would be enough. Instead, as your breathing slows each night you’re suddenly struck with wondering what new memories will be dimmed and gone tomorrow when the sunlight ends your sleep.
Today, you walked up to this Favor Tree and forgot what they first said to you on meeting.
Your ally always sat on a gnarled tree root barely hidden by the shadows and the low sweep of the branches, leaves lit silver by their glow. Your ally was something from a long-forgotten myth, all burnt sugar and empty skies and the razor-sharp cut of clear starlight. Your ally could be glib at times (considering the context), and sarcastic – it seemed at times that they chose their words to laugh at your reaction. You thought you heard a melody in their sing-song speech.
You thought you hated them, some loops, and other loops you were near certain you loved them. There were moments when the ceaseless repetition felt like nothing more than a current, lifting you up, all light and immaterial, and bearing you steadily away into a starry sea, until they caught you in their stare, until they pressed their finger into the back of your hand so you could feel their warmth and know that you were real.
“You’re here, with me.”
And now you’ve forgotten what they said to you, on meeting.
You’ve forgotten exactly how the darkless contours of their throat bled away into inky glitz, confusing textures and gradations, how their light reflected off the eclectic edges of their shoulders.
You’ve forgotten what constellations could be traced into their arcs and shades of starlight, tiny pinpricks peering darkless from their body.
You’ve forgotten how long the silence lasted after they said they were like your partner.
You’ve forgotten the strange timbre of their voice the day you called them, thought impossible, mind sliced up and weeping, begging to recall your family’s names.
You’ve forgotten the exact difference in shade between their eyes.
What next?
When someone leaves, they’re meant to leave at least a mark on you. When someone dies, this mark becomes their continued presence in your life. They still call out to you from the night sky when the clouds roll away and the moon has not yet risen, they still laugh at you in clever voices and playful flirtations overheard in passing, they still are present in the scent of fallen leaves, sometimes, and sugar. You hold your memories of them up to the light, scrutinizing each one, trying and failing to write them down, struggling not to let them slip from your fingers and shatter on the ground. You remember them so desperately, they turn to memories of remembrance, and the thought of them brings to mind the feel of sheets and pillowcases as you revisit your memories before sleeping. You remember them with every ounce of willpower you have, and still it is not enough. Still, you feel them slipping away.
The party will never know them. You will never know if they liked the feel of raindrops in their eyelashes, if they had a mouth to taste or nose to smell with, hidden behind that brilliant light. You will never know if they would have joined Mirabelle and Odile’s book club, if they would have enjoyed trying on Isabeau’s outfits after the loops or would have preferred to continue without. You will never know how they would have acted around Bonnie, whom they always seemed to hold just slightly separate from the others, whom they shouted at you for failing to protect. You will never know who, or what, they were.
(You think you have an idea. One night, standing in front of the bathroom mirror, missing them so viciously it felt like you had swallowed shards of glass, you met your gaze and raised your voice into your throat, all sing-song and sheared edges. The sound that echoed back at you was so familiar it made you bleed, and Isa found you slouched on the ground beside the sink, laughing and weeping for reasons you couldn’t quite explain. You’ll never ask them, now. You’ll never get the chance.)
You're curled up beneath the Favor Tree, sobbing, and in an hour or so, your family will find you. They will see you lying there, still and silent after the tears run out, and they will fall to the ground beside you and hold onto you with a warmth and fierceness that will burn as much as it heals and warm your grief alongside your body until you start crying again, and it'll feel endless. They'll press their lips to your broken pieces until they taste burnt sugar. They'll hold you, as you hold your grief, and you'll weep with them. But right now, you're alone, pressing your finger into the back of your hand hard enough to bruise, trying to remember what it felt like when your ally did it, trying to feel their touch again.
The truth is, they saved you and in surviving you left them behind. The truth is, you’ll never know what they experienced, what they yearned for, what they loved. The truth is, the last thing you ever gave them was a curse, and you’ll never be able to apologize.
The truth is, there is an ocean in your mind that washes away all memory, and one day the waves will pull silvery sand over their footprints and they’ll be lost to you forever.
The truth is, you’ve already forgotten countless shards of who they were, and you can’t recognize what you’ve lost until it sidles up beside you and slides its knife into your stomach.
The truth is, your memories are memories of memories, and your ally, whoever they once were, is gone.
They only exist in your memory now. You wish your mind was a peaceful resting place, but it isn’t.
You’re going to spend the rest of your life losing them.