Years Gone By (Tag: Sorrow)

Sorrow had almost expected that he would receive no reply at all. When it came, carried by Calm's gentle sway of wings, his heart had drummed against the cage of his chest as if it fought wildly to escape. Calm's soft hooting had soothed his nerves, and Sorrow was glad to find that Lacetta had obliged the proposition to choose a place where they could meet, if she so allowed.

In Bristol he was quick to find track of Lacetta's course, and he followed it by shadow-crossing again. He showed in the shadow beneath the trees, parasol in hand in case there be need for it. Despite the lack of snow however, clouds had gathered enough to shield him from the sun; and for that he was grateful. He took notion of Lacetta's gentle frame over by the water and approached her in long strides, still somehow managing to retain his grace.

“Good afternoon, Lacetta,” he breathed as he came to a stop in front of her. He found change in her features and immediately worried over the pain that freckled the blue and green of her eyes. “Thank you,” his throat must have dried at the sight of her, as every emotion threatened to bubble over and come spilling over his lips. “For coming to meet me, I- well. Thank you.” She was so close, after so long, and he wanted nothing more but to hold her in his arms; hold her until she heard every apology, for every moment he had tried not to think about her, and until she could feel every word that he had meant to say that day when she ran from him in tears.

Instead he scolded himself for thinking that in so long her feelings had not changed. It was a selfish thought, and among ones Sorrow found he often had with Lacetta in mind. A year or so ago he had promised himself to make no more of it; he let Lacetta live her own life and had finally, after endlessly trying to mend the tear between himself and Vanity, chosen to forget about him too. But he missed her. Oh how he missed her. If he had put a word down for every time he wished to contact her, he would have filled pages of a book. The best he could do was try and be her friend again; if such a thing were possible, he would ask for no more.

He watched her as she stood and smiled at him, quite a bit like how she used to smile at him, but then of course this time with a sense of sadness that he could so easily tell off people. It caused a hurt in him that she, of all people, had had to feel pain again. It was a moment after she had dropped her head, studying the ground with some interest, that Sorrow reached out and placed a pale hand on her cheek, gently guiding her head up again.

“Look at you,” a smile had placed his lips and there was no denying the fondness in his voice as he spoke. “Just as I remember and yet so changed.” He had loved a girl. In some ways Lacetta remained that girl; and perhaps he would never forget how he felt for her. But his life had entered a woman. She was no fantasy, like Lacetta had been. She was flame. He realized it in that moment, as something childish lingered in Lacetta through all the shadow that wanted to possess her. She could remain like this, always, able to heal herself with just her mind.

Retreating his hand, Sorrow saw he had interrupted a thought. Her own fingers seemed to cling to the fabric of a sleeve that kept her other arm warm. He wondered what secret lay beneath it, but made no notion to find out. If it was for him to know, he would, and by Lacetta’s lips as she spoke of it.

“Yes,” he spoke instead in response to her question. “And you?” Casting a glance towards the bench she had previously been sitting on. “Shall we sit down?”

“Tell me?” he asked, taking his place beside her on the bench. “I would like to hear of the gentler days, and then of those that were less than so. If I may.” Sorrow’s fingers found way to the spot on Lacetta’s arm that she had touched earlier. He traced them gently over the sleeve, feeling the hard fabric but little else. However he understood that there was a patch of pain there, one that he may not be able to yet uncover.

There was a time when his mind linked to hers easily; cause of a past memory charm and careful patching of lost memories. Sorrow would speak to Lacetta without a sound less the one in their minds. But as time progressed and their relationship did not, even those quiet words and images faded into an empty space that brought no more warmth at all. Soon he was afraid to call her a friend, for no friend should allow to stay out of touch for so long. It was a mistake Sorrow so often repeated that he could no more find words to express his apologies. He felt himself a shadow in their minds, one that should have disappeared with time, but seemed so selfish in its desire to linger.

There was one thing worse than that however; and it was his own awareness of his actions. Sorrow was no man, though he had tried to follow the moral standings of one such. In the end he did not mind himself. He let emotion lead him more often than he would care to admit. And in spite to all his act and grace, he had more faults than others chose to see.

Humans were such simple creatures. So perfect in the way of being imperfect. They were truly beings of feeling and emotion, little souls to collect and treasure. Sorrow had taken hearts and minds, and left the core of his name in them. With every attempt to fix something, he had probably made it worse. He found his reflection in the shine of Lacetta’s eyes, and for the first time in years, he knew himself. He was not there to make it better; it was never his role to interrupt the natural flow of things. He was not there to force his presence into the great mixture. Sorrow was a lonely companion; a silent emotion that kept watch from the shadow. And he was there to take the sadness away with him. As much as pressured the heart as he could. As much as his name allowed him.