Every waking moment these past few weeks have been torturous. It seems that the episode I had when Felix was here triggered a flood, and now every dream, every thought is plagued with visions of my mother, Leon, the events of my hundreds of years. All the people I’ve loved and lost, let down and let go. I cannot go an hour at most without being hit with another violent flashback, doubled over on my bedroom floor or in my kitchen with tears streaming down my face. I’m constantly drowning, memories filling me, overwhelming me, threatening to pull me under. Snatches of voices I never thought I’d hear again, faces still painful even after all this time, almost-forgotten occurrences and fragments of disconnected, floating emotions with no why or how.

A meadow in summertime, the air thick with the smell of wildflowers–

Whirling round in the arms of an ebony-skinned boy, warm hands through the frosty cold–

A feeling of falling, on and on and on–

“Why so serious, Aristotle? Many boys would kill for this opportunity! Where is your gratitude?” Sharp pinches, slaps, a vicious kick–

Soft, lined hands cupping my face, a cozy sense of safety–

A piercing scream I vaguely recognise as my own, as pain slices in whirls up my arms, feeling like a hundred knives biting into my skin with silver teeth–

“It is done. He shall live until the end of time.”

No order, no categories, no sense. Only memories upon memories clamouring to be lived again, shrieking over each other like splintered glass inside my head. Anyone else would have broken already, been driven to madness as they were tortured by things that were long lost, things they could never have again. Succumbed to the past’s cruel claws.

But I’m not anyone else – I’m one of a kind, an oddity. There is no one else like me. Not a single soul, anywhere. Anyone who even knew about my immortality, and my magic, is long dead. Hundreds of years have strengthened my mind, and I am fairly certain I am the only person who will ever be able to bear this. Ironic, really; my long life is the only thing causing this torment, and the only thing that means I can survive it.

Still, while I will always be more or less alone, I am not lonely: I have friends, if no family. That has to be enough for me; I don’t really have a choice, and even though things are far from perfect, I am happy in Kent for the time being.

*

One evening, fragile and exhausted from the last weeks but in a rare moment of calm, I decide to go down to the well in the village instead of the one behind the Earl’s manor. I need a change, and a walk will be nice in the cooling air. As I step out of my house, a delicious breeze whispers over my skin, the last few traces of the day’s blistering humidity carried away on it. I stretch, wincing slightly at the ache in my joints and back, and set off with a tin jug across the wilted grass. 

The journey takes about fifteen minutes, and I watch the sunset while I walk. It’s stunning, slashes of gold and orange and pink against the velvety silver-blue of the rest of the sky. I’ve seen thousands of sunsets, but they never cease to amaze me with their beauty, the way they look like fire spilled over fine cloth. Look at me, getting poetic. I almost chuckle out loud – the euphoria of a pause in the relentless assault of the past is making me nearly giddy. As I haul the full bucket out of the well, I contemplate what I could do with the garden when the heat finally breaks. Perhaps I could grow the roses up the back wall, or give my bed of poppies and chrysanthemums a little nudge with my magic. I grow them for me, not the Earl, unlike the others – although he doesn’t know that. Poppies symbolise death and remembrance, and chrysanthemums are associated with enduring love and dedication. They’re for Leon. They’re for my mother. They’re for my little sister. They’re for all the others who have been dear to me, as I was dear to them.

I shake my head, bringing myself back to the present, focusing on the abrasive rub of the rope against my fingers, water dripping in the well, the far-off whinny of a horse and– footsteps on the cobblestones behind me. I turn around, and surprise freezes me in place.

Felix.