In a World of Dust and Memory

In a World of Dust and Memory,

 

the Last Protomeckian wanders across the ruins of all civilization. She sees Ages pass in the blink of an eye, and hears eternally the simplest thoughts of those of Old. One thought, hitherto, resonates in the darkness, rising above all others like a pillar: Reclamation. The Last Protomeckian wanders for this word, pursues this ideal, survives for this Purpose; in this kind of world, only those with Purpose can survive the piercing loneliness of one's self.

For such a place as this world, life is an anomaly, and dust and memory strive to replace it. Life is Life's Purpose, and death is Death's, but a world without both has no Purpose but to snuff the concept. Life does not benefit a dead world, just as death does not crush a living one; without cause to keep it, the dead world will remove Life.

This world is a dead world. It is cold. It is angry. The Dustorm rages, and the sky is blotted by black soot. Where an eye, or a scope, might pierce the overhead veil, it would see only a handful of stars. The constellations never shifted, for the world had long ago stopped turning. The only movement came from the Great Scar, a gash cut across the sky from which enormous blobs of blood-red matter receded from the clouds to a blazing red canyon, never touching either, never interrupted.

Ignoring it all, the Last Protomeckian walks onward through a tumult, a tornadic force of swirling dust and walls of sand. In the loss, over mountains of dust, she stumbles. Glancing down, she sees a sign creeping out of the mountains: "What's in a Name? Romeo & Juliet, Performing Live!"

What is in a name? she wonders. Of course, even in a world of dust and memory, she knows she has a name. Even if nobody else uses it, she remembers herself as Silver.

Father's voice slips into her ear, past the incredible noise of the Dustorm; it was the first word she'd ever heard. Father, who had given her life, memories, Purpose.

"What is my Purpose?" she asks the world, but only dust and memory are present to answer her, and both are terrible conversationalists.

As she wanders, the Dustorm tears into Silver's exposed cheek, arms, legs. The dust shreds the flesh it licks like ripping sheets of wet paper, peeling the being down to nothing but the blood and the bone. As if such torment were not extant, or perhaps an acquired taste, Silver meanders on without a stutter, a smile, or a hope. Only Reclamation heralds her, but Reclamation is no guide to the lost. Silver seeks something more, but what is sought remains enshrouded.

Silver wanders through the Dustorm, and I expect she will continue to wander until the last Age draws close. And, through the decades, she hears only the words of the Master as they resonate within her shattered memory: "You'll Reclaim nothing! You will walk until the Dustorm takes you, or the Crimsonborn kill you!"

Silver keeps on the course lined with death, laid by the roadway of memory, to everywhere which is nowhere. In light of all that she's seen, Silver sheds a single tear which dries almost instantly. "Please, take me," the being whispers, a voice lost to the uproar of the Dustorm. "Please, kill me."

And the winds slow as if to prolong Silver's torment, but do not die. Unlike all other things in the dead world, the winds could never die.

Author's Note

I've been thinking quite a deal about this story, a story inspired by the desire to escape to a world of dust and memory and leave all else behind. It is now the basis for a dozen other tales, and in itself, Loneliness has given me back tenfold what I've invested into it.

Thank you for reading!