Windswept, Wind-drunk, Oh How the Air Holds Our Memories

He thinks it's been months. Months of ragged stones and a blazing sun, somehow still there is no warmth. He thinks it's only been months, he cannot count the rise and fall of the moon, or the differing colors in the trees. He cannot even count the visitors, for there are none. There are never any, it is only himself that he knows of. He does not quite understand it. But does he need to? This is all he knows, the calming blades of grass that he lays on, the stone is comfortable, he thinks. He has never had anything else to lay his head upon. He thinks it's been months. But centuries have gone by, his mind has betrayed him. Time doesn’t exist here, or has it ever? His memories are muffled, truly he does not have any, what is there to remember? He roams, blending in with the fog, intertwining with the bark of the trees. He strays, as far as he can, but when the moon rises and the night falls, he is always there again. Behind the gate, locked to the stone, beyond the sunset. 

A dizziness takes him, he looks down and does not see himself. He peers into nothingness, a chasm of amnesia and a nauseating headache. The ground opens up beneath him and he knows if he lets go, he will never roam again. Roaming is all he can do, despite the years and the echoing humanity, all he desires is to walk, to see, to hear. 

A whistle of wind passes, and it speaks.

“O’ child of Man,” it murmurs, bell-like in the way it sweeps through the air. It rustles what he thinks was his hair, a shiver runs up what he used to call his skin. 

“Do you not remember? The sound of water and the spray of earth. The mud clung to your body like the sludge of time. Do you not feel the need to reminisce?” 

The wind never dies, but it moves on. The bells end, the leaves fall, and he is left to linger. He wonders for a moment why the words have stirred a pounding in what he remembers being his chest. For a moment, he remembers. The calm of life, a distant memory so far, he can only see a glimpse before it falls through his fingers. His fingers! He saw them for a moment, before the pit opened again. Pale and shaking, clad in a single ring, small then wrinkled. He heard a laugh, the twinkle of joy, the fair hair of love, the warmth of a sun. It's gone before he can connect it. He watches the memory from behind the gate, and lets the chain pull him back to the stone. 

It is not long before the wind returns, it can never stay gone for long. Like the mortals, it aches for secrets, hungry for the running mind, and it devours the second it can. 

“Poor thing,” it chimes. For the first time in centuries he sucks in a breath, letting the cool air drown his throat. What he thinks are his lungs fill with the wind, it slithers in, resting its voice for a moment. It pretends, it too, can die. 

The trees bend to its will, “still forgetting I see? You can only blame yourself. Do not fear the fall, young one, it will release you. Perhaps there is still time.” The whistles pick up, to him it sounds like laughter. “Time, time, time. Those who have it want to be rid of it. Those who run out beg for more. Are you begging?” 

The air leaves him, he wishes he could breathe again. 

Another memory. This time he feels the cold, but it is welcomed for once. He shivers, and heat arrives quickly. He holds another's hand; twenty fingers share one warmth. He smiles, at least he thinks he does. Muscles awaken and like before the memories leave just as swiftly as they arrive. But he remembers the feeling, he closes what he believes are his eyes and takes in the darkness. He had a body, and he had a life, and he wants so desperately to feel whole again. 

The wind swirls back while his eyes are closed. If he stays like this, he thinks, he can almost pretend he is elsewhere. That he has been freed of the stone, that he can roam farther than the gate, farther than the wind. In the darkness, he feels weightless, and he gasps and begs for anything but. Oh, how he wishes he could feel the gravity, to be tethered to the earth and fall victim to the mortal despair of feeling. 

“The memories do not come from begging, nor from want.” The wind says, he blinks, in the haze he thinks he can almost see its mouth. Hovering in the sky, eating and eating, and spitting out the words it does not want. He tries to speak, but it is he that does not have a mouth, not anymore. 

The wind shushes him, as if it knows his mind. “Grit your imaginary teeth if you wish. Your time here is over if you desire such. Take the fall, poor one. Beg no one but yourself for mercy.” 

He closes his eyes again. Let’s himself pretend he is alive once more. Focuses on the fleeting memories that leave him to linger, tries to grasp the chimes that dwindle. The wind always leaves, even when his questions and himself cannot. He tries to breathe, pull the air and fill his lungs. No air remains when the wind leaves, he ends up gaping into the empty space. The words remain, heady in his mind. Beg no one but yourself. The trees surround him, the gate leans forward as if to hear his voice. He opens his eyes and rises from his knees. 

He glances back to the stone, the ground spasms, the pit waves him forward. This time he lets himself fall.