The Memory Marauder

“I don’t think I’ll have enough for this,” you remark, fumbling around in your purse, trying to produce the coins necessary to purchase the blanket you had your eye on from the moment we walked into the store. 

I smile at you, my eyes gleaming in a way that suggests I know more than you. You furrow your brow at me, as your face scrunches together in the expression I’ve grown so fond of as we’ve traveled the world together. 

I chuckle, and walk over to you, as you turn back to examine the blanket. I swipe my finger to your forehead, getting your brows to unfurrow, and your eyes flutter. You blink in surprise, then begin to chuckle and shake your head at me. 

(I don’t tell you what I know, however. Or what I just found out. I don’t think it’d be all that wise of me.)

When buying goods from the village of Osprey, one doesn’t use coins. To get the goods you seek, you must turn inward and offer what lies in your head. I wonder what you have left to offer. 

I see you clutching the blanket now, and I know you. Once you set your mind to something, you will achieve it, and you seem to have decided to buy the blanket. I don’t blame you. It’s beautiful. 

I know you so well. I know that when you were young, you made a bet with an old girlfriend of yours that you could climb up the tall, bronze statue of the queen of Leore, your hometown. You’d made it in three tries, each scrape and cut that came with the falls not deterring you in the slightest. 

That wasn’t even the most extreme of the instances in which you’d stuck to your guns, even when you really shouldn’t have. I admire that part of you, though. The part of you that’s so passionate that you act with your heart, consequences be damned. 

The blanket is made of silk, with intricate patterns woven onto the fabric. Little woven warblers perch atop the sewn-on branches on the blanket, tempting you closer with their colorful wings and perfect stitches. The blanket lilts like a gentle breeze as it slips around your shoulders. You sigh, content. The blanket is perfect for you, and you must have it, as you smile at the birds that flit across your back in shades of gold and blue. 

“Didn’t you tell me you grew up in Osprey?” You ask me, as you fold the blanket in your arms. “Do you know how much this will sell for?” 

I smile at you, and shake my head. “I only lived here as a child.” I smirk. “You’ll get it, if you really want it. I know you.” 

“Way to not answer my question,” you scoff. “I swear, three months after I saved you from those shitheads in the forest, you're still a cryptic asshole.” 

“You got me,” I say. “You’ll have to duel the merchant for it.” 

You crack your knuckles with a grin. “Wouldn’t be the first time. Bring it on.” 

I laugh and try to commit the sight of you to memory. Whole and perfect. Unaltered by anyone else. 

You still have the scar on your cheek from when we fought with a member of the Kingsguard back in the oppressive kingdom of Tyla. They’d profiled me, declaring that I was a thief, but for a crime they couldn’t even name. You’d punched them when they lunged for me. A skirmish had broken out, and you’d gotten a scar across your left cheek for your troubles, an ugly scarlet lightning bolt on an otherwise perfectly pristine canvas. 

When I’d stitched you up, after we’d been run out of the kingdom, I’d apologized to you, and you’d merely laughed. And told me I looked cute when I worried. I still feel my face grow warm at the memory, as it plays on loop in my head. 

As long as I live, I shall never give it up. Nothing will ever equate the value of that memory. 

“Man,” you say, scratching your head. “I’ve got such a horrible memory. I’m trying to remember the last time I fought in a duel.” 

I remember that it was in the woods outside of the township of Fiore, over tickets on the ship Faron. You’d lost. You’d been devastated and guilty over losing us passage on what you’d believed would be an easy win, that you’d cried, when you believed I wasn’t looking. You didn’t need to remember that awful night and the wound to your pride, so I say nothing, and you hum and fiddle with the blanket again, clucking about your terrible memory. 

For a second, I think that I should persuade you to give up the blanket, but it is so lovely. You love it, evidenced on how you’ve already unfolded it to drape it across your shoulders yet again. You laugh, and I’m suddenly overcome with warmth from my head to toe. It’s like a leech, my love for you. Once it became fixed to me, it consumed me entirely. I had to know you. The more I came to know, the more I fell in love with you. 

You look like a woodland sprite, as you stand at the center of your kingdom of warblers that drapes gently around your shoulders. 

You deserve this blanket. You deserve something as beautiful as you. You deserve nice things, and this will be my gift to you, for sticking by my side, even as I steal and take. 

(That guard in Tyla was right, in a sense. Though, the things I take, I make sure you’ll never miss.)

I get the attention of the merchant. He’s a kind looking man, with a grandfatherly air about him, crooked spectacles askew on his nose. His hair is shock white, flying behind him like he’s been struck by lightning. 

I hope that he doesn’t take much. I really don’t know him, despite living here until I was ten. I suppose it was for the best, though I do regret not learning more about this particular old man before I ran away. 

“Ah, so you’ve picked out that blanket!” He exclaims, pinching the end of it, giving you a cheeky grin. “I knew it’d sell! My late wife sewed the pattern herself.” 

“She’s very talented,” you respond. “It’s beautiful.” 

“You flatter an old man,” the merchant responds with a chuckle, though his eyes have taken on a sad hue. “She loved nature, and she loved the sound of birdsong in the morning. She said that the blanket made her feel like she was at the center of a warbler’s melody.” 

A soft hesitation hits you, and you shrug off the blanket, ever so carefully. “It sounds like this means a lot to you, sir,” you say. “I would not want to take it from you.” 

“No, no,” the man placates. “I want her work to see the world, and you have the air of adventure around you. It’ll be perfect.” 

You smile at him, and I notice your teeth are still slightly crooked. I know you fell from the stairs when you were young, attempting to mimic the stunts of a showy squire who’d come to your town a few months ago. 

“How’d you bust up that tooth?” a rather rude-looking boy says. He holds a piece of candy in his pudgy, freckled hands. 

You blush as the merchant admonishes him for mocking such a beautiful smile. 

“You know,” you say, as your expression scrunches again, “I can’t really remember.” 

I swallow a lump in my throat. 

“The blanket,” the merchant says, after reaming the boy, who’d gone off to sulk. “Let’s get down to business, shall we?” 

“How much do I owe?” you ask, reaching for your purse.

The merchant shakes his head. “No, no,” he says. “We at Osprey run business a bit differently.” 

The merchant slides your purse back to you, and you look puzzled. You turn to me. “What does he mean?” 

“He doesn’t want your money,” I say. “He wants to ruffle around in your brain for a bit.” 

“Memory,” the merchant says, tapping his forehead with his pointer finger. “It’s how you pay for things in Osprey. We give our product, and in turn, we take a memory from the buyer, to have as our own. It should have a similar value to you, as that blanket has to me. Just know, the memory will never return to you.” 

Your eyes widen. “My memories? Surely, you must be joking.” 

I shake my head, motioning for the boy to come forward. He does, reluctantly. “Do you want your candy?” I ask. 

He nods, and leans forward on the merchant’s counter. The merchant touches a finger to the boy’s head, a gentle, seemingly innocuous tap, and the boy’s eyelids flutter. He blinks rapidly, before the merchant removes his finger with a small nod, and the boy opens his eyes. He grins, opening up the candy, and skipping out of the shop. 

“A simple piece of candy, for a memory of a fight he had with his mother,” the merchant said with a sigh. “She thinks he’s eating too many sweets.” 

“So, you really can choose anything,” you say. You furrow your brow. “I’ve got a really bad memory. What if I can’t remember anything?” 

He shrugs. “Then I’ll just take what I see as fitting for my wife’s blanket. A memory you carry in the forefront of your mind, or something that just made you smile once. Nothing too important, do not worry. It is a rule here to never take something of irreplaceable value.” 

“Have you ever done this before?” you ask me, still hesitant. 

I nod. “Yes. It’s painless, I promise.” 

You turn back towards the merchant, determination in your eyes. You smile at him. “I’ll take your wife’s blanket on the adventure of a lifetime. I think I’ve got plenty of insignificant memories to lose.” 

The merchant nods, and smiles at you, before he taps your forehead with a gentle reverence. For a brief, shameful second, envy flares in my gut. 

Your eyes flutter, and I find that you always look so beautiful when in the realm of memory. I’d seen many trances as a native to Osprey, but no one ever looked quite like you. A dreamy smile crosses your face, and your face takes on a delicate hue. I wring my hands, suppressing the urge to reach out to you during the trance. 

I reach forward to steady you as the merchant removes his finger from your forehead. He smiles at me as he closes his eyes, undoubtedly seeing you in your element. You clutch the blanket close to your chest with a grin, making to head out of the shop. 

“Thank you,” you call back to the merchant. “I’ll be sure to sleep well tonight.” 

“Take care,” the merchant says, waving to us as we leave. 

I resist the urge to wonder what he took from you, though I assume it was something small. You had so many of those, anyway. Small, tiny adventures that I knew you wouldn’t miss. It was no harm done, really. 

I tell myself that as you laugh, twirling the blanket above your head. You look like you ought to be a ribbon dancer, if the daggers lining your belt were to be ignored. 

The edges of the blanket ghost your cheek, briefly touching the jagged scar. Your face scrunches up again, and I move to swipe at your forehead again, without even thinking. 

You take a step back, eyes hesitant. You touch your cheek. “How’d I get this?” 

I recoil. “Huh?” 

You laugh, suddenly, though I don’t feel the usual elation that your happiness gives me. “Ah, that must’ve been what he took. It was probably me being stupid then having a laugh about it anyway. You know how it is!” 

A cold spread throughout my body, as I stopped dead in my tracks. I couldn’t believe the old codger had taken that memory. The memory I held so dear, of the first time I’d realized I was in love with you. When I’d begun to know you. 

You laugh and punch me in the arm, before setting off again. I can’t take it. You’ve been robbed of something meant to be yours forever. It was selfish of the old merchant to take that memory. I’m sure there were so many others floating around in your head, waiting to be picked up. 

I can’t handle the idea that my favorite part of you is gone, in the hands of a stranger. Blood roars in my ears as I lunge towards you. 

You don’t react, or even realize what’s happening as I grab your arm and turn you around. You trust me, as your traveling companion. 

I know now that I’m meant to be more than that. I’m meant to be the keeper of your memories. 

Of you. 

I cannot let any more of you slip through my fingers. 

I press my finger to your forehead and hold it there. I ignore the feeling of you beginning to shake in my arms as I keep you close to me. 

I see you, now, almost all of you, sans the memory taken from you by that old merchant-slash-criminal. Your first steps, the first time your father taught you to swing a sword. First kisses, first fights, the beginning of your journey away from home. 

I see your run-in with a memory thief who ran from home, running from the urge to take and take. A lonely orphan who longed for any sort of warmth, even if it belonged to someone else, and had tried to resist stealing it, to no avail, getting into trouble as they stole. 

(Here, in Osprey, stealing memories was the equivalent to robbing a treasury lined with gold. Or stealing coins from a starving peasant. 

Unforgivable.)

I saw the kind smiles you bestowed once rescuing me, from the anger of those of whom I’d stolen from, like a mouse desperate for cheese. I see you sticking by me, sleeping beside me as I take and take from you, and you smiling upon me with trust and kindness in your eyes. 

I see you watching me with the fondness of a companion, unaware that I’ve found the only memories I’ll ever want. I’d found my oasis, drowning in the memories of the only person I’d ever loved. 

(I realized how much sweeter it was, to covet the memories of someone I loved, versus taking from strangers in a transaction, like was taught, or taking from unsuspecting people, like I’d done for years.) 

I see the days we spent together, walking the countryside, the nights beside the fire, watching out for threats and exchanging stories. 

By the time I remove my finger from your forehead, I have robbed you of everything you had. Your vibrant eyes are dull and blank, and the blanket covers your hunched shoulders like the world’s cheeriest funeral shroud. 

I faintly register cries around me, as I’m ripped from you. 

I see the disgusted face of the old merchant as he holds the empty shell that was once you in his arms. 

The little boy looks at me with wide-eyed terror. 

I feel a faint stabbing of grief in my heart as I behold the sight of you, empty and unaware, drowning in silk and sewn-on warblers. 

I am still a thief, but now, I can hide from my shame. I will live when they inevitably cut off my hands and imprison me for my crime. 

It is okay, because I will always have you with me. In both my memories, and yours.