In the Halls of Ebony and Gold

When I walk through the obsidian halls of my family’s home, I keep my eyes on the floor as my siblings pass by. Some leave trails of light behind them while others creep by like shadows, and I shiver as their fingers brush my shoulders. I leave no traces as I make my way down the hall. No one will smile at my light or recoil at my presence. The soles of my bare feet should echo and slap against the hard surface but instead my tread is silent. My sister once told me that my siblings are jealous of my ability to silently approach, to curl into humans minds like hands around a warm mug. But no one writes poems for me as they do for my sister Love, or throws themselves into a raging sea as they do to meet my brother Envy.

 The humans sigh when I embrace them and welcome me as a friend as my hands weave a gentle pattern spun from the golden thread that is the hair of my mother, Memory.

If a thread snags, and the memory turns sour, doe eyed Longing comes to take my place. The cruelty of her tearing hands as she ruins my work is disguised by her lovely face.

I once asked my mother, when I was still young, why I was created. I still do not understand. When I was young I dreamed of being featured in their great epics, of having my name sung out by their bronzed heroes. I still do.

I approach her in her silent gilded hall where she sits on her throne of purest glass. Her eyes of deep brown knowing focus on me as I silently make my way to her side. She smells of damp leaves and cloves. My mother’s hair is a liquid thing, a river that follows her wherever she goes. It cascades down the throne and throws rainbows from the glass. She bids me come closer to and takes my hand, wordlessly placing it so that it disappears into the golden currant.

Suddenly I am there watching as she forms me from clay, her fingers clean despite her task. She sings in the forgotten languages and sculpts me with her eyes closed. “You are a gift” she whispers, her voice that of a long-forgotten friend.

Then I am before her again as she cradles my face in her hands. “I created you as a gift for the humans. You are a warm blanket on their coldest nights and a lover in a cold and empty bed.” Tears slide down my face. She does not and will not understand. She is lauded by the humans, beloved by them all. They write and sing of her and think of her always. I do want to comfort the humans, to weave things in their minds as she has intended. But in weaving I must change the pattern and sprinkle in sweet rosewater to cover the smells of regret. I must create something new so that the bitterness is replaced by sweetness and they can escape into the re-strung patterns. In being kind to them I inevitably must create for them a lie. How is this a gift?

My brother Lust often seeks me out in my small room carved into the pitch walls. While I am gentle, he is brutal. He attacks the human’s minds so that he consumes them and then corrupts their every thought. “Sister” he sings, “join me in my fun and weave me a story.” Lust loves the way I can use memory to knit together a new past. He is fascinated by its longevity. While he is all-consuming and fleeting, I am enduring yet forgotten.

“Nostalgia” he purrs, “knit a story for me.”

His voice is pure silk, seduction incarnate. He is impossible to resist, even for me, so I embrace him and tenderly braid his golden cords so that his memories of the curses and the lashes that humans throw at him will be looked back at with fondness. I smooth away the wrinkles of the hurt and the pain until the memory is soft and sweet. I weave for him the same lies I weave for all of them. Only I am left knowing the truth.

Fondness, affection, tenderness. Those are the words the humans use to describe me if they mention me at all. I crave something stronger, something devastating. If only I could make Lust’s memories my own instead of blurring their edges for him. If only I could feel them quake below me as they do for my brother Fear or sing for me as they do for my sister Hope.

“Lust” I ask when I am finished with the weaving, “ What is it like? To feel the human's passion, to feel that simmering heat beneath their skin?” He laughs, a lovely sound despite the fact it is at me. “You always ask me of this sister, how can I tell you of an inferno when you have never experienced heat.” Lust is cruel that way, he uses me to soothe himself yet leaves me feeling empty. He leaves my room smelling of charr and regrets.

           He is right. No one feels heat at my name. The humans can summon me to them with a smell, a taste, a sound, but forget me as soon as I leave. They do not hate me and they do not love me. I exist only in their minds as I do in my family’s halls, as a silent ghost. A welcome but unknown friend.

One day they will love me as they love the others. They will build statues of me as they do my mother and condemn me as they do my brother. They will scream my name as they tear their hair and throw themselves at the ground. But for now, I walk the halls in silence and weave my golden patterns.

Nostalgia, a whisper on the wind, a murmur in your ear. One day you will know my name.