When I look back on those days, I see many things; wisps of Emmaline’s golden hair, a glimpse of the swirling tattoos that crept across Najat’s dark skin, the tiny quirk of painted blue lips that betrayed Cyrus’ miniscule amusement. But there are a few moments that I will never, ever forget, no matter how much my memory may fail me.
The first of those is the first time I ever saw Najat laugh. A full, whole-hearted laugh, though; not one of those amused chuckles that Cyrus seemed to be fond of or the sarcastic snickers that he would often use to accompany anything I said. I don’t remember what it was that had driven him to such hysterics, but the day was warm and bright, and when he had thrown his head back in bellowing laughter, the sunlight glittered off the golden hoops in his hears and the bands on his biceps. My only thought at that moment was that he looked absolutely, breathtakingly beautiful.
The second is a memory of Cyrus, of which I had quite a few, outstanding or no. Even now, as I write this in my aging years, he sits by my bedside and speaks to me, as young and handsome as when I had first met him as a young girl of twelve. It was winter time, the first moment I had laid eyes on him. I was a servant girl who had shown an aptitude and intense interest in all things literary, and my master had suggested that I become apprenticed as a bookkeeper in the royal court. I remember being dazzled as I was ushered into the library in my new powder blue satin dress. Someone said something, low and rumbling, and my eyes had been drawn to someone standing on the other side of the room, the window providing a back-drop of snow. He was tall and imposing, silvery hair cascading down his back and skin as white as the snow behind him. Spiraled, black horns and crimson silk robes contrasted him violently, but the things that caught my attention were his blue lips and kohl-lined amber eyes.
Emmaline was something that I could never forget, no matter how much I wish I was able to. Far too much of my childhood and early adult years were spent by her side, and we shared far too many a happy moment for me to erase her from memory. She’s dead now, though; passed from plague and left behind three children and a negligent husband. She was beautiful, and while I basked in the shadows, she thrived in the spotlight. Many a time would she drag me out of bed in the middle of the night to share giddy secrets, or pull me outside to show me how bright the moon was. Emmaline was fickle and proud and vain, but she was my best friend, and I would always care for her no matter how much she hated me.
The last is not a happy memory, but something I have told myself not to forget, nonetheless. It was cold, and I was hungry and scared, reveling in the aftershock and withdrawal of adrenaline the attack had left me with. Our little part of three had been reduced to two, and the formerly white snow outside of the little camp-cave was stained gold with the blood of a djinn. Najat’s blood, I knew, but I wouldn’t accept it- couldn’t accept it, in fact. Cyrus was silent, as well, but he stayed near and nestled me into his side in front of the fire. While I knew that he wasn’t all that fond of Najat, the other’s death had probably come to a shock for him, as well. In our eyes, Najat was invincible. Older than anything else we had ever heard of, impeccable swordsmanship and survival skills. And yet, he had just been cut down by demons right in front of our eyes, mere hours ago.
I think about these things and they make my heart ache and my eyes mist over in nostalgia, and often times I find myself living in my memories rather than my future. Things were so simple, then; in my childhood I cleaned and cooked and washed, in my teenage years I sorted books and did menial chores for Cyrus, and in my adult years I traveled and fought demons. But all that has left me with all this emotional baggage- and, besides, after saving the world and falling in love and losing it and nearly drying too many times to count, what else could be called exciting?