Archive of Our Own ^beta

And so I sit here, lazing about on the stones in the forgotten corner of the yard. I no longer feel pain when the historians recount the deeds of my loved ones, standing glistening forever in carved stone, with trees growing in carefully designed woven canopies that give them the look of immortals.

They do not see me. They likely never will. I have kept my stone in good condition, the words still readable, my now-hated legacy standing tall for all the world to see, entirely unabashed. But that means nothing when I am in the corner of a glowing light of historical saviours’ monuments and kingly tombs.

I am glad, however, that such thoughts no longer give me pain. I know what I did, how many I strove to save. Whether I succeeded or not I do not know but I can do nothing for it now. For now the only choice remaining is to do what I can. So I exercise what control I now have in this place of ghostly memories and keep it safe and warm, a haven for all, not just those worshipping the past or mourning lost ones. I take care to keep the thistles away from here, and to have favorited flowers line the stones in soft memory. Those who have lost loved ones find their graves already grown over with soft grass and a practical garden of marigolds or rosebushes. Sometimes these plants even agree with me and decide to honour those they decorate. The best example of this is on a child’s grave- a bush of his mother’s favourite roses grows in the unmistakeable shape of a little running child. She cried when she first saw it after being abroad for a year.

I would like to say that we were more dignified but both the rosebush and I panicked. I sent a little wind rushing at her with fallen flowers and leaves in the hope to cheer her up. It didn’t work and just had the effect of me being exhausted for a few days.

Apparently dying does not help one’s social skills.

Now, drifting down beside my stone, I happily watch a pair of young rapscallions climb up one of the trees. It probably qualifies as disrespectful and rude but they have a sense of laughter and troublemaking that isn’t often seen here and I adore it. Encouraging them with whatever weather they wish annoys the plants but I don’t care. It’s been far too long since I’ve enjoyed myself like this.

Maybe being forgotten is for the best. After all, there is no place for troublemakers in history is there? And I don’t think I want there to be. Let us rule the happy shadows of mischief.