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His time alone is rather endless; he forgets when someone leaves and if they will ever come back. He forgets, eventually, how they sounded, the colour of their eyes, the shape of their faces. There’s nothing for it, when a visit lasts an hour and their promise falls flat. There are memories of times where he did everything he could to remember. He met a spunky Vivi who was harder than nails and more powerfully willed than his had ever been, and he’s burned her face into the walls of every room he could manage. With time, dust covered those murals and the wood scabbed over, growing into smooth planks again.
He’d managed to forget her face anyway.Then, there was an Arthur who never knew the pain of loss, and became a confident, sturdy, proud young man. The man had stayed two days, holding him and petting the teeth of his new, portrayed face. Arthur had cooed to him, uttering assurances and love. Lewis had been completely taken away, a puppy blind to reality and as he left, the whole world fell apart. He had rampaged, tearing plank after plank of wood and scoring walls and couches and paintings and vases and beds… burning everything the liar had touched.
He had rested for months then, not awakening for anyone or anything until he was full power. The mansion had rebuilt itself, everything pristine and without evidence to the pain, to the new fracture of his locket. Despair was constant, a drain on his essence and who he was. Another Arthur had come to his domain, skittish but accusatory. Lewis had felt no regret killing this fraud, squeezing until his bones yielded and yanking everything he could from his insides. He’d taken to spraying it all over the lobby, hanging bits from the stairs and chandelier and dancing among the gore like it was a surprise party just for him.
The madness that tinged him that night brought about another period of sleep. When he awoke, regretting his actions and the fear it intended for those who came, every trace was gone. No gore, no blood, no torn corpse. Just vapid emptiness. Lewis collapsed, then, unable to process the endless cycle of agony, of loneliness he was faced. Eternally trapped, fated to meet the faces of the two people he loved most in the world, he wore away. His mind became too fragile to hold, and in face of such circumstances he simply… became a shell.
Those who visited came face to a servant, offering them a place to stay before they left. The husk helped them eat, spent time cultivating a garden for something to do and that was reality as Lewis knew it. He forgot them as soon as they came, and even then… they stopped coming at all. Time was a loop that became worn. It’s spinning revolutions never carried the same distance and what had felt like three days once became six months. Lewis.. existed. That was the extent of his existence, the reason to be.
Until, one… unremarkable day, a guest had appeared. Lewis had been tending to the kitchen, dusting off the singular mote that continued to land upon his table, when a presence appeared behind him. Unsurprised, he turned and bowed, greeting his guest.
“Hullo.” He mutters, quiet and dull. “If you are hungry, there is food in the fridge. A bed down the hall. Time will pass.” Lewis continues, looking up into the guest’s face and barely registering that it was his own from long ago.
“You will return home, it will only be a while.” He promises, still dully and this Lewis looks shocked. His posture is perfect he thinks, and there’s a distant, hazy glow in his mind like he’s done something right. The Other Lewis glances over him, watching and trying to understand, but he plays along.
“So, I’m not the first.” He says softly, walking around the table like he’s afraid to go near the spectre, identifying that it sounds like him but… distorted, and quiet. It’s confusing and disorienting, like being lost already wasn’t.
“In a while.” The spectre amends, standing without turning or moving. The living man takes his time navigating the fridge, making himself food and every now and again glancing over to the statue that had greeted him. The night passed like this, Living Lewis wearily watching him and keeping to himself, eating his food before cleaning the dishes he used and putting them away. It was a punch to his chest, remembering a detail like that but Lew is shoving it down, down into that comfortable numb coat he fancied to wear.
“The beds are down the hall?” Living Lewis asks softly, finally broaching to come near the spectre. His eyes slide over to glance at him, like a painting, and he inclines his head.
“I may show you the way, if you desire.” Lew offers softly, bowing and showing his arm down the hall. He expects a flinch, fear or some display of negativity. Instead, Living Lewis nods and offers his own hand.
“After you.”
Lew does, lifting his feet and beginning his journey down the hallway. The light becomes dim and he pulls in a flame, creating a candle stick in which he uses to guide the way. His speed is relative, allowing the guest to keep pace at his leisure. Living Lewis seemed to watch everything with an apprehensive eye, and Lew would say it was nostalgic were it not… so common. They arrive upon the door, Lew hovering by it’s side as the knob twists and opens to a master bed room.
“Your room, sir.”
Understandably, Living Lewis looks unsettled. He’s watching the spectre like he doesn’t want to believe what he’s seeing, and Lew knows he’s nothing like what he would have expected out of himself for the future. His irises, like beads, drift off and he does not acknowledge the other further.
“Thank you.” Living Lewis murmurs, still nervous and unsure, but trusting the spectre enough. He closes the door behind him, and Lew drifts off to rest.
If there was a pattern, Lew couldn’t figure it out. Living Lewis would wake and come to the kitchen, serving himself food, and the would take to wandering the mansion alone. The man seemed to take a tour, sitting in certain rooms to dwell on things that Lew himself had forgotten. In a divided room, with a love seat and a simple dresser and mirror, he’d forgotten about the hung portrait. Passing by to check up on his guest, he noticed the man kneeled before this painting, obscuring his sadness.
Lew wishes he could recall who the lovely woman was, and remembers to go and tidy his guest’s room.
The next instance, Living Lewis was waiting for him in the main lobby. Leaning against a pillar, the man had his arms folded and had sunken down, seeming tired from his post. Lew had offered to serve him a drink but the man refused, and so Lew continued his duties. Living Lewis followed him about, not saying a thing and observing his routine very much like a spectre himself. Lew found that he did not mind.
Finally, Lew realized that it had been nearly three days that his guest had remained, and began to worry. Had… he not decided to leave yet? What was the meaning of these circumstances. That morning, Living Lewis was not in his bedroom, nor the kitchen. Lew had been so occupied maintaining his creation that tracking habits from his guest was not possible. His heart swells with concern, using his abilities to probe for his guest, when he discovers the man’s aura is in the mausoleum below.
He takes his time, drifting down through the floor boards and touching down onto the concrete. Scanning the walls, the torn drapes of decorative curtains, the glowing light of the ceremonial flames… Lew shudders from the feeling of returning to his coffin. There’s a quiet kind of stifling silence down here, as if all noise, even the crackling of fire, is being eaten. Comfort is not something that is easy to find, down here. Yet there was Living Lewis, sitting on the pedastal, hand pressed to the wood of the coffin. Tilted to one side, it was like he was observing the detail of the carving in order to better think. “I did not think anyone would dare wander down here.” Lew murmurs, startling his guest into flipping around, getting up to his feet like he was caught doing something wrong. “S-sorry, I was just curious and I-“ Living Lewis began to defend, holding his hands up in surrender but Lew shakes his head and hangs his candle stick on the wall, wandering over towards Living Lewis. The man takes a step back, afraid that perhaps he had incurred something, but Lew seemed to ignore him and placed his own palm against the rose wood of his… original resting place. “This place… is free to explore, to anyone.” Lew answers softly, bowing his head in respect and closing his eyes. He can sense Living Lewis shifting awkwardly, uncertain on what to do before sitting down on one of the steps at his side. Neither move for a long time, musing upon their own thoughts and their memories. Much time passes, and Lew can sense that Living Lewis is becoming hungry. He leans in to press his face to the wood, touching his forehead, his third eye to the wood and wishing it well before turning about. “We should get you fed-“ Lew starts, folding his arms together when Lewis stands up, crossing his own arms and interjecting. “How long have you been here?” He presses, brow furrowed and focussed up at the taller spectre. Lew is quiet, contemplative, debating the worth of his words before he speaks. “I have been dead for seven years, friend.” He begins in a somber tone. And Lewis’ brow is released as his eyes pop wide. Slowly, Living Lewis’ arms drop to his sides, stunned into attentiveness. “I have tried to find solace and love, I have lost far more in two years than I did living twenty. I am nothing now but a husk, an empty space left behind… a pebble the world has forgotten. I understand your frustration,” he suddenly changes, turning to look at his living counter part and the man smooths to look confused. “seeing yourself in this light, but I have forgotten what it has been like, to live. I am sorry, for what I have become.” He bows then, surrendering to the pain this conversation has brought through his spirit again and he feels like falling over, allowing himself to be torn apart and give in to the tides of time that have battered him so endlessly. Instead, a shaken hand places itself on his shoulder and Lew bounces up, looking with concern into the living Lewis’ face before the man approached him in one step and pulled him into the tightest hug he could imagine. Lew held still, wondering if it would end soon, and the cycle would continue but the man’s shoulders began to shake, like he too was tearing apart and Lew had no choice but to hold onto him with his own comforting hug.
“You shouldn’t be alone… not after so long…” Lewis sighs with a heavy heart, his throat tight from unshed tears and the sadness he feels in this other self. Lew runs his hands down the man’s back, wondering how this living person must feel being so distant from the outside world… “It is fate.”
“I will fight it.” Lewis says, squeezing Lew even more tightly and rotating a little from right to left in a comforting gesture. “You won’t be alone, evermore.” He stubbornly spits, tugging more and more and Lew, for all his loneliness and pain, does not mind being held like he might fall apart.
Sadly, he’s heard this song many times before, and the ending is always painful.