Chapter Text
He no longer remembers his name. He thinks it might have meant something once, a label that laid bare the darkest part of his nature (though the darkest part was never pride, but pragmatism). He supposes it matters not, for there is no one to call him by it anymore.
The humming stone has grown quieter of late, as though it has forgotten him. Forgotten its purpose. No matter; he too has forgotten his purpose. If the stone forgets to hum for a time, perhaps he might be able to sleep at last? It would be something, to dream again.
It has been years since he last moved. But he finds that the quiet makes him restless (though applying the word 'restless' to being motivated to lift a single hand might be a little generous). He explores the dips and valleys, the sharp peaks of his knuckles and the elegant length of his fingers with a curious gaze. He wonders if his hands have always been so very long and pale. Skeletal, that's the word. He has long since forgotten what he looks like. Suspects he may no longer look as he once did, provided he once looked any way at all. He is not convinced he even exists, and even if he does, does it really count as existing if no one else knows you do? He concedes that it probably does; if he can have these thoughts it is highly likely he is extant. He would not go so far as to say 'alive', though.
An interminable amount of time later (or perhaps it was only moments- it is difficult to tell when one's consciousness drifts in and out of congruity), there came a deafening rumble. He wonders fleetingly if the stone has learned to rumble instead of hum? But then out of the darkness falls a shower of dust that grits in his eyes and settles over his body like a rough, particulate blanket. The humming has stopped altogether.
This is new. He raises one skeletal hand (he is momentarily pleased at his recollection of the word), and gingerly brushes debris out of his eyes. Of course, rubbing only drives the tiny crystals deeper into his sockets. He thinks it is a good thing he seems to no longer have actual eyes, else this would be painful instead of just uncomfortable.
He must once have had eyes then. That is an interesting notion. It seems obvious, of course, just as it was perfectly natural for him to have hands, but he still has those, so... that means he must have changed at some point. He has not always been this way, although he has always had hands.
The rumbling stops and starts, and the dust piles higher on his prone form. It clogs his nostrils and fills his eye sockets and tumbles into his ears, but he makes no further move to dislodge it. There truly is no reason to bother; he has no need of air, and there is nothing to see, and if rumbling and humming are the only things to hear, well... They certainly don't inspire him to listen. He closes his eyes against the grit and lets his mind drift lazily into sub-consciousness. Whatever is happening, it will happen with or without his observation of it. He has exhausted all of his curiosity for now.
Perhaps in another decade or so he will lift the other hand.