I tried to sell my soul last night
Funny, he wouldn't even take a bite

There is a strange sort of peace in a life with no memories. In an equally unusual twist of fate, he finds he’s not plagued by uncertainty like he might have expected. Why that is an expectation, he isn’t sure, but he finds himself feeling almost free. As though the weight of centuries had been lifted from him.

But it’s disconcerting too. So many times he has found himself staring at something as though he should recognize it. He can feel… something, just on the tip of his tongue. But somehow, it never quite comes. The sensations never fledge fully into words or realizations. And then he moves on with surprising ease. As though an old and forgotten version of himself had once learned to say ‘fuck it’ and leave.

There’s a lesson buried deep in there, no doubt. Isn’t it ironic then, that just when he might be able to learn it, he can’t remember he needs to?

By force of habit, he avoids others. Whatever else he might have forgotten, he had discovered very quickly that he is not a social creature. The immediate aversion he’d felt for crowded areas had been enough, but the overwhelming annoyance when cornered by someone far too happy and chipper had firmly cemented his desire to remain well away from anywhere where that might happen again.

The emotional response over things he couldn’t even remember is one thing, but the fact that he had not even been able to recall his own name when asked had been something entirely different. How the hell he was going to find that out though, he has no clue.

So, in typical Ashhal fashion, he hadn’t tried.

Which brings him to here and now, where he stands absently on the banks of the river in a secluded lee. Anyone who stumbled upon him would find a serene and picturesque scene. Which, for anyone who stumbled upon him and actually knew him, would no doubt be shocking. Not that it matters much anyway, because as soon as the faint crunch of snow reaches his ears, a habitual scowl creases his features as he turns to glare at whoever had managed to find him, completely ruining whatever serenity had been capture in the moment.

I tried to sell my soul last night
Funny, he wouldn't even take a bite

She says something as she approaches. A name, he thinks. One that feels both familiar and foreign. After a moment, he realizes she had meant him when she said Ashhal. His scowl deepens at that, but the soft surprise and hurt on her angelic features stir something else too. Regret.

For the briefest of moments, the irritable lines etched into his features are replaced by something akin to confusion. What was it about her that caused him to regret? The answers don’t come, of course, but it does expel the immediate urge to leave.

Shifting to better face her, he eyes her warily, still not quite certain if he should engage or not. For the first time he feels the vulnerability in the lack of his memories. This mare seems to know perfectly well who he is while he knows nothing of her or how he might know her. It’s unnerving, to say the least.

Which says nothing of the emotions she stirs deep in his breast. Emotions he’s not quite certain he wishes to confront.

After another moment of silence, in a low tone he finally asks, “Who are you?” Belatedly it occurs to him that is not actually a helpful question. After all, a name would tell him nothing if he could not remember it. “How do you know me?”

I tried to sell my soul last night
Funny, he wouldn't even take a bite

He can feel the knowledge trembling on the edges of his consciousness, just out of reach. Always out of reach. For the first time since he had woken on the blood-soaked beach, it bothers him. There is something significant here, but he can’t quite fathom it. The understanding serves to make him equally irritable and uncertain. Or perhaps it’s the uncertainty that makes him irritable (he’d never been good at defining his own emotions even when he could remember why he was experiencing them).

He doesn’t know how to respond to her assertion that they had been more than friends, so he does not. The only indication he’d understood what she said at all is the way his lips tighten into a grimace. Still, he can’t help but wonder what had possessed such a lovely and angelic creature to be… friends with the likes of him (had he been in a better frame of mind, he might have wondered where that thought had come from, but the mystery of her keeps him too preoccupied to catch such an insignificant slip).

There is something deeper and more visceral however. Something impossible for him to deny. Primordial in its roots, requiring no memory to understand. Though it wasn’t enough to prove she spoke the truth, there is a familiarity that does make him pause to wonder. A familiarity that stays his feet when he might have otherwise turned to leave what was clearly a tangled and knotted web. One he wasn’t at all sure he wished to unravel.

At the very least, it allows him to bare his teeth in a facsimile of a grin and answer her questions, though his answers undoubtedly leave more questions than answers. “Your guess is as good as mine,” he replies, the low growl of his voice losing at least a fraction of its edge. “I remember nothing before waking up on the beach some weeks ago.”

I tried to sell my soul last night
Funny, he wouldn't even take a bite

It is the very nature of their lengthy and turbulent history, the more than century-long spread of his memories, that had made them such a delectable and irresistible meal to the hungry beast that had stolen them. Of course, even that he could not remember. Though he feels the truth of his years somewhere deep inside, he has no true concept of just how many years it had actually been. Cannot hope to recall just how pivotal the angelic mare before him (or rather, the one her facsimile represents) had been to him.

Instead he is left with only the barest bones to pick at. The knowledge she had unwittingly gifted him in their brief interaction so far.

When she sidles closer to him, he doesn’t move away. His dark gaze follows her, sharp and wary even as a hint of hunger begins to creep in. A hunger that feels as impossibly familiar as the way his skin begins to burn with the anticipation of her touch. His body remembering what his mind cannot.

The thought of starting over is surprisingly pleasant. As though he had been stuck in an endless cycle and he had, finally, been given a chance to break free. To truly start over. A foolish thought, but enticing nevertheless. He can feel something in his mind stir, as though it wishes to grasp, but her next words cause it to fizzle and fade.

I think you’re worth it she had said.

“No,” the sharp response is visceral. As unexpected as it is expected. “I’m not.” He’s not certain why he feels it so deeply, but he knows it’s true. And he will not be lied to. Not about this.

I tried to sell my soul last night
Funny, he wouldn't even take a bite

He doesn’t believe her, and he cannot entirely pin why. Is it the determination as she pushes, insisting he must be wrong? The flicker of something dark in her eyes? The hurt lining her features at a truth he’s certain he’s shared before?

Or is it something else entirely?

“Where were you when I was spat on the beach with the memories of a newborn then?” he growls abruptly, demeanor changing with a swiftness that belies the uncertainty he’d felt moments ago. Pale feathers ruffle, shifting with a dozen whispers as his wings flare slightly, the first hint of dormant aggression rousing. “You, who would never give up on me, never fucking bothered to find me.”

He’s certain she could have, if she wanted to. He doesn’t know where that certainty comes from (doesn’t recall the years of running only to stumble right back into her, time and time again). He steps closer, crowding her, dark eyes flinty with dangerous emotion. The fury feels so familiar, yet somehow foreign. As though his fury had never been directed at her.

Impossible.

His jaw tightens as he stares at her, refusing to break his gaze. “Why now?”

What makes this moment so different from the thousands before? He may not know much, but he knows her words are not ones he recognizes. Not in the visceral way he’d recognized her face. Not in the familiar way he’d recognized her name at the edges of his tongue. So what had changed?