The flashes of memory were more disconcerting than simply standing there and watching.
At least in watching there was a disconnect. It was easy to see these people as belonging to another time, and she could focus more on the differences, convince herself that this life and the past were entirely separate, and meant nothing to each other. In watching she was safely removed from it, just an inconspicuous bystander with few ties to what occurred. It didn't have to mean anything to her; she could choose what held worth, and what was entirely insignificant.
But the flashes weren't like that. She couldn't close her eyes to them because doing so only brought them closer to the fore—and leaving her eyes open was no better, for the memories were often strong enough to overcome them, and forcibly take her back to a life that was no longer hers to live. Had never been hers, she told herself, even if something within her resonated in response to the memories. The flashes frightened her because she knew not where they came from, could only assume it to be her starseed's reaction to a world where it had once lived.
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There is a house far beyond the capital, a day's ride west by train. Liesel remembers is even if he has not been there for many years. It holds happy memories—of brothers and sisters, and his mother settled in a chair by the fire. And if there are sad memories, too, he chooses not to dwell on them, for he misses even those times he was made to feel as if he did not belong.
Ganymede shook her head, struggling to force away the sudden rush of memories. She grabbed onto the bedpost in the room she'd come back to explore, leaning toward it as if the flash of images caused her pain. She felt weak and woozy, trying to remain in the present even as the memories threatened to drag her back.
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Liesel sits in a rough wooden chair, bound there by sturdy rope to keep his limbs restrained. He is afraid, but only because he does not know what is happening. Why has he been brought here? He knows this place, but it has been many years since he'd seen it last. It seems sad and lonely now without the warmth of the fire, without the sound of familiar voices, without his family who are meant to be there.
He looks up when the door opens, and is startled when a man with graying brown hair and dark eyes enters the room.
“Father...”
His father says nothing, simply stares at him in loathing.
He looks up when the door opens, and is startled when a man with graying brown hair and dark eyes enters the room.
“Father...”
His father says nothing, simply stares at him in loathing.
Ganymede didn't understand. The images made no sense. She couldn't place them anywhere, had never been to that house and knew she'd never seen any memories of that man before. She didn't know why he should look like that, or why Liesel should be restrained. The memory came to her disjointed, with gaps and missing pieces. She had no sense of time or location, only knew that it must have been real—as everything here had once been real.
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“When have you ever served your people?” his father asks accusingly.
Liesel makes an effort to seem proud. He keeps his back straight, holds his head high despite his restraints, reminds himself of what is proper, that he must respond with dignity. Even if he does not feel proud, even if he does not always prefer his duties, he must not ever let others know that he has reservations. But under his father's gaze he slowly wilts. His shoulders eventually sag, and his expression twists into something like agony.
He does not want his father to look at him in hatred.
“Where is my mother?” Liesel asks, and he knows how disappointed certain people would be by the weakness in his voice.
His father does not answer his question. Instead he sneers, and turns as if to leave.
“Father!”
His father stops at the door and glances over his shoulder. Liesel makes no attempt to conceal his desperation, fighting against his restraints (though the effort is futile) and staring at his father beseechingly. Yet his father continues to watch him as if Liesel's feelings mean nothing to him—and Liesel knows, deep down, that they never had.
“Father, please...” he begs.
But it is of no use.
“You are no son of mine,” his father says, and leaves.
The doors slams, and Liesel is alone.
Liesel makes an effort to seem proud. He keeps his back straight, holds his head high despite his restraints, reminds himself of what is proper, that he must respond with dignity. Even if he does not feel proud, even if he does not always prefer his duties, he must not ever let others know that he has reservations. But under his father's gaze he slowly wilts. His shoulders eventually sag, and his expression twists into something like agony.
He does not want his father to look at him in hatred.
“Where is my mother?” Liesel asks, and he knows how disappointed certain people would be by the weakness in his voice.
His father does not answer his question. Instead he sneers, and turns as if to leave.
“Father!”
His father stops at the door and glances over his shoulder. Liesel makes no attempt to conceal his desperation, fighting against his restraints (though the effort is futile) and staring at his father beseechingly. Yet his father continues to watch him as if Liesel's feelings mean nothing to him—and Liesel knows, deep down, that they never had.
“Father, please...” he begs.
But it is of no use.
“You are no son of mine,” his father says, and leaves.
The doors slams, and Liesel is alone.
The images stopped as suddenly as they'd come, cut off with a flash and with no explanation, leaving Ganymede to the dark and lonely room. She took a few moments to catch her breath, kept her eyes closed against a wave of fear-induced nausea, lowered herself to her knees to rest her head against the side of the old, dusty bed. Her heart hammered away in her chest, too fast.
The room was empty. When she could raise her head again she saw nothing that would have caused her to have such an experience. The room was the same as it'd always been since the moment she'd first found it and learned who it'd once belonged to. She'd done nothing to change it—had neither cleaned it nor had she caused it any further damage. It remained in a timeless state, existing at once in the present as well as the past, full of ghosts and memories and the voices she could never avoid.
Perhaps it was something more than this room, something deeper and more pervasive than her superficial explorations. Perhaps it was something within her, some answer she sought that she wasn't yet entirely aware of.
This place, and all the things that had happened here, was becoming a part of her. Years ago she'd denied it, questioned her place as well as her worth.
But this was who she was as much as her home on Earth was, and she owed it to herself to make sense of it.
