The storm raged on through the night. Devyn didn’t sleep. He dozed for a few moments, but actual sleep eluded him. He was afraid to let himself go; he didn’t want to forget again.

Well, he did want to forget. He just didn’t want to go through this again.

He didn’t anticipate he’d sleep through the night any time soon, but he slept worse here than he had during his brief time on Earth. At least he got to wake up to Percy’s face, even if it was only a painting.

He could hear the wind battering the walls distantly. There were no windows in his room as a safety precaution, and this room was deep enough in the Hall that it had extra protection against the elements.

It wasn’t thundering anymore but he was acutely aware of the ache of an old scar across his chest. It was probably still raining outside.

The older torch had mostly burned out; a few faint embers seemed to be clinging to life but it was gone. He had a bit of wax he could repurpose into a new torch, or maybe a candle. He didn’t have the motivation for that right now.

He was awake, but it felt like the tendrils of sleep were still clinging to him. He knew it was a side effect of exhaustion.

He was still stuck in the mud.

A little less today, but he knew he wasn’t going to be operating at full efficiency.

He’d stay inside today, he decided, and proceeded to stay on the couch for a while. He would have stayed for longer, but his stomach growled.

He didn’t feel hungry, but he obeyed its call. The blanket stayed draped over his shoulders as he made his way to the food he’d left on his desk, and he picked at the first thing his hand landed on. Not much, he didn’t want to throw up again. He stood while he ate and looked around the room.

It was close to the same as his memories, but it didn’t feel like it. The color and vibrancy had faded, either from age or appeal. He’d preserved this room like he’d preserved the memories. It was a carefully curated museum.

He’d leave it that way.

There were clothes hanging in the closet, dusty and well-kept. Preserved. Some of them were tattered, but there didn’t seem to be any consistency to what had survived and what hadn’t.

There were sets put aside, his and Percy’s. Those stood out to him more than anything, and when he was certain he had no food or grime on his hands, he’d allowed himself the luxury of feeling the fabric.

It was like touching a memory. Feeling it.

He thought he could still smell Percy’s shampoo on it, but he knew that was probably in his mind. He kept them in the closet, safe. He went through the drawers like he was discovering them for the first time. Loose paper, odds and ends. Junk drawers.

Nothing inside was junk, though. Artifacts, relics. Too old to be antiques.

He was surprised that the paper didn’t crumble under his touch, but it gave him hope.

He walked around and examined things that couldn’t hurt him. Things he would have been happy to see withstand the test of time, but things that wouldn’t break him if they didn’t. There were books on his shelf and he reached for one offhandedly. A little below his eye level.

It was dusty, like all the others; he blew on it but figured Percy wouldn’t have liked him spitting on the books, so instead he carefully brushed the cover off with–oh, no. Not his sleeve, he didn’t think Michael would like the dust on his jacket. He adjusted the blanket and used that instead, to carefully wipe away years of age and wear and tear.

It wasn’t a special book, he didn’t really even recognize it.

He’d left a note inside for Percy, though, right in the middle of the book.

Devyn had written, ‘You could illustrate better than what they’ve got in this book. It’s prettier in person. I want to take you to see it.’

Percy must have found the note at some point in time; Devyn recognized his handwriting in the response, ‘It sounds pretty, I’d like that. I want to see it with you.’

He drew in a breath and held it. He brushed his thumb over the paper, where he could still feel the indent of their letters on the page.

They hadn’t gone. Or at least, he couldn’t remember going. He combed through his memories but there was nothing there.

He’d wanted so much more time with Percy. They’d had so many plans.

He held the book for a few seconds longer and then closed and shelved it. The next book he pulled out didn’t have a note in it, but the one after did.

‘I love you,’ he’d written.

Percy wrote, ‘I love you, too.’

Devyn removed the note and slipped it into subspace before he shelved that book again.

He skipped the little notes and went to the chest at the foot of his bed, where he’d shamelessly stored all of his letters from Percy. He’d kept them from the very beginning. It was locked, and bolted to the ground, and bolted to the bed frame, because no one was taking these from him. He’d have put them in the treasury if he’d thought they'd be more secure there.

Dust, there was so much dust. His hands felt dry. His eyes were dry. And wet. And sore. His throat was burning.

So much dust.

He had the key with him, in the same tin with a few other keys. The lock protested, but only because he hadn’t opened it in so long. He didn’t understand how he’d managed to avoid it.

There was a time when he’d have had a bad day and stomped in, threw himself on the ground, and dug through the trunk until he found the exact letter to cheer himself up.

When they were younger, Percy had written to him nearly every day, and sometimes twice a day to make up for the times when he hadn’t sent one. Some letters were short, some were long.

They were all perfect.

He hadn’t gotten a new letter in a very long time, though.

It made the ones he did have more valuable, though. He’d kept every last one of them; from the very beginning, he’d known they would be special.

There were stacks of letters inside, and drawings, and notes. Not all of them were for him, some of them were just from lectures, or Percy’s train of thought, or sketches he’d intended to throw away but left somewhere Devyn could salvage them.

It was a lifetime of memories, of private thoughts and confessions and words that Percy had written for him.

He sat by the trunk and read all of them. He got up a few times, to stretch his legs, or get a drink. He snacked, but carefully; the papers had survived this long, he didn’t want carelessness to damage them.

They weren’t organized very well, so he’d been able to draw out the time a little longer by sorting them by date.

He had years of letters, but never enough.

He’d forced himself to read slowly, to draw it out for as long as possible. The stack of unread letters grew shorter too quickly. He spent extra time examining the artwork he had stored away–nothing really finished, nothing Percy would let him hang on the wall. Still, little pieces of him, carefully preserved in this box of memories.

The last few pages came too quickly, and Devyn sat against the trunk and held the letter carefully. It was so soft and flimsy that despite how long he ran his thumb across it, it never once cut into his skin.

He read this one as slow as he could. He traced each and every stroke with his eyes, analyzing where Percy had written quickly, where he had slowed. He looked at where the ink had pooled and could imagine him sitting there with his quill to the page. Maybe his chin propped in one hand, with a far off look as his thoughts danced away from him.

It must have taken him hours to get through the letter, because he didn’t want it to end.

But, like all things, it did.

He’d sat with his back to the trunk and his knees drawn up. He rested ihs arm atop them and fell asleep with his face buried in the crook of his elbow.

It wasn’t a long nap, but it was something.

He dreamed of Percy, so richly, so vibrantly, that it was almost like he was there. He could hear his voice as clearly as if he were speaking into his ear.

A thousand and some years couldn’t erase such things.

Paint and ink could fade, but Devyn had treasured these memories. He played them often to keep them fresh. He could forget other things, but those memories had to stay. They were engraved in his heart, in his starseed.

He was who he was because of Percy.

Devyn didn’t move for a long time after the last letter, but he had to keep them safe. When he mustered the strength to move again, he turned to the trunk and painstakingly returned everything.

Well–no.

He kept the oldest letter out. It was in horrible condition, wrinkled and folded and fading. He knew the words by heart. He made a small stack of letters to keep out. The first time Percy wrote I love you on paper for him. A story about Princess. An encouraging letter that Devyn distinctly remembered receiving after he’d had a fight with his Council. An essay he hadn’t asked for but loved because Percy was so passionate about the topic.

Memories. Things that had meant the world to him then, and meant an unimaginable amount more now.

He collected the letters–and a few sketches, of Sessrumnir, of Princess, of Atrius, of Marius. One of himself. A few of Percy.

Treasures, to him. Scraps to anyone else. He removed a book from his subspace and placed them between the pages for safe keeping, but only after he wrapped that in a small scarf–just in case he had any loose snacks tumbling about.

He locked the trunk up, but it didn’t feel like sealing anything away. Just protecting it.

Devyn had never forgotten the music box that he’d repaired so many years–lifetimes–ago, but it occurred to him suddenly that he hadn’t listened to it in so long.

He wanted it. He deserved it.

It was tucked under the same bedside table where he’d always stored it. Shamefully, it too was covered in dust. He brushed it off carefully, mindful of the ornate filigree decorating the corners, or the gemstones he’d carefully fixed to the top of the box.

This was his greatest creation, of course; it had taken years of his youth to fix it, and from that point on it had been theirs.

He unlatched the music box easily enough, but when he tried to open it, the lid stuck.

It was old, so complications were expected, but when he tried to pull it, it was unyielding. He dug his nail in, wiggled it, fought with it–it wouldn’t budge. Like it was protesting.

He was mad at it, at first, and then endeared. He hated it, but he’d spent a lot of years hating this thing before he loved it.

Working diligently on it, he’d repaired it. Regularly, it had broken, but he’d fixed it. He was proud of it.

The last time he remembered hearing it, Percy was dying in his arms.

Devyn stopped trying to open it.

He thumbed the surface carefully, lovingly.

He’d fix it. He always fixed it.

He couldn’t fix Percy, though.

Maybe he couldn’t fix anything anymore.