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Beachcombing for Iron	By : dweller_of_roots Category: +G through L > Lighthouse: The Dark Being Views: 1025 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I do not own Lighthouse: The Dark Being, nor the characters from it. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.

Chapter List
- 11
- 12
Perhaps a year had passed, perhaps five.
Time is one of those weird things that bounces around a lot, or so I'm told. Jeremiah was pained by that explanation, but - I understood it enough as a writer. You wake up one morning, still feeling as young or as old as you've always felt, or always remember feeling; only to realize you are not as young or as old as you thought you were. In any case; juggling increased commercial success that lasted only long enough to land a job copy-writing with sudden family reunions and cheering on your friend's daughter (third place!) as she goes to her first Science Fair is a maze of time.
Worse even then the mazes back at the Pier, now closed for renovations (temporarily, thankfully. I don't think it'd be possible for me to keep sane without a supply of food that can be easily made on the days my brain is half-words and half-clouds, and ne'er the twain shall meet).
The town's grown - a lot. People are a lot more interconnected these days - everyone is. And like I'd always thought... I guess I'm not used to it. There's so much promise to it; people are able to share their triumphs and failures instantaneously, from all over the world. Maybe that's what gets me most - you end up realizing that with all the wonders of the modern age, it's still hard, if not impossible, to be with those you care for most, when you need to be there for them.
My aunt passed on when I was attending a book-signing deal. It was stupid. I actually got the news in the middle of it, and my face froze up entirely. I remember people thinking I was being coy, or smug, and just kind of nodding emptily. It hadn't been painful, apparently - sudden, they said. As if it was a certain thing, one way or the other.
But the more things pass and change, the more I realize - that's a good thing. People are gone, not forgotten; and I've kept my part up in trying to remember them, whatever happens to us all. Perhaps one day, no one will be capable of remembering anything at all, and the world itself will forget about us after we finish forgetting about it. But in itself... That's kind of a peace.
And until that time comes -
The notebooks I've been writing in my spare time must seem like a random assortment of field notes and vignettes, illustrated with increasingly bad and resigned attempts to - well - illustrate them. But they're something. My way of keeping the people I've known remembered; and through them, even though copywriting isn't exactly what I'd had in mind when I knew I was a writer... I'm happier now then I was before. Not everything is perfect, or even good - but that's not how the world is. It isn't fair; and in it's capriciousness, Earth shows us love. It's up to us to return the favor.
That was why, one dark and damp summer evening, I was so engrossed in writing down the events of the day that I didn't hear it at first; a faint and quiet tapping. Maybe a thrush or something?
It kept knocking for awhile, and I realized as a chill crept over my spine that the sound was coming from my window. Something familiar and terrified pushed at the corner of my mind, telling me to get up and run, and I didn't realize why until I finished the page I was on and irritably looked at the window.
The Birdman, in all it's mechanical splendor, was patiently boring a hole through my window in an attempt to claw through and 'open' it, and possibly the wall, up.
I'd like to pretend my response was more elegant and cool then it was, but I think I fell over myself. Possibly screamed. Only after hyperventilating for a few moments did I realize that it hadn't come to assassinate me in my sleep; it moved more haltingly then before, and was clearly not entirely repaired. For another thing - tied around it's neck was a message, in something that looked like vellum; or perhaps a kind of paper that this world had yet to see, and never again would.
Running out my front door without even putting my shoes on, I made my way to the Birdman - who had realized that the window was not an entryway, and that if the window wasn't a door, perhaps the doorway was a door. It slowly moved towards me, halting and letting out a clattering caw as I approached. It made no move to attack me, simply watching with a curiousness that I recalled even from our previous encounter; I can only imagine that Liryl had encouraged it as she fixed the damaged machine over the years.
As for the letter...
I won't tell you everything it said, though it started with a phrase about the two things we take for granted every day - one more thing included.
Some memories are to be shared, and some aren't.
It wasn't written in the best English; it was grammatically correct but terse, without real metaphor or creativity. It went on for some time - or maybe I read it multiple times.
Though Jeremiah had destroyed his work entirely, he had given the fundamentals to Liryl; and she had created her own portal, temporary and unstable as it was. The letter itself - I suppose it was a request, really.
I accepted it.
So... This is the last message you'll probably read from me, on this side. I've asked Jeremiah to seal the rest of this away; a memory that won't mean much to anyone else besides us. Himself, Amanda, me - and you. Whoever you are, if you've read this far; I guess we've shared a lot of memories together, haven't we?
Some years ago, I thought things had ended - but things don't truly end. We change. People change - even as they stay the same. And that will be the case when there are no more people to be found.
But even still, though this isn't a really an ending - for us, it's happy. I think things will continue on - and perhaps some day we'll even find someone else in Planet; or perhaps not, and it'll be empty until the stars around it die, or someone opens the portals once more.
If you want to imagine what happens next - imagine two friends meeting after a long time apart; lovers who grow old together, and remember things that the other forgets. And - if I may...
Try to remember things for those around you. Memorialize the things you love, and even the things that you don't. Find happiness where you can, and let sorrow pass over you, instead of trying to fight it. And know that even at your most alone - you are not alone, say those who came before you and those who may come next.
Well - I imagine I've probably pontificated enough. I don't know if it was on par with the teachings of the priests - or that it even has to be. But wherever you are, and whomever you may be; I wish you luck, and love, and life. May the Earth look after you, and you after it. Perhaps we'll even meet in somewhere or some time - I look forward to that, immensely. Until that day comes - take care.
- 11
- 12
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Beachcombing for Iron