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31_days2007-12-12 12:45 pm
seta-suzume.livejournal.com) wrote in 31_days2007-12-12 12:45 pm
[Dec. 12, 2007][Suikoden] Save Your Memories
Title: Save Your Memories
Day/Theme: Dec. 12, 2007 "Collecting memories in a rainbow pot"
Series: Suikoden
Character/Pairing: Sasarai, his assistant, and his father
Rating: PG
When I realized that my father did not know how old I was I was not upset, but a little puzzled. The ancient and august man had an impeccable memory when it came to the events of his youth. He probably could've told me what he ate for breakfast on the day he became chief priest if I'd cared to ask him. The only thing was, he didn't just remember the past- he was living in it. He seemed to be in a state of constant frustration that no one could send up Alfred Mercade or Sasshalai to speak with him. He didn't really seem to even hear us when we insisted that both were long dead. After that day on my twenty-first birthday when he thought I was seventeen, he did not send for me again for many years.
I wondered what he was thinking about, holed up in his mysterious, book-filled chambers. We had never been particularly close, but at least he had been interested in seeing me and giving me odd bits of advice regarding friends, studying and (completely useless for me) farming. He had retreated behind the shroud of secrey that he seemed to have spend most of the three hundreds in, based on a variety of evidence from official records.
A small fear awakened in me that I might become like this someday myself. I could not imagine what it would be like to be almost five hundred years old. Still, I began to add a few thoughts of my own to my appointment book each day so I'd remember what had transpired.
"You know, you're still very young," my assistant told me, regarding my sudden interest in chronicling my days with suspicion. "And memory loss is more of a problem for older people. Don't you think you're jumping ahead of yourself at least fifty years?"
I could see her logic in saying this, but I still had my doubts. Who knew how long my father had been living primarily in the dreamland of his mind?
I suppose my thin remarks were what drove her to do it, but Nika went to the library to research this point and several days later confronted me proudly with a wide swatch of historical citations that dated my father's first dreaminess of memory to some time after he had reached at least the age of two hundred.
The idea of being two hundred years old and all the things and folk I'd known come and gone was perhaps itself as frightening as that distorted memory.
Day/Theme: Dec. 12, 2007 "Collecting memories in a rainbow pot"
Series: Suikoden
Character/Pairing: Sasarai, his assistant, and his father
Rating: PG
When I realized that my father did not know how old I was I was not upset, but a little puzzled. The ancient and august man had an impeccable memory when it came to the events of his youth. He probably could've told me what he ate for breakfast on the day he became chief priest if I'd cared to ask him. The only thing was, he didn't just remember the past- he was living in it. He seemed to be in a state of constant frustration that no one could send up Alfred Mercade or Sasshalai to speak with him. He didn't really seem to even hear us when we insisted that both were long dead. After that day on my twenty-first birthday when he thought I was seventeen, he did not send for me again for many years.
I wondered what he was thinking about, holed up in his mysterious, book-filled chambers. We had never been particularly close, but at least he had been interested in seeing me and giving me odd bits of advice regarding friends, studying and (completely useless for me) farming. He had retreated behind the shroud of secrey that he seemed to have spend most of the three hundreds in, based on a variety of evidence from official records.
A small fear awakened in me that I might become like this someday myself. I could not imagine what it would be like to be almost five hundred years old. Still, I began to add a few thoughts of my own to my appointment book each day so I'd remember what had transpired.
"You know, you're still very young," my assistant told me, regarding my sudden interest in chronicling my days with suspicion. "And memory loss is more of a problem for older people. Don't you think you're jumping ahead of yourself at least fifty years?"
I could see her logic in saying this, but I still had my doubts. Who knew how long my father had been living primarily in the dreamland of his mind?
I suppose my thin remarks were what drove her to do it, but Nika went to the library to research this point and several days later confronted me proudly with a wide swatch of historical citations that dated my father's first dreaminess of memory to some time after he had reached at least the age of two hundred.
The idea of being two hundred years old and all the things and folk I'd known come and gone was perhaps itself as frightening as that distorted memory.