A/N: I apologize for any mistakes and inaccuracies, whether mechanical or of the material portrayed; this was written at precisely 2:49 AM without any editing whatsoever. This story is entirely a spontaneous endeavor and I have no idea what I am trying to say with it, if anything. Any and all comments and constructive criticism are heartily welcomed.

There is a name amidst all the silence.

Sometimes he hears it, on quiet rainy days, dancing melodiously through his halls and large, spacious rooms. Too spacious, in fact. He thinks of renovating them from time to time, now that there is one less person to take care of, and the house just seemed too big for anyone at all.

On other occasions it comes to him slowly, like evening fog; when he is sitting by the fireplace reading a book in the dancing, warming light, or when he walks around the gardens behind the house. Gradually then it fills up the spaces between his ears, a mantra repeated thrice and thrice again. A call, perhaps, from far away. He turns every time, to no avail.

This is silly, he knows. There is nobody there calling him, the land is silent and does not speak back. Perhaps those things were real, once, but he has long forgotten what it means to be in that magic. Still, he believes it to be out there. Somewhere. Precision does not matter in terms of the matter at hand, but he would like to know—know what it means to be strong, and how to forget.

But how can someone forget so long a time? There are times when he wonders this, late at night, when he tosses and turns in an oversized bed, the weight hanging over him coming not from the bulky covers but from his own thoughts. How can I function?

How, and why. It does not matter to most people as they carry on with their normal lives, but he is not most people. There are times when he touches the walls in the smallest room on the left corner of the right wing of his house, and he thinks, this is the place where we first made love. Or when he walks through the kitchen and nobody ever bothers to look at him anymore; he thinks, because, this is where he almost set fire to the entire room once, and we had to put it out together. Times of beauty that are so impressed into his mind he is not sure whether they are real at all, in the end. Because which nation can have such beautiful memories when they are what they are?

But the days wear on, and his heart continues beating, for his people, for his land. Maybe it is not such a lasting illness in the deepest recesses of his being but a slight wound. Some say time heals everything. He is not so sure of that, but words are powerful tools. Time, flowing directly towards some end he does not, cannot see, in the horizon. Towards future needs, and wants of better times. All he dreams of is quiescence.

It is 1814, and someone is knocking on his door. He opens it, and sees who it is on the doorstep, a man neatly dressed and eyes averted. This is not a mutually agreed arrangement.

And suddenly he knows, sees, with his eyes, what it is like, what it was like for the other side, back in a time—thattime—where sorrow was rampant and emotions ran high. The messenger brings him news from the city, but what news is separation to a fledging bird? Once, a long time ago, he may have laughed and mocked, in his own way. Once upon a time they all thought they were invincible. Today, there is nothing but a slight return of nostalgia that brings him to shake his head, no, this is all I need for now, thank you.

So he takes the man in and closes the door. A servant asks him about the rooms, and he shakes his head, no, in fact they do not need to be redone. Someone has dusted the tops of the dining hall exactly as he had asked, and that makes him smile. He shows the man the old guest room that used to be occupied, and returns to the fireplace. It does not go unnoticed that the man seems, even with his calm composure, more than slightly uncomfortable. He is not surprised. Most people need time to adjust, and that is what he will give. Time.

And all the while the name calls, whispers, and beats down the long, winding halls of the house.

This time he does not turn.