Eulogy of a Time Traveller

"When all my days were spent by a telephone
That never rang.
And all I needed was a call
That never came."

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Throwback

Once a day, he would take the time to look out at the field where he had first seen the strange and enchanting purple flash of light. Often he would sneak glances throughout the day--tiny, fleeting moments in which he pictured a set of four figures out across the field. Often he would have split second memories of the way his love's eyebrows slanted upward with worry, the way his voice crackled under pressure, the way he would rest his skinny hand atop Gregory's shoulder while his eyes flooded with concern.

But these were frivolous moments--actions or habits that could play themselves before the Prince's grey eyes within seconds. It was only after tea, after changing into his nightgown and shooing away the last of his servants that the Prince would allow himself to fully commit to retelling the story which constantly consummed his heart.

Fingers curled around the outer frame of the window, the boy peered out onto the moonlit scene playing before his eyes. There it was again. A flash of purple light. Meeting Perry. Suspenders. Walking to the tavern. Recieving a cloth to clean his wound. An arguement with Perry over... what was it? Something petty and unimportant. Shoving Perry's shoulder and then...

"His eyes," the Prince narrated to himself in a distant whisper. "That entire basment. Full of time machines and electricity and plastics and all I could seem to look at were those lovely eyes. So... striking. And beautiful. And almost pulsating with fear.

"Beautiful fear. The only emotion that ever looked good on him. Right on him."

A smile pressed on his lips. How he wished he could write all of this down. Scratch ink onto a page--indestructable ink--which would ensure his story was never lost.

But his story could never be found. A madman's writings they may call it. He could be jailed. For madness and much more.

"Pretty," the Prince continued, bashfully blinking as if he were saying the words to Mr Orsted himself. "The most beautiful light. He had the most beautiful light inside of him. He would get angry, sad, disheartened whenever anyone questioned him--and they did that often. But as soon as I asked him to explain his machine--his creation--to me, he... he had the most fabulous light."

"That's all it takes," Gregory smiled coyly at the moon and swung himself forward to get a better look at the field. "And Perry," he sighed sympathetically, tilting his head. "How I miss you, Perry." He said still to the moon. He liked to imagine that the three of them still watched the same moon, same stars, but as Mr Orsted had so pessimistically pointed out, that wasn't true.

"I love you, Perry."

A bow of the head. Hands gripped either side of the window frame, tears dripped from either side of the pale face. "I love you, Perry," he croaked.

He pulled his arms in, cowered his body inward, but stared loyally up into the moon. "I love you both."

"I love you too, Mr Orsted."

If only words could travel centuries.