Memories Not of Your Own

[NarcolepticCrow]

Spoiler: Authors Note

Hello, just wanted to get a few things out of the way really quick. I've been trying to start writing for ages but always end up overthinking everything and convincing my self its a terrible idea so Im just sending it this time. I don't know if this will be a one off thing or if I'll start posting updates to this story consistantly (I would very much like to) or what the update schedule would be if I did. I really just have entirely too much free time and thought why not? Im not super practiced at writing so any and all critique is welcome, the more detailed the better! I hope at least some people like this first little bit. Thanks for taking the time to read!

There have been a great many stories of hero's slaying dragons. Of immense armies doing battle for honour and for country. In a land torn by the conflicts of petty lords, a land where misery is sewn by beings better left unmentioned. A kingdom where a farm hand ascended to knighthood in pursuit of love and where a young lady endured a grim tournament for glory and freedom. Tales written time and time again, as often as the winds blow. It was here that a young lad found himself at the start of his own. What events led him to the Spire? A past marred with great travesty? Or perhaps a childhood of exquisite silks and fine wines.

He took his first step forward, a robe adorned with undulating script and arcane crests brushed silently along rough stone. It mattered not where, who, or what he was in the before. Another step taken, silent as was proper.

"Born again are those who take the oath, all sins erased, all bonds broken."

Closer still he moved until the light from above washed over him, leaving the world colourless and flat. One more step, his last step. He would soon join them - It.

"To don the robes is to become the robes".

He stood, still as a statue, not a single hair nor a bead of sweat in motion. The sound of nothing was deafening as he began his final step, and faltered. The end of a journey, the climax of his story. Was it worth giving up all that he was? Everything he would become? A thread of fate cut before it could begin.

The dusty stacks impossibly tall and endlessly long loomed like apathetic deities. The haze of dust coalesced into dense clouds that threatened to choke any who ventured too far. The knowledge of all those dead and all those yet to be born contained within countless scripts adorning the shelves.

"You are nothing if not part of the whole, and to be nothing is the gravest sin of them all."

He looked forward and It peered back. It stared through him, unwavering and unreadable. The outcome was known, inevitable, as all things are. There is no choice when the knowledge of all lies within a book. No will when a scroll details your being. A scroll that was held in the hands of It. A scroll with the young man's name inscribed upon the front. A fire crackled silently upon an ornate brazier mere feet away, sparks jumping at the scroll, eager to consume.

The final task was laid before him. The final oath. To burn one's self away, one's very being. To become… more. To join It among those forgotten halls - to become the halls.

To be forgotten.

Hesitation was not befitting one of his station. He was to be a keeper, to become knowledge itself. So why did he stand frozen in the face of his destiny. Why did he not take the final step to ascension? Why did he feel apprehension? How could he after years, or perhaps it was days, of preparation? Of menial labour, of torment, and of hardship. He had been selected, chosen, by those who knew his fate even before he was born. So why did he fear?

His hands clenched as the silence began to overwhelm him. A cacophony of nothing rang in his ears. The looming stacks encroached upon his peripherals. The colours washed further into monochrome. The apathetic gaze of It, the feeling of countless eyes trained only on him as he stood. Cold and uncaring, analytical and ambivalent. His blood pounded in his ears, his breath strained and shuddering, his eyes wide and bloodshot. It was too much, it was maddening, It was incomprehensible.

He fled.

"A debt is owed."

Row upon row of books flew past. His stride was long and frantic. His gaze sought the exit but only found glimpses of a robed figure, illuminated by the eerie glow of the ever present floating candles. His feet carried him along a familiar path towards the Spire. But one does not leave without paying a fee and wordless whispers assailed his mind.

"Knowledge is taken."

Twice he had to double back when the markings on the shelves became unfamiliar, when the tomes became too old. Acolytes weren't permitted to venture too deep into the endless corridors unsupervised, lest they fall prey to the spiders. Yet no matter where he fled he always found himself deeper. The symbols began to bleed together, giving way to those he could hardly comprehend. They seemed to slither and writhe along the iron slates that marked the way to the Spire. So too did the thick tomes written in dragon's tongue disappear. In their place he found thin notebooks bound in shriveled leather and bundles of yellowed paper tied with rotted twine, all written in the same neat hand.

"Knowledge is given."

Only the Elders of the Spire, those who willingly gave more than they took, spoke of such things. The forgotten archives. A place of forbidden knowledge. Where no mortal was to ever set foot. His pace quickened, a feeling of great peril grew in the pit of his stomach. He felt as a cold hand began to grip his being, pulling him ever closer to that infernal brazier.

"A debt is owed."

Hours or seconds, days or centuries. He ran, the ever present whispers his only company. He never grew fatigued, the only evidence of his tribulation were stains of blood upon the earth. The souls of his feet battered to a coarse pulp by the harsh stone. His eyes burned as the slithering text grew ever more intricate. More frequent were the glimpses of robed figures. The deeper he ran the tighter It's hold on him became. The hotter the flames burned. The more his brain ached. The whispers grew in fervour as he went, until finally his desperate flight wavered. His feet tangled in the ceremonial robes. The ground met his body with great force as he tumbled down. He knew not how long it had been, only that he could no longer continue. They would have him, it seemed, one could not run from their fate - from themself. He collapsed.

"A debt is owed."

"Knowledge is taken."

"Knowledge is given."

"A debt is owed."

His vision swam, his own thoughts drowned out by the whispers, and darkness crept in. He could barely move, he could hardly breathe. He could not see the pale bone-like limbs begin to descend from the darkness above. Countless eyes, pale and hungry, fixed upon him. Memories of his time at the Spire and of his life before began to surface. With the last of his energy he raised his arm and allowed his hand to fall forward. Curiously his hand was not met with rough stone as it hit the ground. Instead he found it resting on a disturbingly familiar object. A notebook, no thicker than his arm, faded and frayed along the edges. It's binding was of tattered leather and twine. No text could be seen from where he fell.

"A debt is owed."

"A debt is paid."

"Knowledge was taken."

"Knowledge was gained."

Something snapped, the icy grasp upon him was broken, the heat of the brazier no longer licked at his soul, the unseen spiders hurriedly retreated back to their nests.His vision darkened further as he at last found relief. Then the footsteps began. From every direction the echoing click of footsteps rang out. His ears felt as though they'd burst from the sudden onset of sound. Closer and closer they came until…

"The price is paid."

The hem of a robe glided into view…

"The price is paid."

A hand, many hands, reached for the book…

"The price is paid."

The hands grasped the book…

"The price is paid."

The book was lifted, and the robe moved away…

"Knowledge was given."

A door appeared before him. No, that's not right. The door was always there. Waiting for him. It slowly creaked open and light from the outside rushed in. A warmth pulled at him, welcoming him. It felt familiar, but distant. Like a memory long forgotten. Like home…

"Knowledge was gained."

Unconsciousness took him, the last of the whispers echoing in his mind while that familiar warmth held him close.

 

[NarcolepticCrow]

Spoiler: Authors Note

Okay so I ended up writing more. Im not super sure how I feel about the pacing or composition of this one, some of it feels like it should be in the previous chapter and some of it feels awkward and forced but as is the nature of this project Im just going to send it. If this ends up being a long term project as I intend I'll probably rework this later. Anyways rambles aside as always critique is welcome! Please be as detailed as possible. Also if anyone is interested in beta'ing feel free to dm me, I'll be the first to admit I need it. Thanks for taking the time to read! I hope you enjoy!

"Did we really have to come all this way for a stupid root?" A young boy, no older than sixteen, complained as he carefully picked his way among the twisted upturned roots.

"If ye did yer studyin like yer supposed ta you'd know they only grow round these parts!" An older gentleman groused, followed by a muttered, "Lazy brat…"

"Well maybe if my venerable teacher wasn't dryer than the corpse of his mothe… what the fu…"

"Watch yer tongue boy, else you'll be diggin up pustule toads till next year!" The boy shuddered involuntarily at the threat. Truely a fate worse than death.

"Right, but uh… Gramps, you're gonna wanna see this. I think he's still breathing?" Before the boy, just beyond one of the great pines the area was known for, laid a man. A man in a tattered but still ornate robe. A man whose feet looked to have fallen prey to a goblins maw. A man who held a book, firmer than a mother grasped her new born babe. Gramps crested the hill to stand beside the boy and followed his gaze.

"Bah, looks like one of em mages. Bastards the lot of em, better them than us."

"I don't know.. Don't you always say its a doctor's job to help people? No matter what?" The boy peered at Gramps, a concerned look in his eye. "I know the mages aren't exactly known for their… mercy, but he looks awful." Gramps looked down to the man then back to the boy and sighed. He seemed to age twenty years further in that moment, an unreadable expression upon his face.

"Yer right kid, even if he ends up a right bastard, help me drag em to the cart."

"Right"

---

The doctor and his apprentice went about their task with great haste, loading the man into their cart along with the days foraging haul. The wheels of their cart bumped and rattled along the long unused roads which crisscrossed throughout the Giant's Spear Forest. All the while the man dreamt, book still held with a white knuckled grip.

"The price is paid"

"The knowledge is given… but incomplete"

The whispers continued, as they had for his entire life. Before him lay a crossroads, three paths, and no way back. To his left, far in the distance, a tower reaching beyond the sky. An infernal pit of fire sat below, while the clouds above festered with specters of death. A lone figure stood atop a hill, defiant. A sword of liquid starlight held high above their head. A drake with crescent wings and alabaster eyes rested by their side.

To the man's left stood a great coliseum. Screams of blood-lust could be heard from within, like a beacon of despair. The surrounding earth ran crimson and the corpses counted in the thousands. Great hounds stood tall as buildings, flesh rotting and sloughing off as dregs of black ichor flowed free of their veins. Atop the coliseum stood yet another figure, only this time they held command over the grisly scene. The hounds bayed and howled as the figure beheld the ruin below. They reveled in the screams, egging them on until finally all became quiet… and the dead began to rise.

Directly ahead held the final path. A young boy, no older than sixteen stood at the crest of a hill surrounded by towering trees. An older gentleman beside him, hand on his shoulder as they discussed what they saw beyond. All around, unseen by the pair, creatures of all sorts gathered to watch. Humanoids of greens and browns hung from the canopy above, laughing jovially as small winged creatures fluttered past hurriedly. Small childlike figures dressed in eye searing patterns and colours hid beyond overturned stumps and large roots, tinkering away on small contraptions all the while enraptured by the scene before them. Their eyes a gleam with madness. Most notably there was what appeared to be a throne which radiated a familiar warmth. Atop it sat a creature, its face ever shifting - that however was not the strangest thing. Unlike anything the man had previously seen here, this creature was looking directly at him. As he met the creatures eyes the shifting froze, the face it wore was his own. It beckoned him forward, pulling at something within him. In a single step the man found himself in front of the young boy and the elderly gentleman. His eyes grew wide as he beheld what they had been looking upon, what all the creatures had been looking upon. There he saw himself, tattered and broken, in an unfamiliar robe, holding an equally unfamiliar book. The mighty throne hovering over his body, like a blazing star leading him home. He tumbled backwards in his shock and found himself back at the crossroads. The shifting creature and its throne were gone, the center path erased, and in its place was a book. Floating lazily as it span, bound in tattered leather and twine. Tucked between the cover and first page was a quill, shining as brilliantly as the sun, emanating that same warmth. He felt himself being pulled yet again, something deep within himself desperately reaching out. As he gingerly grasped the book his vision was overcome with scenes, memories he didn't recognize. Growing up in a small village east of the Spears. Breaking his ankle running from a forest spirit. The town doctor rushing in to save him. The feelings of awe when he first witnessed the man work. The desire to become just like him. The despair when he couldn't save his mother. A whole life that was not his, but at the same time was. As the memories faded from view the whispers became louder, almost audible.

"The price is paid."

"Knowledge was gained"

He couldn't bear it anymore, he knew not why he had been damned to hear these gods forsaken whispers. Marked by the Old Ones the town priest had proclaimed, shortly before running him out of town. Blessed by the Crypt Warden others would say, as they begged him to perform their last rights. "How could this be anything but a curse", he had oft wondered. Everywhere he looked the answers would always evade him, always getting close but always… incomplete. He just wanted to know. He just needed to Know.

"Knowledge was taken."

"The price is paid."

His head began to feel as though it was being cleft in two. Whispers and memories assaulted his mind as a cyclone assaults a harbour. How was he to make any sense of things when powers beyond his comprehension had seen fit to send him into madness. Again and again scenes played out in his mind, the boy and the doctor, his flight from home, a realm of dust and books. On and on as his mind was sent reeling, until finally he was met with a book - The Book. He saw it there, in his mind's eye. Unclasping and opening, pages flipped by until he was met with one last scene. The Book on the floor underneath his hand. His feet aching and bleeding. Footsteps approaching, agonizingly slowly, and then… ä̵͔̦́ ̷͚̈r̶̫̞̎o̸̪̐b̵̛̞̓ȅ̸̫͔d̵̙̾̓ ̸̬̩̑͠f̷͙͚̄̓į̵̩͠g̴͖̈́̾u̸̠̰͗̀r̵͖̻̉̓ḙ̶͌̒ ̶͕̫̆͑ǎ̵̮̚n̶̲̔d̷͔̪̉̚ ̸͕̙́a̸̲̔̾ ̸̭̍̀ḟ̶͇̭į̷̩̒͑ŗ̵̺͝e̴̛̗͝.

As he attempted to comprehend the incomprehensible he was met with a final lance of pain - and he woke.