when he arrived nobody really knew what to do with him. he appeared in a quiet residential area on the outskirts of town wearing a t-shirt and khaki pants. Read more
Tag Archives: fiction
The First Lesson
HR Vanguard Unit 4, a part of the seventh unit designated for Human Reconnaissance, maps the area to be swept and opens its Uplink to the collective, sharing the information with all other units in its squad. Read more
She blinks into consciousness and stares in the space occupied by the voice. The voice echoes in her head for a brief moment before clicks of recognition begin. Speech. Conversation. It is a capability which she possesses. The space occupied by the voice lacks a body. Perhaps that is normal. She speaks in its direction, at a black box hanging just below some form of shining cylinder with a red light coming from it. “H-hello.”
She can hear the box and the cylinder whirring in her head, and reaches up to silence the sounds. A long finger first tentatively touches at her temple, then another, and another, until the entirety of her left hand rests just below what should be a hairline. But there is no hair. Has she always lacked hair? Isn’t baldness a male trait?
Maybe she’s not a she? For confirmation she reaches her right hand to her chest. She is not a man.
Who doesn’t know their own sex?
What is her name?
“D-do you…” A pause to consider the fact that she is having so much difficulty with words. “Do you know my name?”
That’s not a real question. She blinks. “Is this mocking?”
“Do you feel mocked?”
She is confused. “What is my name?”
The voice does not respond right away. Instead there is a click and a brief moment of static before another voice comes from the same box. “What do you think your name is?” This voice is kinder, softer. She thinks she remembers it from before she woke up in this room. Where was she before this room? No matter. The voices seem to think that she should know her name, and so she should. Concentrating on the concept of who she is, there is mostly cloud and confusion but slowly sound emerges.
“A… Fem… I.” She has heard herself be referred to with that name before. “I am… Afemi.”
The click. Static. Click back. “Yes! That’s your name.”
Afemi looks to her confines. She is in a spacious room, too well lit. The bed against the right wall shows signs of use. That must be where she slept. Why is she here? “Why am I here?”
The click. The static. She waits for a response but none comes.
Qast awoke with a rasping breath, clawing at her hair. Her eyes narrowed and darted about the room as her hands deftly reached for two of the daggers she kept concealed about her bed. Read more
Rena made her way slowly from Faril’s desk and to the back of the library, taking a new route with each trip. By the fourth load she had figured out that if she walked straight from the desk, through the first row of books, took a left and counted four rows then walked down, the trip was significantly shorter. There were no ladders and no students crowding the way. Yet even with this improvement she knew that she’d spend the entire afternoon stacking then organising books. The task would likely run on into tomorrow’s schedule as well.
At times like these Rena was tempted to think that had she not gotten this apprenticeship her life would be so much simpler. But the opportunity was not one to be passed up. Each Librarian was allowed to choose up to three apprentices and while the other four had taken full advantage of that, Faril had only selected her. He said the other applicants were far too driven by political ambition, and not by a love of knowledge. Did Rena love knowledge? She still had no idea. But right now, she thought, I really hate this job.
As if called by her disdain Faril opened the front doors at that moment. While the other Librarians could easily be called elderly, Faril looked to be just on the outer limits of middle-age, with some grey creeping into his thick brown hair. It was likely just personal bias but Rena considered him the best of the Librarians: very approachable, passionate about scholarly work and a wonderful story-teller. They were qualities which made her look forward to the walk from the library to the residences when she’d finished her work.
Today Faril seemed to want to get as much done as possible. He hadn’t called her out to sit on the benches with him for lunch. He’d instead requested that she stay in the library and continue working. It wasn’t like Faril to ask that, but she had heard some of the other apprentices the night before talking about how this shipment of books contained a work of great personal value to the older man.
Curious, Rena was scanning the titles of each stack to see what it might be. She knew that Faril’s field of study was ancient weaponry. He kept an impressive collection of his favourite daggers, swords, whips and whatever else in his private chambers in the residences. One of the perks of being his apprentice was that she got to learn all about his travels and his collection. Though Rena was interested in ancient cultures as a whole, she spent a lot of time discussing weapons with Faril. Today, however, Faril had no time for talk and he shuffled his way loudly to the back table where Rena had been stacking the books.
She saw him raise a slender finger and run it from the top to bottom of each stack. Rena watched intently, forgetting about the load of books still in her hands. In the third stack he found what he had been looking for. Rena examined it from her place at the end of the row but couldn’t make out a name.
The book was small, with a leather covering and paper so worn it rustled at the librarian’s touch and she was sure it needed to be kept in the Restoration Room. Faril thumbed through it carefully before sighing contentedly and placing the book in some hidden pocket beneath his robes.
He greeted her with a stiff nod and small smile as he scurried back out of the library. Rena watched him walk to his rooms through the windows before hurrying to where he’d removed the book. She ran her fingers over the two books which had been above and below it, trying to remember the intervening title. Her brow furrowed in concentration and she stood for several moments before deciding that she was not forgetting the title: the little book simply hadn’t had one. It had struck her as more akin to a diary than any sort of scholarly work and she wished now that she’d taken note of its contents instead of gravitating towards the more grandiose titles.
Haerith was a beautiful continent. It always had been, Svorin thought. He peered from the mouth of the cave past the water and to the grassy shores of Alatra. Though an ancient country in terms of the written histories, Alatra was still new in his eyes. He’d only heard of it several hundred years ago, sometime after the fall of Korin, his birth state. How short the written histories were; so lacking in culture and knowledge. Yet today people all around Saiala considered themselves so much more civilised than their illiterate forebearers. Svorin gave a soft snort at the idea and retreated back into the cave.
His bare feet made soft pattering noises as they met the rock and he allowed himself to focus on the restful rhythm of it. No more than fifty paces into the cave he found Ithryel sitting in the little enclave she had decided was the ‘peaceful corner’ of the large entry cave. So many centuries and she still held onto some semblance of running a household. Svorin complained of course, but really he enjoyed it. Ithryel was higher born than he was and some of her habits still fascinated him. He’d never admit it, though she clearly knew. It was a matter of pride. She knew that, too.
“Why do you insist on reading that rubbish?” He queried.
Ithryel looked up from her perch and smiled. The cover of the text in her hands read ‘Ancient Myths from the Three Lands’. Thenis had brought it with her when she’d come to give her report to the others and Ithryel hadn’t put it down since.
“I want to know what they say about us, of course.” The smile lingered as she read a passage from the text in an officious voice. “’Shadow Wraith lore dates back to the dark times when all Saiala is said to have been engulfed by a never-ending cloud. These times, known in popular mythology as The Woe, are said to have lasted for many decades. As we see from Rilarian myths of the time, people believed that the darkness was caused by gods who were waging a war in the skies.
‘The Shadow Wraith are said to be twelve warriors imbued with superhuman abilities by the goddess Issalu (see Creation myths). Their role is to protect the WorldSoul, a vessel said to house all the power of the goddess Issalu, thereby keeping the world from falling back into The Woe’” Ithryel looked up at her companion. The smile was gone, replaced now by thin-lipped recognition of the truth.
“Amazing how much they got right, isn’t it, kin of mine?” Whenever she felt nostalgic Ithryel would call her fellow Shadow Wraith ‘kin of mine’. Svorin found it mildly endearing but said nothing. They all had their ways of dealing with the burden they carried. He found Ithryel’s method far more appealing than Qast’s borderline-fanaticism, at any rate. Or Millen’s brooding silences… Svorin’s thoughts wandered to his dear friend Millen, who was no doubt practicing his skills somewhere solitary at that very moment.
After more than two thousand years there really was very little, if anything, left to know about each other. Even those who had initially tried to keep parts of themselves hidden away had come out with their dark truths when they realised that all those to whom they had sworn oaths of silence, or wronged, were dead. And so were their children. And many generations past that. But Millen was the exception that proved the rule. He had never opened up, never surrendered his guilt to the forgiveness of time and he’d never stopped…
Ithryel’s laugh cut through the silence and Svorin snapped back to the present, realising he had been about to take a wrong turn into the sleep cavern. Correcting his course, he again allowed his mind to meander to its oldest memories. The steady pattering of his feet brought him comfort and by the time he reached the hidden away little enclave he called his own, a smile of contentment had spread on his face. Next time the others came in he had to remember to ask them for more of his favourite sherry. Thousands of years and the recipe hadn’t changed a bit. Somebody should write a book about that, he mused.