tempered in blood and bone

The day came and I languidly left my home for the first time in a week or so, recoiling from the unwelcome sunlight, I always had a dislike for sunlight, I hatted how It feels against my fragile skin, how it caught my eye and blocked my vision, its glinting light through trees, painful.

But enough of that procrastination, I left my temporary home ready for whatever came next however, surprisingly, or unsurprisingly the ceremony was uneventful. It was after that that confused me because after leaving the God hands grand gate for what would be the last time I remember nothing.

I cycled through these memories searching for abnormalities, for clues to latch onto so that I may distinguish what exactly happened to me. As an inestimable time passed, invasive thoughts started burdening me, was I dead, have I fallen into some sort of comatose state, am I like those unfortunate fellows trapped in my own body or in some unknown land of death? However, all these possibilities proved to be nothing more than fantasy as the blanket of darkness faded and I beheld a blinding light.

It took time to adjust to the unexpected light however when was finally free to behold my surroundings, I realised that I was slumped over on some desk or another my head resting on what felt vaguely like rough wool, on the far left overlooking the entire desk.

I felt the numbness in my body as I tried to move to little avail only being capable of flinching a finger.

The desk I lay on looked cluttered, covered in paraphernalia, there were five primary objects that drew my attention firstly a leatherbound notebook with crude handmade paper darkened and yellowed by age, besides that was another smaller, newer notebook opened to a blank page beside that an ornate pen lay dripping viscous, bloody red ink onto the surface of the desk.

Leant against the backing for the desk was a mirror reflecting the door of the room, evidently behind me, out of sight, the mirror was silver polished to the extreme, its border was rough with jutting edges dully reflecting a greenish tone, with unknown ancient looking words inscribing its top. The last object of interest was a roughly four-inch battered dark wooden box, inlaid with brass that circled a centimetre from the top, merging onto a dented, locked clasp at the front, tarnished.

Gradually I felt myself regain control over my body, progressing to the point where I could lift my head to get a better view of the room. Looking around I saw that what I was resting on was my arm. I was dressed in a rough woollen jumper, one Id never remember seeing before let alone owning, yet it felt familiar.

The room itself was relatively small, it was furnished with everything expected of a bedroom, and there was a bed huddled in the opposite corner from the desk. The bedding looked airy resembling linin, beside it was a bedside table sporting a tall set of emerald candles, flickering with small dwindling flames.

Just above the desk was an open window allowing an icy breeze to linger in the room, brushing against my defenceless face, through the ajar window panes I caught sight of not only one but two moons one a large, snow-white circle the other smaller one was a green crescent, the two stood starkly in the starry sky, just then a small gust of wind intruded the room chilling me and extinguishing the candles fading light, leaving only a plume of wispy smoke. Then I noticed another candle this one was smaller in a silver holder resting on the arm of a chair beside me.

At this point I have gained full control over my body, so I braced myself exerting all my effort to stand shakily stumbling over to the bed, my tiredness overwhelming me I fell onto the bed, falling asleep in an instant, despite all the confusion and the chill permeating the room.

That night I had a dream, like any other dream it was muddled disorientating, perpetuated with impossibilities, and tribulations of the imagination. Throughout the entirety of the dream, there was a clock that ticked away, floating suspended in mid-air. It continued its obnoxious ticking as I moved through that hazy dreamscape, vague and almost forgotten, an intangible memory. one thing I remember, the only concrete thing, is the clock continued past twelve, it kept climbing, growing, twisting, it was almost grotesque. The clock eventually became 4D, the number on its multitude of faces climbing until it reached ninety-nine and I woke up.

I lay in bed recalling my peculiar dream when a shiver when up my spine, it was cold, freezing, I blinked when the light of the rising sun peeking through my window caught my eye, it irritated me. Integration at 100% a voice rang in my mind; it was a familiar ethereal voice belonging to the chip. At least I still have that, but since when has it ever spoken to me unless I was asking it a question, or I had received a message from the professor?

My thoughts were cut off by a blistering headache, my thoughts failed me as I writhed there, the neat bedsheets becoming dishevelled, the headache gradually subsided.

My rapidly clearing head was muddled in foreign memories, the memories of a young boy Alexander Campion, the 12-year-old son of the local noble count Campion who ran away from home after another occasion of his cruel father, forcing etiquette upon him, his flagrant attempts at making me his heir apparent. Well, I refused, wait I. who am I am I Alexander or Cole, am I both, or neither.

Knock, knock a knocking at the door of my inn broke me out of my self-doubting revery, the knock was followed by the inns matrons motherly voice ”dear, its morning if you don leave then ” the sentence was left hanging.

I know what will happen, I was expressly told when I rented this cheap room for the night, these stingy nobodies want me out so they can move their despicable claws to some other unfortunate customer, I mean a silver for a night, in this dingy place.

Getting off the bed I walked over to the desk picking up what was, in my memories, the treasured artifact, an heirloom of the once mighty house Campion I plundered while leavening, hidden away in a wooden box, locked by a key I do not even possess. In hindsight, I was a bit petty, well most of the twelve years in my memory were in the lap of luxuries, I don even know what the heirloom is, but I know its powerful and will eventually become useful.

The objects I saw on the desk were all easily identifiable, the polished silver mirror reflecting my young pale visage and rough woollen nightgown, I picked it up depositing it into the sack I left my clothes in under the desk.

I wouldn be wearing that noble ware it would be too identifiable and would likely make me a target of a robbery, I looted the rest of my belongings the book, my ancestors technique my notebook full of what little understanding a twelve-year-old could gleam from an ancient esoteric manuscript the rest of my cluttered possessions fit into the deceivingly crude sack.