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Do you remember? The dismal light of the palace, the sound of the closing doors you guarded? The gentle and sweet smell of the royal garden or the vivid tapestries on the high walls? Do you remember the name of your sword master or your very first friend? Do you remember how your mother called your name? The day when you were welcomed into the palace as a member of the Royal Guard?
Dainsleif. How much do you remember? How much can you bring up to the surface of the ocean of your own mind? Dainsleif.
My name is Dainsleif. I was born in the nation of Khaenri’ah. A proud nation without a God. A nation grounded on human achievement and ingenuity. A solitary nation without a single divine blessing or providence. A nation open to everyone who wished to abandon their past and join in building this pillar of human self-realization.
A nation long gone. It was lost to incomplete histories, divine interventions, broken contracts. And curses. So many curses. A curse for every citizen of Khaenri’ah, every denizen, every descendant.
Do you remember the music in the halls, the taste of your favourite dish?
My name is Dainsleif, a citizen of Khaenri’ah, a Royal Guard. My name is Dainsleif…
Do you remember the poems they wrote, the stories they told? It’s her voice in my head that questions me every time. It’s her voice in my head that brings me both insanity and clarity of mind.
My name is Dainsleif. I come from a nation long gone. And I remember…
The flowers of Khaenri’ah. Their sweet and gentle smell, the whiteness of the petals, the softness of their touch. I remember the gardens where they used to grow, bright and strong and beautiful. I remember the simple tunes played on busy streets and the children’s games I used to play, too. I remember…
My name is Dainsleif. My country had been cursed by the Gods. I am a bearer of the curse. I am the Bough Keeper. I am Dain—
I remember. But such a feat comes at a steeper price each time. When I recall, it’s like diving into uncharted waters. Sometimes they are still and calm and endless. Other times, the waters turn violent and stormy, eager to swallow me whole. Sometimes, I forget the trickery of memory. Sometimes I forget the deep and dark beneath of my mind’s ocean.
My five-hundred years' worth of memories. Once they resembled neatly stacked bookshelves. Just like those of the Royal Library I once guarded. The records were ordered and consistent, and as true as a person’s memory could be. But time eats away at both people and gods. Under the influence of the curse and time, my memories turned into looseleaf recollections, scattered across the room, pages out of order, some missing, some crumpled, some torn into pieces. As if a historian in a fit of madness tore up his works and wreaked chaos, seeking a helping hand and finding no one has heard his pleas.
And now it reminds me of an ocean. The waters I must dive into to find anything of worth. Whatever it may be, no matter how withered, damaged, corroded, and lost. Each time going in with the hope that I could bring something of worth to the surface without getting lost in the sunless waters.
Dainsleif, do you remember? Her voice asks me. So clear. So distant. I cannot rely on the fact the voice is the same each time. Perhaps, even that is a trick of memory, perhaps even that is part of the curse. So I couldn't lose my mind entirely, not so soon, not so easy.
I do. But for how much longer? A stone will yield to water. A tree with deep roots will start to rot. A sea will dry, and the stars will dim. All of these happen with time, and I have no lack of it.
Dainsleif sat under the tree, listening to the wind, watching the world turn. It progresses with time. The sun goes up and down. The wind picks up and dies down. The warmth of the midday sun collects and disappears. Today will be a memory tomorrow. And holding on to memories is trying to trap water with your hands, holding sand in the wind. He watches the sun go down, birds fly in the sky, and the wind spin a leaf. How many views such as this has he witnessed? How many of those could he recall? He tried to hum a tune from a past long gone or recite a poem he held locked in his heart. Five-hundred years of poorly recorded history all inside his lonely and shaky mind. Dain is an hourglass with cracked glass, a barrel with rusted hoops. The Bough Keeper will yield to time and his curse.
And this view, too, shall become a memory that will sink to the bottom of the ocean that his remembering mind. In that dark and murky place, the damage will start to set in. Just like his curse that will slowly consume him, replace what he is and was, with something else. What that else would become only the gods know. Or he would like to think they do. Otherwise, the joke is too cruel to be told.
His eyes focused on the Statue of the Seven in the distance. Perhaps, his only solace for today could be found in the thought that even this Statue will not last forever either. Everything yields to time, humans and gods alike.