Work Text:
The prophet that sat at that candle-lit desk, writing down the details of the day that had just happened, couldn’t remember the day they themselves came to be, all those millenia ago. All they knew was, well, everything. Everything yet nothing. They took themselves as a vessel of knowledge, something who knew every detail of the world and the universe, and yet had experienced none of it. They hadn’t ever left their data room. They didn’t even think they physically could, as they couldn’t find an exit.
Their data room was an extensive cathedral of cascading books, scrolls and ink, massive tables with paper strewn across it randomly, a towering, chaotic yet organised beauty in the aether of nothing. Every day of their existence, they would stare at the ever changing map on a wide table, jotting down notes as the coloured dots representing man flitted and moved along it, changing and evolving. Every now and then, they would glance at one of 2 lecterns in the room, noting differences.
The first lectern would glow, shining through the runes carved into it, and would fill in the blank, bound book with everything the Earth had - secrets of the world, every little action, every little detail. But the prophet already knew it all. When the book finished and was too full of information, they brushed it off the flat surface and placed a second book there, replacing the vessel. They would pick up the knowledge-filled book, placing it on a shelf, then go back to staring at their map, occasionally glancing over at the second lectern.
The second occasionally had ink leak onto it in flitting, swirling patterns - in the form of words. First shamans and monks, then kings and monarchs, all asking the prophet for advice. Be it for a war, or a political agreement, or a family dispute. The prophet would pick up his fountain pen, and take it to the page, writing down his answer - a fully articulated, truthful message. He would then turn around, watching wars wage on his map and seeing the king’s soldiers overpower the opposing kingdoms, seeing new kings and queens take over, and seeing land borders change.
But then that fateful war happened all those years ago.
It was a vicious battle between Greek armies and Trojan armies, with many lives lost. But then, they paused, seeing another scroll unroll itself, and a floorplan ink onto it. A big room, with a hallway branching off with several smaller rooms. They stared silently as 3 or 4 dots appeared onto the page, signalling there was sentient life in that space, that labelled itself ‘The Basement’. They had to run over to their books, the ones on the theory of existence of time, skimming the books and looking between the diagrams and this new floorplan - this basement defied the laws of time, death and temperature, since they deduced that this basement was located at the center of the Earth.
They plotted out timelines, examining the plan and slowly figuring out how this basement worked. When people died, at the last moment, they were taken there. Then, their body clock seemed to stop. They couldn’t understand that - this shouldn’t be possible, right?
But then the prophet realised something else.
The link, the other book in the world, the other communications book, had been destroyed at some point - they didn’t know how, or why, they desperately scanned their memory and the recent history books, yet nothing. The book was just… gone.
The book on the second pedestal didn’t produce ink for thousands of years. They would stare at it for months on end, hoping in vain that maybe someone would write to them. Communicate. Tell them about their problems and ask them for solutions. But for years and years, the book never moved or produced anything. The prophet eventually gave up, writing up information and examining the basement map - eventually, it split off into this place called ‘The Herbalist', and there was at least 20 dots across it now. They always just watched, and was never able to talk or anything. They were isolated in a world of silence.
Then, one day, they looked up absentmindedly, and heard the quiet words, the command.
“Book of Truth, come to me.”
The lectern shone, and the pages flipped to the first one in the book, now blank. They stared, in shock as they realised what this meant - a new link had been created.
It was about half a day before handwriting, scratchy and messy, but still legible, shone onto the page - “What’s my name?”
The prophet barely had to think before their hand moved to grab the pen that had been gathering a thin layer of dust, and write down the answer - “Florann Kaminska”.
They moved to examine the map, trying to figure out where Florann was, since the link would show up as a gold dot.Yet, it didn’t show up on their main map, so they rolled open The Basement’s map - and there sat the gold dot, next to a blue one marking sentient life, in a room labelled ‘The Throne Room’. They thought the room name was a little pretentious, but they didn’t care. They just stared, every now and then glancing back at the book, before seeing the scratchy ink bleed onto the page -
“What’s yours?”
The prophet paused - in all their millenia existing, they never gave themselves a name. They found it a little embarrassing, but they silently wrote down the correct answer - The thing this person knew them as.
“I am the book of truth. I have no name.”
The prophet just stared at the pages, wondering what Florann would ask them next, before seeing the ink scratch onto the page.
“That’s not a good name, so I’ll call you Daishin.”
They paused, before writing their answer. “Dashin name meaning truthful; one who has a pure soul.” They paused again, before cracking a small smile as they wrote down “How fitting.”
They stared at the empty page, and waited for Florann’s next question.
Daishin had a feeling this would be the start of something good.