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There's a clock tower near his house. It sits in the centre of a small park, a silver-white obelisk in a clearing, surrounded by the thick canopies of evergreen trees, and it stands in such a way that the circle of clean-cut grass around it always captures the light, like a halo of vibrant green and yellow surrounding the tower.
He doesn't know what it means, or why it's there; and a tiny part of him keeps him from wandering there, from carefully walking up the shallow steps and into the little shaded pavilion beneath the arches of the building. A tiny ache claws in his throat; looking at the tower from the balcony of his apartment makes a little rising sense of familiarity bubble in his chest and it hurts; hurts in the way that he feels that there are things he needs to know but has had them wrenched from his mind.
So he ignores it, ignores it and pushes on in his life, works and sleeps and everything feels disgustingly mundane, wrong for no particular reason.
In his dreams, he catches fleeting images of blood, a thousand wasted lives, dead selves littering a battlefield, the ground dyed in blood and death and salt, salt from tears and destruction.
Sometimes, he swears he can feel the tug of time at his fingertips, and he sits down and wonders for what could have been, or what once was. He remembers a lingering scent, a warm body smelling like citronella and pepper and smoke. Blocks of capitalised, grey words, lengthy rants and hugs, a ghosting presence surrounding him with warmth that he doesn't remember.
During the day, he works a regular job at a café, idly watching people walk by the glossy, large-paned windows. People interest him, in the passive way that he notices tiny mannerisms and takes note of anything out of the ordinary, but he never really acts upon his interest. He has friends, sure, but he never makes any endeavours to socialise particularly much, plagued with the nagging feeling of missing something.
Occasionally, someone will pass by, and his heart will catch in his throat. Blonde hair, elegant words and a glare that could kill, or a toothy grin and a laugh sharp enough to cut glass. Sometimes, a boy, about the same age will walk into the store and look at him with sad eyes, eyes older and bluer than the oceans and Dave will push back the voice in the back of his head telling him that he should be smiling, smiling a wide dorky grin coupled with his too-thick glasses and messy hair. Instead, he takes his order, ignoring the slight disappointed look in the expression of the stranger.
One time, he brushed past a troll, one with a short stature and an angry gaze, and he turned to apologise, but the words caught in his throat and he assured himself it was due to the startled glare they'd offered, and didn't pause to think about the other expression the troll had made before storming off, one mixed with tragedy and fondness and apology and regret.
-
It's his birthday, the day he decides to walk over to the tower, despite the little nauseous feeling pooling in his gut. It's only down the street a little and in the centre of the park, so he just walks over, shoulders hunched, in the afternoon.
Up close, it looks worn-down; tarnished and broken, with crumbling corners and smoothed, over-used steps.
He stops short when he's standing right outside it, looking at the white marble steps and wondering what the tower was built for.
"It was built for a hero," says a voice from behind him, and his mind is filled with violet and verbena, lavender-scented thoughts and acerbic, straightforward words.
He turns to look at her. Something about the word 'hero' strikes him as wrong. He recognises her as someone he's seen before, pale blonde hair and a serious face.
"Or perhaps not a hero, but a knight nonetheless," she continues. "A boy who fought too hard and was rewarded with naught but the safety of his friends. The mangled remains of a shattered sword, a kiss goodbye and tears laced with salt and blood were all that he was left with."
He stares at her with a mix of confusion, fear and curiosity. She simply smiles, but it's a smile that wrenches at his heart, sends a tiny pang of agony through him.
"This tower was built for him," she repeats. "Infused with lost memory, put together by a broken group of children who held his hand until the very end."
She steps forward, and he barely notices her arms wrapping around him, barely registers his vision clouding as he wills the tears to go away, why are they here, he doesn't know anything about this, this doesn't mean anything.
"Dirk-"she chokes up a little, "He wanted me to tell you that he says it's always okay to cry, no matter if you're a Strider or not."
He still doesn't know what's going on, but he lets himself, lets the tears make silent tracks down his face.
"I'm sorry," he says. "I don't know why I'm crying."
She just holds him tighter.
"Who are you?" And then he stops. "Rose."
She freezes. "Dave?"
"I'm sorry," he repeats. "I don't, I can't, I'm not supposed to-"
"It's okay," she whispers gently, and takes a step back. "The others have been staying away because it's so painful for all of us. And you don't remember. You might never remember, but there's something, at least."
He nods.
"Come back tomorrow," she says. "At the same time. It won't be me, but come. For him."
Another nod. She rests her hands on his shoulders. "Thank you, Dave." And she turns and walks away.
-
He actually walks up into the tower the next afternoon, just in the shaded area under the arches, where the ceiling is cut into a dome with inscriptions lining the walls. They're all filled with scrawling messages, colourful words circling the walls. A lot of them are in teal, plenty in bright blue and lime green, a few well-placed violet and orange messages as well.
There's only one message which catches his eye, though, carefully engraved in uniform, grey caps, the only grey text in the building.
"LOVE YOU FOREVER , YOU INSUFFERABLE PRICK."
He traces over the words with hesitant fingertips, outlining each letter as carefully as the next.
"This was a bad idea." Dave turns at the sound of the voice, taking in the familiar face of the short troll with nubby horns and sharp teeth as he twists his lips into a small, broken grin. "Long time no see, Strider."
His head is screaming at him now; he steps forward and wraps him into a hug, taking in the scent of pepper and citronella, even though he doesn't know what he's doing.
"Sorry," he murmurs. "I'm sorry. Karkat." The name feels right, he's sure of it.
The troll tenses up.
"Fuck. Fuck... This. Whatever this is. You barely remember anything, I can't do this to myself, no, it's been years, just stop-"
Dave pulls back. "No. I... I don't know if I'll ever remember much more than a few fleeting images, but..." He pauses. Breathes. A few scenes flicker in his mind, a game of torture and battle, the final stretch lain out before them as they ventured forth to cut their fate. Blood seeping into the earth, leaking out of his body and winding into tiny cracks. A trade, a life compromised. "You could help me."
"Yeah," Karkat replies, voice muffled into Dave's shirt. "Alright." A deep, shuddering breath, masking his aching throat and hidden tears. "Let's make this happen."