It’s been ten years since you came to us.

Ten years since the flash of light filled the marbled chamber, and the king, his ministers, mages, and me, wondered at the youth who stood confidently among us. What little uncertainty brushed off with a brash smile.

The hierophant confirmed your divinity and anointed you with sacred oil. The air was filled with incense reserved solely for the occasion. I’ll never forget that smell. For me, it lingered on you always.

Perhaps some small trace remains still.

The king told you why you were summoned. “To defeat the dark lord.” You told us that ‘you were just an ordinary person in your world, but if we believed in you, you would try your best, and not give up.’ We all thought that was an admirable attitude and well spoken… We didn’t know what your best would entail.

We held a banquet that night, in your honour, and you arrived fitted with new clothes. Poised, everyone said, like the king’s heir. I was bitter at the comparison to my lost sibling, but then you looked at me, and smiled with that brash charming smile… Did you regain that smile after you returned? Or did you wake one day, and suddenly realized you had lost it?

I don’t know which one I would prefer.

One by one you were introduced to the mages, the ministers, and me. You feigned polite boredom at their flattery, but I could tell you relished being told how special you were. Wouldn’t all of us?

“Hello,” you said when it was my turn, your eyes locking mine with a warmth I had forgotten, “you look sad.”

All my scepticism instantly vanished.

“Perhaps I cry for you.” I say, ignoring the loss you reminded me of.

You looked baffled. “Why would you cry for me?” You laughed softly.

Stolen story; please report.

“Because you won’t remember any of this when you are gone.”

Your look soured. You said you would find a way to overcome the conditions of the summoning. It was a promise. I didn’t believe you then. Later I would.

Later I would believe you could do anything. Pluck the sun from the sky and put it in your pocket. Anything.

Is that why you didn’t?

After your first night, we trained you in mind and steel. Blade and spell. Your body became iron, your words flame. Once you were ready you received gifts, outfitted in knightly armour and holy sword. Your presence was announced, a celebration held. You never looked more heroic.

More resplendent, more radiant, yes, but not heroic. Later, when you were equipped by gods, it always seemed the armour wore you instead of you wearing it, but not that day before the people. That day, they saw you, and they had hope.

There was a girl in the first banquet… I think she wore blue. She tried to teach you how to dance. You were so clumsy, and we loved you for it. She danced with you again the second banquet. You were the best dancer there, and we loved you more. We all danced with you after that.

Do you still dance, or did you lose that too? Maybe you felt a desire to regain what you didn’t know you lost. I would like to think that.

But then I remember you chose to lose it. You chose to forget everything. You said it was impossible not to. “Those were the terms.” That you had to accept forgetting your adventures to have them. As if you had forgotten how determined you were to overcome those ‘terms’. As if you couldn’t figure out how to do the impossible like you did so many times before.

No, you forgot because you wanted to. Of course you wouldn’t want to remember, after everything you did. After fulfilling the technical ‘terms’ of our request and snuffing out our hope. After everything you did between when you ‘won’ and were forced to return home.

I know reading these letters sent through space and time won’t spark memory. Mere words cannot overcome a god’s will. You’ll be secure in the comfort of your world, reposed in your little home or little job, seeking little distractions that maybe resemble what you had here. Then you’ll come across this. You’ll think it’s like any other vision of longing, not something meant just for you. But something will strike you, and so you’ll read, but it won’t be enough.

But even though these words cannot spark memory, perhaps they can create some correspondence to them. Create a dim reflection of the emotions held then. Maybe even a false pain would be a sort of justice.

…

On the day after the second banquet, you chose me as your first companion and set out on your journey. I was so happy.