[Do you want to unlock your Past Memories?]
[Yes.]
As soon as he confirmed his decision, the world around him started to disappear.
He looked at his kin celebrating the conclusion of their first hunt. Dozens of goblins that huddled together in small groups, eating and laughing, enjoying their brief reprieve from hunger. All of them were fading away into nothingness.
Even the members of his own team weren't spared. He could see the shapes and the contours of their bodies turn hazy and uncertain. They continued to devour the thick stew, unaware of their peril, until they completely melded into the same dungeon that once birthed them.
Bizarrely, he could still hear them. The empty spaces they left behind continued to produce a cacophony of wet slurps and gulps, but the noise was chaotic. The pitch and the volume kept rising and falling randomly, as if losing the point of reference made the sound itself grow confused.
He had to cover his ears as the noise deteriorated into a piercing, high-pitched whine. It penetrated him to his very core, threatening to burst his eardrums, until it abruptly cut out.
He opened his eyes to see that even the oppressive walls of the dungeon, that easily repelled his strongest attack, were quickly erased, seemingly unable to put up any resistance.
Like a receding wave, the reality retreated, leaving behind an absent void.
His sense of self proved to be no stronger, he could feel the memories of his brief existence pouring out of him like water from a leaky vessel.
His last conscient thought was a surprised realization that this darkness seemed markedly different than the one he had experienced before. It evoked a sense of warmth and safety that should’ve felt alien to him, but instead was deeply familiar.
With that thought, oddly calm, he closed his eyes and let go.
***
A loud cry of a newborn broke through the stillness of morning air. The noise startled a sparrow that was sitting perched on a windowsill. It abruptly took off and flew away into the distance.
Inside the room, a woman was resting on a wooden bed. Her blonde hair, which she kept long even after getting married, was wet and dark with perspiration. In her arms, she cradled a small boy.
She looked pale, exhausted, and very happy.
The midwife who assisted in the delivery had already retired, leaving the woman alone with two other men.
They stood next to her bed in silence. It was clear that neither of them was willing to disturb this precious moment.
The first man was younger, either in his late twenties or early thirties. It was evident that the long labor had taken its toll on him as well. From behind a mess of tangled curls resting on his forehead, you could see a face which was even a shade paler than that of the mother. But neither that or the pair of dark rings under his bloodshot eyes could hide the unadulterated joy in his gaze.
The other man was older. The vicissitudes of life had marked his face with deep lines and ridges like carved wood. Still, those who knew him would be surprised to see him now. A wide smile that blossomed on his lips had softened his features making the man look many years younger.
A gust of wind blew in from the open window. The air carried the fragrance of irises and lilacs.
The woman awoke from her daze. Her fingers instinctively reached out to tidy up the wispy hairs on her son's head. With a hint of hesitation, she raised the boy in her arms and offered him to the older man.
The man tenderly accepted that trembling bit of life into his arms.
He gently traced his fingers over the child’s face, seemingly mesmerized.
Finally, he produced a small silver needle and pricked the child’s finger in a quick, smooth motion.
A single drop of red blood emerged. He let it fall on a small golden tablet he held out in his other hand.
Instead of rolling over to the side, the drop of blood was quickly absorbed. The amulet briefly flashed, revealing a complex symbol on its surface, but in a wink of an eye the image disappeared.
The man hanged the amulet on the newborn’s neck.
He briefly looked up at the two parents who anxiously observed his every action. His smile widened as he let his eyes fall back on the face of the infant in his arms.
"Son of Verdgar and Anasia," he intoned in a sonorous voice. "Today I recognize you as my legitimate grandson, forever to be part of my line and my clan."
He peered deeply into the eyes of the crying boy in his arms.
"I welcome you to my house."
"Marcel Deschain."
[...]
Countless images whizzed by. Scenes from Marcel’s childhood appeared one after another, without end.
But in contrast to what could be expected, the experience wasn’t like reading a picture book or watching a play.
Instead, the system had him essentially relive the totality of his life. The disorganized mess of blurry images, sounds and impressions that comprised Marcel’s memories of his own birth was already forgotten by the time he was reliving his second week.
By the time he could speak, he could no longer remember the times when walking on two legs seemed like an exclusive domain of the giants around him.
Days turned into months and months turned into years. Innumerable scenes and experiences fleeted past. Most of them were so brief they didn’t last but a moment, others were so precious he’d bear their mark for the rest of his life.
Marcel Deschain was growing up.
[...]
A small field mouse fled across the tall grass, and ten years old Marcel Deschain followed.
His shins were covered in a spiderweb of light scratches and streaks of dirt. An exquisitely adorned sheath holding a miniature wooden sword hung from his belt. The meticulous work of the master who worked on the scabbard couldn’t be seen however, as it was hidden behind a layer of prickly burrs that got stuck to it when Marcel ran through a bramblebush.
Still, these small nuisances wouldn’t even enter Marcel’s mind.
He was a knight on a mission.
Mister Barbare, the caretaker responsible for the large swaths of land surrounding the mansion, had personally reached out to Marcel to enlist his help in vanquishing the vermin that terrorized his garden patches.
The mouse abruptly stopped and looked back at its pursuer. Its brown fur revealed hints of gold when bathed in afternoon sun, but its most prominent feature was definitely the small patch of red fur it had on its back.
That’s how Marcel was certain that it was the very same mouse that had eluded him many times before.
The critter looked at him lazily, with what Marcel could swear was an obvious amusement.
Marcel harrumphed and sped up, barely avoiding getting his foot caught in a burrow.
“Thou shall fall to my blade!” Marcel exclaimed, to which the mouse squeaked in reply.
The chase continued.
The lands surrounding the mansion were truly vast and could be divided into concentric rings. The innermost area directly encircled the mansion. It was also the place where mister Barbare revealed the full extent of his genius in cultivation.
Curved pergolas overgrown with rose bushes provided shadow as you strolled between rows of irises and buttercups. Small trees of lilacs bloomed with myriads of violet flowers. Come spring the garden would be suffused with their sweet aroma and each gust of wind would lift countless of these tiny petals into the air, making them dance like butterflies.
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As you wandered deeper into the garden, you’d enter the second ring. From that point onwards, the flowers gave way to useful plants. There were orchards of apple and peach trees, their branches buckling under the weight of the fruits. Marcel especially liked the bushes of gooseberries - their bell-shaped fruits were covered in prickly hairs, but their taste was sweet like honey.
That left the outermost ring of the estate. There, the hand of man was absent, and nature could develop the land according to its own wishes.
Wild meadows bloomed in a cornucopia of colorful flowers. Patches of red poppies, violet clovers, and yellow dandelions buzzed with activity as countless insects flew around gathering nectar. The grass, freed from the scepter of the gardener and his scythe, was able to grow without restraint, easily reaching the height of Marcel’s chest.
As expansive as the lands surrounding the mansion were, it didn’t seem that there was much that escaped the field mouse’s attention. As it fled from Marcel’s pursuit, it revealed the full scope of its knowledge, skillfully leading the boy through an unending streak of bramble bushes, wild roses, and nettles.
By the time the afternoon sun started turning red, Marcel looked like one of the forest fairies he read about in the fables. Countless twigs and leaves were caught in his hair. If someone wished to conduct a biological survey of the lands, they’d need to look no further than his golden locks.
Marcel could hear the clip-clop of an incoming rider, but was unable to run any more.
The man on the horse was one of his teachers.
“The curtain of night might give you recluse, but the blade of light shall break through!” Marcel roared after the mouse that had already disappeared in the tall grass.
“If you are going to quote the poem of Lidrass at woodland critters, you should at least do so in the language it was written in,” the man remarked. “Especially when you decide to skip your afternoon classes to wage war on the local population of mice and mole rats.”
“I’m sorry, teacher!” Marcel promptly apologized. “I haven’t realized it was so late.”
“I’m sure you haven’t,” his teacher responded with a smile. “Much like you haven’t realized there were four other servants sent after you, riding to and fro and crying out for you to come out.
Marcel blushed guiltily, but then quickly retorted, “It was that mouse, teacher! It deliberately led me through the thickest thickets. I really didn’t notice anyone.”
“Mhm,” the man replied in a flat tone. “I’m still waiting for that passage from Lidrass.”
“But I’ve never read it in the old tongue!”
“Then translate it yourself.”
Marcel hesitated, but one look at his teacher’s face was enough to realize that there was no way he’d squirm his way out of trouble this time.
Faced with no other choice, Marcel calmed down and began in earnest the difficult task of fitting the words of the verse he had quoted into the complex grammar structure of the old tongue.
It took a few minutes, but his teacher didn’t hurry him. Only the horse would periodically swat its tail, irritated by a cloud of gadflies its behind attracted.
Finally, a short string of sounds, broken by a few pauses, escaped Marcel’s mouth.
“Marcel,” his teacher sighed.
“You decided to use an equivalent of the word drape, but disregarding the fact that it inspires an association with what the ancestors used to cover their bodies, it completely transforms the original meaning of the poem.”
“Lidrass didn’t even use the word αλφάβητο, which is the one you should’ve chosen if you wanted a direct equivalent, but the verb μαυρώνω meaning to darken. Its root is derived from the noun for the night sky, it invokes a sense of movement - darkness isn’t some rug you throw on a floor, it’s an aspect of the constant change and flux inherent to the world. .
“How was I supposed to know that!” Marcel retorted, feeling wronged.
“Obviously, you would’ve known that if you had read the original and not a clumsy translation.”
Marcel sighed, feeling defeated.
Master Credio was hired as Marcel’s history teacher, but his true passion lied in the study of the old tongue. A passion he was adamant on sharing with his student.
Marcel’s other teacher focused more on instilling him with proper manners and etiquette. He’d meticulously fill Marcel’s head with appropriate expressions to use when interacting with his peers, his lessers, kings, officials, and so on.
Oddly enough, despite acquiring a moderate fluency in two different languages, neither of them would’ve helped him much if Marcel ever decided to venture more than twenty miles outside the estate.
While the nobles all shared a common tongue, the commoners spoke a variety of regional dialects. Due to the high restrictions on travel imposed on them, it wasn’t uncommon that even serfs from two neighboring villages had difficulties conversing with one another.
Moreover, lands might change. That was why learning the tongue of the common people was largely considered a frivolity and a waste of time that no noble could afford.
“We’ll be working on that passage over the next month or until you’re able to adequately express it in the old tongue,” master Credio said.
“I’ll also ask your mother to stop reading you those chivalric romances every night. At least until you show sufficient progress.”
“No! I promise, I will--” Marcel started, but his teacher interrupted him.
“No buts, Marcel. Now get on the horse, your father is waiting for you. If you’re that unhappy, you can start working on our way there.”
Left with no choice, Marcel mounted the horse and sat in front of his teacher, holding onto the mane for support. He knew that the threshold for adequacy in his teacher’s mind was something that he wouldn’t reach before recreating Lidrass' poem word for word and probably not even that would prove sufficient.
The ride back didn’t take long, around fifteen minutes, but it was enough to make Marcel realize just how far he had strayed from the mansion.
When they made it back, he could see his father waiting for him in front of the house.
“You’re late,” he said as soon as Marcel alighted from the horse.
His teacher smiled and rode away after giving Marcel’s father a quick bow, leaving the two alone.
“I’m sorry, father,” Marcel said. “It won’t happen again.” He lowered his head and dropped his shoulders, transforming into a perfect image of contrition.
“No need to act so coy,” his father smiled. “I’m not going to scold you on your birthday. But now that you’re ten, you’ll need to learn to treat your responsibilities more seriously.”
“I will!” Marcel quickly replied.
They walked towards a veranda in the southern part of the house. On the way there, his father asked Marcel about his day and Marcel happily regaled him with a long tale of his hunt after the nefarious mouse, starting all the way from the heartfelt plea for assistance from the gardener.
“Now, Marcel,” his father said when they arrived at the veranda. “You should know that your tenth birthday signifies an important milestone. You’re not quite a man yet, but neither are you just a child. It is tradition that to commemorate this day a father cuts his son’s hair for the first time, marking his first step on the path of adulthood. It was the same when I was your age.”
He turned to look at Marcel and sighed seeing the mess of twigs and leaves sticking out of his son’s hair.
“Though I suppose I should start with a brush,” he said, somewhat helplessly.
They sat together on a bench, his father deftly untangling a forest worth twigs and leaves from Marcel’s golden locks.
When he was finally satisfied, he took out a razor and started cutting Marcel’s hair.
Marcel couldn’t help shivering when the blade touched his scalp. For some reason it was warm. Maybe his father heated it up earlier to lessen the discomfort, but the effect was opposite. It felt as if a bit of flesh was touching him.
Still, he wouldn’t cry during a ceremony welcoming his own first step on the path of adulthood! He gritted his teeth and waited patiently until the whole thing was over.
When he was done, his father handed Marcel a small mirror to look at himself.
His lips curled when he saw the aghast expression on his son’s face.
“Cheer up, at least now you look more like all those knights you are so fond of.”
That comment did alleviate Marcel's mood a bit. He started inspecting his new look with renewed interest, comparing his face to that of the heroes he saw in paintings.
Meanwhile, his father produced a small wooden chest and began collecting Marcel’s cut hair inside.
“Help me out, son,” he said. “It will make your mother happy.”
Together they began to collect the cut hair. Marcel soon wasn’t able to find any more, but his dad seemed to possess a preternatural talent for the task. Each time Marcel was just absolutely sure there couldn’t be anything left to find, his dad would reach out with his hand and pick up another strand, so fine it looked colourless.
It didn’t seem he was in any hurry. Whenever his fingers found another strand of hair, he’d bring it up against the light, admiring it like a jeweler might do with a precious gem, and only then would he put it in the box.
A gentle breeze ruffled the leaves in a nearby coppice.
At some point Marcel realized that his father was humming. It was a strange tune, completely unlike any melody he heard before and it didn’t appear to follow any of the rules of composition he briefly learnt about from his etiquette tutor.
It seemed to somehow complement the soft rustle of the leaves swaying in the wind.
Marcel couldn’t help relaxing. Although he didn’t realize it, his breathing began to instinctively follow the odd meter of his father’s humming. His small chest rose and fell in a mysterious rhythm.
At some point another voice joined. That one was softer and higher. Marcel instantly recognized it as that of his mother.
His body relaxed even further as Marcel let himself be completely guided by the music. His breathing slowed down to a crawl, with many seconds passing between each breath.
Oddly, the process didn’t make him feel lightheaded. Each breath he drew filled him with strength. It was as if this was the real way to breathe, and all he did before was just a poor imitation.
When Marcel finally woke up, he could feel some wetness on his face.
He turned to look and realized his mother was sitting on the ground with him. She had her arms wrapped around his body and sobbed silently with her head pushed against his shoulder.
“Mom!” he cried out anxiously, but his mother only tightened her grip around him.
His father sat opposite to them, a complex look on his face.
“Congratulations, Marcel.” he said in a tired voice. “You’re blessed with a power that every knight must possess.”
Marcel wanted to say something, but then the world around him began to disappear.
***
He sat on the ground, staring blankly.
It seemed that not a single second had passed since the moment he chose to reclaim his memories. The festivities were still in full throttle, all around him goblins were cheering for their chief and sharing in the good mood.
A rumble in his belly made him look down to his lap. He was still holding onto the bowl filled with thick stew. A few morsels of meat were floating on top. They were glistening with fat and he couldn’t stop his mouth from watering when he looked at them.
His ears were filled with a cacophony of smacking lips.
Marcel Deschain started screaming.