That was a long time ago, now. An eon? A millennia? A century? A decade? No. That’s not right. Back then-

The youth walks across stretches of fissured dirt, baked red by exposure to the sun. It seems to extend until the end of time. Yet, the landscape is broken by white spurs cutting through the ground and reaching for the sky; surrounding shrubs transitioning from brown to red.

Occasionally, a small creature dashes across the landscape, only to be killed by a thrown stone and eaten by his blunt teeth. Occasionally, something much larger crosses the horizon, and he digs a hole with his sword and lays in it.

His skin had turned from brown to a deep red; blisters cover nearly every inch of skin. Despite the shirt covering his head, every time he brushes his scalp the teenager’s fingers come away wet with pus.

There is the sensation that he is moving at an incredible pace, yet little changes beyond the occasional shrub, critter, monster or concealed patch of muddy water. Every time he stumbles over liquid, he kneels, immersing as much of his body as he can, and drinks deeply, grains of dirt scraping against his teeth as the water makes its way down. He then fills his backpack – layered with cloth – and scabbard, its blade tucked loosely between his pack's straps.

He stumbles onwards. Sometimes, people he knows travel with him.

His uncles and aunt. One lays on the floor, a dog howling beside him.

A young boy. Every part of his movement betrays anxiety. He is scared, all the time. He disappears like smoke in the wind.

His best friend. The teenager walks beside him, shrouded in shadow. Sometimes, the darkness parts, and the friend’s face is revealed: laughing at an unsaid joke or foolish gaff. Sometimes, the darkness parts: pustules and unmoving eyes. When he sees the latter, the youth unwittingly allows precious water to be drained away – falling down blistered cheeks, to be licked by a tongue.

A guard clad in red lamellar armour. He pursues, and the youth finds himself running until the guard vanishes.

A circle of men and women. They are terrified. He pushes through them.

A well-built young woman. She used to be his friend. Now, she knows who he is. She clutches a bloodied pike in one hand.

His siblings. They do not walk; they appear together, standing perfectly still, staring from somewhere far away. He gives them a wide berth. He is known, now; he is marked. He is no longer safe for them.

His first parents. Those familiar wraiths, nurturing yet hateful; soothing yet painful. As unpredictable as a Summit storm, and to be regarded just as fearfully. They whisper inaudibly, yet for the first time, he knows what they are saying. ‘Your future,’ they say, ‘is us.’

His mother. The one who raised him, and taught him how to be a person. In some ways, he fears her. She is mighty. She could destroy the world, if she wanted to. But he knows she is not mighty enough. He wonders when he last told her he loved her. His only solace is that she knew. Her neck’s smile is crimson.

Unauthorized duplication: this tale has been taken without consent. Report sightings.

He stumbles onward, towards a certain future. Towards-

-me. I was him, wasn’t I? Or… wait. There’s no guarantee of that, is there? Was I him? Or was I-

The consultant follows orders. And his orders are to operate according to his master’s best interests. He has found a position – a step below another – and he maintains it, quietly carving ruts into the ground, to allow the present to move towards a better future. He craves that future; he craves change. He moves towards-

-me No… it couldn’t be. Could it? Or was I-

The knight watches over her charge. It is her reward for a long and just service. Too long, some might say. But her liege is worthy of the utmost admiration. He is worthy of following, and so her charge is worthy of protecting – even if the girl is a brat. On the other hand, her own family is worthy in a different way. Serving her liege serves them, but their gripes often hit the mark. It is true; she is heading towards-

-me. Was that who I was? Or was I-

The farmer quietly tends to his land. In many ways, it is a cruel, futile endeavour; the plants grow – fed by water and soil and blood – and flower into beautiful, crimson things. Their veins throb gently. But he harvests them to feed himself; to pay his dues; to feed others; and then Aching tears his land apart. And then he does it again. This cycle is his birthright, and he must be satisfied with it, as his forefathers were. Yet the solitude is a brutal thing, and he finds himself wondering whether even the dullest of Lizardbloods would work towards –

-me. Was I ever so sullen? So dissatisfied? Or was I-

The pariah finds space to exist. There has never been much – not for Strains like her. Her very existence is a sign of mishandled Godsblood; that two people chose lust over duty. A birth was implausible; it is her reality. She bears the scars of that unmerciful union. She is inhuman where she should be human. But in the grotesque eyes of monsters, there is even room for mishappen creatures like her. Maybe here, she can finally progress towards-

-me. To live with disgust dogging my steps… That’s not so foreign. Is he me? Or was I-

The young woman kills a man with a flick of her blade. It is easy, now. No longer does she contend with the shame of bile in her throat or a roiling in her guts. She turns around, however the fight is already over. Her companions have won. She leaves the taking of spoils to others and immediately begins searching for her mother. She catches the blow before it lands and disarms her assailant with a quick strike to the wrist. The sword falls from her mother’s hand. The incomprehension on her progenitor’s face quickly transitions to cold fury. She should not have won. It will only take her towards-

-me. Such a strange person. Wouldn’t she be fitting, then? Or was I-

The magician sits amid walls of inert stone, and watches his family die. It’s a slow and silent thing, this death. And it is his fault. Spiting all his genius – all the divine blood flowing through him – is the ultimate ending. His helplessness is agony. It is a confiscated tablet that saves him. It is dangerous; it is harmful; it is hope. ‘Save’, ‘Together’, and ‘Bring them home’. So you stir, and slow their death. And you begin to search, desperately trying to bring that hope towards-

-me. The failures… the incompetence… doesn’t that feel familiar? Or was I-

Far beneath the surface of the earth, I/We/The Seed grows/expands/progresses/changes as bone/structure/spine/cartilage/piercing/tearing/growing flesh/body/mind I/We/The Seed hurts/aches/rejoices/changes and sees/feels/witnesses my/our/the Seed’s form/mass/canvas/body and weeps/reviles/despairs/castigates/hates. I/We/The Seed is trapped. But there was still potential/hope. I/We/The Seed could move/question/impossibility/paradox/contradiction/change towards-

-me. That… Is that me? It has to be, right? It makes the most sense. Or was I-

-no. No. Stop. This guessing is pointless. There’s too much. I can’t-

No, I must be-

I know! It hasn’t been a decade, or an hour, or an eon. I think it was…

Five years. Maybe more? Maybe less? Not that it matters, though.

It’s only time, after all.