Rowan had lost all sense of time, so utterly transfixed was he by the sight of the children. Even Arcadia, who was seldom caught off guard, had lapsed into a rare silence. Every so often, she would crack open an eye, swivel her head this way and that, her beak pointing like a compass needle towards the children, as if she were trying to decipher the enigma of their presence. They were, in every sense, a treasure trove, a discovery as startling as it was inexplicable.
Rowan was bursting with questions, but Arcadia seemed to have retreated into herself, her eyes shut, her wings neatly tucked at her sides, as though she were consulting with the spirits of ancient machines. She must have sensed his burgeoning curiosity, for she spoke without opening her eyes, her voice a soft murmur that barely disturbed the air. "I am searching for more data. There is much to unravel here, and the language of the ancients is not helping. Patience, Rowan."
He nodded, though she couldn’t see, and left her to her mysterious communion.
Wandering among the pillars—or were they more akin to tubes?—Rowan felt a chill that had little to do with the air in the room. Each child floated, suspended by unseen forces, and there was something profoundly eerie about it. Not the children themselves; they seemed oddly familiar, as if he had known them in another life. The sensation was disquieting.
One child, a girl with jet-black hair cut short and tousled, reminded him strikingly of himself. She wore a simple tunic and floated in what seemed a peaceful slumber, her chest rising and falling with the rhythm of deep sleep.
Moving on, Rowan came upon a boy, younger and smaller than the girl, with long, flowing black hair and angular features. His eyes were closed in the same semblance of sleep, and he too was dressed in a simple tunic, suspended in mid-air by what might as well have been magic. There were no visible supports, no threads of energy to be seen, yet a faint hum filled the room, a whisper of power whose source eluded Rowan.
He hoped Arcadia would unearth something from her delve into the ancient data. Sometimes, the secrets of the past took months to decode, and Rowan suspected this mystery might take years to fully unravel. It was, without a doubt, the most peculiar and unsettling discovery of his life.
Rowan approached the third pillar, which was less a pillar and more a curious tube, and inside it floated a girl. She was perhaps eight, with hair as dark as a raven's wing and features that carried an unexpected elegance. It was odd, Rowan thought, to consider elegance in one so young, but there it was—an air of nobility, as if she were a tiny, slumbering queen. She was dressed simply in a tunic that cascaded down to her ankles, and she breathed with the steady rhythm of the deeply asleep, suspended in what seemed to be nothing more than air.
As Rowan's gaze flitted from one child to the next, a startling realization dawned upon him. These children, they were siblings. They had to be. The resemblance was uncanny. But more than that, a peculiar sense of familiarity tugged at his memory, sending a shiver down his spine. It was not just that they looked alike amongst themselves; they bore a striking similarity to another face he knew well—his own.
With a growing sense of urgency, Rowan moved from tube to tube, pressing his hands against the cool glass, examining their features. The boy had his nose, slightly bulbous and hawkish, a feature that had often been the subject of jest among his friends. His eyebrows, thick and expressive, arched in a way that mirrored Rowan's own. The boy was the youngest, his features sharp and defined.
The second child, the girl, held softer echoes of Rowan's own childhood face. Her cheeks were rounder, her expression serene, yet marked by the same familial traits. And then the girl in the dress, her skin a shade paler than Rowan's, her brow furrowed even in sleep, as if caught in a thoughtful dream.
Standing there, in the heart of this strange and ancient place, Rowan felt the ground shift beneath him. The realization was staggering. He remembered the blood he had given at the first door, an offering to ancient, inscrutable technology. Could it be that his own blood had been used to create... these children?
What magic or science was at work here, Rowan could not fully understand, but the implications were profound. Were these children truly his siblings, fashioned from his own essence by mechanisms beyond his comprehension? The mystery deepened, wrapping around him like the shadows at dusk, and Rowan knew that the answers he sought were locked away within the secrets of this ancient place.
Rowan's mind was a hive of bees, each bee a buzzing question that refused to settle. He tried to quiet the swarm, to think clearly amidst the hum of confusion and emotion that threatened to overwhelm him. Each child before him bore his own features, a fact as startling as it was undeniable. It had been mere minutes since he'd stepped through the first door and into this chamber of pillars, yet here they were: three children, seemingly spun from his very essence. Was it technology at work here, or something far stranger? Rowan's head spun as he tried to piece together the puzzle, but the more he sought connections, the more he found gaping holes in his understanding.
He had come in search of treasure, only to find a treasure of a different sort: three young faces, mirror images of his own. Rowan, a robust explorer in his mid-twenties, had journeyed across the vast and mysterious world of Eden, braving perilous fogs and encountering beings of all sorts—benevolent and malevolent alike. Yet nothing had prepared him for this. His usual relentless pace through ruins and relics, his refusal to pause for more than necessary sustenance, all came to a sudden halt. Overwhelmed, Rowan sank to the ground, drawing his knees to his chest and taking deep, measured breaths. He half-wondered if this was the work of some arcane illusion, a trick by a fog-dwelling wizard. But no, his instincts screamed that this was all too real. These children shared his blood.
His gaze drifted to the inscriptions on the walls, words in an ancient tongue that seemed out of place, out of time. What were they telling him? That these children were created here, that they didn't belong in this forgotten chamber? His hands grew clammy, his heart raced, and he fought to steady his breathing. The mountain itself seemed to sense his turmoil, its deep rumblings a grim reminder of the precariousness of their refuge. Though the room promised safety, the threat of being entombed within it loomed large.
Rowan knew he must decide their fate. The word from the walls echoed in his mind, a cryptic clue to the puzzle he must solve. With a deep breath, he steeled himself against the chaos of his thoughts, the mountain's ominous grumbles, and the unsettling reality of his unexpected progeny. Whatever lay ahead, he knew he must lead them from this place, from a mystery into the unknown.
Rowan was just about to hoist himself up when a sharp whistle sliced through the air to his right. He swiveled around, and there was Arcadia, blinking her large, luminous eyes open as if she had just decided the day was too interesting to keep sleeping through. With a graceful flutter that seemed almost too elegant for her mechanical wings, she detached herself from the central port where she had been docked, like a ship setting sail into the unknown.
Arcadia danced through the air, her wings beating a soft rhythm that filled the room with a hushed expectancy. Each child turned to watch as she hovered before them, her eyes flickering with the light of inner calculations. Rowan couldn't help but think she was downloading all the secrets of their souls, matching them against the vast library of data she had stored up in that central port.
After completing her aerial survey, Arcadia seemed to make up her mind about something. With a decisive flutter, she landed squarely on Rowan's shoulder, her tiny claws gripping the leather of his jacket with an intimacy that spoke of old camaraderie. The weight of her was reassuring, a tangible presence in a room filled with the intangible. It was as if she was affirming that, whatever was to come, she was firmly on his side.
Rowan cleared his throat, feeling as if his voice had turned to parchment. "Arcadia," he began, hesitantly, "about the three children—I think they might be—"
Arcadia interrupted him with a sharp whistle, her eyes gleaming with an unsettling mix of knowledge and mystery. "Oh, I know they're yours," she declared, her voice ringing with a certainty that made Rowan's heart skip a beat.
He blinked, taken aback. "How can you be so sure?" he managed to ask, his voice barely above a whisper.
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With a dismissive shake of her beak, Arcadia seemed to sift through her thoughts. "It's the blood you offered at the first door," she explained, her tone suggesting this was common knowledge in her world. "It was used, somehow, as a template to create these children—not just their bodies, but something more."
"Corporeal?" Rowan echoed, the word feeling strange on his tongue. "Are you suggesting there's more to them than meets the eye?"
Nodding solemnly, Arcadia's feathers ruffled with the weight of her knowledge. "Indeed, it's a bit of a puzzle," she admitted. "I'm piecing together theories and scraps of information. But it seems these children have been here as long as this chamber, perhaps not in body, but in spirit."
Rowan's mind reeled. "But they look like me," he protested, his voice rising with confusion. "And I only gave my blood a quarter of an hour ago."
Arcadia flapped her wings in irritation, a clear sign of her frustration with the limits of her understanding. "That's the mystery, isn't it?" she said, her tone tinged with annoyance. "This place holds more secrets than even I can fathom. But from what I've gleaned, your children existed here in spirit long before today, waiting."
"Like ghosts?" Rowan ventured, the word tasting of old, dusty books and whispered tales.
She cocked her head, considering. "Perhaps," she conceded. "Or perhaps something else entirely. But your blood—it acted as a catalyst, binding their spirits to newly formed bodies. You've anchored them here, Rowan. In every sense, you are their father, both genetically and, perhaps, even spiritually."
Rowan slumped back onto the cold, hard stone, feeling as if all the life in him was pooling inconveniently into his boots. He doubted very much that he could stand, even if a parade of marching bandits stormed through the ancient chamber.
"Your blood levels and blood pressure have skyrocketed. You're under stress," Lydia observed, peering at him with clinical detachment.
"I have three children now," Rowan pointed out, as if that explained everything, which, in his mind, it rather did.
"Technically, they aren't yours. They just share your genetic bond," Arcadia interjected, her voice echoing slightly off the ancient walls, filled with glyphs that whispered secrets of a long-forgotten past.
"And their—" Arcadia began again, but Rowan cut her off this time.
"No, they're mine." The words came out with a surprising firmness, a solidity that Rowan himself hadn't expected. It wasn't possessiveness that colored his tone, but rather a deep, resonant sense of duty that seemed to anchor itself within him. It was as if he had suddenly grown roots, deep and unyielding, right there on the spot.
He glanced around at the glyphs that seemed to chant 'does not belong' in a silent, eerie rhythm. Where did they not belong? Here, in this ancient, technological sanctum? Was the very dome they were in urging him to whisk these children away to safety? The mountain outside rumbled a low, ominous warning, yet the chamber held firm—a sanctuary, yet a prison.
Rowan's thoughts spiraled back to the children, suspended in the air like strange, ethereal fruits of a tree he never knew he had planted. Were they safe? Would they, could they, suffer the pangs of hunger, or the chill of death? How long before their slumber broke?
He sighed, a sound that seemed to stir the dust of ages around him. His life had always been about plunging into the depths of forgotten places, chasing the thrill of the unseen, touching the relics of yesteryears that most only knew from dusty books and faded dreams. And now, here he was, a father in the most bizarre of circumstances, to three children woven from his very essence by some arcane twist of fate and science.
The absurdity of it all suddenly struck him, and a bubble of laughter rose up from deep within. It wasn't just any laughter, but a rich, rolling cascade that shook his shoulders and echoed around the chamber, mingling with the ancient whispers of the glyphs. It was laughter tinged with a touch of madness, the sort that comes when the world tilts on its axis and leaves you clinging on, bemused and bewildered.
Arcadia fluttered from Rowan's shoulder, her eyes wide and a touch alarmed by the sudden cacophony of his laughter. It was a rare sound, Rowan's laughter, rich and rolling, and it echoed oddly against the ancient, ivy-clad walls that surrounded them. As his laughter subsided, he dabbed at his eyes, still chuckling softly to himself. It had been an age since mirth had bubbled up quite so fiercely within him, and oh, how his ribs ached with it!
Arcadia eyed him, her head tilted in a bird-like, quizzical manner. "Are you okay?" she ventured, her voice tinged with a mix of concern and bewilderment.
Rowan, still catching his breath, stretched languidly, his arms reaching out as if to embrace the sky. "Yes, a little better now, thank you," he replied, his voice smooth as he slipped his hand into the depths of his worn leather jacket.
"And what do we do now?" Arcadia's voice held a note of expectancy, as though she were both dreading and anticipating his answer.
With a mischievous grin, Rowan produced from his jacket three small, metallic orbs, each nestled snugly in his palm like mysterious, gleaming fruits. "We make a bit of magic," he declared, his eyes twinkling with a mix of nostalgia and excitement.
These orbs were a curious blend of his and his father's craftsmanship. His father had started their creation, a mesh of gears and dreams, and left them unfinished, a challenge thrown across the span of years. Rowan had taken up that challenge, weaving his own spells and mechanics into them, transforming them into something unexpected, something uniquely theirs. Over the years, these little metallic spheres had become more than just a project; they had become a part of him, a testament to the journey from his old home, now a decade in the past. Time seemed a fluid, elusive thing, especially here, where the fog played tricks with memory and age.
He was twenty-five, by the count of Eden's slow dances around the Sun, yet sometimes he felt ageless, timeless, especially in moments like this, with his creations cradled in his hand.
"These are my children," he whispered.
Rowan watched with a mixture of pride and habitual concern as the three metallic balls he'd casually dropped to the ground began their astonishing transformation. Each sphere unfurled like a peculiar metal flower, sprouting limbs that in turn sprouted more limbs, all folding and unfolding with the smoothness of silk in a breeze. Within moments, what had been simple metallic spheres were now fully formed golems, each resembling a sort of humanoid creature, if one squinted and allowed for a generous interpretation of humanoid. They had dome-like heads, devoid of eyes, and limbs that seemed to defy the usual restrictions of human joints, stretching and retracting with eerie fluidity.
Arcadia, ever the pragmatist, eyed the newly formed golems with a critical gaze. "I thought so. You know, climbing back up is going to be a little difficult, even with these golems."
Rowan nodded, his mind already racing through potential calculations and adjustments. "Right, and it seems like the mountain is probably going to collapse soon."
Arcadia tilted her head, a gesture Rowan had come to recognize as her processing mode. "My scans indicate that we will have plenty of time to reach the surface."
"Good to hear," Rowan replied, snapping his fingers with a flourish that belied his underlying tension. "Golems, integrate with Arcadia 001."
At his command, Arcadia's eyes flickered with a golden light, a sign of her taking control. The golems moved in unison, a testament to her precise command. She then resumed her perch on Rowan's shoulder, her mechanical body buzzing and whirring as it worked to coordinate the movements of the three golems. Normally, such a task would cause her to overheat, the left side of Rowan's face bearing the brunt of her exertion. But today, she seemed to manage the task with surprising ease.
Rowan couldn't help but wonder if Arcadia's recent access to the local archives had something to do with her newfound efficiency. Perhaps, buried within the ancient data, she had discovered some arcane algorithm or forgotten technology that enhanced her processing capabilities. It was an unexpected boon, and Rowan made a mental note to explore this further, once they were safely away from the precarious mountain.
Rowan watched, a mixture of fascination and bemusement playing across his features, as the golems he had crafted from scraps and whispers of old magic wrapped their gleaming, metallic arms around the ancient tubes. With a concerted effort that spoke of hidden strength, they twisted and pulled. To Rowan's astonishment, each tube slid out with a smooth, satisfying pop, as though they had been waiting all these years just for this moment of release. He hadn't anticipated such a seamless extraction. Then again, Rowan mused, there were many things in life he hadn't anticipated.
For instance, becoming a father to three children. That had certainly not been on his list of expectations. Life, as it turned out, was as unpredictable and twisty as the labyrinthine passages of the ruin he now stood in.
"Have them follow," Rowan instructed crisply, nodding towards the golems as he turned to leave the chamber. His voice echoed slightly, bouncing off the cold, stone walls, filled with a new authority he was still growing into.
He had ventured into this forsaken place with visions of uncovering lost technology he could harness for profit, perhaps even to bolster his burgeoning theories on sun tech. What he had found instead were three children—his own, no less, linked to him by blood and an inexplicable twist of fate. It was as if he had stepped into one of the old tales his grandmother used to recount, where the world was thick with enchantments and every turn brought a new revelation.
As he led his peculiar procession back towards the surface of Eden, the world cloaked in its eternal, mysterious fog, Rowan felt the weight of his new reality settling around him. He had left his home at fifteen, a mere boy with a head full of dreams and a heart yearning for adventure. He had traveled with Arcadia, seen wonders and horrors, and thought he had mapped the contours of his life.
Yet here he was, a decade later, his journey fracturing into new, uncharted paths with every step he took. With his children trailing behind him, their small, uncertain steps a counterpoint to his own decisive ones, Rowan realized that his adventures were far from over. There was so much more to see, so much more to learn. And not just through his own eyes, but through theirs as well.
The mountain rumbled again, a low, ominous growl that seemed to echo Rowan's own turbulent thoughts. He glanced back at the children, their serene faces still locked in slumber, and felt a surge of determination. They were his responsibility now, and he would protect them, come what may.
Arcadia, perched on his shoulder, seemed to sense his resolve. "We'll find a way, Rowan," she murmured, her voice a soft hum in his ear. "Together, we'll uncover the secrets of this place and ensure their safety."
Rowan nodded, his grip tightening on the hilt of his sword. "Yes, we will," he agreed, his voice firm. "Let's get out of here and find some answers."
With that, he led the way out of the chamber, the golems following obediently with their precious cargo. The path ahead was uncertain, fraught with danger and mystery, but Rowan felt a strange sense of hope. For the first time in a long while, he wasn't alone. He had a new purpose, a new family, and together, they would face whatever challenges lay ahead.
As they emerged into the cool, misty air of Eden, Rowan took a deep breath, feeling the weight of the ancient mountain lift from his shoulders. The world stretched out before them, vast and full of possibilities. And with his children by his side, Rowan knew that their journey was only just beginning.