One might suggest that it is better to forget the atrocities of the past so that we might move past them and not let guilt, regret, or disgust come in the way of progress. And one would not be wrong to say that the Sharan had no past, as much as one could suggest that they had no future.

The past that they had was one not fondly remembered, for who takes pride in millennia of slavery and war, or the outright destruction of the world that you called home, or the loss of the foundations upon which their society was built?

In all of its unfairness, only a select few remember or care about that past. Is history not there for us to learn from so that we might avert the same mistakes that have been committed?

But reality is what it is. The Sharan now and the Sharan then are not much different from each other; they are neither smarter nor wiser than those who lived before them, and the ones who still remain from such bygone eras carry in their hearts a burden of memory, one that refuses to be forgotten, one that instills its carrier with the most profound fear.

In the first sunrise of the Sharan, there was no freedom; there was no peace as one might think of as peace; there was just slavery and unrest that only needed a spark to set it and all that was around it ablaze.

On the pasture on which he had laid his eyes, a spot of intrigue remained, one that made him keep his eyes on it. The wind that had brought warmth to him and the smell that was first claimed by nature had an unnerving undertone.

A child lay on the ground, his eyes closed and his body soiled with something dark. On his face, there were hints of ash. The child was skinny and malnourished at best. The blood that soiled his clothes was most likely not his own but someone else's.

Kanrel approached the boy, not looking around or witnessing the things that were there for him to see—the many things one should see and the many things one should not be blind to. Things one does not want to see but has to, for one reason or another, such things had to be seen; they have to be observed, for one who doesn’t go through what is happening might never truly understand the horror of it all.

Those who have truly known only peace—who are they to comment on war? Who are they to say to those who have experienced it—to get over it or to demand they partake in it? To go through it again.

As he slowly became more part of that which was on the other side of the door, only then could he hear and feel the world around him as it was. There were no birds who sang; there was no warmth in the wind that touched him; and the pasture was not much greener on this side of the door frame.

And the child that lay all alone was one who should never have been there in the first place. The reasons for why he was there, why this had happened to him, or why it would happen to anyone were most definitely unfair. As if life just happens without a reason, as if these things, these terrible things have happened to him without a cause.

Surely, one might say, there was a reason, but never one for which he could be blamed. And if that reason were his father or his grandfather, then who would be so callous as to blame the son for the crimes of his forefathers?

Kanrel kneeled before the child, and from the wrist of the child he sought a pulse, and the pulse that he found was one that was faint and almost nonexistent. The boy, in his presumed innocence, looked like he belonged there. Like this place, it was one that he came from or at least one that would make him into a different man in the future. If, for him, there ever was a future...

In the malnourished face of a child, he could see a twitch, a momentary reminder that the person who lay before him was, in fact, alive. And when they opened their eyes, and for a mere moment did Kanrel close his own, he soon opened his eyes to a different view than before.

Above, there was the sky, and on that sky so blue, there traversed normal clouds far above him but also smoke that rose from somewhere past his field of vision. And when he tried to get up, his weakened body seemed not to respond at first. But slowly, he gained control of it. In his body, it all felt wrong; it felt weird and out of place. As if these hands were not his to use, as if these legs were not those that he had just before used to walk, and as if these eyes saw the world in a different hue than what he was used to.

He slowly rose from the ground, his eyes meeting the edge of the forest and the charred pile that rose before him—a place from which the smoke had come, a place where this smell came from. A place with a memory attached to it.

The sun was red as it set far in the west. Around him, there were just pastures and flat fields, charred corpses, and signs of not a battle but of a massacre.

Perhaps this field had once been covered with a golden hue; how wheat would cover it as far as eyes could see. But now, the color of the world, the color of the corpses, the color of the sunset—it all matched this new and perverted vision of the world, and the smell of it all was more than fitting for the horror that had transpired here.

He got up, but he felt shorter than he had been before, and the pile that rose before him was far greater than he had thought at first. Perhaps they were supposed to burn until the coming morrow, yet they had not. It was all here for the world to see and witness this thing that had happened, for reasons he could not name. To people, some of whom he felt like he had known...

His eyes were ruined. His mind was torn and twisted into something it was not. Memories—where are they to explain that which he now saw? To explain who he was or who he was supposed to be...

Who am I, and why am I here?

These questions, as disgust, reminded him of its existence and of how unnatural such a view was for someone like him to see. Yet there was something familiar about it, as if he had before, long before, seen what death was like. How he had lost. Oh, how he had lost so many, for reasons unknown and never explained to him. How he had loved his mother, his father, and his sisters. How much he had loved them all...

Yet here he was. Alone. Why? Why was he here? Why was he not part of that pile of corpses? If there was something true that he remembered, was it this feeling that claimed that he should be a part of that pile? He felt criminal like he had broken something—a law, a promise, something that he ought to keep...

And then there was the forest.

What makes someone walk into a forest? Why does it call for those who have nothing else but despair? So he took an uncertain step toward it, guiding his gaze away from the details of the things that had happened here. He should not see it; he should not carve the details of it all into his nascent mind.

These are things he should never see, never explain, never observe, never rationalize, and never feel anything else except disgust toward them. Never feel thankful that you are awake and alive, yet those who lay there, charred and in pieces... In so many pieces. Why had they cut their hands? Why were there heads that were lost, not a part of the bodies that they claimed as their own? Never feel thankful for the fact that you are alive, and, well, well... well enough...

Pain. In so much pain was this unfamiliar body, mangled and malnourished, not far from the grace of darkness that claimed those whom he might’ve known, who he might’ve loved, who might be not far from here, at the edge of the forest, among the charred bodies of a travesty that might have happened, which he should’ve been a part of, among which he could’ve laid. To feel at home among those who have died, to feel lost, alive, and enticed by the forest, enticed by its familiar call. They whisper, and they call for you to enter. They beckon you to take another step, to never stop, and to never look behind.

He did not look behind as he entered the forest; he did not look behind to make sure that the bodies were still there. He did not look behind him to make sure that the memory of them would not taint his already tainted mind.

The night falls, and so does the child who walks alone. His feet were unable to carry him as he now crawled on the forest floor, going deeper and deeper. The night would veil the bodies that lay behind, and the clouds that would burst with rain would wash away the sins committed by... by who?

Those tears would fall and cover the earth, washing away the blood and the ash that covered parts of it. The night would veil all; it would cover it all; it would allow men to forget their deeds but instead be afraid of the bodies that might walk again, that might come and seek revenge. Restless, each night one would be restless as he who did evil would remember the things that he had done. Restless is the criminal who would have to accept that he is evil and that he could never sleep as he once perhaps had slept.

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There is no pity for such evil men, and there is no pity for the child that was left behind. There was no pity as he crawled deeper into the forest. Perhaps there he might find salvation, but oh, how the night is so dark and cold. Oh, how the rain hurts as it hits his back, his head, and his hands and legs.

And at last, when one can no longer crawl or walk, one would have to come to a stop. Next to him was a spruce tree that was tall and mighty, one that would at least slightly shield him from the rain that pestered his way. But still, it was cold, and he shivered in that cold, and he shivered whilst trying to close his eyes to enter sleep or, better yet, death.

His mind was empty, a formless nothingness with no other memories than the forest in which he now lay. This world is so cold. So cold are the drops of water that fall from above. So cold is the ground that he calls his bed, and so cold is the mind that refuses to fall asleep. He does not want to fall asleep.

What if, in his dreams, he would find answers? What if there he’d find memories? What if there he’d remember? What if you’d remember? Who wants to remember? He doesn't; he would never want to remember.

So let one forget and not find memories from one’s dreams. Through the night he shivered, only thinking of that, shivering and the cold, his feet and hands numb by now, and if he tried to speak, no words could he form, as his lips and his face were so numb by now. This world is so cold. So cold is this forest.

So he continued to crawl, now more slowly than yesterday. He crawled toward that same direction; he crawled without a true direction. He crawled, only shifting his direction if, in his way, there was a tree, a rock, or whatever that might be, but crawl he must, and crawl he would.

In the end, he was bound to find someone who could help him, right? It had to be so; it must be so. There had to be someone who would save him, who would give him an understanding, who would give him a truth in which he could believe. Something that would lay him to rest, to dreams of not memories but of warmth and something... something familiar, something other than this.

With no hope or anything that would remind him of such, he just crawled. At least, by now, the rain had come and gone, but the cold still remained. But what was worse, he wonders—the cold or the hunger?

He just crawled and did nothing else; there was no reason to do anything else. Around him, there was nothing that he could eat, and there was nothing that could bring him warmth. Who the hell wants to be cold and hungry? Why had he even entered this forest? Why had he even awoken on that field? Where was he? Who was he? Who am I, and where am I going?

There has to be something that would give him answers, something to feed him, or at least something to warm him. Something, a mother. A fire, yes, a fire. Oh, how he should lay among the dead—the many corpses that lay in the fires, which roast, they roast—that succulent meat was there but so far away. So hungry and so cold. Isn’t there anything to give him release from this worthless waste of his fucking time?

He stopped near a tree; he had no strength to continue. There was no will to get up or to even keep his eyes open. Death, there was always death. Wasn’t there? Perhaps there was something there—something in death—that could feed him and bring him warmth.

On the moss-covered ground, which served as his deathbed, that moss grew all around him and covered most of the forest floor. So soft it was, even when it was made wet by the earlier rains. There’s no reason to continue. There’s no reason for him to find food, for him to find warmth, for him to find answers—there was no reason for anything at all. There was no reason to live.

But there was a reason to sleep, to give up, and to never open one’s eyes again. Slowly, he began to drift away. Slowly, there was nothing that he could think of. Nothing would claim his mind or make him do anything at all. Slowly, he would succumb to the darkness—oh, how dark it was. Slowly, there was no more coldness, warmth, or sound that he cared for. There was, in fact, nothing.

And the whisper he heard was as meaningless as the wind that carried him—how it tickled his ears. How it raised him up from the ground in a sudden motion—the yell that he heard that hit his temples but refused to truly register and enter his mind. He entered the darkness, and he entered it willingly.

…

To dream without dreams, is there nothing more scary than that? Can you even prove that you are, in fact, alive if you can’t even see dreams? Such nights scared him the most. To drift away into darkness and not dream at all. To only sleep and not experience the comfort of dreams. So scary, that was. And when he finally awoke from such nothingness, he felt rested but afraid and confused.

Dreams: Each child needs to dream and to have dreams, but he has none. The bed in which he lay was not the deathbed that he had found for himself. It was just a bed; it was warm, but the blanket that covered him felt so heavy, and he thought that if he tried to move it away, he’d be unable to do so. But would he want to move it away? There was finally warmth; why would he ever leave this warmth?

His belly growled as he finally opened his eyes and witnessed the ceiling that was above him. A wooden ceiling, one that he had never seen before. He was so sure that he had never spent a night in a house before. And if he had, he would have done so only in dreams of such wealth and prosperity.

In the air, there was the smell of something that made his stomach growl even more, and he could hear the crackling of fire from somewhere, as well as steps that now slowly approached him. He closed his eyes to make sure that the person who was walking toward him would not think that he was awake.

The steps stopped right next to his bed, and the delicious smell of something grew even stronger as he heard the sound of someone placing, perhaps a plate, on top of the nightstand that was next to his bed.

“I know you’re awake.” A coarse voice suddenly spoke. There was some amusement in this voice that had a very particular tone to it as if the person who spoke was not that used to speaking at all.

His eyes sprang open, and soon he could see the face of an old man. His face was entirely covered with scales; his hands were the same; they were a creature, a man with considerable magical ability. And in their eyes, there was a shadow, one that, at times, would cover his irises, hinting at knowledge one could do better without.

He didn’t know why he knew what he knew. Why, almost instinctively, he could tell that the person who looked down on him was someone who had magical ability, and he didn't even know how he knew of such abilities.

The old man furrowed his brows and said, "Eat; we will talk when you’ve recovered... I have many questions I wish to ask from you."

The old man helped him to sit, and now he could see the bowl and its contents—a green soup of some kind that didn’t look too appetizing, yet its smell was wonderful—or perhaps he just thought so because of the hunger. That same hunger made him extend his own hand toward a spoon that was set next to the bowl, but as he did so, he could see his own hands.

For the first time, he could observe them as they were. Scaly, perhaps scalier than that of the old man. His hand stopped for a moment as he observed it and tried to remember if it was always like that.

For some reason, it felt wrong yet right at the same time. His stomach growled again, reminding him of more important matters. Thus, he grabbed the spoon and soon began to scoop the weird-looking soup out of the bowl. The first bite was so warm, and its savory flavor filled his mouth. The first bite was one that had some hesitation in it, but the second one and those that followed were enthusiastic as he stuffed his face with more and more of it, quickly emptying the small bowl that had been brought to him.

All the while the old man observed him, at times amused by his actions, and when the bowl was empty and the fragile child grabbed the bowl and began to lick it clean, did he snatch the bowl from him and mutter as he walked away, “One bowl won’t do, I see; perhaps by the second or the third you’ll be satisfied..."