Anew

“Live close to another life, and the unliving shall not touch”
“Every step on Imprerium soil is a grave”                                                                                                                                                                  - Romadian Mythology

The fire is bright. Its lightness lingers in the dark, goes through the slits between the bars and casts its shadows on the hard, cold, and dark stones.

A ray of that orange-yellow light points straight to her right eye, inflicting an incredible pain on the eye that has just awakened after a long, long night. The eye squints and the head turns away, avoiding that blazing pain.

By that movement, the chin feels a cold sense of steel, while the forehead touches her soft arm – a quick and pleasant feeling. The cautious eyes look up. The arms are held in the air, their wrists shackled by many chains hanging down from the dark ceiling.

And under the chin is a neck shackle, she guesses, for the eyes cannot look down to the neck. The nose takes in the gross combination of smells from the rusty irons, humid dirt, and dead plants and moss. While the ears hear nothing but complete silence of the night. The feet are touching the rough surface, almost resting on there, as her weight is being held by the shackles on her wrists. The fingers, despite being kept so high from the heart for long, can still be moved and felt. Rolling around her body is a thick, hard piece of cloth.

The heart beats slowly, while the skin stays cold and numb.

The brain… thinks. She looks at the dark iron bars in front again. She does not know this scene or understand what it means. She has not a conscious thoughts in the moment. Her eye was hurt, and thus she moved the head; further than such reflexes to direct sensations from parts of the body, she knows not enough to have a conscious desire. And thus, those iron bars look normal – as normal as the ceiling one sees after a long sleep.

What am I? A question emerges in the girl’s mind, and is immediately recognized: That was a “question” – had just awoken without a bit of knowledge, she examines her own thoughts. It also does not take her long to recognize This “language,” however she knows not what this language in her mind is or where it belongs. The thought appears again, What am I? And what is an answer to be given to that question? She begins picking out and counting parts of her body that are giving her sensations – believing them to be “her” – but in her mind they cannot form a coherent shape. I know it is there –a particular part of her body is there, in her, but – What is it? I cannot look to know. No… Is it me because I know it? Where is I? She looks at the iron bars again, wondering if it is her or not, Is it also I? No, perhaps. She notices, “perhaps”, a word one used for the unknown.

On the chapped thin lips, a smile takes form. Apparently this has been fun to her. A process of “Learning,” she notes the word. And thus the inquiry with oneself continues. She looks still at the iron bars, I do not know it – nor does she feel it as her own – then perhaps it is not me. Nor is the wall, the floor, the ceiling, and the chains. “I” seems to be at the center of all this. The one that sees is “me.”

The eyes look down.
… Is it correct?

… If that is correct, then am the whole “I” being behind these two eyes? Or is this body also I? They are different from the chains, yes, I cannot feel the chains, but I can feel my arms. Perhaps it is true that they are not me, but are more “me” than the chains. Then, they matter to I more than the chains.

She takes another look at the chains around her hands. The eyes have now opened long enough to familiarize themselves with the current environment. They can now look at the source of that lightness outside the cell. A torch, it seems, is being kept in place on the stone wall by a black rusty scone.

She has now, at the very least, known what objects are more of “herself” than the others, and the word “body” now makes sense. She then recalls the slumber she has just awoken from, but cannot remember anything before it, neither in the mind nor the body. It would probably be correct to say I was born moments ago. But am I meant to be kept? – She feels the chains and shackles on the body, wondering if this is the state she is meant to be ‘born’ in. Without any knowledge or senses whatsoever, that is a question she has no way of reaching an answer.

And so she waits. Not because she wants to wait for something, however. Everything around her has been stationary for as long as she can remember, so she deduced that this is how things are meant to be, and thus keeps being still.

For a long while, or perhaps not long at all, the cell, the torch, and the awoken girl inside it stay still as if nothing has changed. Stationary as if she is a thing, a drop of sweat rolls from her forehead to the half-closed right eye, then down to the mouth. Having been awake for a while, she starts to pay attention to more subtle sensations from inside the body. Emptiness inside the body, lower than the lungs, about the stomach… Hunger. Salty taste of her own sweat inside the dry mouth… Thirst. The cold pain of being shackled now emerged inside the mind, the limbs want to be moved, and the eyes have been closed again… Boredom.

Am I meant to be kept? That question emerges again, but then she realizes something important, I am wanting – She is now aware of a desire, apparently she wants to be out of this position. However, There is no indication for what I should do. She does not think of her recently discovered desire as large enough a motivation for action. And thus, she continues to wait.

…

Something did come, however. Turns out I was waiting, after all. After a long enough time for her to nearly lose her consciousness once again, a sudden wave of bright yellow light shed on her eyelid. Opening the eyes, the light source looks much like a ball of lightness – much brighter than the torch in the distance – levitating in the air, at the same height as her eyes. Its light brightens the empty room in front of her, somehow these same stones look so more pleasant in this lighting. I think I ‘like’ it. She looks at the light, she does not remember it, nor does she know. Should it be here?

Suddenly, as if she has gotten used to the strange light from that ball, her field of view changes rapidly. What used to be a dark but luminous enough space, and later a space filled with light-yellow color, now turns completely dark, and after that, the cold room appears slowly again, much vaguer. It is as if a dirty, opaque pair of lenses has replaced her eyelids. Then from the ball of light – which now looks green, very green in fact, instead of yellow as before – innumerable minute points of green light spread out, some brighter than others. They look to the girl much clearer than the stones, chains, torch, and the iron cells. They move in all directions and stick to the surfaces they come into contact with, where then they linger for a while before becoming stationary.

Before her eyes, the green points of light around the ball concentrate into rows of symbols, which she has an understanding, Ah! Words! She knows those symbols are from the same language she’s been using to think. The green words laid themselves out into the air, she reads them slowly as she did with her thoughts:

“The name of the human is Rune.
“You are now present in the world. Be born anew.
“You know not that much, but it was your choice and sacrifice to make.
“Do not trouble yourself with the questions, although I knew you did.
“Live unknowingly if you wish, but if not,
“Seek your own vessel and redefine yourself. It exists, and only you can obtain.
“If you ever doubt yourself, or I, do remember that I knew.”

The instance she set her eyes on the last letter, the ball of light together with its words disappeared. The sight before her comes back to being the dark, cold cell lightened only by a distant torch. However that sense of her vision switching stays, it feels very simple and natural, just like closing an eyelid. But no matter how many times she closes and opens her eyes again, that vision of various points of green light does not come back.

I should think about what is more certain. She recalls the green message, they are all made of words she knows, and form sentences she understands. However, she does not know anything about that language, and thus does not know if she is reading it right – I have no way to tell if I am just playing with meaningless symbols. But until I know enough to have a conclusion on my understanding of the language, doubting it lead me nowhere. A question quickly arises before she can move on to the next thought. How can I have a conclusion on my understanding of language? She realizes, I have been acting on some assumption… Why did I use this language in my head, knowing it, but the first question I asked was “Where is it from?” which implies this language exists somewhere else, but not the language itself? She squints her eyes in the thinking, an uncomfortable feeling lingering in her heart, a piece of knowledge – but not actually knowledge, because she does not remember knowing it – emerges, felt like remnants of a long dream from her slumber, the word: Human. The moment that word becomes clear in her mind, a little information about this “human” also appears in her memory, which allows her to make sense of a lot of questions, Yes! see how other humans use it, that was what I was thinking about.

And it does remind her of a word in the mysterious sentence: “The name of the human is Rune.” Which human? Together with the knowledge of the word, she recalls humans being many and is not one entity. Those words were sent to me, as they present themselves to me alone, so… She looks down at her slim body… Human? Me? Should I make that assumption? But making it is the only way for me to move forward. Realizing her constant suspicion is leading her nowhere in this situation where knowledge is too scarce, she decides to put the assumptions in a corner of her memory and move on with the thinking, which seems to her more and more of a good route. The only human I have known of is this body of mine, does the entity that sent the message know it? The message does suggest so. But the sentence was not about me, but strictly about the human, then there might be a chance I am not a human, and the name of this human is Rune... I am not human? That is a hard statement to examine, as she simply does not know anything about herself. Her body does resemble that of a human, she feels so, but maybe her head is different, as she cannot see it herself? I can not answer it at this state, let’s move on. The more she recalls and examines the message, the more it becomes clearer to her that it suggests she is not a natural entity in this world, and it does also suggest a kind of ‘mission’ for her to achieve. Am I meant to be kept?... She thinks about the question she asked a while ago. The sender of this message does not answer that, but suggests two answers… choices… and by that implies there is no concrete purpose for me, which answers that: I am not meant to be kept.

She has been thinking on the assumption that the message is true, and as it was correct that she indeed “trouble [herself] with the questions” (although she does not think it “troubled” her) and answered her question as if it knows the question exists, It really does seems that the sender knows. And I do not know, I guess I am different than the sender, is it a human? Again, a question she has no way to answer.

The flow of thoughts slows down, she is now out of her thoughts and returns to being in the cold, hard, and dark jail cell once again, with all the shackles and chains. This time the face is much brighter, the eyelids don’t seem as heavy as before, and the mouth moves as if trying to speak. Despite all the questions, assumptions, and suspicions she still keeps in the mind, she is now free of the question “Am I meant to be kept?” If it is the truth that I should be kept, then that message shouldn’t have even existed, let alone its truthfulness.

And with that, she feels an inclination to move. It concerns her a little how she has to put so much of her decisions behind the word “feel,” which seems certainly like a powerful concept, as it gave her knowledge – on the humans and her body, for instance – and seems to be guiding her as well. It is strange, she thinks, These feelings are as distant to me as the body here, certainly more “I” than some objects, but not “I.” She exhales and then takes a long breath. There’s no point thinking further.

She goes with the guide of the “feelings” in the end, and tries to move – or physically dislocating the self, according to her. She can’t. No matter how she tries swinging the feet or the arms, - trying to move the body – she is still kept in the place. The shackles on her wrists, despite feeling rusty and worn down nearly to the point of falling apart, still hang her arms. Seeing the feet can push harder than the arms, she tries to bend the spine and touch the wrists with the toes of her feet. She commands the body, and it follows thoroughly, despite a pain growing on the hands as the weight on it increases. The feet touch the shackle, she positions it on the joint between the shackles, and pushes.

Soon, the rusty iron pair of shackles breaks, and the girl falls together with its pieces. The spine hits the hard floor with a loud “thud” sound, leaving her struggling on the floor for a while in pain.

She stands up – a very familiar action to her mind – and the piece of thick, dirty rag around her body falls on the floor. She looks at it, Why is it on me? Then she looks at her body, slim arms and fingers, small chest and muscle, slender clavicle and ribs, soft abdomen. She does not know why, but looking at it brings her much pleasure. She picks up the rag with the right hand, wanting to pull it along, and starts walking, left foot put forward, then balances the self, and then the right foot follows. This body knows how it should move, while I don’t, perhaps it is also the thing that ‘feels.’

The light girl walks out of the cell, in footsteps that are much silent, but not so silent of the rag that is pulled on the floor. She reaches the iron bars, which open with a slight push. Strange, I was just merely kept. A long, dark, and wide hallway made of stones spread out on two sides. Complete darkness, aside from the small space in front of the room where she awoke. She looks at the only torch still burning, then turns to the right and starts moving. She walks for a while, with no other light sources, to her right is always a similar room to the one she’s been in, chains and shackles, but generally empty.

The more she feels comfortable with the act of walking, the less she is with the vision. Her left hand suddenly feels no more wall, the hallway has ended. The girl has likely stepped into a more spacious place. Now there is no light, the last ray of light from the burning torch has been engulfed by darkness. It displeases her, Are these eyes human’s? They hardly receive most of the space I’ve been in, they seem to be so dependent on that fire. She pauses, and thinks about turning back to try picking up that torch out of the wall. But the moment she is about to turn around, something appears in her vision – in the darkness. She stays still, and looks back at the place ahead of her, squinting the eyes. Just as last time with the ball of yellow light, her vision is changing again, this time slower. The complete darkness is gradually replaced by a grayscale vision, she starts to see a few steps more in front. As her vision lets her see farther, the view becomes gray and dim, with almost no distinction between objects. But at least, it lets her know where she is.

Can humans’ eyes do this? She looks back, to see a flow of very distinct grey-white light, very far away, at the last corner she turned. The torch? Are the eyes more sensitive to light? Or to heat? She looks back at the spacious room, indeed a few steps in front of her is very much seeable. She walks a few steps onto the stones that she can see in detail, then looks up.

This place is not just a room, it is almost a tower. So high and far to the ceiling, a hole is open among the stone. A very tiny hole, it seems in her vision just a light gray-white point of light. So there is a source of light over that distant wall? Gradually, that point of gray light becomes brighter as she keeps looking at it, and then it quickly becomes so strong it fills her vision with whiteness. It snaps her back to the normal vision as she turns her head away in reflex. After a few seconds for the eyes to be used to darkness, once again, she looks up. Ahh… Once again ‘feelings’ emerge, together with a vague knowledge, The moon. It is a red light, from an object seemingly covered in mist or cloud, much farther away from the hole itself. Having remembered the moon – the first object to be outside of her immediate surroundings – she feels that There should be something outside here.

She looks away from the distant hole, closes the eyelids, and then opens them again, with her vision now being in the sensitive grayscale one. This is more convenient in the dark, and the action of switching the vision now feels so natural after she discovers it – just like the first time she tries moving her arms or legs.

The spacious room she felt just now, was much larger than the cell she once was in. On all sides are frayed walls cracking, full of fissures with fragments of bricks, sand, and stones lying in high piles under tall walls. There is nothing on the floor, except some torn wooden bars. There are three ways out of the place that are not covered in sand and rubble, the hallway she came from, a wooden door, and a staircase going upward. The girl walks up the staircase, with only the rag pulled behind making noise on each step.

…

Two moons, one white-yellow and small, hanging in the middle of the sky, the other bright red and larger, casting its light on the blurry distant horizon. Under the night sky full of stars above a sea of yellow sand. The girl, now being used to fine-tuning her vision, looks to the stars, each of them a shining point of lightness. And under the structure of stones where she is putting her hand on, is an isolated, ruined fortress with towers and turrets raising higher than the rest buried beneath the sand level.

She is standing on the highest tower of the structure, after walking her way up a long spiral staircase. There were not any intact objects inside the structure on her way up, pieces of glass, metal, and wood lying alongside the bricks and sand. The sand carried in the strong wind sweeps through her exposed skin. Two objects very visible above, a structure of stones beneath, and sand surrounding… I do not know them; however, the scene makes her reluctant to turn her back on it. “What should I do next?” has been her question all the while she was walking, but at this moment it is forgotten, as she keeps staring at one of the moons.

The first time discovers the meaning of liking, she stands still for long, embracing the visual beauty – or whatever she calls it – of that particular extraterrestrial object. The small white moon moves slower than the other, its light appears to her different visions more pleasant and balanced of colors, while the other’s more chaotic, with the redness being the supreme.

The gaze lasts long, but not all the night, for a light – or rather a source of heat – appears lower in her sight, flickering above the cold waves of sand. It moves slowly toward the castle, and in a few minutes, there are two different lights, held by a group of men and their wooden cart. Humans – she recognizes as they move closer, their bodies resemble that of herself, and their tools, their lights appear to her too familiar. Words to describe them pop up one after another in her mind. She leans forward, looks down on them standing by the wall beneath the tower where she stands. Curious, she leaves her spot.

Once again, she walks the stairs, this time in opposite directions. The girl and her rag – still in hand – quickly move down the stone staircase, making little noises on each step.