Written for Halloween 2012
Spoiler warnings: A/N: This was inspired by Justine's (DLC) ending, set to one of the alternative endings in Amnesia. What if? What if...
A/N: Unfortunately, I sort of ran out of time, and it's very likely that the text contains misspellings and the like. I may return later to fix whatever issues are left here. Edit: fixed some spelling errores and grammar. I hope I got all of it sorted.
31.10.2012
Epilogue
22 of August 1839
My hands still tremble, and lack of proper sleep makes it hard to see, but I feel I must get everything off my chest or I'll go insane. I feel isolated, as I dare not tell the truth to anyone, and so I write with unsteady hands, hoping to calm my mind by translating my fear into words.
I had lost my hold on Agrippa's head when the ceiling caved in on us in the Inner Sanctum, and I admit that every now and again I wonder if the bodiless man is still alive, buried underneath all that rubble. And yet, I can not bring myself to regret my decision even once.
After my ordeal at Brennenburg, I chose to avoid the villagers of Altstadt, unsure of how they would react to my presence. So, rather than ask for help there, I decided to walk the long path to the next town.
To my luck, a carriage happened upon me as I staggered my way towards civilisation. Bloody, dirty and with torn clothes, I managed to conjure up a lie about travelling; about armed brutes in the forests and a robbery on the highway. I told them that I had hit my head, and showed the bruising wound from when the wooden barrel knocked me unconscious in the wine cellar; an event that seems years away now.
I told them that my memories were fuzzy at the best.
Some questions I answered truthfully. Mostly I lied or altered the truth, finding it surprisingly easy despite my exhausted state.
I find myself guarding the notes I picked up in Brennenburg with a almost paranoid possessiveness. I cannot even think of sharing their secrets with anyone, and perhaps it is better that I don't. After what has happened, do I truly want to be linked to that nightmarish place?
Eventually we reached our destination, and I was ushered to see a doctor. The local authorities questioned me for hours, but I stubbornly repeated the same story over and over, hoping that if ever the truth of my deception was discovered, I would be far away from that place.
The elderly doctor seemed horrified by the shape I was in, and marvelled at my luck for surviving as I had. I joined with his marvels, but for different reasons altogether. To the authorities, he verified my state of amnesia, which thankfully strengthened the tale I'd spun together. He recommended I acquire a journal for myself, and record as much as I could remember. The sun had set by the time they allowed me to leave.
I've been given new clothes and signed into a small room at a moderate inn. I have also been assured that the British Embassy will be contacted concerning my predicament.
My journey home has begun.
3 of September 1839
Even though I've settled down well in my old apartment, I have so far avoided my visit to Hazel. I did not want her to see my injuries or the sad state my ordeal has reduced me to. Though I'm sure it all looks worse than it actually is, there is a great deal on my mind that needs to be sorted out, injuries that need to heal, and memories I still cannot fully grasp.
I am by no means ashamed of my new, scarred appearance. They may be eternal reminders of the nightmare I lived through, but my body will heal in time, and I can only hope that my mind will do the same.
To distract myself, I reapplied for my old job at the British Museum. The museum staff have their reservations towards me, as I did leave in a hurry and now resurfaced in a most worrisome manner... But after a prolonged discussion, they decided to allow me some minor tasks "until my health returns."
Life is setting itself right again.
And yet, each night I return to Brennenburg Castle; crawling through filth, wading in cold water and chased by the horrors within. And when I lie awake in the early hours of the morning I cannot help but wonder:
Do those horrors still stalk the ruins, killing villagers at their leisure now that the master that controlled them is gone?
17 of October 1839
Today I visited Hazel for the first time since my return. She was horrified by my injuries, but glad to see me alive. I told her of the sights and folklore I'd encountered in Prussia during my visit, but left out all mention of Brennenburg and Alexander, rather skilfully I might add. Hazel listened with the same wide-eyed interest as when I read her stories during our childhood.
I told her about my amnesia, of course, and gave her the same explanation I had given the authorities in Prussia. As I showed her the scar where the barrel had hit me, I silently wondered; When had I become such a talented liar? Surely I do not believe my own stories to the extent of them sounding true?
Later that evening, I found myself standing naked before a mirror. I eyed every scar left behind on my body, remembering where and how I got them. A sharp stone... broken glass... splintered wood... I do not want to lie to myself about them. I need to remember. I have to.
The worst one runs across the entirety of my back, jagged and broad. The laudanum had numbed my pain at that time, but the memory of a monster's claw, tearing through my flesh, is eternally carven into my mind. The awful truth of the matter is that I hold a reluctant liking towards it. Ugly as it is, it is still proof that what I survived through was real. And in a mind where memories are scarce, a mind that questions all it's seen, that reassurance is something very important.
20 of January 1840
My work at the museum is going surprisingly well, and the other members of the staff no longer avoid me. I've also begun to visit Hazel whenever I can, and though she is growing weaker, we still find much to speak of. I've taken to reading fairy tales to her; the same ones she used to like as a little girl.
Outwardly, life seems normal now. But as soon as the door of my apartment closes and I am left alone with my doubts and fears, I can feel the crumble of the reality I've constructed around myself. That is when I turn towards what has become my most sacred possession.
A metal box hidden under my dresser holds all the pages I found within Brennenburg. Not once have I spoken of them to anyone. The letters and notes are my secret, waiting for me whenever I return home.
I've read each note many times through. Every evening for months now I've sat before the flickering oil lamp and tried to place the events described into my failing memory. Some of the stories spark a vague familiarity in me, such as those I've written in Algeria. Others I cannot grasp at all. Still, they are all proof of what I've lost. And of what I feel I must reclaim.
Again and again I read these papers, hoping to remember them as more than simple words.
30 of June 1840
Hazel has passed away. I attended and paid for her funeral, placing violets rather than roses upon her grave. They were vibrant and perfect, almost like the ones Alexander used to grow in his garden. A stray thought found me lamenting that I was unable to bring with me the wild violets of Brennenburg to place upon my sister's grave.
Later, as I returned home, I hid a picture of Hazel inside my metal box. A foolish thought perhaps, but I felt almost afraid of forgetting her as well. Afterwards, I sat down by my desk and spread my journal entries out in front of me. I read them over and over, long into the night and eventually fell asleep right there in my chair, papers spilling onto the floor.
Once again I visited the castle of my nightmares; both its luxurious guest room and its dank dungeon. No monsters chased me that night. For in my dream, I was the monster.
19 of August 1840
This will be my last entry.
Earlier today, I watched as the last of the "secrets" of the metal box burned away in my fireplace. I've packed my suitcase and bought a ticket for a ship to Prussia. One year to that day I woke up on that cold, stone floor, and I am finally returning to Brennenburg.
The note that I had written to myself this very same day a year back was the last one I burned, and I smiled with what I can only describe as wry amusement as I watched it wither and blacken.
Oh, my deeds were real, and I remember them all too well now. All the faceless men and women led through the dungeons and into torture. The orb was real, as was the shadow following it. But that last note that I burned...
Alexander had helped me choose the diary entries and even to write some new ones while the diary itself was destroyed. Together we sought out the places to hide these... "memories," both the real and the false. The baron had even sat by my side as I wrote that last letter to myself and drank of the amnesia mixture.
It had all been a game, after all.
One last great sport with the orb's shadow knocking at our doorstep. Would I die? Would I kill Alexander? Or would the shadow get us both?
And the baron, he played his role splendidly.
He is dead now, of course. We were both aware of how things may turn out. But I also remember that Alexander could only accept two options; to go home to his love, or to die.
I had not bothered to put out the fire before I left. I doubt I will ever return to this city again. The ship I've boarded will set off soon, and in the horizon lies my future.
Hidden underneath the ruins, in the bowels of Brennenburg to where I'm sure only I know the route, lies all of Alexander's research. All his books, his magic and his knowledge. Is there anyone better to pick up the old baron's heritage, than his most faithful student?
-Daniel