History
The storm of spirits went streaming by the wide window of the Chronicler of Ruin's chamber. The tenebrous specter observed the growing Harrowing passively. She had not been called to join, but that did not mean that she would be without responsibility. Beside her, with her face pressed up to the glass, the Deathsinger's daughter stood watching the turbulent skies in wonderment.
"Wow," Achlys gasped, "there are so many of them."
"Thousands join the host," the Chronicler responded.
She pointed to the faces the appeared in the Mist, naming them as they passed.
"Kamryn the warmason, Osbeorn, vintner of Ironwater, Malena of the Camavor infantry, Stamatios of the Solari, Nadia, captain of the Riptide Glider, Seneca, shipwright of Helia's harbor. I knew him."
"You know so many," Achlys marveled.
"I must. It is my fate."
"Mine is to help wraiths."
"That is what your father believes."
"Is he is in the Mist with the others? I can't see him."
"He was called. He is in there."
The Chronicler looked towards the harbor where the Mist was gathering. The tumultuous mass whorled like a hurricane as a lone figure stood in its eye.
"What are you looking at?" Achlys asked.
"Sorrow."
Before Achlys could ask for clarification on this confusing answer, the Chronicler continued to speak.
"Achlys," she said in her hollow voice, "your father informed me that you have become capable of glimpsing the memories of others."
Though the Chronicler said this as a statement, Achlys still answered as though it were a question.
"Yeah," she nodded, "sometimes I can."
"This power interests me."
"Me too."
"I desire to learn how it works."
"Me too."
"I want you to attempt to use it on me."
"Me too?"
"I must know. I must record what transpires here on the Isles."
Achlys's heart swelled with excitement and pride at the idea that she may be able to contribute, however small, something to the library. However, she couldn't ignore the feeling of nervousness that also tickled her. What the Chronicler wanted her to do was not something she could always duplicate. She could not reform many of the wraiths her father had brought before her and fewer still could she glimpse the memories of. That was a rarity experienced by only Karthus, Katherine, and only recently, Gaspare.
Achlys did want to disappoint the specter, so the young girl did her best to temper her expectations.
"I can try to help," Achlys said, "but my magic does not always work. I help wraiths remember but can't always think their memories. It is difficult. The chance is tiny, tiny, tiny, times infinity."
"Such a number is an exaggeration, but I understand, Achlys. You are young and this power is mysterious to us all. But unlike those you have previous used your magic on, I also possess magic that aids in comprehension."
"How?"
"No matter how wretched a soul is, I can make sense of their lamentations. I hear their wailings as though they were words. I even understood you when you were an infant, though I do not believe that you would remember that. To put it simply for you, it is because I hear what their soul says, not what sounds come from their mouths."
"Oh, okay," Achlys agreed, though she didn't fully understand, but not understanding magic was something she had grown accustomed to.
"My magic will aid you," the Chronicler reassured, "so be at ease. I can feel the anxiousness in your soul. It is disquieting my Scriveners and distracting them from their work."
The young girl tried to sneak a peek at the parchment laden wraiths but with a cold, gentle touch, the Chronicler directed her attention back to her. Though she still could not read the words, Achlys noticed that the letters on the scrolls that flowed from the Chronicler's robes began to change as she looked up at the tall specter.
"These words tell of my own life," the Chronicler explained without Achlys needing to ask, "Now come, stand with me."
The specter held out her hand, wreathed in balefire, to Achlys, who enveloped her hand in a similar fashion before taking hold. They moved to stand before the center of the great window.
"This was where I died."
"Okay," Achlys said with a nod of approval, "that will make things easier."
"I knew it would. Are you prepared, Achlys?"
"Yeah."
"I am going to recall the day I died."
The Chronicler turned her gaze away from the Harrowing and towards the cursed ruins of Helia's vault; the source of the cataclysm that was the last thing she had seen. As she continued to stare into the unearthly light that poured from the unhallowed place, her thoughts began to drift back to ancient days.
"What do you see, Achlys?"
"It's bright."
It's bright. She blinks her eyes as the sunlight gleams off the ocean. Adding to the brilliance of the day are the buildings below, painted with a white lime and reflecting the light. The gardens are lush and eternally verdant. Banners trimmed with gold blow in the gentle breeze. The city is beautiful today.
A smile crosses her lips and she lets out a contented sigh. As uncomfortable as it can be to look towards the ocean, she is glad that the weather is pleasant. Observations were always easier on day with good weather.
Pride swells in her chest like a ship's sail swells when given a favorable breeze. Today was a monumental day. For the first time the Isles would be hosting a foreign dignitary, and not just any nobleman, but a king! But that was not why she was filled with pride. It was that she, an apprentice to the Lord Chronicler, had been entrusted to record the king's sojourn. To be trusted with recording such a historic event surely meant that the Lord Chronicler was favoring her to someday take his position.
She placed her quill and tome on the lectern she had brought to the window and calls for one of the scriveners to bring her an enchanted spyglass. She thanks the man as he places the device into her hands. They are covered in gloves to protect the tomes from oils on her skin.
The antique device is turned over in her hands as she admires the complex geometric patterns carved onto its surface. Then she brings the spyglass up to her eye and turns her attention to the harbor filled with foreign ships.
Achlys felt a pang of panic rush through her as she beheld the quick glimpse of the Chronicler's final day. It was the city from her nightmares. She only saw it for a second, but it was more than enough to make her want to release the Chronicler's hand and stop the magic, but the wraith held firmly to her.
"Do not be afraid, Achlys," the Chronicler soothed, sensing the child's fear, "What you see is in the past. It cannot hurt you. It cannot change."
"But the city," she protested, "it's from my nightmares. The one that is wrong."
"Some call it a nightmare, a curse. Others call it a blessing. I call it for what it is; history."
"So the things in my nightmares really happened?"
"I do not know what you dreamed of, but I do know what you saw in my memory. That was real. That was Helia as it once was."
"It was scary."
"It was terrifying."
Achlys let out a low whine.
"Remain holding my hand," the Chronicler said, "There is still more to see."
It takes her a minute to find the foreign retinue. They had formed a procession along the length of the docks. It almost looks like a military parade. Rows of infantry proudly display banners with their homeland's colors. Infantry eventually gives way to knights atop mighty destriers. They are all clad in dark iron armor. The largest of the horses stands away from the other riders and has a coat of dark black that shines beautifully in the sun. She assumes the man on top of it is the commander.
At the front of the procession stands the king wearing a pointed crown. It is polished to perfection, and even from this distance, she can see the blue-green of the water reflected in it. She is surprised. Not only is he more youthful than she would expect a monarch to be, but he is also profoundly haggard in appearance.
His unkempt hair tumbles around his face, framing his sorrow touched features. His cheeks are drained of color, as though affected by a malady. His eyes are sunken in and bear the color of sleepless nights, though a desperate, manic spark of vitality still shines from within.
She feels her cheeks flush at the sight of him. She imagines that at one time the king must have been handsome, an unattainable and enviable prize for the common women of his kingdom. How unfortunate, she thinks, that he had allowed himself to fall into such a state of disarray. With a shake of her head, the apprentice pushes these thoughts from her mind. She must remain objective.
With renewed determination, she continues her observations, noting the king's apparel. He wears a doublet of black trimmed with gold, its soft shine standing out more brilliantly against the backdrop of dark fabric. Pauldrons of a similarly dark metal cover his shoulders. They are matched by the sabatons and gauntlets he wears, making him appear as though he had begun the process of donning his armor but was interrupted. Further adding to this martial visage was the weapon he bore across his back. A great sword rested against his white cape. The ornate weapon had no sheath, allowing all to see that is was plated richly in gold and silver and adorned with crystals the size of a man's eye. Such an unwieldy, ornamental blade, she thinks, must be purely ceremonial.
Behind him is an object being carried upon a litter. She cannot fully make it out. Her view is obstructed by an honor guard; their surcoats are of a mourning black rather than their country's colors. They briefly step aside as their king approaches. She catches a glimpse of the object. It is covered in a white shroud upon which dozens of small blue flowers have been scattered.
Concern crosses her heart as she lowers the spyglass for a moment. The shape of the object on the litter looked human. She pushes the worry from her mind and resumes her observations.
The king stands near the litter for several minutes. She sees that he is speaking, but she is unable to discern what is being said or to whom these words are being spoken. None of the honor guard appear to respond to his words. He places a hand upon the enshrouded object and gently runs his fingers along a length of it. When he stops, he appears to wrap them around something below the veil, as though tenderly holding a hand. For a moment, he is still, and then, at last, he goes to resume his position at the head of the procession.
A brief break in observation is taken. She turns to her lectern and records what she has just witnessed. She writes quickly, her quill gliding over the vellum with her elegant script. She is careful not to exclude any detail. This day cannot be forgotten.
Her attention returns to procession as it makes its way into the city. A crowd of Helia's citizens gather to watch the strangers solemnly walk by. There is a twinge of irritation in her. Though she understands their curiosity, she is annoyed that they clutter her own view of the foreigners. So instead, she turns her gaze up the street to where several of the city's masters stand to greet their guests. Once more, she is surprised by an expression. She had expected that the masters would wish to appear welcoming and friendly, but all bear a stern countenance. The eldest of them steps forward and raises her hand; an order for the foreigners to halt.
She looks to see the king's response. He stops. In an instant, his expression changes from manic hope to rage. He is shouting. She doesn't need to hear his voice to know he is hurling accusations at the masters. It is written all over his body language, the scared faces of the Helians, and the wave of unease that moves through the infantry.
From the ranks of the soldiers, two figures stride forward to stand between the king and the rest of his forces. One is a man, clad in heavy armor and carrying a great sword and shield upon his back. His helm is decorated with spines, similar in shape to the king's crown, to designate that this warrior is the king's shield.
The other warrior is woman that she recognizes. She is the general who had come to the Isles before. Her steps are graceful and filled with purpose as she approaches her king. He demands something of her as he points towards the masters. Somberly, the general shakes her head. Even as insults and curses are hurled at her, she remains undaunted, taking his abuses with the calm air of nobility. Only the plume on her grand helm moves as it is blown by the breeze. The general turns her back on her king. She begins to address the soldiers.
Through the spyglass, she cannot hear what the general is saying, but she can see that the woman's words are impassioned as she speaks to those under her command. The infantry looks uneasy, shifting on their feet and taking quick glances at one another. The knights however, remain unmoved, save for their leader who appears to nod in agreement. There is a look of relief on the general's face as she turns towards her sovereign to beseech him a final time.
The knight atop the dark mount spurs his steed forward. He raises his spear.
"No!" Achlys shouted as she tried to free her hand from the Chronicler's grip.
A wave of fear had rushed through her. Even though her glimpse into the Chronicler's memory had been brief, little more than peek at the procession, it was enough to shake Achlys. She had recognized the figure with the plumed helm and severe expression. That was Vengeance. That was who had terrified her on the beach.
"No more," Achlys pleaded, "please!"
The Chronicler looked down at Achlys. It was impossible to discern the emotion in her lifeless eyes, polar opposite to Achlys's that were wide with fear. Behind them, the Scriveners grew agitated, instigated by Achlys's panic, and let out a harsh hissing noise like paper tearing. After a minute of considering the child's request, the Chronicler released her hand.
"Very well, Achlys," she said dispassionately, "we shall cease."
Achlys nodded, clutching her hand close to her body.
"I am proud of you," the ancient wraith continued to speak, "even if brief, you were able to see my memories, and I was able to recall them with more clarity. This will aid me in my record keeping. I wish to recall other moments, but I can sense that I have already strained you too much today."
Again, Achlys nodded.
"You may rest for the remainder of the day," the Chronicler said, "We will have ample time to recollect in the coming days."
"Days?"
Achlys looked to the Chronicler for an explanation. The last time her father had left her for a Harrowing, he had been gone only a day. The idea of being left alone, even if it was at such a wonderful place as the library, was concerning.
"Yes," the Chronicler answered, "days. Look at the multitude of souls gathered. They will travel far and leave ruin in their wake."
"Oh."
Achlys could not hide her disappointment. She wanted nothing more than to hold onto her father's robes until the memory of Vengeance left her mind, but he was out there in the Mist, so she had to settle for hugging Acheron closely.
"You need not worry," the Chronicler comforted in her cold tone, "I will guard you well until Karthus returns, and as I do, I shall guide you in developing your magic. Though we will not look at the day of my death any longer, as it distressed you, we will continue to practice this unique skill you possess. Are we in agreement?"
"Yeah," Achlys answered, though she doubted that she had any real say in the matter.
The Chronicler nodded in acknowledgement.
There was a great howling noise from the docks. Both Achlys and the Chronicler turned their attentions back towards the ocean and the Harrowing. The Black Mist billowed upwards, building like a thundercloud before taking off and racing through the skies like a ravenous tidal wave. As Achlys's eyes watched the torrent of Mist depart, the Chronicler looked towards the sunken docks once more. The lone figure who had been standing at the head of his forces was gone.
Greetings Summoners,
I hope you are all enjoying watching little Achlys grow up and develop her powers. I'm going to be taking a little break until October with my updates, but since next month is the spooky month, I plan on getting four chapters up! In the meantime, if you crave more of my writing, I have a new one-shot out featuring Sett. He was a joy to write and I highly recommend giving it a read.
Also, on the note of one-shots, as you may have noticed, Achlys's magic helps wraiths recollect things. As such, I have had many ideas for scenes from the lives of various Shadow Isles champions and, since not all of these ideas will fit neatly into this story, I am considering writing a series of these flashbacks as their own collection. If this is something that would interest you, please let me know. As always, feedback is always appreciated.
Best of luck on the Rift,
-Gwoo