Janos

In my efforts to never forget I write, for I must never forget who I was and what I became. It is not often one can write of their birth with as if they were capable of remembering it, for I was conscious at my first waking moment. Were I made to feel envy I would long to have been a baby, for even the children of deities surely were prone to infantile amnesia. My first waking moment was one of distinct horror, for I was strapped to a craftsman table as I felt the embrace of an elderly expired man as I were bound in place in a tornado of intense pressure. The winds scattered volumes of books throughout the room, though there was no open window and I was the center of it's power, for neither myself nor the corpse draped along my nude form did not move. My forehead felt as if it were cleaved asunder, the agonizing pain was akin to my entire face being cauterized. When I next regained consciousness I was no longer bound to the table and the room was finally quiet.

Who am I? What am I? These questions echoed about in my mind, for I knew not my name or family and I did not remember how I had become, physically, an adult. I remembered many things: The sciences, mysticism, social pleasantries, basic life skills such as cooking, grooming and of immediate importance the expectation to clothe oneself. I donned a robe which I imagine had once been a glistening white, but now was a faded gray. Knowledge from this great library was paramount, but a reprieve from the stench of death took precedence. The corpse of the only being I had yet to lay eyes on was much easier to life than I imagined, as was the navigation downward though a deserted tower which had long since lost the war to cobwebs and dust. Conveniently a shovel was already on the grounds and the earth seemed as if it'd been dug in several times before. I buried this elderly man in the ground and strove to understand my situation.

My singular pursuit of knowledge was not one of vain, for I was born without a guardian, or so I thought. As I poured through the towering bookcases I learned many of these books were filled with knowledge I already knew despite no memory of being taught such things. The first book which drew my immediate attention was unlike the others in it's worn appearance and distinct ink. I engrossed myself in this book, for it was not like the others, it was filled with the musings and research from the only other being I had seen in my life. The contents of his writings were equally fascinating and depraved. With skepticism I read, knowing his point of view might be skewed to favor himself in these tales of the past.

I learned he was a bastard child sent away to become an ascetic so he would not take the mantle of leadership from his families designated heir. At some point he showed an aptitude for magic and an interest in alchemy, both of which were never going to be fully realized under the tutelage of monks. He absconded from the temple to join the ranks of sorcerers who were an all different breed than the monks he had known for most of his life. The monks were rigid and harsh, but also humble and caring. The sorcerers in comparison were also rigid and harsh, but also petty and power hungry. Their game of politics had him on his toes, but he was a survivor and he became a fixture in their society.

It was after this chapter I realized I had finished half of the book and thought it would be best to take a break, but for what? My stomach did not rumble, my body did not stink, my eyes were not tired though my forehead still felt aflame. I meandered about the tower with little interest in anything not of immediate material knowledge, for I knew what cooking pots, bathes and beds were, but no urge to use any of them. Finally I came across what must have been the bedroom of the tower's master for there were no finer trappings throughout the tower and it appeared to be the only room not completely caked in dust. I reached forward toward the mirror above his ornate dresser and when I had expunged all obstacles for an unobstructed view I saw myself, for the first time.

I was human and yet not, for I knew it was impossible for a mortal to have been able to sit and read as long as I had with no urge to use the bathroom or eat. I knew I was from the far east, for my facial features told me so. The excruciating pain I had felt in my forehead upon awakening made itself known to me in the form of a third eye, different in shape than the two below, but clearly an eye. I knew this to be mystical in property, a tool of seers and psychics, but I did not know of what use it would be to me. These questions would have to wait as I instead left my sinewy, athletic body, marred only by my third eyes and stitches around my scalp and made my way back to the library once more to continue my delve into the life of the man I buried.

While still questioning my nature as a clearly different breed, I took advantage of my tireless nature to try and do my best to finish the journal, picking off from his life as a sorcerer. Perhaps the author did not realize this, but he had become as power hungry as those he learned from, his justifications grew increasingly absurd, but the drive to survive in a cruel and unforgiving world of dangerous magical forces were reason enough to continue down his path of power. I learned he achieved a high station, likened to a member of a council. His council life was unremarkable at the time to me, for the tides of opinion shifted back and forth on topics these mages discussed for decades and eventually he resigned his position to dwell in the tower I had come to know as my birthplace.

When I started writing these journals it was to never forget, and it was the next set of passages I read which forced me to write, as I vowed to never forget the depravity I read need be known by myself forever. As he grew older he despaired, for death would come to him regardless of his sorcery, for he was still mortal and unable to extend his life forever. The depths to which he sunk to ensure his everlasting life were harmless at first but alchemy yielded not the result he wanted and he had not the time to seek out mystical artifacts in distant lands which may or may not be fools gold. What started as research on the deceased soon turned into the capture and dissection of mortal and immortal creatures alike in the hopes of glimpsing into conquering life through the death of others. The shovel and tossed soil I had found and buried him in lacked any sort of convenience anymore, for these were the final resting place of any caught in his violent wake as he pushed toward immortality.

The fruits of his selfish research pushed him toward artificial life, inspired by the golems of legend and the clay soldiers of eastern legend. With his craftsmanship, the sum of extracted bits and pieces of mortal and immortal alike, combined with magical knowledge a body was created, the blueprints to which I saw in sketches as if they were architectural plans rather than a picture of a man. This creature was me, or at least close to me in looks, for it lacked the third eye or scars along the scalp. He spoke of a great feat of magic, one in which his final moments he would transfer his soul into this automaton, ideal version of himself. Had I buried myself or was I my own person? He was ambitious, I lacked such ideas. He was logical and cruel, I was the former, but not the latter, my disgust with his labors were evidence enough for me. My stomach did not quake, my tears did not well and I felt no boiling anger toward those had their lives cast to the wayside for my creation, but there was no joy in my birth.

I was not the author of these journals, these were the words I told myself as I remember the sounds of a commotion below and I heard words echoed twice in slightly different voices. These echoes had my forehead aflame, I was crippled to rest on one knee with a hand holding myself up. My vision grew blurry as robed figures came upon me and debated my fate. All instincts in me screamed to defend myself, but the cacophony of echoed voices crushed me. I remember their hands extended out as if to cast a spell, and a flash of crimson light. My hands and feet were bound in chains with runic etchings and I was forcibly matched as I stumbled outside to a horse-drawn wagon. Their words were too hard to understand, there were too many voices at once. Dejected, I brought my knees to my chest, defeated in body and spirit, unable to hear my own thoughts or move. With each village we passed my forehead burned greater, for the more people nearby the worse I felt.

I lost track of the days, for my pain blended them altogether. In the distance I saw the outline of a great spire surrounded by a mountainous forest and it was the last sight I saw for a while as my head was now covered by no ordinary hood. This hood not only obstructed my vision, but the sounds, smells and the echoes of voices around me were drowned out. Others may have found the silence a horrifying experience, but for me it was my only respite from a torturous world. The silence comforted me, it was my only friend as I soon learned, for when I was unmasked I was faced with an impossibly hostile environment, one which defined the next chapter of my life.