[Written before entering Xander’s Tomb.]
As Braz stood on the bridge to the Necropolis unraveling the mysteries of his curse with the hooded figure that greeted us, I looked past to the tombs beyond with hope that I might be able to find a few pieces of my own story here.
I am a fool to hope for things I do not understand.
It was not a surprise that Damon knew me. But it was a surprise that I knew him; or, at least, that I knew his face. He is the man the Horn had shown me over, and over again. The man with light brown hair, and eyes you could get lost in.
I could not see his eyes as he stood in front of me on that bridge, but I still lost myself even so. As my confused emotions fought for dominance, I could barely focus on the words he projected into my mind. He reached out to touch me, and before I knew it I had taken his hands in mine, and was reassuring him it was fine.
But was I comforting him, or me?
With my own emotions in such turmoil, I found it difficult to read his: but I hardly needed to, as he reiterated the same thought to me over, and over again.
Regret.
I wanted to ask him more. Desperately. But I could not. I dared not, because I fear my heart already knows the answers my head does not. And I have no idea what to possibly do if it is right.
Not to mention, I promised Versi I would trust her. Yet when I told Damon of what she had done, how she had saved me… the already freezing air got just that little bit colder.
“I trusted her.” That is what he said.
What happened? I want to know. I need to know. But I promised.
So for Versi’s sake, I asked no more of him. I pushed away the recognition tugging at the corners of my mind. I tried to convince myself of the notion that perhaps, just perhaps, he is not as important as the Horn seemed to think. But try as I might I could not take my eyes off of him. I was taken, and I am taken, by a burning curiosity I can not shake. And maybe, I admit, one I do not wholly want to.
He saved me from myself, however, disappearing after watching us try to fix the resting place of Dorian Neurdagon.
And then, after that, it was just tomb after tomb of names, faces, and deeds that I could not recognise. That I did not want to recognise. Walls stained red and gold, with blood and greed. Gods. How naive I was to hope that their legacy would be one of peace, even after being told what had happened to my flock.
Their legacy... or my legacy? Because there I am beside them; or at least I was meant to be. I want to take some comfort in the fact that the depictions of my own life are not as violent as so many of the others seem to be. But Thylea knows if that is the truth; I recognise so little on those walls. Only the Gygan King and… him.
I wasn’t the only one perturbed by what I saw today. Braz seemed to get more and more agitated as we went along. Impatience, perhaps: but I think it was masking a greater discomfort. Or anger.
And then there was Kyrah. At Estor’s tomb everyone else had moved on, but I hung back to leave behind the shield I found at Demetria’s temple, alongside a prayer that we might not ever be so cruel. I don’t know if Kyrah didn’t realise I was there, or if it was that she thought I would understand, but I saw her spit on his grave. I don’t blame her; even without my memories, seeing his name, his likeness, sets me on edge in ways I can’t explain.
And now, I can’t help but wonder, does my own past hide deeds worthy of such ire?