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+--- Thread: Displaced in Time, Found Again (/thread-21780.html)
Displaced in Time, Found Again - GSM - 12-31-2025
... I opened my eyes, again, today.
The mute girl staggered in a world she didn't understand. How many years had passed by? How many days had gone away? How long had it been since she saw the outside world?
A single book is in her clutches, from a bygone era. From an era before her. A book of understanding, one of concepts so impossibly vast... that she couldn't get it.
Last that she remembered... last she remembered, she was at home. Where was home? A black, starless sky, illuminated only by simple points.
Gasping for air, without lungs. Grasping for a mother that wasn't there. White feathers, that she made, that she didn't make.
Until she could breathe again. And... how long did it take for that manufactured world to forget her? How long did it take for the binds of nothingness to grow so frail that her wrists could slide free?
The girl runs. And runs. And runs. She stays in place, but not for too terribly long. She reaches, she strives, she leaves it all behind-
Hard earth breaks her fall. She collapses onto the ground, coughing, wheezing, her glasses chipped, her delicate constitution bothered.
And all I had to ask is...
Who am I?
Where am I?
Maybe... she could figure it out.
Every step she took in this world, she found unfamiliar sights. Beaming sunlight, open skies, grass that glimmered green, rushing rivers, sprawling caves.
In each blink, it all shifted- birds chirp, flames roar, people laugh, insects buzz. Sounds that she's never heard before. People she'd never seen before.
Really, she didn't know what to make of it. She felt alone. She felt like she didn't belong. She traced paths she didn't know, hiding from even the smallest animals...
In time, the girl found a place, golden grass, auburn trees, that she... recognized, faintly. She was afraid of it, because it was her grave... but, it was also her home, once.
And then, she finds the monuments of five familiar faces, bygone. A mentor. A lover. A warrior. A kindred.
... is that me?
You know her well.
Who is that figure...?
What... am I? Who am I? Why am I...?
... hello?
The mute girl finds herself a place to rest,
amongst a graveyard of semi-familiar spaces.
And she writes... in company of people that she once loved.
They're all gone.
I should be gone, too, but...
... I'm real. I'm so real, now.
A Love, Now Lost, but Not Forgotten - GSM - 01-20-2026
I had love, just for a few moments.
This world is not fair, and it is not kind.
And then, it was robbed from me.
I am sorry. I'm so, so sorry, Mera.
An unlikely encounter, one spurred by an off-handed mention of a vaguely familiar name. A missive that becomes a meeting, and a pilgrimage to a land she had never step foot upon.
Like a protective paladin, the girl had been under her ward for only a short time. Even when an uncharted memory is brought to the surface, she finds comfort in her.
Yet, still, her heart, as frail as it was, still beat with a renewed purpose. She didn't know it at the time. She had never felt this way before.
Shelving this emotion to study it, she tries to understand why it was her heart pulsed. Why she wanted to see her. Why she felt happier by her.
Love was not something she understood or remembered in this way, but it was love that she felt.
Every moment with her became like that of paradise. She didn't need to speak, she didn't need to think of her past, she didn't need anything more than her presence.
Never did she believe that this could happen. Never did she think that what little she knew of in this life would be robbed from her.
Each moment became a memory.
Then she, too, became a memory, one that she adored. One that she grieved.
How many words were left unspoken by the mute girl? How many futures had just evaporated? How was she meant to live on like this?
Hate them. Mourn her. But do not drown in it, little Mera. Stay afloat.
... I miss you already.
Just one more time.
I'm sorry that you never heard my voice.
The mute girl lets go of all of her tears,
all of her anger and zeal, all of her sorrows,
and tries to live on. To love again. To live on.
She's mired by a grief so deep that it hurts mine heart.
Yet... she is not lost. Not by any metric.
All she needs is a little time.
Broken Apart, Mended Again - GSM - 02-05-2026
What am I meant to say when I am told I am broken?
You and ████████ are distinct and separate.
How am I meant to process that there is something wrong with me, that few can relate to?
... a fractured soul explains ████████████████.
Any time that she stepped outside, it ran the risk of her health deteriorating, her psyche prying itself apart.
Undue stress, dredged from at-random visions of bygone eras, names and faces that are half-recollected, voices that she had just heard...
Normalcy was something that escaped her, and it was apparent day by day, each time these odd dreams flit into her purview, just to recede again.
Dreams were the best way she could have described them, but they had to have happened. They existed. Everything she saw had to be real.
Even then, her mind couldn't handle it-- even as her voice barely returned, even as magic wove itself into her circuits.
Only then did she get answers as to why she was like this. Why she was wrong. Why any of this happened to her, and her alone.
The answer rattled her. It brought along an existential dread, a fear unfounded-- but not unprecedented. She needed another answer.
Her father reassured her. That she would be okay. It wasn't too distressing, the reality of it-- it just meant that she was different.
██████? █████, █████████.
I feel weak, still. I'm not fully recovered, and yet... what will happen to me?
... you just have a big inheritance.
All I can do is trust what I'm told, but will it truly matter?
Soreness followed her everywhere, haunting her like an invisible spectre; it haunted her in her calm moments, it haunted her in the words others spoke to her.
Everyone, without realizing it, had simply worn her heart out by bringing up her grief, her pain, her woes, her sorrows, all of it.
Reminders followed her in the faces of those she trusted, those she loved, those she cared for still-- that she was never going to be free of her sufferings.
Various things happen in her sleep-- not dreams, but things she merely missed-- that upheave her life and show the true colors of those she cared for.
All of it is an ugly truth. A world that was undivided in its care for her was cloven apart by the actions of those she trusted, and those she loved.
Nothing would ever be the same again. Nothing could ever be the same again. How could it, when everyone turns against each other?
There were fewer and fewer places for her to turn to, less people she can talk with-- but at least, she has answers.
Having reclaimed her voice, now, and knowing what is wrong,
the once-mute girl holds onto the ring made in remembrance,
and pushes onwards, as best as she can.
She is growing quickly, it seems.
Do not worry; I will still watch over her.
In all of those mortal hues of heartfulness... it is beautiful, no?
Mirrors in Windows, Ghosts in Mirrors - GSM - 03-08-2026
... I've found my voice again, finally.
You owe these people nothing.
Yet still, I feel so small.
The memory of when the night fell has no right to haunt you so.
When I look in the mirror, I see through it many things, dreamed and not, real and not.
However long it takes for an image to settle, it fades away just as quickly. They're mercurial things, little ghosts that remain in my sights, little things nobody sees but me.
On the looking glass, in stilled waters, in my lenses, in my tears, the images remain just as fleeing, just as real.
I sense an absence stirring.
Are they real to begin with? They are; I know they are, because so many, like my father, like those helping me, like those who came before me, knew her.
Maybe I think too much of what they see in her, but nobody really thinks much of what I see in me. Perhaps, then, it is why I have two years left.
An unfamiliar voice need not be cause for alarm.
I see, when I peer into the mirror, when I look past the frail ribs marked in my skin, when I ignore the paleness of my lips, when I ignore the birth-mark scar over my chest...
Too many things.
She clutches onto her fear and anger,... a spider. Its limbs are spurred by the beating of its hearts, its shriveled form capable of what is only a veneer of humane nursing.
... a statue. It is large and imposing, standing tall and proud in accomplishment and valor, unbreakable despite the seams running through its marble.
... a hand. It reaches towards the seam in my chest, the place where the nested heart that beats now rests, as if to pluck it from my corpus, as if to strangle it.
... a key. It offers freedom, it offers liberation, it offers temptation beyond what I can imagine. A perspective I'd never considered.
... a weapon. A sword, one meant only for severing binds and hurting others, found in a purpose to protect instead.
... a ring. A promise to the forgotten, that they will be remembered. A promise of love, if not for them, then for their stories.
... a well. Cleansing waters that slosh about in idle rest, willing to do more. Unable to do more, under threat of running dry. Under threat of claw.
... nothing. A presence that shouldn't be. A person that should've never existed. Maybe that's what this name means. Maybe that's all I am.
... a girl. A scared one, awkward in jerking motions with natural shifts of poise and temperament. One unable to sit still, yet finds pain in motion.
... an imitation. A mimicry of what I was meant to be. A mimicry of what came before me. A far cry of one, too; I could never be her.
... a ghost. A grandiose one, standing as spectral as a God, waiting for my every move. I feel suffocated. I feel indebted. What should I do?
I don't know what I should see when I stare into it.
Or if I should transfix my gaze there at all, anymore.
... I am not haunted, but I am dreading facing this.
I shouldn't be afraid anymore. Why can't I stop shaking?
Still, I must face it.
... a statue. It is large and imposing, standing tall and proud in accomplishment and valor, unbreakable despite the seams running through its marble.
... a hand. It reaches towards the seam in my chest, the place where the nested heart that beats now rests, as if to pluck it from my corpus, as if to strangle it.
... a key. It offers freedom, it offers liberation, it offers temptation beyond what I can imagine. A perspective I'd never considered.
... a weapon. A sword, one meant only for severing binds and hurting others, found in a purpose to protect instead.
... a ring. A promise to the forgotten, that they will be remembered. A promise of love, if not for them, then for their stories.
... a well. Cleansing waters that slosh about in idle rest, willing to do more. Unable to do more, under threat of running dry. Under threat of claw.
... nothing. A presence that shouldn't be. A person that should've never existed. Maybe that's what this name means. Maybe that's all I am.
... a girl. A scared one, awkward in jerking motions with natural shifts of poise and temperament. One unable to sit still, yet finds pain in motion.
... an imitation. A mimicry of what I was meant to be. A mimicry of what came before me. A far cry of one, too; I could never be her.
... a ghost. A grandiose one, standing as spectral as a God, waiting for my every move. I feel suffocated. I feel indebted. What should I do?
I don't know what I should see when I stare into it.
Or if I should transfix my gaze there at all, anymore.
... I am not haunted, but I am dreading facing this.
I shouldn't be afraid anymore. Why can't I stop shaking?
Still, I must face it.
feeling more human than what-ever came before,
promising that she is different in all of her care and love.
A peculiar development, and not at all unwelcome.
Still, the joys of living are not just limited to the sensation of happiness.
She is learning, just as I did, and just as we both will.
Delusion of a Mirror - GSM - 04-03-2026
How long can I keep my eyes closed?
For as long as we need.
When can I open my eyes again?
The moment the fear abates.
It is hard to wake up, recently, and go along with the motions. Not that I am without things to do, but because I will watch it all happen again.
The spreading pyre of deathly fear. The love of the lost, still within reach. Grieving what we still have.
As I cradle my sleeping son, I already feel the ugly, metal pang in my throat that he is dead; I blink, and he is still here, blissfully innocent to that curse upon my fragile heart.
Maybe this dream wasn’t worth pursuing. Maybe I never deserved any of it. The heart burrowed in my chest is a charity. How long can I believe this delusion, that this gifted life has no expectations upon it?
Is it a delusion? Are we so fickle and transactional? Faith and promise go hand in hand, but do you believe in yourself?
Now, there is so much to do, but my cravings for normalcy have torn apart any image of myself where I am capable beyond the most base actions.
Only now, when he wakes up next to me, when he smiles, I feel that indignant relief; for a night, I pretend, I reflect, I show what he wishes to see in me.
The ugly truth is that I am a mirror, just as much as I am plagued by the sight of one. It drains me. It kills me.
He knows the name. He knows our name. What we look like. What is left. But does he know, fully? Does he understand?
However long am I to be confined in this prison of my own design, the bars shaped with family, love, and care, the warden standing with my flesh and blood, a wish I don’t remember making?
Even now, as I think on what it is I am to do next, I am reminded of the idea that I must break free from this cage. Yet, it would leave lasting wounds on everyone.
Rearing its ugly head, the monster that I am only yearns to make this ache in my heart stop, so that I may finally be a person, more than a hollow sound and a vapid name.
The cursed blade of faith turned against us, and skewered us with that curse so deep. Our sight, our eyes, have not quite recovered. Will they?
Yearning for a fix, a panacea, to all of my woes led me to a place of nothing but untold agonies, where even my most beloved followed me into that Hel.
Esshar’s relics left behind will make a difference. This, I know. Yet I find it so painfully ironic that I have found this mirror, beckoning me with sweet visions of what was, is, and will be.
The mirror shows her, as she once was, on some days, like I’m meant to be her; then, it shows my friends, corroded by their sins. It never shows myself. I don’t know what I am supposed to look like.
We have eyes to peer into this Truth. We refuse to use them, for the gaze will permeate more than just the mirror. It will pierce us.
I hide my body away from everyone. My neck. My hands. The truth of what lays behind my eyes. The gloves fit me. The suit works perfectly. I only wish I had no face.
We cannot let them know how weak this body is. They cannot see where our heart rests. Only two have seen that birthmark, and none other should.
Always, I have questions, and always, I get no response. Where did my Aether come from? Why can’t I remember gathering the relics? Why did I wake up in Arcadia bloodied?
Maddening. Asking these questions is maddening. Why is she so defensive over me? Why are my eyes hers so exactly? I keep screaming these questions until my throat is raw, and my only answer is my muteness.
We know these answers already. What is present, however, is the unwillingness to confront this truth. We shut our eyes to avoid that fear.
How am I supposed to keep myself afloat when every action I’ve taken has only proven her right? How long will I live after everything? How long does the candlewick last?
Even now, when I should have everything, even when wars are being waged on behalf of the cause I should worry for, my questions and ambitions are so selfish.
Really, it feels like an indicator of how truly insane I am, for me to be so manic about an attained normalcy that I believe everything is fine.
A condemnation of the self, ringing like the bells of clergy,
as the pieces fall into place for a transformation
that most may envy, but few will mirror.
We will see what is in store for us.
We will sacrifice all that we have,
and become something greater.