Given Enough Time

Given Enough Time

By S.S. Kelowna

Staring at the half empty flagon of dwarven ale in front of him, Grim Mortbane wondered if he did this every night. If he sat in this tavern, on this stool, and drank as he had been for the past few hours. Just before he forgot everything once again. Just after daylight faded, night had fallen, and he waited for the tide of fatigue and exhaustion to overcome him.

He knew that the sun would rise again, and the previous day would be gone. As would everyday that had gone before. Days had lost their meaning. Light and darkness no more than ephemeral conditions in what he’d quickly begun to perceive as a steady continuity of temporary existence. Time flowed as it ever had, but he was no longer caught up in its currents. The past seemed deeper, farther. The present sharper. The future was closer at hand than it had ever been before, but still just out of reach.

The routine had become a rhythm, and he’d lost count of the sunrises and sunsets he’d seen like this. He was a nomad in time. Never moving forward because he could never go back. He couldn’t see who he was before, so he would never know who he was now. So everyday he sought answers, and everyday he must have found at least some, but didn’t remember the following day.

Something had happened to him. Something had made him forget everything that he was. Everything that had happened to him. And it continued to curse him all this time later, though, to be honest, he had no idea how long he had been this way.

He studied the profile in the broken glass of the mirror across the bar. Grim, he thought. At least the name fit, even if it was the only thing that did. The weapon in his hand felt familiar, which was almost frightening in itself, a wickedly sharp blade made for killing, yet he knew that it was his.

He finished off the last of his ale, feeling his grip on what he knew—what he had learned of himself over the day—slipping. Soon, he knew he would become that nomad once again, that stranger, the man with no past or history to call his own.

Someone touched his arm. “You almost ready?” the voice and face of the man who spoke were familiar, but Grim couldn’t recall the man’s name, no matter how hard he tried. The other man nodded slightly, as if he understood what was happening, as if he’d seen it happen before. “It’s time to go then.”

Grim looked wistfully at his empty glass, but nevertheless stood and followed the other man out, still searching his mind for the name. The night air outside the tavern was cool and inviting, the moon pale and full, draping the desert landscape in deep shadows. And he felt the shadows begin to creep into his mind, to slowly blot away the things he knew one by one, piece by piece. He tried clinging to something, anything—his name perhaps—and make it easier to remember on the day that would follow.

Grim Mortbane, he silently repeated. Grim Mortbane… Grim… Grim…Grim…Mortbane…Grim…

He came to a stop, looking at the house that stood in front of him, having no real recollection of how he’d gotten there, or who the owner was. But his name. He knew his name. His name was….it was…. He fought the deluge of shadows in his mind.

“This is your home,” a man’s voice said from beside him.

Startled, he looked sideways at the other man. “Who are you?” he demanded, startled even more by the sound of his own voice. He frowned. “Who am I?”

In the darkness, there was nothing. No meaning, no comfort, no escape. In the light….in the light, it was far worse. In the darkness, he couldn’t see the vast gaps in his mind, he didn’t know them. But in the light…the light touched every shadow, made him painfully aware that he was missing something. Though, even as he knew it was missing, he didn’t know what it was.

The shadow of night clung to him as he walked almost aimlessly around the dwelling in which he’d awakened. His hands ran over the scarred stone, following the dark patterns that had long ago scorched its side.

Fire brimmed all around him—around them—he realized the other figures fighting beside him. It tugged at the edges of his armor, threatening to burn his skin.

And then a voice….a voice he knew, spoke, “You have served Ascalon well. I beg of you…do one last duty for your prince.”

He knew what had to be done. Without hesitation, he delivered the final blow against the undead prince.

He heard the creak of the floorboards behind him, but was not startled by it. He merely turned toward the noise.

He didn’t bother to look up. “How many have these hands killed?”

“More than you know. More than I know. More than either of us wants to know,” the other man said softly.

“So,” he said, looking at the man who stayed at his side. “I am a killer.”

“A soldier.”

“Another word for it, maybe. What happened here?”

“Give it time. You may remember.” The other man’s voice was still soft, almost gentle.

“And if I give it long enough, I won’t want to know… won’t need to…” His voice trailed off. He wanted to know, he did, but at the same time, if he didn’t remember who he was, there had to be a reason. And maybe the reason was that he’d done something terrible. Maybe his lack of memory was self-imposed.

After a few moments, he looked back at the other man. “Who am I?” he asked softly.

The other man sat slowly. “I can only tell you what I know. The rest you will have to figure out. You always do.”

“What happened to me? Why can’t I remember?” The questions fell out of his mouth before he could stop them.

With a small smile, the other man spoke. “I am Merkel. I found you wandering around the desert sometime ago. You knew your name, but nothing more.” He paused for a moment. “Your name is Grim Mortbane.”

“Grim….” It wasn’t that he didn’t believe that was his name. It was more that he knew it was. He didn’t even know how he knew.

“Grim!”

The sound of his name being called made him pause for a second. He looked up, searching for the source of the voice, but he had a difficult time seeing through the smoke that filled the air around him.

A sharp pain in his leg brought his attention back. The warrior he’d thought dead had hit him one last time before succumbing.

Grim glanced at his wound. It wasn’t deep. He would survive.

“Grim!”

Without any hesitation, he followed the sound of the voice. Through the haze, he could make out shapes of burning buildings. The smoke threatening to choke him with every breath he took.

Out of breath, he finally found who was calling him. It was Fend, covered in splattered blood. Grim found himself looking at the dust sticking to the quickly drying blood stains. But it wasn’t Fend’s blood. It was in all the wrong places for it.

Fend clutched something close to him. As he revealed what it was, Grim felt himself choke even more. He felt his knees weaken, and he leaned on his scythe for support.

The tiny bundle Fend held out was the small body of a Char.

All that he had was ruins. All that he was, was ruined. With every new thing that he remembered, he was left with less. The thing about loss was that it was never any less devastating when it was remembered. In a way, forgetting everything had been a blessing. He couldn’t miss what he didn’t know he had.

And yet, he needed to remember

If he didn’t remember, then they were all lost to time.

That was why he walked. Why he walked slowly back through the desert, back toward his memories. Back to the place where it had both ended and begun.

This time, perhaps, it would finally be the end. The end of the torment he had spent how much time enduring. The end of wondering if this was all he was meant for.

He knew he was close. It was only a feeling, like an ache inside of him, the closer he got. He couldn’t help but feel that he was finally coming home. And yet, even as he thought that, he knew that the homecoming would be bittersweet.

He knew it when he saw it, when he saw the tree on the horizon. Like an oasis in the middle of the desert heat. Vivid shades of green stood out brightly against the deep reds and yellows of the desert.

Ignoring the heat, his exhaustion, he ran across the distance between him and the tree. As he neared it, he slowed. The tree was so big, so much bigger than the one he remembered. But he knew it was that tree.

“Someday this will be a tall tree. This will be a symbol of strength that you will see and return to after years of wandering,” he told the small bundle. “This will be your hope, the standard by which you measure yourself”

The child belched loudly, clearly showing what he thought of that idea.

Grim put his hand on the tree and fell to the ground. His son had never seen this tree. It had grown while his son had not. Heaviness weighting on him, he looked to where he knew his house would be…his home.

But all that stood there was a burned out shell. Sun-baked remains of what had been his home.

Years. It had been years. The realization tore into him worse than any other thing he had remembered.

It was time to change, time to make one final stand. He didn’t belong here anymore.

Without hesitation, without remorse, he walked off into the desert, waiting for the sand, the sun, or the next fight to take him. To either give him meaning or peace at last.