Roman stared at the typewriter and its blank page. He was sitting at a desk before a window that overlooked a golden field, and the afternoon was waning. Soon it would be night; the stars would pierce the sky like nails, and he would light the candles and write by fire because the words came easier in the darkness.
This was always the hardest part for him. Beginning the articles. It hurt to write, and it hurt not to write.
The frustration felt familiar. Roman must have spent hours of his past staring at a blank page, deciding what words to strike across it. But despite the days that had passed since he woke, he still couldn’t remember those old moments in detail. He flexed his hand when he thought about what Dacre had told him.
Only trust what you can see.
The god didn’t have to worry about Roman’s memories. It was hard for Roman to remember what had happened before he had stirred below, like mountains had grown through the mist of his mind, blocking off years of his life.
“It’ll take time,” Dacre had said, “but you’ll remember what’s important. And you’ll find your place here.”
When he had first woken below, Roman had gasped as if he were taking his first breath. He had opened his eyes to the flicking firelight, had seen the white marble walls around him, had felt the hard slab of rock beneath him, and he had known he was somewhere else. A magical place he had never encountered.
He was also naked.
With a groan, he sat forward, taking in the strange room.
It was an oddly sized chamber, hewn entirely from rock. It had nine walls, all of them white and veined with blue, gleaming like the facets of a diamond. The ceiling glittered with tiny flecks of gold, and it was reminiscent of the night sky if Roman squinted his eyes. Four torches burned from iron brackets, and the fire was the only source of light.
With a shudder, Roman slid from the hard table he had been resting on. The rock beneath his bare feet was smooth, and he began to walk before the walls, seeking a door. He could find none, and he swallowed his panic, walking a second time around, his fingers rushing over the planes of the stone.
“Hello?” he called, his voice still thick from sleep. “Is anyone here?”
There was no response. Only the sound of his own breath, rising and falling.
He couldn’t remember being brought into this chamber. He didn’t know how long he had been confined in this place, and he shivered, eventually coming to a halt.
He glanced down at his body, pale in the firelight, as if he might find answers on his skin.
To his shock, he found something.
Roman frowned as he leaned over, studying the array of scars on his right leg. There were many of them, some long and jagged, others small and smooth, and Roman traced them as if they were routes on a map. Eventually, he pressed hard against their soft marks, hoping pain would help him remember.
There was no pain, but he saw something flash at the corner of his eye. His head snapped up, but he realized what he’d seen wasn’t something in the room but a snippet in his mind. Sunlight and smoke, the boom of artillery. The ground was shaking; the wind smelled like hot metal and blood. A lance of pain so sharp it had stolen his breath and made him crumple on the ground.
But he hadn’t been alone. Someone had been with him, holding his hand.
Roman’s fingertips fell away from his scars. He brought his palms close to his face and noticed there was an indention on his left pinkie. He must have been wearing a ring at some point, and he touched the slight mark it had left behind.
There was nothing to remember. No other flash of brilliancy or piece of his past to claim.
He flexed his hand until his knuckles bloomed white.
Am I dead?
As if in reply, pain suddenly surged. Roman’s head began to ache so violently that he lowered himself to the stone floor. He cried out, curling his knees to his chest. There was a blade in his mind, sawing back and forth. A blade flaying him open from within.
The pain was so sharp he lost consciousness.
Sometime later, he woke again with bleary eyes.
A delivery had been made. On the floor sat a tray of food: a bowl of steaming stew, a hunk of dark bread, a pitcher of water and a small wooden cup. And beside it, a pile of garments and a pair of leather boots.
Roman crawled to the offering. He was so hungry, so empty, that he didn’t think twice about eating the food or drinking the water. But when he reached for the garment, letting it unfold in his hands, he paused.
It was a jumpsuit. Again, that sense of familiarity washed over him. The garment was a dark red color, and he studied the white badge stitched over the left breast pocket: UNDERLING CORRESPONDENT.
Roman eased into the jumpsuit, ignoring the surge of uneasiness in his blood.
The moment he finished hooking the final button, the cold fled from his body. He felt warmth radiate from his ribs like he had swallowed sunlight, and he quickly donned the pair of socks and boots waiting for him.
A few heartbeats later, a sound broke the ringing silence.
Roman turned as a fissure opened in the wall. The door he had been seeking earlier and failed to find.
A young man in a tan-colored uniform stepped into the chamber. He looked to be around Roman’s age, perhaps a few years older, and was fair-skinned with short blond hair. His brows were heavy, and his mouth was pressed into a thin line, as if he didn’t smile often.
“Who are you?” Roman rasped.
“I’m Lieutenant Gregory Shane. And your name is?”
Roman froze. His name? He couldn’t remember, and his mind reeled.
His panic must have bled through his expression, because the lieutenant said, “Don’t worry. It’ll come back to you. Don’t force it.”
“How long have I been here?”
“A couple of days. You were healing.”
“From what?”
“He’ll want to tell you. Now follow me.” Shane began to walk away, and Roman had no choice but to follow before the door found its seamless lintel again.
The corridors were wide enough for two people to pass, shoulder to shoulder, and tall enough to give someone of Roman’s height ease of passage. The walls were just like the ones in his previous chamber: smooth, cold, and white with glimmering blue veins. Torches lit the way every ten steps, and it was unnaturally quiet until they passed a branching tunnel, and Roman heard distant pounding.
He slowed, squinting into the shadows of the right corridor. It sounded like a forge. A hammer hitting an anvil, laced with shouts and clinks of machinery. There was a sudden waft of warm, metallic air.
“Keep moving,” the lieutenant said sharply.
Roman resumed his pace. But he was keen to know where he was, and why he had been brought below. He noticed they passed two other corridors, one of which smelled foul like it held something rotten and dying. The other was choked with debris and cobwebs, as if the ceiling had collapsed decades ago.
Shane must have taken note of how observant Roman was being, how his strides slowed every time they passed branching pathways. The lieutenant stopped and yanked a blindfold from his pocket, fastening it around Roman’s eyes.
“Just a precaution,” he said, taking hold of Roman’s elbow. “Follow my lead.”
Roman bit down on his lip, but worry hung in his chest, turning his breath shallow. It felt like they took two more turns. His palms were clammy by the time Shane told him to reach out and touch the wall.
“We’re at the foot of a stairwell,” he said. “There are twenty-five steps in all, and they are steep. Mind yourself.”
Roman slowly followed. His legs were burning by the time he sensed the shift of temperature. He heard a door click open.
He was greeted by a flood of sunlight seeping through his blindfold. A wash of fresh air, tinged in spring warmth. It must have just rained, because Roman could taste the petrichor as he fully stepped into the upper world. The floor was wooden beneath his boots, creaking like an old house. He nearly tripped on the edge of a rug, his arms flinging out to catch his balance.
“Wait here,” Shane said, closing the door. “Don’t move.”
Roman only nodded, his mouth parched. He listened as Shane’s heavy footsteps withdrew, but he sensed the room he stood in was full of furniture. There were no lonely echoes, only the steady tick of a clock somewhere to Roman’s left.
He could hear someone speaking, the sound muffled through the walls. It was Shane’s droning cadence, and Roman dared to take a few steps forward, trying to catch the words.
“He’s awake, my lord. I’ve brought him here with me. He’s waiting in the other room if you’d like to see him.”
Silence. The voice that spoke next was one Roman had never heard before, but it was a deep baritone. Languid and rich, it sent a shiver up his spine.
“I thought I told you not to bring him here, Lieutenant.”
“It’s his memory, sir. He can’t even recall his name. I thought it would help…”
“If he saw this place?”
“Yes, my lord. I know we are short on time, and we could use his—”
“Very well. Bring him to me.”
Roman eased a step back, heart thundering in his ears. He was tempted to tear the blindfold from his face and run, somewhere far from here, but his hesitation cost him. He heard Shane return to the room, and winced when the lieutenant removed the fabric bound across his eyes.
Roman took in his surroundings. He had been waiting in a small but inviting room; an oil painting hung over a stone hearth, and cherrywood furniture with green velvet cushions held down a plush rug. Floral curtains framed tall windows, which were cracked open to welcome fresh air. A parlor of sorts, he realized, glancing at the door they had first stepped through.
It was a very unassuming door. Carved from wood, with white chipped paint and a brass doorknob with a rusted keyhole. A wardrobe for coats, Roman imagined. Only they had emerged from the underground instead.
“The Lord Commander Dacre will see you now,” said Shane. “Come with me.”
“Dacre?” Roman whispered. The name rose like fire in his throat, scalding his tongue. He saw himself dressed in leather braces and perfectly pressed trousers and a button-down shirt, standing on a street corner as he read a newspaper with that name printed in the headline.
“Come,” Shane repeated.
Roman stepped into a foyer and immediately saw that there were two armed soldiers stationed at the front door. Their gazes were cold and pointed, their faces like statues. Roman averted his eyes and moved down the hallway, Shane on his heels.
The floor felt unlevel in places. There were also large cracks in the walls, racing down the wallpaper like veins, as if this house had suffered a terrible storm. But it wasn’t until Roman stepped into the wide kitchen and saw the table, the rafters overhead strung with herbs and copper pots, and the twin doors with cracked glass, that he felt pain well in his chest.
He had been here before. He was certain of it.
And yet all he could do was stare at the two typewriters, resting side by side on the table. They were nearly identical, their keys gleaming in the sunlight.
“I take it one of these typewriters looks familiar to you?”
Roman glanced to his left. A tall, broad-shouldered man was standing at the end of the table, his long blond hair brushing the collar of his pristine tan uniform. Strange how Roman hadn’t noticed him until he spoke and, now that he had, how Roman couldn’t seem to look away.
The stranger appeared to be older, although it was difficult to measure his age. There indeed seemed to be something timeless about him—his presence held weight in the room, but there was no silver in his hair, or wrinkles at the corners of his eyes. His face was angular, sharply cut, and his eyes were a vivid blue.
Roman had never seen this man before, but he couldn’t deny there was a sense of familiarity about him. Just like the house and the typewriters, as if Roman had walked this place in his dreams. But perhaps that was only because this stranger was looking at Roman as if he knew him, and the acknowledgment was uncomfortable, like running his fingers over a woolen scarf before touching a light switch. Static and metal, and a jolt to his bones.
He had never thought he would stand face-to-face with a god. The divines were defeated. Sleeping, buried powers. They were never supposed to rise and walk among mortals again, and Roman inwardly winced as threads of his memory began to return to him. A sigh, a whisper.
A shiver.
Dacre smiled, as if he could read Roman’s thoughts.
The god extended his elegant hand, indicating the typewriters again.
Roman blinked, remembering the question. “Yes, sir. They feel familiar to me.”
“Which one is yours, then?”
Roman stepped closer to the table. He studied the typewriters, but sight alone was not enough for him to fully know. Both seemed to hold gravity for him, and it was perplexing.
“You can touch them,” Dacre said gently. “I find that helps with remembering after healing.”
Roman stretched out his hand, fingers trembling. A blush nipped his cheeks. He was ashamed that he appeared so weak and fragile before the god. He couldn’t even remember his own name, but then he touched the space bar of the typewriter waiting to his left, and the frantic beat of his pulse calmed.
This one, he thought. This one was mine.
A flash of light teased his peripheral vision. This time he knew it was only his mind, a memory falling back into place. He remembered sitting at a desk in his bedroom, writing on this typewriter. He would work by lamplight, late into the night, books and cups of cold coffee scattered around him. Sometimes his father would knock on his door and tell him to go to sleep, Roman! The words will still be there in the morning.
Roman let his fingertips slide away from the space bar, his name echoing through him. He glanced to the typewriter waiting on his right, curious. He traced its keys, waiting for another memory to stir.
There was no light, no images to grasp. At first, there seemed to be nothing at all but a cool, deep quiet. Ripples expanding outward on the surface of a dark lake. But then Roman felt the tug. It came from deep within him, an invisible cord hidden between his ribs, and he could not see but he felt.
The emotions stirred his blood.
He could smell a faint hint of lavender. A rush of warm skin against his own. Pleasure and worry and bone-aching desire and fear all snarled together.
He had to grit his teeth, struggling to hold everything in. But his heart was pounding and hungry when his hand slipped away.
“Which one is yours, correspondent?” Dacre asked again, but his voice had shifted. It was not as friendly as before; Roman could hear the hint of an edge within the words. This must be a test. There was a right and wrong answer, and Roman hesitated, torn between the typewriter that had reminded him of his name and the one that reminded him that he was alive.
“This one,” he said, pointing to the typewriter on the left. The one steeped in his past. “I believe it is mine.”
Dacre nodded to someone behind Roman. Shane moved forward, approaching the table. Roman had forgotten about the lieutenant’s presence.
“Take the appropriate typewriter up to our correspondent’s room,” Dacre said. “Have the other destroyed.”
“Yes, my lord,” Shane said with a bow of his head.
Roman startled. A protest began to climb up his throat—he didn’t want to see the other one destroyed—but he couldn’t find his courage, or the correct words, to convince Dacre otherwise. His mind still felt like a sheet of ice, capable of fragmenting into a hundred directions, and the god must have known.
“Come with me, correspondent,” Dacre said. “There’s something I’d like to show you.”
Roman followed Dacre out the back doors and through a weedy garden. The soil was damp, and rain puddles shone between the rows of sprouting vegetables. But it was blue sky and sunshine overhead, and the clouds were smeared thin as wind blew from the west.
They passed through an iron gate and crossed a road with broken cobblestones, venturing into a field.
Dacre cut through the long grass with ease, his shadow rippling over the golden stalks. With every step he took, there was the very faint sound of a chime. Or pieces of metal, clinking together.
Roman followed closely, but his heart quickened. There was something about this place. It made him shiver in the broad daylight. Sweat gleamed on his skin.
“Here,” Dacre said. “This is where I found you.”
Roman came to a reluctant stop. He gazed at the ground, noticing some of the grass was bent and stained. It looked like old blood, dried like dark wine.
“You had only moments left before you died. Your lungs were brimming with blood. You were crawling through the grass, as if you were searching for someone.” Dacre paused. The breeze tousled his flaxen hair when he met Roman’s gaze. “Do you remember?”
“No.” Roman’s head was starting to throb again, and he frowned at the smattering of blood and the crimped grass. He tried to envision himself almost dying in such a place and felt nothing but gratitude that a god would want to save him.
“Mortal bodies are such fragile things to mend, as are your minds,” Dacre said with a hint of amusement. “Like spider silk, like ice in spring. In order for my magic to heal your physical wounds, I had to build walls in your mind to protect you when you woke again. Given that, it’s best if your memories return gradually.”
Roman was quiet for a beat. He was still staring at the bloodstained ground when he said, “Why did you save me?”
“You’re going to be a vital part of this war,” Dacre said. “And I’d like for you to write my side of the story.”
That evening, Roman stood in the room that had been assigned to him. A room on the upper floor of the house he almost remembered.
The curtains were a forest green. There was a makeshift pallet with folded blankets along one wall. The windows were webbed with cracks, the glass flaming iridescent as the sun set. The door struggled to latch, as if the building’s foundation had shifted, and despite the privacy Roman now had with a personal room, he knew it was an illusion. There was no lock, and Shane was standing guard in the hallway.
But Roman’s sole attention was on the desk aligned with one of the windows. On the typewriter that sat in the waning light, waiting for him.
Exhaustion made his bones feel heavy, but duty was a well-worn shape in his existence, and he approached the desk. He sat in the chair and stared at the typewriter. He didn’t know what he would write yet; he didn’t even know if there were words to be found within him.
There was a stack of fresh paper on the desk. A notepad and pencils. A host of candles as well as a lamp with a yellow-hued lightbulb, so he could write through the night. Dacre had thought of everything, it seemed, and Roman carefully fed a sheet into the typewriter. He sighed, raking his hand through his dark hair. He needed a shower. He wanted to sleep, to not have to think about anything for a little while. But when he at last set his fingers onto the keys, he was met by a surprise.
This wasn’t the typewriter he had told Dacre was his. This wasn’t the one he had grown up typing on, the one that had shown him a fleeting glimpse of his past self.
Roman closed his eyes, breath hitching.
He felt the tug again, the medley of emotions. He tried to imagine who had once touched these keys, time and time again. He tried to envision who had once written on this typewriter.
Who are you?
There was no answer. There was nothing for him to see, but he felt it again. A small yet unmistakable taunting. That invisible cord, knotted between his ribs.
He resisted the pull toward the unknown.
