Warmth. You’d forgotten it. Forgotten it existed.
Cold. Darkness. Emptiness. But not empty. No, not empty. Never empty. This is what you know. What you’ve always known, for eons. And torment. Absolute, intangible, stygian torment that only the unfettered soul can know, beyond anything of mere earthly flesh and bone. That is what you know. That is what you are. The warmth is a lie. A fabrication. An illusion meant to usher in the next level of anguish, giving you… the word escapes you. Hope! Giving you hope, only to rip it away.
No. That’s wrong. You feel it, the warmth. And one does not feel lies. Not here.
You have a name. A name from the time before… no, you’d rather not remember that. Best not to remember that. Best to bury it behind the torment. Beneath the mountain of pain. Pain. That you can manage.
Mene, mene, tekel, upharsin.
No! Mustn’t remember. Mustn’t unravel. Mustn’t listen to the whispers, no matter the secrets they utter. Mustn’t open the way.
Three! Three! The die is cast and its number is three! The first among equals three seeks to set the Wheel free. Of three, though six to be, you are the untold seventh. The spoke beyond the Wheel.
See you to Zion, where the end begins in earnest, at the House of The Hard Bear. Go, in the year of eleven and nine and seven, when the star falls.
But the warmth, it hurts. It’s so… what’s the word? There’s a word for it. Another thing forgotten. So many things forgotten, and so much to remember, but not that. Never that.
Bright! That’s the word. It’s so bright! They hate the bright!
You crack open your eyes, squinting in pain from the light, unable to see anything but the blinding brilliance before you. The sun! It’s the sun! They burn in the sun!
Your breast swells with dread at the thought. No escape. There is no escape. You try to flee, but are frozen in terror.
Moments pass and both the light and pain diminish as your eyes adjust. No, not the sun. The dread within your breast fades. It’s light, but not the sun.
You see the blurred outline of shapes before you. Shapes you recognize. People. They’re people!
It isn’t long before the light dims even further, and you are able to see clearly again for the first time since, no… you mustn’t remember it.
Rallo. Your name was Rallo. Is Rallo. Rallo Passaglia. You were a merchant. A traveller. A healer. A sin-eater. Kin to the hsien of the Middle Kingdom. You know this.
That time is over. Ended. Everything ends. Everything. All so new things can begin.
You are changed, now, and though the memories are distant, you remember everything from your time before, when you were the Rallo of then. But you also remember flashes of your time when you were not. When you were nothing. When you were touched by the unknowable.
Just flashes. Thankfully just flashes. Not even memories. More impressions of memories, really.
You’ll never be that Rallo again, not entirely.
Now. You are the Rallo of now, and soon, the Rallo yet to come.