Chapter 8 -Journal

Gregor sat in his room with the black book, staring intently at the cover as if trying to see through it. But he was unwilling to open it. He shrunk in his chair while the book languidly occupied his desk. The damn thing was more intimidating than a discussion with his father used to be.

Why can’t I tell anyone about it?

Not even family….

He studied the outside of it once more, hoping it would tell him something, but it was as quiet as ever. The only hint he had, was what his grandmother had told him. Apparently, the book was going to answer his questions about the tyrant, so it must be some sort of history book. That meant it was some form of a recording then. Perhaps a collection of accounts from those who knew the man, Gregor reasoned.

Only one way to find out… Gregor lifted the cover of the book and opened it to the first page. There was no note from the author, no foreword, no illustration, not even a name. Only five words in written Kurjen. The script was careful and well positioned on the page. The letters were rigid, almost painfully so. He read:

So that you may remember.

Grateful for his grandmother’s instruction in the language, he turned to the next page:

--

Eight days ago, my father forgot who I was.

I had been gone for less than a month, but when I returned, he asked my mother to introduce him to their guest. She was the only person he remembered, perhaps because she was the only one who tended to him day after day.

Are you like he was yet? Have you forgotten their names? I pray that you never will, but in case you have, it is Gintars and Karalina. Together the three of us sat together in that small living room. It had felt cramped that day, suffocating, like a cursed coffin. He never wanted to leave the place despite my offers for a bigger and better residency, one that was closer to us. But he resisted. He argued that it would be too far from the rivers. It would have been too far from work.

The old man had forgotten that he stopped working eight years back. I heard him asking questions, constantly asking, and he would ask them as though he knew the answers. Then he would frown when he heard the reply. As if wondering why he did not know. He would shrink into himself then, like a child who was guilty of doing something wrong. Despite the sadness that would overcome him, he did his utmost to hide it.

It is a terrible thing to forget who you are and the people and places that made you.

It is for that reason I now write this. I fear that one day I will search my memory and find nothing. Have you forgotten yet? It is a question I have begun to ask myself regularly. But I am my father’s son. Already I find myself having forgotten childhood friends. So before too much is lost to the patient, devouring maws of time’s ticking, I will record it.

--

The page ended there, but Gregor’s fingers froze before he turned the page. Should he continue? He felt as though he was intruding. What was this? Why had it displaced his heart, shifting it deeper into his chest? The numbing words must have been forced onto the page, and though it was foreign to the prince, Gregor could comprehend the fear which necessitated the writing. He knew then that it was not a history book, but a journal.

“Whose journal though?” he muttered to himself, fearing that he already knew the answer.

He took a deep, controlled breath, then turned the page.

--

I don’t know how bad it can get, nor where I should begin. But your name is as good a place to start as any. Who am I? You may ask yourself.

You are a man. Some have called you great, others have called you terrible. You’ve killed and you saved, you’ve earned names and titles, but the name that was given to you, was Gelas. Your father is Gintars, and his father was Goren, though you’ve never met the man. Your brother is Garent, his wife is Zana, and his newborn son is Garshik.

--

Gregor slammed the book closed and dropped it back on the desk. What had his grandmother been thinking giving him this?? This was not a book or a recorded history. This was the Tyrant’s Journal!

But despite his internal outrage, it was the first time Gregor had heard the tyrant’s name.

In his head, he had not considered the tyrant to be one who would have recorded his actions, for what does a tyrant care for legacy -they usually left nothing behind but nightmares. Now it became clear to Gregor that the tyrant, Gelas, had valued things. He had things he did not want to forget, and he was afraid of losing his memories.

What had his father said? Know your enemies? Something like that.

Gregor eyed the closed book and its unadorned cover. It should not have been surprising that he found himself pulled towards it. It was a story that he had only heard snippets of. This was the journal of a man who was hated and thrice cursed. The demon himself who had assailed the walls of Letalona. The man who had a cult following for years after his death. For the turmoil the man had caused, the cover should have been red embossed with the gates of Treneq’s Doom on the cover and with the lone pillar of hells along the binding. But it was a weathered, black, plain, and smooth.

None talked about the tyrant, and his title was mentioned only as a curse. Now Gregor held the tyrant’s personal account.

He lifted the heavy book and began to read once more.

--

I remember Garent and I had spoken of naming our sons something different, something that did not begin with G. But when we grew older and he saw my father’s condition only worsen, he did not break tradition. I do not think I would have been able to either.

Your mother is Katarina the Steel Maiden, your late sister is Aryel, and your wife is Yiriza Princess of Tell. Do not forget these names for they are the people that matter most. They are the people that care for you more than the world combined. Perhaps I will commission portraits of them to include in this book, but it will have to wait until I return. This campaign seems as though it will stretch until the ends of time. The eastern hordes have not ceased their conquest of the plains, and they draw ever closer. I will come back to them in time, but first you must remember where you came from.

Your father and mother had met in Navitrag. He used to work as a sailor. Mother said he was from the worst of the lot of them, the loudest, most rambunctious, rudest, and most stuck-up person she had ever met. Not that she was any better. She used to run a tavern for the rowdiest sailors, because she was the only one who could. No other women bothered, and men could not run their own establishments lest they start fights with their neighbors. At least, that is the reasoning she had given me. But we never saw a problem with it. Men did not want to be running a tavern anyway. Handling accounts, managing funds, re-furnishing after a bad brawl, and listening to sailors complain was not worth it. Sometimes I do find myself wondering if there were men who had wanted to do so. It does not matter, when it came down to it, were better at farming, fishing, and fighting. What’s the point of owning the land if you do not know how to manage it peacefully?

Perhaps peaceful management is a stretch, father told me she could take on any of the men in a fight and had knocked them on their backside more than once. Himself included. She laughed, retorting and claiming it was why he kept coming back. They would drink and fight like the sun rose and set. She said she knew she was ruined when she found herself missing him when he went on long sailing trips. Instead of worrying about it, she married him and before long, their fist fights over the tavern tables turned into grappling in bed. Not long after, I was born, and Garent followed close behind. Mother raised the two of us on her own for the most part. We were handed of f to a wet nurse for a time but were back home before we could blink. Apparently, we were too hungry and left no milk in the poor woman.

Having left Navitrag when I was six, I remember nothing of the city, save for the docks: the weathered wood and slick stones that suffered the towering tidal changes. And even those memories are naught but little details that stood out among a sea-side fog. Looking off the edge of the dock at low tide was like standing at the precipice of a cliff. The sea floor exposed and walls stained, leaving indications for where the tide would reach. I remember standing there alone, smelling the salt, fish and seaweed as I teetered over the edge. One of the sailors that frequented the tavern and smelled like rotten berries had seen me. He pulled me back, holding me from my shirt. His hands were rough and he threw me over his shoulder, berating me as he dragged me to my moms’ feet. She slapped me and told me never to stand at the edge again, but I did not listen, I only made sure that no one was around the next time I did it.

I remember wanting to climb down the steep wall to the sea floor and grab shells before the tide came back in, but I knew I was too small. Nevertheless, I was determined to try in the future. But that future never came, for something changed and I had seen it in the look on my mother’s face. She was waiting for my father’s return, but there was no word of his ship. The Mediator was supposed to have been back two weeks ago. Delays were unusual for him, their crew was always punctual, so she had begun to worry. A month passed in that state constant cheek-biting. The other customers could tell it had begun to affect her when her smiles became brief masks in between phases of worry. It was strange seeing people she used to comfort trying to comfort her. She had begun to draw in on herself when word came that The Mediator was sighted on the horizon. The ship had lost its mast. It was a wreck that needed to be towed into port, and the crew fared no better than the vessel. Starved, with haunted eyes, they listlessly looked upon the faces that called to them. I saw my father but did not recognize him until mother hugged him close.

For a week he only mumbled “thank you”, “no thank you” or variations of the two. Slowly he gained weight and his eyes began to emerge from the hollows where they had sunken. I had listened at their door when he began to talk about what had happened. It had been pirates, my father whispered. They chased them down and before the crew had realized, they had veered off into the Sea of Cyclones. They tried steering The Mediator back, but the wind picked up. Like a hateful living creature, it would push at them, then pull, as if undecided which way it wanted to take the gods-forsaken crew. They had tried hoisting the sails and struggled against the winds, but they had failed, and a sailor fell to the deck, leaving a red stain no one bothered to clean. The winds shattered the mast in a violent crack that threatened to capsize the ship, killing three in the process. Another four sailors were entangled in the ropes, so they cut it all away, thinking they may be able to salvage some of the material later. From there, the waters and crashing waves took their ship into the dark of the roaring storm.

Drinking water was never an issue while they were in the under the pouring clouds. If the storms did not get them, they feared they would starve to death. But that fear was unfounded. Every day they woke up, they would find less and less of crew. After the fifth day, they kept watch during the night only to find their mates throwing themselves off the edge, into the churning black waters below. The ones that they stopped from suicide complained of nightmares, and within three nights they would kill themselves. My father broke down then and began to cry, mumbling about those who lasted more than three nights.

Over half my father’s crewmates died on the open sea with no land in sight. The currents carried the Mediator further away from known seas until they reached an island. But the waters did not bring them directly to the shore. They circled around the island, and the crew had entertained a notion of trying their luck, perhaps finding help, but as they were brought closer to the sands, they saw monsters on the island as it devoured itself and wailed in agony. A curse they called it, a gateway to hell. Eventually the winds changed, and they were able to rig a small sail from salvaged material. It was not long before the cyclones took that as well, but not before it had served its purpose, and the few that remained were finally free of the chaotic storms. The were adrift for another two weeks, living off strictly rationed food and water. It was then that they were spotted.

Although I had not witnessed anything myself, I had heard the story and my heart was stricken by my father’s broken sobs. That night, and for many nights after, my dreams were afflicted by roiling waters and waves the size of mountains. He could no longer work as a sailor on merchant vessels for the Queendom, and when the winds would pick up and the skies darken, he would wrap himself in a blanket next to the fire. Never once closing his eyes. From that day, I vowed never to sail the open seas.

We moved away from Navitrag soon after.