Letters Lost in Time - Karl Jacobs

Diary Entry #1

Each time I travel, I remember less and less. I really need to start writing these as soon as I come back to the present day... I'm going to start keeping track of every time this happens. No matter how tired I may be, I need to write everything down immediately.

Something was definitely off about the future I've been shown. Too many inconsistencies, too many inaccuracies to the actual happenings so far. Something has definitely gone wrong, whether it be in the near future or in the generations of passing down knowledge. Someone could've interfered with written history as we know it, or the facts could've been lost to the test of time. Regardless, it's my job to figure out why. I should record everything properly to ensure it gets passed on properly, and find out who would mess with the storyline of events.

... Then again, it's not like I myself am doing any better. It started off rather small and dismissible; it was initially just a bunch of small details I kept forgetting. Times of scheduled meetings, whereabouts of lost items, minor inconveniences I could easily live through. However, it's been getting worse and worse. Just the other day I forgot entirely what I was doing for a few minutes. I didn't recognize anyone, didn't know where I was. It was terrifying. I'm worried one day I'll travel and not even remember who I am anymore. Maybe I should stop...

...

No.

No, I can't stop. I have to keep doing my part. I have to keep going, I have to push through and do what I can.

As far as I know, I'm the only one with this kind of power. I'm the only one who can traverse the threads of time, who can pull at the strings and unravel the chain of events. I'm the only one who can see our future, who can do something about it. It only makes sense I take the burden upon myself. It only makes sense that I take the gift I've been given and use it for the greater good. If it's something only I can do, then I must do it. I will not falter; I will not doubt my conviction when it comes to this. It's only fair, after all.

Maybe if I travel enough, I'll be able to right some wrongs... Maybe do something to prevent all of the bad I keep seeing. I'm sure there's something I can do. Tragedy always has a reason, and once I find the root of it I can cut it off from there.

Maybe I'll finally be useful for once.

...

I need to keep this quiet. I can't tell anyone what happens or how I know these stories.

Who knows what they'll do? They could restrain me, tie me up or even kill me. They could try their hardest to stop me. They could burn down my library, take away my books, rip apart my diary. I don't know if they'll truly understand what I've been doing, or my motivations for doing so. Even then, I can't involve them in this. It might mess things up even further. Knowledge might change how they act, and therefore mess up the timelines I already am aware of. I can't have anyone interfere and possibly jumble everything up. It would be devastating if I made progress only for it to all be for naught.

I'm scared.

No one. Not even Quackity and Sapnap. They're my fiancés, yes, but it doesn't mean I have to confide in them. Surely they're busy. Surely they have better, more important things to do. Even if not, their assets would be far better used for something other than a flimsy and unpredictable endeavor. Quackity's intelligence and Sapnap's combat prowess will find better hands to be wielded by rather than my unsure own. It's dangerous, it's fleeting, it's dubious. I can't have them invest in something so uncertain.

Though it might do some good to go to them... If I can't trust them, then I have no one else. Maybe I should just... No. I can't.

I can't keep relying on them like this. I can't keep making them protect me from everything.

I can't keep being useless.

I'm not strong. I'm not resilient. I'm weak, far too much so. I can still feel where Ranbob struck me down with his sword, I can still remember how powerless I was in that moment. I still wince from the phantom pains; I still tremble from the exertion of trying to run away. I will never be able to win in a swordfight, never be able to consistently hit bow shots, never be able to get back up from the ground I've been knocked down onto. But, at the very least, I can try to do my part to steer this world in the correct direction. At the very least, I can attempt to do something. I can try again, and again, and eventually one of those times will succeed. It has to, I'm sure of it.

Til next time. Remember who you are.

−Karl Jacobs

-

He closes the book, shoving it into the chest in the corner and wiping off what he can of the ink stains that mark his hands. Grumbling, the ache in his shoulder only gets aggravated as he breaks through the wall of his library and squeezes out of the opening before moving to replace it. He really needed to make a better passageway, perhaps a hidden door or a loose panel. He can't keep exerting himself every time he wants to get out of his secret room, especially if he keeps dying and if the pain keeps lingering even after he gets back. He dusts himself off and makes sure he's presentable for the outside world before he steps out and locks the door behind him. He had to walk back home as soon as possible so he could rest.

He runs into a familiar face on the streets just outside the building, soon finding lanky arms wrap around his frame in a tight hold and a face press itself into the crook of his neck. Hot breath heats up his skin, and he remembers just how cold the underwater city had been when he melts into the warm touch and buries his face into a soft mess of dark hair. He doesn't know how long they remain standing there, but eventually they pull back and he feels his lips quick upwards almost instantly at the sight in front of him.

Quackity's smile had always been so contagious, after all.