Arcaea: The World of Glass

[Main] Arcaea

—And after, they slept.

...

A million stories come to an end, and a million stories go on, retold. Yet there are "tales" in between that go unwritten and thus unheard. They pass on, unspoken.

They pass into memory.


Memory...

For better or worse, memory will not discriminate. A moment in the mind of one, or a moment shared by many, will take shape unspoiled. However innocuous, however tragic, however wonderful, a memory will capture it, though it may never be put to record.

And when unrecorded, what has passed into memory will inevitably fade into ether.

You might think that something forgotten can't have any importance. Perhaps that's true. Why
remember a fall? Why remember sorrow? Why remember some sweet taste?

And certainly, the answers to those questions do matter...

...but time does not slow while they're being asked.

As they're asked, as they are considered, an archive ceaselessly grows...


Some where and when...

The Archive of Memory begins to spool thread:

threads of fate, tugging along two lives.

Shining, colorless—the unspoiled ideal:

threads of light and conflict.

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A young girl sits in a café, let in hours before business, slouching in the quiet. The steam from her cup rises and fogs the glass beside her. A cold morning—

Captured.

A lone man draws his sword. Before him, a town burns. Behind, the marauders that have razed it look on the man, laughing. Knowing he will die, the man turns, and raises the blade—

Sewn in.

Friends with ears of cats and dogs laugh uproariously as one of their number, a student of Elementum, entwines light and fire to display a comic scene. To display a memory of another friend's folly—

Crystallized.

And countless others are crystallized. Hundreds, thousands—

Thousands of glass memories fly through a sky of endless day.

Flickering winds, fragmented streams—suspended in the air.

These flows of old thought and moments move in accordance with unknown laws. Or, perhaps, it is merely all a senseless dance. Some, granted, do not flow at all—they stay in place or float along, separate or within crowds of others. Whether they flow or remain still, "glass" defines this place.

Clouds alone have the sky. The light above them fills every soft fold, leaving hardly a shadow below. It is sometimes blinding, like an overbearing smile...

Below, the lands are often clear, empty. Just as often, the lands are filled with endless rows of structures and scattered monuments.

Colorless monuments, like the colorless lands. Wherefore do they stand?

Because "place" is inseparable from memory. That's it, no?

Where your tears have fallen, where you've held another's hand...

Surely you can remember.

Although, even should you... these towers and walls, these buildings and castles don't stand only as memorials or testaments.

This, all of this, is no testament. It is not poetic. It is meaningful, but not of higher meaning.

Its purpose lies at the core of being...

It's something simple, and needed, for thinking and feeling things.

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One more story, a story of two, is told: that of how to be alive.

There is no guide to living—only life itself:

life as a gorgeous thing, life as a gruesome thing...

This, they share.

Have you ever felt the need to cry from the beauty of something?

There is no doubt that you've cried over the unfairness of everything.

When you open your eyes, will you care at all? Or will you be content only to live?

Will the world ever allow you to be content?
There is no shame in wanting to feel happy.

The fragments of memory in the air—both joyous and wretched—drift toward you hopeful two...

A story will begin, but it isn't clear how your threads will be spun...

Reflections from above—reflections surround you—

They are reflections of infinite worlds—not possibilities, but certainties which have already transpired.

Stand. Watch them. Ask yourself after seeing them:

How will you be alive?

A snap in the distance. A sound echoing throughout, and beyond, everything—

And after, they slept.

Silently, they sleep: one against a crumbled wall, one against a ruined tower.

Asleep... but each is stirring now.

A girl in white basked in a rare shadow from the shifted wall she rests beside...

A girl in black bathed in light to spite her...

The girls each begin to open their eyes.

...

This memory, this story of light and conflict... Did you know?

...It begins from seeds of feeling—

It lives upon memories, both cherished and despised—

...And it marches on, as stubborn as time.

With eyes open, the twisted fates of a figure blessed and a figure damned begin to be woven.

And after, it is all forgotten.