"...I don't understand." The eldritch robot said, in his usual emotionless tone. "You've done what you had to do. You've freed the souls you held within you, and undid your curse. You're free. So why remain in this place?"
The ashen king Valthar gazed peacefully into the colorless, barren landscape before his eyes, the same landscape he knew so well, his self-imposed prison back then.
"Do you know how a world can truly die?" He replied to his companion after a long period of silence.
"Destroy it." The robot replied almost instantly. "Crush it. Burn it down to the last atom. Leave nothing behind."
The king shaked his head. "In a way, you are correct. However, you're not taking the right approach. For as much destruction as you can possibly inflict, for even if you reduce it to the last insignificant atom, that world will still be there. Destroyed, yes, but never gone."
"That doesn't make any sense."
You might have physically removed that world down to its last atom, leaving nothing but empty space behind... But that world will still remain as a memory. They will know its story, how it was, how it came to end. They might be left with a tragic tale, but a tale nonetheless. Something to remember, for eons and eons."
"...I see. What's the correct answer, then?"
"A world can only truly die... When there are none to remember it. When its stories are left forgotten, as if they never existed. It fades into obscurity, its final tomb." The king continues. "And that tomb is here, right where we both stand. When a world is cast into obscurity, it is brought here, mixed and merged with others, forming colorless heaps of formless rubble, which is what you can see up ahead. Buried in this vast, barren wasteland, never to be known again."
"So, a graveyard of memories. That's what you're telling me."
"That is an apt description, yes."
"But in my time of exile, I came to know those memories, those worlds. I've heard them speak to me, tell me about their stories."
"And what did they tell you?"
"I've heard many tales. I've heard the tale of an italian man, who stood in the face of tyranny and oppression, in a world where machine and man were merged, yet not united." The king replied. "The tale of a downtrodden holy knight, who sought solace in a land of frost, to remain among the wolves. The tale of two friends, bravely standing against all evil that dared cross them, building a legacy that others would follow. The tale of three brave saviors, donning pastel colors and cute looks, defenders of a sweet, sugary utopia."
"That is a lot."
"Indeed. And there are many more, lying amidst the colorless rubble, waiting to be known.
"Now that I think about it..." The robot interrupted. "You now know these stories. You remember them. So they are not truly dead, are they?"
"Now you understand." The king nodded.
"Is that why you remain here, then?"
"Yes. For even here, in this vast heap of dust and stone, even buried amidst colorless rubble... As long as I remember them... They will still exist. I remember these stories, because no one else would."
I remember these stories.
Because no one else would.
"...Tell me more about them. I wish to remember too."
YOU ARE READING
Valthar, The Spirit of Decay
Aléatoire"Time is an endless cycle, of decay and renewal. Of life and death. That which blossoms will eventually rot. Woe betide he who ignores this undeniable truth. He who believes he is safe from it. He who believes he can live forever. Lest he suffers a...
