In every forgotten dream lies a seed that refuses to die.
The ink spread like spilled dusk across the parchment as the Archivist began to write. His hand trembled, but the story did not belong to him. It belonged to the one who had walked where no one was meant to a child of forbidden curiosity, swallowed by time itself.
...
My parents were not people of many words, they only spoke of the danger… the danger lurking within the forest. They said it so many times I began to think it was the only thing that rent their minds. Naturally, curious as I was, I walked straight in, with blatant disregard for my safety and an urge to prove them wrong, to prove that I was stronger than the danger they kept warning me of.
I was too young, too young to question why they kept warning me, too young to understand why no person ever set foot in that forest. Technically, the only sounds that ever came from that sloppy cluster of towering trees were the merry chirping of birds.
Deeper and deeper I walked, confidence rising with each step… it wasn't as bad as they had made it out to be. Feeling no danger, I walked on and on and on… until the sounds of the village faded into nothing, and the darkness blanketed the whole forest.
I don't remember when I realized I had gone too far, but when I turned to go back… I saw nothing. Running towards the direction I believed was home, fear and adrenaline fueling my actions, my eyes roamed frantically searching for any sign of the path to return home… sweet home.
A stray root caught my leg, sending me sprawling to the ground, flat on my face. I lay there for what felt like an eternity, the full gravity of my situation crashing into me with full force, noting the eerie silence that covered the forest… it was unnatural.
As I geared myself to shout for help, an invisible hand gripped my neck… a dense fog obscuring my thoughts. The throbbing pain from the scratches and cuts during my frantic run through the forest faded away. My eyes felt heavier than ever, and I drifted into sleep, floating in my dreamscape.
When I woke up, the weight over my thoughts had lifted. Grabbing the branch of an ancient tree above me, I hoisted myself up… my muscles aching from the effort. That's when I saw it, a glimmer of light, beckoning me towards it.
I ran full tilt towards it, my desperation giving me energy I could barely muster. As I bolted past the towering trees, my strides felt longer, and the light became bigger and bigger. Suddenly I broke out of the forest, panting and sweating torrents.
Even in my fatigued state, my lungs screaming for air, I let out a shout of triumph. The shout caught in my throat when I looked around me.
What was I looking at? The huts of my village, billowing smoke to display the skillful cooking taking place and draw drunk, brawling husbands back home and the little kids out playing for their meal, were nowhere to be seen.
In their place were towering buildings, skyscrapers, apparently, hanging high over my head, higher than the trees I had grown to fear.
Where was my village, my parents, the little field I used to play in?
The men in strange coverings and an even more foreign tongue took me, fed me, clothed me, and taught me the truth. In their language, they told me I was one of many who left the forest. The forest of Eldu'rahn had taken many and had only given back few.
Each day I strive to find a way back. One question will forever plague me… how did my parents know what lies beyond the forest?
There must be a way back… and I will find it, even if it kills me.
...
The Archivist closed the tome gently, the ink still damp under his fingertips. He could almost smell the forest, that damp scent of rot and rain, of roots and regret.
From somewhere in the Archive, a faint wind stirred the hanging scrolls. In its whisper, a voice spoke…faint and familiar:
Tell their stories one more time…
The Archivist looked up from the page. The wind fell silent, but the echo remained. He exhaled slowly, reached for a new scroll, and whispered to the empty hall:
"Then let the next memory awaken."
As the last words dried, the Archivist felt another memory stirring…older, colder. One not of wanderers or time, but of kings."