Page 1 of Runes To Rain
PAIN REMEMBERED
PROLOGUE
To my dear and gentle readers,
In reading this account of my life, you will need to humor me for my memory is not what it was, and this story begins so far in the past, the distant beginnings of a full life, that I may not recount all the details with the level of accuracy I would wish.
What is true is that these events are my version of what happened and are what made me who I am today. Perhaps even as they changed me, they changed the world. As I sit in this quiet house with the scent of rain in the air and life going on around me, I slip into a remembrance that is both wonderful and sad. While I do not wish I could go back to that point in my life, I do wish I had the chance to see those people I loved once more.
You, my dear reader, will now have a chance to meet, in a form, those I hold dear as wellas my many enemies, and to examine the history of my life that made me what and who I am. In addition to my own version of the story, I have included, with their permission, some journal entries and notes from people in my life. Hopefully, these gifts will allow you to see another side to the story I tell, and hear another voice beyond my ramblings.
Sincerely,
Chaosta
PART I
OF BEGINNINGS
There once was a little boy whose life held no joy or point of light. His father is cruel to him, and his mother died some years prior. He has one thing he does for fun, and that is to create small working sculptures of clockwork. He creates these sculptures to bring himself happiness and to pass the time while he hides from his father.
One day, he begins his most ambitious project yet, a small working model of a human head, the size of a fist. As he works somehow without meaning to, “it” becomes “she.”
The technology he builds for her is far more complex than one so young should be capable of. A technology capable of far more than what should be possible with clockwork gears. Such a striking intelligence that perhaps divine intervention from the little boy’s chosen deity was involved.
As he builds the clockwork doll, “she" grows from the beginnings of a head to a head on a torso and from there to a nearly perfect model of a person. The working sculpture is nearly exact in every detail, but is small in scale and works only with help.
The boy dreams of more.
Then one night, a demon enters his dreams in the form of a darkly complexioned human. “My name is Malam,” he says. “I see what you make and I see what you give her, that which is nearly life. I will make her what you believe her to be, and she will be the harbinger of balance to our unbalanced world.”
With that, the demon disappears and the young boy, tossing in his sleep, moves on to another, less portentous dream.
The next morning, the boy wakes and dimly remembers the dream with themanand his promise. A dream far different than those which usually guide him.
He moves from his bed to the cabinet against the wall and takes a neatly wrapped bundle from beneath it. Carefully, he removes the wrapping and reveals the clockwork being. Seeing no new life yet, he begins to wrap her again. He pauses, takes a carved, wooden rose from beneath his bed, and wraps it in the cloth with her. Feeling more hopeful than he has in a while, he goes on with his day.
When he returns later that night, he finds her still inanimate, and with some disappointment, he removes the rose and places it beneath his bed again. This time, he leaves her form sitting out on the floor of his room, resting against a wall.
As the boy climbs into bed that night, he looks at her and thinks of how real her form looks there against the wall, as though she were already alive. In his mind, he can clearly picture how she would appear if actually given life. He pictures her with candy-pink hair, mismatched eyes, and a heart-shaped face with full lips. He imagines that she would be strong for her size, so she would be capable of defending those she cares for. He pictures her being tall, but since he is but a child, that still makes her short compared to most women. He also imagines her with a kind and loving heart.
Although he means to sit up and watch for a while, he is far too exhausted, and his eyes drift closed sooner than he intends.
LET THERE BE LIFE
Waking is pain.
Pain, and more pain.
Breathing hurts.
Air, is that what this is?
Whatever it is hurts, and continues to burn as breaths are taken.
A voice. Noise hurts.
The voice again.
