Damian

I awoke with a jolt and in a haze of discomfort. A dull ache reverberated through my body, threading tightness around my muscles and bones, making every attempt to move feel like an act of defiance. I squinted against the dim light filtering through what I could only guess were the remnants of a once-magnificent window. The air was thick with an amalgamation of scents: medicinal herbs, earthy undertones, and a pervasive sweetness of incense that cloaked the room like a thick veil.

Gingerly, I shifted my position, catching a glimpse of my surroundings. The walls were crowded with jars, their glass surfaces crammed with peculiar animal parts and dried herbs, as if a witch's hoard had been thrown together in a mad frenzy. My heart raced in my chest, thrumming against the strangeness of this place. "Where am I?" I thought, but the words clung to the walls of my throat, heavy and unspoken.

At that moment, the door creaked open, and an old woman appeared. She had wild, frizzled hair cascading around her face, framing her features like a cloud of stormy weather. Her eyes bore into me with a fury that could have ignited a flame. "Ah, you're awake! Good. Now shut up and don't move." Her voice was sharp, a blade forged from years of irritation and wisdom.

I blinked, half-annoyed, half-amused at her brusqueness. Who was this woman, and why was I in her... witch's lair? Unable to hold my tongue, I opened my mouth, only to be silenced once more by her arriving scowl.

"Seriously, shut it. You've been through a lot," she continued, waving a hand dismissively, as if conjuring my inquiries into thin air.

Taken aback, I opened my mouth again, feeling the words bubbling forth. "Who are you-"

"Shut! Up!" she barked, her voice echoing off the walls. It seriously irritated me, and I felt the urge to respond, to demand answers, but there was something about the intensity radiating from her that warned against further inquiry.

Before I could wrestle with the consequences of my own curiosity, a younger figure bounded into the room, with messy brown hair and wide, darting brown eyes that surveyed the space as if he were constantly on the brink of panic. When he saw me awake, relief washed over his features. "Oh! You're awake! I'm Misha! That's my master, Eunora! How do you feel?" His voice was a frantic melody against the old woman's tempest, like he's nervously running from something.

"Uhh, I'm okay but..." I began, and suddenly, a wave of frustration washed over me. "Confused. Where in hell am I?"

But before I could say more, the old woman, Eunora, intervened, her impatience like a tempest unleashed as she gave Misha a glare. "Scullion boy! You're not here to chatter! The man needs to stay silent, lest I smack a curse on both of you!"

Misha flinched at her tone but quickly carved out an apologetic smile aimed at me. "I'm sorry for her rudeness. She can be... a bit intense."

"Intense?" I murmured, casting a wary glance between them. "That's an understatement."

"Come along, Master," Misha persisted softly, taking Eunora by the elbow with a gentle insistence. "Let's go outside for a moment. The poor man has been through enough."

Eunora shot me one last look, a stormy conflict brewing in her gaze before she relented, allowing Misha to steer her away. Their muffled voices faded into the distance, leaving me alone amidst the clamor of jars and the scent of confusion.

"What on earth is happening?" I muttered to myself, as I lay in silence, eyes tracing the intricate patterns of herb scents wafting in the stillness. The air glowed green and luminescent, as if alive with whispers of the ancient oaks outside. A faint buzz of insects -fluttering and flitting- added to the chorus, their presence somehow both comforting and chilling.

Just as I felt myself slipping back into the comforting arms of oblivion, Misha returned, his expression a mixture of worry and resolve. "I think master is calming down," he said, though he didn't seem convinced of that truth himself. "You really are alright?"

"I'm... still confused. What's this place?"

"This is our home," Misha said, gesturing toward the shelves filled with jars. "Eunora is a shaman. She tends to the woods and the spirits that dwell in them."

Misha sat at the edge of the wooden stool near the bed, his movements quick and nimble. "And also, I'm so sorry about my master - she has her moods." He wrung his hands nervously, glancing toward the door as if expecting her to burst in at any moment. "She means no harm, though. She just... well, she doesn't always know how to communicate nicely."

"Right," I attempted to nod, but the effort only heightened the ache in my head. Pressing my palm against my temple, I struggled against the tide of unease that washed over me. "What happened? Why am I here?"

Misha's brow creased with worry. "You really don't remember? A few nights ago, my master found you unconscious and injured in the forest, and since then... well, you've been asleep."

I held onto the edge of the bed, as if fearing the world would start spinning away. "I... I don't - I don't remember anything." I murmured, as a sudden wave of frustration crashed over me.

Who was I?

What was my life like?

What had led me to this foggy, confounding reality?

"Who... Who am I?" The words stumbled automatically from my mouth, laced with an underlying panic. I was met with the worried gaze of Misha, as I learned; who sat with a thin layer of anxiety etched across his face.

"Damian," I said shakily, hesitant of the name as it echoed in my consciousness, like the faintest muse of a forgotten tune. "That's... my name. Is it?"

Misha leaned forward, anticipation radiating from him. "If that's what you remember, then yes, that's your name," he affirmed. "Can you remember what happened before you... before you were found?"

At his question, my heart raced. I felt a void within me, deep and cold - vast like a chasm devoid of thought or recollection. The effort to sift through the layers of my mind was exhausting. "I... I can't. I can't remember anything. It's - It's like trying to grasp smoke; every time I reach for a memory, it slips away."

Frustration surged in my chest, burning like an ember begging to be fed. "Is this a fucking prank?" I burst out, my voice harsher than intended. "Do you mean to tell me that I've lost everything? Everything except my name?"

"Damian, please-"

"I don't want your sympathy!" I snapped, the words leaping from my lips. I wanted to rake my fingers through my hair, feel the tangles and knots of something that was once familiar, tangible. Instead, my hands lay still at my sides, heavy with an unfamiliar weight.

"What do you expect me to say?" Misha retorted, the frustration in his eyes rising to meet my own. "Just because you've lost your memory doesn't mean you're not still a person. You're not a ghost."

His words, though incendiary, bore truth. I did feel hollow; a shell encasing nothing. A ghost haunting my own life. "But what am I supposed to do?" I nearly wailed, the hopelessness creeping into my voice. "I am a stranger to myself. I look at this cabin, this forest - a forest of shadows, it seems. Yet I know nothing of my life. I could be a thief, a warrior, or a farmer, and I wouldn't even know it. That terrifies me. Choosing to be someone isn't possible if I don't even know who I was."

Misha's expression softened. "You can... always start anew," he said, his tone calmer, a shadow of warmth flickering between us. "You can become whoever you choose. It is not the past that defines you, but how you live now."

"Start anew?" A bitter laugh erupted from my lips, heavy with disbelief. "That's easy for you to say! You - you have a life that you lead, filled with purpose and memories! You likely have a family waiting for you at home. You weren't abandoned in this murky forest, left to rot in a pile of your forgotten crimes! Tell me, Misha, what good is a path before me if I can't even remember how I came to this place?"

The very landscape felt alive with my turmoil, the shadows deepening as if the woods themselves disapproved of my unceremonious arrival. My fingers twitched - a phantom itch to grasp hold of something solid, something secure. "Am I a good man? Or do I owe my darkness to the fog shrouding the memories I can't unravel?" The bitterness turned in my mouth as I posed the question. "Have I left someone to grieve me while I fight with the echo of my soul?" that very thought somehow left a pang on my chest.

I pressed my palms against my face, frustration mingling with confusion. "I don't even remember anyone. Everything is black. Nothingness. A void where my life should be, like an empty journal waiting for someone to write in it."

"What is... what is my life? What was my life like?" My eyes searched Misha's for answers - yet all I could see was his concern deepening. And in the end, both of us fell silent with many questions left unanswered.

I lay there on the narrow cot, swaddled in the scratchy blankets that smelled faintly of cedarwood, and there was only silence in the dim room. I stared at the wooden beams of the ceiling above me, confused and frustrated. I could feel Misha's nervous presence just a distance away, his eyes darting between me and the cabin door. The sun's light barely broke through the dense canopy of trees outside, casting ghostly patterns on the walls.

"I don't get it," Misha mumbled under his breath, his worry palpable. "Why can't you remember anything, Damian?"

I opened my mouth to reply, then shut it again, the words slipping away like water through my fingers. Ever since I had woken up in this cabin, my mind had been a blank slate. I could remember nothing before the moment I had found myself here - no past, no identity, just a swirling void that gnawed at my consciousness.

"Sorry about snapping," I finally managed, my voice barely above a whisper. "It's just... I can't."

Misha sighed, frustration lining his features. His curly hair, a wild tangle, bobbed slightly as he shook his head. "Master will be back soon; maybe she'll know something more."

Just then, the door creaked open, and lauded with the scent of damp earth and herbs, Eunora strode into the room. Her wild gray hair was pulled back with crooked sticks, and her long, weathered robes rustled like leaves in the wind. "You two have grown far too quiet for my liking," she snapped, her sharp tone piercing through the heaviness of the atmosphere.

Misha stared as she plopped down onto a stool, arms crossed. "Were we too loud?" he asked, a drip of sarcasm threading through his words.

"Yes! You bore me," Eunora grumbled, her piercing gaze shifting to me. "And if you continue to wallow in those depressive thoughts, you'll only feel worse about your state of mind."

I frowned, wanting to tell her that I couldn't help it - the memories, or lack thereof, weighed heavily on my chest. I felt as if there was a weight upon my soul.

"There's no use getting worked up in here," Eunora continued, waving away my frustration like a flitting insect. "You're a lost cause until you figure out what's happened to your mind."

I opened my mouth to retort, but Eunora's expression shifted, turning serious. "You've been cursed," she said flatly.

"Cursed?" Misha echoed, eyes wide as he leaned closer. "By whom?"

"The gods, of course," Eunora replied, her gaze boring into me with an intensity that made me squirm. "But I don't know which god it was or how you suffered their ire. You must understand - many are capable of manipulating memories, however, all gods are bound by Ether's order so-"

"Gods are bound by an order?" Misha interrupted, his voice teetering between disbelief and intrigue. "You mean... they're not boundless?"

Eunora's brows furrowed as if Misha missed the point entirely. "You're supposed to be a bright lad, Misha, but yes, they're bound by Ether's Divine Order. Don't you know? Have you even read the books I lent you?" the youngster's eyes widened in shock, guilt masking his expression, and Eunora simply clicked her tongue in dismissal.

"Ether's Divine Order keeps the gods bound," Eunora continued, her voice low and contemplative. "It is to keep the arrogance of gods in check. They can't use their powers without Ether's permission, or else chaos would reign unchecked across the realms. Do you think Ether would just sit by while they threw a tantrum? No! They need to be kept in line, like unruly cattle," she huffed, before resuming her words "And if they defy him, they risk greater consequences - a loss of their own divinity or worse. But sometimes they do so out of spite, or perhaps out of weakness. Greed can twist even a god's heart, you see."

"Greed for what?" My voice cracked slightly. The words tumbled from my lips in a whirl of urgency. "What do they even gain by cursing me?"

Misha shifted uncomfortably, blinking rapidly as if the swirling chaos of the situation was giving him whiplash. "Doesn't that mean Ether is... protecting us? He created the order so gods wouldn't act recklessly," he pondered aloud, his tone a mixture of confusion and hope.

Eunora scoffed, a crooked smile creeping onto her weathered face, the firelight dancing in her eyes. "Oh, Misha, child. Think whatever you like, but my view differs vastly from yours. Ether, the great deceiver, established the order to keep a watchful eye over mortals and gods alike." She gestured grandly, her arms sweeping through the air as if beckoning the very history she was about to unveil.

The crackle of the fireplace punctuated the tension in the air, filling the silence between us as Eunora began to weave a tale that felt impossibly ancient.

"Long ago," she continued, her voice rising with passion, "when the world was young, and humans were but a handful scattered across the lands, the gods roamed freely. They were not just observers but rulers of destiny, and Ether was the strongest among them. His power ignited both fear and jealousy among his divine kin. The other gods gazed upon him with a combination of envy and terror, for he held the very essence of creation within his grasp."

Misha shifted uncomfortably, clearly wishing to interject and provide a more comforting interpretation of the tale, but Eunora pressed on, her voice curling like smoke around us. "The mortals, too, felt his weight; they prayed to him, and in their hearts, a flicker of greed sparked. So, they rallied together -gods and men alike- believing they could conquer Ether. They forged alliances and waged war, an unholy union fueled by destruction."

"In the end," she said, her voice lowering to a grave whisper, "it was Ether who emerged triumphant, the last chuckle escaping him as he surveyed the chaos left behind. The world lay in ruin; mortals trembled at the remnants of primal battles, and the gods turned into shadows of their former selves. In his wake, the chaos was profound. But did he bring order to restore what was lost? No. Ether forged the laws - hard and binding, an order demanding that all gods bow to him, shackled to his will for all eternity."

Misha shook his head vigorously, fear stretching his features. "But master, the gods are still out there, aren't they? They watch over us!"

"They 'watch,' yes," she replied, her voice now imbued with a mocking tone. "But as jailers, not guardians. They know they cannot defy Ether's decrees. Imagine, my dear Misha, a world where each god aims to disrupt Ether's order. No - his laws are not a safeguard but a chain, one that weighs heavily on those who dare challenge him."

"But why create the order?" Misha interjected anxiously. "If he sought protection for us, why bind the gods?"

"He became a tyrant," Eunora retorted, eyes flickering. "He fashioned the order to quell the insurrection born of fear. Ether sought to stop the gods from plotting against him, to keep them aligned under his jurisdiction. It is an illusion of safety, Misha. We live under a watchful eye, shackled by the laws Ether crafted with a heavy hand."

I listened silently to her tale, my body still and my heart heavy with the weight of her words. Yet underneath her historical tapestry, a pang of curiosity rose. History of the gods - what does it have to do with me?

"And how does this story relate to my condition?" I interjected cautiously, before my thoughts could get too lost in her words again.

Eunora halted, her brow furrowing as her expression shifted from grand storyteller to mild irritation. "Ah, I forgot. Memory loss, right, my apologies," she said abruptly, waving a dismissive hand through the air.

Misha shifted in his seat, worry etched into the very fibers of his being. He sighed, the sound heavy with exasperation. I turned to him, seeking solace in his presence, but he looked back at me with a mix of sympathy and helplessness.

"Exactly," I murmured, still searching for clarity, "If I don't remember anything, how can your tales shed light on my plight?"

Eunora huffed, her temper rising like smoke from the smoldering fire. "Because I say so! The tales hold lessons! Wisdom! You just have to get your mind to engage, boy!" Her voice wasn't unkind, but it swirled with the fervor of a tempest.

Misha shot me an apologetic look, his eyes sparkling with concern. "She means well, I think. You have to understand how she is. She-"

"What lessons?" I pressed, my curiosity rising against the soft undercurrent of frustration. "They mean little if I can't recall my own life. What do ancient gods have to do with me being lost in my own head?"

Eunora huffed, tossing her wild grey hair over her shoulder. "Watch it, boy. It's a long and unsteady road before you wake up to find your bearings." She turned to me, her voice a mixture of annoyance and vague amusement. "There's someone who deals with curses, a sorceress, though you'd do well to mind your tongue. She's even more intimidating than I am."

"Is that so?" I mused, "An old hag like you, I bet?" I instantly regretted my brashness as her glare sharpened into a dagger. A fleeting impulse awoke; I turned my head away quickly, feigning interest in the wooden beams over my head.

"You'd do well to watch your wits, you witless dreamer!" she admonished, though there was a hint of laughter hidden beneath her scolding. "Whatever foul storm cursed you has left you bare and empty. The last thing you want is to test an even angrier weaver of spells."

"Let's meet this friend of yours, then," I submitted, heart pounding not entirely from fear, but an awakening sense of challenge that lay beneath the surface. "You will take me to this enigmatic sage?"

"Perhaps," she said, smoothing her layered skirts. "But tomorrow. For now, I'm busy." With a wave of her hand, laden with enigmatic charm, she stalked out of the room but not before shouting over her shoulder, "And for the love of the gods, shut up and rest!"

I snickered; the air felt lighter without her stormy presence. I caught Misha's eye, his worrisome expression melting into an easy smile. "She does care, you know," he said with quiet earnestness, though his expression seemed to mask a myriad of unsaid worries.

"Caring is not a noun I'd associate with a tempestuous spirit," I replied, brushing aside the growing tension within my chest. "But she's rather..." I hesitated as the word "interesting" danced on my tongue.

"Peculiar?" Misha suggested, a hint of a laugh toying at his lips.

"Yes, that." I turned serious. "But you seem to avoid the storm. What's your role here? Why stay with someone so passionate and prone to anger?"

His brow furrowed, gaze momentarily distant. "Eunora... she is a tempest, a lifetime of experiences hardened in every glare and huffed breath. She can be harsh, yes, but she also carries a heart that beats for the lost, the broken."

The weight of his words pressed upon me, filling my chest in ways I hadn't anticipated. He leaned closer, curiosity knitting his brows. "Would you trust her to mend your memories? To break a curse, no less?"

"I... don't know if I have an option," I admitted, spheres of doubt swirling.

"Just rest then. We'll find answers tomorrow," he said, his voice soft yet resolved. "Eunora never stays worried for long; she'll take care of it."

As Misha left to follow Eunora, the shadows in the room crept closer, wrapping around me like old blankets, holding me down with their weight. Alone, I sank back into the softness of the bed, letting my thoughts swirl around like leaves caught in a tempest. No matter how hard I tried, I couldn't snatch a single memory from the gaping void where my past should have been. Faces, places, even emotions slipped through my fingers like grains of sand.

But amidst the confusion, a tugging feeling persisted - a quiet whisper in the back of my mind. I needed to search for something or someone. A flicker of recognition danced just beyond the edge of consciousness. Had I lost a person, too? My heart pounded, echoing the frantic rhythm of a chase; I could almost feel the presence of this elusive identity.

Who were they?

Why couldn't I remember them?

The muffled sounds of the forest seeped through cracks in the wall, lulling me toward a restless sleep. Despite my attempts to ward off unconsciousness, the encompassing fog of forgetfulness bore down heavier than any burden I'd ever felt. In the end, I closed my eyes, surrendering to the dream-touched whispers lurking behind the veil of my mind, one hand reaching for a destiny yet to reveal itself.