Roman bit down on his lip, but worry hung in his chest, turning his breath shallow. It felt like they took two more turns. His palms were clammy by the time Shane told him to reach out and touch the wall.
“We’re at the foot of a stairwell,” he said. “There are twenty-five steps in all, and they are steep. Mind yourself.”
Roman slowly followed. His legs were burning by the time he sensed the shift of temperature. He heard a door click open.
He was greeted by a flood of sunlight seeping through his blindfold. A wash of fresh air, tinged in spring warmth. It must have just rained, because Roman could taste the petrichor as he fully stepped into the upper world. The floor was wooden beneath his boots, creaking like an old house. He nearly tripped on the edge of a rug, his arms flinging out to catch his balance.
“Wait here,” Shane said, closing the door. “Don’t move.”
Roman only nodded, his mouth parched. He listened as Shane’s heavy footsteps withdrew, but he sensed the room he stood in was full of furniture. There were no lonely echoes, only the steady tick of a clock somewhere to Roman’s left.
He could hear someone speaking, the sound muffled through the walls. It was Shane’s droning cadence, and Roman dared to take a few steps forward, trying to catch the words.
“He’s awake, my lord. I’ve brought him here with me. He’s waiting in the other room if you’d like to see him.”
Silence. The voice that spoke next was one Roman had never heard before, but it was a deep baritone. Languid and rich, it sent a shiver up his spine.
“I thought I told you not to bring him here, Lieutenant.”
“It’s his memory, sir. He can’t even recall his name. I thought it would help…”
“If he saw this place?”
“Yes, my lord. I know we are short on time, and we could use his—”
“Very well. Bring him to me.”
Roman eased a step back, heart thundering in his ears. He was tempted to tear the blindfold from his face and run, somewhere far from here, but his hesitation cost him. He heard Shane return to the room, and winced when the lieutenant removed the fabric bound across his eyes.
Roman took in his surroundings. He had been waiting in a small but inviting room; an oil painting hung over a stone hearth, and cherrywood furniture with green velvet cushions held down a plush rug. Floral curtains framed tall windows, which were cracked open to welcome fresh air. A parlor of sorts, he realized, glancing at the door they had first stepped through.
It was a very unassuming door. Carved from wood, with white chipped paint and a brass doorknob with a rusted keyhole. A wardrobe for coats, Roman imagined. Only they had emerged from the underground instead.
“The Lord Commander Dacre will see you now,” said Shane. “Come with me.”
“Dacre?” Roman whispered. The name rose like fire in his throat, scalding his tongue. He saw himself dressed in leather braces and perfectly pressed trousers and a button-down shirt, standing on a street corner as he read a newspaper with that name printed in the headline.
“Come,” Shane repeated.
Roman stepped into a foyer and immediately saw that there were two armed soldiers stationed at the front door. Their gazes were cold and pointed, their faces like statues. Roman averted his eyes and moved down the hallway, Shane on his heels.
The floor felt unlevel in places. There were also large cracks in the walls, racing down the wallpaper like veins, as if this house had suffered a terrible storm. But it wasn’t until Roman stepped into the wide kitchen and saw the table, the rafters overhead strung with herbs and copper pots, and the twin doors with cracked glass, that he felt pain well in his chest.
He had been here before. He was certain of it.
And yet all he could do was stare at the two typewriters, resting side by side on the table. They were nearly identical, their keys gleaming in the sunlight.
“I take it one of these typewriters looks familiar to you?”
Roman glanced to his left. A tall, broad-shouldered man was standing at the end of the table, his long blond hair brushing the collar of his pristine tan uniform. Strange how Roman hadn’t noticed him until he spoke and, now that he had, how Roman couldn’t seem to look away.
The stranger appeared to be older, although it was difficult to measure his age. There indeed seemed to be something timeless about him—his presence held weight in the room, but there was no silver in his hair, or wrinkles at the corners of his eyes. His face was angular, sharply cut, and his eyes were a vivid blue.
Roman had never seen this man before, but he couldn’t deny there was a sense of familiarity about him. Just like the house and the typewriters, as if Roman had walked this place in his dreams. But perhaps that was only because this stranger was looking at Roman as if he knew him, and the acknowledgment was uncomfortable, like running his fingers over a woolen scarf before touching a light switch. Static and metal, and a jolt to his bones.
He had never thought he would stand face-to-face with a god. The divines were defeated. Sleeping, buried powers. They were never supposed to rise and walk among mortals again, and Roman inwardly winced as threads of his memory began to return to him. A sigh, a whisper.
A shiver.
Dacre smiled, as if he could read Roman’s thoughts.
The god extended his elegant hand, indicating the typewriters again.
Roman blinked, remembering the question. “Yes, sir. They feel familiar to me.”
“Which one is yours, then?”
Roman stepped closer to the table. He studied the typewriters, but sight alone was not enough for him to fully know. Both seemed to hold gravity for him, and it was perplexing.
“You can touch them,” Dacre said gently. “I find that helps with remembering after healing.”
Roman stretched out his hand, fingers trembling. A blush nipped his cheeks. He was ashamed that he appeared so weak and fragile before the god. He couldn’t even remember his own name, but then he touched the space bar of the typewriter waiting to his left, and the frantic beat of his pulse calmed.
This one, he thought. This one was mine.
A flash of light teased his peripheral vision. This time he knew it was only his mind, a memory falling back into place. He remembered sitting at a desk in his bedroom, writing on this typewriter. He would work by lamplight, late into the night, books and cups of cold coffee scattered around him. Sometimes his father would knock on his door and tell him to go to sleep, Roman! The words will still be there in the morning.
Roman let his fingertips slide away from the space bar, his name echoing through him. He glanced to the typewriter waiting on his right, curious. He traced its keys, waiting for another memory to stir.
There was no light, no images to grasp. At first, there seemed to be nothing at all but a cool, deep quiet. Ripples expanding outward on the surface of a dark lake. But then Roman felt the tug. It came from deep within him, an invisible cord hidden between his ribs, and he could not see but he felt.
The emotions stirred his blood.