This was always the hardest part for him. Beginning the articles. It hurt to write, and it hurt not to write.
The frustration felt familiar. Roman must have spent hours of his past staring at a blank page, deciding what words to strike across it. But despite the days that had passed since he woke, he still couldn’t remember those old moments in detail. He flexed his hand when he thought about what Dacre had told him.
Only trust what you can see.
The god didn’t have to worry about Roman’s memories. It was hard for Roman to remember what had happened before he had stirred below, like mountains had grown through the mist of his mind, blocking off years of his life.
“It’ll take time,” Dacre had said, “but you’ll remember what’s important. And you’ll find your place here.”
* * *
When he had first woken below, Roman had gasped as if he were taking his first breath. He had opened his eyes to the flicking firelight, had seen the white marble walls around him, had felt the hard slab of rock beneath him, and he had known he was somewhere else. A magical place he had never encountered.
He was also naked.
With a groan, he sat forward, taking in the strange room.
It was an oddly sized chamber, hewn entirely from rock. It had nine walls, all of them white and veined with blue, gleaming like the facets of a diamond. The ceiling glittered with tiny flecks of gold, and it was reminiscent of the night sky if Roman squinted his eyes. Four torches burned from iron brackets, and the fire was the only source of light.
With a shudder, Roman slid from the hard table he had been resting on. The rock beneath his bare feet was smooth, and he began to walk before the walls, seeking a door. He could find none, and he swallowed his panic, walking a second time around, his fingers rushing over the planes of the stone.
“Hello?” he called, his voice still thick from sleep. “Is anyone here?”
There was no response. Only the sound of his own breath, rising and falling.
He couldn’t remember being brought into this chamber. He didn’t know how long he had been confined in this place, and he shivered, eventually coming to a halt.
He glanced down at his body, pale in the firelight, as if he might find answers on his skin.
To his shock, he found something.
Roman frowned as he leaned over, studying the array of scars on his right leg. There were many of them, some long and jagged, others small and smooth, and Roman traced them as if they were routes on a map. Eventually, he pressed hard against their soft marks, hoping pain would help him remember.
There was no pain, but he saw something flash at the corner of his eye. His head snapped up, but he realized what he’d seen wasn’t something in the room but a snippet in his mind. Sunlight and smoke, the boom of artillery. The ground was shaking; the wind smelled like hot metal and blood. A lance of pain so sharp it had stolen his breath and made him crumple on the ground.
But he hadn’t been alone. Someone had been with him, holding his hand.
Roman’s fingertips fell away from his scars. He brought his palms close to his face and noticed there was an indention on his left pinkie. He must have been wearing a ring at some point, and he touched the slight mark it had left behind.
There was nothing to remember. No other flash of brilliancy or piece of his past to claim.
He flexed his hand until his knuckles bloomed white.
Am I dead?
As if in reply, pain suddenly surged. Roman’s head began to ache so violently that he lowered himself to the stone floor. He cried out, curling his knees to his chest. There was a blade in his mind, sawing back and forth. A blade flaying him open from within.
The pain was so sharp he lost consciousness.
Sometime later, he woke again with bleary eyes.
A delivery had been made. On the floor sat a tray of food: a bowl of steaming stew, a hunk of dark bread, a pitcher of water and a small wooden cup. And beside it, a pile of garments and a pair of leather boots.
Roman crawled to the offering. He was so hungry, so empty, that he didn’t think twice about eating the food or drinking the water. But when he reached for the garment, letting it unfold in his hands, he paused.
It was a jumpsuit. Again, that sense of familiarity washed over him. The garment was a dark red color, and he studied the white badge stitched over the left breast pocket: UNDERLING CORRESPONDENT.
Roman eased into the jumpsuit, ignoring the surge of uneasiness in his blood.
The moment he finished hooking the final button, the cold fled from his body. He felt warmth radiate from his ribs like he had swallowed sunlight, and he quickly donned the pair of socks and boots waiting for him.
A few heartbeats later, a sound broke the ringing silence.
Roman turned as a fissure opened in the wall. The door he had been seeking earlier and failed to find.
A young man in a tan-colored uniform stepped into the chamber. He looked to be around Roman’s age, perhaps a few years older, and was fair-skinned with short blond hair. His brows were heavy, and his mouth was pressed into a thin line, as if he didn’t smile often.
“Who are you?” Roman rasped.
“I’m Lieutenant Gregory Shane. And your name is?”
Roman froze. His name? He couldn’t remember, and his mind reeled.
His panic must have bled through his expression, because the lieutenant said, “Don’t worry. It’ll come back to you. Don’t force it.”
“How long have I been here?”
“A couple of days. You were healing.”
“From what?”
“He’ll want to tell you. Now follow me.” Shane began to walk away, and Roman had no choice but to follow before the door found its seamless lintel again.
The corridors were wide enough for two people to pass, shoulder to shoulder, and tall enough to give someone of Roman’s height ease of passage. The walls were just like the ones in his previous chamber: smooth, cold, and white with glimmering blue veins. Torches lit the way every ten steps, and it was unnaturally quiet until they passed a branching tunnel, and Roman heard distant pounding.
He slowed, squinting into the shadows of the right corridor. It sounded like a forge. A hammer hitting an anvil, laced with shouts and clinks of machinery. There was a sudden waft of warm, metallic air.
“Keep moving,” the lieutenant said sharply.
Roman resumed his pace. But he was keen to know where he was, and why he had been brought below. He noticed they passed two other corridors, one of which smelled foul like it held something rotten and dying. The other was choked with debris and cobwebs, as if the ceiling had collapsed decades ago.
Shane must have taken note of how observant Roman was being, how his strides slowed every time they passed branching pathways. The lieutenant stopped and yanked a blindfold from his pocket, fastening it around Roman’s eyes.
“Just a precaution,” he said, taking hold of Roman’s elbow. “Follow my lead.”