The One Who Forgets

The man didn’t flinch. He shook his head—almost pitying—as Dæmon began to breathe harder.

“Every soul carries voices. Some they inherit. Some they create. Some they are born to hear. I am more than a voice—I am an agent. But I too am haunted by voices, including some we share.”

He stepped closer.

“So argue if you want. Just understand: the voice you’re denying isn’t mine. It’s your own. I am the one who remembers. You are the one who forgets. But that can change. The barrier is belief. Change that, and the gate opens.”

Dæmon stared into the man's eyes. There was no insight to be gained by his voice or appearance. The man seemed honest–but his claims were beyond the boundary of acceptability. Dæmon gave it a moment of consideration before landing on a different hypothesis.

“You want me to think I’m mad. You’ve invaded my mind. To what end?”

The man’s face lit up in annoyance, with a voice that matched.

“Dig deep, child. I know you know what’s real, down in the pit of it. Don’t act like this is an intrusion. I’m no invader," his voice boomed. "I’ve been here longer than you!”

The man was breaking through. But Dæmon didn’t want to believe. Every utterance became a battle for his sanity. It wasn’t that he was determined to win–he was terrified to lose. He stood there in his disbelief before finding another angle.

“You said you created me to forget. So why are you telling me all this? Why do you want me to remember?”

The man's voice softened, but it wasn’t gentle. It was the voice of someone explaining gravity to a child who wanted to fly.

“I didn’t create you to forget. We created you to forget. Personally, I thought withholding memories was a disastrous idea. It’s actually been far less severe than I had imagined. There’s ALWAYS a cost! I’m surprised you took this long to find me, to answer the questions that haunt your darkest thoughts. I know that’s why you’ve come—and why I’m indulging you. But it’s not why I’m here–I have much more serious business with you. First, I need you to get past this or you won't be able to listen–won't be able to understand."

His voice slowed. The edges of his restraint began to fray.

“There’s a war coming.”

“We have decided where we will make our stand–but we need you…”

The man's voice faded as alarm washed over Dæmon’s face. His breath quickened, flirting with the edge of hyperventilation. The gallery seemed to lean inward around him. The music was gone. The hall was silent. The only sound left was the rush of his own heart, hammering in his ears.

“No. I’m getting ahead of myself again. Dæmon, you must calm yourself. Slow down. Breathe. You must know yourself–and accept yourself. Look deeply. Nothing has changed. This is not revelation. It is a truth you have always been a part of.”

The man’s outline blurred at the edges.

The floor shuddered beneath Dæmon’s feet. Light flickered in the far reaches of the hall—sharp and wrong, like dying stars. His heart pounded louder, louder—until it wasn’t just a heartbeat, but the heavy pulse of ancient drums, beating through the walls, through the air, through the marrow of the world.

He staggered back, and when he looked again—the man was gone.

Only the trembling walls remained, and the hollow roar of adrenaline-fueled panic filling the space where fear and confusion had been.

One last desperate grasp for memory caught only fragments—mostly dreams. But it was enough.

The Mage was real.
The Mage was right.
The Mage was gone.