“BASTARD!” Pesmerga screamed, viciously backhanding a nearby wall that had once belonged to an item shop. The force of the impact, combined with the weakened structure of the gutted building, caused the entire wall to collapse, the building, no longer able to sustain its own weight, caved in upon itself.

Pesmerga picked up a large fragment of debris and launched it into the wall of a nearby building, once a home, his maddened fury driving him insane with rage. He could not believe Yuber had escaped him again. How could he atone for the punishment of his past, if Yuber hid from his destiny? Only one thing ever seemed to propel Pesmerga, the desire; the burning hate for Yuber. The beast would suffer and die under his own ambition, and Pesmerga would be the one to deliver Yuber’s retched soul from this planet. For Yuber held the key to Pesmerga’s redemption, and the gods themselves, knew better than to intervene.

“My, such anger.” A solemn voice chimed from the shadows of the burned out ghost town, witnessing an outburst of unrelenting anguish that would cause any man’s blood to turn to ice. This intruder upon Pesmerga’s sacred tirade drew his attention to the lone figure stepping into the light. Pesmerga knew this was to be Yuber, but if he be the beast of madness’ servant, Pesmerga would send him to Hell. The man, or rather being, who entered the light to face the black knight was a small, gnomish creature, his face adorned with a full beard that nearly covered any visible features. His eyes sparkled a dark blue, so ominous in appearance; they appeared almost pitch in hue. Yet, his eyes seemed to mirror the swirling chaos of a storm as he studied the dark warrior before him. His clothing was not of any material Pesmerga had ever seen, as the cloth itself appeared to be alive, shimmering, and shaping itself over the little gnomes body.

“Yuber would not be here.” The little being spoke, walking, or rather, floating to Pesmerga as he said this. “Your anger is misdirected my friend. You should control yourself.”

“Who the Hell are you?” Pesmerga inquired, almost shocked at the arrogance of this little man. “If you be foe, I shall inform you that I have sent countless men to the abyss, one more will matter not to me.”

“Perhaps less souls than you think. My name is not important, but as you have been raised by the humans and seem to cherish their custom of applying titles to everything, you may label me, Stasis.” The little man responded, levitating until he was eye level with the black knight. “You need not even voice your next question, I already know what you wish to ask. What is my business with you?”

Pesmerga held his tongue. He did not care what demon sent this little creature to torment him, his mission lay with finding Yuber. Though, the curiosity that sparked his interest in this little mage, won its battle over his undeniable desire to crush this creatures skull.

“My, my, such anger, such rage.” The little floating specter taunted, circling the dark warrior. “There are a great many things in this world you do not yet understand. I have been instructed, by a…higher power…to assist you in opening your eyes to the truth. Without my guidance, you will not hope to survive.”

“You speak in riddles little man, tell me something tangible.” Pesmerga spat, his eyes burning in the discontent of this little gnome’s presence. “Tell me where to find Yuber.”

“Yuber is but the craftsman, you are the tool.” Stasis said, grinning toothily until Pesmerga reached forth and viciously grabbed the gnome by the throat. However, Stasis held his same eerie grin, and vanished from Pesmerga’s grasp only to reemerge behind the shadowy warrior. “You cannot hope to understand unless your mind is free.”

“Damn you, taunting demon!” Pesmerga screamed, spinning to face Stasis, his gold cape flailing in a melodramatic flourish. “If you have something for which to speak to me of, say it now, otherwise, back to HELL with your foul self.”

Stasis floated in mid air, his eyes aglow in the knowledge of what was to come. To his right, a sphere of shimmering essence manifested itself in the very absence of reality. The air itself shimmered and shifted, as if the physical laws of the world itself seemed to suspend itself for a being of greater power. Stepping forth from the translucent portal emerged a figure adorned in a blue cloak that seemed to quiver and form around this being. The entity standing before Pesmerga held no discernable characteristics, save the aura of power held within him. His blue robe seemed to float about him, as if the fabric of reality itself had been woven into some manner of cloth. This seemed to be all he allowed of visibility, his robe sheltering all physical attributes from the notice of this man.

“Pesmerga,” The little gnome said most cheerfully, “I would like to introduce you to your father, Zohar.”

Pesmerga, however, was not so easily persuaded to listen to the ramblings of this mad gnome and his blue-robed master. “Be gone you foolish dwarf. I haven’t the time to waste on such useless prattle.”

“No, wait son.” A new voice spoke, a voice Pesmerga remembered all too well, as he turned to look into the face of his dead father, the ghost that stood within this haunted town. “I implore you, you must listen to what they have to say, for it may very well save your soul.”

“My soul?” Pesmerga spat at the ghost. He had grown tired of this mystery. His father had told him of his heritage, his life as a Sindar, yet never elaborated on his meaning. Now, he was simply disgusted with the idea that he was faced with yet another enigma for which he did not care to understand. All that mattered was Yuber’s death. “You offer me my soul, at what cost?”

“Your sanity.” The robed man answered finally, his voice echoing as three. “What we must tell you may very well destroy everything you have ever known. But the time has come when discretion no longer befits valor. The ends must now meet the means.”

Pesmerga stood firm, planted in place as a stonewall opposing the coming onslaught of war. He would not waver in any revelation these men had to tell him, he simply wished to end this uselessness so he could return to his search for the man-demon he was destined to kill.

“Son,” His spectral father told him, the ghost of his past, “Perhaps you should sit down.”

Pesmerga stood.

“Very well,” The blue robed phantom named Zohar stated, “I know no other way to inform you than to be direct, therefore I will simply tell you. Everything you have ever known in the past, all of your memories of what you believe to be true, have been nothing but an elaborate fabrication. Your life is a lie.”

Pesmerga listened to the mad ramblings of this blue-robed being, and, had he remembered how, he would have laughed.

“Son, please, you must believe us.” The ghostly father pleaded.

“Oh?!” Pesmerga screamed, turning his attention to the ghost of his father. “I must question what kind of fool you take me for? I come here to seek Yuber, only to be assaulted by the mad, mindless ramblings of this gnome, his blue-robed master, and you. Tell me, father, why should I believe you? For my entire life, I held one mission above all others, the destruction of Yuber. And yet, now you tell me my mission is for naught? How should I react? I think you’re all mad, but please, I shall indulge your fabrication of my life, so by all means, continue your lies!”

“It is understandable,” The blue-robed Zohar spoke, “He has a right to doubt us, for what man with any degree of sanity would believe such a tale? But tell me, Pesmerga, do you recall your mother? Her face, her scent?” Zohar questioned, the shadow of darkness that sheltered his face seemed to glow a dark, gentle auburn, shimmering beneath the folds of his hood. “What of your childhood friends? Do you recall their names, their faces?”

“Of course, I would never forget my mother. Though if what you say is true, you should know, I never had what you would call friends. My one true friend betrayed my trust, and for his crimes, he will die!” Pesmerga answered, mockery tainting his voice, yet he seemed more cautious of this Zohar’s intent.

“Truly?” Zohar responded, as if his point had already been achieved. “Tell me, do you really believe you could remember your mother after all these years? Even the greatest of human minds would forget the most important truths of their lives after so many years. The mind cannot simply retain such information. Let me ask this of you then. What is the purpose of your life? What drives you to exist?”

“Simple,” Pesmerga began. “The death of Yuber.”

“Really? Why?” Zohar pressed.

“Because, he murdered the High Priest of Harmonia, and I have been cursed with this damnable rune. My condition for salvation lies in that I must die in something worth dying for to be free of this retched existence. For once he dies, I will have my final release.” Pesmerga responded.

“I see, and do you truly believe this?” Zohar inquired, again he seemed to ripple within his shadowy robe. “Do you truly believe, within the depths of your being, that you are destined to die, facing Yuber? Do you not feel that there is a more substantial purpose to life, your destiny? Tell me, Pesmerga, what is the meaning of your life? What do you believe in?”

“I…” Pesmerga spoke, yet his words were locked in his throat, and his mind threatened to shut down with the revelation expressed to him. This was madness. He had to ponder, who was more insane, this, Zohar, for telling his mad tales, or himself, for listening to such foolery. Yet he sought understanding, him mind starved of the concrete realism of the world. And he raised his eyes again to look at Zohar, his mind begging for understanding.

“As we said, your mind would be opened.” Zohar continued, seemingly unaffected by the confusion that welled within Pesmerga’s tortured mind. “There are certain elements within the world, that seek to destroy peace for what it is. Yuber, was but one such creature. Because we knew the course the world was headed, we felt it was within the need, to manipulate your mind into believing one catastrophic event. We submitted to you the memory of one significant event in the past, what we believed to be the point of the slide into chaos the world is currently facing. Everything you remember about your life is the product of that single event, the witnessing of the murder of the High Priest. However, your mind, as a result of your human heritage, manipulated the memory of that event, causing it to become the idea, the juggernaut that controlled your life. Thus, what you know is but a fabrication of your own mind. Your memories are your own, because you made them, though they do not exist as it is intended to have occurred. Your memories, however, have always carried the simple design of your destiny, though twisted by your past. The need to die for a noble cause was the result of your underlying understanding of your place upon this world. Deep within the recesses of your mind, you knew and understood that you would be needed to divert this tragedy. Our intent was to but train you to prepare to counteract the growing darkness that is swelling upon this world. Your gift is essential to fight back the darkness.”

Pesmerga stood listening to the statements and proclamations of Zohar, his mind slowly grasping the realization that lay before him, as he tried desperately to remember his past, any event of his life. Yet, despite his best efforts, the memories he cherished so greatly, those of his sister, his family, all seemed to fade from his mind under the realization of the truth. And the more he sought his memories, the farther from his grasp the past became, and for the first time in his life, Pesmerga was terrified by that realization, for nothing he knew was as it was. And if his past did not exist, then what realization did he cherish? What did his future offer? For one’s future is born from his past.

“In truth,” Zohar continued, “you are not even as old as you believe you are. You are subjected to the extended lifespan, inherent to your Sindarian ancestry, and not the product of a cursed rune, as you so thought, nor are you destined to die fighting Yuber. Your life holds more meaning than you can understand.”

Pesmerga, stunned by the realization of this explanation, dropped to his knees, staring at the white, ash-laden earth before him. His armored fingers sifted through the lose soil, as if he dug for answers that seemed to elude him. Clutching his fists tightly, Pesmerga brought his hands to his face, watching the soil and ash fall between his fingers. Finally, he understood.

“You lie!” Pesmerga said, his mind denying, even with the evidence lay before him, the words and information given to him. Yet as he attempted to rise again, he fell to the hard earth, his mind denying his life. “You lie, it can’t be true. I have dreams and memories of my past. How could you steal that away from me!?”

“It was necessary you learned the truth son.” The spectral spirit responded. “We have seen the events to follow, and know that you will be needed. The same disaster that befell this town, will haunt so many others if you do not help those who need it.”

“He is right,” Zohar continued. “It is the truth of your own understanding that must be maintained. You are needed Pesmerga, now more than ever to accomplish what we have hoped you would.”

“And what is that, DEMON?!?!” Pesmerga screamed, spitefully rising to his feet despite the protests from his own tortured mind. “You knew everything, and yet, you let me believe this for so long? How dare you come to make demands upon me?”

“Please, calm yourself.” Stasis spoke, trying to speak as a man of experience in the matter. Yet Pesmerga knew, none of them, no one would understand. His life, his past was but a dim memory that never happened. All the pain and suffering he endured through his supposedly cursed rune, through his existence itself was a lie, yet the pain and agony still existed, regardless. How could they understand what they had done to him? It would have been better to let him live in his lie; at least there he had some purpose, some meaning, some remote understanding as to how the world worked. Now, he had nothing but his shattered life and his broken past to comfort him, and the memories of a life that never existed.

“Why did you do this to me?” Pesmerga asked, dropping once again to his knees, burying his face in his hands. “Damn you! Damn you all!” He wept, his mind denying everything he had ever known, his life no longer held the meaning he understood it to have. If his mission in life was not to find and kill Yuber, then did he truly have a purpose, or was he but a mistake upon this world? And with this realization, all of his dreams, all of his hopes for redemption, were but ashes of his past, escaping through his fingers.

“You must understand Pesmerga,” Zohar again continued. “You are a vital implement to assist in safeguarding the balance of the world. There are forces at work, which seek to tilt the balance of order to chaos. Though, we admit, we have perhaps, overstepped our bounds in our means of safeguarding that order, identity itself is but a small price to pay for peace. The purpose of our training is to guide you into understanding, that one such event can tilt the balance, as fragile as it is, from peace to chaos. The peace of this world must be maintained…”

“What could I have possibly leaned from this?!”

“That there are monsters in the world. That no matter how overwhelming the odds are, you have the persistence to continue. You must never surrender yourself to that. You have seen, through our design, how seductive power may be. Pray you never fall into the calls of that seduction, as so many others have. As the one’s whom would seek you out have.”

“You go to Hell!” Pesmerga said, cradling his face in his armored gauntlets. “You made me something I’m not.

You’ve made my past a lie. YOU’VE RUINED ME!!!!”

“It was necessary. Had certain parties learned of your heritage, known of your existence, you would have been hunted and killed years ago.”

“Better to die than to know everything I know about myself was a lie!” Pesmerga screamed, the frustration and anguish wracking his voice and body as he sought for understanding for his lost life.

“Nothing existed, has it?”

“In truth, it has, but you are not ready to listen, nor understand.” Zohar spoke again, his voice echoing in the hypnotic tone so easily rendered by this man. But just as everything else had been a lie, a false hope in the grasp of reality, so were Zohar’s words. “As a Sindar, you have great power over the runes, the manipulation of such power. An example of this is your counter rune. You believed it to be cursed, and in doing so, you established a power within the rune that was never meant to exist. You can, in time, manipulate any rune you so chose, within reason. Your human identity blesses you with an understanding hope concerning the workings of destiny and its flow upon the course of history. However, you neither suffer the frailties of the humans, nor the sheltering, desensitization inherent in the Sindarian mentality. You are the perfect hybrid between the two races, all of the power, none the weakness. But, our own misguidance and misplaced attempts to teach you have been our own error. It was our attempt to save you from your heritage that would be used to save us all. But we see now the arrogance of our design, and understand what we have done has not been for your benefit, but ours. We cannot ask you to forgive us for what we have done, we can only ask that you believe in yourself. The past is not important, what matters is what your future holds. For that, we will help you achieve your destiny.”

“Hope?” Pesmerga spat. “You have taken everything I’ve ever known and have destroyed it. How can I have any destiny, when one’s future is driven by their past? I have no past because of you, and now you wish to direct my future? You preach to me as if you know what is best. That this, impending evil phenomenon you speak of will destroy the order of the balance. Well, if all the Sindar operate as you do, then I say the Sindar can BURN IN THEIR ETERNAL HELL!” Pesmerga yelled, rising to his feet and facing Zohar. “You have taken my past. I will be damned if you take my future.”

And with his proclamation, Pesmerga marched past Zohar, pushing his way from the makeshift semicircle of advisors. With steps of effort and great purpose, he walked to the gates of the burned, haunted village.

“Son, wait!” The specter screamed, hoping the child he raised would at least listen to him. Though, this ghost, this supposed father Pesmerga had known his entire life, the man whom raised him to be human, was not his father, but a man whom simply looked after him, raised him to believe in his past. And this ghost, whom he thought his father, was but another lie.

“You need not fear this pending doom.” Pesmerga said darkly, turning slightly toward the three attended wraiths. “For if you ever cross my path again, I will kill you all.” And with that, Pesmerga continued his march.

“Yes, I understand.” Zohar said, a great grievance weighing his voice. “But, as we promised you, the knowledge you understand now will lead to the salvation of your soul, and of the world. That is a promise we will keep to you.” And with that, Zohar raised his hand, the world thrust into icy white nothingness, as if the world itself ceased to exist, or was perhaps, reborn.