Dacre nodded to someone behind Roman. Shane moved forward, approaching the table. Roman had forgotten about the lieutenant’s presence.
“Take the appropriate typewriter up to our correspondent’s room,” Dacre said. “Have the other destroyed.”
“Yes, my lord,” Shane said with a bow of his head.
Roman startled. A protest began to climb up his throat—he didn’t want to see the other one destroyed—but he couldn’t find his courage, or the correct words, to convince Dacre otherwise. His mind still felt like a sheet of ice, capable of fragmenting into a hundred directions, and the god must have known.
“Come with me, correspondent,” Dacre said. “There’s something I’d like to show you.”
* * *
Roman followed Dacre out the back doors and through a weedy garden. The soil was damp, and rain puddles shone between the rows of sprouting vegetables. But it was blue sky and sunshine overhead, and the clouds were smeared thin as wind blew from the west.
They passed through an iron gate and crossed a road with broken cobblestones, venturing into a field.
Dacre cut through the long grass with ease, his shadow rippling over the golden stalks. With every step he took, there was the very faint sound of a chime. Or pieces of metal, clinking together.
Roman followed closely, but his heart quickened. There was something about this place. It made him shiver in the broad daylight. Sweat gleamed on his skin.
“Here,” Dacre said. “This is where I found you.”
Roman came to a reluctant stop. He gazed at the ground, noticing some of the grass was bent and stained. It looked like old blood, dried like dark wine.
“You had only moments left before you died. Your lungs were brimming with blood. You were crawling through the grass, as if you were searching for someone.” Dacre paused. The breeze tousled his flaxen hair when he met Roman’s gaze. “Do you remember?”
“No.” Roman’s head was starting to throb again, and he frowned at the smattering of blood and the crimped grass. He tried to envision himself almost dying in such a place and felt nothing but gratitude that a god would want to save him.
“Mortal bodies are such fragile things to mend, as are your minds,” Dacre said with a hint of amusement. “Like spider silk, like ice in spring. In order for my magic to heal your physical wounds, I had to build walls in your mind to protect you when you woke again. Given that, it’s best if your memories return gradually.”
Roman was quiet for a beat. He was still staring at the bloodstained ground when he said, “Why did you save me?”
“You’re going to be a vital part of this war,” Dacre said. “And I’d like for you to write my side of the story.”
* * *
That evening, Roman stood in the room that had been assigned to him. A room on the upper floor of the house he almost remembered.
The curtains were a forest green. There was a makeshift pallet with folded blankets along one wall. The windows were webbed with cracks, the glass flaming iridescent as the sun set. The door struggled to latch, as if the building’s foundation had shifted, and despite the privacy Roman now had with a personal room, he knew it was an illusion. There was no lock, and Shane was standing guard in the hallway.
But Roman’s sole attention was on the desk aligned with one of the windows. On the typewriter that sat in the waning light, waiting for him.
Exhaustion made his bones feel heavy, but duty was a well-worn shape in his existence, and he approached the desk. He sat in the chair and stared at the typewriter. He didn’t know what he would write yet; he didn’t even know if there were words to be found within him.
There was a stack of fresh paper on the desk. A notepad and pencils. A host of candles as well as a lamp with a yellow-hued lightbulb, so he could write through the night. Dacre had thought of everything, it seemed, and Roman carefully fed a sheet into the typewriter. He sighed, raking his hand through his dark hair. He needed a shower. He wanted to sleep, to not have to think about anything for a little while. But when he at last set his fingers onto the keys, he was met by a surprise.
This wasn’t the typewriter he had told Dacre was his. This wasn’t the one he had grown up typing on, the one that had shown him a fleeting glimpse of his past self.
Roman closed his eyes, breath hitching.
He felt the tug again, the medley of emotions. He tried to imagine who had once touched these keys, time and time again. He tried to envision who had once written on this typewriter.
Who are you?