Hahahaaa

[igiko]

400 years ago, the Origin defeated the Singularity in a bloody battle to safeguard creation. Neither of them survived the encounter. However, the Origin's soul was pulled into the souls of his derivatives—those who'd shared his identity yet taken diverging paths from his in their original lives. The Origin's soul splintered into fragments, and those fragments nestled into the souls of the derivatives, awakening them to their lost memories. In exchange for the boon of the Origin's immortality, they surrendered the gift of reincarnation.

But such boon was short-lived. While their newfound longevity cultivated their powers over decades and scores, the derivatives' strengths paled to that of their origin's. One after another, they gave themselves to the same cause as their originator, passing fragments of his soul onto their surviving counterparts while what remained of themselves dissipated into nothingness. At the turn of the third century, only two derivatives remained.

The penultimate derivative, who'd chosen freedom in his original life, carried a heavy burden on his shoulders. He mourned the losses of his counterparts and questioned the worth of his own future. Though capable, he was strong in neither body nor mind. "My only strength is in my legs," he once said, "for I've not met a derivative of mine who could outpace me. There's naught I can do but to run as I ever have."

To this day, the Roland Glenbrook who'd chased after freedom with the last vestige of his strength remains the swiftest of his innumerable faces. He left his indelible mark when he raced into the heart of danger, where he sacrificed his legs in defense of a precious comrade, and yielded the fragments of the Origin's soul to his final counterpart.

Then the Origin's fragments, whole as they could be at the heart of one soul, regained a semblance of sentience. The Origin's consciousness awakened and he cast a spell, quelling the land's rage with a single incantation. Using his own fragments as fuel, the Origin obliterated himself to claim glorious victory. All became quiet in the aftermath, and the survivors wept in mourning and elation before long.

Those same survivors tell the tale of his heroic sacrifice. But none could explain the meaning of the Origin's final spell, which they claimed had been uttered like a gentle call: "Rutile."

If I'd known before, I no longer remember. The rebound of the Origin's awesome power and destruction combined damaged the inferior soul housing his at the time. In splintering, the memories that make up my soul have seeped through the cracks over the years. The Origin's memories, too, left me at the moment of his permanent demise. As far as I can recall, I was never a practitioner of the arcane arts, and so the incantation remains far beyond my ability to grasp.

What, if not who, is Rutile? Just what choice were we given that my derivative felt he could only pursue empty freedom in life? For what reason did the Origin and the Singularity do battle?

The simplest question to answer was the Singularity. For all the derivatives who exist in the infinite realms of creation, there is only one Origin to birth their paths. And for a thousand Origins, there might have been one Singularity. Singularities were anomalous entities of unmatched power; however, due to their self-contained existence that defied the laws of creation, they were an anathema to life itself. Cursed to descend into madness, they corrupted nature with their very presence. In order to protect their loved ones, the Origins and their derivatives banded together to fell the Singularities.

It is said that the Origin of Roland Glenbrook empathized with his Singularity, who bore a dour and unstable disposition. He sought to release the Singularity from the fetters of the terrible curse that had befallen the latter, and bravely gave his life to ensure that the Singularity wouldn't pass alone. Those who remember him speak of his kindness foremost and his bravery in battle second. But there is one who mentioned a faraway look in his eyes from time to time, as if he'd been searching for something—or someone—in all of his renewed existence as the Origin until his physical death.

Would that I could pursue it in his stead. My memory is no longer what it used to be. I can hardly remember myself on some days. The choice of which my derivative spoke . . . surely it must've broken my heart as well in the past. Only, I had chosen differently.

Even in my sparse recollections, I neither see nor feel a hint of freedom. All that await me when I close my eyes are death and despair, and revulsion coursing through my veins. Yet, no matter how much I try, I find myself unable to remember why. All I know is that I'll not be long for this world: Once my memories have run dry, my soul will collapse in on itself.

When that happens, the existence of Roland Glenbrook will truly cease to be.

But today won't be that day. I can still recognize my face when I peer into my reflection. Though I've forgotten the names of my friends and family, my soul is capable of retaining new memories. There is time yet, and I shan't rest until I've grasped creation's final memory of Roland Glenbrook's Origin. Let this be the first and penultimate entry, succeeded by the answer that will honor his ultimate sacrifice—for if he'd stayed within the confines of my inferior soul on that fateful day, he could've persisted to encounter what he'd been searching for over millennia . . .