Mortal Grief
A man slumps between piles of books and scrolls. The cloistered archive is quiet, enough for him to hear his own whimpering.
The silhouette stands in front of him. He notices the black leather boots, but instead of questioning how they sneaked up on him, he closes his eyes and continues drowning in grief.
“You are looking down. What is the matter?” A voice asks.
He wants to speak, but sounds struggle to escape his clamping throat. “She is gone. I am too weak.” He whispers.
The silhouette shuffles, he feels their sight focus on him quizzically. “Why don’t you bring her back? As simple as turning back time.”
“I have tried. She did not answer. I don’t know why.”
The man raises his head at the stranger. Moonlight and starlight fail to pierce through the caliginous nebula and illuminate their face.
“These scripts. Are they yours?” They point at the scattered scrolls and patterns.
The man glances around him. “I am a Lord. This is my treasury.”
“You are inefficient. You borrow, yet do not create.”
He sees failure manifest from all around him. “Will she come back if I know how to create?”
“Perhaps you are too weak. You let her escape. You should become strong.” The voice suggests cruelly.
“Yes. I am too weak. I should become strong.”
He sees a smile. “Come with me then, on a pilgrimage. To my temple beyond the stars. For I am ?x?? [Author] ??.?, and together we shall create the greatest of stories.”
WARNING: [Author] cannot be properly parsed.
Add temporary translation to mapping? YES/NO