Perseity
an excerpt

Prologue:

I am an historian, not a writer of fiction. I do not come up with the plots, simply record the journey. I am not omnicient, nor am I faultless. My records are most definitely biased. The gods saught a records keeper for centuries before my time, then my story happened and they needed a suitable punishment for one such as I.
Now it has been millenia since my trial and sentencing, I have been ordered to record my own history for the next bearer of my burden. Such an onus it is, for age is the greatest weight one can carry, or deadweight, perhaps. I have no memories but those of others' journeys. I have been permitted to age a thousand lifetimes, but never to experience a single one.
My memory of events has been removed. I know naught of it but what I have learned since it happened, which is little. I see it now, not as I would have remembered it, but as I do every other history I write. I have no part in it but that of an observer, and so it shall be written, though how desperately I wish it could be different.
Some vestige of emotion is left in me, but what use when I have no reason to feel? I am an empty shell, left hopeless, nearly unaware, but vaguely disturbed by the sense that I was more, and perhaps I could be again. I can not even feel anger at my captors for the sufferings I bear, for they are also my creators. Should I be angry? Are they to blame? Am I? I was created by them, therefore They should be the ones made to suffer, for my crime was not my own. I am the victim, not They, for surely They must have known better! They who are all wise, all knowing! Almighty! They who must be worshipped by all they See!
Perhaps I am angry, though I had forgotten it. Burried it in my desire simply to feel no more.
Do you think my lesson has been learned? Have I been suitably punished for an unknown crime? I can not hope for reward from the very hierarchy that sentenced me to this empiricism, but can I beg for mercy? To at least allow me to expire, cease being. Not even to fall into perseity, but to have nothing. Then I will no more feel the loss of knowledge previously gained. I will no longer recognize that there is more but I can never know it for myself.
Perhaps this is the last of it. The last of me. And when my quill has ceased it's ceaseless scratching so will I. One can only hope. And in the mean time I must complete the task set before me.
I was a woman, once. I do not know what I am now, but one who is lost to time. I see what I looked like, and wish I knew the face I wear now. Am I aged and worn, my face decayed and torn by the years, or am I fair of feature, dark of eye, as I once was? My hair a deep velvety brunette, eyes the dark misty grey of evening mountain vistas, pale of skin, a proud, slightly too big nose, a crooked smile and small stubborn chin! That is what I see in the history they allow me now.
Is my voice the washed sunshine alto I hear speaking in the dreams They permit me, or has it cracked, become stale with age and disuse?
I can feel my hair is long, my hands are callused, they shake when I am cold, or when I am not writing. There is a ring on my right middle finger, but I do not know what it looks like.
There is a myth in one of the Old Lands, that the Records Keeper of the God's is blind and deaf. It is so she can see what others have long since forgotten, and hear what mortals were never meant to hear. How quaint that they would give mortal motivations to beings so far above them, and those motivations are far more merciful and... dare I say, divine? than those Beings ever were capable of. How wonderful, that the Gods actions were misinterpreted in such a way.
I am whistful, and it accomplishes nothing. The story must be told, then I will move on... or not, as the case may be. It begins far too long ago for any but Themselves to comprehend, the Fates will not acknowledge it as the beginning, for They are the beginning, and they lead to the end. The debate is ongoing, or so the God of dreams has allowed me to glimpse... Hmm. Perhaps kindness is not lost to the god's after all...

Creation

The Fates had not yet found their purpose when this occured. The god's were in Chaos, quite literally. The battle between Chaos and Order had just begun, with the god's waging war against the cosmos for supremecy. There were not yet creations to watch over, or meddle with, humanity was millenia away.

to be continued