"Wake up, dear. We have things to do."

The light was scarce. Dark was everywhere.

A man opened his eyes for the first time in ages and could see nothing within the bleak surroundings. And in them, he felt only utter desolation. He was lying on what felt like marble, cold to the touch, and wondered how long he had lain in near death? The question bothered him as he stepped off the marble. He set one bare foot down onto slippery flagstones.

Even as he did, he heard whispers from the edge of the darkness. There were voices from eldritch things he could not perceive. Would he know them if he looked upon them and feared them no more? Or would his terror grow, as what little more could be known of them only grew their shadow?

His sight returned to see almost nothing at all in the shadows. Yet he could see evidence of ancient Harlenorian stonework. The air here was musty and old and filled with heaviness. It made breathing difficult. The man could remember very little, only that he'd fought a dark figure with gleaming blue eyes. It had been a terrible struggle, he thought. He had not fallen there but instead lingered on for a time. The thought wasn't reassuring, and his feet stumbled as he walked. Finally, consciousness returned, and realization dawned.

"I am not dead." His voice spoke the thought, and he noticed he did not even recognize it. Had he been dead? Was that why he could not remember anything? He became aware he was holding something in a death grip and raised it.

Where was he? Did it even matter where he was or when he was? This place seemed beyond time or space, a singular moment echoing through eternity. Just as the actions of each person in the tapestries of fate reflected.

It was a long black sword, gleaming with a red light, the only reason he could see. What concerned him more was that he was shirtless. It was freezing in this place, and he shuddered. He'd have to find warmth. Then, finally, a semblance of memory returned to him. He raised the Black Sword, muttering an incantation of power under his breath. As soon as he spoke, the sword burst into a red flame, and his arms and chest felt the heat. The fire illuminated a sizeable round chamber with crimson light. The dust was swept away, and no moss could be perceived on the black flagstones, though it was wet.

Gazing over the walls and ceilings, the man observed many images painted over the walls. Armies marched across a river as great battles were waged for glory and honor. Friends bled out their life upon the fields and returned in a monstrous new form. All were in elaborate detail. There were long journeys stretching across oceans and over mountains.

Over time, he realized that he was looking at many interconnected stories. Many people were in multiple tales, but one figure was always present. A tall knight with long flaxen hair wields a black sword and holy magic to defend the innocent. That knight came to a bitter end. He faced a shadowy figure with black claws, wings like a dragon, and glowing blue eyes.

It was a pattern, and each reading built on the others so that one understood it better each time. And with understanding came terror and wonder.

He was that knight. And this was his story.