Felix Fitzwillis and the Mysteries of the Library

He woke up. It would seem that he was lying on his back. He was not on his bed. He was on something hard. He opened his eyes and the blue of the sky welcomed him. He blinked once or twice to get used to the light. He felt a dull pain on his forehead. He fumbled his head and found that his skin was not entirely smooth at the left of his forehead; a scratch or a cut maybe. When had he gotten that?

He looked around, his body remaining rigid and straight. The ground of stone ended a couple of metres away. He wasn't sure what this meant. He decided to get up to investigate furthermore. Once his head was higher, he was able to to take in the scene around him a lot better. He was standing on an ancient stone bridge that went over a chasm. Looking down the gulch, he found a river flowing on its bottom. In the distance, he could see mountains on two directions and a big forest in another.

But that was odd. He did not remember ever coming to such a location. He did not remember travelling or ever being there. So, how had he gotten there? He couldn't see anybody else in a long radius. Thus, he couldn't ask where he was. The only thing left to do was to move elsewhere.

He chose one of the bridges' two directions at random and walked that way. Soon, he felt his feet complaining and he realised they were sore. Had he been walking much recently? He tried to remember, but slowly he realised he had no idea whatsoever what he had been doing recently. Or at all. No memories of doing anything came to him.

How could he not remember? Did he have amnesia? He couldn't! He remembered who he was. He was... His name was... He did not remember his name. He had complete loss of memory of everything!

He fell to his knees. He didn't know where he was. He didn't know where he should go. He didn't know what he should do. He didn't even know who he was. This couldn't be happening.

“Oh my, this one's easy prey”, someone's gruff voice snapped him out of his trance.

He was surrounded by a group of men and women in dirty clothes holding daggers, bows, swords and one of them even had a pistol. They were looking at him with greedy wicked expressions. Thieves? He hadn't seen where they'd come from, but it was possible they were hiding under the bridge.

“Alright, ragged boy. Give us all your valuables and you can walk away with your head still in place”, the one with the pistol threatened.

*Ragged boy*, the man looked down at himself and realised his clothes were in tatters. What had happened to him that he didn't remember? Hurt on the forehead, sore feet, his clothes tattered and waking up on a bridge. It must have been some adventure. And he couldn't remember it.

The dozen of thieves that had circled him did not look above killing him for the smallest of reasons, so he decided to hurry up and give them what they wanted. He put his hands in his pockets, but after searching for a moment, they were revealed to be empty. He looked at his hands and searched his neck; no jewellery.

“I don't think I have anything on me”.

“What? Don't play with us. As if you wouldn't know! Bernard, search him”.

One of the thieves approached him and fumbled his clothes in any place where he could have possibly hidden something valuable.

“He got nothing alright”, Bernard concluded.

“You shall suffer for this, you fool. Those who don't pay their due get what they derseve”, the leader said angrily. “Get him boys”.

With fear in his eyes, he looked from one to another at the faces of the approaching criminals, bearing nasty expressions. He didn't know what to do. When one of the thieves prepared to kick him, he cowered behind only to stumble upon another. His assaulters laughed and jeered at him. He raised his arms protectively, but as their kicks and punches came they were no help in defending him from their merciless attack. He fell down, but the bandits didn't let up. He curled into a ball, but couldn't stop their hits. His eyes teared up and his mouth opened in the most imperceptible cry of pain. However, the next moment someone's foot connected with his open mouth and he felt the taste of blood fill it.

The gang members continued to beat him from all sides in this cruel manner. Aching all over, the pain gradually encompassed him whole and became all of his reality. He couldn't bear it. He wanted it to tend. But he knew there was only one way for his torture to end. And he wished to die. Every moment he prayed the next one the sweet hands of death would reach for him and put him to peaceful sleep. But when that new moment came, it would bring new suffering instead. And he hoped all the more. His life wasn't much anyway. What a pity though. To be given life, only to lose it so soon. For even if he'd lived something before today, he couldn't remember it so it didn't really count. He hadn't lived long, but he knew this. It was an unfair end for him. He'd been robbed of his chance, in these final moments, to look back on his life and say it was good; or say it was bad. For there's a sweetness in the joy of life, even when you depart from it; and there's the satisfaction of bitterness at the lack of happiness. And as a man may endulge in both when it comes to food, so they can in life; and death.

Even through the madness of the pain, the unbearable continuous pain, there was a part of his consciousness that was separated from the insufferable agony and made such thoughts. He was surprised. He thought that was quite wise of him. Perhaps it was vain to think himself so, but one couldn't afford to be humble in the rediscovery of themselves. Especially when faced with death.

*Aargh!* a mental cry interrupted his thoughts as a particularly strong kick hit his nose and apparently broke it. He did not dare voice that cry out loud for fear of getting struck in the mouth again.

Hit after hit, the slow torture was very distracting, but eventually he picked up his train of thought again. Was he a wise man? Had he been in his past life something that required or nurtured wisdom and wit? Perhaps a philosopher...

That didn't matter. He was a wise man and he enjoyed that knowledge a great deal. Not that he was wise in particular. If he'd learnt that he was the vilest or silliest of men, he'd be equally pleased at that moment. For he'd know something about himself. And he did know something. Knowledge that he would treasure in his flickering moments.

*Here I am. I die, a wise man*, he thought.

But it was then he noticed a change. The strikes of his assaulters were slowing down. A voice cried and it wasn't mocking or swearing at him.

"It's the Rogues! Run!"

The attacks stopped altogether. He heard the criminals flee in panic and he wondered what had caused that. He couldn't open his eyes -both had been blackened- to look, so he focused on his hearing. He realised, after a few moments of concentration, he could hear the sound of multiple boots marching closer. No! They were close, but they were getting fainter. They were going away.

Did that mean he would live? Or was it that his suffering before he passed on had been prolonged? He did not know how to feel. Just a moment ago, he was wishing to die. The cause of pain had ceased, but the pain was still lingering and he'd been deprived of the quicker end. If he was to die anyway, he felt that was reason for complaint. Not that there was anyone to complain to... But what if he didn't die? What if he lived? Wouldn't getting through the pain be worth it if only he could live. He had to decide then. He felt this decision would be crucial. It was hard to think, though. His head felt heavy and he was very dizzy. His ears were ringing and the world was spinning -even with his eyes closed. He had to choose despite his condition. He. Had. To. Live.

*Here I am. I live, a wise man.*

He passed out.

He had suffered countless injuries all over his body. He must have been bruised all over and had several open wounds. His nose was broken and the same could probably be said about a few of his ribs. Abandoned in the middle of nowhere, one might think he should have died. But sometimes the will to live is too strong, stronger than the tendency to die. And so he woke up many hours later. Not dead.

He lay there for a few minutes, piecing together the events of the morning. Although the direct source of injury had left, his body still experienced a dull pain all over. The bleeding wounds had closed by now but they still stung. He was not in the best of shapes.

Despite his dire situation, though, somehow he got up. It happens on extreme situations that one's body can ignore its primary needs in favour of securing survival. As such, in spite of an empty stomach, a dry throat and a beaten body, he managed to walk. With a rush of adrenaline that contrasted against the calm of his environment, he put one leg in front of the other and then he repeated that; again; and again. It was a matter of life and death to get out of this forsaken place to somewhere he could get the care he needed. So, he walked on.

He continued onwards in in an instinctual way, almost blindly to his surroundings. For that reason , it took him a while to realise three towers had appeared on the horizon. Reaching for the sky and built close to each other in a line, the towers were a welcome sight. He probably could get some help there. He urged on towards the gray turrets of stone, faster than before.

Many minutes of approaching passed. His anticipation grew. Salvation and relief waited for him in the towers. But...
"Hold still!"

"Hands in the air!"

The voices sounded strange. They didn't seem very natural, as if they were muffled by something - but he was at a loss what that was. Although he realised he should comply with what he was told, for fear of another attack, his momentum carried him a few more steps forward before he stopped.

He looked around and found two people in technologically advanced metal gear, pointing their... Guns? Or were they chainsaws? He couldn't decide. They were pointing their weapons -quite intimidating weapons- at him. They were wearing helmets hiding their faces that probably being the cause of their muffled voices.

"We told you to hold still", one of them said menacingly.

"Th.. thorry", his mouth injury causing him to lisp. "Th... the momentum", he tried to explain.

"We don't care. Do as we say".

"He seems pretty beaten up. Should we help him?" the other asked.

"No way! He's not out responsibility. We can't take of every fool who wanders over to the Watchtower. This country's problem is how many beggars it has. Let's don't waste our time".

"You're right. Besides, no one gets beaten up without having done something to deserve it".

"Bu..." he started to speak, but the men didn't let him.

"Shut up, you idiot! Hmm. That worthless piece of trash. We should probably give him a beating ourselves".

"We should! People like him are a waste of oxygen anyway. We'd better kill him actually. We'd be doing society a favour".

"Wait, though. Cap'n might want to question him first. It wouldn't do not to bring a suspicious person in. Let's get him to the Towers and he'll probably be executed anyway".

"Hell, that's right! Captain wouldn't be happy. Let's take him".

All this time, he'd been listening to the exchange, watching with desparate eyes as all his hopes crumbled and died. He had been very wrong in thinking he could get any help in the towers. And so from Scylla to Charybdis, his salvation had turned out to be a new doom. Perhaps, he should accept his fate. From one danger to another, his ignorance seemed prone to bringing him closer to his end. Even if he somehow survived this, wouldn't his lack of knowledge lead him to another way of death? But he understood something now. This was a cruel world. He couldn't depend on anybody but himself. For however long he'd left to live, he'd be more careful in trusting others, that much he promised himself.

The two soldiers urged him to go forward, but all his previous decisiveness was gone. Every step he made would bring him closer to potential death. He wasn't intent on defying all the strain on his body only to hurry his doom. He ended up collapsing on the ground.

"Get up!" one of the soldiers yelled at him.

"I can't", he answered weakly.

"Get up now!"

He didn't move.

"This job's the worst. Stationed in the middle of nowhere and having to deal with things like this!"

"Right? I will be transferring next month, so I'm applying for a position in Orlan".

"Lucky you. I've got to serve at least two more years here. But I've heard they're very strict there".

"Yeah, but it's the capital, man! You've got everything there".

"Well, hope you don't end up assigned in some random town we never heard of instead".

"Yeah, though it'd probably still be better than this. What do we do about this dead weight, though?"

"I don't want to carry him. Let's drag him. No need to make it more comfortable for him than it has to be".

Having tied his legs with ropes of which they held the other ends, the process of dragging him towards the towers began; a rather unpleasant experience for him what with friction being applied on his recent wounds, his legs being pulled by ropes and his head facing the ground. He could hear the soldiers as they chatted about matters that seemed of trivial importance. Part of him was bothered they could act so casually when his life was threatened. It created too much of a contrast with his situation. However, he did not have enough spirit to get angry and soon their voices faded into background noise.

His mind went on to focus on other things. The taste of dirt, for instance. It was interesting. Not really what he'd usually put in his mouth, but then again he hadn't had any food or drink in his entire life, so that was something right? Well, he'd also tasted his own blood earlier. That had been curious. He'd expected to be more disgusted by it, but its metallic taste hadn't been all that bad. Not that he enjoyed it. That probably excluded the possibility of being a vampire.Vampires. Were vampires a real thing or were they a myth? He wasn't sure.

As the day grew dark around them, the ground transitioned from bare soil to grassy. He could feel the blades of grass brushing against the skin of his face. They were cooler than the soil and he enjoyed the feeling a little even if they poked his eyes every now and then. Turning his head around after a while, he noticed a flower of red and white petals. He didn't know what flower it was, but it was beautiful and he was glad he got to see it before he was brought to the towers where who knows what would happen. He lingered on that happy thought and closed his eyes. He'd tried to resist it, but being dragged was tiring him. His thoughts were becoming drowsy, distanced from the waking world. The hands of sleep were embracing him. Consciousness was leaving him...

The sound of something thin crossing the air at high speed came suddenly and just like that he was wide awake again. Both his legs were dropped, but he also heard what sounded like one of the metal-clad men collapsing to the ground. He heard more voices, battle cries, approaching and wondering what was going on, he tried and succeeded in rolling around to face upwards. Lifting his head slightly, he saw one of the soldiers lying down, an arrow sticking out of his neck through an infinitesimal crack in his armour. The other soldier pulled the trigger on his weapon and tons of small purple projectiles were shot from it. He couldn't see who the soldier was shooting at, however, at that moment a tall blonde man jumped from some bushes nearby and threw his spear at the metal soldier's back. His second captor dropped dead as well.

As the man approached to retrieve his shaft, he struck an intimidating figure, towering over him who was still lying on the ground. Was he going to be killed, too? Or was he being saved? Or did the man have some other kind of intention?

"Who...?" he started to speak, but cut short when he saw more people appearing.

Who were they? Could he trust them? They'd killed his captors, but that didn't necessarily make them friends. Currently they weren't moving against him, just talking with each other, their words not registering with him. Yet, the way they ganged up on him felt familiar. He'd promised to be careful. He tried to get up in order to escape, but he just ended up falling again. As his senses started to abandon him, he felt hands catching him. Then, there was nothing.

Wiz Ardon, the Peculiar Enchanter (talk)\*\*\*---\*\*\*Wiz Ardon, the Peculiar Enchanter (talk)

When he came to, his wounds felt relieved and the pain was decreased tenfold; he wasn't feeling tired, he was warm and his hunger and thirst were sated. This comfortable feeling was something new for him and wishing to prolong it, he continued to lie where he was -wherever that was. He didn't seem to care at the moment. However, the events from before he passed out slowly came back to him and he started to wonder what was going on. He opened his eyes and jumped up.

He found himself faced with two wide bright red eyes startling him to go back to a lying position. The eyes, belonging to a woman, blinked and the mouth below them spoke cheerfully, "He's awake!"

"Morwan, let the man be", another female voice replied. "We didn't save him just to for you to scare him to death".

The woman, Morwan, was not dissuaded and stayed put. She was seated on the edge of his sleeping mat with her legs bent towards her torso. From that position, she was looking at him curiously. Still startled, he was surprised by her appearance as her pale, almost white, skin and red eyes suggested an albino, but her thick messy hair was actually raven black.

He might have lost his memories, but he knew this wasn't supposed to happen. Or was it? It was a big universe and he didn't know everything. Besides, there were always the strange influences of Imagination and Chaos, even magic. As soon as he thought of that, he was surprised at how easily this knowledge came to him when he needed it. It wasn't this strange, though. Knowledge isn't memory; at least it wasn't the same kind of memories he was missing.

Did having this knowledge mean he had to have a past life? Not necessarily. Maybe he was created with it. He understood that humans were born as babies and grew and learnt into adulthood. The question was: was he really a human?

His train of thought was interrupted when a dark-skinned woman -presumably the owner of the second voice- entered his field of vision. Her hair was fashioned into dreadlocks and she was wearing the same kind of gray cloak Morwan was. Seeing him examine her, she gave him a smile as if to soothe him.

"Excuse Morwan. She's not much used to the idea of manners", the woman said confirming it had been she who had spoken before, too.

"Are you feeling alright, Felix?" Morwan asked although she was still looking at him.

Further inspection of the room -no, interior of a tent- revealed a really short red-haired man in the process of peeling potatoes. However, he didn't seem to respond to Morwan's question.

"Who's Felix?" he asked in perplexion.

Morwan chuckled, "You're Felix".

What? Did this woman know his name? Did she know him? Was his name Felix? Could he learn who he was? No! He shouldn't get ahead of himself. There were certainly countless ways to explain this that didn't have to do with those people knowing him. He couldn't hope just yet lest he's disappointed later.

"Don't confuse him, Morwan; he just woke up after all", the dwarf joined the conversation. "You see while you were asleep, Morwan and I were trying to decide what kind of name you could have. I thought you looked like a Jonathan, but Morwan said you were a Felix. But guesses aside, what's your actual name?"

Despite his attempts to prepare himself, he couldn't help but feel a tinge of disappointment. That was quickly pushed aside, though, to make room for his confusion about this whole situation.

"Excuse me. I don't understand. Where are we? Who are you guys? Were you the ones who bandaged me?"

"How rude of us!" the dark-skinned woman spoke. "We haven't introduced ourselves. I'm Elba. This is Stigandr", she pointed to the redhead, "and that's Morwan. There's also Wendall and Haruka, but they're out hunting right now. Together, the five of us are the Wandering Bandits".

Bandits? That did not bode well. Criminals aren't known for their ethical integrity and he was already ill-disposed towards them after his previous experiences with some of them. On the other hand, these people seemed friendly and most likely they were the ones who'd saved him and treated him to recovery. And yet... couldn't they just be hiding their true intentions? Couldn't they be caring for him in order to use him in another way later on? What were the chances of that? He didn't know. And that was making him nervous. On the other hand, if they had ill intentions would they really reveal that they were bandits? But that could be a bluff.

He sighed. Those thoughts weren't leading him to any conclusion. Reflecting on them, though he realised all this skepicism came pretty naturally to him. Was he a suspicious man? A wise, but suspicious man.

"Why did you help me?" he decided to ask.

"Leave no man behind. Us outcasts should stick up for each other, especially now that thedude's all over the continent", Stigandr explained.

He wasn't completely persuaded; he still had to keep his guard up. But Stigandr's answer

brought rise to new questions, "What dude?"

"thedude, not a dude. Wait, you don't know who thedude is?" Elba replied.

"Not... really? Should I?"

"You're telling me you don't know who the person currently ruling half the planet and trying to get a hold of the rest is?"

"Uhm. Yes. I'm not really familiar with this land's politics".

Elba and Stigandr's eyebrows frowned as they tried to process this. Morwan continued to eye him as curiously as always, only she seemed somewhat amused now.

"Why? Where are you from? ", Stigandr asked. "I thought you were from Arcton because of your accent".

"Uh... I don't know".

"What are you talking about? How can you not know?"

"I'm not sure. I just woke up and couldn't remember anything about myself... or other people. I don't even know my own name".

"You've lost your memory? Well, I guess that explains why you were wandering near the Watchtowers. It was lucky we were there. Hmm. Perhaps, if we take you to a city a doctor could help you... or a magician", Elba suggested.

"What are the chances we find one, though? At least one we can afford", Stigandr remarked.

"We'll do what we can".

They were suggesting he travel with them. But should he really do it? He hadn't resolved if he could trust them, yet. But then again, even if they wanted to harm him and he knew that, could he really walk out of this? There was only one option really. He had to take the Bandits up on their offer, but keep his eyes open for suspicious activities and opportunities to escape if necessary. After all, if the Bandits really wanted to help, visiting a city sounded like a good idea.

"Very well, I'll travel with you then".

"Good. We're starting tomorrow".

"Tomorrow?"

"Yeah, it's almost sunset, we can't leave right now".

"Sunset? Have I been asleep for a whole day?"

"No mister", Stigandr replied. "You've been asleep for a good five days. We were afraid you wouldn't wake up. But we cared for you and you got better and here you are awake now".

"Five days! Really? That explains why I feel so much better".

"Speaking of which, what did you do to make the Rogues beat you that hard?" Morwan asked.

"It wasn't them. I met some band... thieves near a bridge and they beat me because I had no money".

"The old Troll Bridge? Yeah, that's a dangerous place to be around nowadays. Even the Rogues avoid it, if not in big numbers", Elba said with a grim expression.

Silence followed as no one seemed to have something to add to that. Stigandr was nodding in agreement while he put his peeled potatoes away. On the other hand, Morwan seemed unaffected by any kind of conversational subject as she was still staring at him with her big red eyes. Was there something wrong with him or her?

"So, should we call you Felix after all?" she finally said.

"What?"

"You said you don't know what your name is, but you can't go around without one. How would we call you?"

Morwan was right. But how could he just pick a name for himself? It'd probably not be his actual name -assuming he had one. But then again, why did his old name matter anyway? His past life was exactly that: past. He had no memory of it and so he shouldn't allow it to affect him. He had a new life now. And he could have a new name as well.

"Yeah, I think Felix is splendid".

He was Felix now. Felix, a wise but suspicious man.