A Soft Voice Amidst Cacophony

He took a second book, identical in size almost, but markedly different - the leather of finer quality, the parchment unmarred and creamy, the binding showing no signs of age or wear. As near to perfection as a journal could be. That, in itself, a desperate sort of symbolism. He acknowledged that, in himself, the pathetic nature of such a gesture, even if none else would see it. He would make the gesture nevertheless.

His decision made, he began the process of copying over each entry, with painstaking accuracy, save for a few things. If one were to watch him, as he did this, one would find the words incomprehensible, not even seeming to be written in letters of any Telanthan dialect. In some cases, a letter would become clear, a capitalized 'H' or 'A' appearing at random within the twisted scratchings of an indecipherable word.

If one were clever, however, and had a mirrored surface, they would find the entries far more legible. If one were to advance the letters oncemore, aside from those capitalized, they would find that the entries even made sense. No instructions of this sort were given, of course. He kept them locked away in his head, as he did with his dreams of fire and glory and vengeance.

The method of his writing, of course, was much a mirror, a symbol, as the book itself. His work took him past dawn, as the suns rose unseen from his windowless study. It took him through the day, hindered as he was by burnt hands and a burnt arm.

It took him from dark to dark, and he never stirred.