My name is Teon.
There was a time, and there was a place where and when that name meant something. A bright name, a fell name. East of the Sun, and West of the Moon in the place we once called home. A place that is lost, a time that will never come again.
Now my name is rubble. My name is a relic. Here in the shattered foundations of Kythera it echoes and lingers, the voices
of my people scream out my name in pain and despair. I want to tell them that it wasn’t me, that it wasn’t my fault. I didn’t bring the Machine.
It was my left hand.
It lies quiet now, folded on my stomach. Black blood whimpers out of a dozen small wounds, inflicted by the sharp instrument I hold in my right hand. It is a delicate instrument, best suited for aligning tiny wires or adjusting the fine components on a word-board. It served this purpose ably, plunging again and again into my skin. There was pain, but distant — not my pain. My left hand mimics true feeling but it is always false, the pain is no different.
I will die soon. At least, that is my hope. I fear that if I fall unconscious before my heart ceases to beat, that my left hand will rise and repair my wounds. I must stay awake until the Dark One comes. I have fled him all my life, running further and faster than any others of my kin. But now I welcome him as my boon companion.
To stay awake, I will tell my story. This sound crystal is fully powered, it shall last longer than I will. I will speak the story of my name. How we, who the people of this world call the Lost, came here trying to escape the dark, on our silver ships made of song and steel.
But we brought it with us.
I brought it with us.
Light help me, I brought it with us.