Welcome to Gaia! ::

I can not count the number of days that have passed since that horrible nightmare. It's as vivid as it ever was, like a projection from what people here call motion pictures. I sat behind a wall of bars, gazing outward towards a wall of dark stone; I was encased within a shadowy dungeon. Nothing came for me, nothing left me. It was a world of stark, dank, dust. I can not say what time it was when they came for me, or who it was who came for me at that. The only thing I truly can recollect is the news, and the amount of sheer anger I felt inside. Betrayal is a sharp spike stabbing into your spine and ripping away at it, tearing it straight from your back. Not once in my life would I have suspected one of my own contradict my wishes.

Once upon a time, I was a part of something wrong. Wrong may be a strong word - I was a part of something gray, in between the two worlds. I did it for adventure. I did it for glory. I did it with an ignorant mind that has cost me more than I would have ever imagined, but rewarded me for that suffrage. I was an outlaw; that's the western term for what we simply called 'traveler' on my home. I'd joined a wry little band run by a man by the name of Gabriel. He was famous, he was tough. There were legends within local towns that stated he could guzzle a jar of acid and devour a bucket of nails at the same time without pain, or that he had been stabbed fifty times only to survive without a scar. I'd found such things fascinating, thus Gabriel's offer seemed irresistible to me. How could someone like me have turned down his generosities? I was neither rich, nor was I poor, but I lived alone with a mother who could scarcely handle me just as I could scarcely handle her. Gabriel offered me an escape, and I had taken it without any concern for what it was I was getting into.

It was Gabriel who brightened my life. I ate some of the finest food, drank some of the finest alcohol, and had some of the finest adventures that would have made for great stories in old age were I not shamed and bitter. Gabriel honed my talent. He was the older brother I had never had. He was also the snake I had never dreamed of encountering. He was the reason I had say behind those bars within that damp little room, and he was the reason my heart had been ripped to shreds with the delivery of a few words. Prior to that arrangement, Gabriel had set me up for a kidnapping plot. One of the many Duke's of the Lokell kingdom would be residing within the royal city of the country neighboring my own, and whose border I straddled with our crew. The plan was to dress me up, clean me up, and send me to woo his daughter and lead her away so that a ransom might be collected from the Duke. The plan was genius, all things considering. To woo a woman and lead her away of her own will is scarcely brutalizing or fiendish. I agreed to the matter and set about my duties within a funny role of noble blood, the likes of which I was not. I encountered Amelia then. Amelia, the Duke's daughter.

I loved Amelia like I feel I could love no other woman, though those wounds have sorely been healed. She was beautiful, her eyes always flirtatious and her voice filled with joy. The flaw of Gabriel's plan was nothing technical that may have gotten us caught; it was me, and my inability to view her as an object to be stolen. Amelia was wild, coy, playful. There was a wistfulness and sense of daring to her. Had we met on the street, I may have never suspected she was the daughter of some grand royal figure. There was a wistfulness, a forwardness, a toughness, set within her soul. She was willing to punch, to spit, to drink hard liquor, and to howl. She would not be shallow, her opinions detailed, sophisticated. She was special. To some, she may have been ordinary, but, to me, she was just what I said: special. Gabriel stole her from me. He did not woo her. He did not tear our love apart. He simply whisked her away in the dead of night when he knew I could do nothing to rescue her. He sold me out for the man I was, landed me firmly in jail, and fled like a coward. I lost all respect for him that day, and for the identity of an outlaw.

When the news was delivered that the Duke wanted me to join a party and rescue Amelia in exchange for my life, I wasted no time. I wanted to set things right. I felt that it was my responsibility to rectify what had essentially been my mistake. Amelia was in danger because of me. Thus I had gathered a crew of three and set off to wage battle. It was a fruitless thing that ended in misery, and it is that part which detail escapes and emotion takes over. I saw Amelia fall before me, my sword high in the air and Gabriel's low to the ground. Which one of us had struck, I can not say. We were lost in the heat of the moment, fighting each other to the very death, when Amelia had set foot between us. Blood had poured from her body; in shock, I had dropped my sword and grasped her, barely noting Gabriel's escape with the crew. Amelia died a cold, bloody, pained mess of tears and agony. There were no beautiful words exchanged. She screamed. She coughed. She sobbed and held me fast, perhaps because she loved me, or perhaps because she was terrified. Death is not like a motion picture. Death is ugly. Death is horrifying, and sad. To see her eyes grow wide and finally pale as her soul escaped was like no emotion capable of being described. I felt desperate. I wanted to stop everything, rewind, see her one more time. Life is not a motion picture either. In the midst of such grief, those men who had accompany arrested me once more. Someone had to take the fall for what had happened to Amelia. They tore me from her, pulled me far, far away, and never again did I see that face. Perhaps that was for the better. It was not the Amelia I wished to remember.

For what reason they took pity on me, I don't know. I don't know much of anything, to be fair. I simply remember being crammed into a tiny little pod. I remember the door shutting, and I remember the feeling of hard motion before I fell asleep and awoke to the view of foreign individuals in a foreign land that I now call my home. I was fitted into the garb of a cowboy - for reasons I could not understand either. On a similar note, I was confiscated by a man I would come to know as Simon. That was how this little life began - this life on Gaia - this life as Mortimer Grey, not as Andre Rolenti.

It's unfair for me to say Simon is a bad man. He is not a bad man. He's an odd one, but I am hard pressed to believe is actions ill any longer. I am not the naive, nor ignorant, child I was all that time ago. I'm a man. I'm grown, and I've learned of things. I've learned of forgiveness, and of love, and of care. My first recollection of my life with Simon was simplistic: I could not speak, nor make a sound, and he insisted on taking notes about my behavior. This was ordinary, and I hadn't realized that he was writing a study about rehabilitation effects for criminals. I was not a criminal; I am not a criminal, as far as I am concerned. Nevertheless, given Simon's profession and area of expertise, his note taking was not wholly out of the ordinary. I imagine he was just as confused about what to do with someone like me as I was about myself. My body had been altered beyond belief. The multiple limbs and horizontal nature of my figure had been exchanged for a two-legged, vertical one. I was pale, my hair light, my body donned with freckles - and my wings left to odd sizes. I was a jumble of things, hideous and disgusting to myself at that time, though I disagree with the notion now. Simon's behavior with me did not help. I can remember the frustrations. He would take notes while I watched my movies of outlaws and sheriffs. He would take notes while I ate, or about the books I observed within his study. He would watch every step I took with blank, judgmental eyes. I feared those eyes more than anything in the world. I had simply wanted to be left alone, permitted to die a horrible death like Amelia had been subjected to. I felt I deserved it. I deserved death, not exile. That was silly. Life is precious. Surrendering life in grief is not an honorable act. Continuing life in love is an honorable act, and it is one I see now.

I found my voice on a night where I almost committed the very crime I was sentenced for. I approached a man who had given me to Simon. I had held a petty toy gun, thinking it real, at him, and I had fired, watching the cork dangle from its string. I blamed him for my misgivings, for my lack of revenge, and for all of the pain I felt in watching Simon judge me, and remember Amelia's death. I found my voice, foreign as my body, and for the first time could express the outrage of such injustices. Finding that voice helped. Simon listened. He sat. He stared at me while I screamed at him. He sat with me for days, sitting me in a chair, making me talk as he took notes, making the occasional comment to lead the conversation. That's called therapy. Simon didn't judge. He didn't berate me, or set my concerns aside, and for that reason I can say I have nothing short of immense respect for him at this time. He is a good man, with good intentions, hostile only for his odd habits and disfigured appendages.

I am better now. I feel better now. I feel proud, and happy, and hopeful. I feel optimistic for the future and see a wise truth I may have never learned. Life is about love. Even when you've lost it, continuing the ride will lead you to it once more, and no one would blame you for being happy because they have long since died. It may have been my fault - but it likely was not. No one will ever know with the exception of Amelia, who can never forgive me in her silent and permanent sleep. Were it my fault, she may be angry, but she may equally not care. She may be happy. She would be happy. She would want me to move forward, to feel happiness once again, to live life, which I will. However, I can't live life as something belonging to the past. I can't be Andre Rolenti any more. I am not Andre Rolenti, and I am quite confident that I do not want to be him.

Thus, with vindication, I say 'I am Mortimer' and lay Andre to rest. May he be peaceful.