Clack!
Julian's eyes fluttered open, his lashes quivering as he blinked once, twice, thrice, each movement excruciating than the last, as though analyzing whether the world before him was real or hallucinations.
He found himself seated sternly in a high-backed chair, the wood creaking faintly under his weight. Before him stood a polished walnut table, its surface shimmering with a muted sheen, upon which rested a mirror framed in tarnished brass.
The face displayed within was not his own. Unfamiliar, estranged. A faint dizziness twined within his skull, pressing like fog against his temples.
Slowly, his gape drifted from the mirror to the chamber itself. The room was squeaky clean, each object positioned with calculated clarity: a tall bookshelf lined with leather-bound tomes, a porcelain vase of dwindled lilies upon the chimney piece, and a clock ticking softly in the stillness.
It was mid-afternoon. Sunlight shined in narrow blades through the thick curtains of dark velvet, their hems sewed with intricate embroidery. The golden light decorated the dust-filled air in shifting motes, just like a silent constellation caught between heaven and earth.
Julian's reflection wavered faintly in the mirror as he slowly rose from the chair. His outfit was an ash gray frock coat tailored to fit his frame, its brass buttons dampen with age yet polished by careful hands. Underneath it, a high collared white shirt and a waistcoat of deep navy, embroidered with subtle filigree, clenched to his chest. A cravat of ivory silk lay tied at his throat, the knot slightly loosened, as though worn by man accustomed to both elegance and exhaustion.
Rustle!
His boots lowered into the carpet, echoing his steps. The rug stretched across the floor—Persian in design, dyed with crimsons and midnight blues.
Julian turned toward the bed, its four poster frame sculpted from dark mahogany, wrapped in translucent curtains, he lowered himself upon the mattress, his fingers brushing the duvet: a heavy quilt of damask, dyed in deep burgundy, its surface with curling veins and gold thread.
A breath escaped him, long and ragged. His hand pressed against his temple as though to steady the spinning fog within.
I must have wandered again, he thought.
He stared at the mirror again, where the unfamiliar form stare at him once more. Tall. Refined. A body carrying aristocratic grace. The jaw was sharp, the nose finely cut, every line sculpted with exactness that tells of noble blood, blonde hair with a piercing blue eyes.
His thoughts came again. I for sure thought it was going to be the end after my last adventure… here I am, it seems like fate still has plans for me
With a tired sigh, Julian left the bed and went toward the sofa resting near the curtains window.
In Tales and Myths, there was a story that was passed through countless cultures: The Wandering Souls.
It was said such souls did not rest, nor did they ascend. Instead they moved through the unseen currents of time and space, unchained by flesh and by mortality. A wandering soul could awaken in any age, any world, any vessel of flesh. With each possession, they became the new body, believing themselves to be that man or woman, while the truth of their last life dimmed like a fading dream. The previous life would only cling to them as fragments memory, half remembered as if it was theirs.
As far as he knows it Julian was the name of his former possession, this face or aristocratic body was not the same Julian he knew. The Julian he had known was a knight who slays witches and dragons, a typical fantasy world.
A soul without anchor, the stories said. A soul forever seeking.
….
Julian rested deeper into the sofa. It was unusually comfortable, almost deceitfully so, as a knight then nothing was comfortable, everyday there was a thought that death can come anytime, be it by witches, dragons or even other knights.
His eyes moved across the room as he saw the portraits hung upon the walls. The faces depicted in the portraits spoke of lineage, of bloodlines kissed by nobility.
This body belongs to such a family?. He looked around, the room didn't feel like a noble room to him, he had been in kings and queens room before when he was a knight, so he was able to tell.
There was no chamber of gilded chandeliers, or overflowing ornaments of silver and jade, none of the fancy stuff you could see in typical noble room was there. But it was modest, almost austere. He stared at the mirror again, the body looked like that from a noble house, maybe the body had been born this way, a natural charm perhaps.
His gaze lowered to the small table behind the sofa. There was a book rested on it, thick and heavy as he picked up the book. It's leather hardcover worn but still dignified. Written upon its surface in fading gilt letter were: The War of Fifteen Emperors — Webs Anderson.
Julian's fingers reached the spine tracing its ridges, before he decided to crack it open. As it open the scent leapt out at him; old parchment and ink rose like smoke. As he saw the first words he knew that this wasn't any story, it was history.
"In the year of our Lords, fifteen emperors vied for dominion over a shattered world. This account, humble though it may be, seeks to preserve the truth amidst the ruins of ambition." — Webs Anderson.
Before Julian could read further, a sound broke the stillness.
Knock. Knock.
The suddenness of it jarred him. His shoulders stiffened. He immediately snapped the book shut and placed it back on the table where he had picked it from. His heartbeat quickened.
Who could that be? He thought sharply. Who knows I am here?
A soft, gentle and sweet, almost melodic voice drifted through the door, it was clear enough.
"…Hermes? Are you there?"
Julian froze, every muscle taut. Hermes?