Sebastian LaRoche

Kestrel

The log reads this:

I am Kestrel, and I have seen the dawn and dusk of history. Though my story may alternate, I assure you of its truth.

When the surface remained, I often found myself on a bridge connecting two cities. Beyond, countless lofted highways formed the horizon. The land below was an aged slate of clay-covered rubble, utterly lifeless as far as my eyes could see. With the cloudy sky casting no shadows, the extensiveness of this infertile land held tighter than ever to my thoughts, a bitter taste in my mouth I couldn’t get rid of. 

Pulled by a new discovery, an impossible sight, I teetered on the edge of the bridge in what felt like a battle of instinct and reason. Instinct won. I fell, landing on a construction lift close below. As it lowered to the ground, I repositioned my copper-colored scarf around my neck, my eyes never once leaving the spot I had seen. Even as the lift touched the ground, the construction workers, remotely operated machines, paid me no mind. To this I was grateful. If someone had asked what I was doing, I doubt I’d have known the answer.

In this world, the circulation of water, even of oxygen, was in human’s domain. I belonged to the outer ring of my city, so I could afford little of both. And yet, on the patch of pebbles I had seen, a light film of ice concealed the ground. What I did next, I cannot attribute to my own will. Putting pressure on the surface with my fingertip, the ice cracked easily. Underneath, there was more ice, with spiraling roots extending underground. By my hand these gave way to an alcove, then a tunnel. I entered.

I was Kestrel, and he did not belong there. We’re naturally inclined to see his greedy approach as one of curiosity. But believe me: when he found the crack in the wall, and saw everything he could never have, there was no stopping him.

He brought this onto himself.

I am Kestrel, and I too easily believed the voice behind the wall. It told me it could read my mind, saw my doubt in the history records, and agreed that the world was long doomed. Now, I admit, I have often had trouble expressing, or restraining, my emotions. This comes from an education in solitude only accompanied by an AI, an experimental system meant to accelerate the youth’s entrance into the workforce. So to be seen so completely and immediately accepted was exactly what was needed to lower my guard.

“You’ll find what you need in the land you see,” the voice beyond the wall said. The land in question was remarkable. Lit by glowing brooks and erratic skylights, I could see endless life untainted by humans. No, undiscovered. 

“I suppose you’ll tell me I won’t survive long enough to return?” 

“Kestrel will return,” the voice said, almost esoterically.

I should’ve been suspicious. I’m ashamed to say, I was not. The voice told me how to enter too easily. The crack was a keyhole, and a core memory, just as much a foundation of my identity as this underground world was to reality, formed the key. When I stepped between worlds, I found that the being I had spoken to was nowhere to be found. Another man might have turned back. The buried gods know I should’ve. But I think that I simply had no faith in the world I left behind. This was the start of my journey to restore that faith.

I was Kestrel, and I believe time rusts all things. My kin abhor me, but make no mistake, we all were devoted to the surface’s wellbeing, no matter how revolting it had become. I was just the one willing to change things. 

The bird left the safety of its nest to forget the eggs abandoned. You see, not all children grow up. The horrors he had witnessed, not prevented, might explain his redemption, but there is no doubt that he is tainted. If not for his pride, he would have never returned to the surface. If only he was humble…

I am Kestrel, and I believe I know nothing compared to what there is to know, what is known by the beings I have encountered. There was a conductor of moths, a golden light that spoke to me without words. There were feathery trees that sold armaments, and the stories I exchanged earned the tools I needed to fend off unspeakable things. But what held the knowledge I needed, what led me to leave at last, was an uprooted flower, white in color and bristly to hold. 

At first, I wasn’t sure I could return. You see, the key I had used to enter this world did not work twice, as the voice from long ago had promised. But almost like it had changed its mind, I stumbled upon a new key at the foot of where my journey had begun. Why did it leave this? To make a point, I expect. The key fit, the cracks in the stone revealed themselves again, and after two years spent in that place, I stepped back into the world I belonged.

Into a stairway. And yes, at first, I did not feel alarmed by this. I thought, maybe the doorway could move through space, or maybe the tunnel had changed itself somehow. But no, this was the place where the ice had given way. I climbed for what felt like hours, beginning to curse the maker of these stairs, one of many sick jokes in store for me. Just as I thought the stairs were meant to never end, that I would never truly leave the world under the surface, I emerged into a throne room. 

Monumental stained glass paintings depicted success in battles, a lush landscape, and a blue crown atop a smiling face. I guessed it to be ironic optimism, and then I saw who sat on the throne.

I was Kestrel, for his face is the one I took. He appeared before me ragged, his scarf now a rusty brown. He still had the traits of a human, if not the mind of one. But I must give him credit. He recognized me right away.

“Why? What have you done?” the human asked, approaching the throne.

“What you would have done, but don’t jump to conclusions. Humanity is safe,” I responded. I could not resist leaning down to watch the man closer.

“You stole my body. You…You look how I did when I began my journey.”

“When you gave me your memories as a key, yes. But that had to be done to achieve what I have achieved.”

“So what, you became king and changed history? Even a king can’t heal the world.” The man was now only paces away, but it is ridiculous for a Fey to fear a human. 

“Ah, but humans have always been able to do that. They just needed to be forced to. Reviving a world takes many hands but…Really, they’re an effective labor force.”

Only then did I notice the man now gripped the flower tight enough for white petals to fall to the ground. Too tightly, for it was inscribed in legend what power that artifact held. 

“You can’t undo this, human. You shouldn’t. You wanted the world restored? Well? This is the only way.”

“I could do better. I could…Freedom and nature can’t be a contradiction.”

“Fool!” I stood up. I beg insanity, for a sane Fey would know never to look down on a man with the world in their hands.  

The man ripped off the flower’s head, and its roots began to squirm painfully. The world began to waver, resonating, teetering. The stained glass cracked, shattering. I was…I am…I, Kestrel.

A white light followed, a fresh slate to a new world. This was when I became Kestrel, Dawn and Dusk's overseer. This is the start of your history, though mine has long been done. At this point, I am no longer certain but…

Prove me right or prove me wrong.  

This, the log reads.