The land of Sanitatum is said to be filled with magic, but it is also plagued by a contagious curse that threatens humanity's survival. It is the purpose of the heir to the throne, Simba Adofo, to inherit his father's crown and find a way to vanquis...
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Hari's routine cycled again with a new day.
He watched the steady sun beams of sunset push through the cracks of foliage, as if it were the last breath of day before the night came. It was a somewhat soothing cycle, he admitted. Yet, he despised the way he had become accustomed to it. There was, however, one part of his routine he figured he would never hate.
Nestled next to a bookshelf was an old desk. The wood was aged a dirty brown, covered in scratches and nicks that ran against the lines of the wood grain. In any case of it's condition, it was one of his favorite parts of the forest.
He gently grabbed the only book from the top shelf of the bookcase; his journal. He started it when he first came to the forest, and he imagined he would have gone crazy without it. A sense of sanity was bound to these pages. Writing out his day felt like a twisted conversation, but it was comforting. Darwin's songs were beautiful, but he wasn't much of a conversationalist.
He dipped the quill into the ink bottle and pressed the tip to the yellowed page. He recalled that this was the last bottle of ink from the wagon supply from years ago. The ink's scarcity was shoved to the back of his mind as he started writing.
June 11th, 1611.
Today I did all I was supposed to do. The crops are watered, though they refuse to grow. The laundry is done, though they don't look any cleaner, and my room is dusted, although it will just collect again tomorrow. I ended the day watching the sunset with Nanna by the pegs. Another day I lived- if this can be called "living". Despite my objections, this is my place. I'm not completely alone, though. Darwin visits me everyday. I think he's lonely too.
He recounted his other log entries in his book. When he settled in the forest, he found the empty book lodged between the wall and the bedpost. He kept it hidden from Nanna as she would have been fearful of his monstrous ideas being recorded. She said any evidence of him would be punished.
But Hari wanted to exist. If someone came to this place after he was just a pile of bones, he wanted them to know that he was here; that he lived in this decrepit place. A concise term alluded him, but he defied Nanna's desire to be expunged from the world, even if the world was better off without him. He didn't want to disappear.
Reading the passage from last week, he recalled how particularly exciting the day was, taking up several pages.
June 4th, 1611.
I had just finished my daily routine. I was brought to the window by a sudden noise outside. Shaken, I grabbed a frying pan in two hands in defense and put my back to the wall beside the window. I listened as voices fluttered up to my room, a light casting an orange glow from down below. I heard metal clanging against the sound of horses huffing through their nostrils. I peered past the window frame and saw three horses and three men gathered, whispering in vein as everything carries in the constant silence of the woods.
