As the story goes, there once were three brothers. On the surface, their appearances were by no means peculiar; they resembled most other mortals. They aged very slowly, however— hardly at all—and each had a special gift.
Veras, the eldest of the three, could become fully aware of any person, place, or thing in the world, no matter how far away they were from him: every detail, every sight, sound, and smell. These extraordinary moments then became flawlessly etched in his mind, and he could recall them with unerring clarity. His memory became a vast vault of knowledge about all manner of subjects, constantly adding new halls, new shelves, and new volumes. Cloudy and uncertain, the future was of no interest to him, and he made no significant attempt to predict it— his exclusive focus was on the transition of the present into the past. Diligent and meticulous, Veras believed these gifts were a noble mandate: to be the ultimate scribe of all the world's history as it transpired and to make such knowledge freely accessible for all people to share. He set out to pen a tangible record of all his experiences, establishing the Archive as a peerless chronicle of all the world's civilizations. The halls of the Archive acted as a filing system, a way to keep the vast library organized. Every book written, regardless of topic, was noted by Veras and immediately replicated in the Archive.
Medas was the first of Veras' two younger brothers. As is often the case with siblings, Veras raised Medas like a son in his brother's youth. Medas became overjoyed from watching the sprouting and spreading of life and watched, enthralled, as it flourished. His compassion for all things was unconditional, whether living or crafted by living hands; he was dismayed by the realization that one day, they would inevitably disintegrate and perish. He collected everything, from fossils to shards of unearthed pottery, like a boy might while away the day picking up seashells on the beach—it made him feel he was saving them from the inevitable clutches of time's teeth. Medas would often venture out on collecting excursions, then return to include what he found in the Archive. Medas looked up to his older brother, and it made him proud to be able to touch the past since he could not see it the way Veras did. Like both library and museum as one, the Archive grew more expansive than ever. People came from far and wide to wonder at the marvels of achievement well beyond mortal means that Veras and Medas accomplished together. People would spend hours walking the long halls and climbing the serpentine staircases that traversed the central repository of all history. But as he grew up, Medas discovered that if he wished to, he could pluck a thing away from the ravages of time before it altogether ceased to exist, capturing it in stasis. Medas kept this power to himself and began to keep a separate collection from what he brought back to the Archive daily. He called this particularly discrete collection the Sanctuary. Medas tried his best not to let a single being be destroyed, grasping for it in the hopes that he'd catch it before it expired. He swore one day a way would be found to save all things from death, for he loved every single creature; he saw all things and all beings as his family.
Dascas was the third of the brothers, the youngest of the three. Veras was blind to what Dascas would become, for one day, people would whisper, in hushed tones, of the youngest brother as Deceiver and Unspeaker. Veras had no conception that Dascas would seek in his machinations to unravel the work Veras toiled so painstakingly to perfect. In his infancy, Dascas was incredibly bright, insightful, and creative. His building blocks seemed to appear out of thin air. He could make light dance in the palms of his hands if he wished it, in colors he chose on a whim. Veras spent most of his days in the Archive, for he had a vantage point from which he could see everything in all directions like an observatory. Dascas found this method of surveillance both cold and, frankly, dull. As a result, Dascas traveled itinerantly from one city, village, or town to the next to learn what he could, always disguised in linens and lies as everyday folk. In this way, Dascas absorbed information through the filters of mortal minds and mortal perceptions. The methods Veras’s youngest brother employed dismayed him, for he was sure that Dascas understood that mortal minds and perceptions were inherently flawed.
However, the youngest of the three brothers didn't seem to care, for listening to the stories told by mortals under the sun and around the campfire greatly amused him. Dascas' apparent powers of creativity placed him at momentous events in history. It angered Veras, however, when Dascas used his imagination to purposefully manipulate the course of events in a way that he, or so-called “friends” of his, desired. One day he might set a crown upon a brow of a king, while in the next, he would nudge a tyrant’s neck beneath the executioner's blade. Veras came to the stark realization that by influencing mortal perceptions, Dascas shaped the course of the future, and it had been allowed for far too long.
In his adolescence, Dascas rarely stepped foot in the Archive anymore. Throw a few coins in someone's direction, and you can eat, sleep and drink wherever you wish. Veras tolerated this well into Dascas' adulthood, but when it became more difficult for him to continue his work, the eldest brother knew he must stop Dascas' meddling once and for all. Veras would wait for the day when Dascas chose to return to the Archive and bar the doors to prevent any exit. Believing that Medas was loyal to him, he sent the middle brother on a collecting trip, a trip that would collect Dascas and convince him to remain in the Archive.
“Hail, brother,” Medas said as he approached Dascas, who sat in the center of some town and entertained a group of children with performance and prestidigitation.
“Medas, hail to you as well!” Dascas said in reply and gestured towards the young man. “Boys and girls, meet my fair middle brother Medas. Do not fear him, for he loves all things and will do you no harm. You may trust in this!”
The children did trust Dascas, for he was very convincing. However, mothers and fathers came 'round to collect them for supper, so performance and prestidigitation came to a close that day.
Medas waited for the town square to clear, just as the sun went down before he addressed his younger brother. “Veras wants you to come back to the Archive. He wants to speak with you.”
Dascas rolled his eyes and blew out air from his pursed lips. “Like that’s going to happen. His halls of dusty tomes and dead things do nothing but dismay me. Tell our overseer that I am grown and independent, and none may command my coming and going.”
“He does not command you,” Medas said after listening to such defiance, his shoulders suddenly feeling heavy as he tried to keep harmony between the eldest and youngest of the three, “he requests you. Please honor his request. I do not wish there to be ill will between you two.”
Dascas laughed, gesturing with a bow he’d been drawing across the strings of a fiddle. “Are you certain, middle brother? Or do you mean you wish that there be no ill will between you and him?”
Medas' eyes flared open briefly, and his countenance tensed. “What—whatever do you mean?” His glance shifted about, seeming to look over his shoulder should anyone hear what perhaps was about to be spoken.
“You know what I mean,” Dascas said, thrusting the bow pointedly towards Medas' chest. “The things you keep safe from time's cruel sting. The Sanctuary. I've watched you practice that art—”
Medas interjected a gasp at the revelation. “No...”
“If Veras learned of it,” Dascas continued, interrupting his older brother's interruption, “he'd command you to take it apart soul by soul. But don't worry, middle brother. Your secret is safe with me.” And as if to say the secret occupied his hand, Dascas folded his fingers over his empty palm and pushed the tightly clenched fist into one of his pockets. “And you needn't worry about the harmony of our little family, Medas. I shall return to the Archive—pains me as it might!—and find out what it is our eldest brother wishes of me.”
Medas returned to the Archive, and Dascas followed, intentionally dragging his feet. Medas led the youngest of the three to Veras' private chambers. Upon taking his first step into Veras' study, however, Dascas knew what would happen and attempted to turn on his heel and flee. Medas, however, stood in the doorway, and Dascas could not leave without bringing harm to his older brother.
“Dascas! I have built this Archive from the very first page of its very first book, and by my authority as its curator, you are henceforth forbidden to leave! You will no longer meddle during future events as you please. Time must run under its own power, and I have sworn that events will happen as they are meant to.”
Dascas laughed, and as he did, a kaleidoscope of light and color flickered around him— a projection of his believed brilliance. However, the shadow he cast on the ground drew sharp and narrow like a dagger poised to strike at his eldest brother, a desire to silence him also given form. “No, you have sworn to merely record events as they happen. Your slavery begins the moment the present becomes the past. I am free in every way you are not.”
“I am not a slave, Dascas,” Veras spit back in reply, his demeanor that of a displeased parent. “I do my work willingly, and my power is vast. You do not understand it, nor will you ever possess it! Your illusions are amusing, I admit. But they are not real—they are not true.”
“Why does it matter what is true and what isn’t? All my friends and companions believe what they see with their own eyes, not with some almighty gift. To them, their stories and legends are all the truth they need and are sufficient to satisfy them.” Dascas’ demeanor shifted, a defensive mechanism, as he stabbed at the air in Veras’ direction the same way earlier in the day he stabbed at Medas with the bow of his fiddle. Veras could not help but raise an eyebrow and scoff at Dascas’ devotion to his so-called “friends and companions.”
“Why do you listen to them? They know nothing. They do not see the universe the way I do,” he said to Dascas. “They are blind to the Truth.”
Dascas looked on with scorn as he spat his words at Veras with venom in them. “You are a fool, brother—they make Truth that is just as real as the Truth you see. The truth lies in their desires, in their whims—in the stories they tell and the fruit of their imaginations. You are blind, dear brother—you see a universe, one universe, but a single fertile imagination can be a universe of its own.”
“You have not lived as long as I have!” Veras slammed his fist onto the writing desk he sat at as he heard the deceitful words. “You have not watched the world unfold the way I have. They are specks of dust that walk about on a larger speck of dust.”
Dascas exhaled a single breath in disdain, a chuckle devoid of humor. “Perhaps you envy a gift which you do not possess? You wish that our roles were reversed and that you had the freedom to see in front of you what you see in your mind? Ah yes, but for you, they are the same—when you close your eyes, you see everything the same as it is, even with the shutters open. When I close my eyes, I see what I want to see—not what I have been forced to.”
Medas' heart filled with sorrow, and he could not bar the door any further. He had no exceptional intelligence as did his elder brother, nor the creativity of his junior brother; he did, however, possess boundless compassion and a deep desire for harmony. He felt it necessary during these days to act as a bond between himself and his two brothers, to make sure that they would neither harm nor act against each other—for all things should be preserved as they are, he felt. Having heard the whole quarrel and Dascas’ words of deadly deceit, he moved to interpose himself between eldest and youngest, as time had positioned him in the brothers' ages.
“Brothers, please! You are both correct, and both of your powers have value! Veras is correct, though, Dascas—you should change nothing. Everything should remain as it is, lest the ravages of time destroy them. It would break my heart to watch even the most delicate flower wither and die because it was crushed underfoot by a boot that did not belong there. I would collect every flower and shield them if I could.”
An awkward silence fell over the three. Medas, having moments ago made a bold attempt to supersede each of his brother's positions, quickly retreated to subservience. Turning to Veras, he asked, “What shall we do, then? What is the Truth?”
Dascas answered before Veras could: “Truth is what we envision and what we make of it.”
Veras shot a stern glance at the youngest, looking past obedient Medas, retorting in a voice projected with authority and a conviction of certainty. “The Truth is what has been, and nothing can change it.”
Dascas then stretched his lips into a sinister grin. “As a matter of fact, eldest brother, in that fact, you are correct. Only more to the point, it is your Archive that has been. I've always been one step ahead of you. While you toiled away inside, sheltered from the world, I slipped about in whispers and lies and told the people how the great Archive was no more.”
Was it true? No, it wasn't. At this point in his life, telling people what they wanted to hear became so comfortable that Dascas lied out of reflex. “It didn't matter. I convinced them. So there is really nothing more you can do, brother. I have made your Archive a secret that only I now know, one that none who live now believe. Even if one of them were to stand outside the walls of your Archive today, they would see nothing but crumbling ruins and fading words.”
It did sound compelling. Even Dascas was momentarily taken aback, both by its cruelty and its genius, and he almost didn’t even try to hide that realization from being expressed on his face. But even he didn't have the time or the influence to pull off something so massive as to unmake the Archive altogether. Perhaps it was a goal worth looking into, Dascas thought to himself.
Veras paused in thought as Dascas stopped speaking. He reached for a book on his desk and opened the black leather cover to the first blank page. Taking a pen from the block, dipping the tip into a well of black ink, Veras loaded the nib to write. Medas watched with curiosity, but as was typical for the middle brother, he lacked understanding. Veras wrote in this journal on many occasions. While Medas thought it interesting to take up the task in mid-argument, perhaps Veras meant this intentionally as an unspoken signal that he no longer wished to argue. Dascas, on the other hand, began to feel what was happening as the ink marks began to stain the paper. He exclaimed, perhaps for the first moment in his life, terrified of what was taking place.
“What are you doing?!” Dascas' muscles held his will in check, but only barely. His face took the shape of an actor who suddenly lost his mask.
“Oh, I just remembered,” Veras replied, shifting his gaze from the book to his youngest brother, “I have been putting this off for entirely too long. If what you say is true, then I don't have much time left to record the story of the man who brought down the great Archive. I remember every bit of it, back to the beginning—just as I remember all things that have happened. Isn't that right, Medas?”
Dascas could not restrain his will any longer. His legs tensed, and he shifted his weight, leaping forward and over Veras' desk to grab the book away. If Veras were to succeed, some part of Dascas would be anchored to the Archive forever. Even if Dascas never returned to the Archive, he would have to make sure that not only did anyone ever learn of his existence but the Archive’s as well. Dascas would have to make sure that somehow, the Truth that sat on its shelves would never be accessible to the rest of the world. The pen fell out of Veras' hand as he tried to keep a hold of the book, black ink splattering across the desk.
Medas suddenly felt frozen. He couldn't believe that the difference of opinion between his oldest and youngest brother would come to such hostility. Veras would likely not retaliate, but Dascas would most definitely seek to murder his eldest brother. At the same time, the thought crossed his mind that Veras was implicating him with that last passing quip, and he closed his eyes with a heavy sigh. He should have never thought that he could hide anything from his older brother, whether Dascas promised to keep the Sanctuary secret or not. As his eyes welled with tears and despair, he held out his hands and shouted, “Enough!”
What followed was something that none of the three brothers expected. It seemed that at that moment, Medas' power erupted; to try and stop their fight from escalating to violence, Medas “preserved” both Veras and Dascas. Given that all three brothers were practically immortal, and each was an exemplar of their respective gifts, it was the moment where the use of all three gifts came into contact with each other at once. Each attempted to fix the other within the past, present, and future within the exact moment to advance their individual agendas. An instant convergence became divergence, and the three brothers were repelled from each other. Medas awoke to find himself in his Sanctuary. Veras awoke to find himself having gone no further than his home, but now even if he wished to, he could travel no more. At the same time, he realized that try as he might, he could not locate Dascas. He had lost his youngest brother to the darkness of uncertainty.
Dascas awoke to find himself in what was, upon initial inspection, the Archive, but it appeared dark and lacking in color, the edges of the shelves and displays blurry and indistinct. Everywhere he went, he saw shapes of people moving about but could not speak to them or interact with them. Everything sounded muffled, like trying to hear someone talking on the other side of a door. This act of betrayal was the boldest that his eldest brother could shackle him with, Dascas thought—to allow a glimpse at the world he once tampered with, but at the same time to snip the puppet strings from his fingertips forever. He could only ply his craft in dark places, where light did not shine. It took time, but he learned how to extend his gaze from the other side of darkness into the world he once lived in as if he had swum up from the depths of a dark pool but not broken its surface. His mastery of creation became just what Veras called it—illusion, manipulations of perception—for the forms that danced on the candle-lit walls appeared to be genuine but were not. The sarcasm Dascas harbored for his eldest brother turned to vitriol, and soon his thought turned solely towards proving his brother wrong and actively seeking to undo Veras’ work. He obscured Veras' all-seeing vision by secreting away and holding hostage whatever he could keep within the shadowy folds of his cloak. Dascas reveled in the power he wielded but always longed to gain the secrets of actual creation. Veras could still monitor his movements and activities, so he drew on the last dire fabrication he spoke to his eldest brother for inspiration. Word soon spread of the Obscura, a bastion of darkness and shifting shadows that conformed to the Unspeaker's will, a mirror image of the Archive that reflected the fear and resentment he felt towards his eldest brother where secrets obfuscated knowledge. He knew that his elder brothers would soon learn of this, but that knowledge no longer held weight in his choices.
This is what came to pass. The three brothers would gaze upon the roll of days from that moment on, alone and external to reality. They disappeared from mortal sight but remained, each within a solitary domain of their devising.