The Hero, The Father, The Revolutionary, and The Restorer—a man who, in his short life, shaped the destiny of Our Empire.
On Stained bloody paper, he saw these words: a headline? Newspaper?? What??? Many thoughts swirl through his head wandering where had it come from, he felt delirious as if having just awoken soon he came to his senses, still having rememberd nothing. He felt his head lay flat on a smooth wood table, its cold surface unfamiliar, it was not his... what? Realizing he forgot what he was going to think, He paid it no mind as he wanted to get up and away now.
With great effort, he tries to get up, his body feeling as if it's stuck in a layer of water, slowing him down. Soon, with his back straight, he looks around in a dark, unfamiliar room. Anxiety rises as he hears even the beating of his heart. Cold sweat trickles down his forehead as a smell reaches his nose, and he feels something sticking to his chin. Wasting no time, he touches his chin to feel a wet yet dry, viscous liquid. Quickly, he brings his hand in front of his eyes and recognizes the blood under the dim moonlight. He looks back at where his head once rested and sees a pile of blood and a bloody newspaper in a language unknown to him.
Feeling lightheaded, he leaned against the nearest wall in the small room for support. Soon, a headache struck; it felt like every hair on his head was a burning cold needle stabbing into his scalp. Unable to keep his balance, he fell to his knees and then onto the floor, pulling on his long hair rolling on the ground in agony screaming as if he were on fire. Memories not his own flooded his mind drilled in forcing in as he kept recalling the name—the name...? His eyes blinked, and the pain was gone, as if none of it had ever happened. The room that had been filled with his screams was now quiet.
In his mind were scenes of a world straight out of history books: paved and unpaved brick roads, narrow streets, carriages drawn by horses, trams, and trains no cars or cell phone or internet. Even the people in dresses and suits moved about; it was a movie so vivid that he thought he was there—except it was not a movie but a memory.
He was there; no, he wasn't. It wasn't him; it's not him; it's not his memories. He was in utter confusion, seeing people and faces that he knew but didn't at the same time.
He lay there in contemplation, staring at the light gray carpet in the small dim room illuminatedby the the dim moonlight.
After some time, he got up and approached the small mirror by the bedside. He walked with great familiarity, as if he lived there. Looking in the mirror, he saw a familiar face: pale skin, dark circles under the eyes, sharp nose, a soft yet defined jawline and lips and the rest covered in blood, topped with long black hair that fell to his neck. It was him. It was... Solomon. Yes, Solomon was his name—not just the name of the body, the the previous owner of the body, Not him this is not his body, But that's all he knew he couldn't recall who he was who he was before Solomon no he never was Solomon.
Uttering in a familiar yet unfamiliar voice Confused questioning himself and someone else if someone else was there,
"What is my name?"