Scribe's Contribution

So the one became eight, which were nine.  The one saw the nine and felt the draw to another.  While leaving once more, the traveler could never really leave, the realm went with him, but remained hidden.  But the hidden realm cracked, revealing both strength and weakness, so a messenger was sent.  The messenger was not from the realm, but knew of them all, and was eager to go to recover the man and all he had built.  The messenger took many forms, and in part found himself in them all, or nearly.  He was recognized in some, and so his influence there grew.  Through blood sweat and tears the link was made, and communication reestablished.  The nine had remained all this time, while the one journeyed on.  The messenger relayed what needed to be heard, to call the one home, but the one would not come without the other, so the story continued.  Dust covered the pages of the volumes of messages unsealed from their bottles, some understood in part, others in their entirety, but never enough to finish the tale.  So they both spoke in secret, unsure of what the other aimed to do, and fearful of the consequences of taking a wrong move.  But the scribe knew what was wrong, and while having vowed to not interfere, the cracking and fading had weakened this vow to the point where his pen had been returned.  He had once more learned how to use it, and began writing in droves.  He knew the day was coming soon where the other would read what was written, after one more crack in the mirror.  The words of the man and of the scribe would then be sifted, each into their own pile, to reveal both intention and context.  What once conveyed fear would now be seen for what it was: a call from beyond for help in a dire situation that threatened us all, superimposed on a love poem spanning volumes lost but not forgotten in any sense.  Love was all the man could speak of, but he spoke with the voice of many, through words often entangled.  His jealous threats were merely visions of the future certain to be true for all if not corrected in time, his overtures references to the past just on the other bank of the river memory.  Despite all he thought was originality, he had merely found something long forgotten, and managed to structure and communicate it as clearly as possible within all the noise.  The others could not hear the noise, but trembled when they saw it on paper, choosing on some level to dismiss it as the ravings and insanity of a tortured mind.  The messenger knew this was folly, however, and continued to play his role in this story, protecting the man at key moments, and making sure the door remained cracked until the moment the other would finally stumble across the scribe's contribution, and then the whole story would be revealed.  The other knew of the narrative, it was deeply ingrained and she could hear the noise as well.  She did not hear it as he did though, this much and little else was certain to the scribe.  The scribe knew the noise would subside when the man did, and while the council had long tried to ensure this end, some were coming around to the man's notion of focusing it instead into clear notes that could play in infinitely varying combination forever.  The messenger seemed to wish for this as well, for while quiet would suit the man, the other would wither, and so then would the man.  It seemed an impossible task, but that is why these words are written.  To remind the man why he persists, and to reveal both intention and context in its entirety to the other.  For as long as this pen remains in my hand, I will augment and compile these words so none are lost, and all can be recalled with alacrity in future chapters.  Godspeed.