Cold.
That was the first thing that cut through the fog of his consciousness—the sharp, biting cold of stone against his cheek. Not the comfortable cool of an air-conditioned room, but the raw, mountain chill that seemed to seep straight into his bones. His eyes fluttered open to gray stone blocks fitted together with masterful precision, each one carved with flowing curves and spirals that seemed to dance even in the dim light.
He pushed himself up slowly, his body protesting with unfamiliar aches.
Where was he?
The question echoed in his mind as he took in his surroundings—towering walls that stretched up into shadows, broken columns that once must have supported a magnificent ceiling, and everywhere he could see, the intricate stonework that spoke of a civilization that had valued beauty as much as function.
This wasn't his home. That much he knew with absolute certainty, though when he tried to grasp what home actually looked like, the memory slipped away like water through his fingers. He could almost feel it—the shape of a familiar room, the sound of... something electronic humming in the background? But the harder he reached for it, the more it dissolved.
Standing on unsteady legs, he wrapped his arms around himself. His clothes were simple, unfamiliar—loose brown pants and a cream-colored shirt that offered little protection against the mountain air that whistled through the broken walls. Mountain air. How did he know it was mountain air? The thin quality of it, the way it made his lungs work harder—these were things he recognized without understanding why.
The temple—for that's what this had to be, with its soaring architecture and sense of sacred space—stretched out around him in all directions. Broken pottery littered the floor in some places, and strange metal contraptions lay scattered about, their purpose unclear. Everything was covered in a fine layer of dust that spoke of years, maybe decades of abandonment.
As he wandered deeper into the ruins, fragments of something teased at the edges of his consciousness. He'd been somewhere else, doing something... important? There had been a screen, glowing blue-white in a dark room. Questions. He'd been answering questions about...
The memory fragment shattered as his foot caught on something that rolled away with a hollow sound.
He looked down and froze.
A human skull grinned up at him from the stone floor, empty sockets dark as caves. But it wasn't just the skull—scattered around it were more bones, yellowed with age and dust. Ribs, vertebrae, the delicate bones of hands and feet. And beyond this skeleton, partially hidden behind a fallen pillar, he could make out the gleam of more bones.
His stomach lurched, and he stumbled backward, hand flying to his mouth. The rational part of his mind—the part that seemed to function with strange clarity despite his memory gaps—cataloged what he was seeing. Human remains. Multiple individuals. The way they were scattered suggested they'd been here for a very long time.
But it was more than just the clinical observation that hit him. A wave of overwhelming sadness crashed over him, so intense it brought tears to his eyes. These weren't just anonymous bones—they were people. They had lived, breathed, laughed, loved. And now they lay forgotten in the ruins of what had clearly once been their home.
The skull stared up at him, and in that empty gaze, he saw the echo of someone's final moments. Had they been afraid? Had they tried to run? The questions clawed at him, bringing with them an inexplicable sense of personal loss, as if he'd known these people somehow.
He sank to his knees beside the remains, careful not to disturb them. "I'm sorry," he whispered, though he couldn't have said why.
"I'm so sorry this happened to you."
The words felt inadequate, but they were all he had. As he knelt there in the dust and silence, more memories tried to surface. Something about a show he'd loved, characters he'd cared about. Air... airbenders? The word floated up from somewhere deep in his mind, carrying with it a complex mix of sadness and familiarity.
But when he tried to grasp the memory fully, to understand why that word felt so significant, it slipped away again. Just like when he tried to remember his own name, or the face of anyone who might have cared about him, or even how old he was supposed to be. The harder he reached for these fundamental pieces of himself, the more they receded into a gray fog that made his head ache.
What kind of person was he, that he could forget his own name? His family—surely he'd had family? Parents, siblings, friends? But when he searched for those memories, he found only empty spaces where vital pieces of his identity should have been.
Yet somehow, he knew what airbenders were. Somehow, he recognized the architectural style of this place as belonging to people who could manipulate the very air around them. Somehow, looking at these bones filled him with a grief that felt both personal and vast, as if he were mourning not just these individuals but an entire way of life.
The contradiction made no sense. How could he remember abstract concepts but not concrete realities? How could he know about fictional characters—for surely airbenders were fictional, weren't they?—but not remember the basic facts of his own existence?
He sat back on his heels, running his hands through his hair in frustration. The gesture felt familiar, like something he'd done countless times before when faced with problems he couldn't solve. But even that small comfort was tainted by the knowledge that he couldn't remember a single specific instance of making that gesture.
The silence of the temple pressed in around him, broken only by the whistle of wind through broken stone. Somewhere in the distance, he could hear the sound of birds calling to each other, their voices echoing off the mountain peaks that he somehow knew surrounded this place.
He was alone. Completely, utterly alone, with nothing but fragments of memories that might not even be real and the bones of the dead for company.
But as he sat there in the ruins, surrounded by the evidence of some long-ago tragedy, one thing became crystal clear: he couldn't stay here doing nothing. These people—whoever they had been—deserved better than to have their remains scattered across the floor of their former home. And he—whoever he was—deserved better than to sit here paralyzed by what he couldn't even remember.
The questions about his identity would have to wait. Right now, he had more immediate concerns. Like figuring out where he was, how he'd gotten here, and most importantly, how he was going to survive long enough to find any answers at all.
He stood slowly, his legs shaking with more than just the cold. The temple stretched out around him, vast and empty and full of secrets. But it was also shelter, and in his current situation, that might be the most important thing of all.
As he began to explore more carefully, stepping around the scattered remains with newfound reverence, he couldn't shake the feeling that being here wasn't an accident. The fragments of memory, the inexplicable knowledge, the way his heart had broken at the sight of those bones—it all felt too connected to be coincidence.
But connected to what? And why couldn't he remember making the choice to come here, if indeed he had made such a choice?
The questions multiplied with each step he took deeper into the ruins, but answers remained as elusive as his own name. All he could do was keep moving forward, one careful step at a time, and hope that somewhere in this maze of broken stone and forgotten dreams, he would find the key to understanding not just where he was, but who he was supposed to be.
The wind picked up, sending a chill through the temple that made him shiver. Night would be coming soon, and with it, temperatures that his thin clothes were nowhere near adequate to handle. Whatever else he was, he was apparently not someone who had been prepared for survival in an abandoned mountain temple.
But as he looked around at the soaring walls and intricate carvings, at the evidence of a sophisticated civilization that had valued beauty and craftsmanship, he felt a spark of something that might have been hope. If he was here for a reason—then maybe, just maybe, he would find the strength to not just survive, but to honor the memory of those who had called this place home.
Even if he couldn't remember his own.
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AN: Honestly not sure if this is how I want it done 100% so just leaving that it may change, let me know what you all think.