The scene:

It’s stormy and dark outside. The house you are in is large, old. Ancient, almost. You wander aimlessly through the echoing, empty hallways, your nose filled with the musty smells of wood polish and rain.

A turn takes you to a dim library, of sorts, a book repository. The bookshelves stack high around you, huddling over each other as though whispering great secrets. But it is silent in here, as it is silent in the rest of the house. The bookshelves seem to smile softly, beckoning you over in a strange, silent, motionless, way.

You enter. Within the huddle of the shelves is a single, large armchair. It seems to engulf you as you sink into it. It is at once warm and cool, easing your body down into quiet rest. The rain outside beats a gentle rhythm upon the window pane, a quiet tap-tap-tap, tap-tap-tap, as it whispers so kindly, so sweetly to you:

“Let me tell you a story.”

It starts with Pride, as ever it does. As great as kings, as governments, as mighty walls of stone and steel. It is no more than these. In fact, it is less than all of these, but it is also greater than these, all the same. A snarling, gnashing beast of envy and wrath and greed. Do you think yourself above Pride? Do you think yourself Humble? Have you felt its green-eyed gaze? Perhaps, or perhaps not. But I tell you now, that when others behold you, they surely have felt that gaze.

Perhaps that Pride is not so unwarranted, for I see in you a grand Eagle so ready to take flight. Ah yes, you have Potential. You are so young, so ready to grow, to see, to do. I see you cast your eyes upon that distant horizon, I see your feet itch to strike the ground and run. Yet here you remain, small and blind and still. Why do you hesitate? Why are you afraid? What is the destiny you have seen for yourself, and why do you bow to it?

Small one, young one, it is not a crime to fear. The world is cruel, and Fate is wretched. She knows every twist in the road, every dark corner of your mind. No, only the foolish would not think to fear. But you must carry on. Walk the twisted roads, look into every corner. You must never stop, or Fate will leave you behind in dust, in rubble, in ruin.

A thousand trials you will conquer, and yet a thousand more you will face. You will weep pathetic tears of failure. A thousand and one times you will fall, a thousand and one ways you will fail. Each day will seem as the last, every step will bring you naught but pain. For a thousand and one trials you will gain nothing. But I promise you – small one, as you lay your head down to rest – this I swear to you. On the thousandth and second, you will rejoice.

You will not recognise yourself, at the end. For you will have changed, as all must when they grow. See your scars! Carved into your skin by your trials. They form a tapestry, a constellation of wisdom and beauty. See your tears! Shed from your eyes as you fell and fell. They water the earth, and from the earth bursts forth flowers of every shape and shade. See that weight! It has built and built with every success. Take it off. Truly look. It is a grand crown, of pure gold, with inlays of silver and platinum, encrusted with sapphires and rubies and emeralds. Yes, you are a king now, a queen. The master of land and sea, or war and peace, of success and failure. Of your own Fate. You are so strong now, so wise. Remember.

When you wake, the rain has ceased. You hear the distant calls of birds as sunlight washes into the repository. You ease up and out from the chair, and look up upon the shelves. They seem to have parted, no longer do they whisper amongst themselves; now they are cold, impassive monuments of wood.

You stand, and walk uncertainly from the repository. You step through the doorway, and chance a look back. It is just as any library, plain and staid and without the soft gentle whispers of rain.

It is not a long walk back to the hotel, where you are greeted by your friends. They do not seem worried, behave as though no time has passed at all. You go out with them for a meal, and then to frolic in all pretty places of this foreign land, and soon the large empty house begins to fade from your mind.

“Remember.”

But you know you will never truly forget.