Forgotten by the Mist: The Story Collector's Almanac, #5

By E.S. Barrison

Julietta had no memories of her past…
Except how to paint.

When Julietta finds herself in a mausoleum without a single memory, she has no choice but to trust the Angel of Death who greets her. With a kind smile and a soft-spoken voice, he gives her a name, and takes her as an apprentice. Yet, even with the knowledge of Death, Julietta's memories continue to slip, only for her to turn to painting as an outlet.

As her paintings begin coming to life, Julietta is led away from the safety of the mausoleum and into the city of Graycott.

Yet, the city is entrenched with war, and as fatalities climb, memories of Julietta's past resurface.

Not all memories are good ones. As Julietta uncovers the agony of her past life, she must decide: is it worth remembering who she once was? Or would it be better to forget and rewrite her own story?

In this installment of The Story Collector's Almanac, follow Julietta as she paints over her past and becomes the forgetful, elusive Mist Keeper from The Mist Keeper's Apprentice.

Rated 14+ for mentions of death, suicide, and depression.

• Language: English
• Publisher: E.S. Barrison
• Release date: Jun 9, 2024
• ISBN: 9798989850822

Book preview

Copyright © 2024 by E.S. Barrison

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed or transmitted in any form or by any means, without prior written permission.

E.S. Barrison

www.esbarrison-author.com

Publisher’s Note: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are a product of the author’s imagination. Locales and public names are sometimes used for atmospheric purposes. Any resemblance to actual people, living or dead, or to businesses, companies, events, institutions, or locales is completely coincidental.

Content Warning: This book is rated 14+ due to violence, depression, suicide, and death.

Book Layout © 2017 BookDesignTemplates.com

Forgotten by the Mist/E.S. Barrison. -- 1st ed.

ISBN 979-8-9898508-2-2

Table of Contents

Start

Foreward

One

Two

Three

Four

Five

Six

Seven

Eight

Nine

Ten

Eleven

Twelve

Thirteen

Fourteen

Fifteen

Sixteen

Seventeen

Eighteen

Nineteen

Twenty

Twenty-One

Twenty-Two

Twenty-Three

Twenty-Four

Twenty-Five

Twenty-Six

Twenty-Seven

Twenty-Eight

Twenty-Nine

Thirty

Thirty-One

Thirty-Two

Thirty-Three

Thirty-Four

Thirty-Five

Thirty-Six

Thirty-Seven

Dedicated to Grandma Rhoda & Grandpa David

You taught me the importance of stories…

…and how stories help us never forget.

Diagram Description automatically generated

al•ma•nac

a publication containing astronomical or meteorological information, as future positions of celestial objects, star magnitudes, and culmination dates of constellations. 

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Not every story lasts an eternity.

Some are buried in the ground or locked in cupboards.

Left to rot. Burn. Or crumble.

But I’m not one to let a story vanish into darkness.

Ever since I was a child, I found myself drawn to stories. Not just the fictional ones, banished by the Order of the Effluvium long ago, but also the stories that the Order could not regulate. These stories, the exaggerated histories of my neighbors and friends, wrapped their words around me. The past, after all, is but an aggregation of all our stories.

Upon meeting the Council of Mist Keepers, I used their stories to understand the who, what, and why behind their very existence. Their tales took me hundreds of years into the past, and with each newfound story, I understood more of their reasoning and behavior.

Well, all except for Julietta.

When I first met Julietta, she greeted me like an aloof child. She called me Milo and led me through the Library of Mist Keepers as though lost in a dream. It was heartwarming at first, but the more I reflected on her behavior, the more my heart ached. She was missing part of herself, whether she knew it or not.

Since then, I’ve learned the sad reality of her missing story. I still do not know if I found every aspect, despite my ongoing investigation into her past. But I shall try my best to tell this tale.

In some ways, I wonder if forgetting her story was for the best. Perhaps she is happier now without it; she does not have to carry the darkness that led her into the Mist. That darkness ate her alive and is not a darkness I would ever wish upon anyone.

I have seen how darkness eats away at the happiest people. It leaves them tainted. Alone. Helpless.

But whether or not Julietta remembers, it is my duty to collect her tale and record it here.

Because I am the Story Collector.

And no story should be forgotten.

The man called her Julietta.

But try as she might, she couldn't be sure it was her name.

She couldn't even be sure she was alive.

All she could be certain of was that she stood by a window, staring out over a graveyard, with a castle as a backdrop to the scene. Beneath it, picturesque statues stood, basking in plumes of smoke. They watched the dragons in the distance, diving in and out of the clouds, with their dramatic shadows cast over the pathways.

Julietta, the man said again, his voice low and smooth like milk. What are you thinking?

She turned to the man. He bore a scar across his face, his black hair slicked back behind his ears. Stubble covered his jawline while green eyes gazed over her with piercing uncertainty.

I do not know, she replied, pivoting away from the man.

Do you remember anything at all, Julietta?

I know I am here…by this gravesite.

Yes, you are inside Graycott’s Necropolis. Very good.

And…I know those are dragons in the sky.

Yes. The Graycott dragons.

But I do not know how I got here. She glanced back at him. Nor do I know who you are.

He grimaced and placed a gentle hand on her shoulder. Carefully, he guided her over to a painting on the far wall. Beside it, canvases sat on the floor, draped in a loose curtain, with an old paint pallet thrown to the side with a single paintbrush. Colors danced across the painting, etching out an image of a blonde-haired woman with wide hips and bright green eyes standing alone in the Necropolis.

Do you remember this painting? the man asked.

I… She squinted, imagining the strokes dancing from her fingers to the paintbrush. Did I make this?

Yes. That is a self-portrait you painted, Julietta. See? Your signature is at the bottom.

She leaned forward, peering at the lettering in the corner. She traced it with her index finger. The curves of the letters came naturally.

It is familiar, she said, but I have no real memory of it.

The man nodded, eyes falling to the floor. As he stood there, a gentle colorful mist wrapped around him, painting his sorrow in the air.

She wondered if she took a paintbrush to the mist, whether she might be able to use it as paint. 

Will you help me remember? she instead asked the man.

With a slight nod, he agreed. Yet his sorrow continued to mark the air with a deep blue mist.

I suppose we should start with the most important piece, he replied, then raised his gaze. My name is Tomás. I am L’Ange Mort, your Angel of Death. And you, Julietta, are my apprentice.

If she had a memory, she may have laughed at the man’s face. But Julietta, as she supposed was her name, had no reason to argue with the man. What sort of rationale would prove him otherwise? He could tell her the clouds were made of crème brûlée, and she would have believed him.

How could she prove him wrong but by tasting the clouds?

L’Ange Mort, Julietta recited. Despite not having her memory, the story returned to her in a wave. L’Ange Mort only came in death on the back of a dragon, a silent shadow, collecting souls to maintain balance. So, does that mean I am not alive?

You are not a part of the living world, but your soul thrives, Tomás replied.

My soul thrives… she whispered, lacing her hands together as she followed his gaze out the window. But…was I ever part of the living world?

Yes, you were.

And did you know me?

Tomás scowled, then said, You were a painter. You painted beauty, capturing it with a mere flick of your wrist.

So I did leave behind a legacy.

Indeed, you did. Perhaps your paintings hold the key to your memory.

Perhaps…but those paintings will not tell me how I came to be here without my memory.

You are right; they will not.

But you can, can you not? Julietta tilted her head, staring at Tomás intently.

I…can. The man fidgeted with the cuffs of his sleeves as he stared at an uneven floorboard.

Julietta waited, not daring to pressure him further.

Tomás spoke his next words carefully, as if calculating the twinge of each syllable and voice. You and I met one day in this very gravesite. You were a private person, never telling me much about your life, but you listened eagerly to everything I taught you. Upon seeing your tenacity, I offered you an apprenticeship, which you accepted. We studied together for years. 

But I was still alive?

Yes—you had yet to die when we began our training, Tomás sighed. "But you cannot become a Mist Keeper—or as you call Death, L’Ange Mort—without dying. That is one of the truths behind this existence. The living cannot sustain it