Early Summer, The Burial Disc

I spent today cleaning the burial discs.

Not all of them, only the smaller collection housed within the eastern funerary cabinets where the older carved stone and ceremonial jade pieces rest beneath linen wrappings and layers of carefully preserved dust. It is work I have always found surprisingly peaceful. Most funerary objects possess a stillness that differs from the more volatile relics elsewhere in the Archive. Whatever purpose they once served seems long since fulfilled, leaving behind a quiet dignity that rarely asks anything of those who care for them.

The Burial Disc disturbed that expectation almost immediately.

At first glance it is an exceptionally beautiful object. A pale carved stone disc rests within an elaborate outer frame of flowing relief work worn smooth by generations of handling. The central circle is filled with concentric engravings and delicate spirals executed with such precision that they resemble mathematical constructions more than ornament. Dark mineral staining still obscures portions of the surface despite repeated attempts at careful conservation over many years.

Very little survives concerning its origin.

The catalogue attributes it only to eclipse rites and funerary ceremonies conducted beneath winter skies, while every excavation report repeats a single observation with remarkable consistency.

Positioned above the chest cavity facing upward.

I cannot adequately explain why that sentence remained with me throughout the day.

The morning itself could not have been more peaceful.

Sunlight filtered gently through the conservatory roof while sea fog lingered beyond the cliffs without quite reaching the windows. Clio spent most of the early hours asleep beside the herb trays, still carrying the faint scent of lavender from yesterday's preparations, and Muninn devoted himself to transporting old brass buttons from one shelf to another with the solemn concentration he reserves for tasks whose purpose remains known only to him.

For a little while the Archive felt almost gentle again.

I carried the Burial Disc upstairs after breakfast intending only to remove the mineral deposits gradually spreading across the engraved surface before they reached the finer details. It promised to be a quiet morning of careful brushing, warm water, soft cloths, and patient observation, the sort of work that usually leaves very little room for anxious thoughts.

The stone responded beautifully to cleaning.

As the deposits lifted away, previously hidden spirals emerged from beneath the surface one by one. They did not resemble writing in any language I recognise. Instead they appeared closer to carefully measured intervals, perhaps astronomical calculations associated with eclipses rather than purely decorative carving.

The longer I examined them, the less convinced I became that the engravings were intended simply as ornament.

Shortly before midday the sunlight reached the worktable directly.

The polished surface of the disc reflected the light onto the conservatory ceiling in a series of broad circular bands. At first I assumed they were nothing more than ordinary reflections, but after watching them for several minutes I realised they were moving with remarkable consistency. Rather than scattering across the plaster, the rings drifted together in measured alignment, slowly rotating as though following some invisible calculation beyond the room itself.

Clio woke almost immediately.

She did not appear alarmed.

She simply watched the reflections with complete attention.

A few moments later Muninn descended from the rafters carrying the brass buttons he had been collecting all morning. One by one he placed them around the edge of the worktable until they formed circles that closely resembled the shifting patterns overhead.

Watching him, I found myself thinking again that he is forever arranging things into maps whose meaning I have yet to understand.

My attention eventually returned to the disc itself.

Near the centre I noticed one small area where the mineral staining remained unusually thick. Assuming it concealed more of the spiral pattern beneath, I cleaned it away with the same care I had used across the rest of the surface.

Instead I uncovered another layer of engraving altogether.

These carvings differed completely from the surrounding geometry.

They were observational rather than symbolic.

At the centre lay a darkened circular form surrounded by concentric eclipse markings almost identical to partially erased solar diagrams preserved within the monastery transcriptions recovered alongside the original excavation. Around that central image stood three small figures beneath the darkened sun.

One was tall.

One wore a hood.

The third was considerably smaller.

The shape of its ears reminded me immediately of Clio.

For only a moment I became aware of an emotion so ancient that it seemed to exist beyond ordinary memory.

It was loneliness.

Not entirely my own.

Something larger.

Something that seemed to belong to the Archive itself.

The sensation disappeared as quickly as it had arrived.

A cloud passed across the sun, the reflected circles dissolved into ordinary light, and gentle rain began once more against the conservatory windows. Looking back at the disc, I found nothing beyond polished stone resting quietly upon the table.

I wrapped it again before evening.

Not because I believed it dangerous.

Because uncovering the hidden carvings had felt strangely private, as though I had accidentally read a page that was never intended for me.

The Burial Disc has now been returned to the eastern funerary cabinets beneath fresh linen wrapping. Clio has scarcely left my side since I replaced it, while Muninn continues arranging his collections of brass fragments into careful circles throughout the observatory whenever he believes I am not paying attention.

Before extinguishing the final lantern this evening, I glanced once more toward the wrapped disc.

Although the sky outside had become completely overcast, I could have sworn that faint circular reflections still lingered across the surface of the cloth.

I watched them for several moments.

They did not move.

I remain uncertain whether that is reassuring.

— M