Sequel: Vernacular ›
Lead and Gold
Albedo
The whisper of a tireless quill and equally tireless dust filled the warmly lit study. Stacks upon stacks of hand-bound books littered what little space the room had been able to retain, forming a turret around the single occupant, who sat dead-center of the piles. A heavy, hooded raven robe separated the man from the surrounding light, leaving him to look as a shadow of a man who was not truly there. In a sense, that assumption was true; his hand worked the smooth stroke of the pen, his arm extended for leather bindings now and then, but it was all in such a mechanical manner, like a paper press belching out sheet after sheet of text. His body had been in the high-backed black velvet chair for hours, yet he had never set foot in the study.
The man's head raised stiffly, his snowy white hair shying away from his eyes, which were trained on nothing in particular. The presence that had been circling the Church perimeter had finally passed the front doors. The presence—easily discerned as a male—was not the surprise; no, not the man himself. What surprised him was the fact that this male had actually built up the nerve to intrude so boldly. The others who had come here were all taunts and flare; they tossed stones through the window, barked obscenities, even launched the odd projectile or two, but by the time the sun set, the front doors remained firmly locked. Maybe, he thought, just maybe, this man would be different. This man would—
"Oh, no use getting ahead of yourself," he murmured quietly, his voice a wisp of silk in the impenetrable silence.
Delicately setting the pen aside—one must not waste such a precious commodity—he stood, pushing the chair back. A blanket of brown and grey dust slid—how long had he been sitting there?—gracefully off his body, forming a ring at his feet. His mind was preparing for the confrontation to come, but his eyes remained stubbornly on his books. There were so many volumes just on the single desk before him: Stories of disease, of war, of poetry and art, architecture and faiths, recipes and weather, mountains and oceans. Collectively, they were an epic of Time itself, and, fittingly, were augmented day by day. Each binding came with a stack of blank sheets, in case any urgent additions came along. Time was not concrete; one never knew when something would change. He finally brought himself to turn away from the papers—it was a chore—and faced the diminutive door that lead to the more spacious entry room. Standing there, eyes trained on that door for the first time in an immeasurable amount of time, he could feel the dry and yellowed pages boring into his back, piercing his spine with every dot, curve, and line. They did not want him to go, could not live without him, but knew that he must. They knew that he, as much as themselves, was a part of the very stories he transcribed. The only difference was that another scribe would record his role. For a moment,—and a moment to him was vastly different than a moment to most other men—just a single moment, he allowed himself to worry about whether or not he would return to his room, would breathe in the cloying dust again, his perfect version of oxygen. He allowed himself to wonder if some freak tremor would tip the purposely placed candle, finally allowing it to burn its brightest, which it was never allowed to do; he wondered if this whole place would be compressed into a story about the composition of ash and the effects of unchecked fires.
Isn't that what part of him secretly wanted?
"Do not get ahead of yourself," he murmured again, closing his eyes to dislodge the incessant vision of the jaundiced eyes behind him. Taking a final breath, he moved towards the door, ripping the stagnant air apart as he went.
The man's head raised stiffly, his snowy white hair shying away from his eyes, which were trained on nothing in particular. The presence that had been circling the Church perimeter had finally passed the front doors. The presence—easily discerned as a male—was not the surprise; no, not the man himself. What surprised him was the fact that this male had actually built up the nerve to intrude so boldly. The others who had come here were all taunts and flare; they tossed stones through the window, barked obscenities, even launched the odd projectile or two, but by the time the sun set, the front doors remained firmly locked. Maybe, he thought, just maybe, this man would be different. This man would—
"Oh, no use getting ahead of yourself," he murmured quietly, his voice a wisp of silk in the impenetrable silence.
Delicately setting the pen aside—one must not waste such a precious commodity—he stood, pushing the chair back. A blanket of brown and grey dust slid—how long had he been sitting there?—gracefully off his body, forming a ring at his feet. His mind was preparing for the confrontation to come, but his eyes remained stubbornly on his books. There were so many volumes just on the single desk before him: Stories of disease, of war, of poetry and art, architecture and faiths, recipes and weather, mountains and oceans. Collectively, they were an epic of Time itself, and, fittingly, were augmented day by day. Each binding came with a stack of blank sheets, in case any urgent additions came along. Time was not concrete; one never knew when something would change. He finally brought himself to turn away from the papers—it was a chore—and faced the diminutive door that lead to the more spacious entry room. Standing there, eyes trained on that door for the first time in an immeasurable amount of time, he could feel the dry and yellowed pages boring into his back, piercing his spine with every dot, curve, and line. They did not want him to go, could not live without him, but knew that he must. They knew that he, as much as themselves, was a part of the very stories he transcribed. The only difference was that another scribe would record his role. For a moment,—and a moment to him was vastly different than a moment to most other men—just a single moment, he allowed himself to worry about whether or not he would return to his room, would breathe in the cloying dust again, his perfect version of oxygen. He allowed himself to wonder if some freak tremor would tip the purposely placed candle, finally allowing it to burn its brightest, which it was never allowed to do; he wondered if this whole place would be compressed into a story about the composition of ash and the effects of unchecked fires.
Isn't that what part of him secretly wanted?
"Do not get ahead of yourself," he murmured again, closing his eyes to dislodge the incessant vision of the jaundiced eyes behind him. Taking a final breath, he moved towards the door, ripping the stagnant air apart as he went.