Lead and Gold

Godricke did not know what he had prepared himself to see, but it certainly was not this. What he saw were books, piles upon piles of books. There were towers of books, mounds of books, trails of books and stairwells of books. There were books forming bridges to distant books, books teetering upon the edges of books which threatened to throw them upon even more books. There were books that seemed to solely exist to support an imposing wall of thicker books. Although there was no attempt at organization, each and every book seemed to be in its one and proper place. He did not know how he had not seen them from his outer viewpoint; maybe the sheer amount of them had managed to reject any light attempting to creep through the windows. For a moment, he was rooted to the spot, afraid that any misstep would send each and every volume, manuscript, and anthology toppling inwards, creating a wave of dust that would choke him as a fitting punishment. As carefully as he could,—it would have been painful to watch, were there any onlookers—he closed the thick door behind him, instantly feeling the difference the outside air had made in the room. Godricke's heart stalled as his vision was completely stolen from him—the damned books were blocking the windows!—but after a few helpless moments, the natural lighting provided from a few distant, random candles brought his eyes into focus again. It was only then, with the doors closed and all exterior influences kept at bay, that he realized how immense the chamber was. Despite the seemingly endless heights to the paper-stacks, the ceiling was even higher. In the dim lighting, Godricke could make out vivid murals mapped out from east to west. Unlike other famous murals he had become acquainted throughout his short life, these pictures did not seem to hold a central theme. In fact, each and every picture seemed to follow its own style. In one corner rested a single, quiet seraph, wings extending along the wooden beams. In another, an imposing gargoyle leered down, its black eyes not really holding any specific spot in its gaze. Vaguely, the two figures almost seemed relatable—some reproduction of an angel-versus-demon scene—until Godricke began to notice every other picture. A fish swam though a purple patch of fire; a bird skirted through a tangle of an inverted trees roots; a single music note drifted up in a gray concrete bubble. There were too many depictions to describe, and none were similar to any other. Even being so drastically different in style, meaning, and color, they seemed to come together to form one massive, beautiful piece of art. Eventually, after the initial awe had passed, the scene began to strike him as odd, seeing as how worn the outer walls looked. If, in fact, this building had remained untouched for as long as he supposed it had, than this paint, even hidden from the natural elements, should have at least begun to fade. The truth was quite visibly the opposite. Each and every puzzle piece of paint was fresh and unscathed, as if they had been done up yesterday.
"Enjoying the view?" murmured a voice from before him, which emanated from a man standing not five feet away from where Godricke currently was.

Godricke's body snapped into action, his hand flying to his person for the first thing he thought to grab—the wooden trinket. Stupidly, almost childishly, he thrust it out in front of him, like a shield, because he felt as if that was the unnamable purpose it was meant to serve. He heard a gasp, and was dumbfounded, because he let himself believe—foolishly—that his act had had some effect on the stranger. Indeed, it had inflicted a wound, but it was on the psyche of the man before him, not his body, that that mark lingered.

"Oh…you do not…you do not know what that thing that you hold is, do you? No, no, I can see it in your eyes. You have no clue…well, put it away. It is quite beautiful, but you are holding it the wrong way; it should be around your neck, because you are going to ruin the wood, gripping it like that. Just put it away, please, and do not throw it out again. You have no clue what it is."

Without thought, Godricke obediently did as he was told, lethargically stowing the wooden piece inside of coat. The voice made him feel as if he should, no questions asked. Despite the sheet of darkness clinging to the room, Godricke was just able to perceive the figure that stood before him. It was a man, roughly his own height, covered from neck to toe in a heavy-looking black robe, one so black that it seemed to be able to set itself apart from the variety of black the room displayed. Standing out in a stark contrast to his backdrop stood a unruly mess of snow white hair, which hung across the eyes of an unsure color—grey perhaps? It was hard to tell—which, he knew, were trained upon him. Aside from these few characteristics, there was not much to see.

"Wh—" Godricke began unsteadily,

"Who am I? Oh, yes, introductions. I apologize. It has been quite some time since I have had—a visitor. My name is Alurayne—that last part as in water--Giodornoe, of homeland Unimportant, family Unremembered, and title Long Forgotten. I am the Keeper, Slave, and Prospective Owner of this beautiful Cathedral, which, I am afraid, you are intruding within. May I have your name, so I can properly and respectfully dismiss you from my sight?"

Although Godricke knew that those words Aluraune had spoken, coming from any other man, would have angered him, they did not now. It was not because of the quality of the voice, or the unnerving elegance of the man who spoke them; it was because the words were completely devoid of emotion. There was no sarcasm, humor, bitterness or reluctance to the introduction and demand. They were, simply put, spoken words, stating an idea, and a question, which, simply put, was to be answered. There was nothing else. There was no avoiding such simplicity.

“I am Godricke Sylvas,” he said, making a slight bow, which Alurayne returned. “I am chief of Renil, the nearest town west of here. I have been sent to validate tales of a m—“ Here, he paused, because, prior to this meeting, he had been more than willing to say a monster, but something about actually seeing what it was the people were afraid of—a simple man—made him reconsider his words. “Of a minor disturbance. My people were frightened, and I—“
Godricke could do nothing but blink as Alurayne began to chuckle, first quietly, so that he had to strain to hear the noise, then more boldly, until the spacious chamber echoed with the sound. He could have sworn that even the books began to rustle, mocking him for coming here, for playing into the fears of the town, for being afraid himself. At length, Alurayne’s laughter ceased, and the air returned to its viscous silence. It was all Godricke could do to meet Alurayne’s gaze when he looked upon him.

“Do forgive me, Sir Godricke, please; I did not mean to imply you had said something comical. It is just—oh, do forgive me. It is just that I know what you had wanted to say, that quietly tremble and overstress of that “m” said it all. You were going to say monster. No, no, do not try and explain yourself—honestly, you are not incorrect in wanting to say so—What I do wish to know, however, is what about me that you see makes me fit your perception of “monster”?

Godricke paused for a moment, and thought, and realized that, aside from the word of his people, nothing here excused his opinion. He said as much.

“Nothing. Nothing does.”

“Do I have a prolonged snout or teeth?”

“No…”

“Do I have an unusual tail or leathery wings?”

“No…no…”

“Do I spew fire from my eyes or fingernails?”

“No, you do not.”

“Do I seem to growl between words? Does my English shift into guttural inflections? Do I seem on the brink of hunger?”

“N-no, no, not at all.”

Here Alurayne paused, not for a lack of words—Godricke felt as if this man could say what he wanted, at any given time, in any given manner—but more for Godricke’s sake, so as not to put him on a defensive. Something about his manner changed in that pause. Whereas Alurayne had been masterfully composed before, his voice straightforward and simple, a barely visible hand now quivered, and his gaze seemed to slip past him, to the door behind him, though Godricke knew that he did not see the door; he was looking past it, past all the broken windows and trees, past the underbrush and the animals, to the very heart of the down that lay beyond them, to each and every man, woman, and child that dwelt there. The pause, which lasted far too long, was finally broken with the quaver of Alurayne’s voice.

“What, then, Sir Godricke—no, do not interrupt—what, then, I ask, gives you the impression that I am a monster, besides the fact that I freely state that I am? On your journey here, what thoughts spurred on your mind, your courage? What truly made you come here?”

Godricke felt as anything he possibly said would not be a sufficient answer, though he knew he had to try, because that quaver, whether or not it was a sign of weakness, demanded it.

“My people…they are why I came.”

Across the span of feet that separated Alurayne and himself, Alurayne’s eyes—they had no definite color—seemed to pierce into his own slate grey ones, like the mason’s spike driving into stone, breaking it, revealing its inner structures.

“You know that you do not believe that.”

“They are why I came. I have a duty to them.”

“You are lying. Why did you come?”

“Because they were afraid, they could not sleep at—“

“You are lying. Why did you come here?”

“I told you! My people needed me! They—“

“Stop lying to me!”

Godricke's body trembled at the sound of that command; it remained emotionless, and the anger in the voice was pure anger, not as it is typically perceived, but its base essence, like a peal of thunder. It was kindred to natures anger, which did not form its brutality based on emotions, but simply lashed out when it did, with no logical reasons or intentions; rainstorms did not plan to shatter the bark of trees; floods did not seek to drag mortals beneath its shadow; hurricanes did not wish to uproot homes from their foundations—these things simply happened, just like Alurayne's "anger". It left him rigidly rooted to the exact tile he had been standing in since he examined the murals. It left him waiting.

"I shall ask you again," Alurayne murmured softly, a hint of the thunder still evidently underlining his words, "Why did you come here? Do not tell me why you were asked to come here; tell me why you came here?"

Godricke took a moment to process the words and subtract the previously wrong answer from the equation. If it was not for his people, then why had he came? True, they needed him, but he had began believing that they were too dependent for their own good. Even in the forest he had keenly felt the resentment to come, yet here he was. That resentment was only coming here on their behalf, which, logically, left a personal motive. What was that urge that had drawn him here?

Then he had remembered the sensation of vulnerability.

The more he thought on it, the more he realized that, as odd as it was, he had not felt the least bit afraid. The feeling had been unexplainable, which meant that an explanation as easily made as Fear would have come to his mind with no effort. He had not been afraid, so what had he been feeling? I was…

"I was curious," he murmured, not completely aware that he had spoken aloud.

Almost instantly, the tension between himself and the man seemed to be severed. A candle on a far off wall flared, as if the dissolution of the tension had created a breath of air that stirred the flames. Even Alurayne's unbecoming shudders had ceased, leaving him looking as calm and composed as he had been when he entered the room.

"Curiosity…" he whispered, eyes refocusing upon Godricke again, whatever business they had with the specters beyond the door now finished. "Yes, Curiosity…that is what brought you here, of course. Curiosity makes men do many foolish things…many, many foolish things." A cough interrupted his speech, though it was obviously intentional, ending whatever comment he had been about to make.

"Well, Godricke, that, I believe, is the correct answer. Your men and women may have wanted you to come here, but, in the end, you made that choice. Your curiosity led you through the trees, to the doors, and into this room. I myself am a connoisseur of the deceptive Lady Curiosity. I truly believe you understand, that, no?"

With that said, Alurayne turned on his heels and slowly began moving towards the study again, leaving Godricke immobile. Hand on the antique black handle worked into the wood, he spoke, not bothering to turn to look at the statue behind him.

"Come, come, I wish to show you something. Do not worry, I shall not harm you—if either of us were prepared to do that, one of us would be silent by now. Come, please, this way." And with no further explanation, Alurayne disappeared behind the slightly splintered door.

Godricke, after a few moments of indecision, found himself easily following.