Sequel: Vernacular ›
Lead and Gold
Rubedo
Alurayne lead the unsure Godricke into the small room, leaving the door slightly ajar behind them—closing it completely might just make this little hound bite. Inwardly, he felt a small twinge of satisfaction upon hearing the gasp of wonder Godricke gave as he took in the contents of the room. No other entity had ever set foot in here, save the occasional rodent, and even then, some instinctual fear drove that away, too. For as much time as he spent in here, it was the loneliest room in the whole complex.
"What…what is all of this?" Godricke asked quietly
"My life's work, I suppose. Or maybe that is unfair. I suppose I should say the life's work of everything around me."
"You mean these are…it's a…"
"Yes, Sir Godricke; these are histories."
Godricke cautiously advanced to the closest pile of books, gingerly lifting the topmost volume, tensing when the disturbed dust began to swirl. His fingers stroked the old leather cover, feeling each and every mark in the material.
"You made this?"
"Yes. I cured each strip of leather and bound the paper myself."
"This must have taken—"
"Years? Yes, you could say that. Then again, a year to me is the blink of an eye. This more than likely took centuries."
Godricke breathed in sharply again, eyes intent on the book in his hands.
"Go on, Godricke; open it. Check the date."
Godricke hesitated, realizing that he was beginning to tremble. Up until now, he had tried to convince himself that this whole panic was blown out of proportion, that Alurayne was simply some spent hermit scaring the countryside with his antics. He knew, though, that if he opened these pages, and saw a date that far exceeded the youthful appearance of the man before him, that that rationalization would be shattered. He knew that he would have to accept the reality that this man held some dark secret, and maybe, just maybe, he was a monster.
Isn’t that what he had come here for?
His fingers crept beneath the cover, knuckles propping the worn leather up to reveal the elegant letters beneath, and just below the letters, a set of numbers:
Alurayne Giodornoe
Arcania, 1212
Godricke closed his eyes, taking a slow, deep breath; his resolve was fully dissolved. Who are you?
Alurayne smiled slightly, though it did not seem to touch his eyes.
"There, is that what you came here for? Does the proof satisfy your curiosity enough to make a judgment? 'Oh, what monster is this??' 'How can such a thing exist?' 'Demon, devil, monster!'" Godricke heard the loss of composure in that last word, as if Alurayne had not been quoting another frightened soul, but condemning himself. He was not asking Godricke if he was a monster; he was proclaiming it freely.
Before Godricke could reply, Alurayne began speaking again, somewhat more withdrawn.
"Yes, yes…I know…you wish to know what happened…everyone who comes to this place does," he laughed bitterly, his eyes trained on some invisible target somewhere behind Godricke. "That seems to be the only history I have never taken the time to record. But, that's not what people strive to learn, is it; learning about monsters? They want heroes, wars, and faith. They only want monsters when they are at the end of the blade of one of those 'greater goods'."
He turned away from the stacks and moved to the eastern side of the room, where several layers of dust were collecting on an ancient looking leather tarp. Blowing away some of the dust, he laid his hand upon it gingerly, instantly leaving a print in the grey.
"I made this as well," he murmured distantly, his head tilted down, hair falling around his face. Finally, he tore away the cover to reveal what lie beneath.
It was a rough wooden workbench, appearing to have been unused for quite some time. Upon it lay several glass beakers and vials, their only contents being a mixture of dust and mold. Many of the containers were cracked or missing shards, leaving the whole set-up looking rather dangerous. Glittering specks of glass had settled into the grain of the wood, looking more like veins of silver than an uncared for workstation. In the top right corner of the table were stacked several books, of a different style then Alurayne's handmade compositions. The covers were a myriad of colors, the only similarities being the arcane symbols sinuously curving along the worn material. The language was unknown to Godricke. Alurayne, however, seemed to decipher that odd text as he began to tell his story.
"What…what is all of this?" Godricke asked quietly
"My life's work, I suppose. Or maybe that is unfair. I suppose I should say the life's work of everything around me."
"You mean these are…it's a…"
"Yes, Sir Godricke; these are histories."
Godricke cautiously advanced to the closest pile of books, gingerly lifting the topmost volume, tensing when the disturbed dust began to swirl. His fingers stroked the old leather cover, feeling each and every mark in the material.
"You made this?"
"Yes. I cured each strip of leather and bound the paper myself."
"This must have taken—"
"Years? Yes, you could say that. Then again, a year to me is the blink of an eye. This more than likely took centuries."
Godricke breathed in sharply again, eyes intent on the book in his hands.
"Go on, Godricke; open it. Check the date."
Godricke hesitated, realizing that he was beginning to tremble. Up until now, he had tried to convince himself that this whole panic was blown out of proportion, that Alurayne was simply some spent hermit scaring the countryside with his antics. He knew, though, that if he opened these pages, and saw a date that far exceeded the youthful appearance of the man before him, that that rationalization would be shattered. He knew that he would have to accept the reality that this man held some dark secret, and maybe, just maybe, he was a monster.
Isn’t that what he had come here for?
His fingers crept beneath the cover, knuckles propping the worn leather up to reveal the elegant letters beneath, and just below the letters, a set of numbers:
Alurayne Giodornoe
Arcania, 1212
Godricke closed his eyes, taking a slow, deep breath; his resolve was fully dissolved. Who are you?
Alurayne smiled slightly, though it did not seem to touch his eyes.
"There, is that what you came here for? Does the proof satisfy your curiosity enough to make a judgment? 'Oh, what monster is this??' 'How can such a thing exist?' 'Demon, devil, monster!'" Godricke heard the loss of composure in that last word, as if Alurayne had not been quoting another frightened soul, but condemning himself. He was not asking Godricke if he was a monster; he was proclaiming it freely.
Before Godricke could reply, Alurayne began speaking again, somewhat more withdrawn.
"Yes, yes…I know…you wish to know what happened…everyone who comes to this place does," he laughed bitterly, his eyes trained on some invisible target somewhere behind Godricke. "That seems to be the only history I have never taken the time to record. But, that's not what people strive to learn, is it; learning about monsters? They want heroes, wars, and faith. They only want monsters when they are at the end of the blade of one of those 'greater goods'."
He turned away from the stacks and moved to the eastern side of the room, where several layers of dust were collecting on an ancient looking leather tarp. Blowing away some of the dust, he laid his hand upon it gingerly, instantly leaving a print in the grey.
"I made this as well," he murmured distantly, his head tilted down, hair falling around his face. Finally, he tore away the cover to reveal what lie beneath.
It was a rough wooden workbench, appearing to have been unused for quite some time. Upon it lay several glass beakers and vials, their only contents being a mixture of dust and mold. Many of the containers were cracked or missing shards, leaving the whole set-up looking rather dangerous. Glittering specks of glass had settled into the grain of the wood, looking more like veins of silver than an uncared for workstation. In the top right corner of the table were stacked several books, of a different style then Alurayne's handmade compositions. The covers were a myriad of colors, the only similarities being the arcane symbols sinuously curving along the worn material. The language was unknown to Godricke. Alurayne, however, seemed to decipher that odd text as he began to tell his story.