There was a boy – a boy not so easy to describe – and he was, in a way, quiet – quite very quiet indeed – and this was noted by his schoolmates; they had keen eyes, you see; he was labelled as the silent one – no one knew his talent, not even the teachers.
Was he a nerd or geek or was he a jock or athlete or was he just a being who resided at the back of the class, reading quietly – it was a rare moment that he spoke or made a noise other than his own hushed breath and the tapping.
The tapping was, contrary to the boy, loud and constant, driving everyone, excluding the teacher, mad. It would not stop; it was as if his fingers had been designed to tap, as if they were his words.
"Did the boy speak?" Those are the common whispers to friends during break – some shall cast glances at the reading, quiet boy – and the reply is almost always the same:
"No."
A Tuesday, a Tuesday during October, had a forecast of a chill, a very, very cold chill, enough to freeze one's spine and numb one's fingers, thumbs, toes and lips.
It was this Tuesday the boy spoke for the first time.
Almost all the students were wearing hoodies or jackets or jumpers or cardigans – this was a school free of school uniform, well, besides the badge that was necessary – as they made their way around the school.
Not the boy.
Others stared as he strolled along, as if it were a dry and warm day, in a T-shirt and tracksuit trousers, with trainers that did nothing to warm the feet of him and no socks.
"Aren't you cold?" Many asked him – most got no reply.
But one did.
"Aren't you cold?"
The boy stopped; he stared also, at the slightly older boy, who sported brown hair (in a quiff?), blue eyes and fair skin, and a baggy long sleeved sport shirt with jumpers over and under it, tracksuit trousers (which had warmers attached to them), long socks and trainers that did much to warm him. He still shivered, his face exposed to the cold.
"Aren't you cold?" What an interesting question, the boy pondered, but, by the look on the others' faces, his expression showed no thought or emotion – but then again, did he ever show a pathway toward his mind?
"That's the silent boy!" One began, not even forming the third word before one interrupted.
'One' was the boy.
"Only physically." A mistake.
"… Silent boy…" One finished, as they stared.
"Did he just…?"
"No…"
"He just…"
The boy who asked the question pointed at him, not as if he were strange or an alien or whatever…
As if he'd just committed a great deed, a deed that would change the world.
"You just spoke…"
The 'silent' boy's voice was cool, confident yet timid, and it had matured a lot. But there was a raspy-ness to it as well, as if he permanently had a sore throat.
No one, but the boy in the sports shirt, noticed, and a vast crowd gathered; no one else noticed his eyes widen as he tried to creep away from the crowd, but was circled, no one except the sport shirt sporting boy.
Questions flew at him, the poor silent boy, and, in a desperate attempt to 'tell' them to leave him alone, he covered his ears with his hands.
No.
Questions still flew at him, regardless of his clear unwillingness to speak any more.
"STOP IT!" The sport shirt sporting boy yelled, running to the boy and defending him, and glared at those who were yelling questions. "He doesn't want to answer any of your questions! People call him the silent boy for a reason!"
Nothing. No words, no movement, only heavy breaths.
And then tapping. Anxious, awkward tapping.
Tap, tap, tap, tap. Tap, tap, tap, tap. Tap, tap. Tap. Tap, tap, tap.
It was a sentence, it must have been, and it was probably begging them to leave.
They obeyed the taps.
Only the tapper and sport shirt sporting boy remained.
"You want to stay by me? Ya know, in case those kids come again."
The silent boy nodded and walked alongside the older one, a hand extended slightly so, in case he trailed behind or the older one walked too fast, the tapper could grab a jumper of the older one.
"Cold, eh?"
This time, the silent boy nodded – it was cold.
"Have a jumper or two."
The silent boy ended up with five jumpers – two came from the older boy's bag – and the older one had six, both incredibly cosy. Both had cafeteria lunch, so they sat together.
The silent boy didn't speak – very few thought he would ever again – but it didn't matter.
The silent boy was Ezekiel.
The sport shirt sporting boy was Jacob.
Their friend, who joined them shortly after the incident, was Cassandra.
They were Librarians.
They just didn't know it.
Ezekiel wasn't quiet.
Jacob didn't wear sport shirts.
Cassandra still has her tumour.
Now the old school friends were adults, Librarians even, and oh how they'd changed.
Not always for the best.
"You could have gotten us killed, Jones!" Jacob, now wearing a cowboy hat, yelled, blue eyes glaring into the brown ones as he, Cassandra and Eve stared at him with different expressions – Jacob annoyed, Cassandra awkward but still annoyed and Eve almost angry.
The thief, had he been in character, would have cracked a grin and told them it was part of what he did.
No.
That day had been a Tuesday, a Tuesday during October – the same Tuesday when he'd first spoken at school almost ten years ago.
That Tuesday was never a good day for him.
Plans screamed in his head.
An idea!
He didn't go to the annex – he was too busy. Texts and missed calls buzzed on his phone, irritating him to no end – that is, until he turned it off. He had bought the ticket yesterday, and he knew where he was going.
A nice desolate area; it was an abandoned town that was now a tourist attraction. He knew very little went on these days – Wednesdays – and this was perfect.
Plus, due to research, he knew there was an artefact of magic there – Loki's staff! He'd be able to do what was needed to do AND snatch an artefact – surely the team would praise him for that! Yes, despite seeming to not care and be disloyal, Ezekiel Jones would like some attention, love and care now and then – perhaps even someone to look after him, since he had been abandoned by his parents, like this town by its inhabitants, and raised by a deaf man. He couldn't speak until the age of six, as the man couldn't teach him – too much time taking the tablets he had to take, trying to feed the two and that the old man himself couldn't speak too well either. The only reason he learnt was because the school he attended had internet, and he would search up the pronunciations and repeat them until the teachers discovered this and taught him.
Since the old man had started losing his sight when Ezekiel was nine, it became hard for the both of them – and then, in the very town he was going to, the old man killed himself when the thief was fourteen. Right off a cliff.
The train pulled up at the station. The last station.
The thief left the train; the only proof of his presence on the train was the groove in the seat he'd sat on for the many, many hours, the wrappers that smothered the floor and driver's memory. He bid a farewell to the young driver and, clutching his jacket to his body, journeyed away from the station, cold pinching his skin.
Now, due to the writing above, one may think it is night, a bitter, cold, cloudy, eerie night.
No. It is not.
It was late in the day, yes, but the sun still shone, clouds were but a memory of Ezekiel's, birds chirped and eeriness was only caused by the lack of people and looming ruins.
A perfect place for Loki to hide his staff.
He, Ezekiel of course, wished he'd brought his headphones so he could listen to his music. However, he knew the bombarding texts and missed calls would stop him enjoying the beautiful playlist he'd composed; so he continued to walk in silence.
A beautiful silence.
He came to the place his feet had taken him.
The cliff the old man, his old man, had jumped off. Seeing it, crouching down and giving the wet, wet grass a gentle firm pat, oh it made him sick. He wanted to throw up, feeling the chocolate and the crisps and the fruit and the food in general he'd eaten on that damn train bubble up to his throat and into his mouth.
Out of his mouth too, out of his mouth and over the side.
How long he'd been there, he didn't know, but vomiting the contents of his stomach out, oh that was not the issue.
It was that he now knew where the staff, Loki's staff, was.
It was the very stick that lay right before his knees.
It was long; perhaps a head shorter than him, with a tree like bottom end, spruce wood forming delicate, smooth branches that separated into even more, and the top was an oval, with a blue essence inside.
How had he not seen it before?! Yes, it was engraved in the ground, but it stuck out against the ground as if screaming for attention.
It was glowing blue, a bright, luminous cerulean blue, it reflected in the brown eyes and white sclera of the young thief.
He picked it up, not thinking to wipe away the vomit at his lips, and admired it.
It looked more like Odin's staff, Thor's staff, not Loki's staff!
Wow.
It truly was beautiful – he wished he had more time to admire it.
Now he was held by the enemy.
"Please, David!" The fourteen year old boy begged, reaching out to the old man. "You don't have to do this!"
"Ezekiel, my boy," The voice, that calm, soft, broken voice, was no more than a whisper. "I must do what I must do. You are going to be an independent young man, and I have nothing other than you to live for. But I know you are growing up, and I am not as essential to you as before."
Tears grew in the future Librarian's eyes as he watched his fath- no. Not his father, the old man was the old man, David, his best friend, his adoptive family.
Not his father – never his father. The old man, despite being the bearer of Ezekiel's last name, was no relative, not by blood, and the two did have a relationship like father and son, but neither, as far as Ezekiel knew, viewed each other as such.
But now… Ezekiel was realising his love for the old man; his bald scalp and the sides of the forehead were lightly coated with white hair, the blue eyes that held mysteries within, the pale, wrinkled skin, the hunched, tall body, the white and black clothes that he sported and the cane he used to walk with.
He couldn't just LEAVE! Ezekiel wouldn't let him!
"David, don't! I still need you!"
"No you don't!"
"I do though! Please, I may be fourteen, but I need someone in my life who cares about me! And you're the only one!"
David, the old man, was quiet. "Ezekiel."
Tears broke his voice. "Y-Yeah?" Hands rubbed brown eyes furiously.
"This is why I need to die. If I stay, you'll grow up thinking someone will always be there. I need to die for you to fully grow up."
He stood a moment, peering over the edge.
"Ezekiel."
"What?!" Tears angered his voice.
"Death isn't the only thing that lies in the ground. There's hope." And then, the old man stepped off the cliff, falling, falling, falling…
"FATHER!" Ezekiel screamed, falling to his knees and reaching over the edge with a hand. Marbles, a thing he'd collected as a child, fell from his hand as he collapsed into a mess, sitting on the earth that, unbeknown to him, held Loki's staff. The marbles glowed, he didn't notice, the marbles sunk into the earth, he didn't notice, and became a part of the glowing part of the staff.
He didn't notice.
All he noticed was the waves crashing down on the sand and the tears falling into the earth.
How long he'd been there, he didn't know, crying out until he could cry no more, oh that was not the issue.
It was that the old man was dead.
He'd left him.
And that something made him glad.
And that something made him want to join him.
Stupid hope – who needed hope?! Who needed hope, faith, love, joy, emotions?!
Who needed DAVID?!
Ezekiel looked at Prospero, clutching Loki's staff to his body. "W-What?" Chills made him stutter.
"You're an idiot, you know that right?"
Ezekiel scowled – why was he an idiot?
"Why come alone?"
"I came as a tourist – I suppose I find artefacts easily now as I found this."
He did not gesture to the staff, nor did he hold it out. He held it close to his body as if a precious toy.
"Hm. I see. You'll have no problem, thief, in handing the staff to me in that case."
"I will have a problem with that actually."
Prospero frowned.
"Cause I'm a Librarian." Ezekiel stepped a little ways back – near the edge of the cliff.
Right where the old man stood before.
David.
Never mind David. Prospero was the issue, not some guy that had died about seven years ago, two years after Ezekiel spoke at his school for the first time.
Who needed that old geezer?
"I will fight you. I have a sprite."
"I also have a life." The thief retorted, fake smug smile on his face.
"You wish for death."
Ezekiel almost strayed away from character.
"Death grants the wish."
"I believe the term, old man," Ezekiel smirked.
Still a fake smirk.
"Is 'Death Wish'."
Perhaps he thought the other Librarians, his Guardian and his mentor would not care for his seemingly disappearance.
He was wrong.
Jacob Stone was pacing the room, feet thudding the wood floor with each worried step; where was that damn thief?!
Cassandra kept throwing glances to the back door – as if she expected it to fly open and Ezekiel to come in, playful and irritating, the way she liked it.
Eve was at her desk, trying to push the worry away, as Eve would do, yet failing, as Ezekiel would put it, epically.
Jenkins was quiet, and not revelling in the peace, hoping that nothing had happened to the thief.
Oh look thief.
Someone loves you.
Ezekiel jumped over the sorcerer's hit, standing on the arm and jumping as the elder withdrew it, breaths heavy and misty. He mustn't falter in his dodges or attacks of offense or defence.
A weak or late move might prove to be his last.
It was so very unlikely that Prospero was going to let him die – not while he held Loki's staff in his hands, which contained an incalculable mass of power, created by the tear bearers – marbles – and the Norse Gods and Goddesses.
So Ezekiel was trapped between life and death – he was on the edge of the abyss of eternal dark, yet Prospero, one who should wish for his death, held onto him, pulling him onto the land of temporary light.
Something that may or may not have happened before.
Dodge, duck, duck, aim, dodge, attack, strike. A nice routine, yet predictable. It was forever changing, just to confuse the wizard and almost assure, not completely, Ezekiel's victory.
Until, however, Loki's staff flew out of his hand. Wind had grasped it and snatched it, throwing it near Prospero.
And suddenly Ezekiel was left dangling on the abyss. Prospero had the staff. Soon he would push him off.
No. Instead, he took Ezekiel and held him by the neck, ignoring the terrified sweat and heavy breaths.
Anxious sweats. Anxious breaths.
A grin laced itself onto the wizard's face as he, not even looking at the thief, pushed him to the floor.
The wet, wet grass.
"Well, well, well, Librarian." He hissed the last word, as if it were venom – green, liquid-like venom.
"Looks like I have the staff."
Ezekiel started to bring himself up, laying his hands on the grass – which was still wet – and propping himself on them.
Prospero chuckled and, shaking his head lightly and wagging his finger slowly, pushed the youngest Librarian down with a foot.
A foot that's sole was covered in grass and drenched in the grass' moistness. Ezekiel glared as the foot pushed him down by his chest and stayed there, firm. He struggled, but gasped as Prospero pushed his foot down so the younger choked and coughed.
Grinning.
"You're going to come with me, silently and willingly, and show me to the Library."
Ezekiel nodded reluctantly, letting the wizard, slowly, remove his foot and grab his hand and pull him up. The smell of the distant ocean, the turquoise and blue and green ocean, filled the air. It made him feel sick – though the issue here stopped it exiting.
Tastes of nature air were calming, but he barely noticed them while Prospero smirked evilly and looked him in the eyes.
"Oh, and one more thing." The wizard laughed, as if to mock him.
Wait.
He was mocking him.
Prospero leaned over and whispered in his ears that 'one more thing'.
Ezekiel stared at him.
Shook his head.
Had no choice but to accept his fate.
The backdoor flew open and hit the wall so hard, the whole annex shook and books flew from the shelves. The Librarians, their Guardian and Jenkins turned their head.
"ZEKE!" Cassandra squealed, running at him, wishing to hug him.
No.
Ezekiel stepped back, eyes cast down at the floor.
"Ezekiel?"
"Jones?"
A chuckle ran through the air, causing a chill to run through all of them.
"What's going on?"
Prospero came through the backdoor, chuckling.
Ezekiel gave a look of apology and slight fear as he stepped backwards toward the wizard.
"You… betrayed us?" Jacob glared at the thief.
"He had no choice." Prospero took over as Ezekiel almost refused to reply. "It was either that or die. And you know, Ezekiel isn't one to choose death."
Those who once called an Ezekiel an ally stared at him, betrayed, and Ezekiel did not move.
He did not look at them, he did not do anything.
Betrayal had a chain on him, and it stopped him from being Ezekiel.
It made him fourteen again.
He still needed David.
The Librarians, his Guardian and Jenkins, in a way, they were his lifeline.
Had he not met Jacob on that Tuesday, the Tuesday in October, he was pretty sure he wouldn't be standing there right now.
He'd probably be standing in Hell.
Where he belonged.
No.
He stood beside Prospero, shoulder touching his arm, tears in the eyes, the floor and his feet the only thing he saw – blurred – and regret and apology and fear plaguing his mind.
He was so, so sorry.
Oh thief.
How can they love you now?
Ezekiel was silent as Prospero continued his evil speech, malice and a hunger for vengeance in the eyes of the fictional wizard. It wasn't as if he could say anything.
It was as if he'd sold his voice to the wizard, like Ariel had done to Ursula.
The Little Mermaid.
The Little Thief.
Ariel had sold her voice so she could become human and try to get Eric to kiss her.
Ezekiel had, metaphorically, sold his voice so he could save his own skin and not die.
She'd done it for love.
He'd done it for life.
Romance.
To live.
Brave.
Weak.
Big, big, BIG difference besides the different genders and one's voice being sold was a metaphor.
Cassandra held a face of hurt and pain, and a hand rested on her head.
Jacob's eyes were switching between glaring at the wizard angrily and glaring at Ezekiel disbelievingly.
Eve held no emotion other than anger.
Jenkins had a face of worry and calm anger – if that was a thing.
Prospero seemed wild and insane, but he was calm and chuckling.
Ezekiel's eyes darkened with the shadows that lay around him as he glared toward the floor.
It wasn't the floor's fault – of course not.
He wasn't glaring at the floor – he was glaring at the reflection that lay trapped inside it.
Himself.
He felt like the reflection – it was trapped inside the floor, forced to be like something else.
It was forced to be like him.
He was forced to be evil.
He finally drew the courage to bring his eyes up.
Facial expressions changed.
Cassandra's fell into pity, her hands and arms twitched, wanting to reach out and hug him.
Jacob still glared, but no longer at Ezekiel; instead he would cast worried glances toward the thief.
Eve formed a face of sympathy.
Jenkins had the calm anger but it was directed to Prospero – he did not pay attention to Ezekiel.
Prospero was calm, still chuckling, but seemed to be forming an idea.
But what?
Prospero grinned a little more, he stepped back into the shadows, Ezekiel's 'former' allies looked around, alarmed as to where he'd gone to…
Ezekiel went to step away from the shadows, but metal clanks against the ground and heavy weights against his legs made him pause.
Turn around.
Shadow chains were clasped around his heels and curling around his wrists, the links were the size of his palms, and they were slowly crawling backwards. They tugged at his feet, he fell, and he was dragged into the shadowy abyss. Scared for his life, he cried out – Jacob and Eve ran toward him, grabbing the now chained wrists and trying to pull him out. The chains tried to crawl up their wrists, so they let go, carefully and grabbed him by under the armpits, pulling him.
The shadows burned! He cried out again as his feet sunk into them, tears once again filling his eyes, and the two who dragged him pulled him out. The chains, exposed to full light, dispersed with an almighty hiss.
Ezekiel, still on the floor, scrambled away, breaths heavy and loud. Cassandra curled her arms around his chest in a way to soothe him.
"Oh look… Reunited…" Prospero's voice echoed throughout the annex; Ezekiel noticed the redhead's arms tightened on his chest, and the other three stepped toward him to protect him.
"But you forget…" Jacob's fists clenched.
"HE'S STILL MY APPRENTICE!"
And then the shadows shot out, grabbing Ezekiel by the heels, wrists and neck and pulling him out of
Cassandra's grasp, their protection and into the shadows.
There was sudden numbness – it was a relief, in a way, to him – and he couldn't feel the burning.
He heard his name being screamed, sobs and worried murmurs.
He saw nothing but darkness.
He tasted bitter cold, but felt no chill.
He smelt a fire, but felt no warmth.
He felt nothing, emotionally or physically.
"Tell me, Ezekiel…"
There was the voice of a wizard – a certain wizard.
"What does it feel like to die?"
It was a nice feeling – Ezekiel couldn't lie – but it made him curious.
Had he died instantly, or had he been slowly dying?
If it was the latter – since when?
If it wasn't the latter, or if it had been and the last question had been answered, – how?
However, Ezekiel didn't really want to know the answers – they could be more painful than when he lived.
He haunted the Library – sometimes they'd find a safe unlocked with a bobby pin or they'd hear one of his sarcastic or snarky or perhaps past comments echo around. They knew it was him – pretty obvious.
However, it would be a lie to say he was a happy ghost.
He was so, so sorry.
David.
I am so, so sorry for hating you.
I love you…
Dad.
Cassandra.
I am so, so sorry for teasing you.
Forgive me.
Cass.
Jacob.
I am so, so sorry for being annoying.
Forgive me.
Jacob.
Baird.
I am so, so sorry for ignoring you.
Forgive me.
Eve.
Jenkins.
I am so, so sorry for irritating you.
Forgive me.
Jenkins.
Flynn.
I am so, so sorry for not trying.
Forgive me.
Flynn.
Myself.
I am so, so sorry for hating you.
You can't forgive me.
Zeke.
EZEKIEL'S LAST WORDS:
"I AM SO, SO SORRY."
FINI.
A/N: So yeah.
I hope you liked that - I think that could possibly be the best fanfiction I've published.
No flames, yada yada, and please review.
This is over half a chapter in The Sick Captor.