Two strangers entered the ratty mom and pop bookstore on the corner of Journey St. The store was small, but nice, one of those forgotten finds with an unmemorable name that people only discover on long walks where they're looking for something else. Past the foggy glass doors of the shop was a dust-filled hall of antique wood shelves. It had quaint, sage green wallpaper with a pattern no longer in print, and smelled of age and books. Whimsical, if only for how typical it was, like someone had taken the collective dream of the word "bookstore" and brought it to life, with a few weathered touches here and there.
An old man sat atop a ladder towards the front of the store, filing ratty, uneven books away between the shelves. He was just as antiquated and tired as the rest of the store, with his brass-rimmed spectacles and long, greying hair that seemed brighter than it was against his indian complection. He reached down for another book, when a soft cold breeze of October air brushed up against him.
The store bell dinged, to gently let the proprietor know that he had customers. He looked over to find two colorful strangers entering his place of business, one with hair so red it couldn't come from anywhere except a bottle, and the other with hair of purple, which helped solidify that theory.
"Mr. Weissman? Weissman books?"
Called the one with purple locks, smiling up at him warmly as they pulled off their pastel yellow fleece now that they were indoors. The other one kept their dark overcoat on, lingering by the door with their hands in their pockets. They were both on the young side of maturity, maybe late 20s or early 30s, not the usual age for the customers he got.
"...Yes, that's me. Can I help you?" He said, with a tired, aged voice.
There was a silent, barely detectable moment, as these two stared up at the old man, perched on the tall of the ladder. After a second or two, as if remembering themself, the customer to first speak nodded eagerly, with enough motion to knock a strand of violet hair loose from their star-shaped beret.
"Yes, please! We… heard about this place from a friend. Mind if we look around?" They said, with a sort of gentle caution filling the space between their words. As he glanced this purple haired stranger up and down, he realized he could neither place them as a man, nor a woman. Perhaps something more feminine, given their choice of pink scarf, and overall slightly more frilly presentation. But then again, maybe not, given a few other indicators. Still, he couldn't help but feel that, gender wise, they seemed to land somewhere in between, an idea that settled into the old man's head with surprising ease.
"Go right ahead." The old man said, pausing his descent down the ladder to wave towards the open store, welcoming them to wander in. They both stood right where they were, and stared up with bewildered expressions. He got down down from the ladder with careful, lumbered movements. The wood under his feet creaked from use.
"Let me know if I can get anything for you, or your… friend?"
Mr. Weissman glanced to the side at the red haired young - man? - that lingered coldly with his back to the wall towards the head of the store. He couldn't help but notice that the dark-coated stranger had not stepped any further into the bookstore, choosing instead to remain close to the exit. The old man and him made eye contact briefly, a short glance, but perhaps too long, as the red stranger flinched as if pricked by a needle. They shivered as they looked away, gaze returning to a corner.
The old man blinked, finding this curious.
"-Oh, don't mind him." The purple haired one said hurriedly, stepping between him and the moody stranger. "Actually, can you… help me find this book? I was told you were the one to go to."
The customer held out a sheet of paper, with some writing scrawled on it. The old man took it and adjusted his spectacles, squinting and holding it close to his face to read it.
"Ah, that shouldn't be a problem." He said, pulling the slip away from his face and handing it back to them. The stranger smiled in appreciation, noticing with an ache the steely grey color of the old man's eyes, like two moons hanging in the sky.
"That's great!"
"If we have that, it'll be over here. Come, come." He walked forward, beckoning them to follow. The stranger towards the front of the store, the red one in the dark overcoat, stood up in alarm. His fist clenched in detected danger. Unseen by the old man, their purple companion calmly lifted their hand in a classic 'It's okay' gesture, as they followed Mr. Weissman to the back of the store, alone. He was not comforted.
"Did you just open up here?" They asked him, as what passed for a conversation starter. His finger trailed along the air, navigating between the halls of dusty bookshelves.
"Oh, ah, no." He said, suddenly remembering the question between sorting through his mental list of books and sections. "It's a family business. The bookstore has been in the Weissman name for a few generations."
"Ah." They nodded, as simply as if it were the truth. For him, it was. They wondered behind a pained smile if he would ever notice that his store had not always been there, that it's only occupied the corner of Journey Street for a few months or so. They said nothing on this.
"Working with family sounds pretty nice."
"Yes, yes…" He said, disinterested, as he turned down the corner. "I believe your book should be around here. Why don't you take a look? Although, admittedly, the topic of dream interpretation has become a bit niche, we might not carry it anymore…"
"That's alright." They knelt down, pretending to browse the selection. "You've got a pretty nice place here. I'm sure I'll find something I like."
"Oh, how kind of you..." The old man said appreciatively, turning to look outwards at his library. His eyelids crinkled upwards, telling the person at his feet that there was a faint but proud smile underneath the grey of his beard. "It's very nice, for now."
"...For now?" They looked away from the books, concern in their brow. "Is… Is this not going to last?"
"Oh, who can say, really. I'm glad there are young people like yourself that still appreciate places like these. With technology going in the direction it is, bookstores are becoming less and less relevant. I don't expect this place to stay open for more than a few years."
"I'm… Sorry to hear that." They offered, with more sadness in their voice than he evidently had over the situation. They wondered loosely if there was anything they could do behind the scenes to keep this business open, to keep his place in the world secured. They knew they could, but if the world was moving in a different direction, there was little they could do. They wondered how long it would take of miraculous longevity for the bookstore to be noticed. Would there be anything they could do then?
"It's alright. It makes for a tidy retirement, at the very least."
"Yes, but… Still, for something that's been in your family for so long, it must be hard to lose."
"It will be, but I think I've made my peace with it." He put a hand to the old oak antique wood of the bookshelves, patting the aged oak like an old friend. They forgot as they were looking at him that these shelves had only existed for 3 months, and that he had not truly grown up with decades in these halls, learning every crevice of the grain in the wood and the books between.
"Besides, gives me more time to write."
That statement nearly caused them to fall over. The young stranger stared up at him from their spot on the floor, blinking with genuine shock.
"You write?"
"Ah, yes, I…" The old man adjusted himself, having not expected to breach this topic. "Just a little bit on my own, nothing yet published."
"When did you start writing?" They asked, unable to hold back the surprise from their voice.
"I don't know, I guess it's always been something I wanted to do." Mr. Weissman said vaguely. As he thought back on his life, he found himself unable to pinpoint the moment he picked up a pen and began. It didn't matter much when he started, really. Whatever year or time that was.
"If you are not the writing type, I don't wish to bore you with the philosophies of stories, but there is just something to…. Creating something yourself. Having it be yours. Do you know what I mean?"
Their eyes swam as they stared up at him. They swallowed the ache rising in their throat, keeping it down with a smile. Their purple hair bobbed as they nodded in understanding.
"I think I do."
The old man began to walk away, leaving the customer to browse the books on their own. Seeing him go left an empty space in the air, and a wanting in their heart. They hurriedly picked a book off the shelf, and got up to follow him down the store. It would be pretty weird, they decided, to appear to follow him around without cause. Spying the person approaching him with an item in their hand, Mr. Weissman turned to fully face them.
"Oh? Did you find what you were looking for?"
"Um… Yes!" They looked down at the book, realizing it was different than what they had asked for. It didn't matter much, anyway. They doubted he would question it.
"Let me ring you up, then."
"Of course!" They said, regretting the words immediately. Would they really have to leave so soon? They couldn't think of a way around it, not now. It had already been so long since they could ever talk like this, it felt unfair for it to end so simply and mundanely.
The old man lead them to the front of the store, where he looped around the counter so that he could act as cashier.
"Nights, are we going?" The red-haired stranger called, all but forgotten. He had moved from his spot and into a chair near enough to the front door that he could relax, although how much relaxation he was actually getting was up for debate. There was a pang of urgency in the question.
They waved him off. "Yeah, just give us a minute."
"Nights? What a curious name…" Mr. Weissman said, as he punched in the numbers for the cost of the book. Nights said nothing, but smiled as they were handed the bag with their new story that they would never read.
"Thank you."
Nights walked towards the door and waved to the nice bookstore keeper, but their goodbye went all but unnoticed. Mr. Weissman had already turned his attention away, counting up the numbers and writing something down in a book off the counter. Their smile died as they lowered their hand, remembering that they were nothing more than a customer in a store, and realizing that he wasn't going to say anything back.
"Let's go."
They felt a comforting hand on their back ushering them towards the door. The bell rang, and they were gone.
"Are you going to say anything next time?"
Nights asked, after too long a period of silence between them and their brother. The two tread down the sidewalk, streetlights beginning to flicker on overhead, a sure sign that it would be dark soon. Their leave from the bookstore was quiet, uneventful. They both wanted to wait until they were a block away from him before they discussed anything, but two blocks and a half later, neither of them knew what there was to say.
Reala left the question hanging precariously in the air, the answer as uncertain as he was. He glared ahead, focusing more on the tread of his boots against the stone sidewalk than the question, than his sister, than the thought of "next time".
Nights frowned in his silence. "Is… That a no, then?"
"-Look, you didn't spend the last few years talking to him." His reply came out more sudden, more curt than he meant it to. "It's different for me."
"I… I know." Nights's brow furrowed. The "last few years" he mentioned were actually an awful lot more than that, and they knew it. "You saw more of him than I did. You don't have to speak to him if you're not ready to. There's no rush. We're… Going to have a lot of time."
Reala didn't say anything to that.
"Was he different?" He finally asked, curiosity getting the better of him.
"Yeah," Nights sighed. "A lot."
"How so?"
"He... talked about writing?" Nights said, the eyebrow raise evident in their tone of voice.
Reala snapped his head towards them in disbelief.
"Really now?"
"Yeah." Nights affirmed. "He said he was doing something small on the side. No idea what he's writing about, we might have to check if it's incriminating, but… Yeah."
"Huh…" Reala thought about this, trying to place why this felt so wrong to him.
"The Wizeman I knew didn't have a creative bone in him. All he ever did was echo empty space. Nothin' but cold, merciless logic to him."
Nights cocked their head to the side. "Didn't he create Nightmarens?"
"He plucked fears from the minds of others, I'd hardly count that. He copied what other people used to torture themselves in their own minds, and claimed ownership over it. The man had no imagination for himself. All he ever did was think about how to steal other people's dreams."
Nights's demeanor changed, something about Reala's words, perhaps it being that it's Reala that said them, hitting Nights hard in the chest. Their voice grew sadder, more understanding, as they put thought into this.
"...It was still creating, though, in a sense. I have a hard time believing he didn't pull anything new out of that. New people were made, new things were born. Maybe he didn't think he was filling some creative need, but..."
They shrugged.
"I guess." Reala shrugged back. "It seems more likely to me that he wanted something to be possessive over."
"Maybe..."
Silence fell over Nights and Reala again. The sky grew darker overhead, clouds carrying the fleeting color of the sunset with them. They continue like that, in silent contemplation, Reala growing bitter and more discontent with every step.
"...Does this whole thing seem cruel to you?" Reala finally uttered, after walking wordlessly for a whole block.
Nights was quiet. They turned away from their brother, looking towards the setting sky thoughtfully. A sparse pattering of stars poked out from the blue yonder, the light pollution of the nearby city drowning out the spectacle of the night sky. It was so much more drab than what they were used to, the sky of living constellations, the purple and blue galaxies and nebulas that they saw stitched in his robes the size of mountains.
"...It's only cruel if he remembers."
Reala grimaced, like he were feeling a sharp pain at this response.
"I mean cruel to us." He corrected, almost angry.
Nights frowned. They looked over at their brother, concerned. "...What else are we going to do?"
"I don't-" Reala rubbed his temples, frustrated, like he were trying desperately to find the words to untangle the ache in his head, in his throat. He remained like that, eyes tightly closed and turned up to the sky, until with a final sigh, he threw his arms down, defeated.
"I don't know."
Nights sighed, understanding more than Reala realized. "...It's okay, I don't know either."
The sky had darkened into a navy blue, the greying clouds becoming less and less obvious in the night sky.
"I mean, look at the options. We can't… get rid of him." Nights offered, careful about their word choice. Both of them felt it.
"And we can't tell anyone, especially not him. I... can't watch him go off the deep end. Not again, Reala. This way, no one's worshiping him, he isn't hurting anyone. He isn't even aware he can. He's just… living. Not a god, not a king, just… this."
They gestured upwards, towards the scene of the mundane mortal town around the them, just as they met with a stoplight bearing an orange hand.
"This really is the best we can do right now, for everyone's sake."
They stood there together, under the yellow streetlight, waiting for the cars that couldn't even hurt them to finish crossing. The orange hand switched out, and was replaced by a walking silhouette. The cars stopped, and the siblings passed into the streets.
"See, I know that." Reala added. "For Wize's sake, Nights, I was on the team drafting this plan up in the first place. I get that this is the best option. For him, for Nightmare, for the longevity of the Night Realm in total. I get all that."
Nights nodded, looking worriedly towards their brother. "...So? What's bothering you?"
"It's just- That's him back there, you know?" Reala said, voice cracking.
"That's the father we never got to have."
The next crosswalk offered a merciful stop for Nights to catch their breath. Cars rushed on by on the black streets, dim headlights quickly passing over and past them. The mortal world marched on by while Reala and Nights stood on their cement island, alone but together, with only the shared weight of a thousand years of lost childhood to ground them to the earth. Nights blinked their crystal blue eyes, rubbing away the tears that had been welling up inside them since the moment they passed through the doors of the old store.
"I know." Nights said, and that was all that they needed to.
Much was understood between them in that moment that didn't need words. They had become good at that, over the centuries. Being on opposite sides, but recognizing together that it was the same coin. They both knew this was something that they had to share together, and only with each other. The weight of this information, of where He was, was too much for anyone else in their world. They would be the only ones to ever know this loss, that their father would live with a wall between him and his children, that he wouldn't even be allowed to know they exist - And that perhaps, most harrowing of all, he could never apologize. They would never even get to know if he would. Not for sure, anyway.
The stoplight glowed above them. The hand turned to a man, and they continued down the dark streets. A block or two of walking later, Reala looked up to the fully set night sky.
"The gate should be opened by now."
"Yeah." Nights agreed tiredly, turning down a dark, secluded corner that the streetlights did not reach. "Do we bring Jackle in next time?"
Reala sighed, already exhausted from the question.
"I honestly do not know…"
"We can't keep leaving him out."
"I know." He said, curt. "But this is too damn delicate. I guess it depends on whether or not we can trust him. Not morally trust, but just… The responsibility of this. We can't risk him ruining it."
"He's one of us, for crying out loud." Nights cast their eyes to the pavement, as they rubbed some warmth back into their arms in the cold, still night.
"He grew up in that house as well, lived with the same childhood we did. He should get to see him, too. It's just the three of us that know what went on in that house, that have to live with it. How do you think he's going to feel when he finds out we've been doing this without him? It's just not fair..."
Reala looked at Nights mournfully. He had never been particularly good at saying the right words, at providing comfort. "...I wish there was a better answer for you. This whole thing hasn't exactly been fair."
"That doesn't mean I have to like it." Nights wiped a tear from their eyes, then glanced to the open streets.
"Is the coast clear?"
"Yeah." Reala said, after one last look. He turned back to them.
"Are you ready?"
With a nod, their human disguises faded away. Hair lifted into the air, having forgotten the pull of gravity, weaving into long jester-like shapes that could be mistaken for headdresses. The last bits of their human forms glittered on the tips of their fingers, as the color and shape of their fantastical Nightmaren forms replaced it. Their feet lifted loosely from the ground, suspended in the air.
Nights, making sure not to pass above the closely built buildings on either side, flew up and in a loop. The trail of glistening light met up in a perfect circle, and there formed a portal back home.
"See you in Nightmare," He said.
"See you in Nightopia," They said.
And in a movement the siblings left the waking world, the old bookstore, and the God that forgot.