"No, no," droned a lamenting, nerve-grating voice. "That will never do. Organizing them by title? Author, yes, by author would a much better choice. A much better choice indeed. Or better yet, subject. Titles these days are becoming too nonsensical. How will anyone know what they are reading before they read it? And you cannot continue to simply pile them onto the shelves like that. Eventually you will encounter-"

"Enough!" the Bookkeeper snapped. "I know how to store my own books!"

Several of the scrolls knocked off their shelves and clattered onto the floor as he turned. The Wiseman silently stared at them for several deep moments before flicking his clouded gaze back up. The Bookkeeper growled in irritation and then bent down to regather them.

"I've always organized everything by title before," he muttered. "I don't know why you're complaining now."

"As the world changes, so must its keepers."

"Hah! Change. That's a good one." The Bookkeeper shoved the scrolls back onto their shelves. He paused, his fingers lingering on one. Grabbing it, he turned and waved it in front of the Wiseman's face. "You want to know about change? Read this."

"I have no need."

The Bookkeeper ignored him. He unrolled the scroll and quickly began devouring the words inside.

"The mortals who write these are fascinating," he said. "You wouldn't believe the stories… the concepts… There are so many unimaginable things. Did you know they possess this ability called 'sleep' where they can temporarily deprive themselves of conscious thought? And then there's this feeling called 'pain.' To be quite honest, it sounds horrendous, but apparently it's such a huge thing they've divided into several thousand categories. There's hunger and thirst and illness and love and-"

"We are not them."

"Obviously," the Bookkeeper said dryly. "They change and we don't. Their sun moves while ours doesn't. They live and die while we just stand here doing… doing nothing!"

"Nonsense. We are caretakers of Thought and Reason. You keep the books and I hold wisdom. That is hardly nothing."

"Poetically descriptive," the Bookkeeper said. "Truly. But where did we come from? What are we?"

"We are… who we are," the Wiseman said. He sighed. "And the sooner you accept that, the less discontent you'll be."

The Bookkeeper crossed his arms, glowering darkly in silence as the Wiseman shuffled off. He looked at the scroll dangling limply in his hands and then slid down the side of the bookshelf onto the stone floor.

There weren't any chairs in the house. No chairs. No tables. No beds. If the Bookkeeper hadn't read about such things, he wouldn't have even known they existed. He understood the concepts of rest and of sleep - at least he thought he did, somewhat, but he didn't need them.

The walls of the house were bare as were its floors. There were lamps, plain little things sitting high out of reach; they never flickered and never ran out of oil.

If it was necessary for his work, it existed. If it wasn't, it didn't.

The world was straight-forward like that.

As he sat, a new scroll appeared in his lap, conjured forth from only who knew where. He'd asked the Wiseman about it once and had received the usual non-answers. Inside the scroll waited a new book, freshly penned from the mind of its author.

The Bookkeeper glumly began to stand and resume his endless duty… and then paused.

Most of his scrolls had wooden rollers, a rather common and cheap resource from what he'd read. Mortals cared about things like that. This new scroll had rollers made of gold. They shone, the metal gleaming in the lamplight.

If the materials used in the book's construction were unique, then surely the contents had to be equally…

The Bookkeeper glanced at the door that the Wiseman had exited through. His older companion liked to wander around the house, muttering to himself new phrases of wisdom as he went. Since he'd just left, he probably wouldn't be back for a good while yet. The old man didn't approve of any reading the Bookkeeper did outside the strict purposes of categorization. But a quick peek at the first couple of sentences couldn't hurt… perhaps just the first couple of paragraphs…

He broke open the binding of the scroll and began to read.

It was like nothing in his small library so far. The book weaved a story of a man, part-mortal, part-god. He wasn't a particularly good man, but he wasn't a bad one either. The Bookkeeper sat mesmerized as the man encountered monsters, fought enemies, made friends… Longer and longer he unfurled the scroll. The man and his friend were facing a deadly foe. The friend was injured. He was approaching death-

That was the end of the scroll.

The Bookkeeper blinked in confusion. He tugged at the bottom as if more would magically appear.

"It has not been written yet."

The Bookkeeper looked up to see the Wiseman staring down at him with a rather patronizing sort of air. Then the old man sighed and lumbered off again.

The Bookkeeper looked back down at the story. So the humans were beginning to write them in parts now? The thought was both simultaneously annoying and thrilling. He stood up to place the book on the shelf with the others and froze.

The room's entire floor was covered with new scrolls.

How long had he been reading?

The Bookkeeper sighed in irritation as he rolled the golden scroll back up in sharp jerks. There was no use dwelling on it. He shoved it onto the shelf and resumed his work.

As much as he hated admitting it, the Wiseman had a point. There'd never been this many new books at once. The mortals were writing more and more of them with every passing moment. He'd run out of room on his shelves soon enough and then what? More shelves? More rooms? When the next installment of the golden scroll's story arrived, would he be organized enough to quickly find its place?

The heroes of his books didn't have to worry about such problems. The lives they led were so different… had actual meaning. None of them would stay here, shelving scroll after scroll for eternity with only a doddering old man for company. They'd have adventures. They'd go out into the world and find them.

More scrolls had appeared by the time the Bookkeeper had finished with the initial batch. He rolled his eyes at them and left them on the floor.

The house had many corridors. The Wiseman loved to pace and wander, and it built itself to fit his needs. The Bookkeeper had walked down them before, although not very often. They weren't part of his work.

He walked down them now. The corridor directly outside his book room was completely enclosed, as was the majority of the house. Still, there were one or two windows hidden among the smaller corridors, as long as one knew where to look.

The Bookkeeper found one in the fourth one he turned down.

It was just as he'd remembered, more like a hole that the builder had forgotten to brick-up than a proper window. It opened up a view into a vast forest, the furthest reaches lost in shadow. The noon sun shone down in patches between the forest leaves, bright and constant.

He'd spent his whole existence in the house. He'd spent his whole existence learning and learning about the endless wonders of the mortal world while his own personal knowledge ended with the first line of trees…

The Bookkeeper glanced back at the barren corridor he was standing in. The Wiseman would be displeased. The Wiseman would catch him and lecture him until his ears fell off and he promised never to abandon his books again.

The Wiseman wasn't here.

He looked back towards the forest and leapt.

This had been a terrible idea. A terrible, terrible idea.

Every book had a hero. That was a simple enough fact.

The Bookkeeper thought of the heroes a lot. He thought less about the thousands of other characters. The simple farmers. The unassuming workers. The hapless victims of storms and plagues and godly wraths and whatever other troubles their respective authors had chosen to throw at them.

The Bookkeeper's robes snagged as shoved his way through a prickly bush.

He cursed out loud and began trying to yank free, throwing all his weight behind the effort. The fabric tore with a loud rip, and he tilted backwards. His foot hit a curved root and slipped, tumbling down the hill, a mess of arms and legs.

He rolled to a stop well after the ground had leveled itself out.

The world was still spinning. He tried and failed to sit up, collapsing back down with a heavy thump. The dizzying feeling was new, he'd credit it that, but it was hardly the type he'd been hoping to experience.

Keeping on his back, the Bookkeeper spread his fingers out, clawing into cool grass and the dirt beneath. He stared up at sky and tracked the clouds as they puffed past.

Clouds. The open sky. He'd never seen this much of it before.

Propping himself up with his elbows, the Bookkeeper glanced around at his new surroundings.

He'd rolled into some sort of clearing, the tree line stopping abruptly a short distance off, creating a natural sort of ring. The grass, allowed here to absorb the full light of the sun, was thicker and greener than it'd been in the rest of the forest. Nearby, a small circular… thing lay.

The Bookkeeper idly crawled his way towards it. The thing was apparently some sort of pool: its mysterious contents, water. Or at least what he assumed was water. He'd never physically encountered the substance before.

He had sudden urge to drink some.

He didn't quite know why. It wasn't as though he was thirsty. In fact, he didn't even know what "thirsty" felt like. Still, he'd escaped the house to experience new things, hadn't he?

He flinched in shock as his hand sliced through the surface, not expecting the cold nor the strange, mild resistance. He scooped up a handful, but all of it dripped out before it could reach his mouth. He tried again and instantly coughed it back out.

The Bookkeeper flopped back down across the grass, wincing at the sickening way it'd trickled down his throat.

Well.

This adventure was turning out to be mostly a failure. Not that that came as much of a surprise in the end… Life in the house was so boring, it seemed only fitting that the outside world should be equally so.

It was also rather unsettling not having anything to actually do. Most of him wanted to continue on, to try and find something exciting and justify the effort he'd put in so far… but the rest couldn't stop worrying about his books.

He'd just left them on the floor! His books! How could he have done such a thing? They'd be piling up on the floor haphazardly without him. The Wiseman would probably trip over one and add that to the never-ending list of lectures that was growing exponentially even as he thought…

The Bookkeeper tried to move, tried to take that first step back to the house, but his limbs were oddly heavy. His eyes too. They drooped, aching to fall shut. His head felt unnaturally fuzzy.

Maybe the water had done something to him? The thought should've worried him, but for whatever reason he couldn't find enough energy to care.

Perhaps with just a bit of rest, he'd be fine to stand up and start…

The heroes entered the forest, its cedar trees looming tall and proud above them. The Bookkeeper let his feet carry him forward. They seemed to know his destination better than he did.

A stranger walked beside him. No, not a stranger. He was his comrade. His best friend.

They'd come here together to find…

A large boom echoed through the forest, shaking the leaves of all the nearby trees. Then another. And another. There was a metal ring as his companion drew his sword from its sheath. The Bookkeeper glanced down at his hands. He had a sword as well.

The trees were suddenly wrenched apart in front of them.

Humbaba the Lion-Faced Ogre lumbered towards them, snarling in rage.

"You!" the ogre roared, jabbing a finger towards the two men. "You betrayed me! I swear I will rip you apart and feed your flesh to the birds! You and your friend!"

The Bookkeeper faltered as the giant ogre turned the full weight of his glare upon him. His hands and the sword they held trembled.

"Have faith, my friend."

The Bookkeeper glanced at his companion. That's right, Enkidu was his name. His face was grim, yet determined.

"We've conquered far greater than this," Enkidu said. He glanced at the Bookkeeper out of the corner of his eyes and grinned. "You choose now to finally embrace fear?"

With a great battle cry, Enkidu lunged forward. The ogre caught the man's sword with his claws and pushed him away.

"Come!" Enkidu yelled at the Bookkeeper, rolling away as the monster spat a fire blast. "The only way to win this battle is together!"

A warmth stirred through the Bookkeeper's veins. His legs were running towards the beast before his mind could make a conscious decision. He swung his sword and blocked and then dodged and swung again.

Even with both of them pitted against the ogre, it was an arduous battle. The Bookkeeper's hands and face became slick with sweat. His breath was coming in shallow pants, and his limbs burned.

The Bookkeeper fell to the ground in exhaustion, his arms too weak to lift his sword against the ogre's fist smashing towards him. This was it. It was over.

The ground shook.

The sky darkened rapidly, staining from blue to indigo to black. Winds whipped through the surrounding branches, howling as they wrapped themselves around the ogre's limbs and wrestled him to the ground. Humbaba the Ogre roared in defeat.

A flicker of movement caught his eye. Enkidu was standing next to the Bookkeeper, his open hand outstretched towards him. The Bookkeeper took it, letting the man pull him to his feet.

"Have mercy! Have mercy, great warriors!" the ogre shouted from his prison of wind on the forest floor.

"Disgraceful," Enkidu said, shaking his head. He turned to the Bookkeeper. "I'll let you have the honor."

"The honor?" the Bookkeeper said blankly. "Of what?"

"Of claiming this monster's head of course."

The Bookkeeper blinked at him.

"Why?"

"Why? Surely you jest, my friend," Enkidu said with a laugh. "This beast has terrorized humans across the land. His death will bring you great honor."

"I'll give you my trees!" the ogre pleaded again. "I'll give you anything."

The Bookkeeper glanced back and forth between the two beings, paralyzed. He blinked and his sword was at the ogre's neck. From this close distance, he could see tears welling in its eyes.

"I only did what I was made to do," it said.

"Kill him!"

"Have mercy please!"

"Chop off its head! It would have done the same to us!"

"I don't want to die!"

"It's already been written! You must take his life!"

"No!" the Bookkeeper snapped. He needed the two of them to quit talking. He needed… He snapped his head towards the sky. "Whoever you are, stop this!"

A gentle sigh drifted through the clearing.

"You're the one controlling it," a smooth voice said. "Not me."

The Bookkeeper spun around, searching for its source. He found it, sitting up in the branches of a nearby by tree, swinging its legs. Or rather, her legs.

"Why are you doing this?" the Bookkeeper asked. "Why am I here?"

The girl frowned. "I'm not doing anything," she said. "It's your dream." She sighed again. "And it was a really fun one up until you stopped everything."

"Fun? You tried to make me kill a creature that was begging for its life."

The girl raised an eyebrow. "It's a dream," she said flatly. "It doesn't matter what you do in them."

"What do you mean it doesn't matter?!"

The girl continued stared at him. Her forehead wrinkled slowly in thought.

"You have no idea what a dream is, do you?"

The Bookkeeper thought back. He'd read about dreams… somewhere… They were extremely important things. Gods spoke to humans through them. They tended to be laced with omens of the future. To dream was to receive great wisdom.

The girl sighed for a third time.

"I'm going to get nowhere with you in here," she said.

She clapped her hands.

The Bookkeeper jolted awake with a gasp.

He was in the clearing again… was in the clearing still? The grass was soft beneath his hands. Leaves rustled softly in the faint breeze. The sun shone down gently from above.

"See," said a familiar voice. "It was all in your head. Well, our heads."

The same girl from before was immersed in the clearing's pool. Her bare arms rested on the banks while her sodden, black-brown hair clung to the sides of her pale face, trailing down, down into the water. Her eyes were a slightly lighter color, wide with curiosity. She smiled as he stared at her and gave him a small wave.

"It really is a shame though that you stopped it all like that," she said. "That was the most interesting dream I've shared in ages."

The Bookkeeper clutched his head. Everything was still slightly fuzzy, but it was better than before. He'd… recovered. Recharged. Refreshed.

"You said… 'dream?'" he asked.

"Yes. It's kind of my thing."

"Dreams are what mortals do when they sleep."

"Yes?" she said uncertainly. "It's kind of their thing."

"I don't sleep though," the Bookkeeper said. "I've never slept."

"Well, apparently you do now" - the girl looked thoughtful - "or did. Do let me know if you drift off again. I want to know what happens next."

"What? To the ogre?"

The girl nodded.

"Oh." Now that he was awake, the Bookkeeper's memories came to him easily. His dream hadn't been original in the slightest; it had simply replayed events from the book with the golden rollers. "I can just tell you."

"Really?!" she said brightly. "So do you kill the ogre? Or spare it?"

"I kill it. I- I mean," he said, conscious of her expectant stare. "I don't kill it. He kills it. He's the main hero you see." The Bookkeeper leaned back and glanced up at the sky. "And I can't tell you too much else right now because it hasn't been written yet."

The girl frowned.

"Has anyone ever told you that you don't make that much sense?"

"It's from a book. You know," he added at her blank face, "a story? They're things that mortals write down about other mortals and things that don't really exist but at the same time they do?"

"Oh!" she said. "So it's a type of dream!"

"No. No, not a type dream."

"But you said-"

"It's different," the Bookkeeper said. He crossed his arms. "It's- Well, I suppose a dream could be a kind of story, but books are more like… Do you even know what writing is?"

The girl was silent for moment before managing a hesitant, "…no?"

Now it was the Bookkeeper's time to sigh. He gave her a brief lecture on the history of writing and the books that'd arisen from it and the worlds he often imagined within his head because of them. The girl - for her part - seemed fascinated, nodding after every other sentence.

"So that's what you do then?" she asked after he explained his role. "Keep the books?"

"That's what I do."

"They seem rather amazing," the girl said. "Your books."

The Bookkeeper nodded.

"They are," he said. "I can bring some with me next time… Or better yet, come with me!" He stood up, brushing off his robes. "The house isn't that far way. There are shelves and shelves of them and," - he paused to sigh - "there are probably even more waiting on the floor for me right now. The Wiseman's not going to be happy about that."

"I can't," the girl said tightly.

"What? Why not?"

The girl gave a small cough and pointed downwards at something within the pool. The Bookkeeper edged closer for a better look and followed her gaze.

The top half of the girl matched himself, the Wiseman, and the rest of the mortals described in his books, but her bottom half was scaled and finned like a fish.

"Oh," the Bookkeeper said.

"Oh."

"That would make it rather difficult." He sat next to her and examined the small circumference of the pool. If there was a bottom, he couldn't see it. "Does it get bigger as you go down?"

"No," the girl said, scrunching her nose. "Not really."

"Isn't that really small though?"

She stared at him flatly.

"Sorry," the Bookkeeper said. "It was a stupid question."

"It's okay," she said. "I don't think about it too much. I spend a lot of time dreaming."

"That's your… thing?"

"Exactly. You keep your books. I dream my dreams." She glanced up in thought. "Though they're not really my dreams. Dreaming by myself is boring. That's why I share them with others."

"Hmm," the Bookkeeper said. "So how long have been here?"

The Dreamer shrugged. "Always, I guess," she said. "You?"

"Always as well… Although the Wiseman - he also lives in the house - was there before me… At least I think he was. He certainly acts like he was."

The Bookkeeper flinched, imagining the old man's disapproving face when he finally returned. Hundreds of new books had to be cluttering the house's floor by now. Perhaps thousands. He'd never catch up with the backlog…

"I really should go back to take care of them," he said, springing up. "Not the Wiseman. My books. Don't worry, I'll bring a couple with me next time. You're going to love-"

"Wait!" the Dreamer yelled, her voice cracking.

He looked back; he'd already reached the edge of the tree line in his eagerness to get home.

Her fingers were gripping the stone edges of her pool, the skin beneath her nails turning white from the pressure.

"Please…" she said, her eyes wide and lips trembling. "Please promise me that you will come back." Her face flushed and she looked away. "It's just… it's nice having someone to talk to. That's all."

Her intensity was slightly unnerving, but come to think of it, he hadn't exactly seen anyone else in that pool of hers. Yes, the Wiseman was insufferable and he relished the peace and silence of the older man's periodic absence, but - at the same time - the Bookkeeper couldn't imagine a world without him. If there was no Wiseman and it was just him alone in the house with his books for eternity… would he even be himself anymore? Reading story after story with no one to talk to, no one to moan and complain about, no one to argue with…

The Dreamer was still rigidly clutching the sides of her pool. Alone.

The Bookkeeper smiled at her.

"I promise," he said.