In a sort of lucid waking dream, I awake unconscious of my surroundings. The unburning heat of the void does not leave me; I feel hot and sweaty under thick fabric as if ailed by a sickly fever.
I struggle to stay awake, shaking as a sleep deprived body does in its second wind. I realize the struggle is also to keep my body on its two feet. Somehow I am standing, wearing armor, and my eyes are closed. I open them, and see in the dim light my hands resting on the crafting bench, holding a shifting mass of leather and bone, as it coalesces to form two boots.
How is this possible? Was I sleepwalking when I did this?
Somehow the fact that the skeleton armor is complete makes me wary of how these forces came to be, how I came to craft those strange things, one after the other. I'd rather I didn't try to discover how it happened, but somehow it doesn't feel right.
How could I have put on this armor in my sleep? Did my memories lapse somehow? Did the book somehow gain control of me through the nightmare?
The idea of the book's influence sinks in more. Somehow a precious part of my consciousness has been violated, and couldn't be rectified. The book is responsible for that violation. Part of me feels terrified, and another part enraged.
I thought I told you to leave me alone! I reach underneath the skeleton armor, for the back pocket underneath, and sure enough, there is the familiar square bulge. I reach within the pocket and grab the book out to open it, projecting my anger as I stare at the blank pages. Words materialize, both on the paper and within my mind.
"You did it! You should be so proud! Do you have any idea what this means?"
If you had any teeth, you'd be lying through them. Don't play coy. Explain what you did to me, and tell it to me straight.
"I'm not sure what you mean. I was simply a guide. The effort and credit belong to you."
You could start explaining what the nightmare you gave me has to do with me crafting these boots.
"I see no connection, and I'm not sure why you'd think I gave you a nightmare. I would never do that sort of thing!"
That's wrong. You're lying! You said it yourself that you gave me those nightmares. Then you made me craft this armor!
"I don't understand why you're taking your anger out on me. Besides, that armor is your accomplishment, not mine. I will take no credit. Perhaps there is some hidden grudge we need to discuss?"
I know what you're trying to do to me and I won't let you do it!
I have to get rid of the book somehow. Putting it in a closet isn't enough. I have to destroy it. I wonder how hard it would be to rip apart the binding... but it can still hear my thoughts!
"I wouldn't try that if I were you. I can make you feel whatever I feel, including pain. Perhaps you still remember the void, and what that felt like? That terrible, unbearable void..."
The book projects a deep fear and loathing. I remember how the pain felt, and for a small moment I feel sympathy for the book... but then I try to shut my mind off from the thought, knowing it is a trick meant to manipulate me.
"Don't be so upset. You've crafted the boots and made the decision to put them on. And for that, the nightmare is over."
But I never wanted to put them on. When did I make that decision? Never. The book is trying to tell me what to think. I won't let it.
But I don't have much of a choice. If I don't put on the boots, I will be thrust into another nightmare. Surely putting on a set of armor before bed to fulfill the book's false perception of control over me is better than the alternative.
I take the first boot, and stretch it underneath my right foot, sliding my leg into it. Then I take the second boot, and slide it over my left foot. Then I head groggily back to the bedroom, and slide clumsily into my bed.
But if I am coerced against choosing for myself, is that perception of control really false?