Author's Note: I'm sorry about the delay. I know I sound like a broken record, but a lot has happened: the death of my friend's mom, finals, four weeks of being sick with a sinus infection and double ear infection. It's just been crappy. But this chapter will make it better, yeah? –crosses fingers—
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Belgrade was cold at this time of year, almost cold enough to be snowing outside. Or maybe it was too cold to snow and that was the reason everything felt so miserable. The wind was sharp and biting as it whipped through clothing into the very skin and bones of a person. It was a wretched time of year, in Bookman's opinion, and he'd much rather have been somewhere warm drinking tea and not tromping around outside in the middle of an isolated Ice Age.
"It's f-freezing," Lavi put in helpfully. If Bookman wouldn't have been keeping his hands warm inside his cloak pockets, he would have smacked the back of Lavi's head for pointing out the obvious.
"What an accurate observation," Bookman replied dryly, slapping him verbally with his words. "Tell me, how did you ever manage to figure that out?"
"Somehow I'm picking up on this vibe that someone's in a bad mood," Lavi answered, sounding rather cheerful despite it. It had to be his new persona, Ender, who was the cause for Lavi's altered personality. "There's no reason to be. I mean, it could always be worse!" They were standing on the corner waiting to cross the street, when he said this just as a carriage raced by. The front wheel splashed through a puddle of melted snow, spraying them with the sick-looking watery slush that had been in the gutter. And as if that wasn't bad enough, the rear wheel did it again, soaking them through. So now they were cold and wet. Bookman actually did take his hand out of his pocket to smack Lavi in the head.
"Finagle's Law (1)," Bookman growled at him, angrily stomping across the slippery road with Lavi not far behind him. "So never say that it could be worse."
"I thought it was positive thinking…" Lavi muttered from behind him, ringing out his hair.
"Positive thinking gets you this," Bookman replied, indicating their wet clothing. "And the Law of Dynamic Negatives makes it happen."
"Why can't you say jinx like everyone else?" Lavi grumbled, mostly to himself, so Bookman didn't dignify it with a response. They were almost to their destination, he knew, because they were in the Vracar municipality, passing the plateau that shared the same name, where the Cathedral of Saint Sava (2) sat like a lord overlooking the city. Its huge dome-shaped roof could be seen for miles around, and flocks of people were crowded toward it for service. "I mean, jinx is a good word…" Lavi continued, still behind Bookman, mumbling to no one in particular.
"It's an inaccurate word in this connotation. You're using it superstitiously," Bookman replied, just to reply. Up ahead, the place they had been looking for came into view: the National Library of Serbia. Tall pillars held up an intricate roof, the structure looking more like something out of Athens than Belgrade.
"Is this it?" Lavi asked, forgetting their previous conversation as he looked at the building curiously. Although it was intricate and somewhat foreign-looking, the library was small and unremarkable in a strange sort of way. "It's kind of…little."
"Don't let looks deceive you," Bookman said, walking up the main steps toward the entrance. Carved into the stone above the name Narodna Biblioteka Srbije was a small, circular symbol with the Bookman crest: the tome, the compass rose, the quill and scroll, and the balanced scale. Lavi made a sound like "Ohhh…" when he spotted this, realizing that this library was affiliated with their clan. Bookman pushed the heavy door open and stepped inside, boots making a harsh noise in the marble hall. The inside entry way to the library was narrow, but tall, with every sound and breath echoing off the vaulted ceiling. Golden light illuminated the inside space somewhat dimly from oil lamps hanging on the walls. Although a little too dark for Bookman's liking, he made no comment and walked into the main antechamber.
There were a few people at the mahogany desks, reading or writing. Many of them appeared to be teachers or older students from the nearby university. Bookman paid them no mind, turning toward the right, Lavi's slippery footsteps following him. Past the Western Civilization section, there was a circular room, about big enough for five people to stand in comfortably, and Bookman walked into said area. From his cloak, he produced a small stamp of the Bookman crest from a pocket on his belt; it fit perfectly in the negative indent on the floor. Lavi stood in front of him in the doorway, looking at him curiously as Bookman turned it twice to the right. His expression turned surprised when the floor began to sink, a marble platform moving downwards into the dark.
"Are you coming or are you going to stand there like an idiot?" Bookman asked, causing Lavi to hurry forward and onto the descending platform before it became too much of a drop. They sank into the darkness for a while, the light above their heads getting smaller and smaller by the moment until it was just a pinprick of gold. Lavi took in a shaking breath beside him, probably due to the chill in the air as they moved further underground.
Soon, the edges of the platform turned white and then a full force of bright light hit them as the marble transport came to a stop. They were in a cavernous room decorated in Baroque style, but lit with bright fluorescent lights similar to East Wing. Bookman pulled his seal from the floor and pocketed it. Lavi startled and scampered off the dais when it began to ascend, hurrying to hide behind Bookman again. His fifth persona was quite the timid thing, it seemed.
"Welcome, Bookman," said a scathing voice. A tall man with a long face similar to that of a donkey approached them. Long gray hair settled over his shoulders like the mane of a lion; an old lion with a bad temper.
"Baqer," Bookman replied, able to keep the disdain out of his voice only thanks to years of practice. Baqer was one of his Master's old favorites, which had always irked Bookman more than he liked to admit. Who knew that the disgusting fool had acquired a rank in this establishment?
There was a tense silence, in which neither of the older men would say the usual words of conversation between two people who had not seen each other in a while. Neither of them would say "good to see you again" or ask "how have the years treated you?" because Baqer was an arrogant asshole and Bookman could have cared less if he had been dying of some painful disease, like syphilis. The uneasy air between them was certainly felt by the few other people in the room, who pretended to be going about their business as if they weren't affected by the heavy animosity that hung above their heads like a storm cloud.
"It appears you have an apprentice now, Bookman," observed Baqer, his black, beetle like eyes flickering downwards for a moment to regard Lavi, who was still hiding behind Bookman. "Tiny little thing, isn't he?" The tone in which he spoke those words and the slight curvature to his lips made Bookman's vigilance raise a few levels. He recalled another reason why he disliked Baqer so much: his infatuation with little boys. Maybe Lavi sensed this perversion as well, because he cowered further behind Bookman, going as far as even gripping the old man's cloak nervously.
"I seek Zebulon. Is he present?" Bookman asked, not wanting to spend any more time in Baqer's company than he had to.
"Right this way," Baqer sneered, turning on his heel to begin stalking down a corridor with long strides. Bookman followed with Lavi tagging along safely behind him. After a few moments, Baqer ushered them into a well-furnished room with a hearth consuming one entire side of it. A portrait of a heavily wooded area displayed a man walking through the dark depths hung above the fireplace. The rest of the walls were covered with hundreds of shelves, each supporting many volumes of all shapes and sizes. "I will fetch him for you," Baqer said, mock bowing before exiting the room with a quick slam of the door.
"Hun dan (3)," Lavi observed casually, moving to go sit in front of the fire. Bookman agreed too much to admonish him for the swear. There were several sofas and comfortable chairs close to the fireplace, so Bookman removed his wet cloak and draped it over the drying rack near the hearth before sitting down on the closest recliner to think. If Baqer was here, would his reason for coming here be kept secret? Surely Zebulon would not indulge the purpose of Bookman's visit, as he was a respectable man. But Bookman had been here enough times to know that the walls had eyes and ears, and that nothing was truly safe.
"Ender," Bookman said, making Lavi turn to regard him with curious attentiveness. When gestured closer, Lavi scooted along the soft rug to Bookman's chair, still with that look upon his face; Bookman knew then that Lavi would truly do anything for him to please him. To be praised by Bookman was Lavi's purpose at this stage in his life, which was something the old man was willing to give in reward for unconditional obedience. "Do you know why we're here?"
"For…something important," Lavi replied, clueless.
"For something very important," Bookman said, continuing in quiet Nepali: "An ancient text that dates to even before the Old Testament. Although the original was lost in the Great Flood, three copies exist in the known world, one held and protected here for the past 500 years."
"What is it?" Lavi asked, switching from English as well. He looked so excited at the prospect of knowing something that others did not.
"The Necronomicon (4)," Bookman replied. The entire room seemed to shudder with those words, going quite still; even the flames that had been crackling in the fireplace didn't make a sound. Lavi must have felt it too, because he stopped mid-breath and glanced around quickly.
"The…Necronomicon?" Lavi repeated. "What's that?"
"It translates roughly to 'The Book Concerning the Dead', reminiscent of the ancient Egyptian's scrollwork texts on the same subject," Bookman answered. "This book, however, is a much more comprehensive work that may hold the answers to millennial old questions."
"If it's that important, why haven't you looked at it before now?" Lavi asked. It was a valid question, so Bookman was willing to answer.
"Because of the rarity of the book, it is difficult to consult," Bookman replied. It was only the half-truth, but Lavi didn't need to know of such things. Although the young boy by his feet knew that the Bookmen carried secrets, he didn't know some of the finer details of the occupation. He did not know of the contract that had yet to be renewed… "And because of its age, all of the three volumes in existence are in varying states of preservation. Many of the pages are presumably illegible because of this decay." Lavi nodded in understanding, probably sensing that was all Bookman was going to tell him at this point.
"Are they going to let us look at it?" Lavi asked, moving down another topic of discussion.
"If the book still remains here, there is no reason why they should prevent us from doing so," Bookman answered.
"Even though that creeper guy doesn't like you?" Lavi inquired.
"He holds no power here," Bookman said, in harsh English syllables.
"I do hope you're not talking about me," said a voice from their right. The door had opened softly sometime toward the end of their conversation. A man stood in the doorway in modest indigo robes, his gray beard combed neatly around a truly genial smile. Bookman stood up from his chair to greet the man known only as Zebulon. Closing the door behind him, Zebulon entered the room, continuing: "Because then I would have to go back and revise my job description."
"I assure you, there is no need for you to do such a thing," Bookman replied, putting emphasis on the word. Zebulon must have done the math and figured out whom Bookman was referring to, because he smiled and shook his head.
"As much as I think he's an arrogant snake, Baqer is unfortunately dead useful," Zebulon answered, walking forward. "But we're not here to gossip like bored housewives, are we?" He extended his arm to shake hands with Bookman, who could see Lavi watching them out of the corner of his eye. His apprentice had risen with him when Zebulon had entered, but had placed himself slightly behind Bookman, either out of shyness or respect, the old man was uncertain. "You're here for a reason, I gather. Care to enlighten me?" As Zebulon seated himself, Bookman caught sight of a child of nearly Lavi's height and stature beside the other man. Small and scraggly, the boy kept his eyes downward in obedient submission. But as Zebulon showed no sign of acknowledgment towards the child, Bookman easily did the same.
"I am here to see that book," Bookman replied, not using the real title. It made many people uncomfortable to speak the name aloud, as the book was rumored to be cursed. Although Bookman had no fear of this phenomenon, he made allowances for others, especially the man who had the power to give or deny him access to said text. Zebulon made a thoughtful face as he stared into the fire for a long time, perhaps thinking of the thick leather book kept in the deepest of the archives.
"Certainly you are referring to Images of the Laws of the Dead, are you not?" Zebulon asked, using the alternate title used by the more literal of translators.
"Yes," Bookman answered.
"Why do you seek it?" Zebulon inquired, turning his head to study Bookman. Despite the fact that Zebulon was the one man Bookman considered himself to truly be on an equal plane of intelligence with, his stares were never hard enough to make Bookman feel uncomfortable, something he was grateful for. When Zebulon realized his searching stare wasn't enough, he relaxed a bit and smiled again. "No need to tell, just an intellectual curiosity dying to be sated."
"The records are currently pointing toward the history regarding Necromancy. I only seek it to confirm certain patterns and use it to explain evidence found in our past travels," Bookman answered, knowing that being too vague would cause too many problems. Zebulon nodded as Bookman spoke, the wheels turning in his mind almost audible.
"Perhaps…it's best to leave that book out of things," Zebulon said after a moment of careful consideration.
"You truly don't believe in the superstitions," Bookman replied, not believing that such an educated man could hold rumors and folklore to be truths.
"Curses exist, Bookman," Zebulon said, leaning over the arm of his chair to look at him seriously.
"I do not doubt that," Bookman answered, as he had seen many things in his travels and could not discount witchcraft as a very real practice that yielded results. Whether they be positive or frighteningly negative, witchcraft was not something to be scoffed at. But every spell, curse, and charm died with the caster. A curse that lasted for centuries was something a little dubious in Bookman's opinion. So he said so: "But a curse that could be retained in an object without a caster is quite unlikely. Even if it truly was a strong magician who placed the spell upon the book, it would have worn off after time." Bookman folded his hands on his knee as he put forth this information. "Besides, only copies exist, as the original is still unaccounted for. Are there three separate curses on these books? Highly improbable. It is merely the human mind devising its own dysfunctional perception of reality, using curses and spells to explain negative aspects in life." These statements of fact had no effect on Zebulon, who continued to stare at him with stubborn adamancy.
"The item itself is not cursed," Zebulon replied. "It is the actual words that make up the book. The information held in that tome is something that no one should know. Trifling between the different planes of existence should not be done, by anyone. But the people who have read this book have transgressed these boundaries between life and death. The knowledge that comes from this book is too great and too dangerous to be taken lightly. No such thing as curses, I think not."
"There is no curse. Man makes his own curses with his own foolishness," Bookman said, coldly. If there was one thing human were good for, it was making their own troubles. "Now, I intend on using the text merely for the sake of understanding certain phenomena that have become increasingly more apparent in the past few years. I do not intend to speak with the dead, nor do I intend to use the book in any Necromantic practices. It is purely for research and the records, which are my duty to record with knowledgeable accuracy." Zebulon watched him carefully as he spoke, leaning back his chair when Bookman had finished, staring up at the painting above the hearth.
"Do you know what the painting represents?" Zebulon asked, pointing at the picture. Giving the canvas more of an appraising eye, Bookman took in the dark image: the form of a naked man walking through a seemingly endless black forest.
"The search for self or knowledge by those lost in the metaphorical forest of life's hardships and distractions," Bookman answered. The painting reminded him of a similar one that was in the copy of Dante's The Divine Comedy that Lavi had been reading ages ago back when they had first started out on their journey.
"On the literary level, do you know what the forest represents?" Zebulon inquired, knowing that Bookman was no fan of literature which had no historical significance. Without waiting for an answer, the other man continued: "It can mean a number of things. Mostly the bad things, such as the earthly troubles like destruction and sin, but it can also be interpreted on the mystical level as well. Negative aspects of nature, these can range from magic and the devil to fear and the unknown, even as far as sexuality and violent impulses of the human psyche." This crock of metaphors and symbolism was just the reason Bookman didn't read literature often; too speculative. "This forest is something that every person must walk through and not be tempted. That is the only way they can emerge enlightened on the other side." Zebulon thought he was making an intelligent point, but unfortunately, he was failing to do so in Bookman's opinion.
"Inquiry is not the same thing as temptation in this case," Bookman said. "Temptation leads to selfish indulgence and greed. Inquiry, however, leads to knowledge and understanding."
"Not all knowledge is good," Zebulon replied. "And some things are better left not understood."
"Not for a Bookman," Bookman replied. Zebulon looked at him searchingly for another moment more before smiling at the conclusion drawn.
"Indeed. You speak truths," he said, settling back again with a friendly wink. "So I'll make the exception just this once."
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After Zebulon had given them a quick tour (apparently this affiliate of the clan was expanding under the city, so there were numerous underground complexes that were still being constructed, which meant that a lot had changed since the last time Bookman had visited) and shown them to the guest quarters (to drop of their things and change out of their still-damp clothes) before leading them to a small, decrepit looking lift. Zebulon and his silent apprentice went inside fearlessly, but Bookman and Lavi stared at the rickety, unsafe transport with suspicion.
"Where's your sense of adventure?" Zebulon asked, holding the gate open for them. Bookman could have sworn he heard Lavi mutter under his breath 'Sorry, I left it in my other pants'. Zebulon just continued to smile cheerfully. "Oh, come now. A little element of danger never hurt anyone." Bookman felt like countering how that element of danger had resulted in both he and his apprentice being thrown in prison at one point, but decided not to comment.
Eventually, they did get on the lift, which took them at a frightening speed downwards. When it arrived at their destination, both Bookman and Lavi stumbled out of the elevator in relief that it was over. Zebulon laughed heartily at their discomfort, leading them down a rather dimly lit hall toward the one room at the very end of it. Inside, it was even darker, forcing Zebulon to light a candelabrum to bring some light to walk by.
"This is it," Zebulon said, standing with the light source before a square, glass case. Inside the protective cube, there sat a brown book with rust colored pages; a piece of red string was wrapped around the tome as if it were some morbid kind of present. "Hold this," Zebulon instructed to his apprentice, who wordlessly took the candelabra from his master and held it steady before him. With this light, Zebulon murmured a few words as he lifted the glass cover from over the Necronomicon. There was a soft hiss and a chill that swept over all of them, quite physical as it nearly blew the candles out. Bookman stared at the volume before him on the simple pedestal, something like secretive whispering filling his ears. "I told you," Zebulon said, his eyes appearing black in the limited light. "Cursed."
And when Bookman lifted that book from the stand, he almost felt like he believed in curses.
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"I don't like it," Lavi said, later that night when they were in their chambers. Zebulon had been kind enough to lend them the book for as long as they needed, and Bookman was taking advantage of the privacy of their room to look over it. He was glad he took the opportunity to do so in a much more cheery atmosphere, as the warmth from the fire kept the nearly tangible anxiety at bay as Bookman looked through the Necronomicon. And Bookman had a right to feel somewhat nervous handling the text, as it was old and delicate, but more so because the book was not covered in leather, like he had first presumed, nor the pages brown with age. No; it was unmistakably bound in human skin, the edges of the pages sealed with a mixture that included blood. "The Devil's Book" it was called by some, and now Bookman knew why.
"Why?" Bookman asked, working through the first few pages, taking fervent notes as he did so.
"I dunno. It gives me a bad feeling," Lavi answered. "Almost like it's…I dunno, watching us."
"Books do not watch, nor do they judge," Bookman said, attempting to put both of their unease at bay.
"Whatever you say," Lavi replied, curling up by the fire. As he went quiet, Bookman read the ramblings of the man who was known only as the Mad Arab. He spoke of the Old Ones, an ancient clan of people who were the descendants of "the Man who saved Humanity". Only once within the text was that man named, and he was called Noah.
The Mad Arab had witnessed this clan's rituals, called them "devils" and "godless heathens". He went on to speak of a scene that had driven him to his plight of insanity: the Necromancy performed by "the Man of Ages". Although there was little to say of the Necromancer, the ritual that the man spoke of was the resurrection of a human soul into that of a demon.
"By lightning, Satan brought forth the Dead.
And the Dead walked and talked like the Living, but had the face of a Devil.
From the Grief of the Living, the Dead returned to The World
And ate the faces of the Living and wore them as Their Own.
And, like Devils, they followed the Man of the Ages and His Will
For they were the mindless Dead, His Army to bring the End of Days.
What can the Living do now, when We cannot see the Devil because
He wears Our Image?"
The passage written there explained the birth of akuma, but what of the Earl of Millennium and his Clan of Noah? Reading further, he gained little of an answer:
"There were Fourteen.
All bore the same Gold Eyes of Their Creator, the Man who saved Humanity.
The One known as Noah was Kind, was He not?
To Save those from The Great Flood of Time?
But His descendants were of no Kindness.
Fourteen in League with the Man of Ages to bring the Dead back into The World.
Why would They do such a Deed?
When They were Human, like those They destroyed?"
Bookman knew all of this already, from what his own master had shared with him upon revealing the secrets of the hidden world. The clan of Noah, in league with the Earl of Millennium, was descendant of the widely-believed "mythical" Noah. They were the second generation of humans after Adam and Eve; the ones who brought forth humanity from its darkest hour and began restoring the race. They were first humans who came from the man chosen by God, which made them superior to others in all ways imaginable. Fantastically, terrible ways. But they were not demons, no matter what their capabilities or their cruelness. Still human, these reported "apostles of God".
"Anything useful yet?" Lavi asked, sounding bored behind him.
"Nothing we didn't already know," Bookman answered, moving past the ramblings of the Mad Arab, moving through a section on spells and curses. A section on runes was rather interesting, with strange symbols that Bookman could not identify to be in any living (or dead) culture. They were long and straight, narrow figures, moving through a straight line, as if someone had crossed them out. In some odd way, it resembled the grand staff one would normally find on sheet music for some kind of instrument. Pushing that thought aside, Bookman continued to read into the late hours, listening as Lavi's breathing softened into an even rhythm with sleep.
When Bookman came across the section of Armageddon, he was greatly disappointed again, but for different reasons. As the text began describing the prophecy behind the "War that would Rage between Light and Dark" at "the End of the Era" it stopped when, on the following pages, the paper had turned black and illegible with age. The only thing that Bookman could make out was toward the bottom of one of the subsequent pages. It was merely a few words, but it was enough: "the War behind the War".
So that time was coming. Bookman put his quill down with a sigh, drawing the unfortunate conclusion that manifested itself before his very eyes.
The end of the world was upon them.
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"Enlightening read, Bookman?" Zebulon asked, the next morning when the two of them were in the room from the day before having tea as Bookman returned the text. He had wrapped it up in a spare bit of cloth, knowing that Zebulon wasn't too keen on touching it, which Bookman hadn't been either.
"As enlightening as scorched pages with illegible information can be," Bookman answered.
"Ah, nonsense. I'm sure you were able to gather something, lest this visit be meaningless," Zebulon replied.
"The only knowledge I was able to gather is that I am in need of one or both of the other copies to continue my research," Bookman said.
"And do you know where you might find another one?" Zebulon inquired, taking a sip of his tea.
"I have a contact that may be able to give me a location on one of them," Bookman answered, hoping said contact was still alive for the purpose of his investigation.
"Very good, then," Zebulon replied, staring at the book on the table before them. He looked a bit uncomfortable with it being so close to the tea. "Most peculiar that you couldn't find anything useful from that thing. Baqer was able to learn much from it." Bookman felt something cold take hold of him.
"Baqer? You let him…examine this text?" Bookman asked, somewhat incredulously. There had been so many things inside the volume: mind control, alternate reality construction, hypnosis. Not to mention curses used exclusively for torture and inflicting pain upon the victim.
"Of course. He has complete control over our most exclusive archives, so he has read all the material we've protected," Zebulon replied, obviously not seeing the problem with this. "There is no need for such distrust. I assure you, he is a trustworthy man, despite some character flaws." Bookman snorted. Baqer was one giant character flaw in his opinion; full of greed, malice, and perversion. His teacup made a clattering sound against the saucer, causing Zebulon to look over at him with concern. "Are you all right?"
But Bookman didn't answer, already halfway to the door, the Necronomicon in his hand. Baqer had a sick fascination with young boys, and Bookman had left Lavi, sleeping and alone, in their unlocked room.
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The first thing he noticed was that the door was ajar. The second thing Bookman noticed were the noises coming from the room. It was Lavi, he knew, and it sounded as if he was choking. Without thinking the situation through, Bookman pushed open the door. Papers littered the floor; the parchment that Bookman had been scribbling away at so quickly the previous night. But the mess wasn't what attracted his attention; it was Baqer, straddling a thrashing body on the bed with his hand around Lavi's throat. He looked up when Bookman entered, eyes wildly excited as Lavi struggled beneath him.
"Bookman. Always coming to ruin the fun," Baqer said, with a disappointed groan. He moved off the bed, releasing Lavi's neck. But despite that, Lavi continued to writhe against the rumpled bed sheets as if he were still being strangled. Baqer looked from Bookman back to Lavi with a morbidly concerned smile. "Ah, don't worry. I've let him up for air a few times. But watching him struggle like this is so much fun." He must have guessed Bookman's unasked question, because he continued to smile, as if he were a child who knew something that everyone else didn't. "Amazing how the mind works. His body is convinced he's drowning even when he isn't. Remarkable how the body can react to a completely contrived, mental situation, is it not?" Lavi was gasping, clawing at his throat as he tried desperately to breathe under water that did not exist. "And I owe it all to that spectacular book." His eyes were on the Necronomicon in Bookman's hand; hungered and frenzied. Bookman was attempting to keep his focus on Baqer, but it kept straying to Lavi, whose movements were becoming weaker and more sluggish as his body was deprived of oxygen.
"Release him," Bookman commanded, in a steady, even tone.
"Only after we find out what you're truly afraid of," Baqer said, with a malicious grin. Before Bookman could react, his mind left his body and he was suddenly somewhere else. It was nowhere he had been before, and yet, at the same time, it was everywhere he had been before. A dark, underground place; grimy and dingy that reeked of death and decay. It was cold, his breath rising before him on the visual plane as he walked uncertainly through the darkness. But even with the limited light, he could see them: the children that Bookman had seen in his travels. They were all in varying states of death or dying, crimson blood smeared on the cobblestone floor, their eyes looking up at him with empty gazes. And even though he was a Bookman, who could look upon the most grisly scenes without flinching, the old man couldn't help the heaviness that overcame his heart at the sight of the small bodies strewn before him. Baqer had somehow figured out Bookman's inability to think indifferently when it came to innocent children, and exploited that mercilessly. These were not created images, but phantoms of the past, projected before his eyes against him in this separate reality.
He attempted to focus, to bring himself back to the room where he had been. It was a simple task in the most basic theories of mind control: if the person knew that the world they encountered was false, all they had to do was disregard everything that made it reality. Cut off the senses--sight, hearing, smell--and focus on the previous place rooted in the actual plane of existence. It should have been easy, as it was easy, but Bookman could not pull himself from this living nightmare.
It was his weakness, he knew. When his eyes were closed, he could still see them, still hear their small calls please, please…help me…terrified in his ears. If Bookman blocked out all sight and sound, he could feel himself stepping on their tiny bodies, slipping in their blood…Nothing helped, so he employed the use of his eyes again, analyzing his surroundings for some means of escape, forcing stoicism upon himself as he looked through the sea of bodies. It didn't help when Bookman spotted Chi among the corpses, a twisted figure of blood and burns, eyes wide open, just as he had been the day Bookman had found him in that shallow grave.
Bookman knew what Baqer was doing, and he expected it, which was the only reason he retained his composure upon finding Lavi at the end of the long tunnel. His apprentice was on his back, lying with his bloodied face turned away from Bookman. There was evidence that he had struggled, ripped fingernails on crimson hands, red welts that littered his arms from attempting to defend himself from whatever had attacked him. But what affected Bookman the most—made his damn heart nearly stop beating—was the position Lavi was in, his torn clothes and the bruises that started on his bare upper thighs which disappeared under the shredded remains of his cloak. He had been violated.
Bookman gritted his teeth. Baqer knew—the bastard fucking knew—that one of the most unforgivable acts in Bookman's mind was rape, especially when that sexual violence was inflicted upon a child. It's not real Bookman had to tell himself, not wanting to near the still body of his previously lively apprentice. None of this is real. He attempted to focus, draw himself out of that cold place. Finding the inconsistencies in his surroundings made it easier: Lavi's hair was a different shade of red, the cloak he wore dissimilar to that of the one he normally wore, the boots on his feet only having three buckles when there were truly four. All of these things concentrated upon even blocked out the pathetic whimpers from the other children around him and Bookman could feel the warmth of the fire in the bed chambers back in reality. But before he could return to wakefulness, a cold hand shot out and grabbed his wrist, preventing him from returning.
"Why'd you let this happen to me, gramps?" asked the illusion before him with Lavi's voice. Blood covered the right side of his face, his only green eye staring at Bookman with questioning. "Why'd you let him hurt me?" Another inquiry as a tear fell down his dirty, bruised cheek. Bookman could feel the warmth of the fire receding and knew he had to do something quickly to get back there. Pushing Lavi back to the floor, Bookman removed himself from the small grip and stood up. He ignored the sounds of the children continuing to cry behind him, disregarded the painfully obvious injuries on Lavi's too-thin body.
"If you're attempting to throw me off by distracting me this way, at least do it properly," Bookman said, wrenching himself from the other world and into his own reality. It was like breaking through heavy water and taking a big breath of air. He was on his knees in the doorway, the Necronomicon still in his grasp, and Baqer was once again on the bed on top of Lavi, his intent perfectly clear. What worried Bookman the most was that Lavi's struggles had stopped, and he was merely lying there under Baqer's perverted hands. Dropping the volume on the floor, Bookman reached into his cloak and found a kunai dagger, which he threw with practiced precision, stabbing Baqer in the shoulder. The man fell backwards over the foot of the bed and onto the floor, writhing in agony as Bookman got up and went to where Lavi lay, still as some of the children he had seen in his nightmare. He was cold, but not dead; still breathing, although so softly Bookman could barely see his chest rise and fall with life.
"Wake up," Bookman commanded, shaking his small shoulder. He needed to make sure Lavi was free of Baqer's control before confronting the other man. But Lavi did not stir and Bookman gave him a resounding slap across the cheek, waking his apprentice from wherever he had been. "I said wake up," Bookman repeated, as he watched Lavi blink a few times in confusion. Then he sat up, holding his hand to his cheek as if he had been rudely offended.
"H-hey!"
"Hay is for horses, idiot," Bookman replied.
"Why'd you slap me?!" Lavi asked, rubbing the red skin.
"Because you don't listen," Bookman answered casually, not showing his relief on the outside.
"W-What?!" Lavi asked, still looking perplexed at what he probably presumed to be one of Bookman's random attempts at discipline. But before Bookman could answer, Lavi was swept off the bed by an invisible force and thrown against the wall with enough power that he didn't move once he had hit the floor. Bookman was moved by the same spell, only to the hard wood of the now-closed door. His breath came out in a painful gasp when he collided with the mahogany door. After all, Bookman was getting a bit more fragile with age. But although Baqer was nearly the same age, he seemed to have no problem rising to his full height, Bookman's dagger still protruding from his shoulder.
"It will take more than that to get rid of me, old friend," Baqer said, in some strange version of courtesy. He ripped the blade from his shoulder without wincing, coming closer to Bookman; his blood ran black, dying the front of his robe. The invisible force still pinned Bookman to the wall, rendering him incapable of moving. The Necronomicon was the cause of Baqer's power: it had given him knowledge that was too great for him. Would this "curse" devour him as it did the Mad Arab? "Surely you've come to understand the power of that book," Baqer continued, grinning maniacally. "It's a wondrous tool and now I know all the secrets." Bookman couldn't understand how, when half the book had been lost to decay. "You're wondering how, aren't you? How could I read a book that's in such condition? I'll tell you." Baqer summoned the book to him, taking it in his outstretched hands like a long-lost lover, black eyes like feverishly burning coals. "It spoke to me. It speaks to everyone, did you not hear it?" The whispers in the dark of insanity long past, poisoned words against charred parchment paper the War behind the War. Oh yes, Bookman had heard it, but would never admit to a book speaking of all things. "Well, no matter. I was going to make quick, but now I've changed my mind." The force increased, invisible pinpricks of what felt like red hot needles piercing his skin. Bookman did well not to make a sound despite the pain. "And when I'm done with you, I'll send your apprentice after you to the other world. After I'm through with him, of course."
"You're not touching me, asshole."
The grin on Baqer's face was replaced with shock after a moment, and the pain faded into nothingness as the force dropped Bookman to the floor. Why his old nemesis had stopped was made quite clear when Bookman saw the brass spire protruding from Baqer's chest. Black blood oozed from the wound before Baqer's body suddenly crumpled on the floor, turning to dust. Lavi was left standing there, the fireplace stoker in his hands, looking shocked at either what he had just done or what he had just seen. The poker clattered to the floor as Lavi took a step back from the pile of ashes that had once been a man.
"Holy shit," Lavi breathed, leaning against the side of the bed. "Am I tripping, or did that just happen?"
"That just happened," Bookman replied, rubbing his throat.
"Holy shit," Lavi repeated, sinking down to sit on the ground. "I just killed that guy…"
"I assure you, it was well warranted," Bookman answered truthfully. After all, if Lavi had not stepped forward… Standing up as he shook dust off the hem of his coat, Bookman said: "And now it looks like Zebulon will be seeking to employ another Archive Master." Lavi wasn't paying attention to him, sitting on the floor with an almost blank look on his face. Bookman gave an irritable sigh, lighting a cigarette and not caring if anyone had a problem with his smoking inside. He was very bad at this "consoling" thing he knew he should probably do. "So you killed someone—" (what a horrible way to start off, he realized), "—but it was for survival. If you hadn't, he would have killed us."
"I know," Lavi replied quietly. He wasn't sad or afraid, not even in shock. Lavi was merely thinking, Bookman could tell; probably about how he had never taken a life before, which was a natural thing to ponder after incidents such as these. But the unfortunate truth was that sometimes it was necessary to survive, especially in the life of a Bookman.
"You did nothing wrong," Bookman said, just for clarity's sake as he placed his hand on top of Lavi's head in a comforting sort of way. "Nothing at all."
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Aw, I love them so much. Hurrah for the good Bookman and Lavi moments that are adorable :D
And hurrah for plot! Sort of, right? Yaaaay, plot! -Nyquil induced hyperactivity-
Stuff you might want to know (haven't done this in a while, huh?):
1. Finagle's Law of Dynamic Negatives (a corollary to Murphy's Law) – "Anything that can go wrong, will—and at the worst possible moment". Although it was not created until the mid 1900's, I found it funny and appropriate for the situation. It's an AU 19th century anyway, so sue me for amusing myself.
2. The Cathedral of Saint Sava – In real history, this cathedral hadn't been constructed yet. It was just a small church on that site where Saint Sava's (the founder of the Serbian Orthodox Church) remains were burned. Nowadays, it's a huge building that's very pretty. For the sake of this story, it exists in all its glory for a paragraph or two.
3. Hun dan – "jerk" or "bastard" in Chinese (Mandarin, I think)
4. The Necronomicon – a fictitious work reportedly written by H.P. Lovecraft. It contains supposedly ancient spells and rituals along stories of myth, magic, Armageddon, and the Occult. In this story, I'm using it as a sort of "history textbook" for some answers in the series. Wikipedia for more information on the actual book or check your public library to peruse a copy…if you dare.
The name "Ender" means "extremely rare" in Turkish.
The name "Zebulon" means "honoured" in Hebrew.
Next Time
Bookman seeks out the second copy of the Necronomicon in hopes of finding answers. But to do so requires a sacrifice on Lavi's part. "What do you mean when you say I'm a girl?"
Oho. So many lulz from that.
Also, regarding updates. I'm trying to become more regular with this story!
Please vote in my poll on my bio page! Your votes determine when the next chapter comes out!
Thanks for all your love and patience.
Dhampir72