2.
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"When you said 'apprentice', what did you mean?" he asks, and curses because his right eye is hurting like it'd been stabbed by a million tiny needles.
Accidentally tugged on the cotton-padding, again.
"Apprenticeship to become Bookman, of course."
Pain pain pain... He thinks he sees Bookman watching him, one eyebrow raised and frowning slightly.
Ah, yes, of course. But, "What is Bookman?"
"One who stands unbiased, with the sole purpose of recording history."
The words are spoken evenly and disclose no emotion; however, the watching has turned into a look of 'Are you stupid?', or 'Are you playing a prank that is stupid?' and the subjectiveness lingers like there is something to be said, but is being ignored for a lack of better judgement.
Nevertheless, it doesn't discourage him. "What happened to my memories?"
"You don't need them," replies Bookman, attention shifting away from him and back to rummaging through the kitchen cabinets, squinting to read the packaging when he finds what he's looking for. "We do not analyze what we see."
Oh... really? And he needs a moment to process because the heavy, bitter scent of herbal medicine is hitting his nose so hard he's tearing. "Why is there this—this heightened sense of perception?" he asks, ducking under the covers and breathing through his mouth.
"You will learn to train it," Bookman answers, as vaguely as the last. "Sleep now. You need to rest."
-
"Read with your mind, Child. Not your eyes."
It's not as easy as Bookman makes it sound. He's been trying, and his speed has improved but not to the point of apparently, where it should be if he were doing it properly. Mind you, he'd only started about three days ago when the old man had dropped a heavy, leather-bound journal in front of him and said, "Start reading."
Still, he supposed it wasn't as if he didn't know what it should feel like. He could never forget those first moments of waking—the endless stream of images he'd been forced to see in painfully vivid detail. There had been no consideration involved, only pure absorption straight into the medial temporal lobe of his brain, which is what shouldbe happening right now with these books. Yet, he is unable to transfer the blocks of text, from between the worn and yellowed pages of Era 217: Period 9, seamlessly into his memory without a fractional thought-process.
The amount of sheer concentration makes his head dizzy and his neck ache with prolonged tension. Enough is enough for this hour. Heaving a sigh and avoiding Bookman's disapproving gaze, he marks the page with a dry blade of grass and shuts the cover.
Gentle breeze and lightly-cast shadows from golden rays of sun; forearms resting on the windowsill, he closes his eyes, listening to the soft roar of distant waves, bird song, and rustling leaves. He wants to hum a tune that's on the tip of his tongue and smiles, because even though the song is not his, its serenity and beauty eases his current mood.
"Child," the old man calls to him and he offers no reaction. The little black kitten has found her way around his legs again, rubbing her back against his ankles and mewing softly.
"Let me tell you something," says Bookman, placing his pen gently on the coffee table and readjusting his position on the floor cushion to face him at the window. "I am here," indicating the house with a sweep of his eyes, "because the events that I've witnessed in the last era must be recorded. A 'depository' period in our profession, it's called."
The old man says this as if it's as plain as day and he nods once with understanding, somewhat annoyed, but listening with focused attention nonetheless.
"And you, as my apprentice, are here because it is also my duty to raise a successor."
He doesn't miss the sudden, though slight change of tone in Bookman's voice, or the impossibly obvious pause before the last word—successor.
They stare at each other in awkward silence; the old man is evidently as surprised as he is, forcefully breaking eye contact as he softly utters an 'I see' in polite response.
Fiddling with a loose thread on his sleeve, he glances at Bookman and notices that the moment is gone: back to endlessly filling the blank pages of Era 217 with neutral undertone and fluid strokes of ink.
On the other hand, he thinks, this little disclosure sequence was more than he could say for the last week and a half. Every question he'd asked had been met with vagueness and ambiguity. The man had a way of making him feel silly, as if his concerns span from nothing at all and that he is simply over-thinking. The few responses with any decipherable meaning however, are curiously accompanied by the same tone of defeat, or bereavement, or something, and eventually surprise—much like with the last sentence.
The greatest question of 'What am I?' aside, he was becoming more affixed on the 'Who are you?' and 'What are we?'
"Old Man." He bites his lower lip, unable to hold back his thoughts. "How do we join a side without affecting it?" And affecting us, and affecting history with it...
He's being ignored, or so he thinks until Bookman sighs and replies, "That, Child, is the ultimate skill of Bookmen."
-
Late afternoon, he's made rose tea and Bookman is studying him as he studies the Volumes on the shelves. He'd taken the various carpets and rugs out yesterday, gave them a good beating to get the dirt and dust out, and left them in the sun all day till he was fairly comfortable with the idea of lying on them. Legs stretching out on the floor and back to the seaside windows, he has Volume XXIV in hand and the perfect amount of natural lighting without feeling too warm or drowsy.
But he's bored again; the pages of history detailing the war of the last era held no feeling, no differential—simply a logbook created by a machine: flawless encoding but zero understanding. He finds it difficult to take as real.
Gaze shifting vaguely, he switches between the sweeping motions of Bookman's hands as days in a year are translated into ink on paper, and the pale shadow of curling steam rising from Bookman's teacup. What is this place...
"I will explain to you again, because this is important."
He's jerked out of his reverie, shocked but immediately excited with the prospect of talking and not reading, even if the outcome may or may not hold any meaning.
"There is always a certain degree of significance in every action taken, and also a certain percentage of uncertainty attached to each significant impact." Bookman doesn't stop writing, the flow of ink unbreaking. "The goal of Bookmen is to minimize such significance so that plus or minus uncertainty, the result is still below 10% significant impact."
He knows he's sitting straight-upright and legs folded Indian-style, hands on his knees, tense—still not fully comprehending. But he doesn't ask any questions yet.
"Ten percent. Because, considering for eyes on both sides," –he's given an indicative look– "the overall significant impact is notably muted."
Bookman pauses and takes a sip of his tea, shutting those dark painted eyes as the hot liquid touches his lips. "In layman terms: do not stand out. Bookmen are no frontline soldiers; we do not need every bloody detail of history, only enough to record who, when, where, and what. There is no why for Bookmen."
"And what happens if we die? Are we replaced?" It's a valid question, but the crease in Bookman's forehead deepens.
"Do not dwell on the possibility of death. That is not the mission." This time, he can clearly see the old man wanting to add something, but ultimately changing his mind halfway through.
-
Ironically, he's learned that there is no written history of the Bookmen Clan itself, nor are there any references to them anywhere. "Documentation of Bookmen is strictly forbidden. And should you attempt such foolishness, you can be sure they will find you—there is no escape." Yet, by word of mouth the existence of Bookmen to all noblemen, is as common knowledge as the Vatican is to all Christians.
He doesn't really understand it: surely, certain groups would -not- want the history of their actions recorded?
"Damn."
He immediately regrets it, turning to take a peek at Bookman who's sitting cross-legged on a floor cushion, in the middle of a meditative nap—was in the middle of... Now he's awake, and glaring not so subtly.
"Sorry," he smiles apologetically, "I uh... accidentally used too much orange."
He was trying to paint, since the amount of artistic material, including paint pallets, brushes, easel, and canvases littered around the cottage was more than enough to produce a small, private gallery. He's started yesterday, attempting to recreate the blue, white, and golden yellow sea to sky onto a small, eight by six-inch canvas, and surprisingly, it turned out rather beautiful. Even Bookman had to admit that he may possibly have some innate talent for art.
"You are supposed to be finishing Volume L today, not wasting time painting."
He shrugs, too engrossed in mixing the perfect shade of rose—red obviously, with white, a touch of orange, and a tiny, tiny dab of blue. Perfect.
"You should try this sometime, Old Man. So relaxing," he singsongs. "I'll bet the only things you ever paint are those eyes of yours." And he stops to peek at Bookman again, slightly embarrassed; he was in such a relaxed and unrestrained mood, his mouth was running rampant.
"The paint on my eyes is there for a reason, though I'm surprised you haven't asked," Bookman harumphs, crossing his arms, "since you like to ask about plenty of other inconsequential details."
"What's the reason?" He might as well find out now that the subject was breached anyway.
"You may think of it as a means to 'forget the face'; a mask of sorts," Bookman replies.
Wear the paint. Forget the face. Only the words remain.
"But that is only one aspect of it."
"And what's the other aspect?" He knew he was afraid of the answer, a little, which was one of the reasons he hadn't asked. Enhanced senses he could accept, refocusing those enhanced senses into a pure, high-speed reading -absorbing- mechanism, he could also learn to accept. But seeing through things,even if only at close range, was definitely not normal.
Before Bookman had the chance to answer, he couldn't help but ask, "Are we human?"
He touches the solid black eye-patch covering his right eye, elastic strings stretching over each ear holding it in place; something he'd fished out of one of the chests, treasure chests for lack of a better description, sitting under the bed. He actually quite liked it. Gives me character. Like a pirate.
"It's different," he continues, back to the concerns at hand; it can't be human.
Bookman take his time, stroking his chin and seemly choosing his next words wisely. "Yes, we are human. But we are also different..."
He doesn't look impressed.
"Bookmen have been around much longer than the term 'human'," concludes the old man. "Think of it that way."
He's not giving this one up so easily; it was one question he'd been stalling but one that really needed an answer nonetheless. "But this," -he points to his eye- "and I know you know what I'm talking about, can't be—"
"Our eyes are special," interrupts Bookman, "but you are not ready for paint so we will simply seal one eye, for now."
"But—"
"Child, do not get ahead of yourself." The old man is uncrossing his legs now and standing up, making his way over to where he was painting, with brush still in hand. "The eye will heal in time, and when you are ready, you may paint them as you like."
He thinks he sees a man, with fiery red hair like his own, somewhere in the memories he'd acquired from his wakening. And instead of the dark, oil-black circles Bookman wore on a daily basis, the man had a strip of black painted across his face from ear to ear, over his eyes, and even into his hairline like a tattoo; except somehow, that single memory had begun to fade away to the point where he's not certain if it's a memory anymore—yet it must be.
"When will I be ready?"
"The scroll will tell you when the time comes," answers Bookman, laying a hand gently on his shoulder as if to say, 'Let it go for now. Don't think, apprentice, because thinking is useless and gets you nowhere: only questions, questions, and more questions because once you start asking, you'll realize that nothing makes sense. And then the worlds as you know it falls apart. So don't ask.'
But that's not what Bookman is saying. It's what -I'm- fearing...
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End Part 2.
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A/N: I think the way I abuse possession takes 'bring your own subtext' to a whole new level. Which is bad. Someone save me.