Childhood (5)

Drome meant 'running' in Latin. I found its meaning in a dictionary.

I could hazard a guess why the owner named the library that. I've done a whole lot of it while moving around this place.

It seemed small on the outside, but was ridiculously large on the inside, with a tall spiral staircase hidden in the back and ladders scattered about everywhere. Although the building could hold hundreds, Dromes Library barely got business - when the odd visitor came about, their noisy footsteps became a central point impossible to ignore, whether above or below you.

"William," Richay's voice reached me from ground level. I looked over the guardrails of the 4th floor, leaning over carved wooden pillars, deeply breathing in as I sighed. The mild yet distinct smell of tinted pages and old covers became the new normal these past 4 months.

I think I used to like reading in the past. I find it keeps me occupied.

It felt the most similar to me, at least.

"Yes?" I answered, echoing a few times throughout the building.

"Even if there's barely anyone here, there's no need to raise your voice. I can hear just fine."

"yes," I said, a tad quieter.

"Come down, I've got something for you."

I turned back around and sat down in my plush, velvety chair. Only a moment, I told myself.

I picked up Richay's ceramic mug and my books from the ottoman, then I put my legs up on it, setting the books aside. It was the one she gave me every morning, the one with roses on it. The customary tea in it was customarily cold. I gave it a meagre drink so it wouldn't spill as easily—dandelion root—and instantly put it down by the books.

I stared at the shelves in front of me, leaning back. Every story on it was arranged neatly in alphabetical order by each author's last name. I'd helped with doing it in exchange for getting some water damaged books for free.

"This old thing? Its my grandmothers. I've had it since I was little."

"It's sooo pretty."

"It really is."

"Oh, keep buttering me up you two! I might just get you something similar for your birthdays."

"Aw, stop it~" "Buttering you up? Of course not! Come on~"

"William? Come on, I don't have all day."

A group of 3 were engrossed in conversation right above my current spot, and I haven't been able to tune them out, though they made sure they were quiet. They weren't even here to browse…

I couldn't understand why—I can handle our pubs characteristic loudness, but when those voices are singled out, without me in the middle of it, I find it extremely difficult to ignore.

The soft voices of the library altered into something oppressive. I got a whiff of disinfectant.

"Come on," They urged, the voices behind them blending together, dipping in and out, standing at the end of my bed and blocking the view of my clock.

"We got all this stuff for you—why won't you take it?"

They had balloons, small gifts, cards and heartfelt envelopes, each of the unfamiliar 10 people holding at least one of those items. One guy shook a present in his hand for a more dramatic effect, smiling gently at me.

"I don't want it," I had said, my mouth moving in the correct directions. "you really don't need to give all this to me."

"Come on, ⑙⦎⼮" The main blonde girl, the organizer who held a vanilla cake lit with candles—a '2' and a '5,' pouted. "Don't feel bad. You have to—your birthday at L␪⁤⦟∸◹‶⡷—nce with us! We're your friends."

"Hey, don't push him," Another girl beside her whispered distortedly into her ear. "I heard from—◹‶that he's having trouble hearing. And look at his heart rate."

The group didn't seem to collectively know that, overhearing in the quiet, faintly buzzing room. They hushedly chattered amongst another in concern.

"Oh. W-Well." The blonde girl stuttered. "Sorry. We're not trying to stress you out… Um. We'll just leave this stuff here. Come on guys."

Everyone began to shuffle out, leaving their items beside me. A nurse with a name tag and boxy glasses—"Sherry"—peeked around the exit as my friends left.

"..Bye.."

Those remaining inside stopped when I had answered, regarding me with those indiscernible looks, slowly filing out the door without any further response from them I could hark.

—

"Are you daydreaming again?" Richay lilted.

I rubbed my face, a headache beginning to surface. What exactly should I do with that? Do I just have to sit with it?

"I thought you said I shouldn't raise my voice. You're forgetting about yourself." I idly replied.

"Oh, I know. But I'm the owner, aren't I."

I couldn't bother entertaining that further. I sighed again as I stood back up, walking over to the staircase.

I navigated throughout the maze of dark bookshelves before I was finally approaching the reception desk. Richay was already facing my direction.

"You'll like this." she whacked a scroll against her hand.

I blinked. It looked like another list. "More work?"

"Haha, your mom would kill me if I kept working you to the bone. No."

She stretched it out with both hands, unfurling to an arms length. "However, you like magic, right? I'm not making you work if its... an interest of yours. Repeat that before I give this to you."

My neutral frown became overtly disgusted. I didn't bother to hide it. "…Magic is an interest of mine."

"Good." She held it out, waiting for me to take it. "We recently had a few spellbooks and other things donated. We need to organize them up on the 3rd floor."

Spells? I took the scroll and started reading it. "Do you guys ever get other things related to magic?"

"Eager, aren’t you." Her mouth quirked up slightly. "If you're talking about… supplies, nobody would donate cards and paintings. Don’t get any ideas.

And remember - don’t read them, okay? Be careful. Spellbooks are rare." She brought her finger up to her lips and winked. She waited for me to say something, but when I didn't, she simply leaned back in her seat.

She knows I won't listen, and I don't like that.

Richay is an odd person.

She's the only worker here. This had originally been her father’s shop—and she refuses to get any other help, it's her own twisted sense of pride. She'd do much better with people who could actually see what they were doing… No wonder so little people came here. It was impossible to sort through the categories since nobody could put them in the correct place.

I'd asked her what happened to her eyes one day. She was taken aback at first, but she still told me.

"I'm Coreless," She said quietly, drumming her fingers on her desk to fill the silence as she thought. "I wasn't always like this. It's... just a side effect of having no mana in your body."

I had caught her small huff of indignation as she looked off into nowhere. "It doesn't happen to everyone. I got unlucky."

If you're so unlucky, it should be all the more reason to get staff. I shook my head as I started to read her notes, a hardly legible, looping cursive. I need to get this done before James or Alva pick me up to help in the kitchen.

The book rack by the stack of papers in the corner of the 3rd floor. Sort them for me on the shelves, labeled spell section. There's a key underneath the rug for the locked door

Shout if you need help! :)

The rest of the scroll was the book names, more legible, written by someone else. It was likely the donor. She always made sure to keep a thorough record of all the books that came in and went out.

I hadn't been allowed in the 3rd floor, so I'd speculated what was behind it before… Guess I know now. I went up the stairs and stopped at the entrance. You'd only be met with a small, railed ledge to stand on and a spruce door.

I dug under the doormat and quickly produced a key, unlocking it. The room was much smaller than I expected, about the size of a closet. The bookshelves that were in there, pressed against the walls, were almost completely empty - I could probably count all the items on them in little time.

I reached for the matchbox sitting on the nearby console, lighting one while I placed the key to the side. It was dark in here, yet there were no candles, so I left the door somewhat open. I eventually found that stack of papers and started sorting through the books beside them, sitting down on the floor.

Shortly after, something sharp and pungent wafted into my nose… I rubbed my nose, sniffling a few more times.

"Ugh..."

It was really strong… the smell reminded me of a freshly squished ant between your fingers, and it seemed to be coming from in front of me. I looked down at what was in my hands.

'Beginning to Write - Spells and Grimoires. First Edition'

"…"

I turned the cover to the first page. It seemed the author name got smudged on the page somehow - but there was a table of contents and small synopses as to what the book would teach.

'DXLII'

In the bottom right corner, that would be the publication date. If I remember correctly after seeing so many of the same letters elsewhere, it would've been made around 4 or 500 years ago. For being so old, its in great shape.

I skimmed through the pages. It was as if every single one had a pulse - warm to the touch, like a living animal. Harvesting drinkable water from your own inside you, disinfecting a wound, creating a small bound of fire on your pinky, the possibilities went on and on until I stopped on a breathtaking illustration—a hyperrealistic drawing of an unlit candle in a yellow-white void. On the neighboring page, there were instructions.

'Creating a Candle

It is better to have a real example before you along with the visual. But if you do not, you may just use the picture.

Place your hand on the drawing and your example. Close your eyes. Visualize harvesting the beeswax, feel it beneath your hands, the texture of it seeping between your fingers as you mold its shape into a white cylinder. Now, you must remember; we are not here to create fire, so you must not imagine the flame. If you have trouble doing this, it is better to attempt this outside, as it is possible you may start a reckless fire.'

I placed my hand on the picture, blowing out my match.

Beeswax. White cylinder, molding it together into one whole piece… Can't think about the flame. I'll use it to see better… Sounds simple. 

…

But if I think about not thinking about the flame, aren't I—?

I felt something spark underneath my fingers, liquid and runny, coating my hand as I shifted it around. Is it working? It began to feel uncomfortable as my eyes stung, something wiggling and hot behind them, building up, bulging underneath my hand as it became

too much.

I clenched my hand with a harsh gasp of air, and I suddenly heard the harsh crinkle of a page.

I quickly snapped my eyes open. My hand was burning, scorching hot, coated in black, ink dripping down my wrist. I waved my hand around erratically from the shock, a stray drop flicking up and searing underneath my lip.

I quickly struck another match. The page was completely ruined! Wrinkled and smeared, a far cry from what it once was…

My hand cooled down as my breathing went normal. The now dry ink was baked into my skin.

She's gonna notice this.

Or at least smell it, since it stinks. I looked at the still intact page and swiped my finger on a random word. The word in the book smudged on contact, and I reeled my hand back again as it worked into my skin, rapidly cooling. Just to make sure, with my cleaner hand, I rubbed another word on a different page, smudging my thumb, burning before cooling abruptly once again.

What the…?

I pinched each of my inky fingers onto my just as filthy thumb, gingerly closing the book before I destroyed more. It's clear I have no clue what I'm doing.

This is exactly why I've been looking for a teacher. Customers at the pub say I'd find nothing on 'this side of town,' meanwhile people in this library always chose to ignore me.

I need to get out of here.

Since there were only 5 books I needed to put away, I quickly did that. I put the ruined book on a shelf that had Anonymous carved into it. I promptly walked away, closing the door behind me.

I glanced around.

No, nobody's gonna be here at this time. I'm being paranoid. It was only those ladies earlier. I looked up to where they originally were sat, and they were gone.

I put my hands behind my back for safe measure.

I kept trying to wipe my hand behind myself as I walked downstairs to the outhouse, attempting to appear casual. What felt room temperature on my skin before started to feel cold. My left arm began to instinctively shiver and I had to bring it back in front of me to cradle.

I reached the second floor. As I dragged myself down, losing feeling in my arm, I caught somebody in my peripheral, near the entrance of the staircase. He seemed as if he was about to go up.

I hid my hands again.

His hair was tousled and brown. He wore a matching brown waistcoat with a white ruff and an expensive gold monocle, leaning on the railing. Another noble.

"…"

"…"

Why hasn't he spoken yet? He continued to scrutinize me as I did him.

I stole a glance at what he held. He was picking at the edges of it unconsciously, scuffing it up.

'Asset Retention in Times of Political Decline'

He shut the book as soon as my eyes went to it.

I raised a brow, suddenly feeling a sharp, icy stab in my hand, which made my face crinkle inadvertently. I made a turn for the stairs again—

"Is that from a spellbook?"

I stopped. It dawned on me that what I had been doing was illegal, so if he knew the details...

"No." I turned back, holding my head down meekly. I let my voice slip smaller than usual. "I… I spilled some ink…"

"Really? Is that all?"

I didn't respond.

His eyes were glued to my left arm, ripping them off to look back at me. "Huh. I thought I smelt something else coming from upstairs. It could just be my nose playing tricks, but…"

He pleasantly grinned, tossing his book off to the side. "It smelt of magic."

My eye twitched, watching the book hit the floor.