Reality

[Arsène]

(Closed) All Bunnying Approved.

The Tragic Youth

The title was scrawled atop a piece of paper with articulate detail and fanciful script, but below it lay an endless sea of scribbles and crossed out words. Ink had overtaken the once clean page with smudges and scratches of a furious author, who crumpled his latest work into a ball and flung it into an awaiting waste basket that already overflowed with mistakes. A heavy breath marked another moment of aggravation, and motivation for his work slowly slipped away from his fingers as they loosened their grip on his pen.

Arsène sluggishly arose from his post; an old chair that had been propped against the wall just behind the store's counter. Business had been nonexistent that day, with no one bothering to travel to some silly bookstore in the middle of a downpour. As the rain pelted the ceiling and windows in a chaotic rhythm, the clouds brought a gloomy gray light that enveloped the small store in a melancholy mood. The man thought of just closing up shop, as every second it stayed open wasted money for its elderly owner.

However, the old man's enthusiasm for the place could be felt in its dilapidated interior. Fresh coasts of paint, fixed table legs, even oil lamps instead of candles; all improvement Arsène had helped with over the last month. And the man knew he would not have kept his sanity if it wasn't for the job. It had been three months since his wife had died. Anastasia, with her flowing red hair and emerald eyes, had been a constant specter in front of his eyes for the first two months as he stumbled drunkenly from one inn to another, with a new bottle of hard whiskey or wine each night. It had only been recently that the world had become clearer again. Once the money ran out, the liquor did too.

His wife had always loved the bookstores in Corone, but found one just outside of town particularly alluring. And it was this store that Arsène arrived in a sullied dark suit and slightly disheveled. Over the month, he had begun to think less about her death and more about their time together, as well as whatever future lay ahead of him. The pain was still twisting inside, but at least he had all time time in the world to preoccupy himself with as he stayed inside the bookstore; living in the attic at night and working during the day for an old man too sick to travel the miles daily.

It was days with rain that were the worst. The store saw little business outside of a few tourists or rich merchants out on a whim, but it did make a sizable living off students and teachers who required books for the nearby schoolhouses. Days with rain left schools empty as the younglings scampered about their house in a desperate attempt to help their parents with leaky roof repairs.

It was days with rain where the sullen man would write his heart and soul unto paper and be disgusted by the melodramatic filth that spewed forth. His poems were a disappointment and any songs he wrote out were flat. The well-dressed noble needed something more, and he knew it.

[Visla Eraclaire]

“Nothing is beyond change,” a voice promised, so quietly and without direction that it could almost be dismissed as an errant thought, if only its tone were not so soothing. This angel’s whisper, warm as the spring sun, soft as a feather, came and was gone in an instant, but lingered like a chord struck in the man’s mind.

Whatever its source, it waited patiently. It did not press Arsene, but neither did it abandon him. The very moment the resonant tone gave way to doubts and explanations, it came forth again, more clearly but still softer than the finest down.

“The way of things is not the only way. You ought not be bound,” it rejoined. The words seemed to plead for action without giving a course. Their ephemeral nature requested no reply, and the silence between them was sacred, inviting no interruption.

“Your flesh is weak, but your steel is frailer still. Weakest are your codes, shackles of your own forging. They are too brittle to contain your mind,” even as they condescended him, the words seemed to drip with the sweetness of honey. Whether it was their truth that gave them this quality or simply a trick of perception was a question open to him.

The silence after these words was more powerful than before. It insisted on stillness as well as quietude. Even the slightest motions of drawing breath and blinking eyes were held back, not by a steely grip but with the delicacy that left its intervention almost beyond notice. Time passed as in sleep, without examination or sensation.

“Your will is only now awakening. To give you an order would strangle it in its infancy. We are ever watchful. Your choice will be clear to us.” These were its final words, more pointed than those before. The sharpness and clarity were insistent that no matter the other signs, this was no dream, no hallucination. Whatever its import, its reality was beyond reproach.

[Arsène]

It had been a minute since the voice had stopped; a silent minute interrupted by the nervous tapping of Arsène's hand and the darting of his eyes. The gray store, which had been a bore only a few moments before, had an unnerving quality to it. The man's mind raced with questions that swirled and churned into a jumble of nonsense. He felt that any attempt to translate the thoughts into words would create a simpleton's stutter; and ethereal voices were things to be impressed.

"I'll assume this isn't a prank," he said, when he finally managed to dislodge the words from his throat. "Nor the drunken specters a sober man forgets." It took a bit more time for the shakes that ran up and down his spine to stop, despite what warm tones were used.

Every question he wanted to ask seemed far too stupid. Had it been his own mind, he doubt it would've been so comforting, as only guilt and sorrow trodden its recesses. And the spirits had already told him they wouldn't chose or order, so asking their will was redundant at best and foolish at worst. Finally, out of boredom and necessity, Arsène relaxed as much as possible and let the words flow freely.

"In your view, what is best for me now?"

[Visla Eraclaire]

The voice, if it could even hear his entreaties, gave him no sign. There was only silence, occasionally interspersed with sounds of his own making.

[Arsène]

A maddening quiet; infuriating to its very core. Arsène grew more agitated by the minute.

"Have I done something to quiet you?" Despite a hefty rage at his comments for falling on deaf ears, the man grew worried he'd somehow offended the voice. "Perhaps I wasn't cryptic enough?"

Another minute passed by; another minute of quiet with the occasional clap of thunder to lighten the mood. The air was sniffling and stagnant, and dust seemed to gather around Arsène if only to irritate him more.

"Is my talking futile, or -"

He could speak no further as a customer had opened the door to peak in. He saw, right at the counter, a crazed man speaking to the walls. Despite the severity of the storm outside, he quickly left, shutting the door behind him with a start. The bell atop the door shook violently and crashed to the ground.

[Visla Eraclaire]

The door swung open again and tossed the fallen bell across the floor with a jingle surprisingly similar to the sound it would make were it still in its appointed place. A woman stepped in, still clutching her traveling cloak in surprise. She had nearly collided with the madman as he made his inscrutable flight from the store.

While frequently customers would meander about quietly, whether from desire to find what they were looking for themselves or simply to find shelter from the weather without being bothered to buy anything, she made her way quickly to Arsene and looked him straight in the eye, as best she could. It directed her brown-eyed gaze upward, as she was scarcely over five feet tall.

Her appearance was elegant without being genuinely striking. Her expression was a serious one that seemed well-worn, the natural state of things rather than some perfunctory mask. A few strands of smooth black hair framed her face while the rest fell about halfway down her back, tied simply with a length of ribbon just above her shoulders. Beneath the folds of her cloak were well-fitted garments that clung flatteringly to her figure. Their fine black fabric and grudging concealment of her faintly ochre skin layered professionalism on the otherwise sensuous undertones.

She placed two finely manicured hands on the counter and leaned forward as she addressed the man she figured for an attendant. Whatever shock the madman had elicited from her was long gone by the time she opened her mouth and spoke with practiced, articulate cadence.

"Greetings, sir. I've come to inquire about your book selection, if you have a moment." She glanced around at the dusty interior and added, "It would seem you could use some more significant patronage and I am happy to oblige."

She nodded, mostly to herself and continued with a hint of urgency that seemed wholly out of place in the sleepy confines of the bookstore. "How widely varied is your collection? More to the point, where do you draw the line between fiction and non-fiction?"

The question was slathered with a presumptuousness and significance so artificial that it almost stung in the ears. The speaker herself must have felt it as she lowered her gaze and gave the faint suggestion of a smile.

"I apologize for being so mysterious. I've come a long way, and my manner is more affected than I would like. My name is Elenore, envoy of Uiria, though that likely means nothing to you."

For all her careful diction, the content itself was possessed of an unavoidable awkwardness and fractured formality. Whatever friendliness her name might have offered was overborne by the addition of a title, something she would never seem to grasp.

[Arsène]

The mortification of being caught mid argument with a ghostly apparition was quickly wiped away, replaced by an uneasy calm at the woman who had approached the counter. There was something about her seemed too convenient; everything was so perfectly in place from her well chosen words to her finely filed nails. Arsène was hesitant, trying his best to size up the situation.

"I can only assume you have something specific in mind," he said with all the nobility he could muster. "Elenore, was it?"

Coy games were never his strong suit, but he had been in a business meeting or two that required fake pleasantries to plant the seeds that would eventually bare fruit. He must have seemed somewhat imposing to her, starring down intently into her brown eyes with a mixture of excitement and suspicion.

"We don't separate our small selection into category. But if there's something you have in mind, I'm sure I can help you find it."

[Visla Eraclaire]

The thinly veiled, over-serious questions were Elenore's idea of subtlety, and this was precisely why she could only claim title as a representative of an unheard of town on the boarder of nowhere. There was only a faint glimmer somewhere within the easily frustrated and impulsive young woman of the silver tongued girl who had abandoned her family's warrior tradition for diplomacy. It would have pleased her father to see her failing so fantastically in a situation that required even the lightest modicum of tact.

"I'm glad to see that you are also someone without a taste for games."

She plucked the words straight from his mind. Her lips did not move as the words flowed through his thoughts, except to hint once more at a smile. This talent was what redeemed all her other faults. This gift was reason enough for her to be here, more than anyone else.

Just as her smirk blossomed into a self-satisfied grin, her eyes darted to the side. They fixated on a wall where there was nothing to be seen, scanning every inch of it like an intricate text.

"We have a few moments more before I must leave. It's time enough for you to decide whether you wish to come with me. I will not presume to tell you that this is the best course of action for you. It is the best course of action for me. Ask what you will, and I shall answer what I can, but do not tarry long."

Her voice returned to her lips about halfway through the statement, leaving Arsene's mind to ponder their import. Even once the sound returned to its natural place, he did not feel entirely alone with his thoughts. A man's mind is, for most, a vast and solitary keep. Though there may be corridors left in disrepair and dark recesses never fully explored, within the sturdy stonework, there is a sense of dominion and solipsism. A man never imagines how many saps and undermines may lurk beneath the trusty battlements of his psyche, until they come falling down. Then he is left to doubt every brick, and question the very mortar of his sanity.

[Arsène]

Arsène could only close his eyes in disbelief as soundless words whirled about his head. The woman in front of him seemed to dispel the common perception that sound was needed for a conversation. It suddenly clicked inside the man's mind that perhaps the woman had some strange ability to dig into thought and speak into a mind. He tried his best to keep some composure, though nervous impulses ran through his arms and into his fingers, betraying an otherwise calm appearance.

It was useless trying over think the situation. He had no doubt his guest would scrutinize everything in his mind. Perhaps out of desperation, or perhaps out of boredom, Arsène made his decision.

With an almost elegant gesture, he swept up a set of keys from beneath the counter and brought them down in front of the young woman. If the meaning was unclear, his thoughts were not. All he had to do was lock up and he would be ready to go.

[Visla Eraclaire]

"No questions, then?" she thought aloud. "I'm pleased to find you so accommodating. Unfortunately, I do not believe you will find what is about to happen a suitable reward for your compliance. The keys will not be necessary."

She took her now-willing hostage by the arm with a surprisingly firm grip and escorted him from the building without delay. The weather outside had begun to improve since Arsene had heard his first uninvited and disembodied voice. The clouds were beginning to part, though the air was still heavy and moist. With an ungentle shove, Elenore hustled him away from the door. Her hands fumbled briefly with something beneath her cloak, hidden from Arsene's view. Whatever it was, it was quickly deposited within the bookstore and the door was slammed shut.

"Refrain from thinking or feeling, as best you can. I realize this is a strange request, but you will be hearing much stranger soon. For now, comply as best you can. I apologize in advance for the foregoing circumstances," she spoke matter-of-factly but still with the strangely stilted vocabulary and cadence.

Her eyes darted around the area with caution. The surroundings were what one would expect from a small hamlet a ways from the beaten path. There were a few other buildings, even shabbier looking than the store that Arsene had been tending. A pair of young girls skipped across the dusty path that passed for a main street. Their youthful banter and occasional giggles were the only sounds that stood out against the background of nature's whispering breeze and the birds that had already resumed their chirping after the recent squall. Things remained this way for but a moment.

A scream, indescribably horrific, inhuman and piercing, its sound turned in on itself, echoing and squealing as layer upon layer of mind-wrenching noise overflowed the senses. Its origin was impossible to discern as the mounting tumult drowned reason from the mind. Arsene and the young girls were thrown to their knees, clutching their ears with wracking pain. Elenore stood, unphased, with merely a wince in her eyes. She looked over her shoulder at the bookstore. Parts of the walls appeared to melt away like an icebound lake in spring's thaw while others splintered violently into a dozen shards. Flashes of light and whirling masses of intense darkness intermingled with the torrent of noise, leaving the whole scene behind her an inscrutable mass of chaos.

And yet beyond the frame of the bookstore, not a single pebble or blade of grass was disturbed, until Elenore turned her gaze back to the street and the two young figures huddled there. She was pleased that they did not look up at her as she drew another object from within her cloak. It was nothing they or Arsene could possibly recognize with precision, but everything about it suggested it was a weapon. Elenore's lips spelled out two words, though the sound was imperceptible within the cacauphony.

"I'm sorry."

She pulled a trigger twice and two bolts of energy left two children as two corpses. Without another thought, she snatched Arsene from his huddle and began to run toward whatever goal lay within her labyrinthine mind, dragging him along with her.

[Arsène]

Arsène found his guest most peculiar with her hastened, proper diction and erratic movements. Despite his finest silent protests, the man could not shake her Herculean grip on his arm or dent her deadpan demeanor. Instead, he was shuffled unceremoniously outside without the courtesy of locking the door. Dragged into the muddied world away from his musty bookstore, he could only hope no local vandals tore through it while he was away.

Still, a part of him wished the store be damned. There was illogical and unfamiliar want to follow Elenore, no matter where it took him. The very depths of hell seemed a pleasant comparative to the mediocrity and melancholy he lived in daily since the death of his wife. His mind screamed for something with more substance, and his noble heritage commanded that he leave behind the simple notion of a store clerk to the slowwitted underclass that he had been taught from birth to loathe. Though miles away from his title in distance and spirit, his nature had not completely changed.

In the open, amongst the sparsely inhabited land the bookstore sat center in, his guide bewildered Arsène further.

“How can she expect me not to think?” he thought, not caring whether she peered inside or not. It was a bothersome task that required ever bit of serenity the man did not have. Somehow he managed to quiet his inquisitive nature; made all the easier by what occurred moments later.

No sound Arsène had ever heard had been so unholy, so unnatural, and so completely baleful. It pounded, dead center, inside his skull with a relentless fury that he couldn’t help but fall to his knees in agony. Each passing second was an eternity as his own screams were masked, and his hands fruitless tried to shield his ears.

When it ended, the man opened his eyes to the rush of warm tears pouring out. He was dazed beyond belief, and dragged like a ragdoll by Elenore, further into whatever she had planned.

He had not witnessed her crimes, or even noticed the store he’d worked out only minutes ago melt into oblivion. All he knew was the residual pain, and a thirst for knowledge beyond that desperate to be quenched.

[Visla Eraclaire]

Her path’s only consistent feature was its erratic turns. For a time preferring the road and then shunning it, bolting straight ahead for a dozen yards and then weaving like a drunkard for a dozen more. All the while her thoughts bored into the mind of her captive companion even as her fingers dug into his shoulder. His mind was as empty as she could hope for, given the circumstances. He saw little and wondered less. The only resonance the pair would leave behind would be a yearning for more.

That was a feeling one could sense just about anywhere and it would do a disservice to any who tried to follow. Still, the place where the two had met was barely visible on the horizon by the time Elenore’s frantic sprint came to an end and she dumped Arsene unceremoniously to the ground.

“You’re free to think now, and you’re obliged to answer honestly. You should know I could pry the answers from your mind, but I hope you will save us both the trouble. What do you want from this?”

She reached into her garments and produced another strange device that she fiddled with almost absentmindedly as she awaited a response. Before she received one, she looked up from the indistinct metallic object and interjected a final thought.

“I doubt it will be what you hope for.”