Partisan Saga, Chapter VIII - The Piecing of a Dream

                Dorian might have allowed himself too much optimism for the whole affair.

                Whatever expressions had been upon their faces vanished, along with the light, into the dark halls of the Black Library. Now Dorian read these faces and saw exactly what he had expected. A glance to Shelley confirmed this.

                “What the hell is this?” Ringlead asked.
                “This is home,” Dorian offered resolutely.
                Shelley was quick to lay a hand on her comrade’s shoulder. “This is the Black Library,” she told them. “You’re welcome. We’d be honored to show you around.”

                It had made so much sense at the time, especially when the words had come from Shelley’s mouth. However, now that they stood before the maw of the Black Library, Dorian was not without his second thoughts. It wasn’t a matter of shame or fear— just the opposite, in fact. More than anything, more than he had ever been, Dorian was proud. Proud of the Library that had taken him in. Proud of the people who shared his aims and allowed him pursuit of such in peace.  And here he stood now with people who would never understand all of those things. Worse, they would assume them of no value because of that misunderstanding.

                Ringlead and his boys looked into the halls, and then amongst themselves. Agitation. Annoyance.   Their demeanor did not suggest positive reviews by any stretch of the imagination. Only Kev proved the exception, appearing merely nervous, devoid of the anger, disgust, and dismissal exuded by his brethren.
                “You call this place home?” One of them asked.
                “It doesn’t look like much,” another added.

                Shelley would no doubt call Dorian on his arrogance.  He couldn’t deny that she would be absolutely justified in doing so, either.  After all, how could he turn his nose up at them? They had invited him into the White. Perhaps it had not been ideal, but he had been there, he had learned about their thoughts and their manner. It would do neither him nor his sect any good if he didn’t take the opportunity to educate them on the Black Library.  

                “It’s not quite like the White,” Shelley admitted. “But it has its charms. And it’s a Library nonetheless.”
                They didn’t seem convinced by her words; their hard stares at the two Blacks and the halls before them neither softened nor wavered. When Ringlead next spoke, he spoke for them all.

                “Yeah, we’re not doing this.”
                “What?” Shelley asked. “Why not?”
                RInglead gestured before them.“Look at this place. It’s a dump.”
                “It’s not,” Dorian replied. “Look again.”
                “Paint all over the walls…”
                “It’s art,” Shelley insisted.
                “That’s what you call art? It clashes.”
                Dorian snorted. “Your opinion.”
                “The White’s halls are orderly in their paint. We have real art, and we put it in sacred places. We don’t just jam it all together.”
                “That doesn’t make it better,” Dorian shot back. “It just isolates it. The Black believe in freedom of expression. it’s beautiful when differences come together.”
                “No, it’s chaos.”
                “And? There’s nothing wrong with chaos.”
                “What? No, chaos is bad.” Here, Ringlead looked to his boys for support, and received immediately affirming nods and grunts. “ You can’t get anything done. Everything has to fall in line and you Blacks don’t understand that.”
                “It’s a little more complicated than that,” Shelley explained. “The problem with order is that too much of it stifles creativity and individuality.”
                “Creativity? All that matters is the design o the head. People perform best when working for a common cause!”
                “Maybe so, but they can do that without sacrificing.”
                “There is no nobler virtue than sacrifice! Especially for something greater than the self!”
                “Is it, though? Isn’t the self what we’re trying to protect?”
                “It’s humanity!”
                “But what is humanity without the individual self?”
                “There’s just no talking to you,” Ringlead said finally. “This was a bad idea. C’mon boys!”

                The pushed passed Dorian to leave, a series of holier than thou scowls departing from the Library’s entrance.
                Shelley watched them go with a sigh.
                “Kev,” Dorian asked. “Aren’t you going with them?”
                Kev looked after them, then turned back to Dorian and Shelley with a shaky smile. “No,” he said. “You came with me to the sermon. Plus, we’re chaptermates.”
                The Black Librarians exchanged a glance. Only Shelley smiled.
                “So where do we start?”

                The plan had been to wander, to explain, and to answer the questions of their White guests. Things had already run afoul of that, and the irony in that finally brought a smirk to Dorian’s face. It wasn’t advertised, but to improvise was well within the spirit of the Black. He led Kev quickly and purposefully through the weaving halls. When he caught the question on Shelley’s face, he slowed only a little.
                “Are we…?”
                “We are.”

                They emerged into a great cavern, one larger that much of the other rooms. Four sets of tiered descending steps surrounded a large rectangle in the center of the floor. The rectangular space glowed with a faint black aura that bore tinges of violet, crimson, gold and jade on the flickering edges, and patterns of such light wove through the darkness, serpentine auroras in the cloud of shadow.

                Dorian grabbed Kev by the shoulder and gestured to the floor. “The southern lights.”
                “The what?”

                “This is where Black Librarians come to dream out their freedoms,” Shelley told him. “Here we can experience anything we imagine, and we can lose ourselves to our whims and desires. Here we can express ourselves and not be judged for doing so.”

                Some other Blacks had ventured into the dark mist. Almost immediately, beautiful colors seemed to spill from their heads, twisting, writhing, taking shape. With so many Librarians in the space, it was difficult to make out who dreamt what; a dragon slithered between a cloud of rainbows and a hive of dancing insects. A windchime turned in tune to the blaring alarm of a spaceship off kilter. A tree bloomed, its roots and branches keeping pace with one another- the roots budding and birthing flowers, even as the branches took on clods of dirt and frozen droplets of milk. A centipede of fans made its way up the trunk, but as each segment passed between the branches, it exploded into confetti like pizza.

                No doubt to Kev, it was a mess. To Dorian and Shelley, however it was enough that the colors ran together, that so much took on space and shape and form.

                These represent the minds of our people,” Shelley added finally.

                “I never thought that something like this would be in the Black Library,” Kevin mused.
                “We figured you’d say something like that,” Dorian replied.
                “A lot of Whites don’t think we’re capable of anything,” Shelley agreed. “They wouldn’t even think much of this.”
                “Well, it is disorganized…”
                “Can’t it be beautiful just because it is?”
                “Yes, but there’s so much wasted potential.”
                “Organizing it is what takes the potential away. Let it be and evolve on its own.”
                Kevin looked as unsure as he always did.
                Anyway, most of what you’ve seen here appears on the walls- those that we can give form to, we inscribe forever. We have to remember who and what we are. If we don’t, what is it we’re fighting to protect again?”

***

                They watched Kevin depart from their position at the mouth of the Black Library.
                “I don’t know if I could call that a success,” Dorian said.
                “Of course it was,” Shelley assured him. “We got a chance to say our piece. We opened the eyes of a friend. That’s what matters, Dor.”
                “I don’t know.”
                “You worry too much. So much for the Black Freedom, eh?”
                “Quiet you. I guess I’m just wondering about the rest.”
                “You don’t like 'em anyway.”
                “Which is exactly why I’m worried. They might spread rumors or make us look bad.”
                “They’ll do that anyway. At least this way we KNOW one less White believes it.”
                “I guess.”

                After all was said and done, Dorian made his way back into the Black Library, back to the southern lights, and back into the dark mist in order to dream his dreams again.