Lunette

 ((This piece offers a little insight on Sam, protagonist of A Librarian. As a Librarian, Sam and his order are responsible for safeguarding the knowledge of the world.))

The near silence of the evening died completely. At the same moment, the moonlight in the sky was accompanied by a short flash of blue. To him, the silence was not truly complete, and never would be- he could hear it wailing as it rose from the asphalt. It climbed, slow and even, likely from a place some might call hell- but really, words, even for places of ‘ultimate evil’ were merely labels. He knew that fact now, knew it very well.

Even though the pillars had not an inch of smooth, unmarred wood, the torn and ragged beams did not harm him as he placed a hand to them. It continued on easily enough, reaching in vain for the empty sky above- a sky almost as empty as that in the place from where it hailed. It grew and grew until it towered over him, one of the corners blocking his view of the moon, and thus blocking the only source of natural light.

Then it ceased and remained still, unwavering in the cool air of the night. The whispered wailing ceased as well, dissipating along with the azure flash that had ushered its presence into this world. His world, and yet not his- a world he shared with others. He looked around him now, and the differences between the two did not require much observation to discover- the tall, concrete and steel and glass constructs, the lampposts with their broken bulbs, the paved walkways and roads connecting everything...Nothing like the thinner, more elusive networks within his sanctuary. The pale blue webs that wound everything together behind the scenes, behind the cold stone surface of his walls- they carried everything: information, existence, life.

These streets were empty. Whatever lived here had hurried off into some den or another and shut the door on the shadow. Even when he had been separated, driven numb by the unruly forces within his own domain, he had never felt quite so lonely. Perhaps it was better this way. Here, in the hours before dawn, he could carry out anything; here, before the sun returned to the world once more, he could call it... he had called it, and once before- an insatiable being consuming a soul no less voracious...

The wood beneath them groaned and heaved, and twin oaken shafts shot up into the freezing night air. The pair emerged on either side of the witch, their roots catching hold of one another, entangling her throat in the process. She howled. She thrashed about, clawed at the wood on either side of her. Though her talons carved free great splinters from the posts that bound her, the pillars did not crumble.

He stood up and turned away. Behind him, the tops of each pillar shifted and heaved again, forming branches that joined with one another.  As they intertwined, a split remained along the bottom  of the joined branches, from which a cold steel tongue descended. The metal gleamed in the bleak azure light, and all traces of sound vanished. She opened her mouth in what could only be a scream.

He didn’t look back when the blade fell.

He fell. Slowly, he toppled backwards until he allowed himself to lean on it, the guillotine. Yes, even when it had separated him from his own, it had been there for him- and when he had been vulnerable, it heeded his calls and stuck down his enemies- breaking them to be remade again, whole, incorrupt. He found his eyes wandering up toward the slanted, steel fang that glimmered just barely in the moonlight; even from his position, he could feel his skin prickling in response to the lack of warmth it had ushered in. He did not shiver for the cold alone.

He shut his eyes, and when he opened them, the night seemed a little further away. Eventually, the dawn would renounce the peace he had found on his lonesome.  The aged wood warbled as if in response to his thoughts, and he recalled it shifting , that same, nearly imperceptible shifting occurring the first time he had called it, brought it from his own world to this one upon rune-scrawled tiles and amidst paper-laden walls.

Deafening cries...frenzied thrashing- both accompanied his manifestation as he tore it from his Library. It warbled and twisted, its moans reminiscent of aged, condemned structures. He stared at it. It loomed over him, almost silent now, only the subdued groans of pain breaking the usual unnatural silence that followed his manifestations. In the confinement of the dark chamber, he could not see it entirely-- in fact, only the gleam of its maw-- yet he could feel it so very clearly. His stomach lurched and heaved, and he clasped a hand to his mouth. On his knees, he looked up into the shadows, checking again and again, but there could be no mistake.

He had answers now, answers he had not been willing, not been able to give. He looked up at the guillotine again, studying the patterns in the wood. He’d studied them before, but now, the familiarity with which he saw them moved well beyond that of constant observation. There could be no more denial, no hiding from the reality, not in this world, nor in his own. In his heart, he knew that just as with every stone, every shelf, every book, that the guillotine too was a part of him, perhaps the most sincere part of all....

“Rise,” he whispered. The frame crawled out of the wood, the shafts just over shoulder length apart. This time, no wailing accompanied it as it assembled. A hint of steel gleamed in the light, and he shivered. He placed his hand on one shaft. The wood nearly bit his skin, but he kept his hand upon it, fingers feeling all of the nicks and scars in its surface. “Where did these wounds come from?”

He circled it, taking note of every flaw, every crack, every chip missing. He recalled the battle with Her- even before she had begun to tear at it, the wood had been scarred. Even after she’d attacked it, it had not broken. He took a step back, looking closely at a particularly large crack in one pole...he set his hands on the frame once again, and it shuddered at his touch.

           The sun was beginning to rise. He stood upright, shoving his hands into his pockets. Without word or gesture, the guillotine acknowledged his dismissal, creeping back into the depths of his Library, moving away from the waking world.