Meetings

One day, a young lad entered that unassuming library, sullen and with sunken eyes, bearing clothes with a distinct mark upon them, was he in service to someone? Under their tutelage? Who could tell? With an unsatisfying clunk, the door behind him closes, and with it, so does the echoing noise of panicked, desperate shouts, the barking of orders, and the distant roaring of fire. The young boy does not know in which direction to go first, he looks...lost...tired and without hope. He wanders slowly, unafraid of the passing of time, or perhaps, merely devoid of fear.

The boy wanders from hall to hall, from wing to wing, between all bookshelves and study tables, his heavy boots shudder the floors with each step, while the rotting wooden floors barely hold together under the weight. His task to evacuate the people here is going poorly. The only thing he could be fearing more than the fire, consuming ever nearer houses, is the man who entrusted him with this work. Should he dare to fail, he can only think of what punishment might befall him, and who to turn to once it does.

Out of instinct, he begins looking through the books, barely able to read them, the gloves on his hands serve him poorly, and the few days he’s had them for do the handy work that brought them into this world injustice. They are truly heavy, and awkward to use for anything other than sparring, but they have not left his side from the moment he had received them.

Frustration begins to eat at him as he struggles to remove a particularly small book from its place of rest. In a moment of weakness, he removes a glove that falls to the floor with a leathery sound. He tries hard to pull the book out, and it moves, if only barely, before it tears from place, dragging along a few more.

-For how long has this place been in this sorry state? He wonders loudly. Yet no voice answers him.

He presses onward, hopeful that maybe there is someone, so that he may not return to his captain empty handed. He fears the deep yet calm voice of his master, for rare are the moments where he is truly angry, and many are the reasons he might snap one day and no longer help those in need.

Marching up the staircase to the upper level of the building, he sees in the distance a room separated from everything, sticking out by its uncanny nature and difference in design. A box of wood, with barely any ventilation, let alone visible windows. The boy draws ever closer, and with every step, an awful sound creeps ever closer to his ears. Sweat starts dripping down his forehead as he finally takes in the entirety of the building. Looking over his shoulder to see the decrepit state of this once beautiful library, he realizes he is not alone in this building. There is nothing but dread on his face as he reaches the door, opening it with a loudness that could wake up the dead.

A shadow , rising up and down inside that room is the only thing the boy’s eyes fixate on, he steps, slowly, closely, and pokes it with his hand. From the unlit darkness, a groan is heard, and then...the voice, dry and spent from many years of talking, mutters...with little consciousness:

-Who? Huh? Noises in the wind, yet known to all who have witness that which is old.

-Wake up you old fool! The boys starts rashly. The whole town’s catching fire! We must get you out of here! He follows, somewhat softer. Yet the old fool does not have all his mules in one pen.

-Fire? I don’t see any fire boy! The books? Where are the books? He sheepishly says, eyes devoid of memories.

The young lad helps the old man to his feet, and he begins walking him towards the door and into the dim sky of a night on fire. It is drawing closer, yet neither of them seem to realize this fact. The old man squints as his eyes are kissed by the dim lights in the distance, and the inner lights of the last few lanterns in the building that have yet to die. Once outside, they begin wandering about the place, the now thin arms of the old man fully in view, while his belly is inflated from hunger. He is speaking softly to the young man:

-Oh! Poor me, my body, where is my youth? He whines and begins speaking again. The girl? Where is the girl? Whoever she is, she must have left long ago, either this world, or this building.

-There was...no else here...old man. I’ve seen no one else...sorry. A great sadness passes over the boy, he is unsure of how to continue, yet he presses forward for a reason unknown to him at the time. He feels drawn to something, but that something eludes him.

-AH! What a fool I’ve been! How many years? The old man weeps. He is...truly regretful of something he does not remember.

-Where are we going, old man? The boy asks with fear perhaps, they are walking to their doom, being led by a man who no longer has his wits about him.

-The girl, we must find the girl...she’s in one of those books...we must find her. Old bones make for terrible pace, and older minds, for terrible planning. So the boy, remembering a lesson from his master, asks:

-Which way old man? I’ll run and find her, just...tell me the book and where the shelf is. I promise I won’t return empty-handed! He is eager to prove he can, but afraid of failure, as all those with youthful ambitions are.

But his mind remains to his youth, to things he can still cling upon, the old man remembers little, but he pushes on towards the back of the library, on the upper floor. The flames are near, maybe one building away. The night roars to life, yet...no one seems to notice. Shouts, angry shouts, yet a familiar voice, is all that the young man hears. It is his master, but the boy does not recall what he should be doing. He keeps following the old man, without a thought going into his head.

Why is that? He wonders silently. Why can’t I stop to think for a moment? He races in his own mind. There is something wrong. At the edge of the mind, the flame has entered, and in the corner of his eyes, it finally catches, that glint of despair, he must move with haste if he is to survive.

Running down the aisles in a desperate compromise between youthful desire to survive, and the ancient duty to forget a legacy. The young boy pulls, and the old man budges, and they start sprinting down the old floors, feeling every creak into their bones. Soon enough, they grow tired, yet the distance is nearly unchanged, something wants them here. Panic grows into the young lad, and he begins moving around in a trance while the old man is nearing the end of the line. With trembling hands he feels the book, it is near. With unbreakable will, he grabs it, and the world goes quiet.

With eerie clarity, the boy and the old man realize their situation. A quiet weeping can be heard from distant corners and shelves. With a cold finger, the old man opens the book. He flips through the pages at his own pace, looking for answers to questions yet unasked.

Page after page after page go by, and the young man watches on in slight discomfort, understanding the fire is soon to be upon them, yet still greatly compelled to stay by the side of the old man. In a flash of light and color, a small being emerges from one of the final pages, and once she does, the world seems to grow in detail for both the men. A spell broken, or, merely a mirage finally fixed. It matters little the truth of it all, for now, with great urgency, they finally understand, yet, their legs are still...locked. The old man falls to his knees in resignation, he perhaps remembered a time when this same thing happened, and only by the mercy of another, was he able to escape. But where the old falters, the young and foolish endures.

A young lad with his whole life ahead of him, no matter how scared of the consequences of his failure, will, undoubtedly, push forward if the reward at the end of it all is worth it. He approaches the book, his determination more than enough to power through the other half of the spell they were under. He picks it up, and hears the weeping getting closer, yet, somehow, quieter.

A chill runs down his spine, as he struggles to move, yet is overcome by fear. Not fear of death, but fear of failure, of failing his master, who entrusted him with the simple task of evacuating a building in a town engulfed by flames, a building that put a lot of people in danger if it stood standing for much longer, a building that needed to be demolished.

With tired eyes, the master of that boy is leading his men and the city watch in a desperate game of give and take with the roaring fires. Houses burning, people fleeing, water sizzling on the hot stones of the ever more desolate road. The lord of this town...no one knows where he is, perhaps the flame ate him too, perhaps he escaped. Exhaustion sets in as the night grows darker and more lit up, he looks upon the building, hoping that his squire emerges alive, even if alone, he prays with many words, all of them unsaid, as his voice is hoarse from all the shouting and organizing, at least half the city has been spared by wise decisions and hard work, yet much more effort is still needed. With loud noises from all directions, with fear and panic barely under control, he steels himself to go after the boy, when he is forced by an unexpected flame to stall. With a spun, that devil’s whirlwind throws out of order what little rhyme and reason the efforts of man had put up against nature.

Inside the house, the boy finds himself faced with a small figure, one unknown to him. With eyes swollen from tears, it speaks:

-Who are you? Where is my friend? It asks...sheepishly…

-Friend? You mean the old man? The boy answers similarly scared.

-Old? He was just a boy yesterday...how many years…? Her eyes adjust to her new...old...surroundings. How many years has she wept and slumbered? For what did she wait so long? She remembers not.

-We must go! The building is catching fire! We don’t have time for this! The flames lick the windows now, as the young lad watches in horror, the old, rotting frame of the building is nothing, if not perfect kindling, and the entire roof is one strong wind away from collapsing into the attic.

Pulling through the pain he takes the now silent being, grabbing the old man by the arm as he goes, the boy rushes forward, hoping that there is still time, as windows break and the building becomes a flaming prison, it finally sets in, his legs are not moving. It is over.

From outside, the captain leaves his post to go searching into the now burning building. A decision most unwise, but even the gods must bear witness to foolishness and bravery, for they are one and the same. He breaks the door down with his poleaxe, propping it in a window and pushing through the burning wood and smoldering ash. The sight is grim, books and shelves, collapsed in piles, grand fires and great despair at the quiet loneliness of this doomed place. He keeps going forward, never giving up hope, screaming his lungs out for his beloved squire. He might not admit it to many, but the boy is dear to him, and he had vowed the day he took him in to not repeat the mistakes his former captain did with him. Up the stairs he runs, though he feels they are weak, he manages to reach the top just in time before they collapse. With his way back cut, he prays. He does so loudly and fervently. So loud that the boy hears.

Snapping at attention, the boy charges forward. He is unbound and ready to rejoin with his master. The small creature had retreated into the book, and the old man had long since fainted. Following small pieces of that familiar voice, scattered between the roars of fire, he feels ever closer. Snapping his head from side to side, trying his best to find his way towards that little safety he may still find.

The captain is worried sick, he feels his body heavy and his right side hurts. He wants to puke, the fire, once a tool, was now a foe mightier than anything he’d ever faced before. He shouts loudly, but he has very little in terms of a plan of escape. This move might have been a mistake, but he will be damned if the boy is claimed by nature’s wrath. In a split moment, he stops. A few paces over, a few shelves collapse, and he spots in between those falling vestiges of knowledge his squire. He moves methodically to catch the lad in his wild path. Step...step...step. With a loud noise, the boy crashes into his master, but they both quickly get back to their feet. Without a word, the captain picks up the old man, slinging him over his shoulder, he grabs the boy by the hand, and starts running.

The boy mumbles words with short breath, the oxygen in the building is low. A deep, horrid rumble is heard from above, as the roof finally collapses into the attic. The loud clanking of the captain’s sabatons sounds so quiet and distant, his patchy, rusty armor has an acrid smell that is barely felt through the smoke. A second of respite snaps him to attention, as the cracking of wood awakes him to reality, he watches his master tear the railing of the balcony, it is a miracle it is still standing, circumstances given. He watches in horror as the tall man, clad in heavy plates, chucks himself towards the floor in an awkward jump, old man still firmly adorning his left shoulder. He lands with a breaking thud, as the floor gives way to the combined weight of 2 men. He glances up towards his squire, a boy he was willing to forsake his duties for, and urges him to jump with a look.

Willing or not, he obliges, for he fears his captain more than he fears the painful flame. The feeling of falling is one he finds no love for. His lighter frame and lack of heavier armor does him good for once, as the floor catches him with only a few creaks of protest. He struggles to pull his lord out of the hole, his now hot armor burning the poor lad’s skin.

The captain looks into the child’s eyes and throws the old man to him, pointing him towards a broken window that has his poleaxe propping it up in a vain attempt at keeping the wall from collapsing. It’s only advantage being the fact it is made of steel, both the head and handle.

The boy rushes with the old man coming to, seemingly awoken by the fall, yet neither of them spare a look back as they struggle to climb out of the properly burning building. A booming noise is heard one second, and the next, the whole building falls over. The sound of the last few windows breaking is an awful wail to the few watchers to this display. As it sets in, the boy begins to weep, being dragged away only by the men of his master to rest.