spire-of-ink

[spire-of-ink]

Canard X

Canard X – Finally it began to crack.

“Close your eyes.”

Lorelei was greeted with the amorphous blackness behind her eyes. She gave a nod.

“Now, breathe.”

She took in a breath of the air on the manse’s balcony. It smelled like leaves, dirt, the faint sunrise’s dew; it smelled like life. She took in another breath, filling her lungs with it, and exhaling it back into the world.

“What do you see?” asked the Witch.

She shook her head gently, in a little confusion. “Nothing.”

“No,” she said, firmly, not unkindly. “Use what’s inside you, not your eyes. Those aren’t good for anything but reading,” she huffed.

“Okay…” The apprentice tried to feel what was inside her, anyway. Her heartbeat; blood, steadily she noticed her blood, flowing down her veins, pulsing in time with her even breaths. She felt the chill of morning air pricking her skin all over, clad in only a nightgown as she was; she felt the sounds of the forest beginning to wake. Birds singing familiar songs in the branches, leaves rustling in the wind, the scattering of small animals beginning to breathe.

Beginning to breathe, just like her. Suddenly she felt the wind blow against her; the wind that rustled the leaves, the wind that carried the birds and their songs. She felt the bugs, and not with her eyes, she saw them in her heart, cicadas crying and being eaten by the same birds, old carcasses dissolving into the trees’ roots, and eggs birthing new insects and birds alike, and the wind that entered their lungs entering hers, and out again. She felt…

“What do you see?” the Witch asked again.

“I see life.” An unbidden tear came from her closed eye. “I see death. Birth. Life again. And it’s in me.”

“It’s all in you,” she said, nodding. “Open your eyes.”

She did, and saw her teacher in her broad-brimmed hat and plain white gown, brown apron. So plain, yet Lorelei now saw so much coursing through her body. Something beyond her youthful face, slim with faint wrinkles and gray eyes.

“This is magic.” The Witch looked away and off the small wooden balcony, out over the chirping woods. “The birdsong and wind, eating and being eaten. Breathing each other in and out, together. This is the motion of magic, and it is the same motion as everything.”

“I see…” Lorelei looked out too, turning over this understanding in her head. “What next?”

“Next is breakfast.” The woman turned and paced off.

“Oh.”

---

Lorelei stepped through the starry rift and back before the terminal she had entered the Nether from. She smoothed-down her skirt as it shut behind her with a glass-tearing sound, and faced forwards, confidently looking to where she sensed Morn was standing, waiting.

The doll gave her a nod in greeting. “Afraid we’d lost you.”

“I imagine people get lost in the Nether all the time,” she said back, sighing out in some relief to be back where she was familiar, material reality.

“Well, Cybil tries not to let ‘em. How was it?”

Lorelei paced closer to the dim-lit corner Morn stood at. “I remember why I’m here. Not how I got here, but,” she said, “Why.”

“Enlighten me,” the Quill shrugged, suit ruffling quietly.

“You’re telling a story.”

“We’re all telling a story,” it said. “You, this one, everyone.”

Lorelei pursed her lips, “Yes, but this is on purpose. This is for someone’s benefit, some purpose you have.”

It hummed, a low clockwork trill from its throat, crossing its arms. “We’re all dancing on someone’s strings, darlin’.”

“Dolls, maybe. Not me. I chose freedom a long time ago, and I’m sticking with it.”

“Well,” it said, running a hand through its pink hair, “We’re not here to stop you. But the way this one sees it, you don’t got much choice. We’re the only ones that can put your memories back together, and if it’s right, it thinks that you don’t got much waiting elsewhere. If it helps,” it shrugged, “It promises We’ve got good reasons for all this.”

“I’m sure you do, but I’m doing this my way. Got it?” She crossed her own arms.

Morn assented with a final shrug. “Got it. Speaking of freedom and choice and all, why don’t you pay a visit to Saiko? Sorry,” it caught itself, “That’d be Cioel.”

“The Quill of Religion,” Lorelei recalled. “I’ve met it. I guess that’d be as good as anything.”

“Right. Well, follow me,” it bowed a bit, gesturing towards another ornate elevator door over some ways behind her.

They started off.

---

Soon the elevator doors were sliding open to reveal a brilliant light; the room was all in front of her, the elevator opening dead-on into it. It looked like a church—high vaulted ceilings, finely-carved pillars raising across the walls, stained glass windows depicting mandalas letting in inexplicable light across the marble space. But it was also some sort of lounge; red couches and futons rimmed it, resting beside tall metal gates to other rooms, at the front some form of grand altar adorned by incense, ancient-looking cases of books, a desk with an ink quill on it and a cushion to kneel on before it.

And above all, a great golden dragon, serpentine and sharp-toothed, watchfully presiding the empty congregation. Before it, Cioel reclined in front of the low writing desk, propped-up on a shoulder comfortably, red kimono spilling out over its small form.

Morn stood behind as Lorelei entered, striding up to the doll and giving a small wave, little smile. “Good to see you again,” she nodded.

“Oh, and you,” it laxly greeted, blue hair bobbing over red eyes as it nodded a few times, giving a languid and sly smile. In its hand was a pipe, and shining azure smoke coiled out of it. It was offered forth. “Smoke?”

“No, I don’t really touch it,” she said, and looked around for a place to sit; she found it in a cushion beside the dais of the altar, kneeling down on it.

Amber-red clock-spinning eyes alighted on her as the doll turned to face, still reclined. “What brings you by Our humble Cathedral, O dear seeker?” It sounded nigh-teasing.

“Well,” she said, blinking. “I guess the fact that I’m being made a story of.”

“Oh? This one thought you’d be flattered,” it tittered, a mechanical noise.

“I don’t like having things done to me without my knowing,” she pursed.

“Do you think you ever have a choice?” Cio took in smoke and let it blow out, coming dull from its porcelain lips.

“I didn’t, once,” she said, “But I walked away to make sure I did.”

It watched her, unblinking. “And did you make that choice?”

“If not me, then who could’ve?”

“Perhaps the one writing you,” it smiled slyly, eerily. “Maybe Us. Maybe God.”

“If there is a God, I don’t want any part of his stories. Besides, I’m not a character.”

“What is a character, then, mm?”

“It’s… Well, it’s a fictional idea. It’s not someone that exists.”

“But a program in a computer can?” it asked, smoking again, letting it out. “As you’ve just met one.”

“Cybil’s made of something, though. Data, or whatever it is. I’m not a computer scientist,” she huffed.

“And what of the character in your head? Cybil’s made of information, programs are made of electricity, usually,” it said, “And so are your thoughts. Lil’ electric shocks in your brain,” it grinned. “So then?”

“But I don’t exist in someone’s head,” Lorelei asserted.

“Oh? You exist in this one’s head,” it tittered again. “Just like this one exists in yours.”

“I can touch you, you can touch me,” Lorelei insisted, shaking her head.

“And? So? That’s just more electrical signals telling your lil’ brain I’m here, being touched.”

“Fine, so everything I’m seeing is in my head. But that doesn’t change that a character up there is just not out here like I am.”

Cio shrugged, smoking, breathing. “So it exists in a different way from you. But it exists.”

“Then that’s the difference between us, and so I’m not a character,” the Witch nodded.

“But then,” the doll’s eyes glimmered mischievously, “If a character exists, then where does it exist?”

“I… Don’t know,” she said.

“Could it be that it exists somewhere you’re thinking about?”

“I don’t know…”

“In your head? In the book you’re reading? In another world?”

“What are you getting at?”

“What is it getting at?” the doll asked back.

Lorelei turned this over for a minute, then answered. “That fictional characters are real somewhere.”

“And so you could be one of them,” it concluded, rolling the pipe over in its ball-jointed fingers.

“I guess neither of us can prove it.”

“It wonders,” the doll hummed, smoked again, and looked out to where Morn was watching across the room. “So, what is it you’d like?”

“I’d like to know why my story leads here.”

“You’ll see. Just go on, it’s your story, after all. Tell it yourself.”

She sighed. “Alright. I’d like to know more about the Nether, and how programs exist.”

“Oh, lovely,” Cio grinned. “Then go to the Wing of Technology, Lotheia can help!”

The Witch nodded, stood up, smoothed her skirt, and bowed a bit. “Thank you. By the way,” she gestured up to the great dragon above them. “Who’s that?”

The Quill looked at her unblinking, a wry smile on its lips. “Oh, now that’s a plot twist this one can’t spoil.”

“I see. I’ll guess I’ll be going. Take care, Cio,” she smiled, and began off.

Morn caught her as she headed to the elevator, filing in after her. “Productive?”

Lorelei looked flatly to it. “Not even a little.”

It chuckled, pressing the button to shut the doors. “Hope you’re not frustrated.”

“On the contrary, I’m ready to get started with this. For real.”

The doors shut on the pair.

[spire-of-ink]

Canard IX

Canard IX – It passed my lips like a bird learning to fly.

Lorelei turned the glass door’s silver knob and stepped into a grand ring. It circled the central pillar of the Library, looking in on it with vast swathes of dark stone lit by glittering blue crystal chandeliers; patrons and goers milled around, talking, some made of crystal, some with several arms, some of imposing stature and tusks and horns, and yet others with a serpentine body that glimmered in the lights, draped in dyed glass silks, and some others looked to be no more than ghosts, shadows coalescing into the shapes of people that perused shelves lining the walls.

Lorelei took it all in at once and asserted herself—she put herself forth and marched towards the nearest column. It had set in it a cavalcade of bodies, it seemed; porcelain figures, dolls, they appeared to be, sculpted into extravagant forms, feminine and voluptuous, shimmering in the Library’s blued light. They nestled around a delicate crystal screen, which on it displayed in bright color: the Library’s search catalogue, a gray-and-white formatted page dryly containing links to every file available and its place within the system. A bar for input sat empty, the keyboard below extending like crystalline mushroom stalks under Lorelei’s hands to meet her fingertips.

As she typed—the words came alive. She tapped out a search, “Witch of the—” and the computer before her, the dolls wrapped around it came alive, to see the screen, to see Lorelei, now all peering down with their marble hair and jet-black pearl eyes; they hungered with curiosity for her input. And they whispered. “—Of the Wind? --Of the Heart? --Of the Gray?”

She swept those away, physically as much as mentally, jabbing a finger at a doll that had come too close to touching a key. No, Lorelei shook her head and focused on the search: “Witch of…”

Then she sees it. Inside. It subtly taps at the glass.

Lorelei backs away, shooting back just a second before recollecting herself. Right, this was nothing new to her. A living search engine would only make sense for the Library. She steadied at the panel of melded dollish bodies and focused her eyes to the screen.

There it is. The doll. Unbidden by her, the doll is there, in the screen, a figure with brilliant rose-quartz hair, porcelain frame and amber eyes, foxen ears and tail swaying—but all digitally. All on the screen before her. “Hi!”

The voice comes from the dolls lining the panel, but is clearly belonging to the kitsune inside the machine. Lorelei responds, “Um, oh, hello,” and gives a slight wave.

“Hello, Lorelei,” the image of a doll waves from the console, “This one is Cynder Nevara Cybil, and it shall be your guide to the search you seek.”

“And my search is for my Witch’s title, yes.”

“Then you’ll have to follow this one,” the Quill beckoned from within the monitor.

And so she did—in a way she didn’t expect. She felt her soul—no, she felt her Heart, her very being tugged at, pulled upon, and then yanked—but not with a jerking motion, but an elegance, as if she’d longed for this path, this way into the Nether. She saw a sea of streams, doors opening by and by, as if she were a ghost floating across the rivers of data. Her physical form dissipated across a refraction from the screen, a trick of the light leading her forward.

Vast coils of weft weaved in and amongst it; great dragons prowled the stardust skies, the shimmering seas, for they were both at once, dust and ocean, fragments of ideas whittled down to the granular specks of ash there are now; death eternal, always here, preserved, within the chaos of negative space.

There she met Cybil, alighting on a raft in the pitch-black tides. It was a scanty thing, and yet, it felt so vastly heavy beneath her.

Lorelei washed ashore of the data sea unto this raft of seeming dark metal and crystal board, and Cybil hauled her up with a hand, but—it wasn’t as if they were drenched, then, suddenly, as she crested onto mental seascape, it was as if they been on a manse afloat, everything clear and clean and dark.

Cybil, pink hair swaying in the nightly breeze, asked, “What are you the Witch of?”

“Nothing,” she said, a tear falling from her eye.

Cybil nodded. “Nothing is everything.”

“And this itself?”

“Will also be recorded.”

“And?”

“Broadcasted. To the worldline receiving it.

“Good. I remember now.”

“Remember?”

“Why I’m here.”

[spire-of-ink]

Canard VIII

Canard VIII – I suddenly felt the breath in my chest.

The manor rose from the trees in twisting boughs. It was woven into them, from them, thick bark growing into branches that grew into a vast sloping roof of shingled leaves, that parted into elegant paned windows, that silently shivered with the valley’s woods as a natural part of it all. Though the deep woods were dark and brambles thick and thorned, sunlight mingled with candlelight from within, a beacon in the quiet shade.

Lorelei anticipated she would be nervous, but finding herself here, she realized there wouldn’t be any turning back; it steeled her with the resolve to go on. That what would be next would be, without question. She strode up to the plain wooden door before her and knocked.

No sooner than that then it opened, seemingly of its own accord; she peered in. It was surprisingly normal, if fancier than her family’s small farmhouse; candle flames danced flickering with calm afternoon sunlight through the high windows, all along the right wall, and an elegant scarlet rug lay across the floor. Lifelike paintings, of nature, of people, graced the left, where a staircase led up, and tome-lined shelves filled the rest of the space.

Save the middle of the room, where there was a small and worn-looking oak table, round and currently hosting both a teaset and a woman in one of the four ornate chairs, also wooden, also worn. She stared directly across the room to Lorelei, at the door, and sipped from a porcelain cup.

Now nerves got her, and she swallowed. But refused to be deterred now; Lorelei stepped in and shut the door politely behind her before bowing to the Witch from her waist. “Ma’am. I don’t wanna’ intrude.”

The lady at the table almost snickered. “You already have.” Her voice, old and soft, was at odds with her stunningly-youthful appearance. Dark and braided hair and nut-brown eyes, a simple gown in white and green, scarcely more than any farmhand would wear.

Lorelei awkwardly scratched her head. “Sorry, ma’am. You are… You’re the Witch of the Valley, right?”

“Is that the title, these days?” She huffed, sipping her tea again. “Suitable as any other, I suppose. Come in, unless you’re here just to waste time.” But she was smiling as she said it; her eyes were surprisingly friendly.

The farm-girl did come in, and at a gesture from her host, she sat down across from her.

“Tea?” the Witch asked, already pouring another cup for her.

“Oh, thanks. No sugar or anything.” Lorelei took it as it was offered, lifted the porcelain cup to her lips, and drank. It was earthy. Strong.

“So, what brings you to the valley?” The Witch appraised her plainly.

Lorelei looked her in the eye. Nodded once. “I wanna’ be a Witch.”

At this, the woman’s eyes glimmered almost ethereally; she cackled and set down her tea. Once she’d settled, she smiled and folded her hands on the table, looking at Lorelei once again. “And why is that?”

“I’ve been a farmer for all my life,” Lorelei answered, rehearsed but suddenly passionate. “I don’t wanna’ sit around and tend the family farm for the rest of my life. I want more. And rumors around town say you can give it.”

“Noose-End,” the Witch muttered, almost grumbled. “Rumors around there are as reliable as a leaky boat. Why would I teach anyone?” She grew serious, staring Lorelei down. “Why would I teach you?”

“I don’t have a reason,” she said back, glaring her down the same. “I just want to know what else is out there, and I’ve heard Witches learn that. I just… I want more.”

For a while, the woman across the table watched her. Then eventually smiled, both sharply and warmly. “You already are a Witch. You just need to learn what that means.”

“I’m… what?”

“What’s your name, child?”

“Lorelei. Lorelei Blackhand,” she inclined her head.

“Well, Lorelei Blackhand,” the Witch said, “Here’s your first lesson.”

She looked across eagerly.

“Never take tea from a stranger.”

“Oh…”

---

On the other side of the portal was a balcony. Lorelei saw the City span forever beneath her, spire lights shining under endless stars above, cars and people moving in photonic bursts like blood cells through innumerable veins. The gray stone balcony was limned with garnet roses, vines and thorns diamond-blue as they glittered by carnelian light cast from the opaque glass doors behind her, all crossed by lightning-course fingers of dark steel.

She took a better look at the doll, perhaps two-thirds her own height, alabaster exterior and black metal joints. Its eyes were flat, glassy but flat, scarlet clocks that ticked both forwards and back as they bore into Lorelei’s own gaze; she looked away, taking a few steps towards the balcony’s sculpted rails, admiring the view of the City below.

And, looking back, admiring the apparently endless tower that was the Library, stretching interminably towards the Night. She tried to estimate a position, halfway up, closer to the ground, whatever bearing she could grasp, but she failed; it was impossible to tell where the Library ended below and whether it had an end at all, at the top. Instead, Lorelei turned her eyes down and focused on the easel and canvas set just before her, framed by the City.

“Are you an artist?” The doll guiding her now, with the dark portal closed behind it, now looked up at her blankly.

Lorelei looked back down with a playful grimace. “Alas. I’m better at just about anything else,” she chuckled.

“What,” the doll asked, “Is art?” It stepped without pause nor qualm around her and went to the canvas, guiding Lorelei to also come stare at the blank slate, propped-up and ready for painting.

She scratched her head, thoughtful. “It’s something you… It’s like paintings, or sculptures, drawing. I guess you could say music, dance, writing, and things like that, too.”

“But what is it?” the doll asked again. Its eyes were fixed on the canvas.

Lorelei furrowed her brow. “Well… I don’t know.”

“Pick up the brush.” Its voice was not commanding, soft and empty and porcelain as its form, but it felt as if its words were inevitable.

Lorelei did notice it, the black-tipped paintbrush resting on the easel, just under the expanse of white above it; she picked it up, looking it over. Crystal, naturally, and seemingly the end was already dipped in paint. She squinted; what color was that? It swirled as she watched, seemingly all colors, none of them.

“Paint.”

She looked aside to her guide, and the doll returned her gaze, staring through her. Lorelei chuckled again, nervously, “Well, I’m not good, like I said, but… Alright,” and she set the brush’s tip to the canvas.

A splash of black. She saw the yawning woods in front of her. Slowly, eyes honing on the work, Lorelei spread the paint across. It shifted colors as she went. Orange, purple, a twin sunrise over the world; emerald, gold, rich blue, filling the fields with grain and sky with life; black again, deep black, smearing the colors of the world into contrast. Before she understood what she was doing, Lorelei stood before a finished painting.

Before her, a golden tree amidst a sunset, fields of burning wheat; it opened its maw wide, darkness spilling from it, transforming into smoke, transforming into a scape of stars, almost twinkling. And in the middle of the tree’s pitch hollow was a figure, unclear, but appearing as a white silhouette in the darkness, yet made of black within, holding a carnation.

Lorelei dropped the brush to the ground and stared at it. It was more beautiful than anything she’d ever made—its every stroke caught at the breath in her chest. Inside her, an indescribable motion bloomed.

The doll stood beside her, and also looking over the art, it asked its question again. “What is art?”

Now Lorelei turned to look back at it, and with tears in her eyes, she understood. “It’s your Heart, speaking,” she said softly.

It nodded once. “This one is Cynder Nevara Ciarda, Quill of Art. And you are Lorelei, a Witch without a title.”

“I had a title,” she said.

Ciarda nodded.

Lorelei frowned, “I can’t remember it.”

It nodded again. “You will.” Ciarda tilted its head, just slightly. “You want the record.”

Lorelei rose a brow, “How did you know?”

“It’s obvious. You are clever. And resourceful. Go to the Nether.”

She shook her head out and recovered, blinking back the scars opening in her. “Which is…?”

Ciarda pointed to the glass door leading back inside. “The Never’s evernet. The Library’s system. Cybil will help you.”

“Oh, well,” Lorelei stood straight, smoothed down her skirt, and smiled, just kindly to the doll. She had business to get to, evidently, and nothing else here. Time to move, as always. “Thank you. For the lesson, and the directions.”

“You’re welcome,” it said, staring.

Lorelei gave her a nod, turned to the door, and walked.

---

“She’s passed halfway.”

“Almost here, indeed. Sumiko?”

“Mm?”

“What do you think about her?”

“She’ll be important here. She may change quite a few things.”

“Next is Majoko, yes?’

“Correct. And?”

“Why don’t we make this more interesting?”

“A bet?”

“A game.”

“We’re already playing one. What else do you propose?”

“Why don’t we play with… them?”

“…You may have a point. Let’s begin.”

[spire-of-ink]

Canard VII

Canard VII – I looked inside and saw only myself.

“I’m leaving.”

Lorelei’s words hit the table like a hammer. Her family, seated around it, stared at her in dead silence. Her father squinted, how he always did when he was suspicious; her mother glared, the wrinkles around her eyes crinkling sun-spots; her brothers, the pair of them, looked between each other and then down. They usually didn’t dare go against their big sister, let alone get in the middle of an incoming battle.

Now it was her father’s fist hitting the table. “No.” A word of judgment. “Your mother and I bought this farm for our family, and you aren’t gonna’ squander it.”

“We raised you, Lorelei,” her mother said, low and pleading, but her voice sharp, dangerous. “Does that mean anything t’ you?”

“A house,” her father went on, throwing a hand up in exasperation, “Work, money, estate—you think these things come easy? What’re you gonna’ do, whore yourself out like my damn ma’? You’re—”

“Leaving!” Lorelei threw her own hands onto the old carved wood between them. “I’m leaving’s what I’m doing! A house? Work? Who gives a goddamn shit!” She glared them down with no fury, but set steel. “Every day you work us t’ the bone, and every day we stay right where we are. Nothing gets better, and I’m not gonna’ spend my life on your dream!” She folded her arms. “I’m goin’ to the valley.”

Her mother gasped.

Her father spat, “You’ll be dead t’ me. Even if you don’t die there.”

“The Witch of the Valley will take me in,” Lorelei proclaimed, “Or I will die there. But I’m not spendin’ one more second fixing your stupid machines.”

Her father scratched his beard, an irritable gesture, and waved her off. “Then go die. I don’t got room in my life for an ungrateful brat.”

Her mother was holding her head in her hands as Lorelei turned.

“You didn’t have room for me anyway.”

And so, Lorelei walked forwards.

---

The room was dark. Yet, shadows played along the walls, dancing amidst lights that glared off various faceted gems; glittering black inlays to pillars that lined the hall, jagged diamond-like sculptures of keening women growing from the walls, wreathes of crystal roses, all colors, that glimmered with the dim lights cast by golden lanterns and candle-lit chandeliers hanging across the way.

Ahead was an ornate stone door, gothic in its rising spires and sharp angles, stained glass windows in it glowing opaquely. Lorelei looked behind her to see Morn with its hands in its pockets, giving her a nod forward. She nodded back, and faced front; no fear. She couldn’t afford it in this place. She paced forwards, heels tapping the dark stone floor, and reached out a hand to the door; it swung open at the gentlest touch, admitting her to an annex.

It was a room much like the hall before, though its ceiling-hung lanterns were a rainbow of colors, and its round edges were out of sight, shrouded in darkness, no pillars to be seen holding up the ceiling—which too was hidden, high above in the shade. As the tall doors swung silently closed behind her, Lorelei took some hesitant steps forwards, taking note of the rose pattern inlaid to the floor; reflective, like a mirror. She stared at herself in it a while. Something about it was captivating. Something about it was different.

No. There wasn’t only her reflection. There were countless. Countless of her, refracting across the rose. Lorelei stepped back—

She felt a shift in the emanation surrounding her, the weft of energy in the room. Suddenly, just before her, in the room’s center, was another door like the first, nothing backing it. She shook her head and came back to her senses; the Library wasn’t any stranger than things she knew.

Yet, this door. It called. Her reflections on the floor had entirely vanished, as if culminating into this portal. It seemed to beckon her to learn what was behind it. Behind…

Again, she shook her head, clearing it, and proceeded. The door came easily open at another touch, and she stepped through.

Lorelei’s heel landed on a stained glass step; and it seemed more proceeded down into an abyss, shadows lit only by the glowing staircase. But her footing was sure with every step down she went, no matter how far. And it was far; the spiraling stairs were endless in number.

But at last, she took one final step and arrived down onto a plane; infinitely-patched glass of countless hues, some beyond anything human eyes could see, stretched onwards. It formed a desert of mirror glass, peaks and towers of reflective pieces with vast webs of glittering strings running between them.

And ahead, in this clearing of the glass thicket, staring at the black void overhead, was a doll. Its hair was pale but shining mauve on one side, glittering blackberry-dark on the other, hanging long across its back and its foxen ears matching color, its tail a shifting swirl of both; it wore a long-coat, or perhaps more of a cloak, adorned and rimmed by crystalline raven feathers, like onyx in the floor’s glow.

“Can you see the stars?” It asked, back to her, its voice honey-smooth and dark.

Lorelei looked up. There was nothing, just blackness. “No. Nothing.”

“No,” it said. “Look.”

She stared more. Squinted. Opened her eyes wider. But as she relaxed her gaze, opened her mouth to give another negative, she saw it—a point of light. Another. Her mouth hung open as the sky lit-up with—not stars, she couldn’t dare call them that, but shining voids, swirling uncreation like nebulae of nonexistence, and among them all, countless shards of mirror glass hanging on threads, attached seemingly to nothing.

Lorelei turned her eyes down to the doll. It was facing her now, ruby eyes to her own crimson, and it was smiling faintly.

She walked towards it, collected swiftly, but curious. “What are they?”

“Nothing.” It turned the corners of its mouth up, slyly grinning. “Just like Us.”

“Us,” Lorelei repeated back. “The Heartless?”

The doll shifted its gaze back up at the heavens. “Why are you here?”

“I’m supposed to meet all the Quills,” she said. “Or it seems like it.”

It looked back down to her and hooded its eyes slightly, a flat expression across its porcelain face. “No,” it said. “Why are you here?”

With a sigh, Lorelei looked away. “I want to know the truth.”

“This one can show you,” it said, turning back to look out over the glass expanse. “But what will you do when you see it?”

“Hard to tell without knowing what it is.”

“You know,” it replied.

Lorelei swallowed, but pressed on. “Show me.”

The Quill stretched a finger; around it, a crystal thread shaped, and as it was pulled down, a shard of mirror came from high above to rest in front of Lorelei.

She looked into it—and her eyes went wide.

It was her. Yes, it was her, but not now. A robe of pure shadows coalesced around her form, a vast chaos like the void above her now, a wide-brimmed hat obscuring her eyes, dangling with countless extradimensional charms; in her hand was a blade like a long needle, dripping with darkness and unknowable magic. The image turned its eyes to meet hers.

In them was the reflection of corpses.

Lorelei fell back, hitting the ground as the glass shard evaporated into dust before her. “No— That’s not me, I’m not that, I’m…” she threw herself up off the ground, “I’m not a murderer!”

“In the Wing of Reflection,” the doll replied evenly, “We receive the dead’s stories and weave them into books.” It turned, pulling strings from across the room into a bundle between its hands, and there suddenly rested a tome. White, as if encased in marble, with a golden-etched title: Evangelus of Har.

She recoiled, grimacing, but then took a step and righted herself. “I defended myself. Because Vaen forced me,” she gritted.

“You chose to kill,” it said, “Because you wanted to live. You had the choice to die.”

“What kind of choice is that!”

“The kind you made.”

“But I’m not a killer,” she refused. “I’ll never be that.”

“Is it wrong?”

Lorelei blinked. “What?”

“Is it wrong to kill?” the doll repeated, shifting its ears forward to her, tucking the book under an arm.

“Is it ever not?” she shot back.

It rolled its free hand, “A wolf kills a deer. It wants to live, so it eats. A farmer slaughters a pig; he wants to live, so he eats.”

Nodding, Lorelei took in a breath and, more evenly, replied. “Sure. But that’s different from murder. War and violence.”

“Is it?” The Quill smirked faintly, its tail swaying. “A soldier wants his family to survive, so he defends his land. A knight wants to protect his world, so he kills a witch.”

“But the witch wasn’t about to destroy it,” she countered.

“And?” the doll said. “What if he simply wants to destroy her? What if she wants to destroy him? What if they cannot coexist?”

She folded her arms. “What if they can?”

It smirked in a deeply-teasing manner. “What, indeed? It’s been waiting to meet you, Lorelei.” The doll curtsied. “This one is Cynder Nevara Vana.”

She inclined herself back in greeting. “Is what the mirror showed… true?”

It chuckled, a rich and sultry sound. “The truth is only what we believe. What do you believe?”

“I believe,” she said, “That whether I was that or will be that, I’m not that now. And I don’t plan to be. I killed Evangelus to save myself and whatever other witch he might go after. And that’s all.”

“And,” Vana said, “Will you put your other desires ahead of other lives? Will you keep impressing your survival over others’?”

“I’ll do what I have to. I won’t be held down and I won’t be stopped. Because that’s… What I want.”

“A Witch is its wants,” Vana said, humming. There was a different power in that word.

Lorelei noticed it. “A Witch. You said that differently.”

“The Empyrean calls many unwanted arcanists ‘witches,’ but that is different. A Witch is a kind of being. A Heart,” it said.

“A Heart?”

“The concept. The nature of an existence,” Vana explained, swishing its tail. It let the book under its arm disappear into shadows. “A Witch is pure darkness. Desire, instinct, destruction, so on,” it chuckled.

“I don’t know,” Lorelei said, hands going to her hips. “I’m not sure I feel that dark.”

For a moment, Vana was silent, then held up a finger. It looked to its left as a hole in the air opened, a dark rift from which stepped another doll.

Another kitsune doll. This one had deep-purple hair, shimmering fine crystal, fluffy ears and tail to match, and was exceedingly short. “Sumiko. What is it?”

“Vana, in front of guests,” the other doll smirked.

The second turned to face Lorelei; its eyes bore into her, its expression uncannily flat. “Oh. Hello.”

“...Hi,” Lorelei decided, giving it a small wave. “Um, Sumiko?”

It was returned by a curtsy. “We were given personal names by Our creator. Sumiko is Vana’s.” Its tone was soft, as porcelain as its skin, but painfully empty.

“I see,” she nodded.

“Vana wants this one to assess your Heart. Come.” It pointed bluntly to the dark portal behind it.

Vana, for its part, turned away. “Go with this one’s sister,” it said. “It will see you again, dear Lorelei.”

Though she couldn’t help but take a nervous swallow, Lorelei started to follow. “Alright. Good to meet you,” she waved.

Vana only smirked as both Lorelei and its sister vanished into the swirling darkness.

This was going to be interesting, after all.

[spire-of-ink]

Canard VI

Canard VI - Faintly, it moved.

The red suns rose over the western horizon, warming the cloudy sky with a carnelian haze. And on the eastern side, the swirling face of a gas giant consumed it. BB13-183-4 was a bright-blue orb of monstrous, churning clouds, one of countless millions in the galaxy, and as such wasn’t deemed worthy of a name by Empyrean bureaucrats, but the locals called it Enlil. This moon, forested by old terraforming, was also never truly named by higher powers—but to its inhabitants, it was known as Shala, one of tens that orbited the enormous planet.

Lorelei gazed up at it as if asking a prayer. “Please, just…” She glared down and slammed her wrench into the machine’s innards. “Make this damn compressor work!”

It was the core system of a set of automated watering pumps, which normally were in charge of ensuring the endless rows of budding crops on her family’s field were doused. Unfortunately, though the crops could only rustle in complaint, it had stopped working as of this morning, its matching rows of metal tubes dry as the dirt they failed to soak.

She sighed harshly and took a minute to look outwards; down over the cliff her family had anciently purchased and across the great forest in the valley below, where leaves shivered in the faint Summer wind, and animals played through them in their dance of survival. A dance so far apart from day after day on this farm.

Now, Lorelei looked back to her hands, smudged black with oil just as much as her tools, scattered in the dirt, and the circuitous innards of this angular metal box she plumbed with them. She blinked, and after a moment, laughed bitterly, realizing something.

She threw her wrench onto the ground, wiped her hands on her jeans, and stepped off with a wrought purpose.

---

“Stars in void—you can’t be serious!”

Lorelei came close to gripping the lapels on Vaen’s kimono. “I’m a-- I don’t know what I am, but I’m not a fighter!” She looked more terrified than angry, but a scowl still riled her face. “Let alone a librarian! This isn’t my job!”

The doll looked perfectly collected and blank, as usual. “It is not,” it said, “But you are here on our graces. You should oblige your host.”

“Oblige!” Lorelei exclaimed. “You have no-- You can’t—”

From behind them, Evangelus laughed with a reedy bellow. “You would really set such a pathetic whelp against the Knight of a Lord? A stammering child?” He shook his head, gauntlets at his hips.

For now, Lorelei ignored him and locked eyes with Vaen, trying and failing to keep her breathing steady. “Why is he even fighting for a stars-damn book?” She groaned and backed off, picking at her hair anxiously. “Why?”

The Quill nodded once in acknowledgement. “We are a library, and so lend books. We do not hoard knowledge, but liberate it. And some books we hold have great power; be it in knowledge or literal. If one is to be given that power, they must prove their ability to wield it.”

“But me?” Lorelei pointed at herself. “Why fight me? What the hells does that prove!”

“You will see, if you wish. This one does not have the power to make you fight.”

“—Really?” She let out a breath she’d been holding. “So I don’t actually have to?”

“Yes, yes,” the knight tittered, “By all means, do begone, peasant. I would seek an actual challenge, rather than some farm-girl.”

Finally, her eye twitched, and Lorelei wheeled on him. “Is there something wrong with farmers? Do you not like eating?”

“Please,” he said, “It isn’t as if your lot are particularly irreplaceable. Simply tinkering with machines which actually do the job. Why, the only thing more worthless are those which actually detract from the Empyrean,” he drolled. “Criminals, vagabonds, witches…”

Her red eyes flashed. “...Witches?”

Evangelus tisked. “But of course, the lot of demon-worshippers. They destabilize our glorious empire far more than many. Why, I’ve had the honor of putting down my own fair share.”

Memories didn’t quite spark in her, but something did. Something deep in Lorelei echoed through her heart and electrified her blood. “You have, have you.”

“Yes, yes, but enough about my grand accomplishments,” he sighed. “Be out of my way, worthless little urchin. I’ve actual business to attend.”

And that ignited the sparks. “As a matter of fact,” Lorelei said, voice even and piercing as a knife, “The Quill said I’ll be your opponent. So your business is with me.”

The ruby rose under them suddenly cried-out with beautiful light, and the braziers along the wall spilled-over their black fire. The stained glass windows above became bright, all as if the room was readying for the conflict within.

The knight huffed. “Purely ridiculous, but fine. If you wish to die, I shall grant your request.” He drew his blade, a shining white length of metal, plasma-edged in orange star-fire, and pointed it towards her.

Lorelei glanced behind her to Vaen. “Do I get a weapon?”

“You have what you need,” it said, then stepped back. “The trial of Evangelus of Har commences. Let the Stars witness its decision.”

Her eyes widened just as she heard a few metallic steps ring out from in front of her—just in time, she ducked aside as the knight’s blade hissed by her head.

He tisked again, inconvenienced.

Lorelei darted away, fleeing the man, heels pounding against hard stone.

“And so you run. Ever like a peasant.” Evangelus took a slow walk towards her, assured of this battle’s inevitability.

In her head, the Library’s other guest cursed herself. What was she thinking? What the hells was she thinking! Was she even? Why was she incensed enough to risk her life? She imagined the reason must be buried in her still-returning memories; it had to be, or else she was simply a complete idiot!

Lorelei shot behind a pillar, breathing hard and listening to the ominous sounds of the knight’s footsteps. Now what? It was pretty obvious she had to find a way to kill him. But with what weapons? Her hands? No, that was absurd. But Vaen said she had what she needed—what did that mean? Her wits? What wits! All she had in her head was the looming, soul-searing sense she was about to die.

She peered out from the pillar and, in that instant, Evangelus threw himself forward and swung his blade wildly at her.

But Lorelei was quick, throwing herself back in turn and darting again, running to the right and past him towards the room’s center. She stole a terrified glance to Vaen; the doll was just standing there, silently observing, arms crossed.

As she ran, so did her thoughts; clearly this couldn’t just be to kill her. Sure, it looked like Vaen had put her into battle just to die, but that wouldn’t make sense. The Library obviously wanted to keep this book from Evangelus, at least if he couldn’t earn it, so there must be more to this. There must be--

Lorelei heard the sounds of a few great, bounding steps, the knight’s sabatons clashing against hard stone, and she wheeled around.

His blade, plasma slicing hotly through the air, was only a foot from her head. Amidst the bright red lights—now half a foot.

She threw her hands up defensively.

One-quarter foot.

She shut her eyes and waited for her world to end.

And waited.

“...What?”

At him saying that, Lorelei opened her eyes and looked ahead at the Empyrean’s warrior.

His blade was frozen in mid-air, only a few inches from her face. And she wasn’t simply looking at him.

She was looking through a mass of condensed red light, semi-transparent. A shield. A shield that had completely stopped his sword.

“So,” he said, “A witch you are. Now I understand.”

“I…” Lorelei’s eyes widened—and widened, and widened as a rush of memories exploded through her head. She laughed. “I guess I am!”

The newfound witch shot back from him and readied herself, letting information flood her. All magic is the arrangement of emanation, the conceptual energy of things.

“I have stricken your kind down before, and I shall do it again!” Evangelus lunged, cutting his blade at her shoulder.

Lorelei ducked aside almost casually, and began to splay her arms. Umbral, Auroral, and Essential; darkness, light, and material. It is woven together into a new concept, mana, which we enforce on the world.

He yelled and slashed across, down, drew his rifle and aimed it.

She evaded opposite, then opposite that, weaving left and right as her heels danced elegantly against the ground and her arms moved to the motion. First, gather the emanation. The lights in this room are Auroral, and so is plasma.

His rifle roared with a hissing jet of plasma, a bright stream of searing death.

Lorelei danced aside from it, then from the next shot, and next, each movement perfectly-patterned, controlled. Then, weave it together. Define the new concept, the mana, with your words, actions, motions, will.

“Fight, God damn you, fight me!” Evangelus charged forwards and swung up with his blade, far faster than any mortal should be, blade cleaving the air.

And only air, as Lorelei spun away in a pirouette, leapt back, landed, and curtsied with her skirt. Finally, seal the spell. And with the completion of her dance, the spell was sealed and cast.

Abruptly, the gun in Evangelus’s hand shook, grew hot as the room’s scarlet light seeped into it. He looked at it dumbly. “What--?” And then the gun, overloaded with raw energy—exploded, burning metal shrapnel flying and cutting his face apart and plasma washing over his plating, the sheer force of the blast ripping his right side apart and letting the star-fire melt his flesh. He shrieked and fell, gurgling-up blood.

Lorelei took a casual stroll over to him and stared down, fixing the buttons on her dress-shirt. She was pitiless. “You’ve killed us? Well, your turn, now.”

“You…” He glared up ferociously, spitting blood on the floor in front of her. “Goddamn… monstrosity…”

She rose her hand, collecting emanation, and flicked it; a hideous sound from below snapped, his neck bent, and his eyes glazed-over.

Immediately, Evangelus’s body melted into sparks of darkness, vanishing into the aether of the Library.

Lorelei blinked, staring at the ground where even his blood had vanished, and… collapsed to her knees.

“Well done.”

She looked up to see Vaen giving her a small bow.

“And so you have spoken. I have heard from you what I have needed to. Thank you.”

Halfway to retching, Lorelei, staggering, stood up and looked across half the room to the doll. “So that’s why. You wanted to gauge me,” she said softly.

“To know you. And as well, for you to know yourself. Do you see?”

She took out a shuddering breath. “Yes. But I’m not doing it again. Don’t ever,” she said, voice wavering, “Do that to me again.”

Vaen simply bowed again, and said, “Go. You would do to seek the Wing of Reflection next. But this one has seen enough.”

From out of the room’s shadows, Morn stepped up behind her. “C’mon.” It extended a hand as she looked at it. “You did good.”

She swallowed hard, shook her head slightly, and took the doll’s hand wordlessly. As they went to the elevator, a tear broke from the corner of her eye.

[spire-of-ink]

Canard V

Canard V – I looked to the sky and wondered if I also would melt.

Heat exploded over Lorelei’s face.

Timber groaned like damned souls as it churned with amber fire. Paintings and tapestries burnt away as if never there as the stairwell crashed apart. The black smoke of a passing life filled the air, and now her lungs.

In front of her, there she lay. Her shimmering gown had been seared apart to reveal empty, charred holes where plasma had ripped through her. No more breaths to grace this dying hall.

Lorelei, on her knees, looked up at the figure before them both: he looked as tall as the oak in her yard growing up, and burning star-fire saturated the air around him, pouring from his segmented plate armor.

His pitiless visor glowered down at her as his rifle steamed.

Lorelei stood up.

---

Now she was in the elevator again, gasping for breath as if smoke filled the cabin, too. Soon she stopped, shuddering her breaths to a steadier pace; she blinked. Her feet weren’t on the ground.

Now she looked up—into Morn’s pale face, her body cradled effortlessly in its arms. She stared wide-eyed and wordless for uncounted heartbeats before speaking, quietly. “Are these… my memories?”

Morn looked down at her, its onyx eye ticking away silently, before nodding once. It had a neutral sort of air about it, but something in the corners of its mouth. It reached up a hand across her to adjust its eyepatch.

As the elevator made its lurch through Heavens knew where, crackling with its glass-breaking noises, Lorelei could, in the quiet, hear and feel the continuous metronome of the doll’s clockwork. It was soothing.

“You’ll remember in pieces. But it’ll come back,” Morn assured, after a little while. “But it’s been told your next stop’s the Armory.”

“The Armory?” She raised a brow, starting to come back to herself now, and curious as ever with a glint in her eye. “A library has weapons?”

“We collect and catalogue everything.” It looked down again to give her a bit of a sharp, proud smirk. “We’ve got weapons, alright.”

At length, the elevator slid smoothly to a stop, for some reason in a forwards direction. The elegant brassy doors slid open, and Morn set Lorelei on her feet.

She smoothed down her skirt and, setting her head high, started forwards out, the Quill behind her succinctly, the tromp of dress-shoes following the tapping of heels.

And as Lorelei entered the room, what assaulted all her senses immediately was the overwhelming red that seemed to drip and pour from everywhere; embroidered tapestries of foreign symbols and lettering hung scarlet from banisters high above, hanging lanterns of black fire shone heatless crimson light across the golden sort of stone the place seemed hewn from; pillars outlined the place, holding up an apparent second floor with windows of stained glass, all depicting scenes of violence and strife, soldiers marching to battle and intimate moments of gore-strewn murder, cities and worlds burning to ash. And the floor was a solid, shimmering gray stone inlaid with the enormous design of a blooming rose, all set in bright ruby.

Across the circle from the closed elevator doors stood another doll, black metal ball-joints cast red in the lights; it wore a form of kimono, though heavy and sleeveless, also all red and seemingly set with cloud-like designs of rainbow-colored stained glass. It rested on its sandals in perfectly-still poise; one hand relaxed on its hip while the other lay softly on the hilt of a sheathed katana. Its pastel-pink crystal hair, bundled short atop with tails framing its face, bobbed as it almost subtly nodded a greeting to them. Its foxen ears were straight up, and its tail stayed behind it stilly.

Though she took a few moments to take in the scenery, staring up at the domed ceiling high above, pondering the meaning of the room’s tapestries, Lorelei quickly set her eyes on the new Quill and strode forwards. “Good day,” she said, smiling politely and firmly as she approached.

Morn stood behind at a pillar, observing.

The fox before Lorelei flicked an ear in some sort of brief emotion; its pale-green, almost gray glass eyes stared into hers emptily. Through her, a moment, the clocks in them seeming to want to peer into her own time. “Good day,” it replied, its voice feminine but husky, deeper, formal and enunciated. “Azthe-devalth, we say in Daenthe. The meaning of it is ‘bloody night,’” it said, seeming to gauge her.

Though Lorelei’s bones seemed to want to waver, she kept herself steady and simply hummed thoughtfully, putting a hand under her chin. “I see. I’ve heard some of the librarians here speak that,” she said. “Why bloody?”

“Why do you think?”

Another hum from the guest. “Well, I’m guessing it’s because the City likes its bloodshed. Seeing as how a library’s got an armory,” she chuckled.

“This is true,” the doll nodded. “Death is a matter of course here. However,” it said, body still motionless, “It is also because blood is truth. Only blood spilled will show the reality of things; and the reality of things, too, is bloody.” It inclined itself slightly, a decisive and polite bow. “This one is Cynder Nevara Vaen, Quill of Language and manager of this Wing.”

Lorelei couldn’t stop herself from looking flatly confused for a few moments. “And this is the Armory?”

Vaen’s eyes lidded slightly, and a somewhat-familiar teasing smirk almost imperceptibly played on its lips. “If blood is truth, then no language is more true, and not more spoken, than violence. It is communication in absolute words.”

Lorelei crossed her arms, nodding, again thoughtful. “That makes sense, in a way.” Abruptly, and harshly, the recovered memory from earlier cut into her mind’s eye, and she shuddered. “It… Definitely is absolute. But I don’t know what it can communicate besides death.”

“That,” Vaen said, demeanor as measured as it had been, “Is what you are here to learn.”

“And how—”

Suddenly, the elevator doors slid open again, and loud, clanging footsteps bashed their way into the room; it made Lorelei turn and look, taken aback.

“Librarian! I have been told to seek you, now come!”

And once again the memory of that burning house dashed across Lorelei’s mind; a tall man entered, every movement portraying a boisterous sense of confidence, and all of them scraping thick plates of shining white steel against one another. His helm was open in its visor and adorned with garnet-dyed plumage, his pauldrons were of angelic faces, his segmented plates were lined with gold, his black cape flew behind him, a long sheath clattered at his right hip and a rifle at his other, and his sabatons and breastplate were etched with what she could read as prayers. In Empyreal. In her own language.

Another human.

“I will not say it again—” Some yards from Lorelei, he paused, brief confusion striking at his confidence. “What? And who in God’s name are you?”

Inside, for reasons she could and couldn’t discern, her organs pulsed and her heart burned, her veins searing with a singular command: run. Run or fight. Now.

The man turned his blue eyes, glimmering with cybernetic inlays, upon Vaen. “Librarian, is this woman also a contender?”

Something in his disregard made the blood in Lorelei burst with fire brighter than her damned memory. She snapped, “Lorelei Blackhand. I’m a guest,” she intoned, glaring at him. She wasn’t sure she could keep it up, but she glared all the same.

He regarded her, then, with the sort of regard one gives to a vaguely-interesting bug, looking down his sculpted nose. “So you are. I am Lord’s Knight Evangelus of Har. Which is not a peasant’s name,” he added, a suspicious glare in his eyes. “Which makes me ask what it is you’re doing in my way.”

It turned out that the more he spoke, the more Lorelei was sure of holding her own glare back. “Whatever it is, it’s more important than why you are. Promise. So wait your turn.”

A far colder fire burnt in his steel eyes than what burned in Lorelei’s veins. “I will have your identification after this, if not your custody. Stand aside.”

“She will not.”

Both turned to look at Vaen, who stood there as still as ever.

The Quill continued, “Lord’s Knight Evangelus of Har,” it declared. “You have come to Cyn-Derrathe, the Spire of Ink, to challenge its keepers for a book of the Library.”

He took a good step to the side to look past Lorelei, some form of confidence that would be called knightly valor setting his jaw firm and raising his chin. “That is correct, librarian.”

“Should you succeed in your trial of combat, you will be granted Knight of God, Albanus. Should you fail, you will die here and thusly be archived alongside it. You are one guest, and you shall face one opponent. Do you accept these terms?”

He simply huffed, as if it wounded his pride to be asked. “Without question. Which of your demons shall I strike down?”

Vaen looked long at him. Blank.

Lorelei looked to him, then to Vaen, and knit her brow. This pause—something was different.

At length, the Quill declared,

“Your opponent shall be Lorelei Blackhand.”

[spire-of-ink]

~ Story Archive ~

{First to Newest}

Canard I

Canard II

Canard III

Canard IV

Canard V

Canard VI

Canard VII

Canard VIII

Canard IX

Canard X

[spire-of-ink]

Canard IV

Canard IV - Sunlight shone across the cocoon.

Morn flicked its ears and ran a hand through its hair, making a rasping sound as porcelain dragged across crystal. It ticked softly and was, though perfectly, inhumanly still, in a slightly relaxed posture.

Lorelei stood silently with her hands folded over her belly and gently sidled in place.

The elevator button glowed gently amber in front of them as they waited for it.

Footsteps from behind in the long corridor; Lorelei turned her head and saw a librarian coming in a brown suit and tie with an elegant clip on it.

His head was covered in deep-red hair with eyes that shone like amethysts, all of him obviously made of hard crystal, and in his hands he carried a nondescript book. He arrived beside them and relaxed onto his back leg. Also waiting.

She took the opportunity to break the bored silence. “Hi, there.” She gave a small wave and polite smile.

He stared back at her.

Something was… wrong.

She couldn’t put her finger on quite what it was, but she felt a growing unease. A disconnect. Was it something in how he held himself? Something in his eyes? His chest rose and fell with breaths, he looked very human, but something about him was indescribably different from herself in a way that was deeply…

Inhuman.

“Azthe-devalth,” he said, giving a curt nod. He looked past her to Morn. “Cynder,” he said to it.

“Azthe,” Morn said back plainly.

They all went back to waiting. Eventually, the ornate, gold-inlaid elevator doors slid open, and Lorelei went inside following the doll.

The door shut, and as Morn waved a hand, seemingly starting the elevator on its journey, she took the travel time to ask, “Is it rude to ask what exactly your librarians are? They’re… crystal.”

Morn gave a single chuckle and smirked to her. “What, are Velum weirder than dolls?” Vehl-oom, it pronounced.

“It’s not that, I know dolls,” she said. “Somehow. But they’re Velum, you said?”

“Yep. They were the first Kind we made. One of the Kinds of the Never, we have a lot of them here. Not everyone’s one, but an alright number.”

“And they’re made of crystal?”

“Living crystal, mhm. Lots of things in the Never are.”

“I see. Why was he so…”

Morn smirked again, in that way like it so teasingly knew more than her. “You’re a human, darlin’. You’re literal dimensions apart from Velum, genes-wise.”

“I… see.” Lorelei turned her eyes to the door as odd glass-scratching noises echoed around the cabin.

---

After the doors opened, Lorelei stepped out onto grass. That gave her a brief pause, where she blinked, then looked down, then looked up, and blinked again in surprise.

All around them was a vast field, stretching out into the mists, a foggy white sky clouding overhead. Blue-purple grass like blades of gemstones filled the ground, soft and strangely sandy-feeling earth beneath her feet.

And gravestones were scattered everywhere, inscribed in countless languages.

“A graveyard?” She turned to Morn as it came up beside her, while behind the elevator doors slid shut and the entire thing vanished.

“The Graveyard,” it said, confirming. “The Wing of History. C’mon, let’s get you checked out.”

The two tread through the grass a while. As they went, seemingly on forever, Lorelei tried to make out some of the graves; they were of all different sorts, elegant abstractions and plain tombstones and symbols of what, she reasoned, could only have been faiths and beliefs from across history. She didn’t find a single language she knew.

“So…” She took a minute to try to form the right question. “...Are these all the people that have died? Shiva said that this place is where the dead end up.”

“Well,” Morn said, looking ahead as it surely went, “The graves are mostly symbolic, it’s just histories that are stored here. They’re basically shelves,” it shrugged. “To be clear, this isn’t where all the dead go. It’s just where endings are recorded, and everything in somebody or something’s story that led up to it. We keep books,” it shrugged again.

“So where do the dead go?”

“Wherever suits who they are,” it replied. “You die, you reincarnate in a Shard that fits you, and you go again. Yeah,” it sighed, “You never stop existing, but each life is its own story. With its own ending.”

“Mm…”

Then, as if shaping out of the fog itself, a figure appeared: a woman sat before a machine. No—a doll, fox-eared, sat at a loom with its tail curled comfortably around it. Simply there, amidst the grass.

Morn waved to it. “Hey.”

It didn’t look at them as the pair approached in comfortable talking distance.

“This’s Lorelei.” Morn gestured to her and stepped aside almost unnoticeably.

“Lorelei,” the doll repeated, as if tasting the word in its soft, metallic voice. “This one is Cynder Nevara Hono.”

It turned to face her; its eyes were a brilliant emerald-green, clocks in them ticking away to their unknown time, and its hair was all black, an onyx crystal swathe shining in the gentle light pervading the space. It wore a blooming red rose in its hair and otherwise was adorned in nothing but a long white gown, its feet bare, tasting the nature beneath them. It smiled softly. “Welcome to the Wing of History. How are you?”

For a minute, Lorelei was almost caught-out; it was such a personable, kind question, one she’d forgotten people could ask. “Oh. I’m alright,” she said, and smiled softly back. “Kind of lost.”

“No one is lost,” Hono said, turning back to regard its plain loom, stroking it comfortingly with its ball-jointed hands. “You’re where you’re meant to be. Just as this one is.” It seemed thoughtful across its alabaster face. “And now, you are meant to begin to remember.”

“I’d like to,” Lorelei nodded. “If you’d help.”

It smiled gently, looking far off into the fog at something only perhaps half-present. All was perfectly silent, still. “The past is already dead, Lorelei. It can be better to let it rest. Why would you wish to disturb it?”

She thought a moment, also looking off into the fog. She couldn’t place it, but she simply knew. “Because I have to. If there’s one thing I know about myself, and that’s not much, right now,” she chuckled, “It’s that I have to know the past to know where to put my feet on the road ahead.”

“So,” Hono replied, “Your wish is to move ahead.”

“That’s right. I have to. However I got here, whoever I am, whatever happens next… I have to keep going ahead. And maybe more than that—no, more than that,” she said, suddenly piercing the doll with a sharp gaze, “I want to know.”

Hono didn’t respond at first, staring far away still, but eventually, it gingerly moved its hands to the loom and took a book from atop its table.

The book was brown and finely-bound, as if freshly, and on its front was an arcane circle of glyphs.

Lorelei took her gaze from the doll to its book, and a strange feeling wrinkled her brow. “Arcana Primer for Etherometrics, Opus Magnum, volume One.” She hitched a breath as the words streamed out of her mouth, unbidden. “What…”

Hono lovingly swept a hand across its cover and handed it over to Lorelei.

“Thank… you?” Holding it in her hands felt familiar in a way that sent shivers across her arms. “How do I know what this is?”

The Quill didn’t answer, but simply regarded its loom, the spinning wheel. “It’s time to remember, Lorelei. Are you ready?”

Holding the book at her waist in her hands, Lorelei stared at the wheel and set her jaw. “Yes.”

“Then we begin. May the Machine guide its hands,” it said, moving its hands as if to begin weaving, “And the Blade your Heart. Khana va Morn, Sina va Nevara. Diyanthe an Hono.”

As it began to sing with those ashy-sounding words, the doll artfully wove from the loom before it strands upon strands of writhing shadow; slowly, they grew bright. Slowly, they came together. Steadily, the doll’s hands produced a brilliant light—that swallowed Lorelei whole.

Crimson eyes went wide as the world shattered away.

[spire-of-ink]

Canard III

Canard III – In the air was the scent of carnations.

Lorelei looked out of the broad window set in the wall of this long hallway; a vast cityscape sprawled below, seemingly endless spires of elegant twisting metal and glass, gothic cathedrals of stone and glass mingling with skyscrapers and bridges and winding highways. It seemed built upon itself, stretching far up from far below, alleyways and neighborhoods and plazas, parks of crystal trees shining in all sorts of lampposts and lightbulb garlands, hologram billboards and video advertisements on stained glass, all layered atop one another in this thick forest of buildings and streets. Cars and bikes, motorcycles and flying vehicles flitted across and through the veins of this world, right alongside walking vehicles like spiders and two-legged monsters and all sorts of pedestrians.

But they were like ants from up here; no matter the towering length of the spires below, the Library stood above them all. And overhead, stars like gems glimmered amidst strange black clouds cast with magenta light from what appeared to be a black moon overhead, peering down at the endless throng below.

“Nice view, huh?” Morn stepped up beside her, hands at its waist casually. “You like it?”

Lorelei took an almost cautious glance to the doll. “Where… are we?”

The Quill replied simply, “The City. One of Existence’s nine Shards, and the center one of this Reflection, the Never. You remember much about them?”

She shook her head, trying to get more comfortable and casual to match Morn. It was difficult, with all this information trying to click together in her head. “No, not really. I remember I wasn’t taught a lot about them.”

“Oh? It’s not uncommon knowledge. Where’re you from?” Morn folded its hands behind its back and listened, attentive.

“The Empyrean,” she said, slowly nodding, recalling. “The Holy Empyrean of Sera. Well, actually,” she admitted, “Just a moon. On the galaxy’s edge…”

“Cocoon,” Morn said, giving a nod.

“Oh, right, that’s its name. The galaxy, Cocoon. Yeah,” she sighed, giving a sheepish little chuckle and looking back to the City. “Just some moon, not anywhere like this. Nowhere this incredible.” Her red eyes lit up a bit, reflecting the City’s lights.

They turned back to Morn. “Does the City have a name?”

“Eh,” it said, shrugging, “In our tongue it’s called Bel. But everyone just says the City.”

“And this isn’t… in Cocoon, is it?”

Morn barked a laugh, “No, not even close. It’s…” It looked out over the Shard, too. “It’s the first city, and the last. It was here at the start, and it’ll be here at the end. Think of it as a different dimension. Cocoon’s in the Labyrinthe, your home Shard.”

“The Labyrinthe,” Lorelei repeated, starting to put the pieces together. “I see. Which, um, ‘Reflection’ is that?”

“The Ever,” Morn nodded, and turned back to her. “To orient you: Existence is made of three Reflections. The Ever, below; the Never, above; and the Forever, in the middle of it all. Each is made of three Shards; for the Never, here, it’s the City in the middle of the Abyss with the Night above.”

“And the Ever?”

“Labyrinthe surrounded by Corruption with the Deepvoid beneath.”

At that, Lorelei took in a sharp breath, eyes going wide. She took a step back. Blinked. “That reminds me of… something. The Deepvoid.”

Morn nodded, pink eyebrows raised. “It sees. Huh, well, maybe you’ve got a connection to it. Us Quills sure do. But speaking of that, we oughta’ get a move on.”

Steadily, steadying, Lorelei nodded back and recomposed herself, hands to her sides. “Right, yeah. Sorry, I don’t mean to be…”

“Don’t worry ‘bout it,” Morn waved off, turning to lead the way further down the hall. “We’re the Library. It’s what we do.”

---

The door clicked open and showed the way into a small, cozy room with a bright fire burning in its fireplace; the walls were all lined with books, and a small sofa and recliners set around a coffee table in the middle.

“Hey, Shi.” Morn led the way in, standing aside so Lorelei could enter behind and gently shut the door.

In the right recliner, another porcelain, fox-eared doll sat with a cup of tea and a book in-hand. Its hair was long, in a ponytail, and coppery—actually, it appeared to be copper, as did its bushy tail curled around it. It wore a brown coat and dark long skirt, no tie, but ascot of sorts, inset with an orange jewel. Its deep brown eyes shone in the firelight as they went wide; it set the tea and book onto the table in front of it and stood, smoothing its skirt out politely.

It gave Lorelei a wide smile and bowed. “You must be the guest,” it said, raising itself. “This one is Cynder Nevara Shiva, Quill of Literature. It runs the Atrium! So, this is your first stop.”

“First stop? It sounds like you planned this.” Lorelei inclined herself back, also polite, but gave a skeptical look to the two dolls.

“Eh,” Morn stepped forward, “We just communicate, telepathically.”

Giving the doll a deeper look, and Shiva its own, Lorelei finally noticed something, staring deep into their eyes: they were clocks. Their eyes were clocks, ticking away at some indiscernible time.

It gave her a brief start. “What the hells are you, exactly, and what the hells is going on here?”

Shiva nodded, still polite, but frowning more seriously. “This one understands. It will explain, if you’ll sit. Please?” It gestured to the sofa.

Taking in a breath, again steadying, Lorelei assented. “Okay.” She sat and sank into the admittedly very comfortable red seat, sitting up straight with her hands in her lap.

Shiva sat back in its recliner and took up its tea as Morn sat in the chair opposite.

The Quill of Literature gestured with its cup, “Tea?”

“No thanks.”

“Alright,” it smiled softly, sipping, then going on. “This is the Atrium. Any guest that needs orientation starts here. This one received word of your coming from Morn and Cioel, and so was ready for you. Okay?”

Nodding, slowly, Lorelei agreed but was unconvinced. “Okay. But there’s still something more to this.”

“You’re astute,” Shi smiled. “Yes, there is more. But please understand that it isn’t this one’s place to reveal everything. However, it can say this: as for what we are, we are very old. We are essences of the Library itself, which is the form given to The End.”

“The End?” Lorelei sat forward.

Shi sipped again, and continued. “Yes. The End of the World. The end of all things. The idea of endings. Death Itself.”

“So all of you are… Death?”

“Think. Why else does the Library record everything? Where else would everything end up but in the hands of Death? Formally, we are called the Heartless.”

“I… see.” She stopped a moment. “...Am I dead?”

“You are here,” Shiva said. “That is all this one can say.”

“So what do I do to find out?”

“Continue with Morn,” the doll smiled. “It will show you.”

Morn gave a little wave as Lorelei looked to it. She looked back to Shiva. “Alright. Fine. I… Do you know anything about me?”

“...No,” Shi said, setting its tea down. “But your next stop will be to find out more about that, if you like. Morn?”

“Oh, yes’m,” the other doll said, standing up.

“To History, it seems.”

“Right.”

Lorelei looked between them, and then stood herself. “Well, History sounds about right. So, sure.” She looked down, then up. “Thank you for your time, Ma’am.”

“Just Shi,” the Quill giggled, a mechanical set of ticking noises. “Thank you for yours. Good luck.”

“C’mon,” Morn beckoned, and Lorelei answered, following it out.

“We’ve got a long ways to go...”

[spire-of-ink]

Canard II

Canard II – Leaves shivered in the wind.

“So, this is our fated guest, huh?”

Lorelei tore from the railing and stood at attention, wary of the stranger that had appeared. It was another doll, about her own height, like Cioel, also porcelain, but this one had pink hair like rose quartz, strands glittering in the azure lights of the Library. It wore a suit and tie, black and formal, with finely-polished shoes and a pin at its lapel shaped like a rose. Fox-like ears of crystalline fur rose from its head, also, tilted towards Lorelei, and a similar rosy tail swept the air behind it, the suit accommodating such a bushy bristle of lace-like gem by a hole in its back, or so it must have been.

This pink-haired doll sized her up with a single jet-black eye, the right one covered by a patch. “Well, you look like you fit in. Morn,” it greeted, stepping forward to Lorelei and extending a ceramic hand.

Though with a glance to Cioel, who nodded encouragingly, Lorelei took its hand and nodded firmly, “Lorelei, good to meet you. Morn,” she said, cocking her head slyly, “Is there a reason you’re both foxes?” She gestured to Cioel, also.

Cioel cackled, “Well, yeah? Clearly,” it said, good-natured.

Morn shrugged, “All the Quills are Kitsune. We each run a Wing of the Library, or some other function.”

Lorelei took in the explanation graciously, nodding. “I see, and what do you two do?”

“Cynder Nevara Cioel,” said the cyan-haired doll, bounding off the railing and into a curtsy with its kimono, “Quill of Religion. This one runs the corresponding Wing.” Its amber eye peered up and glinted at Lorelei with mischievous, dark pride.

“Religion…” She hummed.

“And,” the other doll said, “This one’s Cynder Nevara Morn, Quill of Liminality.”

Lorelei turned and inclined herself a little, “Pleasure to meet you, once again,” she chuckled. “Liminality?”

“Yeah,” Morn said, sheepishly running fingers through its long rose hair, “This one’s in charge of the Library’s Operators and Interstice, all the places in-between the Wings.”

“Hm, then, maybe you should show me around? It would make sense,” Lorelei proposed.

Cioel’s ears flicked up. “Oh! Well, actually, yeah, that would, wouldn’t it?”

Morn shrugged again. “Guess so. Well, Miss Lorelei,” it said, “Guess it’ll be this one’s job to get you acquainted with everything. Just remember,” it said, staring her in the eye.

“Mhm?”

“Don’t get involved with anything. No matter what you see.”

Lorelei paused a moment, assessing, but then nodded. “Okay. Got it.”

Morn gave a brief salute to Cioel, “See you around, wish it luck,” and took lead. “Follow this one, then, there’s a lot to see.”

And the two stepped away into the vast halls…

---

“Director.”

“Yes, it’s seen.”

“Will she be capable enough?”

“If she isn’t, the story will simply end.”

“And you’re willing to start again?”

“Perhaps. We will see.”

“Nonetheless, you’re confident, aren’t you?”

“Oh, yes. She was selected for a reason.”

“This one looks forward to the outcome, then.”

“Yes, let’s watch.”

[spire-of-ink]

Canard I

Canard I – In the morning sunlight, I saw a cocoon glistening with dew.

“So, this is your decision, Director?”

“Yes. Is there a problem?”

“No.”

“...No?”

“...Are you sure now is the time?”

“The curtains are raising, Sumiko. The threads are drawing closed.”

“Will this really be the show you desire?”

“There’s only one way to be sure. You know that.”

“Then, the script is ready.”

“Mhm.”

“So let’s begin.”

“A new story.”

---

Red eyes opened upon a scene of gold and brass. The room gave the warm impression of fine wood, mahogany rails on stairs that twisted together above the front desk, shelves of books lining every wall in the sprawling room and carving out lanes between them with woven rugs of red on the ground; crystal chandeliers cast comforting yellow light around, not too bright, a nice light to read by. The front desk itself was a half-crescent engraved with artistic depictions of exquisite forms, human and non—but the top, glistening in a rainbow, belied the truth.

None of this was wood or natural fiber. Metal and crystal all, even be it in facsimile of natural wood, it was only bronze-colored approximate. A few librarians, in their glistening suits, also milled about, but it was clear they, too, were not flesh—crystal, also, hues of blue and pink and purple, with dazzling amethyst and sapphire eyes. No matter how humanoid, these people were not human.

Not like herself. Lorelei took a moment to recompose; she smoothed down her long black skirt and readjusted the buttons on her formal vest, and the collar of her white undershirt. She brushed her maple hair back over her shoulders and adjusted her small gold earrings, tapped her short satin heels and fixed-up her stockings. Now she could proceed.

“Jiyt? Kyn an?” The receptionist, a crystalline librarian with white hair, addressed Lorelei in the local language.

“Ah,” Lorelei started forward to the front desk, “Apologies, I speak Empyreal, is that…?”

“That’s fine,” the receptionist smiled, putting her hands down on the desk between them. “What brings you to the Library, Miss?”

She opened her mouth to give a ready response, but Lorelei just as quickly shut it. “What… Does bring me here? I don’t remember how I got here, actually.” She gave a nervous look around, blinking; now that she took a moment to think… “Actually, where am I? What is this place?” Her scarlet eyes locked with the receptionist’s violet.

She nodded, “I see. Well, this—”

“—Is the Library!”

Out of the ceiling, apparently, a mass of silk and crystal lace dropped directly beside Lorelei and shot up as a small… doll. Its eyes were amber glass and its hair was bright cyan; fox-like ears flicked above its snowy porcelain face, and a matching tail swayed outside of its dress, which was as much a black kimono as longcoat, replete with silver tie.

Lorelei looked down at the doll, mildly confused but unabashed. “The Library? Which one?”

The doll grinned, showing sharp ceramic teeth. “The first one! And the last,” it giggled, making mechanical noises from its throat. “The Library of Bel, center of the City. Come with this one,” it said, beckoning with a ball-jointed hand.

She followed it around the desk, through a grand door, and out onto a balcony; it circled the entirety of the tower’s inner hollow, apparently, looking over lattices of staircases and bridges descending far below and rising high above, all full of patrons and librarians going place to place.

The doll turned and settled against the ornate crystal railing that oversaw the vast tower, lit from behind in glittering blue. “This is the place where all Existence’s records go. This is where we try our best to retain every lost and forgotten thing in all the worlds. We don’t have everything,” it winked, “But we’ve got a lot!”

Lorelei stepped forward, wordless, and leaned on the rails, looked over the latticework that connected the Library’s innards. She hummed. “And… What am I doing here?”

“Who knows!” The doll turned and leaned forward with her. “All kinds of things come to us here. But something tells this one…” It turned its eyes to her with a mischievous glint, “You wanna’ know more.”

Lorelei looked back, a smirk matching the librarian’s. “Maybe I do. Will you show me?”

“Oh, yes, we sure will,” it giggled. “This one is Cioel.”

“Lorelei.”

They took each other’s hands, warm flesh in cold porcelain.

Cioel grinned. “Welcome to the Library.”