tortured-librarian

[tortured-librarian]

It feels wrong without Sable's presence in the gargantuan library. Jekyll keeps himself busy, organising and re-stacking books but that too is a lost cause for the shelves always spit out the books he "misplaced" and placed them back in their original order. Fine.

He barely peers up into the rafters anymore, the prickling of dread on the back of his neck ever present and never ceasing to send goosebumps up his spine.

He doesn't have to wait for much longer, a fluttering of wings beating against stale air

Thank...you Sable

Jekyll mutters, eyes scanning over the words - not entirely focusing on their meaning

"Crowe,

I will try for both you and Hyde's sake. Please..hurry. I do not wish for either of us to be stuck in these fates for now I understand the feeling of true separation. How you dealt with this all this time... that is what keeps me going. That this isn't the end but... isn't it?

Please keep yourself safe.

Your..friend

Henr- [the name here is scribbled out multiple times, crossed over with varying degrees of anger before blotting. The writing after is neat, precise, as if to avoid ongoing panic]

Jekyll."

Can I write something..? Sable mutters, tiny feet already scrabbling across the feathered end of the feather

Jekyll did not bother answering, instead handing them the quill rather carefully

Sable adds a footnote at the bottom, in shaky cursive

"Sable... Jekyll friend. Want...best for both"

(The fluttering sound of wings breaks the horrid crawling silence of the Dark Library, Harbinger barely having the strength to land properly as he hits the dusty flooring next to Jekyll's feet. He coughs out the letter, shutting his eyes for a moment to rest)

My dearest friend,

I am so sorry. This should have never happened.

Please, I am coming to get you out of that horrid place. That sentence is MINE to carry, not yours.

Hold the line my friend, keep your wits about you, and whatever you do... DO NOT START READING. Stay safe. I will get you out.

Regards,

~Crowe~

Jekyll is lying on the floor, staring up into the fog and trying to cure the spiral going on and on and down in his mind, when a letter gets promptly dropped on his face

mmh..

He stirs, glaring at the letter as if it were some omen of death, looking worriedly at Harbinger before reading

..get me out?

Don't..read?

"Hah...too late for that my friend." his voice is wry, hollow from hours? of staring up at nothing and daring that bird to come back down and torment him

He drags himself up to sitting, standing only to grab the quill and the inkwell

"Crowe,

..I fear it is too late. Unless you mean do not read other books because... I know what I am. Nothing but a forgery of words that someone has written for me. Don't come here. You're free now.

Henry"

He had hoped the hopelessness didn't creep into the writing but even that had to spite him too.

Sable appears before Harbinger can even lift his head, chirping a few words of greeting at Jekyll before flying off with the note clutched tightly.

Silence once again, well, save for the few noises Harbinger makes. Jekyll looks over, wishing to give him something, anything to make him feel better.

"I...don't know if there are any seeds in here. I'm...sorry."

@schrodingerslibrary

[tortured-librarian]

coloured :DDDD god, i hate them so much (except for Poole, i love Poole)

[tortured-librarian]

(The fluttering sound of wings breaks the horrid crawling silence of the Dark Library, Harbinger barely having the strength to land properly as he hits the dusty flooring next to Jekyll's feet. He coughs out the letter, shutting his eyes for a moment to rest)

My dearest friend,

I am so sorry. This should have never happened.

Please, I am coming to get you out of that horrid place. That sentence is MINE to carry, not yours.

Hold the line my friend, keep your wits about you, and whatever you do... DO NOT START READING. Stay safe. I will get you out.

Regards,

~Crowe~

Jekyll is lying on the floor, staring up into the fog and trying to cure the spiral going on and on and down in his mind, when a letter gets promptly dropped on his face

mmh..

He stirs, glaring at the letter as if it were some omen of death, looking worriedly at Harbinger before reading

..get me out?

Don't..read?

"Hah...too late for that my friend." his voice is wry, hollow from hours? of staring up at nothing and daring that bird to come back down and torment him

He drags himself up to sitting, standing only to grab the quill and the inkwell

"Crowe,

..I fear it is too late. Unless you mean do not read other books because... I know what I am. Nothing but a forgery of words that someone has written for me. Don't come here. You're free now.

Henry"

He had hoped the hopelessness didn't creep into the writing but even that had to spite him too.

Sable appears before Harbinger can even lift his head, chirping a few words of greeting at Jekyll before flying off with the note clutched tightly.

Silence once again, well, save for the few noises Harbinger makes. Jekyll looks over, wishing to give him something, anything to make him feel better.

"I...don't know if there are any seeds in here. I'm...sorry."

@schrodingerslibrary

[tortured-librarian]

The lab remains silent, Jekyll's lab coats hanging on the hanger where they always were, a slight sheening of dust already coating the wooden surfaces

The grand mirror that always lay covered with a cloth was now uncovered, cracks spiderwebbing across the reflection

Utterson had bolted over as soon as the moth had flown out of the study.

He knocked desperately on the door to the laboratory.

Henry??? Are you in there??? For the love of god, say something if you are!!!

Utterson was in full-blown panic mode, this was too familiar…it all felt too fucking familiar.

@gabe-utterson

There's no answer, not even the whisper of a faint wind that usually whistles underneath the door. The door isn't even locked, which it usually was.

[tortured-librarian]

Amidst the screaming in his brain and in the room, impossibly emanating from him, there's a rush of wind. He didn't sound like that.

The wind flutters next to his ear, a crinkling of paper

"Gabriel,

Help. Help me please I'm real tell me I'm real I'm real right?! You're...won't find me. I'm not...here. I'm not there I don't know were I am I love you please-...please don't forget me"

Utterson had bolted over as soon as the moth had flown out of the study.

He knocked desperately on the door to the laboratory.

Henry??? Are you in there??? For the love of god, say something if you are!!!

Utterson was in full-blown panic mode, this was too familiar…it all felt too fucking familiar.

@gabe-utterson

There's no answer, not even the whisper of a faint wind that usually whistles underneath the door. The door isn't even locked, which it usually was.

[tortured-librarian]

He forgets about Sable's existence, about anything other than the birds he know are watching above, and probably laughing at his stupidity.

"Is this it huh?"

He wants to scream into the sky, to throw a lighter and to set this whole place ablaze with himself inside it. He wouldn't even care.

"Is this all I am?! Nothing but a few stray words off a page, not conforming to YOUR STANDARDS?!"

His voice gets stronger with each breath, each word, each attempt at speaking that doesn't trigger the tickling burn in his throat with the air scraping against his lungs.

Sable tries to flutter onto his shoulder, but he brushes her away - not wanting to give any more of himself to the damn place than he already had.

"Helping a trapped soul, and that gets ME trapped?! WHAT SORT OF SICK SICK JOKE IS THIS?!"

I'm real I'm real I'm real I'm real I'm real I'm real I'm real I'm real I'm real I'm real

Words fail him, and the memories of what he saw, the threads and thimbles of fate wrapped around his throat dragging him along and under the waves of events that flash through his mind. Hyde, Hyde talking, what he said and what he would still say, Utterson, Richard, everyone he knew. He couldn't see himself. In any future or any event or any memory he flashed through he wasn't in any of them-

A sharp flash of pain temporarily blinds him, gasping and choking on burning air. His chest...his chest it- it hurt..it hurt oh Gods it hurt make it stop...make it stop make it stop..

His hands clenched around his head, returning to the curled up, knees to his chest position he was in not a moment of before, fingers digging into his forehead. It was too much, what was he meant to do? Play along? Pretend it never existed?? Pretend he never saw the...

The Book didn't exist. He didn't exist.

I'm real... I'm real I'm real I'm real, I'm real.

There were no mirrors. He couldn't see anything, only what was shown through his own eyes. Should he even trust them anymore? Was his reality what he actually was? Was he truly Henry Jekyll? Was he truly a scientist, born and developed into the matter of science and chemicals?

Write. Write. Write to forget, just write write WRITE FUCKING WRITE.

Paper.

Ink.

Inkwell.

Spilt it.

Doesn't matter.

Would never matter again.

He's real. He's real I'm real, I'm Henry Jekyll I'm real, I'm-

Stop spilling it.

Get a hold of yourself.

You're real. You're okay.

You're...real?

...

[tortured-librarian]

Jekyll is still on the floor, back pushed against the desk and knees pulled up to his chest when Sable arrives, dropping the note neatly at his feet as he scrabbles for it.

“Henry,

I’m on my way, please, please, please don’t do anything rash, you don’t have to apologize for anything, please don’t do anything until I get there,

Gabriel”

There's a moment of silence before a groan escapes him, before he shoves the note back to Sable, away from his eyes that tear up with unwanted moisture.

He won't find...me...he..he won't..hah he will s-spend ages...

In a sudden flash of rage, Jekyll punches the stack of books next to him, not caring as his knuckles catch on the metal embellishments and start to bleed, slowly. He couldn't feel anything anyway, so what was the point? His large ring digs into the skin, tearing the sensitive flesh in-between the fingers.

Sable looks on, sad but silent.

It's fine. He wouldn't lose himself. He won't lose himself he'll be okay, he'll be fine it had to be okay

[tortured-librarian]

The moth grabs the note and almost 'runs' out of the window, flapping into the sky and out of sight.

---

A moth, big and beautiful - only a slight tinge of green pigment in their wings lands outside Utterson's study window, seemingly observing.

They carry something in their twiggy legs, and it's a wonder the weight didn't break them.

@tortured-librarian

Hello there…what’s this you have?

Utterson reached out his hand towards the moth.

[tortured-librarian]

The front two legs tap slightly on his shoulder, as if trying to soothe the fabric down

With a gust of wind it flies down, colliding slightly against the note before flying back up to his shoulder, and back down again, almost as if saying "Write."

A moth, big and beautiful - only a slight tinge of green pigment in their wings lands outside Utterson's study window, seemingly observing.

They carry something in their twiggy legs, and it's a wonder the weight didn't break them.

@tortured-librarian

Hello there…what’s this you have?

Utterson reached out his hand towards the moth.

[tortured-librarian]

The moth remains stationary in the room, observing with an almost intellectual gaze. It flies rather abruptly toward Utterson, landing on his shoulder

A moth, big and beautiful - only a slight tinge of green pigment in their wings lands outside Utterson's study window, seemingly observing.

They carry something in their twiggy legs, and it's a wonder the weight didn't break them.

@tortured-librarian

Hello there…what’s this you have?

Utterson reached out his hand towards the moth.

[tortured-librarian]

The moth flutters in through the small crack provided, resting on the mantlepiece, leaving the letter in Utterson's possession

"Help. Trapped. Need help, please, please, I'm so sorry..."

Henry"

A moth, big and beautiful - only a slight tinge of green pigment in their wings lands outside Utterson's study window, seemingly observing.

They carry something in their twiggy legs, and it's a wonder the weight didn't break them.

@tortured-librarian

Hello there…what’s this you have?

Utterson reached out his hand towards the moth.

[tortured-librarian]

He wishes to swear, to scream , to throw something, to do anything but STAND there as the massive corvid flies away

Master? Yeah, as if with the way he was rudely shoved...where exactly? No don't focus on that now.

Wait. Wait for the letter. Wait for Utterson. Wait...just wait.

The instant Jekyll enters the mirror his mind and soul is bombarded.

He can feel as the fibers of reality are forcefully severed from his soul, the lines writing him into reality sliced clean through as his connection to Hyde is clamped shut. The mirror world around him warps and spins, moving like a thousand ribbons of impossible light around him, whispering, crying, screaming, laughing...

So many voices. All of them so loud. Demanding to be heard. Demanding to be known. They clawed for his attention, ripping at his mind, clawing at his soul till he gave them knowledge. It felt like his body was not his own, the choking voices and the forbidden thrum pulsing around him till all he could do was witness.

Like a puppet of strings. Forced to only watch as its master spun a tale of horror beneath his gaze.

He could see thousands of lines, lines of light, spiraling around him, but never connected to him. Not anymore. Never again. His eyes remained pried painfully wide, forced to watch as those lines came into sickening clarity, along with the voices connected to them all. Words, the lines were words, strung together in sentences, thoughts, paragraphs, quotations.... like some twisted play penned on the fabric of the void in ink made from the whispers of its puppets.

He could hear Utterson.

He could see every part of his life, written out, strung together in some sickening written play... every moment, every action, every part of his personality.

He could see Hyde. Burning red words etched into the black of the nothingness. Every attribute. Every word he had spoken, would speak, was speaking.

Thousands of other lines, some simple variants, some vastly different, some himself, some where he never WAS at all... spiraling and twisting and screaming and clawing and wailing and crying and singing and laughing and--

And just like that, the book slams shut.

With a shocking flare of candlelight he comes into dizzying awareness, the lines and words halting instantly as the book in front of him falls to the floor. He can't quite tell what the cover says from this position.

He... he was in... a Library.

@schrodingerslibrary

His mind is the last to catch up with 'reality', and he doesn't even realise he's clawing at his head, to stop them to stop the voices, to stop everything it hurts it hurt so much-

He forces himself to let go, to unclench his fists, not even feeling the pain that surely danced along his spine at the scratching

The voices and emotions and demands all fade, leaving him feeling empty but even that in itself is a contradiction, they've taken over something inside him that he didn't know he had.

Jekyll looks around, eyes focusing on rows and rows atop columns of books, sacked precariously and a soft fog hanging low from the ceiling, making the illusion they went on forever. Maybe they did, endless knowledge and words and diagrams and equations all locked into categories of books and tomes that looked they could fall at any moment. The air is heavy, dry despite the obvious moisture making up the fog, and every breath feels as if taken through a wad of burnt paper - scraping and choking.

His mind finally catches up, and he gets barely a thought of warning before he's dry-heaving, folded double and chest pounding but noticeably slower, as if hesitant to admit the very obvious danger he found himself in. The bird. The damn Harbinger of Doom or whatever it wanted to call itself. Find it.

Looking around revealed nothing but more snaking hallways of books, and a writing desk off to the side made rather oddly - a plank of old, stained mahogany placed ontop of yet more books. Ink splattered every inch of it, and an inkwell was left dripping over the side, onto a stack of parchment paper. Righting himself, Jekyll dragged himself over to it, setting the inkwell back to it's normal position atop the 'desk'.

Every step felt cumbersome, a small stumble feeling like it equated to a massive rumbling earthquake, creating a fissure somewhere in the reality he...was he in reality? Did he lose consciousness and this was his brain's way of telling him to wake up? To help-

Crowe. Crowe, damn it all he nearly-

Fingertips miss...

Hands almost catch.

Jekyll feels a very real sense of dread unleashed upon his soul. He'd swapped places with him. The bird was right. He had been condemned.

[tortured-librarian]

Jekyll is like a broken record, repeating the same word over and over, as if repeating them would make it reality

"Leave...leave me...leave, leave leave leaveleaveLEAVE!"

With every word, he takes a fumbling step closer to the corvid, until a stray screw poking out of the floorboards catches his shoe, and he falls to his knees. The wood catching in his hands would hurt...wasn't it meant to hurt?

leave...j-just leave..

The instant Jekyll enters the mirror his mind and soul is bombarded.

He can feel as the fibers of reality are forcefully severed from his soul, the lines writing him into reality sliced clean through as his connection to Hyde is clamped shut. The mirror world around him warps and spins, moving like a thousand ribbons of impossible light around him, whispering, crying, screaming, laughing...

So many voices. All of them so loud. Demanding to be heard. Demanding to be known. They clawed for his attention, ripping at his mind, clawing at his soul till he gave them knowledge. It felt like his body was not his own, the choking voices and the forbidden thrum pulsing around him till all he could do was witness.

Like a puppet of strings. Forced to only watch as its master spun a tale of horror beneath his gaze.

He could see thousands of lines, lines of light, spiraling around him, but never connected to him. Not anymore. Never again. His eyes remained pried painfully wide, forced to watch as those lines came into sickening clarity, along with the voices connected to them all. Words, the lines were words, strung together in sentences, thoughts, paragraphs, quotations.... like some twisted play penned on the fabric of the void in ink made from the whispers of its puppets.

He could hear Utterson.

He could see every part of his life, written out, strung together in some sickening written play... every moment, every action, every part of his personality.

He could see Hyde. Burning red words etched into the black of the nothingness. Every attribute. Every word he had spoken, would speak, was speaking.

Thousands of other lines, some simple variants, some vastly different, some himself, some where he never WAS at all... spiraling and twisting and screaming and clawing and wailing and crying and singing and laughing and--

And just like that, the book slams shut.

With a shocking flare of candlelight he comes into dizzying awareness, the lines and words halting instantly as the book in front of him falls to the floor. He can't quite tell what the cover says from this position.

He... he was in... a Library.

@schrodingerslibrary

His mind is the last to catch up with 'reality', and he doesn't even realise he's clawing at his head, to stop them to stop the voices, to stop everything it hurts it hurt so much-

He forces himself to let go, to unclench his fists, not even feeling the pain that surely danced along his spine at the scratching

The voices and emotions and demands all fade, leaving him feeling empty but even that in itself is a contradiction, they've taken over something inside him that he didn't know he had.

Jekyll looks around, eyes focusing on rows and rows atop columns of books, sacked precariously and a soft fog hanging low from the ceiling, making the illusion they went on forever. Maybe they did, endless knowledge and words and diagrams and equations all locked into categories of books and tomes that looked they could fall at any moment. The air is heavy, dry despite the obvious moisture making up the fog, and every breath feels as if taken through a wad of burnt paper - scraping and choking.

His mind finally catches up, and he gets barely a thought of warning before he's dry-heaving, folded double and chest pounding but noticeably slower, as if hesitant to admit the very obvious danger he found himself in. The bird. The damn Harbinger of Doom or whatever it wanted to call itself. Find it.

Looking around revealed nothing but more snaking hallways of books, and a writing desk off to the side made rather oddly - a plank of old, stained mahogany placed ontop of yet more books. Ink splattered every inch of it, and an inkwell was left dripping over the side, onto a stack of parchment paper. Righting himself, Jekyll dragged himself over to it, setting the inkwell back to it's normal position atop the 'desk'.

Every step felt cumbersome, a small stumble feeling like it equated to a massive rumbling earthquake, creating a fissure somewhere in the reality he...was he in reality? Did he lose consciousness and this was his brain's way of telling him to wake up? To help-

Crowe. Crowe, damn it all he nearly-

Fingertips miss...

Hands almost catch.

Jekyll feels a very real sense of dread unleashed upon his soul. He'd swapped places with him. The bird was right. He had been condemned.

[tortured-librarian]

Jekyll watches the moth go, deciding to name it Sable, the simple elegance to which she carried herself reason enough. As the Library itself seems to sigh, the very foundations creaking under a hidden weight, a shiver went up his spine- the same shiver that he felt before the shift...

He turns, searching for the source of the well spoken voice, meeting the very same pair of red, empty eyes that he'd seen once before.

"What...you want. You got...what you wanted...leave"

The instant Jekyll enters the mirror his mind and soul is bombarded.

He can feel as the fibers of reality are forcefully severed from his soul, the lines writing him into reality sliced clean through as his connection to Hyde is clamped shut. The mirror world around him warps and spins, moving like a thousand ribbons of impossible light around him, whispering, crying, screaming, laughing...

So many voices. All of them so loud. Demanding to be heard. Demanding to be known. They clawed for his attention, ripping at his mind, clawing at his soul till he gave them knowledge. It felt like his body was not his own, the choking voices and the forbidden thrum pulsing around him till all he could do was witness.

Like a puppet of strings. Forced to only watch as its master spun a tale of horror beneath his gaze.

He could see thousands of lines, lines of light, spiraling around him, but never connected to him. Not anymore. Never again. His eyes remained pried painfully wide, forced to watch as those lines came into sickening clarity, along with the voices connected to them all. Words, the lines were words, strung together in sentences, thoughts, paragraphs, quotations.... like some twisted play penned on the fabric of the void in ink made from the whispers of its puppets.

He could hear Utterson.

He could see every part of his life, written out, strung together in some sickening written play... every moment, every action, every part of his personality.

He could see Hyde. Burning red words etched into the black of the nothingness. Every attribute. Every word he had spoken, would speak, was speaking.

Thousands of other lines, some simple variants, some vastly different, some himself, some where he never WAS at all... spiraling and twisting and screaming and clawing and wailing and crying and singing and laughing and--

And just like that, the book slams shut.

With a shocking flare of candlelight he comes into dizzying awareness, the lines and words halting instantly as the book in front of him falls to the floor. He can't quite tell what the cover says from this position.

He... he was in... a Library.

@schrodingerslibrary

His mind is the last to catch up with 'reality', and he doesn't even realise he's clawing at his head, to stop them to stop the voices, to stop everything it hurts it hurt so much-

He forces himself to let go, to unclench his fists, not even feeling the pain that surely danced along his spine at the scratching

The voices and emotions and demands all fade, leaving him feeling empty but even that in itself is a contradiction, they've taken over something inside him that he didn't know he had.

Jekyll looks around, eyes focusing on rows and rows atop columns of books, sacked precariously and a soft fog hanging low from the ceiling, making the illusion they went on forever. Maybe they did, endless knowledge and words and diagrams and equations all locked into categories of books and tomes that looked they could fall at any moment. The air is heavy, dry despite the obvious moisture making up the fog, and every breath feels as if taken through a wad of burnt paper - scraping and choking.

His mind finally catches up, and he gets barely a thought of warning before he's dry-heaving, folded double and chest pounding but noticeably slower, as if hesitant to admit the very obvious danger he found himself in. The bird. The damn Harbinger of Doom or whatever it wanted to call itself. Find it.

Looking around revealed nothing but more snaking hallways of books, and a writing desk off to the side made rather oddly - a plank of old, stained mahogany placed ontop of yet more books. Ink splattered every inch of it, and an inkwell was left dripping over the side, onto a stack of parchment paper. Righting himself, Jekyll dragged himself over to it, setting the inkwell back to it's normal position atop the 'desk'.

Every step felt cumbersome, a small stumble feeling like it equated to a massive rumbling earthquake, creating a fissure somewhere in the reality he...was he in reality? Did he lose consciousness and this was his brain's way of telling him to wake up? To help-

Crowe. Crowe, damn it all he nearly-

Fingertips miss...

Hands almost catch.

Jekyll feels a very real sense of dread unleashed upon his soul. He'd swapped places with him. The bird was right. He had been condemned.

[tortured-librarian]

The possibility of a moth speaking to him re affirms his suspicions. Yes he was going utterly mad.

He was however in awe at the creature, and almost to confirm his hearing he found himself replying - speech slow and slurred

"....summon you?...need letter ssssent... help.."

Henry finds himself laughing, cackling through tears as the note shakes with the force of his laughter

"you're prettyy...pretty moth"

The instant Jekyll enters the mirror his mind and soul is bombarded.

He can feel as the fibers of reality are forcefully severed from his soul, the lines writing him into reality sliced clean through as his connection to Hyde is clamped shut. The mirror world around him warps and spins, moving like a thousand ribbons of impossible light around him, whispering, crying, screaming, laughing...

So many voices. All of them so loud. Demanding to be heard. Demanding to be known. They clawed for his attention, ripping at his mind, clawing at his soul till he gave them knowledge. It felt like his body was not his own, the choking voices and the forbidden thrum pulsing around him till all he could do was witness.

Like a puppet of strings. Forced to only watch as its master spun a tale of horror beneath his gaze.

He could see thousands of lines, lines of light, spiraling around him, but never connected to him. Not anymore. Never again. His eyes remained pried painfully wide, forced to watch as those lines came into sickening clarity, along with the voices connected to them all. Words, the lines were words, strung together in sentences, thoughts, paragraphs, quotations.... like some twisted play penned on the fabric of the void in ink made from the whispers of its puppets.

He could hear Utterson.

He could see every part of his life, written out, strung together in some sickening written play... every moment, every action, every part of his personality.

He could see Hyde. Burning red words etched into the black of the nothingness. Every attribute. Every word he had spoken, would speak, was speaking.

Thousands of other lines, some simple variants, some vastly different, some himself, some where he never WAS at all... spiraling and twisting and screaming and clawing and wailing and crying and singing and laughing and--

And just like that, the book slams shut.

With a shocking flare of candlelight he comes into dizzying awareness, the lines and words halting instantly as the book in front of him falls to the floor. He can't quite tell what the cover says from this position.

He... he was in... a Library.

@schrodingerslibrary

His mind is the last to catch up with 'reality', and he doesn't even realise he's clawing at his head, to stop them to stop the voices, to stop everything it hurts it hurt so much-

He forces himself to let go, to unclench his fists, not even feeling the pain that surely danced along his spine at the scratching

The voices and emotions and demands all fade, leaving him feeling empty but even that in itself is a contradiction, they've taken over something inside him that he didn't know he had.

Jekyll looks around, eyes focusing on rows and rows atop columns of books, sacked precariously and a soft fog hanging low from the ceiling, making the illusion they went on forever. Maybe they did, endless knowledge and words and diagrams and equations all locked into categories of books and tomes that looked they could fall at any moment. The air is heavy, dry despite the obvious moisture making up the fog, and every breath feels as if taken through a wad of burnt paper - scraping and choking.

His mind finally catches up, and he gets barely a thought of warning before he's dry-heaving, folded double and chest pounding but noticeably slower, as if hesitant to admit the very obvious danger he found himself in. The bird. The damn Harbinger of Doom or whatever it wanted to call itself. Find it.

Looking around revealed nothing but more snaking hallways of books, and a writing desk off to the side made rather oddly - a plank of old, stained mahogany placed ontop of yet more books. Ink splattered every inch of it, and an inkwell was left dripping over the side, onto a stack of parchment paper. Righting himself, Jekyll dragged himself over to it, setting the inkwell back to it's normal position atop the 'desk'.

Every step felt cumbersome, a small stumble feeling like it equated to a massive rumbling earthquake, creating a fissure somewhere in the reality he...was he in reality? Did he lose consciousness and this was his brain's way of telling him to wake up? To help-

Crowe. Crowe, damn it all he nearly-

Fingertips miss...

Hands almost catch.

Jekyll feels a very real sense of dread unleashed upon his soul. He'd swapped places with him. The bird was right. He had been condemned.

[tortured-librarian]

Jekyll stands there, his own name reflected back at him. He doesn’t feel anything, doesn’t anticipate the spiralling emptiness inside his head. The golden letters stare at him, and he stares back - not entirely seeing them anymore. His head is so loud, it gets louder and louder and faster and he can’t think straight he can’t think, this must be some sort of sick joke, played by the library to break him down. Utterson. Hyde. Everyone…they were real they had to be. They’re real - of course they were. He spoke to all of them just a few minutes ago - or was it an hour? Time didn’t exist it was probably also a written word that humanity all conformed to, no, no time was real and time was passing and he wasn’t stuck in an alternate reality where his life was all, all just-

With a sickening lurch of his stomach, Jekyll hurls the book away from him - not wanting to see the words that shone back at him with a dizzying certainty.

He tried to distract himself, the air thick and choking and he couldn’t think-

Was it all a lie? Was everything he ever did predicted in that damn book? Was this predicted? Was his downfall his switch his life in the hands of a malevolent entity written in stone? Utterson was real, Edward and Richard, he was…he had to get in contact with them. To make sure. To prove that beyond his spiralling thoughts he was just losing it from the endless nights of no sleep.

Paper. Pen, get a quill, get anything to write with.

Mechanically, Jekyll emptied the contents of the makeshift desks’ drawers - did it even have drawers before? - onto the plank of wood, slamming a piece of parchment onto the desk and scrawling a note to Utterson - scribbling out the address multiple times before he finally got it right.

He didn’t even bother to close it, making his way away from the desk and yelling up at the rafters he couldn’t quite see, for something, anything to help.

What were his words? He couldn’t remember, the condemning title going around and around and around and around in his mind it’s deafening but it’s quiet. it’s too quiet, no more birds no more connections, and he can remember, he’s pulled into a memory that’s not quite his but was it, no no it wasn’t his he could see his face reflected back at him- haunted and stony cold.

“I forgive you…”

“I can help..”

That’s right, he could help, his mouth formed sentences he didn’t remember speaking but the look on his own face told him everything.

He could help. He should help. He had to help.

Henry holds the letter up the ceiling, waving it around yet not one watchful eye flew down from the rafters to help.

The instant Jekyll enters the mirror his mind and soul is bombarded.

He can feel as the fibers of reality are forcefully severed from his soul, the lines writing him into reality sliced clean through as his connection to Hyde is clamped shut. The mirror world around him warps and spins, moving like a thousand ribbons of impossible light around him, whispering, crying, screaming, laughing...

So many voices. All of them so loud. Demanding to be heard. Demanding to be known. They clawed for his attention, ripping at his mind, clawing at his soul till he gave them knowledge. It felt like his body was not his own, the choking voices and the forbidden thrum pulsing around him till all he could do was witness.

Like a puppet of strings. Forced to only watch as its master spun a tale of horror beneath his gaze.

He could see thousands of lines, lines of light, spiraling around him, but never connected to him. Not anymore. Never again. His eyes remained pried painfully wide, forced to watch as those lines came into sickening clarity, along with the voices connected to them all. Words, the lines were words, strung together in sentences, thoughts, paragraphs, quotations.... like some twisted play penned on the fabric of the void in ink made from the whispers of its puppets.

He could hear Utterson.

He could see every part of his life, written out, strung together in some sickening written play... every moment, every action, every part of his personality.

He could see Hyde. Burning red words etched into the black of the nothingness. Every attribute. Every word he had spoken, would speak, was speaking.

Thousands of other lines, some simple variants, some vastly different, some himself, some where he never WAS at all... spiraling and twisting and screaming and clawing and wailing and crying and singing and laughing and--

And just like that, the book slams shut.

With a shocking flare of candlelight he comes into dizzying awareness, the lines and words halting instantly as the book in front of him falls to the floor. He can't quite tell what the cover says from this position.

He... he was in... a Library.

@schrodingerslibrary

His mind is the last to catch up with 'reality', and he doesn't even realise he's clawing at his head, to stop them to stop the voices, to stop everything it hurts it hurt so much-

He forces himself to let go, to unclench his fists, not even feeling the pain that surely danced along his spine at the scratching

The voices and emotions and demands all fade, leaving him feeling empty but even that in itself is a contradiction, they've taken over something inside him that he didn't know he had.

Jekyll looks around, eyes focusing on rows and rows atop columns of books, sacked precariously and a soft fog hanging low from the ceiling, making the illusion they went on forever. Maybe they did, endless knowledge and words and diagrams and equations all locked into categories of books and tomes that looked they could fall at any moment. The air is heavy, dry despite the obvious moisture making up the fog, and every breath feels as if taken through a wad of burnt paper - scraping and choking.

His mind finally catches up, and he gets barely a thought of warning before he's dry-heaving, folded double and chest pounding but noticeably slower, as if hesitant to admit the very obvious danger he found himself in. The bird. The damn Harbinger of Doom or whatever it wanted to call itself. Find it.

Looking around revealed nothing but more snaking hallways of books, and a writing desk off to the side made rather oddly - a plank of old, stained mahogany placed ontop of yet more books. Ink splattered every inch of it, and an inkwell was left dripping over the side, onto a stack of parchment paper. Righting himself, Jekyll dragged himself over to it, setting the inkwell back to it's normal position atop the 'desk'.

Every step felt cumbersome, a small stumble feeling like it equated to a massive rumbling earthquake, creating a fissure somewhere in the reality he...was he in reality? Did he lose consciousness and this was his brain's way of telling him to wake up? To help-

Crowe. Crowe, damn it all he nearly-

Fingertips miss...

Hands almost catch.

Jekyll feels a very real sense of dread unleashed upon his soul. He'd swapped places with him. The bird was right. He had been condemned.

[tortured-librarian]

..He picks it up, afraid of what he'll see...if only he could get his hands to work, come on work, why were they numb he couldn't feel a thing..?!

With some difficulty, Jekyll's fingers close around the book, bringing it closer to him in the light and through the crackled lens of his spectacles

The instant Jekyll enters the mirror his mind and soul is bombarded.

He can feel as the fibers of reality are forcefully severed from his soul, the lines writing him into reality sliced clean through as his connection to Hyde is clamped shut. The mirror world around him warps and spins, moving like a thousand ribbons of impossible light around him, whispering, crying, screaming, laughing...

So many voices. All of them so loud. Demanding to be heard. Demanding to be known. They clawed for his attention, ripping at his mind, clawing at his soul till he gave them knowledge. It felt like his body was not his own, the choking voices and the forbidden thrum pulsing around him till all he could do was witness.

Like a puppet of strings. Forced to only watch as its master spun a tale of horror beneath his gaze.

He could see thousands of lines, lines of light, spiraling around him, but never connected to him. Not anymore. Never again. His eyes remained pried painfully wide, forced to watch as those lines came into sickening clarity, along with the voices connected to them all. Words, the lines were words, strung together in sentences, thoughts, paragraphs, quotations.... like some twisted play penned on the fabric of the void in ink made from the whispers of its puppets.

He could hear Utterson.

He could see every part of his life, written out, strung together in some sickening written play... every moment, every action, every part of his personality.

He could see Hyde. Burning red words etched into the black of the nothingness. Every attribute. Every word he had spoken, would speak, was speaking.

Thousands of other lines, some simple variants, some vastly different, some himself, some where he never WAS at all... spiraling and twisting and screaming and clawing and wailing and crying and singing and laughing and--

And just like that, the book slams shut.

With a shocking flare of candlelight he comes into dizzying awareness, the lines and words halting instantly as the book in front of him falls to the floor. He can't quite tell what the cover says from this position.

He... he was in... a Library.

@schrodingerslibrary

His mind is the last to catch up with 'reality', and he doesn't even realise he's clawing at his head, to stop them to stop the voices, to stop everything it hurts it hurt so much-

He forces himself to let go, to unclench his fists, not even feeling the pain that surely danced along his spine at the scratching

The voices and emotions and demands all fade, leaving him feeling empty but even that in itself is a contradiction, they've taken over something inside him that he didn't know he had.

Jekyll looks around, eyes focusing on rows and rows atop columns of books, sacked precariously and a soft fog hanging low from the ceiling, making the illusion they went on forever. Maybe they did, endless knowledge and words and diagrams and equations all locked into categories of books and tomes that looked they could fall at any moment. The air is heavy, dry despite the obvious moisture making up the fog, and every breath feels as if taken through a wad of burnt paper - scraping and choking.

His mind finally catches up, and he gets barely a thought of warning before he's dry-heaving, folded double and chest pounding but noticeably slower, as if hesitant to admit the very obvious danger he found himself in. The bird. The damn Harbinger of Doom or whatever it wanted to call itself. Find it.

Looking around revealed nothing but more snaking hallways of books, and a writing desk off to the side made rather oddly - a plank of old, stained mahogany placed ontop of yet more books. Ink splattered every inch of it, and an inkwell was left dripping over the side, onto a stack of parchment paper. Righting himself, Jekyll dragged himself over to it, setting the inkwell back to it's normal position atop the 'desk'.

Every step felt cumbersome, a small stumble feeling like it equated to a massive rumbling earthquake, creating a fissure somewhere in the reality he...was he in reality? Did he lose consciousness and this was his brain's way of telling him to wake up? To help-

Crowe. Crowe, damn it all he nearly-

Fingertips miss...

Hands almost catch.

Jekyll feels a very real sense of dread unleashed upon his soul. He'd swapped places with him. The bird was right. He had been condemned.