began_to_awake

In The Beginning

2008-04-14T16:25:18Z

Who: Mary Barghest, Sam Roquefort, Rayne Edelman, Ophelia Meredith, Kayn Dantalien, Ellie Montoya
When: Halfway into the main story.
What: Sam tells everything he knows about religion.

- - -

“You’re the voice of authority, Sam,” Mary said. “Tell us what you know.”

Looking around, Sam saw that everyone’s eyes were on him. He swallowed hard. “Before I say anything,” he said, “you should probably realize I never actually paid attention in temple. The priest banned me from coming before I turned twenty-five. So anything I can tell you might not be-“

“Hold on,” Rayne said, smirking a little. “I want to hear this. Exactly how bad do you have to screw up to get banned from a temple?”

“Well, not to brag, Rayne, but since you brought it up… sleeping with the priestesses will do it,” Sam replied, amazingly not smirking back. “Apparently my soul’s going to suffer for a million years in the darkest depths of the Maelstrom for that one. I think he was just jealous, personally.”

“Priestesses? Plural?”

“Just the one, sadly. Would have been two if the priest hadn’t caught us.” Sam considered this for a second. “Actually, it might be two. One and a half, maybe. D’you think it counts if she was-“

“We’re getting off the subject just a little here,” Mary said, whose patience with Sam, Rayne, and men in general was approaching breaking point. “The guy we’ve got imprisoned downstairs said Dantalien was… dwirach. None of us speak the language, and we’re going to have to give him back soon unless we want to go to war right now. Help us out here.”

“I can tell you don’t speak the language,” Sam said, “because you butchered the pronunciation there. It’s dwee-rack.” He saw the expression on Mary’s face and hastily moved on. “Sorry. It’s one of those words that doesn’t translate well into your language. There’s at least four things it could mean. Voice, action… manifestation, I think would be the best way to put it, and…”

There was an expectant pause. “And what?” Rayne asked, after a few seconds. “What’s the fourth thing?”

“…prophesied,” Sam said, settling on a word. “Messiah. Chosen One.”

Another pause, less expectant, more nervous. Amongst the assembled people there was a noticeable drawing of breath, and an uncomfortable shifting in their seats. Rayne bit his lip. Mary sighed.

“So… let’s go back to your temple, then,” she said. “You told me that you’d heard stories about this guy… the dwee-rach… when you were young. If we’re going to fight Dantalien, we need to know why that guy downstairs and all his friends are on his side. We need to know what he’s claiming to be.”

Sam shook his head. “My mother would be the person to ask. She knew the teachings. All I know is generalities-“

“Your mother’s not here, and generalities are more than we know,” Mary said, impatiently. “You were making it seem like he was the central figure of the whole religion. Do you know anything useful, or not?”

“It’s not that simple,” Sam responded, with a slightly offended tone in his voice. “Sure, dwirach is central to the religion, but we… the temple I went to, at least… we didn’t get taught the specific prophecies. We were taught that the prophecies had been fulfilled hundreds of years ago. To care too much about what they said, well, that was borderline heretical. It implied you didn’t think they’d been fulfilled, that dwirach hadn’t come yet, and that didn’t just get you kicked out of the temple. It could get you in prison if you kept at it.”

“That’s what the guy downstairs believes?” Rayne asked. “That the prophecies haven’t been fulfilled?”

“If he’s saying Dantalien is dwirach, then he believes the prophecies have been fulfilled. Or they’re about to be.” Sam shrugged. “It’s the oldest conflict in the religion. Ever since the first Emperor claimed power, there’s been people saying he wasn’t dwirach, that he was a blasphemer. Not too loudly, though, because… like I said, prison. Flogging, sometimes. Execution if you’re really insistent. It’s even worse now since they lost the war.”

“So… that’s what the war was about?” Mary said, exhausted, almost disbelieving.

She walked slowly to the window, looking out across the city. Outside, the rain was turning the streets into shallow rivers. “That’s what they’re still fighting about. That’s why all these demons are here. That’s why my brother’s dead. Because of some obscure provision in some ancient book. That’s why?”

“It’s not obscure,” Sam said, gently. “Half of the religion’s teachings are based around what the Emperor said as dwirach. If he was just an impostor, that changes everything. Social structures, holy days, even the calendar… everything. It matters.”

“You’re defending them?” Mary asked, turning around, suddenly angry. “Really?”

Sam put his hands up in protest. “I’m not-“

“I am.”

The whole room turned to look at Ophelia, who hadn’t spoken throughout the whole meeting. She was looking straight up, unashamed. “Sam’s right. It matters.”

“And what do you know about it?” Mary demanded, slightly thrown but even angrier.

“My mother died when I was five,” Ophelia said, standing up. “The town where we were living had been pretty much taken over by otherworlders who’d fought in the war, and… well, one of them took me in after Mom died. He didn’t speak much about why he’d fought, but when he did, I listened.”

The crowd was almost imperceptibly moving away from Ophelia. “He told me one of his earliest memories was seeing his dad beaten for speaking against the Emperor,” she continued, stepping towards Mary. “Seriously. They worked him over with clubs until he finally cracked and said he was wrong, and then the soldiers beat him some more for going back on his word. He told me he once got whipped for even listening to a priest who said the Emperor wasn’t divine. No-one ever saw the priest again, either. You think he didn’t have reason to be pissed? You think he didn’t have reason to fight?”

Sam breathed out, looking at Ophelia with bemusement on his face. “I had no idea you knew about this,” he said. “Why didn’t you say something?”

“I didn’t remember the specifics,” Ophelia admitted, turning towards him. “All I remembered was there was a group doing the screwing and a group getting screwed, and he was one of the ones getting screwed. You saying all that about the Emperor and the dwirach reminded me.”

She felt the wary gazes of a roomful of people on her skin. This was why she never talked about her childhood. “When he was drunk,” she said, “which wasn’t too often, but when he was, he’d sometimes talk about how this guy was going to come save his people. He’d be strong, and fair, and kind, and he’d turn the Emperor and all his descendants out of the seat of power. And he’d overturn all the bad old laws and make new ones. He really believed it.”

“Ophelia?” Rayne asked, softly. “Just to check… you don’t believe it too, do you?”

“You’ve met Dantalien,” Ophelia replied. “He’s strong, yeah. Fair and kind? Not so much. Maybe there’s someone coming, but if there is, it’s not him.”

“Good,” Rayne said. “If we can get that out there somehow, we might be able to reduce his support a bit. Make our job easier.”

“I think it’ll actually be easier to kill them than to talk sense into them,” Mary said, “but it’s a thought. Maybe we could mention that to the guy downstairs.” Ignoring the angry look Ophelia gave her, she returned the younger girl’s glare with a sardonic smile. “Since apparently you paid more attention than Sam did, is there anything you remember about the dwirach? If there’s anything in there that he’s supposed to do to fulfil his role, it might help us predict Dantalien’s next move.”

“Only bits,” Ophelia said. “He was supposed to come at the head of a great army, and when everything looked darkest for his followers, he’d appear before his enemies in a beam of light and fire and destroy them. They’re the only parts that made much of an impression on me.”

Sam nodded. “Now she says that, it sounds sort of familiar. I think there was something about a birthmark in there, too. Look, Mary, we’re trying our best but neither of us are scholars. We could use a copy of the Prophecies, really.”

“Okay,” Mary said. “Then we go to Plan B- we’ll have to get one. These people are all nuts for Dantalien, I’ll bet you they carry the book everywhere. That can be our next objective. And then-“

“Ah… Mary?” said a dark-skinned young woman- Ellie, Mary remembered- looking out into the rain with fear in her eyes. “I think this might have to be your next objective.”

There was a general rush to the window, but Mary and Sam beat the crowd to stare out. A distant figure, walking unconcernedly through ankle-deep water towards them, alone…

Mary swallowed, feeling an uncomfortable lump in her throat. “Well, it’s not a beam of light. I suppose that’s good, at least?”

No-one replied.

“Don’t panic, guys,” Sam said. “We knew he was coming. He’s here to get his pet priest back, he’s not going to start anything right now. Stay up here, and me and Mary will sort this out.”

He paused. “And for God’s sake, no-one shoot at him.”

- - -

Outside in the rain, Dantalien stood and waited. He could suffer the indignity of waiting on a bunch of humans for a few weeks, and then the city would be his. At the head of an army of fools, he’d sweep the city clean, and as news spread more would flock to him. Were there enough fools across all the universes to propel him onto the Emperor’s throne?

Dantalien thought so.

Two people, a man and a woman, stepped out into the rain with his priest bound in chains between them. With a welcoming smile, Dantalien raised his arms.

“Good to see you again, Mary,” he said in heavily-accented English. “And Kobakiel, always a pleasure. Are you going to give me my man back?”

The smile became a grin, one that spoke of irrepressible confidence and a nasty sense of humor. Dantalien’s natural state.

“Or shall we start the war right now?” he asked.

I Am Far From Home

2008-04-14T16:15:12Z

Who: Rayne Edelman, Ophelia Meredith
When: Just after the beginning.
What: Rayne and Ophelia talk about where they're from and where they're going.

- - -

Rayne ran his finger along the spine of the mountains. “That’s where I’m from,” he said, turning the book so Ophelia could see. “Right between… see where it says ‘Colorado’ and ‘Wyoming’? I’m pretty much on that line.”

“Those look like some serious mountains,” Ophelia said, taking the atlas. “You said it was cold up there?”

“Yeah,” Rayne said. “You wouldn’t believe it. This one time I woke up and I couldn’t get the front door open because my house was half-buried in snow. Bear in mind, this had all fallen overnight. Had to climb out a second-story window to get to work.”

“Where’d you work up there?” Ophelia asked. “Same sort of thing? Big stacks of books?”

“Library work?” Rayne laughed, pouring two glasses of whiskey. “I think that town burned all its books for fuel about twenty years ago. Nah, I was a vetinarian… an animal doctor,” he said, off Ophelia’s blank expression. “Cows, mainly, and sheep.”

Ophelia nodded, interested. “Somehow I can’t see you working with animals.” She took the glass Rayne offered her and sat down in a chair. Before Rayne had put the bottle back on the shelf, she’d emptied her glass in two swift gulps, fixing Rayne with an innocent grin when he turned back around. “Little more, please.”

He rolled his eyes, but obliged her. “I was good with the cows,” he said, fetching the bottle. “The sheep were awkward. Really, I was more of an animal nurse... my father was the doctor. I was learning from him.”

There was a pause as Rayne stood with the bottle, silent, looking at nothing in particular. This was the first Ophelia had heard about Rayne’s family, but she didn’t press the issue. It was an unspoken rule amongst those who’d come to the city from elsewhere that people had only the past they were willing to admit to. If a mention of a wife, or a father, or a brother slipped from a friend’s lips, you nodded understandingly and didn’t push them on it. And if anyone asked you about a fragment of your past you’d unthinkingly exposed, you ignored them.

Even Rayne showing her his home, and Ophelia sharing hers (in the West, she’d told him, where soft green hills gave way to the Pacific) was quite unusual. Mary had come from the north, that’s all Ophelia knew, and there was an entire continent north of the city. And Sam? She didn’t know anything about Sam. Further than any of them, she guessed.

Rayne came over with the bottle, refilling Ophelia’s glass and pouring a little more into his own for good measure. “Whatever,” he said, sitting down. “I’ve forgotten most of what I knew, anyway. If you get a pet, don’t expect me to treat it for you.”

Ophelia laughed. “I won’t. I don’t think I’d do well with a pet. I have a hard enough time looking after myself.”

“I know what you mean.”

They drank in silence for a minute, each looking past the other. Ophelia remembered waking up to the susurrus of crashing waves, and faces for which she’d forgotten the names, and names for which she’d forgotten the faces. Rayne remembered freezing winter winds and weak summer sunlight, and the sound of his father’s voice. Neither felt much like talking.

Eventually, it was Rayne who spoke. “Do you think you’ll stay here?” he asked, leaning back in his chair. “In this city?”

Ophelia shrugged. “Do you think you will?”

“Depends,” Rayne said. “I try not to get too attached to wherever I’m living. You know how things are... the best-laid plans of mice and men, and all that.” Another blank stare from Ophelia. “By which I mean that events have a way of overtaking whatever plans you make. And it depends on what Mary decides, too.”

“You’d go with her if she left?” Ophelia asked, not quite able to contain the slight note of disappointment in her voice.

Rayne didn’t notice, though. “Well, we came here together,” he said. “I can’t see why either of us would want to leave if things stay the way they are now... we’ve at least got a roof over our heads and we get food pretty regularly, which we’d have sold our souls for a year ago. But, you know, circumstances change. If one of us had to leave for some reason, I guess we’d both go.” He smiled. “I’m not going to let her wander off alone, and she’d kill me if I tried it.”

“Makes sense,” Ophelia said. “You’re right, we can’t guess how things are going to end up. Men and mice and whatever else it was you said. The only thing I know for sure is...”

She caught herself before the end of the sentence, but Rayne was paying attention that time. “Sorry, what?” he asked. “What is it you know?”

“Never mind.”

Rayne got the hint. Never pry, never push, never try to discuss something your friend doesn’t want to discuss. Never ask about someone else’s past. Just try to forget your own, as best you can.

Ophelia finished her glass, and in her head she finished the sentence, glumly acknowledging the truth she didn’t want to speak out loud and Rayne wouldn’t have wanted to hear.

The only thing I know for sure is I can’t go home again.

Incorruptible and Fragile

2008-03-30T09:11:57Z

Who: Mary Barghest, Aaron Barghest
When: About three years before the beginning.
What: A snippet of Mary's home life.

- - -

Where’s Aaron?

In bed. He’s sick again.

Mary opened the door to her brother’s room. The boy, small even for his age, pale face clashing with bright red hair, looked over towards her with a weak smile. “Hey, Mary,” he said, quietly but warmly.

“Hey, kid,” Mary replied, sitting down next to him. “Fever?”

“Yeah,” Aaron said. He reached for the glass of water Mary had brought him. “How was work?”

“Could have gone better, honestly,” Mary said, “but I got food. I’ll cook some up for you in a while.”

“Where’s Mom?”

Mary grimaced. “Drunk again.”

Small Victories

2008-03-30T09:09:55Z

Who: Ophelia Meredith, Mary Barghest
When: A few weeks into the story.
What: The girls discuss Rayne's availability.

- - -

“Sorry,” Ophelia said, her tone of voice, facial expression and body language adding up to a full-body smirk. “I didn’t know he was taken.”

“He’s not taken,” said Mary. “I just don’t think you’re his type. Or he’s yours.”

Ophelia grinned. “So you’re not getting possessive, then?”

“Why would I be possessive?” Mary shrugged, leaning back in her chair. “He’s a big boy, he can make his own mistakes.”

“Nice!” Ophelia said, laughing. “I’ll have you know there’s very few men have regretted making a mistake with me.”

Mary didn’t seem to have a quick answer to that one.

The Wrong Choices For The Right Reasons

2008-03-30T09:06:22Z

Who: Thay, a nameless mercenary
When: About two and a half years before the beginning of the story.
What: Thay makes his last decision.

- - -

“You led us on quite a chase there,” the mercenary said, not visibly annoyed. “Climbing the cliff instead of taking the trail, that was clever. But it’s over.”

A bitter wind, swirling up from the chasm at Thay’s back, set his hair fluttering.

“We don’t even want you dead. Just hand the book over. It’s a book, man, you think it’s worth dying for?”

Thay sighed. “Dantalien didn’t explain things to you very well, did he?” he asked.

“No,” said the mercenary. “But he paid me very well.”

“Then you won’t understand this.”

And, turning towards the chasm, Thay leapt.

Only Madness Remains Unchanged

2008-03-27T07:35:49Z

Who: Kayn Dantalien
When: Several months into the story.
What: Dante gives his unvarnished opinion of the people who follow him.

- - -

They follow me because of what I represent to them. Because I give them hope.

I’m the validation of their foolishness. Decades of dirt and suffering for their belief- that someday their savior would come. That I would come. That all those years of muttering underground prayers in dusty rooms weren’t wasted. You spend half a lifetime being hated, mocked and beaten for the religion you practice, and after a while belief wears thin. You want proof.

You’d follow a man you barely know into the mouth of hell to know it wasn’t all in vain.

Mad, all of them.

Mother's Hands

2008-03-27T07:32:59Z

Who: Ophelia Meredith, Rayne Edelman
When: Around the beginning of the story.
What: Ophelia reminisces about her long-dead mother.

- - -

“I remember little things,” said Ophelia, lighting a cigarette. “I remember a dress she used to wear, pink with yellow flowers. I remember the way she’d smell after work. I remember that she took forever to walk up stairs, something was wrong with her knee…”

“I’m sorry,” said Rayne. “I didn’t mean to bring this up, honestly.”

Ophelia shrugged. “It was fifteen years ago. Sometimes I feel like I should miss her, but I don’t, you know? I feel kind of bad about not feeling worse. Is that crazy?”

“Makes sense to me,” Rayne said, and smiled at her.

There Is No Such Thing As Love

2008-03-27T07:31:27Z

Who: Sam Roqueford
When: Five years or so before the beginning of the story.
What: Sam reflects on being a runaway husband.

- - -

If she treats it as anything more than a minor annoyance, Kobakiel thought, it’s her fault. She should’ve known I was loathing every minute of it. She should’ve known that I’d flee the marriage, flee the country- hell, flee the world- the first chance I got.

This’ll be good for her, in fact. Would she really have been any happier with a husband who cheats on her? Who lies that he loves her when he’s fresh out of someone else’s bed? No. I’ve done what’s best for her.

I’m actually something of a saint.

Birth

2008-03-27T07:29:16Z

Who: Kayn Dantalien, Liqa (Dante's mother), Kayn (orphanage soldier)
When: About forty years before the beginning of the story.
What: How Dante came to grow up in a military orphanage in the first place.

- - -

The bitter-tasting herbs she’d been prescribed in the first few weeks to flush the unfolding pregnancy out of her body had done nothing but make her feel nauseous, and she’d been too afraid, when that failed to work, to take the advice of her sister and seek out the cold-steel services of the old women who worked in back-streets down by the docks. Not that she had anything to pay them with even if she did.

Somehow she’d managed to keep the baby a secret from her parents. She had the support of her friends, of course, with which she’d passed off her morning sickness as a protracted struggle with a stomach upset and the swell in her belly as over-eating. But, still, it had been eleven months of such constant stress that Liqa, laying on a hard mattress in a cheap inn’s cheapest room, marvelled that she hadn’t blurted it out just to end the sleepless nights of nail-biting uncertainty.

For better or for worse, here she was now. Gripping her sister’s hand with white knuckles, she bit down hard on her lip as another contraction wracked her body. Through the red haze of pain and the distant voices of her friends, she was dimly aware of a warm taste of metal in her mouth. She’d drawn blood.

“How’s she doing?” said her sister, who was holding what was supposed to be a cloth dipped in ice-water to Liqa’s forehead. In actual fact, it was just a wet cloth, ice not being readily available to people of her social station in the summer months. “Is the baby on its way?”

Liqa’s best friend, a young, plump girl, looked up from under the blanket that was covering Liqa’s lower body and shook her head. “It’s going to be a while until it’s ready to come out, an hour at least. Just concentrate on getting Liqa through this, alright, leave the delivery to me.”

The sister looked like she was thinking about arguing, but a disbelieving moan from Liqa diverted her attention. “An hour?” Liqa murmured, struggling to sit up. “At least? I can’t, Surin, I can’t…”

“Of course you can,” said her friend, attempting a reassuring smile. “You’re strong, and you’ve got us here to help. Just concentrate on breathing, okay, as deeply as you can. It’ll be over soon, I promise.”

As the cloth passed over her face again, coating her forehead in tepid water, Liqa began to cry.

- - -

The baby pawed at the air, blinking and gurgling sleepily, wrapped in an old shred of blanket. Liqa, her hair matted with sweat and her face streaked with tears, cradled him in her arms as her friends and her sister got on with the business of washing the sheets. At least he seemed healthy, she thought.

For a moment, the baby looked straight up at her, and a pang of regret made her stomach churn… but then his gaze moved on, containing no recognition of his mother, nothing but newborn curiosity. Liqa sighed, and motioned to her sister. “Can you hold him?” she said. “Just for a few minutes.”

“Of course.”

- - -

It was midnight, and Kayn was returning from his check of the boys’ dormitories when he heard a hesitant knock at the door. It was a knock he recognized- not specific to a person but to a situation, the kind of situation that kept him employed and, indeed, was the entire reason for the building’s existence. There would always be those who could provide no better home for their unfortunate children than the rough care of the military orphanages, and as long as they existed there’d be these hesitant midnight knocks.

In deference to the unspoken wishes of the unseen visitor, he waited patiently for a few minutes while stumbling footsteps receded down the street outside, before taking the big ring of keys from below the staircase and unlocking the main door.

What looked like a pile of cheap blankets was bundled on the doorstep, a hastily-written note next to it. Kayn gently picked up the bundle, anticipating its strange warmness and weight, and snatched up the piece of paper between his fingers. He stepped back inside and closed the door.

Placing the bundle on the kitchen table and rearranging the blankets slightly to reveal a tiny pink face, he unfolded the note.

To whoever runs this house,

Please take in my son and provide for him. I wish I could do better for him, but I can’t. The father has left me and my parents would do nothing for me or him. I hope I am doing the right thing by leaving him in your care.

Thank you.

P.S. His name is Dantalien.

Kayn gave the paper a cursory second read before discarding it. It was nothing he hadn’t seen before in dozens of other notes- the tone of hopeful desperation, the explanation of why exactly a woman would be leaving her newborn baby on the steps of an orphanage, as if Kayn couldn’t guess.

Ringing the bell to notify the orphanage’s other staff that a new child had arrived, Kayn turned back to check on the baby, who was by now emitting a quiet gurgling noise as he slept. Dantalien, Kayn thought. Like the warrior.

“Well,” he said out loud, to no-one but the unhearing room and the sleeping baby, “that’s one hell of a name you’ve been given, Dantalien. I hope you can live up to it.”

Dantalien, cooing on the kitchen table, gave no response.

The Project

2008-03-27T07:24:36Z

Who: Mary Barghest, Rayne Edelman
When: The beginning of the story.
What: Rayne explains his work to Mary, who isn't convinced.

- - -

“And I’m to understand you’re not being paid for this?”

Splayed on the floor surrounded by open books, updating the catalogue with a worn-down nub of a pencil, Rayne didn’t hear the question. It took a second repetition for him to answer with an unconcerned but not unfriendly shrug of his shoulders.

“Who’d pay me?” he said, turning to the next page. “It’s a hobby of mine. Besides, this is how these places used to work. Anyone could borrow a book, and as long as they gave it back in a few weeks they didn’t have to pay anything.”

“Mm-hm.” Mary had heard of better business models. “So what happened if people didn’t give them back?”

This question merited a more philosophical shrug. “Dunno,” Rayne said. “I think they got arrested or something."

“Well, don’t expect me to enforce that one. You might be dumb enough to work without pay, but I’m not.” Mary sat down outside of Rayne’s circle of books, picking up a hefty green volume that Rayne had put to one side. “Ulysses. What’s this one about?”

“Couldn’t tell you, actually,” Rayne replied, “and I tried my best with that one. You can borrow it, if you want. I catalogued it earlier.” He picked up a thin black book from beside him and slid it along the carpet to Mary. “Or this might be more your sort of thing. It’s poetry, you can read most of them in two minutes, although that’s not how you’re supposed to read them.”

Not wanting to be too disparaging, Mary opened the book to a random page.

“At the station exit,” she read, “my bundle in hand.”

“Early the afternoon’s wet snow falls thinly around me, out of a crudded sun.

I had forgotten to remember where I was. Looking around, I see it might be anywhere-”

She glanced up, eyebrow raised. “Forgotten to remember?”

“It’s poetic,” Rayne said. “Give it a chance.”

“I think I’ll pass. No offence.”

Mary tossed it back to Rayne, who fumbled the catch. He sighed in frustration, picking it up from where it had landed and placing it on top of the growing pile of books to his left. “It wouldn’t kill you to try something new, you know.”

“I have other hobbies,” Mary said. “Not that I don’t think running a, what’d you call it-“

“-library-“

“Yeah, a library, is a worthwhile thing to do, but do you really think there’s a demand for it? Maybe this stuff was relevant back then, but people today… well, they look at a book and they see something that’d keep them warm if they put it on a fire, if you know what I mean.” Mary gave Rayne a small smile, to signify that she wasn’t just trying to annoy him. “It’s a good idea in theory, but…”

“People today are still people,” Rayne replied, returning to the catalogue with pencil in hand. “A lot of the authors of these books wrote them in the middle of wars, facing famine and disease… one of them has got to be relevant to where we are today.”

“And you’re going to find it?”

“There might even be more than one,” Rayne said, with a grin to match Mary’s. “Come on, do me a favor and take that book home. If you don’t like it, bring it back, I’ll never mention poetry again, but at least give it a chance. Humour a desperate man, okay?”

Mary rolled her eyes, but she leaned over and took the little volume of poetry back. “Okay. I’ll read it.”

“Awesome.”

“But don’t expect any deep thoughts from me.”

“Oh, believe me, I wasn’t expecting much.”

Mary, laughing, leaned forward to give Rayne a light punch in the arm. “You bitch, that’s not nice. I want something in exchange if I’m going to read this.”

Rayne, rubbing his arm and pouting, looked up. “What?”

“You are going to come with me the next time we play basketball,” Mary said, thumbing through the book she’d been given. “Tomorrow.”

“Oh, come on!” Rayne said, looking offended at this ridiculous proposition. “I’ve had enough public humiliation in my life already. I’ve met the people you play with. They’re all about twice my height and they call me the Book Guy.”

“You run a… what’s the word, library. You are the Book Guy.”

Rayne sighed. “Can’t I just stand on the sidelines and cheer?”

“No. Look, I’m reading now,” Mary said. “This one’s actually okay. What passing-bells for those who die as cattle… see, I’m making concessions.”

“Oh, you like that one?”

“It’s okay,” Mary replied, with a grudging nod of the head. “I think I like the short ones better. Look, yes or no? Otherwise you can have this back.”

“…yes, alright, okay,” Rayne said, as if he were agreeing to some monstrous task. “Tomorrow, right? When?”

“Just come down when it starts getting dark. We should be getting off guard duty around then.” Mary paused for a second. “Actually, now I think about it, I should be getting to guard duty around now. I’ll see you tomorrow?”

“Sure,” Rayne said. “Try not to get yourself killed.”

“Oh, thanks,” Mary replied sardonically. “Just for that I’m going to foul you tomorrow. I’m going to hit you around the face with my big ugly red arm and claim I didn’t see you coming up.”

Leaving Rayne to return to his cataloguing, Mary stepped into the dusty narrow street outside of the house that her friend was trying to turn into America’s next great centre of learning, and headed towards the city limits for her twelve-hour stint on duty. With any luck, the annoying girl with the multi-coloured hair wouldn’t be with her on watch tonight.

A few miles down the road, she untucked the small black book from her pocket and began to read as she walked.