Jack

“I said goodnight, Scribe.”

Jack’s gaze finally jerks up from the scroll he’s been poring over and grows apologetic as he looks into the amused face of his friend. “Oh I’m sorry, Tomas,” he smiles ruefully, pushing back from the library table. He scrubs a hand down his face, attempting to wipe some of the weary concentration from it. “I did not hear you over my own thoughts. I’m somewhat entranced as of late, I’m afraid.”

The older friar shakes away his apology with a hand. “I know well of your dedication to your quest, mon ami.” He is, as ever, patient and sympathetic to Jack’s obsession. Impressed with the newly dead man’s drive to make changes to the way the deceased are organized, the librarian had given Jack free reign of the building and all of it’s materials beyond the room he’d already claimed as an office, and had gone out of his way to aid in Jack’s search for information about magic. And with it, perhaps a way to secure a line of communication with Electra.

Tomas had been the one to witness Jack’s distress and the ruin it had left on the Library of the Dead. Uncharacteristically, he had almost razed the first floor to the ground in his fury at being prematurely cut off from her once again. He had raged until his fists were in bloody tatters and the terrified residents long evacuated, leaving him slumped and exhausted and alone in the dusty aftermath. It had taken weeks of precarious restoration to get all of the scrolls back in a readable state. Not to mention the masonry needed to repair the walls. Instead of banning him as he’d had every right to do, Tomas had taken the younger fairy under his wing and shared with him any and all knowledge he’d had to offer. Jack, at the end of his rope and out of his mind with frustration, had been and is still eternally indebted.

“Any progress today?” the frenchman asks. His rheumy grey eyes are half-hidden beneath the generous folds of his wrinkles, but the sliver of hope Jack spots there feels like a weight on his chest. While he is so grateful to have the old man’s support, he is undeserving of it and hates to admit his failure aloud to him once again. If the friar is already packed up and heading home to his family, it’s been a full day wasted on a pile of text that has told him nothing of any importance. As he has done everyday for a year, he closes his eyes with a sigh and drops his chin onto steepled hands.

“Not yet,” Jack says softly.

The frenchman only nods, understanding the unspoken things in the space between Jack’s words. ”Perhaps bientôt, peut-être le lendemain, no?” he muses in his quiet optimistic way. He drums a few arthritic fingers on the edge of the table, thoughtful. ”There is a volume somewhere,” he adds, squinting as he ponders, eyes disappearing entirely beneath the folds, ”contains a passage on uh, how you say...paillettes de la mort?”

Jack’s french is embarrassingly remedial and while he can decipher the word ‘death’ from the phrase, he shakes his head to indicate his confusion. But Tomas is unbothered, chuckles to himself as he waves his hand again, this time laughing at himself. ”No matter. I will find it for you upon my return. It will help, I think, no? And while you are impatient, do not forget, tu as le temps, mon fils. After all, when the Lord made time, he made lots of it.”

Jack’s smile, while tired and blurring some into the line of his stubble, is appreciative and fond. He needs to remember to be thankful for some semblance of a father figure in his life when he gets overwhelmed as he is now. There are so many souls here that have no guidance at all, much less one from a source so indulgent. ”Merci, mon père.”

Tomas ducks his head in acknowledgement, taps the table a final time in salute. ”Bonne chance, Jacques.” he says, starting to make his way toward the door and out of the range of silver candlelight.

Watching him leave, Jack lifts a brief hand in farewell and sends it raking through the dark mane of his hair. He briefly entertains the idea of following him, giving his bloodshot eyes and soupy mind a rest. But corpses do not sleep. Especially family-less corpses with no one waiting for their return. He wonders if Electra pines for him at all.

Even if she did, it would be insignificantly small compared to the way he yearns for her. He wears it like an open wound across the skin over his heart. It starts to heal at times if he lets himself slip out of focus and drift into the magnetic pull of the mindless grey mist of this land. But he’s quick to pick it back open, missing the way her memory bleeds him. It’s a dangerous game, he knows, giving too much of himself to her, when there’s so little to spend in the first place. But it’s the closest thing he feels towards sanity, when she’s the color of the blood dripping from that space in his chest. He worries sometimes what might happen when he’s finally emptied himself in the endeavour to keep her fluid and fresh in his mind’s eye, what becomes of him if he is at last drained in his effort to keep longing for her. Perhaps it’s stronger even then that, a word that pulses in time with the thrum of his heart emptying itself and filling again. He is afraid if he says it outloud, it might be powerful enough to replace the blood altogether and end him.

What becomes of ghosts who die of heartache?

It is unnatural to even ask. He should not be trying to break the laws of nature to chase something perverse and outlandish. He feels like a thief, stealing something both forbidden and nonexistent at the same time and some part of him (the part that worries about Tomas’ christian Hell) screams at him to abandon this quest and Electra before the consequences catch up with him.

Jack buries his face in his hands with a groan.

He’ll finish this piece of parchment and then take a walk. Maybe along the riverbank. The water’s movement helps clear his mind and he is in dire need of its rejuvenating powers at the moment.

But before he’s lowered his hands fully, the flickering of the candle’s flame draws his attention. It wavers, unsteadily and interrupted by a draft of disturbed cooler air. Jack frowns at it, recognizing the approach of another soul from behind.

He is under the impression he was alone after the friar’s departure. The library never fully closes, as there is no real time in the Realm of the Dead. Yet most nights he’s left to seek his answers without interruption.

He goes still, listening for movement in the dark.

”Hello,” he calls, waiting.