Maea
It's not a demon at your door
The scent of parchment was familiar. A silence dwelled between the pages that swallowed up the sound of her footsteps as Maea slipped down the stairs. Like a cloak it wrapped around her, soothing frayed nerves and easing the strain on hollow eyes too strained from restless nights to bear the sunlight. This was not the Athenaeum, but it was similar enough to feel safe. Books did not lie. Their authors might, but books did not shout, or threaten her in a fit of pique, or try to change her mind without listening. They did not try to shove their experiences down her throat - she was free to seek them out in her own time. On her own terms.
Varnished floorboards felt warm against her bare feet as she navigated through the shelves, searching for answers. A rumpled dress of undyed linen whispered around pale shins, showing signs of being slept in, lived in, forgotten and ignored. The journal in her hands was soon joined by nature studies, encyclopedias, a hefty tome called 'Flora and Fauna of the Greatwood' by an author whose name she vaguely recalled seeing back at home. Books on wolves, books on tigers, books on crocodiles and snakes and a far too well illustrated pamphlet on the lives and habits of spiders. Things with teeth. Things with venom. Things that crawled and slithered and went bump in the night – and with a grim sort of determination she dumped them all on a table, pulled out a chair and began to read.
If there was one thing Maea wouldn't tolerate in herself, it was ignorance. If holding on to a belief that gave her peace of mind had to cost her a friend, then she would make damned sure that she had all her facts straight. Wolves weren't Ancient, nor were tigers and spiders or anything else – but since none of them would give her answers she would have to look at the closest other thing that came close. She would start here, and then go out into the wild to study the real thing, and try – at least try – to understand what Asta and Danta and Charlie and Thalassa was talking about. So many people couldn't be completely wrong. So either they were mad, or she was, or the world was the crazy place they just had to bear up under the best way they knew how.
Reaching for the topmost volume, she opened it to page one, dipped a pen in ink and got to work. Reading. Taking notes. Scribbling comments and adding furious question marks in the margin whenever she came across a contradiction or insufficient information. The scratching of pen on paper as ink flowed down the page filled the room, warding away silent archivists from disturbing one so deeply focused on her research. They simply refilled the ink well, exchanged the lights when they burned down, and left her be.
Varnished floorboards felt warm against her bare feet as she navigated through the shelves, searching for answers. A rumpled dress of undyed linen whispered around pale shins, showing signs of being slept in, lived in, forgotten and ignored. The journal in her hands was soon joined by nature studies, encyclopedias, a hefty tome called 'Flora and Fauna of the Greatwood' by an author whose name she vaguely recalled seeing back at home. Books on wolves, books on tigers, books on crocodiles and snakes and a far too well illustrated pamphlet on the lives and habits of spiders. Things with teeth. Things with venom. Things that crawled and slithered and went bump in the night – and with a grim sort of determination she dumped them all on a table, pulled out a chair and began to read.
If there was one thing Maea wouldn't tolerate in herself, it was ignorance. If holding on to a belief that gave her peace of mind had to cost her a friend, then she would make damned sure that she had all her facts straight. Wolves weren't Ancient, nor were tigers and spiders or anything else – but since none of them would give her answers she would have to look at the closest other thing that came close. She would start here, and then go out into the wild to study the real thing, and try – at least try – to understand what Asta and Danta and Charlie and Thalassa was talking about. So many people couldn't be completely wrong. So either they were mad, or she was, or the world was the crazy place they just had to bear up under the best way they knew how.
Reaching for the topmost volume, she opened it to page one, dipped a pen in ink and got to work. Reading. Taking notes. Scribbling comments and adding furious question marks in the margin whenever she came across a contradiction or insufficient information. The scratching of pen on paper as ink flowed down the page filled the room, warding away silent archivists from disturbing one so deeply focused on her research. They simply refilled the ink well, exchanged the lights when they burned down, and left her be.
It's just your shadow on the floor
