The library stood in the far corner of the island, embraced by a garden and unruly shrubbery that seemed to revel in its wildness, untouched by shears. The path leading to the library was a simple stone walkway, winding its way through the verdant chaos. Azrael paused at the threshold, taking in the scene. The gentle rush of the river mingled with the final songs of birds, while the setting sun bathed the sky in hues of deep orange and gold.
The building itself was an ancient ruin, part of it repurposed into a vegetable garden, with vines and ivy creeping up its walls, giving it an air of timeless beauty and mystery. The main structure, still functional, was a harmonious blend of old stone and wood from the nearby forest, adorned with intricate designs that spoke of Sava’s cultural heritage. Above the door, an inscription in an old script declared the building’s new purpose as a beacon of knowledge. Stone columns flanked the entrance, their surfaces etched with symbols and motifs recounting the village’s storied past.
In the center of the garden stood a proud statue, though its head was missing. The veiled robes of the figure, carved from pristine white marble, were meticulously cleaned, showcasing the craftsmanship of its creator. The headless statue, a sentinel of history, bore inscriptions on its pedestal that had long been worn away by the relentless passage of time.
Summoning his courage, Azrael stepped past the statue and into the library. The scent of burnt wax from candles and the musty aroma of ancient books greeted him, creating a sensory tapestry of old and new. The main hall was expansive, its high ceilings fostering a sense of openness and light. Vintage-style chandeliers hung from above, casting a soft, warm glow throughout the space.
Shelves of rich, dark wood lined the walls, housing an extensive collection of books, scrolls, and manuscripts. These volumes spanned myriad subjects, from the history and myths of Sava to practical guides on agriculture and crafts, reflecting the diverse interests of the village’s inhabitants. Some sections of the library were dedicated to rare and ancient texts, safely encased in glass to protect them from the ravages of time.
The reading area was a cozy nook with plush armchairs and sturdy wooden tables, inviting visitors to lose themselves in their studies. The furniture, while comfortable, retained a rustic elegance, adorned with intricate carvings. The walls were decorated with tapestries and paintings depicting significant events and figures from Sava’s history, enriching the cultural atmosphere.
Azrael felt the magic of the place envelop him, a sanctuary of knowledge and history, blending the ethereal with the tangible. Each corner of the library whispered secrets of the past, promising to reveal them to those willing to listen. He took a deep breath, ready to explore the depths of this storied haven, his heart open to the wonders and wisdom it held.
It was an odd experience, to be sure. Even though Azrael was older than all the buildings combined here times a trillion, this library felt as if it commanded respect not just because of its age but because it deserved it. The atmosphere was warm and inviting, but scratching the surface revealed stale air and thousands of untold stories much older than this village. As he stood in the middle of the room, his heart throbbed for a moment. He drank in every sight of the library, every little detail, every nook and cranny.
“I apologize for the wait. Welcome to Stara Sava, where stories come to be told!” A woman manifested behind the counter, cheerfully fixing her dress before her gaze settled on Azrael. “Oh,” she exclaimed.
“Hello, I was—”
“You’re the elf from earlier today! The one with Milo?”
“Ah…” Azrael let out a chuckle. “That’s me,” he replied, nervous about her reaction.
Her expression shifted from surprise to a warm, welcoming smile. “Well, it’s not every day we get visitors like you. I’m Lara, the caretaker of this library. What brings you to our little corner of the world?”
Azrael felt a wave of relief at her friendly demeanor. “I’ve heard much about this place and its history. I’m quite fascinated by the stories and knowledge it holds.”
Lara, the keeper of this trove, regarded him with a curious glint in her eye. “Then you’ve come to the right place! Stara Sava holds stories deep as its roots. What exactly are you seeking within these hallowed walls?” she inquired, her tone imbued with a warmth that softened the formality of her stance.
“Well, I am particularly interested in the ruins,” Azrael gestured broadly to the surroundings, his voice echoing slightly in the high-ceilinged room. “What was this place before it became a sanctuary of knowledge?”
Lara’s expression took on a pensive quality as she considered his question. The silence stretched between them, filled with the soft rustle of leaves against the library windows. Finally, she spoke, her voice low, as if sharing a delicate secret. “What do you truly seek, Azrael?” Her question pierced the quiet, sharp and precise. “You emerge from the forest clad in tatters, unsettling a grieving mother—”
“I had no part in her sorrow,” Azrael interjected, his tone gentle yet firm, hoping to dispel any misunderstandings.
“That may be,” Lara continued, undeterred, her finger raised for emphasis, “but remember, this is a human village. We are bound by our own fears and tales. You,” she paused, her gaze steady, “are an outsider here.”
Azrael felt the weight of her words, acknowledging the divide between his eternal existence and the fleeting lives of those around him. “I understand,” he conceded, his voice soft, “and I seek only knowledge, not to cause further distress.”
A peculiar sensation washed over Azrael, an unfamiliar unease twisting his insides. It was as if his very essence was being turned into an uncomfortable knot. He watched Lara behind the counter, her piercing gaze scrutinizing him as if trying to unravel the mysteries he held.
“You’re interesting,” she mumbled, her voice carrying a note of curiosity laced with suspicion. Azrael held his tongue, wary of saying something that might further alienate him. “Where are you from?”
“South…” he mumbled, trying to maintain the ruse he had begun with Elara. Lara’s eyes narrowed, her scrutiny intensifying.
“Where south?”
“A small town,” he replied, hesitating slightly. “I’m not sure if it’s still there.”
“Uh-huh,” she scrutinized further, her eyes never leaving his. “So, you’re an elf from the south.”
“That’s right,” Azrael affirmed, hoping his uncertainty didn’t show.
“You don’t look like you’re from the south,” she said, her tone carrying an edge of doubt.
Azrael felt the knot in his stomach tighten. “I’ve been traveling for a long time,” he said, attempting to sound convincing. “My appearance might not reflect my origins accurately.”
Lara leaned back, crossing her arms, her gaze never wavering. The air between them seemed to thicken with unspoken questions and hidden truths. “Traveling, you say?” she mused. “And what places have you visited?”
Azrael hesitated, searching his memory for anything that might satisfy Lara’s curiosity. He recalled a majestic mountain he had seen through the Veil, one that pierced the clouds with its breathtaking peak.
“For example, I climbed to the highest peak, a mountain so tall it pierced through the clouds!” he said, gesturing dramatically to convey the awe he had felt.
“Uh-huh…” Lara mused, clearly skeptical. “And where is this mountain located?”
Azrael hesitated for a moment before replying, “South?”
“Is that an answer or a question?”
“Answer,” he said firmly, hoping to sound convincing.
Lara raised an eyebrow, studying him with a mix of suspicion and intrigue. “You seem to have quite the adventurous spirit for someone who looks so… out of place.”
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Azrael offered a sheepish smile, sensing the tension between his words and her disbelief. “Travel changes you, I suppose.”
“Indeed,” she replied, her tone softening just a fraction. “But stories of such grandeur are rare. I hope you find Sava’s history equally compelling.”
Azrael nodded, relieved that the conversation was shifting away from his dubious past. “I’m sure I will,” he said, grateful for the chance to steer the dialogue towards the village’s mysteries.
As Lara issued a gentle reminder about the impending closure of the library, her smile was both an invitation and a boundary. “Please, feel free to explore these books, but be mindful of the space,” she said, gesturing toward towering shelves laden with volumes that seemed to brush the very essence of the enchanted ceiling above. Before Azrael could voice another inquiry, Lara had already retreated, her presence dissolving into the shadows of the library’s farthest corners.
Perhaps her departure was for the best. It allowed Azrael a moment of solitude amidst the tomes that held the collective breath of the village’s past. He wandered towards the section Lara had indicated, each step echoing softly on the ancient stone floor. The hall between the bookshelves enveloped him in a solemn silence, a profound stillness that bordered on the sacred. It was as though he stood in the presence of venerable entities, guardians of knowledge far surpassing his own ancient wisdom.
His fingers traced the spines of the books, their cool leather covers dusted with the faintest film of neglect. Each book was an invitation, a gateway to unknown worlds. With a tentative hand, he selected a nondescript tome bound in leather, its cover modestly adorned with the engraving of a tree. The symbol was simple yet evocative, hinting at stories rooted deep within the earth of knowledge.
Opening the book, Azrael was met with an immediate mystery—the script was alien to him, its characters weaving across the page in elegant yet indecipherable arcs. The lines danced before his eyes, a secret language veiled from his understanding yet beckoning him deeper into its mystery. This enigma only deepened his fascination, urging him forward into the realms of the unknown.
Who would’ve thought that the first town he would encounter held so many stories and secrets, with a library that could rival the personal collections of some gods he knew? Azrael chuckled softly as he skimmed over the pages, realizing he could not decipher much from the unfamiliar script. These lines on paper held secrets that perhaps he was not yet meant to uncover. With a sigh, he closed the book and returned it to its rightful place, selecting another from the shelf.
This next tome proved to be more comprehensible, despite being written in the same enigmatic script. The abundance of illustrations provided a visual narrative that made the contents easier to grasp. The pages, yellowed with age and some parts missing, still conveyed a sense of beauty and artistry. Each illustration, whether of blooming flowers or budding plants, was rendered with exquisite detail, clearly the work of a master artist.
As he turned to the last page, a map sprawled across the parchment from edge to edge, depicting every mountain and island off the coasts. Though devoid of any recognizable labels, the map was rich in topographical details. His fingers traced the rivers winding through the mountains, eventually finding a familiar formation—a small island where the river diverged and reconverged, creating the unique geography of Sava.
Despite the absence of any markings indicating a town or significant landmarks, Azrael recognized the forested island as Sava. The realization brought a sense of connection, as if the map held a fragment of the world’s magic, linking him to this place and its untold stories. He felt a surge of curiosity and determination to learn more, to uncover the layers of history and mystery that shrouded this village.
Returning the book to its place, Azrael allowed his gaze to wander around the library. The towering shelves, the scent of old parchment, and the dim, warm glow of lanterns created an atmosphere that felt almost sacred. Each book, each manuscript, was a doorway to another time, another life, another tale waiting to be discovered.
In the secluded reading nook, under the soft luminescence of an ornate chandelier, Azrael discovered a sanctuary of stillness. The chandelier itself, with its intricate ironwork, cast a golden glow that enriched the colors around it, highlighting the exquisite stained glass that appeared to be a remnant from another era. This glass, with its vibrant but tastefully subdued hues, depicted scenes that suggested a historical narrative unique to this land, meticulously restored to retain its original charm.
To his left, a modest fireplace was embedded into the wall, its hearth unlit but still radiating a ghostly warmth from ages past. Above it hung a faded portrait, its once vivid colors now subdued, depicting figures of apparent nobility. The woman in the painting commanded immediate attention with her regal bearing, draped in a flowing white gown that cascaded to her feet. Pearls graced her neck, shimmering softly in the chandelier’s light, while a striking green diamond ring adorned her finger, hinting at her status or personal story.
Her hair, cut just to her shoulders, framed a face that held a serene yet distant expression, suggesting a calm authority or a poised elegance that transcended time. Beside her stood a man, equally regal in white robes that echoed the woman’s attire, his appearance simpler yet marked by the distinctive white and green earrings that added a touch of opulence.
As Azrael gazed into their painted eyes, he was struck by a sense of connection to these figures, as if their stories were whispering to him across the centuries. The solemn feeling in his gut deepened, a mix of reverence and curiosity. Who were these figures? What roles had they played in the history of this place? The atmosphere of the nook, with its hidden alcoves and the soft rustling of pages from forgotten tomes, seemed to envelop him in a silent dialogue with the past.
The serenity of the space, combined with the haunting beauty of the portrait, instilled in Azrael a profound respect for the history preserved within these walls. He felt as though he stood at the confluence of many lives and stories, each flowing through the room like the light through stained glass—fragmented yet forming a beautiful whole.
Drawn by an inexplicable pull, Azrael reached out to touch the frame of the portrait, half-expecting to feel the pulse of history under his fingertips. The coolness of the wood and the slight roughness of the paint were stark reminders that while he could glimpse into their world, the barrier of time remained resolute.
Stepping back, Azrael took one last look at the portrait, committing the details to memory—the subtle interplay of light and shadow, the depth of emotion in the subjects’ eyes, and the feeling of shared existence within the confines of the frame.
“Beautiful portrait, isn’t it?” Lara’s voice came from the doorway, her figure stepping into the soft light.
“Oh, yes,” Azrael replied, hesitating slightly. “Do you know who they are?”
Lara recoiled for a moment, a silence descending that felt like it could swallow everything in its wake. “I don’t know, to be perfectly honest with you,” she finally said. “I found the portrait deep in the ruins during the renovation.”
“Did you find anything else down there, about them I mean?”
Lara shook her head. “They didn’t appear anywhere else as far as I know.”
“They look important,” Azrael mused. “Do you have a story to go with them?”
“A story?” she chuckled. “No, but I did name them Mr. and Mrs. Sava.”
“Mr. and Mrs. Sava is an interesting choice,” he chuckled. “Maybe founders of the old town?”
“Maybe,” she replied, settling into a chair by the table. “They were most likely devouts of Azrael—” she hesitated “—the God of Death, not you.”
“Yes, yes, I figured,” he chuckled. “I thought that worshiping Azrael wasn’t exactly accepted.”
“Oh, it definitely isn’t,” she said, gesturing towards the painting. “As far as I know, those robes she wears are of a High Priestess, or someone in such a position. Though the man, her husband most likely, wears the clothes of a scholar of Azrael. But I don’t think Azrael would approve of a priestess, let alone a high priestess.”
Azrael tilted his head at the comment. What did she mean by that? “He wouldn’t?” he asked, careful to keep his tone neutral.
Lara leaned back, her eyes reflecting a thoughtful glimmer. “Not really, no. The legends suggest that Azrael, the deity, wasn’t fond of formal worship. He was a keeper of balance, not a seeker of devotion. Those who tried to elevate him above his role often faced… unforeseen consequences.”
Azrael absorbed her words, intrigued by the mythical representation of his namesake. It was a stark contrast to his own reality, where his existence revolved around celestial duties, not the adoration of followers.
“Unforeseen consequences?” Azrael probed, curious about the lore surrounding the figure that shared his name.
“Yes,” Lara continued, her voice dropping to a hush. “It’s said that those who attempted to elevate him beyond his role invited chaos into their lives. Azrael was about natural order, the transition of life to death without interference. To worship him as a god was to misunderstand his purpose.”
The room seemed to close in around them, the weight of history pressing down. Azrael felt a chill that wasn’t from the evening air; it was the realization of how deeply entwined his namesake was with the lore of this place.
“That’s quite the burden for a god,” Azrael remarked, his tone light but his thoughts swirling with the implications.
Lara nodded, a wry smile crossing her features. “Indeed, which is why the practice dwindled. Those robes,” she gestured towards the painting again, “and those symbols, they’re remnants of a bygone era. A time when people sought control over things they didn’t understand through worship and ritual.”
Azrael turned back to the portrait, his eyes tracing the intricate details of the clothing once more. The woman’s gown, with its elaborate patterns, and the man’s scholarly attire spoke of a deep reverence for the god of death, a reverence that had perhaps cost them dearly.
“Do you think their story ended well?” Azrael asked softly, almost not wanting to disturb the quiet that had settled over the room.
Lara’s expression turned contemplative. “I don’t know. I searched through all the ruins nearby and I can’t find anything on them. I hope they had a long and beautiful life.”
Azrael smiled. “I hope so too. Maybe their descendants could be found somewhere.”
“Perhaps,” Lara agreed, standing and moving towards the door. “If you’re interested, come tomorrow morning. I can unlock the ruins for you to explore. Maybe you’ll find something interesting.”
Azrael nodded, feeling a renewed sense of purpose. “I would like that very much. Thank you, Lara.”
As Lara left the nook, Azrael felt a tug at his heartstrings. There were people who worshipped him, stories about him, rules mortals followed believing they were his. It was a strange feeling, knowing the impact his existence had on lives he had never directly touched.