The night after their return from the week long trip to the Forest of Tusca, Ama jumped face first into her bed before worming her way under the covers. It wasn’t cold outside, it was summer after all, but she liked being snuggled cosily under the blankets. It made her feel safe and comfortable.
Safe from what? Well, naturally, safe from those pesky goodie two shoes angels or whatnot who tried to constantly get rid of the monster under her bed. They were good friends! She didn’t want her to disappear. Sometimes she even kept her company at night, hugging her with her arms and her tail.
Luckily, it seemed, papa had managed to get that magic spell to keep the angels away. What was it that he liked to say? Oh, right: “You don’t have to fear the monster under your bed. It’s better than the monsters that hide in plain sight out there, in the cities, wearing the masks of humans.”
Papa was a philosopher. Or so mama liked to say. Ama didn’t understand what a philosopher was. Or rather, she didn’t understand why such a Class would even exist. What was the purpose of spending all of your time thinking about things… just for the sake of thinking. It made no sense to her.
Then her Papa sat down on the comfortable chair beside the bed.
He smiled warmly and ruffled her hair: “Now, what story would our brave explorer and befriender of giant spiders like to hear tonight?”
Ama piped up: “I want to hear the story of the last two Wishers!!!”
Her father sighed with a rueful smile: “Really? That one? Again? It’s, like, the hundredth time. Don’t you want to hear something else?”
“I love it!”
“Alright, alright, my little poison truffle.”
He sat more comfortably in his chair, putting his leg over the other, his hands crossed over his toned stomach.
“Once upon a time…
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London.
There was a time when they said Rome was the eternal city, and while it’s certainly one of the longest standing, I fear it will, one day, be forgotten. Forgotten by her people, then by the world, until nothing but a few bricks are left here and there in the middle of a giant field of wheat, constantly giving the farmers trouble in their tillings.
Meanwhile, I believe, London will keep standing proud, no matter what befalls her.
Now that would be the greatest form of ‘karma’, as those monks in the East like to say, to ever be: a city built by Romans, that survives the fall of their once great capital.
Not like I’ve ever been to Rome. I’ve never left London all my life. And I sure as hell won’t be going there now. Not with the war.
Also, ops, pardon the foul language.
Anyways: London. The city of fog and industry. The city of monarchy.
The city that endures.
The city who won’t surrender, no matter what.
The city that was promised nothing but blood, toil, tears and sweat.
The year was 1940.
The day was the eighth of December.
A young man nineteen years of age walks down the dark streets of London. He isn’t supposed to be there, but then again, so aren’t many other kids and young men like him who have lost their families to the war.
Yes, you’ve guessed it, that boy is me. My name is Alexander Smithsons. Not a flashy name, that’s for sure, but I like it. And while I’m pretty sure I could change it to something else now that my parents are gone, since there’s nobody around to tell anyone what my actual name is, I’ll be keeping it. Just for a while longer. It’s the last thing they left me, after all.
My father died on the Front, and my mother was killed by one of the bombs falling right onto our home.
It had been bad. I don’t even want to think about how many days and nights I had spent curled up in our neighbour’s bed, uncaring about the fact that I was supposed to be a strong man and that men didn’t cry.
I couldn’t even help our country on the Front because, apparently, there was something wrong with my lungs.
…
The Front.
Such a simple word. You know? It’s really surprising how much reverence people put behind those five letters. After all, fronts are supposed to only be the forward facing parts of something. Nothing to be scared about, unless said forward facing part you’re referring to is the face of Miss Allen. The only reason she was still alive was that her ugly mug scared even Death away.
Sorry Miss Allen. I did promise I would never lie.
But you might be wondering: where am I going in the middle of the night? In the middle of a war. With the chance of nazists raining bombs over our heads. I should be down in the Underground, safe from the bombs, together with the rest of London.
But, and hear me out: what are the chances that:
1. The nazists bomb London exactly tonight.
2. They bomb exactly the place where I am going.
Answer: they’re infinitesimal. After all, it is December. And, while that might mean that nights are longer, it also means that there’s a lot less visibility, what with the fogs and the clouds and everything.
What is my destination? Well, that’s simple. It’s a library.
The Minet Public Library. It’s the closest to where I’m supposed to be living.
‘But why would you go to a library in the middle of the night Alexander?’ you may be asking.
Because I want to read a book in a place that makes me feel safe. Because I want to be able to forget the war for a short while. I could go during the day, but then there would be people there, and wherever there were people there was an air of… expectancy. The fear, deep down, that tonight will be the night. The last night.
The adults put on a brave facade all the time: going through the ruined city as if there was nothing wrong, joking among each other while walking to work and passing by ruined buildings.
Milkmen delivered milk every morning like they always did, the paperboys delivered the people’s papers and were paid their pennies and shillings. Everybody just… lives.
And I can’t stand it.
So, every night, or as many nights as I can, I go to that library, and forget everything I can among the books.
Entering is not difficult: one of the window latches is damaged and doesn’t close, so with a little pushing and shoving in the right directions it’s easy enough to open it up and crawl inside.
It’s cold, but I have a blanket with me, so that’s not a problem.
And for the light, I have a candle. I know, I know, probably not the safest option, but, and hear me out, people used candles all the time not even a century ago, and libraries rarely burned down. I just have to be extremely careful.
Stolen from Royal Road, this story should be reported if encountered on Amazon.
Which, as always, I am.
You know… well, if you’re here, you probably know already, but still, you know how reading a book can be… magical. Or at least, feel like it. All those words to lose oneself in, with the chance to become someone else entirely, the chance to feel what that other, unreal, person feels, the possibility to just talk to yourself, to the pages, and not be judged.
There’s something magical about this.
From something as complexly simple as Dante, with his beliefs on who should be where in the afterlife, to labyrinthine words of Eliot’s Wasteland, to Swift’s not-at-all-hidden satire in Gulliver’s Travels, and even in the visible insanity behind Alice in Wonderland, it’s all magical.
It’s all a chance to disappear and forget.
“How I’d love to become as good as you lot one day. To give people this possibility.”
But there is one problem with disappearing.
A quite simple problem.
When you forget you exist, you forget that the world around you exists as well.
You forget to listen.
I don’t know how the Second Great War ended. I wasn’t there to witness it. Like many others.
I died that night. I died when the bombs fell. I didn’t hear the telltale sound of the coming bombers. I didn’t hear the whistling of the bombs falling to bring the nazists’ wrath on us.
But I did hear the explosion when the bomb fell.
Mostly, though, I felt it.
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[Enacting Protocol: Last Wish]
[Last Wish Found!]
[Analysing…]
[Class Granted!]
[Good Luck!]
----------------------------------------
I opened my eyes.
And screamed.
My body felt like it was on fire. At least, what I could still feel of it. I couldn’t feel my legs.
A bomb. A bomb had fallen right on top of the library. A bomb had fallen on me. How could I still be alive? Why would I still be alive? Why would God allow such suffering? If I have to die, at least let it be swift.
Voices. There’s lots of them around me, but I can’t understand anything they’re saying through the whistling in my ears.
Did the rescue teams find me? How? Had the bombers already left?
I feel, through the pain blanketing my entire body, a hand lifting my head, and something cold being pressed to my lips and being tipped, some liquid touching my tongue.
I choke, because who the hell thinks it’s a good idea to let someone drink something while they’re screaming their lungs out?! Just give me a fucking injection and be done with me!
But then… the pain begins to recede. Slowly, very, very, very slowly.
Suddenly, I feel a cracking from my back, and I can feel my legs again. Was my spine damaged by the explosion? No, even better, did the doctors somehow manage to fix it? I remember reading in a book that damage to the spine is impossible to fix. How did they do that?
I finally look at where I am… and the first thing I see is a blue sky.
Wasn’t it supposed to be night? I wonder.
Then an unfamiliar face looks down at me. It’s a man with kind brown eyes and a big brown beard reaching down to his chest. His hair are also brown as bark, and…
I feel something in the back of my throat.
Turning around just in time I begin coughing. Blood comes out in rivulets.
My vision blurs again.
And, finally, I lose consciousness.
[Writer Class Obtained!]
[Writer Level 1!]
[Skill - Read All Languages Obtained!]
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“T̷̟̑h̵̪͆̍i̴̥̊s̶̜̪̑̽ ̴͙͍̍͠m̷̞̿a̵̦̿̆y̶̨͎̏́ ̴̘̹̿b̵̞̰̈́͠e̸͍͊̂ ̸̨̲̄͝m̸̳̕͝y̴͓̞͂ ̸̅̃ͅș̷̐ͅt̴̥̗̅̇o̵͉̅͜r̸̰̽ỳ̴͍̈,̷̝̣̏̒ ̵̡̛b̸̩̫̐̾u̵̞͝t̴̕ͅ ̸͍͒ͅI̵̩̻̐ ̴̩͐s̵̥͂̓h̴͓̐̚o̵͔͔̐͒u̵̥̬̇̇l̷̝̑͝ḍ̵̋ ̷̹̈́̓r̵͇̉̕e̶͇̠͒ä̴͔́l̴͙̉l̸̨̥͗y̴̠̙͐̾ ̷̣̐͋͜s̷̟̲͑t̵͖̆͜o̶̞̚p̵͚̂ ̷̬̳̀t̴̞͌̓ĕ̶̻l̶̩͇̎̌l̴͉͈̾ì̶͙̼n̴̜͍̐̕g̴̟̭̃̚ ̴͔̈͒î̷͖̺t̵͎̪̃͆ ̷̧̜̋͒ì̴͉͜n̴̺̥͛ ̶̗̋͊f̴͓̤͌i̶̬̳̓r̵̨̘͋s̸̠̰͘t̶̰͗͝ ̴̟́͊p̴͎̂̌e̶̞̐̓͜r̵̫̰͂͝s̴̛̝͑o̸͉͈̓ṅ̵̪̥̑.̸̥͗͛ͅ ̵̡̔I̸̫̚͝'̴̬̇̄m̷̤̖̿ ̵̮̯̈́̉ń̸͚ô̵͈̑ṱ̴͐ ̷͎̝͘t̴̜̲̎h̸̹́́a̶̗̜͒̀t̴͇̝̾ ̵͕̓͘b̴̺̉̚ỏ̴͔ÿ̶͎͜ ̵̟͗͗a̶̙͆̓n̸̪̺̋y̸͖̑͝m̵̜̀o̴̙̥͑r̸͍͇͑é̷̡̇.̶̪͆͊”
----------------------------------------
“Alright, Ama, time to sleep.”
“Papa, no! I want to hear more! Tell me also about the other one! Or I won’t be able to fall asleep!”
Her father chuckled with a rueful smile: “You should become a [Merchant] Ama, it would suit your negotiation skills well.”
Ama shook her head: “No no. I like the family business. I will become as good as you and mama and grandpa one day, papa. I promise it!”
Her papa smiled this time: “I’m certain you will, dear. No, you’ll become even better than all of us.
He took a deep breath, then began telling the story again: “Once upon a time, Alexander also had a good friend. His name was…”
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His name was Ilyiushin Kustov, but most of his companions in the army just called him Ilya, or ‘Hey, Music Man’.
Ilyiushin Kustov was a thin man by many standards. To everyone, he looked underfed, with sunken cheeks and a wiry frame. He had always been like that as far as he could remember, and while the war, the rations and the trench life hadn’t helped on that front (ha!), he was perfectly healthy. Well, as perfectly healthy as any man in the Russian army could be.
The day was the eighth of September, the year 1941.
He didn’t know, and he wouldn’t find out until years and years later, but today was the day the Siege of Stalingrad started. What was probably the longest siege in the history of humanity. A siege that would lead to the deaths of thousands upon thousands. A siege where unlikely heroes would come to be known, and random acts of heroism signed the passage of time more than a calendar.
Ilyishin, no, Ilya, wouldn’t be there when a madman attempted to traverse Lake Ladoga with a tank to test if the ice was strong enough to support the Road of Life.
He wouldn’t be there when, at the end of winter, a man started a betting game on how much weight he had lost during the cold season.
He wouldn’t be there when, during a break between the nazists and the russians to give the dead a burial, a russian soldier started singing a folk song, only for a german to shout at him to keep singing, because the song was beautiful.
He would be there for none of this. Because he died two days after the Siege began.
As he lay on the ground, bleeding out, he remembered something his father, a veteran, no, a survivor of the first Great War, had said: “Wars shouldn’t be fought in winter son. It is a season for resting, for staying together to weather the storms and the cold. We should know that better than anyone, don’t you agree?”
He did.
But right now it wasn’t winter. It was barely autumn, so it didn’t matter.
He watched, with the slow calmness that comes with death, how his comrades were mowed down by shotguns machineguns, tanks and artillery. He had been afraid while running towards the enemy. He had feared those screaming nazists and their harsh words in german. He had feared the distant tanks, waiting for their turrets to turn around, to look at him, letting him see the darkness of the giant barrel before it was lit for a moment by the shot that would kill him.
In a way, he was glad it had only been a bullet to mean his end. Sure, it was slow, but at this point the pain had disappeared, leaving behind only numbness.
For a moment, he was sure he heard something in the distance. An instrument? It sounded, oddly enough, like a pipe. He had a good ear for music and instruments. That’s why his comrades called him ‘Music Man’. And he was certain it was a pipe that was playing out there. How it could be heard over the sounds of the battlefield, he didn’t know, but it also didn’t matter. He wouldn’t get to know the answer.
He closed his eyes, and wished he could play another song in his death throes. Maybe Katiusha? Would it fit? Well, he was a soldier. Or rather, had been at this point.
Bah.
It.
Didn’t.
Matter.
…
Warm.
----------------------------------------
The System rather liked this one. A soldier who didn’t like being a soldier. In its years of existence, among the many souls who had been snatched by the passage of its world near this one, many had been warriors who had died more or less gloriously in battle. Inevitably, when they were brought back to life with their Wish granted, they went back to being soldiers or warriors or whatnot. Great ones, sure, but at the end of it they were just people who lived to kill people.
In short, boring. Luckily for it, the System didn’t feel boredom. But it was allowed to feel things like satisfaction, and every time one of those arrived and followed that same path, it felt dissatisfied. He rather preferred the ones that didn’t live to fight. They always made interesting things. Like that [Pirate] from a few millennia ago, or the [Librarian] who’d created fireproof paper after she had watched her great library burn to ashes. What was the name of the place? Oh, right, Alexandria.
Why was it remembering exactly that one? Right, because of the other one. Alexander Smithsons. Arrived the moment the two worlds had touched each other. From what it had seen, the man wouldn’t become a stereotypical soldier. And, when it analysed this other one’s last Wish, it thought this one, too, wouldn’t become like the others.
So it was with the closest thing it could get to glee that it gave the once soldier his new Class.
[Musician Class Obtained!]
[Musician Level 1!]
[Skill - Proficiency: Violin Obtained!]
This was going to be interesting.
Book 1 - The End