Chapter 20: Knowledge's Price

"The immaterial must be known."​

"Please stand back." Celegwen is not hesitating.

You gratefully and quickly nudge Ray awake. He happily licks at you rather than giving the food laid out for him any attention. With justified worry for his well-being, you lead your dog safely away. Dragging the bundles of leaves and moss far from the stacks of books, you give him a brief command to stay.

Ofelia creeps over by the entrance to keep watch. You and Celegwen rise to your feet and give one another a wide berth.

Music

The last member of your company has been deep in thought. Taking her staff in one hand, the elf spreads both arms out with a grand gesture. A methodical incantation parts from her lips as she motions towards a slowly expanding cloud of darkness. Neither the language she speaks, nor the stars that manifest are familiar to you.

The sound of her voice fades from comprehension, and the impression of a night sky is left in the spell's wake. With a sweep of gnarled wood and her slender fingertips, Celegwen points towards the length of the library. The darkness that she's created continues to seep out from the end of her staff, and sweeps every book in sight from off the shelves. You almost reach out to stop the nearest loose pages from falling— but the items silently tumble into the void, and vanish without a trace.

The abyss of starlight and endless darkness wraps around the scant number of items that remain. Tendrils of shadow sweep and drag all the remaining books back towards you, then neatly stack them into piles that reach the ceiling.

Celegwen gives you a broad smile, and leans hard against her staff as she ends her incantation. You gaze wide-eyed to the piles of material. A colossal mound of papers contains only maps. Another has books only detailing religion. Several more are purely on architecture. More still are on the study of history.

It looks as if Ofelia wants to clap. "Very impressive, but how the fuck are we going to get through all of them?"

"I'll take care of it. Thank you, Celegwen." Both women look at you nervously as you give Ray a pat on his side. It's with equal hesitation that you knit your fingers together. "I'll be alright."

Ofelia crosses her arms. "Sure. And what do you suppose you'll have to clean up after this?"

"My Spirit." You close your eyes, and bow your head. "Nothing more."

Silence overtakes the study.

Bringing your clasped hands to your heart, you pour yourself into a whispered prayer.

"Spirit. I have strayed far from your path. Guide me. Take from me once more. Grant me your sight, that I may learn. Grant me your essence, that I might strengthen my own. Aid me. Through the wisdom of the immaterial, restore my most essential being—! My mind. My soul. Lend me your eyes— lend me your Spirit!"

White light streaks through your veins. Sight beyond sight floods from the tips of your fingers, up through your arms, around your neck, and suffocates you with divinity. You gasp as a Goddess looks out through the pearls of your eyes.

You can see everything. Information flows into you. You can see the labyrinth of the ruins clearly. You know the interior of these buildings from the interior of every hall, down every winding corridor, and into the base of their very foundations. A system of pipes now courses through many places once used as homes, or sites for worship.

The lost city of lights worshiped Mercy's radiance. Its bloated hive of humans failed to understand the meaning of restraint. They wished to use Her gifts for selfish purposes.

It makes little sense. There are massive holes in the knowledge spread out before you. The history of Ostedholm's people is incoherent. They collapsed under the weight of their own hubris— but you do not know why they fell.

It bothers you deeply. Your head feels fit to burst, but you need more. You lean into Spirit's gift, and all the exhaustion that it brings.

You take in all of the labyrinth within your mind. Levels below the city. Great caverns that were once excavated and explored. Prisons made therein to contain all who fell from Mercy's light. Darkness to shroud those unfit to see their folly. Grand stretches of open air, miles upon miles below the earth. Underground gardens. Countless demons.

Something in the back of your mind wants to stop the intake of information, but you can't. The fall of Ostedholm floods into you. They were consumed by demons, madness, and the depths of the earth.

You know that the land has taken in many more civilizations. There's countless mention here of other ruins. Other homes. Other prisons.

But the ruins are not just prisons.

Unclasping your hands, you bring them to the sides of your skull as if it could keep your head from splitting.

No physical injury can be seen. The Goddess of the Immaterial continues to grant you the knowledge you seek. Maps upon maps detail the findings of men who wished to see the world.They were explorers and travelers— like you— who sought knowledge. They were seeking answers, and a cure.

Their chronicles tell of great and terrible objects. They were housed in the greatest font of knowledge that this country had known in an age. Stashed away beneath the depths of a tremendous library lay a testament to the very Gods. The most glorious tribute mankind had ever constructed was ran by the devout, the wise, and the sane— until the bitter end.

Until the Catalyst.

Taking a knee, you try to repress a scream. An unearthly plea leaves you instead. "Stop. Please—"

There's more.

More history.

More ruins.

More fallen civilizations that snake and wind under the country. They are deeper than the tallest buildings of your nation's capital. More dangerous than any foe you could hope to encounter on the surface. So much more has been reported by these men.

So much has been written by these survivors. You know their names. Their writings. The Catalyst worked its way through them, too. It took them, and robbed them of their humanity. Each and every last one of them.

"Stop." You fall to your knees. Wrapping both arms around yourself, you plead, "stop. Stop. Stop."

Drawings. Murals. Diagrams. They've been painted on the walls of the ruins not merely as stories. They've been left behind by these survivors before and after they have turned as warnings.

Some of the books written before you have been penned by demons, too. Those intelligent and sadistic enough to chronicle their exploits did so with gratuitous descriptions of their methods, murders, and madness.

It's feels as though your skull is beyond the point of bursting. You can't help but moan— trying to contain all of this information— and beg for Spirit to release you.

Spirit is not Merciful— but She does listen. White floods from your eyes and veins as She leaves you. As She slowly subsides, the pain in your head abates. Spirit drains away from your body. You're left with nothing.

Vacant.

Cloying.

Nothing.

Ray is already at your side. You hadn't noticed him, but wrap your arms around him instantly. As you try to not sob, he leans into you, and encourages you to hold him closer.

The sound of footsteps registers on the outskirts of your hollow mind. There's the impression of every corridor and path leading through this building. There's certainty that if any place contains the Relic, it will be here in the city's depths. The hallways are designed to shift as needed. The enchantment placed on them permits the entire building to change weekly.

The demons in this area are newer than those that you read of.

They must have turned from humans that have explored these ruins. They fell to the Catalyst.

"Richard?" Ofelia must be staring.

You know nothing of the demons you've encountered before, of the passages that led down to Ostedholm, of the strange space leading up to the library, of Malimos, of anyone, or of anything.

Your entire being feels like a vase that's been overfilled and then shattered to pieces. You clutch onto Ray, and bury your face in his fur. He leans back against you with no protest. It's utterly embarrassing, but you need the comfort. It's almost most than you can stand to even sit upright.

Both women are staring as you cringe away, and hide against your dog. You desperately murmur, "please don't look at me."