Chapter 5: Bibliophobia

This time, when he looks into the mirror, he’s mostly prepared for the horrors that are certain to await him, even if he still has no idea how, exactly, this is happening. He’s not sure what he’ll see, or who he’ll see, but something still compels him to look into the mirror. 

To bear witness. 

The surface of the mirror ripples, and he can feel it, the sensation of the world fading away, growing foggier. He closes his eyes, letting the sensation wash over him no matter how uncomfortable it makes him feel. He needs to do this. He isn’t sure why, but the belief is firm, and for whatever reason, he doesn’t question it.

When he opens his eyes, he sees the Archivist. 

Fulgur jolts unpleasantly at the familiar silhouette. Every single one of these dreams has proven to be horrifically unpleasant, he can’t really say any of them have been objectively worse than the others (though he does wonder sometimes), but this… he rarely interacts with the Archivist. It’s a strange feeling to consider the man who technically created you as a fictional character. And he knows the Archivist didn’t exactly live a pleasant life, knows he’s in just as much of a fucked state, but that knowledge doesn’t really help the situation.

Fulgur keeps still, warily observing the Archivist. The scene around them is slowly coming into focus, And Fulgur feels another jolt of uneasiness when he realizes where they are: a library room, small, and clearly decorated to be a children’s corner, with drawings pinned on the walls, and kid-themed carpets and pillows on the floor where the kids would sit. They’re hemmed in by bookcases, but the books aren’t put onto the shelves correctly: instead of seeing their spines and titles, each book has their cover facing out, showing both the title and illustration of whatever story they carry. Knowing the Archivist, and how dedicated he is to the preservation of books, this is an act clearly not of his doing. He shifts his position, moving just far enough that he can see some of the Archivist’s facial profile, instead of just staring at his back. His movements are silent, unintrusive. He makes absolutely no change to the scenery around them. 

He regrets them anyway, because the expression on the Archivist’s face is enough to give him nightmares. The Archivist is a lover of stories, of books, or fantasy and the unreal. He’s diligent, educated, and passionate. Fulgur himself has an inkling that his own love of books comes second-hand from the passion of this man. But the expression on the Archivist’s face is pure, terrified grief, as if seeing the books is akin to some kind of torture. Fulgur hasn’t exactly had years to understand this man, but he knows that outside of this place, this… dream, the Archivist has never displayed this kind of fear, or anguish. Especially not to books, of all things.

And then, as he watches with growing unease, letters begin to appear on the covers of the books in a sickly, neon-green color, splashing across the front and obscuring the titles and illustrations beneath:

Undesirable

Obsolete

Banned

Unnecessary

Fulgur’s eyes narrow. He knows, from the Archivist’s own history, that such words were often used to describe books and other aspects of daily life that were considered ‘undesirable’ by the Regime. But there’s no connection he knows of between the Regime and this ghastly ink. He doesn’t recognize the handwriting either. Does the Archivist recognize any of this?

His thoughts are interrupted by a low, agonized moan. He whips his gaze around to the Archivist, and violent chills attack his spine; the same words, in the same garish green color as what was on the book covers, are now beginning to appear on the Archivist’s cynets. The Archivist, much like Fulgur himself, preferred clothes that concealed the majority of his metallic limbs, but so bright was the substance writing these words that they seemed to glow through the Archivist’s clothing, shining through his slacks and mockingly tracing over both shirt and forearm with seeming ease. The Archivist is backing away from the bookcase now, seemingly unaware that the stability of the entire room has seemingly become compromised, the walls seeming to warp, different objects beginning to dissipate into tangible shadow. 

“No,” he whimpers, stumbling backwards. “No, stay back. Please.”

He’s talking to the books, Fulgur realizes with a sickening twist in his gut. He’s afraid of them.

He wants to go to the Archivist, to grab him, to try and get him to see that none of this is real. It’s a nightmare, brought about by something intent on fucking with them all. It isn’t real. There’s not a chance in hell that the Archivist is afraid of books in the reality they live in, and he has no interest in figuring out whether or not there are realities in which he is. He wouldn’t be the Archivist, then. He’d be something else entirely. 

That isn’t a pleasant thought.

As he makes to move forward, the light coming from the words on both the books and the Archivist somehow seems to glow even brighter, and when the Archivist moans again, Fulgur realizes that it’s melting. Horrendous green fluid is melting into the Archivist’s cynets, destroying the book covers he’s still staring at. The books are becoming engulfed in it, like they’re soaking in the substance even as it continues to kill them. But where they seem to grow stronger for the substance, the Archivist grows weaker, his form slowly becoming unstable in the garish glow of the nightmare. 

Fulgur finds his voice. “Archivist,” he calls out. “Archivist! Listen to me! This is all just some sick fantasy; there’s nothing there! Archivist!”

He isn’t sure if he’s heard or not; it doesn’t always work, his voice, when nightmares come after him, be they normal or whatever-the-hell this is. But he’s abruptly thrown to the side as the floor beneath him tilts dangerously; the world around then is collapsing into a miasma of black shadow and garish green. And then, just as abruptly, he’s back in his own house, stumbling backwards from the wall as the mirror innocently reflects back an already-pale face that has gone bone-white with terror. 

The nightmare is over, it seems. This one, at least. 

Fulgur runs a hand over his face, breathing heavily. Fuck. Every nightmare he’s seen so far has been utterly god-awful, but this… a violent shudder wracks him. And Archivist afraid of books. A contradiction that never needs to see the light of day. 

He turns toward the direction of his room, thoughts whittling. He needs a shower; he feels utterly disgusting after that. And when he’s clean, and no longer feels like his skin is crawling, he needs to find the Archivist. 

He’s not too much of a coward to admit that he needs reassurance. Even if he isn’t at the point of actually saying as much.

Written by: @EvaEverAfterall

Art by: @not_onion_