The Way We Fall

Chapter 8 (Roche)

TW: Brief mention of guns

The days pass Roche by like hills on a train ride. Verita deemed her too untrained to continue book deliveries, but Roche knew that the librarian was trying to prevent her from encountering the royals again. And for good reason. Roche didn't want anything more to do with that arrogant Tigris and her brood of knights. For the most part, she was content to stay in the library and help the few nobles who had access to it. For the moments of free time after dinner when Roche wasn't reshelving books, Verita encouraged her to explore the library.

"The more you strengthen your connection to the language, the deeper your understanding of inkblood will be." Verita had said. Roche sideyed her.

"Do I want it to be stronger?" she asked skeptically. Verita had given her a stern glare.

"Stronger inkblood means better control. Which you so clearly need."

Roche didn't complain much. The library was much more expansive than her mother's collection of books. Her inkblood pulsed like a second heartbeat each time she picked out a new book, the words painting beautiful pictures in her mind. She dabbled in science, of course. Everything from the fantastical to the most intricate scientific concepts caught her eye. Each page turned felt like a shot of adrenaline. It made Roche feel alive. Sometimes, safe in her quarters, she would test out the new words that bubbled in her mind. She found that now, if she had the willpower and the right word, she didn't need to say a word to use her inkblood. It certainly made hauling around stacks of books easier when Verita wasn't watching.

It felt like heaven. All until one night when her inkblood woke her up with a hefty deluge of fear.

"WAKE!"

Roche bolted upright in bed, her heart pounding. She grabbed a candle off her nightstand. Even in the castle, it was courteous to limit the use of electricity and lights. Roche much preferred candles anyway.

"Fyra!" she whispered, the word crackly from her sleepy voice. The candle lit immediately, and Roche awakened with the stretch of inkblood. She didn't hear anything, save for the soft pop of flames. But her inkblood pressed against her chest urgently. She held the candle up, seeing nothing. Roche slipped out of bed, throwing on a thin cloak to protect her from the night's chill. Verita's chambers were icy and empty, save for the old woman sleeping soundly on a thin cot. Roche slipped past her quietly, cracking open the door to the library. She heard a faint scratching sound in the distance, somewhere far within the library. This time, her inkblood didn't urge her to run. Roche still felt wary, but she was curious what had frightened her inkblood so much.

The library was silent as Roche crept forward, holding the candle in front of her like a weapon. She really wished she'd kept Tigris' dagger. The scratching was getting louder as she approached the center of the library. The friezes seemed familiar as Roche progressed. She realised that she was somewhere near the place she'd gotten lost in during her first time in the library. Now that she had a better look, she realised that the shelves here looked older than the rest of the library. They were made of thick stone that melded into the wall. Roche stopped in front of it, and the scratching intensified.

Carefully, she rounded the corner, her finger pressing against the seam of the shelf and the wall. She tried to yank the shelf forward with a small grunt. It didn't even budge. Yet the scratching sound was so clear behind it. There had to be a way to move the shelf.

Roche wet her dry lips, peering at the shelf again. There wasn't anything outwardly unusual about it, apart from its age. She scanned it again, her eyes catching on the titles.

They were old. Very old. The books were barely held together in their bindings, and their papers were yellowed and curling. Perhaps it wasn't just the shelf that was special. Roche carefully ran her finger over the parchments and pages, her inkblood roaring in her ears. After a moment, on the third shelf, her finger landed on something solid, and her inkblood stilled. It was a stone tablet. A very old one. She moved to grab it. The ground began to shake furiously.