[ᴛʜᴇ ʙᴏᴏᴋᴋᴇᴇᴘᴇʀ's ᴡᴏʀᴅ]
╰┈➤ God AU
✧ made: 2/3/24
∘₊✧ : – ⭒ ⁂꥟⁂ ⭒ – : ✧₊∘
[𝐈]: ᴇxᴘᴇʀɪᴇɴᴄᴇ ᴛᴇᴀᴄʜᴇs...ᴡɪᴛʜᴏᴜᴛ ʜᴏᴘᴇ, ᴡɪᴛʜᴏᴜᴛ ꜰᴇᴀʀ
∘₊✧ : – ⭒ ⁂꥟⁂ ⭒ – : ✧₊∘
Golden roses dangle from bookshelves or stable pillars from above. Tiny specs drift in contentment with no one to interrupt their daze. Luminating an amber color in the leaking shaft of light from the fixed window, the specs of gold dote on the loathing and sharp glares from the librarian.
She developed a fierce hatred for the twittering specs. Her nose irked and sniffed with tempts to rid herself of these specs, but she held her tongue and moved on.
She knew of the consequences if she were to not.
Her fingers drag solemnly along the golden imprints on the creases of the book. She notes the differences of each book: the textures, the genre's, the importance...any common theme she can identify that can be organized to her pleasantries.
After all, it was the least they could do ever since they condemned her to serve as a librarian for the Library of Memories. She, the goddess of childhood and honesty, is to await the departure of her testimony.
The whole situation was absurd.
She was merely prancing around the drama, choosing to be on the neutral sideline. Mixing with common occurrences such as these are known to be a horrible idea that only the foolish would wrap themselves up with. Hence, the reason why she assigned herself as some sort of mercenary. She only assists those that benefit her favor or any bribery (delicacy of sweets), limiting her morals for her comfort.
It was all a blur how she scrabbled herself unintentionally into the situation and now serves a punishment.
Though, being on the neutral sideline, she was relieved of a far severe punishment and was given clemency when she had a conviction.
In the past, perhaps she would've been petulant and bristled about the clemency. Being blinded by rage to comprehend the given mercy. Brabble with petty arguments. Burst in tears of overflowing despair pouring her heart to reprieve her sentence. Perhaps even cease the lives of children out of spite and pettiness.
"No, I will not. I have sworn to the Tsillah themselves to never endanger someone's life because of my own mistakes."
Now, she was given eons to ruminate over the matter. She no longer spits out complaints. She no longer blames other gods for her own actions. She no longer tempers with goddess' possessions. She learned to hold her tongue. Her tongue is no longer a sword that cuts deep into mendacity. It is but a rusted piece of metal that sits in its holder.
She has spotted memories of her life—before exile. She remembers smiling widely with a blurred figure. Perhaps an associate of some sorts? Perhaps close? Her thoughts seem to drift towards a more savory taste. Freedom.
The bright, cheerful millennials of when she had freedom. The freedom that could be granted with a single thought of wanting to pursue an action. She never knew how much she longed for—to savor—the taste of freedom before she no longer could taste it.
"Live and learn," she bemused and left it as that.
The bookkeeper remains in solitude and awaits visitors in need of the stead—or now pronounced newfound domai—home. This is home.
