Bereft: Demise

12 | Of Libraries Left Lonely

In the morning I woke with fresh vigor and determination. I predicted Darius would not be in the parlor when I tumbled out of bed, and I was correct in that assumption. I didn't let his disappearance deter me. I had decided I would help the Sin of Pride whether he wanted that help or not. I was at Crow's End because of Darius. I would not sit idle. I would act.

Of course, determination is a poor substitute for ability. I didn't know where Darius was exactly, nor did I know how I could be assistance. The Sin was knee-deep in the archives somewhere in this blasted manor searching for a reference to a weapon that may or may not exist. I had no clue how I was supposed to help.

I came to the conclusion that, when in doubt, the best place to start was the library. If I could find it.

Dressed in slacks, sensible shoes, and a loose blouse, I set out on my quest for the manor's finicky library. I tied my hair into a lopsided chignon as I left Darius's rooms and descended the first flight of stairs. I stopped at the landing and faced an innocuous hallway.

Peroth had said the library was between the first and fifth floor. I assumed that, like many of the rooms in Crow's End, the library somehow moved and relocated itself within the manor. I had five floors to canvas. The task sounded simple enough—but in a place as spatially disorienting as this, I had no idea if I would ever actually manage to come across the library, or if I'd be able to make my way back.

Squaring my shoulders, I told myself I was being ridiculous. Daunting as my task was, I wouldn't forgive myself if I gave up before trying. I had to help Darius. I entered the hall. 

The library did not magically conjure itself out of thin air, much to my dismay. I spent the morning traipsing a never-ending array of corridors and unadorned halls. My feet hurt, my side ached, and I grew hungrier with every passing hour. Tall wood doors opened onto empty storerooms. Archways provided entry to unchanging corridors of more wood doors.

It all blurred into a monotonous stream after a while. 

The urge to run was nearly irrepressible. I had to concentrate on keeping my pace steady, because I knew running would literally get me nowhere. I may not understand the mechanics of the illusion I was ensconced in, but I did understand the futility of trying to outrun it. Crow's End could not possibly be as large as it appeared. I was passing through the same stretches of aged passages over and over and over again. I had to break the monotony.

I had to ignore the phantom hands lazily swiping at the back of my neck, mocking me. Could a house mock a person? Could it?

Twice I turned in an attempt to return to the stairwell, and twice I collided with an inexplicable wall nipping at my heels. I pushed at it, but the obstruction was not a figment of my imagination; it was real, and very solid. I swore I could feel the thrum of laughter beating against my palms when I slapped them against the wall's front.

I muttered a thousand half-formed oaths under my breath as I continued to stomp along my given path. The niggling sense of claustrophobia pressed upon me, slowly at first, then with unrelenting severity. The walls seemed to creep closer and closer. Invisible eyes watched me—followed me. My hands trembled. My breaths escaped in labored gusts.

I was lost, and had no one way of escaping. On and on I walked. I traversed hall after hall. Walked mile upon mile of dirty carpet runners. The corridors closed in around me, my chest heaving, sweat dripping from my temples. 

I was trapped.

"Dammit you sorry excuse of a beggar's hovel!" I shouted at the top of my lungs, alarmed by how high-pitched my voice had become. "I'm in no mood for this crap!"