Gravity Rises (S2)

GL: Part One

In an underground room, a single candle illuminated a man in sweeping purple robes. He sat at an old wooden desk, a book open in front of him, a small pile of dusty tomes stacked on top of the desk behind his work space. The silence seeped through his old bones; the darkness rolled across his robes in waves. The inaudible whispers of long-dead authors, their thoughts and lives preserved in the books they had penned, danced across his vision in the shadows of the candlelight. This library was far more alive than he. This he knew, and this he accepted.

The words pressed into the page of the book he was studying refused to penetrate into his brain. It was late, and this candlelight was terrible for his aging eyes. The author of the book, a heretic whose words had somehow been immortalized in the library of the very organization he opposed, pounded his opinions into the man's head — but that resulted only in a headache.

The man sighed silently and closed the book. He had known it would be fruitless to try to read at this time of night, but he hadn't been able to sleep. He often came down to the library when he couldn't sleep. Somehow, he related to the writers of these books, some orthodox, some heretical, some insane. Sometimes he felt as if he were already one of them, nothing but a whisper reverberating around the occasional reader's skull.

Better for him to try to sleep again. He stood up, sliding his wooden chair against the stone floor with the utmost care, so as to not disturb the resting books. He tucked the book under his arm in order to put it away; best that his followers not know that he studied the words of heretics on occasion.

His footsteps were soft against the stone as he left his desk and glided down the shelves, the book in one hand and his candle in the other. He found the spot on the shelf, a thick gaping hole between two equally thick volumes. He eased the book into the space, fitting it snugly between its neighbors. Holding up the candle to make sure none of the books were out of place, he nodded in satisfaction and turned to go back upstairs to his chambers.

Upon turning the corner, a soft blue glow intervened with his orange candlelight.

The man paused, waiting for the trespasser in his library to turn around and see him.

There was a thud as the boy in front of him dropped the book he was holding onto the desk, shattering the silence of the library. "B-Blind Lincoln!"

"Young Northwest," Blind Lincoln greeted, nodding slightly.

Gideon Northwest extinguished his amulet, staring at Lincoln with the expression of a child caught with their hand in the summoning circle. "I-I was just — doing some research."

"It's the middle of the night," Lincoln replied calmly. "I would have expected you to be soundly asleep in your mansion."

Gideon's gaze slid away from Lincoln's. Though Lincoln couldn't see well in the candlelight, he thought the skin around Gideon's eyes glinted with a wet sheen. Had the boy been crying?

Intriguing. He would've thought Northwests were not allowed to cry.

"I couldn't sleep," was Gideon's reply. "And I thought. . . it'd be quiet here."

The same reasons that had brought Blind Lincoln down these stairs. "I don't recall giving you access to this library."

Gideon's already-pale face whitened another shade. "Oh — I didn't — I wasn't—"

Lincoln waved away the protests with his hand. "You aren't used to asking permission for things. I understand. I'll overlook it, this once—"

Gideon sighed in relief.

"—if you show me what exactly you're researching."

Another shade of white. Gideon's freckles popped out on his cheeks. "O-oh. I was, um, just looking for books about — the amulet." He stumbled over the last word.