A Hackwith - The Library of the Unwritten

The feather crumpled in his fist, and a new pain brought him back. The quill had pierced his fingertip. It wasn’t in the script. It was enough. He gasped and stumbled through the fog. The raven’s distant form abruptly swerved up. It took a panicked scramble before Leto found where the ground inclined, rising up toward liquid shadows that poured between a gap of nothing that seemed thicker, darker, somehow.

“Who? Darren? God, no. He just always hangs around….”

Again his voice betrayed him, stealing his breath. This time it came with a chill of calculation. Hope. The primal adolescent instinct that pointing to someone weaker somehow makes you strong.

Acid burned up Leto’s throat and pooled on his tongue. It tasted bitter, like loathing. Leto hated that voice and hated himself. Maybe he deserved to be lost here. Maybe the others would fare better without him. They would, wouldn’t they? Leto twisted to find the voice but stumbled midstep. And then he was falling. Leto’s arms windmilled out for something, anything. An alien sound intruded, a digital ping that Leto struggled to place in his panic. Then a last voice that hissed out and bounced into the darkness:

“If you want to die so bad, why don’t you hurry up and do it, then?”

Leto didn’t even try to fight it this time. The voice was cruel and viciously cold. The voice was his .

Light. Air. Cool hands pressed on the back of his neck. Grass tickled his hands, and the air filled his lungs with the smell of green, sunlit things.

THE MOUNTAINS WERE BLACK and sharp, like the ribs of an ancient giant rimming the field of flowers. The closest peaks were spotted with white snowfall and a sparkle of glacial ice. It was daylight, but traces of northern lights played hide-and-seek against the far clouds drifting like passing thoughts. It was a perfect blend of mythic reverence and dreamlike impossibility. It was ridiculous, half-forgotten heroics with changing faces, half mead and belief turned legend turned pop culture. It was Valhalla.

Claire had time to soak it in only after they retrieved their possessions from the ravens, who left in a huff. Brevity had been the fastest, snatching her own glimmering ribbon from her raven and pausing to drape it gently over one wrist. It twitched a protest, then absorbed seamlessly back into the complicated patterns tattooed on her arm.

A strangled cry caught her attention. Leto had arrived last, even though Claire had brought up the rear. That alone wasn’t concerning; the raven roads were always changing. Each path was unfathomable and personal. However, the way he crouched in the grass, breath short and hands fisted tight in his hair, drew everyone’s attention.

“Leto.” Claire dropped to a knee beside him. His shoulders spasmed violently away at her touch, though the rest of him didn’t appear to acknowledge her at all. His breath was a fevered, shallow wheeze. She gently threaded his fingers away from his hair before he pulled it out by the roots. “What’s wrong?”

Leto stared at his hands in reply, fists clenching and unclenching. Claire could feel his pulse merging into a single fluttering drumbeat under her hand. She was about to try to shake him out of it when Brevity jostled between them.

“He’s having a panic attack,” Brevity said crisply as she clasped Leto’s clammy hands and rubbed gently up his arm. “Leto, hey, buddy. We’re safe. Doesn’t feel like it, but we are. We’re gonna take as long as you need, okay?”

Leto didn’t respond, so Brevity dropped to her knees next to him. “You’re right. Brains are fuckin’ liars. But you got this. No rush. I’m going to count to four; maybe you can breathe for me. Four in, four out.” And then, a few moments later, “Want to walk around? No? Good choice—this grass is kind of scratchy, don’t you think? And that air—smells like butterfly farts, yeah? Look at those squishy, weird flowers. Wonder if you can eat ’em….” Brevity kept up the words, grounding him, creating a steady, soft patter that, over a handful of minutes, slowly eased Leto’s shoulders away from his ears. Brevity produced a small blue bottle from her bag and pressed it into his hands before shooing the rest of them away to give Leto a chance to recover.

“You seemed well prepared for that,” Claire said, feeling thrown by her own assistant. Brevity was always surprising her, but then, that was what muses did. In all fairness, Brevity talked so much Claire had learned to only half listen when it wasn’t related to the Library. Perhaps she should change that strategy.

“I was a muse. Contrary to popular belief, it’s hard to get inspired when you’re panicking. Not the first time I’ve seen someone struggle through anxiety.” Brevity gave a careless shrug, not quite looking Claire in the eyes.

“You never talk about your previous work,” Claire said.

“You never ask either, do you?” It carried an accusation, but Brevity brightened, only a little bit forcefully. “It’s okay, boss. I knew better than to ask about yours too.”

The lightness in her tone sang along Claire’s nerves, but she was aware they had an audience. Thankfully, Leto had recovered and got to his feet unsteadily. “You didn’t… didn’t tell me it would be like dying.” Leto’s voice was hoarse and hollow, as if he’d been screaming. His color was faint, skin still clammy, but his chest rose and fell in steady, calm time.

Claire nodded to herself. “It’s different for everyone. That path is intended to be a test. It feeds on your worst fear.”

“Curious to fear dying, since you’re already dead.” Andras sounded more amused than sympathetic. It earned him a glare from Claire, but Leto ignored it.

“Is this the place?” Leto took his ghostlight back from Brevity. A distant cheer rose from the west, accompanied by the sound of clashing metal. They turned as one toward the noise, and Claire nodded.

“Oh yes, definitely Valhalla.” She struck off up the hill toward the sounds. They picked through the rubble of what looked like a wall built by giants. Huge stone blocks piled on end. Just over the rise, the faint gleam of a rooftop caught her eye. Claire squinted at it. It was easier to keep moving forward. Anything was better than looking back.

Andras caught up with Claire first, lifting his knees high to try to keep the worst of the burs from catching on his fine slacks. He grimaced at his surroundings before giving her a scrutinizing look. “My dear, are you unwell?”

“What?” Claire looked down and realized her hands were trembling, fingers curled into a fist. She took a sharp breath and stuffed them in the pockets of her skirts. “I’m fine.”

“The raven road can be trying even for experienced mortals,” Andras offered.

“I am quite well, Andras,” Claire said, if only to shut him up.

Burning books, blood on an unwritten rug, the back of her head, hunch of her shoulders as she turned away from her. Bile curdled in her gut. Worst fears, she’d told Leto. They were never things she wanted to run to, that tempted in the dark. Just things to run away from. Claire pursed her lips into a thin line. “Just fine.”