A Hackwith - The Library of the Unwritten

“He hasn’t cut his hair yet. He still has that ratty old bag,” Hero muttered fondly, not even hearing Claire. His face softened as he watched the hunter shuck what appeared to be his day’s catch onto the porch and kick mud from his boots. “And still poaching. I warned him about that. I always said he would get us both—”

He stopped, all color draining from his face. Claire grew concerned. “What?”

“They killed him.” Hero said it levelly, but the words were rimmed in hot rage. His jaw worked as his gaze—never on Claire—turned anguished. Rage set into the curl of his lip and turned his delicate features sharp, cruel. “He stood by me, always protected me, and they killed him. Your precious heroes killed him. And I couldn’t do anything to stop it.”

Claire gripped Hero’s wrist. “It’s a story, Hero. A story . Look at me. Think this through.”

“It’s not happened yet. I could stop it. I can—” He reached out a hand toward the arch.

Claire knocked his arm down as she stepped in front of him. Only her hands firmly on his chest kept him from brushing past her. “ Listen to me, Hero. You have to listen. This is just a story, a vision, a trick. Block it out. I know it hurts, but it’s not real —”

Her shoulder blades slammed into the stone wall behind her and forced the air from her chest. Hero had his arm pressed against her throat. His snarl veered between broken and burning. “You can’t see anything past your precious books! We’re all just objects to you. This isn’t a story. He isn’t a trope . It is real. Owen is real—they are all real. Real to me, real to everyone who loved us. Don’t you dare …”

“Hero—I was… I didn’t mean you’re not—you’re—” Claire struggled to get back the breath that had been knocked out of her, but the muscled vise at her throat presented a challenge. “It’s a trick. Hero, you need to stop and think. You need to listen to me, and you need to listen to me right now . Please.”

Claire shifted. Hero looked down and saw Claire’s hand clenched on the hilt of the sword at his hip. Truthfully, Claire’s fingers were numb, and the scabbard was in the way. She doubted she could do any harm at this angle, but she met Hero’s gaze as he looked back up. She swallowed hard and repeated the only word that was making it through his panic. “Please.”

Claire’s hand began to cramp up. She didn’t dare move, didn’t dare speak again. The moment felt stretched and fragile. Then something broke. A raw emotion flickered over his eyes, then was gone. Hero sagged and drew back.

Claire wobbled a moment, then sank halfway down the wall to breathe. When she looked up, Hero had his back to her, was silhouetted against the dappled sunlight streaming through the arch. The hunter, Owen, had retreated inside the cabin. Hero stared sightlessly at the front door, the smoke curling in the clear, white-blue sky.

“I could have saved him. I could have saved all of them. I could have fixed it this time. I could have—”

Claire feared for a moment that he’d take that final stride across the threshold and disappear into sunlight despite himself. But in the end, his shoulders crumpled. Hero’s gaze fell to the floor, and he jerked away as if it burned. “Sorry, Owen.”

He took a stiff, halting step. Paused just long enough to offer Claire a hand. Claire took it, pulling herself up on unsteady feet. They shared no glances this time. They said nothing more.

They walked. Drawing out of the light and continuing into the permanent shadows of the labyrinth.

THEY ENCOUNTERED NO MORE doors, no more possible futures. When they finally stumbled on another set of stairs, they took it and found themselves back in the dust-swirled ruins where they had begun. Twilight cast long shadows over the tops of the stones, cooling the air in the labyrinth quickly. Hero had left his torch behind, and without Claire’s supplies, they were soon plodding down paths in the dark.

Once they’d cleared the stairs, words came more easily. The farther they walked into the dark halls, the closer Hero and Claire drifted to each other. Words were harsh, stiff things between them, sparking like stones, but they walked, arms brushing together, in silence. The unnatural quiet of a world halfway to not there.

When they stumbled into the last dead end in a series of wrong left turns, Claire shook her head and slumped against a corner. “Let’s just rest here for the night.” Even immortal souls could get tired. Humans in the afterlife ate and slept, not because their bodies needed it, but because their sanity did.

“Dead end. How apt.”

“Don’t be dramatic.”

Hero grimaced and glanced around, as if looking for wood to make camp, but when nothing but hard earth and stone appeared, he sighed and slid down the opposite wall. Nervous hands, without a task to busy them, played over his knees.

“You should have seen the castle,” Hero finally said.

Claire tensed, uncertain where his thoughts were taking him. Her mind flashed on the cabin in the woods and the handsome boy with the bow, and she opted for a neutral answer. “Is that so?”

“It was the kind of thing I think you would like. Big library, all the creature comforts. None of this hardscrabble adventuring for me. I had a manse, servants. Fluffy bed, a lovely study, and the most charming wine cellar you’ll ever find…”

“A rags-to-riches aristocrat, then?”

“Not quite. Rebellion is easy. Being clever, striking out where it hurt… I was good at that, as you might expect. We were so virtuous, so confident in our rightness. Being right is easy, but then ruling is… complicated.” Hero looked thoughtful before reverting to the shrug that Claire had begun to recognize as carefully crafted carelessness. “I prefer the term ‘philosopher king.’”

“Of course you do.” Claire’s lips curled into a smile. “What possible motivation could you have to be a villain with a life like that?”

“I never felt like the villain. We were overthrowing a corrupt system, me and Owen. We were going to fix everything. And then he was killed, and I didn’t want revolution; I just wanted revenge. And then… you turn around one day and realize you have a kingdom that hates you, no matter what you try to do. You begin to hate them a little too.” Hero quieted for a long moment. “I thought I could change it for the better, you know. Make her see the truth of it, see what a world she was wasting.”

He wasn’t speaking of Owen anymore. Claire didn’t have to ask what “her” Hero referred to. For an unwritten book, there would only ever be one “her” or “him.” The one who’d failed to let him live. Claire half expected him to say more, but the topic of his own book seemed to unsettle him. His gaze went distant and lost at some point over Claire’s shoulder.

Watching him withdraw, Claire became aware of a muted, sympathetic twist in her chest. And then, to her surprise, some of her own grief began to thaw. She’d be a hypocrite to dismiss it now. She studied him for a long moment. “Your author must have thought of you often.”

Dark green eyes blinked, and Hero returned from his thoughts in a daze. “Why do you say that?”

Lightness felt wrong in a place like this, so she offered a shrug instead. “There’s a lot of things that can wake up a book. But one theory is books are pulled awake by their author’s dreams—believe me, I know how that can go wrong. But to wake up and take shape like you did, to escape despite the Library’s precautions and find her so fast. You’re just so”—Claire made a vague twirl of her hand—“alive.”