This was my first roleplay as the character Mallek from the superhero "efed" Empire City. The character was that of a sorcerer who was born just decades shy after the fall of Camelot. His mother was a sorceress, which is where he got his arcane gifts from. His father was an elvish warrior which is where he got his eternal youth and immortal lifespan from.
I closed the double doors of the Great Library behind the final clients of the day, a small family of four, and turned the key to keep it sealed shut. It was now after the normal hours and if I were to handle this man’s business properly, I would have to do it with no further interruptions. I ushered them off as the pastor waited, albeit with a certain trace of outspoken impatience.
“This still makes no sense to me.” The pastor complained quite openly as I turned about to face the, ahem, gentleman. “Why I couldn’t have come during normal hours is...”
I fought hard to discourage the sigh of annoyance I felt rising within me and instead put forth my best expression of (mock) sympathy and interrupted him.
I said, “You will forgive me Pastor, but given the nature of what it is you’re here to see, I’m sure you can understand the caution I have to show.” I turned away from him before he could offer me up any further grievances about his so-called mistreatment and began to make my way toward the inner sanctum of the Library’s more – restricted, sections.
The pastor however, was not so easily deterred in his complaints, and dogged my steps as I led him further. He voiced himself with a certain trace of loftiness in his words, saying to me, “Still, making a man my age go this way when the pages could have been brought to me…”
It was probably a good thing that the Pastor couldn’t see the smile on my face, as I listened to him whine about his aged status. Truth be told, it does amuse me when I listen to people complain about the treatment they receive because of their age. I sometimes get tempted to see their reactions were I to reveal to them just how old I happen to be in comparison.
As we maneuver through the interior, past the wide oak desks where researchers and students sit to study from their hand picked volumes. I cast a glance back over my shoulder and watched as the Pastor turned his head here and there, taking in the spacious interior throughout. It was always easy to tell regular patrons from those that rarely set foot within these doors, as the massive inside drew their gazes from every direction.
Even after all of my years as the chief historian, I could still admit that the Library was impressive.
The very lobby we were now maneuvering through was like a gothic cathedral, built with a circular interior with a double staircase that led to an upper level. Along the walls, everywhere that you could see, were of course, books. Shelves lined the floor plan, and they too housed texts by the thousands. The shelves were fashioned by a polished, cherry wood oak, free as always from dust and glistening remarkably under the skylights in the dome above our heads. During daylight hours, it amazes me the construction built in those glass panes. No matter the hour of day, the sunlight shining in would cast its bounty across the entirety of the lobby and those within for their comfort and convenience.
Between the many shelving units lie desks by the dozens, fashioned by the same shelving oak and open to any who wish to use them but with no computers save for those that aid in patrons finding their desired book. The Internet might be permitted at other libraries within the city, but in the Great Library, you come for the literature.
This man of the cloth that followed me, looked as if he were looking upon the face of the One-God as he took in the architecture of the carved, mahogany pillars that stretched from floor to roof and arched over in that classic Roman style. Down each pillar were inscribed in Latin, blessings of the Roman church. Atop each pillar arch was the bronze carving of an eagle, its wings spread open wide and a writhing serpent trapped in one talon, a ring of laurels held in the other.
“Could you please tell me exactly where this text is?”
Hm, I should have known even the regal nature of this grand Library would not have deterred the Pastor from his grumbling.
“Just through here Pastor Vildebon.” I answered, stopping at a risen gate of polished bronze embedded with apache tear. I turned back to the gate and inserted a key into the lock and hearing the satisfying click of the lock release, I went on. “In the Archives for safe keeping until it can be determined whether it remain there or be made readily available to scholars.”
I pulled the gate open and stood aside, offering the Pastor the way. He started through but paused and gave me a look that spoke of deepest disrespect.
He said, “If it is indeed what you claim, it should be housed within the Church, not just a Library.”
I met his eyes with my own and said with no short amount of respect lacking in my own tone, I answered his challenge with my own. “That, I am afraid, will not happen. It is what I claim and it will remain here.”
“Hm.” Pastor Vildebon sneered. “We’ll see.” And he bypassed me into the Archives and I followed him, wishing I could bring myself to zap this man. Just … once. We began to descend the flight of steps to the lower chambers …
Admittedly, the Archives were nowhere near as grand as the rest of the Great Library, although it was nearly as large. It would take me a year and a day to list in detail the protected texts that line these shelves. Many ancient. All treasured. And perhaps most importantly, all originals. I felt a small sense of pride in the safe keeping of not simply these hallowed texts, but also the stored maps and other objects of knowledgeable wealth.
I watched as he poured over the ancient texts for what must have been the tenth time, acting as though he were unsure that I knew what I were doing when they were presented to him, or simply if he could not believe what it was that he was reading. I really should not be surprised. I’ve learned over the course of my lifetime that even the most humble of men can and usually do develop a heightened sense of superiority over their fellow man. That sense of superiority doubled when that man is one of faith. They become so assured of their own religious beliefs and intellect that they believe they must be the only one with any sense of sensibility. The only one around who knows what they are talking about, no matter the subject. Even if it were an avenue of discussion they had never taken before, they simply would assume that they knew better than you.
Pastor Adreas Vildebon, one of the city’s prominent pastors of the One-God faith, had heard about this world discovery and it’s delivery into Empire City’s borders and had to be the first of his flock to see it for himself.
The text that the Pastor was poring over with such a critical eye was the original translation of the Book of Enoch. A supposedly ‘lost’ entry of the Holy Scriptures, one deemed far too controversial for the Church’s flock, by the Roman Church itself.
The Book of Enoch described the fall of the Watchers, the angels who fathered the Nephilim. The fallen angels went to Enoch to intercede on their behalf with God after he declared to them their doom. The book described Enoch's visit to Heaven in the form of a vision, and his revelations.
Enoch contained descriptions of the movement of heavenly bodies, and some parts of the book have been speculated about as containing instructions for the construction of a solar declinometer, the Uriel's machine theory. But that in itself would be a lesson for another day.
“Blasphemy.” The pastor’s muttered curse drew my attention back to his person where he sat at the small desk with the book open before him. He removed his thin-rimmed glasses and dropped them onto the wooden desktop before slamming the text shut. “Vile sickness.”
He turned his body around so that he could face me as I leaned against an antique roll down desk. My arms were folded over my chest as my backside rested atop the edge of the roll down, awaiting the philosophical rant that I knew would come from such a religious leader as Vildebon having the faith he knew being questioned.
“I am sorry Pastor.” I said, trying to diffuse what would be an uncomfortable discussion I have had many times over with such men, and one I really have no particular desire to suffer through again. “What exactly is vile blasphemy?”
“These!” He spat, waving his hand towards the ancient book’s worn, leather cover. “These … vulgar, writings! It has no place in a building of knowledge like this! You need to…”
I left my small perch and stood up straight, not uncrossing my arms but I did approach the ranting cleric at his left as he continued to sit.
“I’m afraid not.” I interrupted and as I stretched my hand to reclaim the Book, the pastor ominously clapped a hand atop of it as if he were seeking to protect it from me. I pulled my hand back and sighed, this time rather openly. “I’m a historian. This Library was censored just the once since it was first created and it will not happen again. I don’t need to do anything but deal with facts.”
“This is not fact!” Vildebon practically screamed in my face as he leapt to his feet and directed a finger at the Book of Enoch, while stammering in my face. “It – its rubbish! Blasphemous lies and fairy tales! Fallen angels fathering a new race of people! Devilish insanity!”
His face was quickly deepening into a red complexion, which under this modest light made the frail man look more ominous than he possibly was. His eyes bulged behind his thick glasses and he argued, “How could you sit there and…are you of God!?”
I frowned, not certain I heard the man correctly. “Excuse me?”
His face took on a rigid firmness, assured now of himself and his, how do I phrase this without sarcasm – righteousness? He said through his teeth, “You heard me young man. Are you with the Lord?”
I raised my eyebrows and before I could stop myself, I found myself answering him, “Actually I was under the impression I was with you.”
I didn’t think his face could go any redder, nor his eyes wider, but apparently someone he perceives as younger making a joke about his faith and God went beyond my own perceptions on insult.
He stammered, spitting outward, “How dare…you! … You! Heathen!” He turned at the waist and snatched the Book of Enoch from its resting place on the desk and held it up, shaking it ominously in my face. “It is trash like this…lies…that has turned you from the face of God!”
He turned rather swiftly for a man, if you’ll pardon the pun, of his advanced age, and grasped both ends of the Book and started to pull. His intention was clear – to destroy this affront to his religious beliefs before any further harm could befall what he had been taught through the years.
“No!” I shouted and grabbed the book in my own hands and pulled it from his grasp! He made a feeble attempt to grab at it but I slammed the cover shut and took a single step back, my eyes now boring holes into his own. “You, sir, are to leave this institution immediately!”
“What!?” Pastor Andreas snarled indignantly. “Who do you think you…”
“I think I’m the chief curator of this Library. Leave. Now.”
Pastor Andreas growled, “I. Will. Not!” And he lunged at me, grabbing at the Book …
In an instant, the good Pastor found himself out on the pavement, on the concrete steps directly in front of the locked doors. I do wish I could see the expression on his face, wondering how exactly he got there.
Back inside of the Archives, I set the Book of Enoch back in it’s proper place on the shelves and turned back to the door to head upstairs and finish closing everything down and turn in. I reached the door and paused. There would of course be others like him who would see it as an affront to the One-God and would want to see it destroyed. I turned at the waist and pointed a forefinger and index finger toward the shelf.
“Exsisto occultus.” I whispered and the power emanated, caressing the Book of Enoch in what appeared as rippled air. The Book and it’s worn content slowly faded from sight and in its spot rested another text with aged paper and sigils along the creased spine.
Satisfied, I turned back away and left the Archives’ inner sanctum to it’s own.
