Gold in the Wreckage

it may sound absurd but don't be naive

even heroes have the right to bleed

Libraries, like this one, were characteristically somber and still, and that wasn't necessarily a bad thing. In fact, it was that sort of silence that his body came to crave somehow, after the strain of odd jobs pushing his being to and fro between towns. Settling here, between the small sectioned shelves and the books that huddled together, brought a warm calming feeling blowing over his person, like a meek forest breeze.

For Torian, solace was a sort of relief that, as much as he sought to take refuge in it regularly, was unavoidably hard to come by against the bustle of wizardry that constantly drowns Fiore in condensed noise - sounds that he could only hope to drone out every once in a while, much like that particular day, where the usual weights atop his shoulders appeared to strain him to a greater degree. Having been thrust into the complex structure of magic and a world that revolved around it so much that it caused his head to to buzz...it was a sort of setting that did little to fill the void in his head that his amnesia ultimately created.

So he'd find himself there, instinctively drawn by the call of isolation into the rural landscape of Peace Village. He'd spare himself a joke about how inviting the village name was, toss and turn it about in his empty head and manage a dry laugh at his poor attempt at humor. A little tasteless, if he may. Though it wasn't baseless. Torian could only hopelessly pine for whatever sort of peace the small rural town could offer to him, expectations or none, he'd be fine so long as it was a considerable distance from Magnolia or Talonia or Crocus or any place, really, that harbored the same loud babel of wizardy, still so foreign and bothersome.

His regular routine of checking the job boards permitted him to find the village and its coordinates, however, despite his desire to recoil away from responsibility of a wizard. A creature of habit, it seems, though Torian wasn't one to look a gift horse in the mouth.

The paper that caught his eye a few hours prior was a job written with precision and grace, as if the writer spent a good ounce of their time to outline but a simple request, which was finding a book with a golden spine, having been a childhood favorite. His arrival there was greeted by his client's withering smile, where he wasn't too surprised that it'd been an old lady to yearn for something from her distant past.

They'd have discussed it over tea, and the lukewarm taste of the atmosphere was still strong in his mouth, having recalled the conversation along with every detail that followed.

"It's a beautiful book...some sort of fairy tale collection...but I can't seem to remember the title..." he heard her say, words fading in and out of her own doubt, "I know that it has a gold spine...though...and you may tell me that there are perhaps many other books with similar designs, but that one..." she paused, her fingers fondly tracing the rim of her tea cup, "was special, and extremely so. I believe you'll know when you see it."

It was hardly anything substantial, he thought, given the magnitude of a library's possible collection. The odd job was to be particularly daunting if he didn't have a stable foundation to fund his search, which would have been the title. But then...he wasn't the sort of man to reject the client's hope for an outcome, even more so for the old woman, an energy wafting from her eyes that drastically contrasted the years that clung to her body, wrinkling her skin and causing her hair to gray and fall out.

It was motivating, needless to say, to see a vibrancy in her eyes that he came to lack in these long, tiring months.

'I suppose the object of your interest isn't here either.' the origin spirit said as Torian, largely unsuccessful in his attempts, 'How about the next shelf?'

'I could try...' he sighed, deftly pushing a book back into its place after he'd have scanned the contents. Though it had a similar, shiny spine, it detailed the life of frogs and he was sure that it wasn't the sort of fairy tale that children would adore. 'Is it still even here...?'

'Has to be~' the spirit chirped, his tone positive by nature, 'The majority of her life was spent here in Peace Village...I'd assume that this would be the only library in her childhood.'

'Could be.'

It wasn't an entirely impossible thought, nor was it hard to consider. Having decided so, the suggestion prompts the swordsman to tilt his body towards the adjacent shelf, the material of his hood creating a sharp outline for his figure, clashing slightly with the mute softness of the library walls.

it may sound absurd but don't be naive

even heroes have the right to bleed

Housed in that tiny, cloistered space was a melody that the library branded its own - the soft flip of pages and the flop of books from cover to cover, his shoes scratching against the carpet, making idle taps atop the wooden floorboards, and thick silence that organized the blend of elements far too nicely for his own good. For in the short moment he'd been there, the swordsman was already considering locating a small corner to indulge in a nap that he'd been helplessly devoid of, if not for the responsibility casually hunching his figure towards the book in his hands, scanning the contents intently.

As appealing as they were, the grandeur of Magnolia's history was anything but fanciful. Reality was something that children often liked to divert from in their spare time, he thinks, and slips the hard-bound back into the shelf. From his lips is an exasperated breath, his frustration manifesting as he fingered the bridge of his nose.

"24 books and I've yet to find it." he mumbled, idly glossing his fingers over the dips of the rowed books, feeling the textures of their spines. As he did so, he wondered if there was some sort of lever that he'd come across, perhaps an isolated spot where the especially treasured labels hid themselves to avoid aging - it wasn't at all an impossible proposal, but the chances of him actually encountering said lever is...particularly low.

As if seeking a momentary relief, the swordsman closes his eyes, his heartbeat slowing until it filled his ears, his being reveling in the sound until something else joins the sonata. The blonde stirs from his reverie to realize a small, barely there voice, the words fusing with the silence as it wavered in and out of various thoughts. Such a humble voice it was to warrant his attention, coaxing his legs to move a few steps forward to the line of shelves prior to his.

Despite the time of day that permitted sunshine, the library's small windows would cast both the slightest of light sources and thick, comforting shadows to compliment the scenic atmosphere. The cloak that he adorned so dearly atop his shoulders, caked in all of the journey's dust, allowed him to mold into place, a guise that made him 'part' of the library's existence. But there, cornered under but a prickle of light was a girl, a woman, a delicate presence among the normality of things where the frothy white of her hair against the simple grays of her clothes created an image that drove painters to their easel, or at least, that's how he'd put it. He was never poetic a man - but he felt his breath catch a little in his throat, hesitance breathing through his mouth as he wondered if it were to right to disrupt the girl's flow, his eyes briefly catching sight of her occupied state concerning a book between her fingers.

'Its not polite to stare, oh dear boy.' the origin chided, the sudden interruption coming off as jarring, enough to grant the spirit a small yelp from the boy and his blonde mop.

'S-shut up...I..was only admiring her from afar.' he reasoned out, peeling his eyes away, only to resume the act, then noticing the strange mask-like object sitting atop the top portion of her face, the carving and handiwork impressing him as much as the purpose escaped him - however both appeared to pique his curiosity.  

'Staring, you mean.' the spirit said, nudging the Chronicle walls as if urging Torian to pursue the notion of approaching even more, 'You could always talk to her, ya know. No harm done.'

His expression tightened at the thought, doubtful of his social skills, much less with beautiful young women who were more than several leagues away from where he saw himself at, 'I don't know...what if she doesn't open up to me or something?' he'd bite at his lower lip, 'Look at me, I'm nowhere in the right position to talk to someone like her.'

The Origin Spirit makes a low chuckling sound, his existence flickering back and forth, 'You put yourself down too often Tori, its time to step up or you'll end up a virgin forever.'

Torian steadied a gag that threatened to rise to his throat, tasting a bit of bile at the spirit's choice of words - though his amnesia robbed him of the entirety of his previous life and the people he should've come to cherish, it didn't impede his knowledge of things, and he was still the sort of man who could interpret his Origin's youthful vulgarity to a point.

He'd cringe, finding the match between the spirit's possible age and his language quite non-existent. It was the least expected behavior from a being that had supposedly reached heaven and traveled back into a mortal vessel...were all spirits in-tune with the times?

'It's not like I'm attracted to her anything...' he began, nodding to himself as the truth seemed to resonate within his chest, 'I just find her interesting...'

'Is there a difference?' he heard the spirit say, a tone both coy and playful, scheming beneath the transparent smile he always bore, 'I'd say there's not much.'

'I'm not an idiot.' the swordsman snapped, 'I'm well aware of the fine line between what I love and what I think looks interesting enough for me to give my attention.'

Despite the small inklings of hostility directed to him, the spirit shares a hearty laugh, amused at how responsive the vessel has become as opposed to the first few weeks of the memory loss. The Torian then was meek and lifeless, a baby sheep at best, trudging through a world so vague to him. It was a miracle to consider his growth in the weeks of their travelling..regardless if they've failed to recollect any of his memories.

'Alright, alright~' the spirit said, fondness turning his normally condescending tone of voice into something fatherly, 'But that's not an excuse for you to just stand there.'

A crease made its way up his brow, a stifled breath escaping his lungs as a compliment to his temporary state of cowardice, driven primarily by his feelings of inferiority, 'I know...okay? Let me just...take this at my own pace.'

The spirit huffs, imitating a shrugging motion with his shoulders, 'Hmm, hmm, suit yourself~'