"Remember the oath you swore upon, and the back of the hand your lips touched. Heed our desperate cries, and become the author, Archivist."
4th December 1924
Another day to live, another day wasted.
It was only a matter of time until his mind lost it completely. The lone scholars who sought the truth would inevitably stumble upon a dead end.
It was no different for Cael today. His mind was getting restless, and the illusion in his eyes was worsening by the day.
That night, he stared at the ceiling with an empty gaze as he lay on the bed. It was the only harmony he could have before the thin thread between reality and dream blurred.
He turned to his side to see that the "book" was still there. And he knew that it would never leave him. The book sat on top of the coffee table, beside the coffee he had brewed — losing its warmth by the minute.
He stretched out his hands and picked up the tome. There was a Latin word on the side of the book that read "Video. Scribo. Muto." Yet the meaning was vague, and the words inside the book were incomprehensible.
The pages revealed writing in a language unknown to man, and it had been the only fuel that kept Cael sane — the duty to receive validation, to achieve, and to be recognized.
"You're the only purpose that keeps me here. Yet you're the one who ruined me more than I could ruin myself."
The words slipped from his mouth; it felt like he had said that a thousand times — or perhaps every time.
He remembered the countless times he tried to get rid of the tome, by burning it, tearing it apart, and burying it in the earth. It always returned to his side, patient like a corpse, closer than a lover.
The silence was loud, and the only sound accompanying it was the French TV show he had forgotten to turn off.
Suddenly, there was a knock on the door.
Knock. Knock.
Who was sane enough to come knocking at someone's apartment in the middle of the night? But something told him that he knew the person behind the wooden door very well.
He approached the door, slowly opening it. A familiar silhouette could be seen, and he recognized the shadow immediately.
When the door was fully opened, there stood a man in the doorframe — a man in a white robe so long that it dragged across the floor. The man's eyes were covered by white silk, blinding him from what he was not meant to see.
"So it's you. What was your name again?"
The man didn't respond.
"Right. Not a talker. If you're going to help, at least say something."
Again, the man didn't respond. Instead, he pushed past Cael — walking toward the gospel. Cael muttered curses under his breath, but he didn't retort. Instead, he walked behind the man, observing.
The man stretched out his hand toward the tome. As the light flickered, the TV signal was lost, and the gospel glowed a bright red.
"Abun d-bashmaya, hab lan kashfā. "
Then the man's arm began to tremble slightly, a golden warmth of light appearing from his palm — fighting and clashing against the book's devilish authority.
Cael covered his eyes with the back of his arms, shielding himself from the blinding light.
When the chaos finally subsided, the man lowered his hand and turned to face Cael.
"The nightmare will not bother you for a while. The best you can do is wait and hope for a miracle."
Cael nodded.
"I understand. It seems that I'm still meeting a dead end," he sighed. "Is there anything you can tell me? Anything at all?"
The man was quiet for a long time until he spoke again.
"The spirit inside this book is not that of a mere demon. It is something completely different, and I doubt it is a demon at all. That's all I can tell you."
It was not the answer Cael anticipated, but something was better than nothing.
"Not a demon? I see... Thank you for your visit. At least... I will be able to sleep tonight."
The man nodded and walked toward the door. But before he left, he glanced over his shoulder. "It's Hafza. Remember it."
Cael nodded as the man left his apartment, closing the door behind him quietly.
He sat on the edge of his bed, running a hand through his messy hair. After years of constant illusion, could he really sleep at all? Even if the nightmare was gone for a moment, the feeling it left would never leave his soul.
Just as he was about to lie down, the gospel suddenly glowed dimly. A golden yellow seeped through the thin spaces between the pages — guiding him, encouraging him to turn the pages.
However, Cael hesitated. What if it was just a trap? What if the tome was luring him?
But as a scholar, this wasn't the time to be doubtful. Whatever happened, he had to make progress.
With that, he gathered his courage and slowly opened the pages. He was shocked to see that the words inside were distorting, scrambled all over the pages in patterns unrecognizable from their original state.
"What the hell..? That's not.. possible.."
He flipped through the pages, and every single one of them had the same defects, as if the book was trying to hide the truth from him.
As he kept flipping, he reached the last page. To his surprise, there was nothing written on the back — contradicting his own memory. He was sure that he had checked every page over and over again. But this... was an impossibility.
"A blank?"
But then he remembered — there was a quill that came with the book when he found it.
He ran to the desk and desperately searched for it inside the cabinet — throwing out anything in the way of his search. He then found it buried under a pile of research papers.
After retrieving the quill, he quickly went to the gospel again. But it quickly disappointed him when the ink used by the quill dissolved.
The truth was crushing, and he felt defeated once again. He was so close, yet so far.
In a moment of desperation, he looked down at his fingers — a hand that was not built for labor but had witnessed more than a slave's. But then, an idea struck him...
"Blood ink... do I really dare..?"
He looked at the gospel and then at his palm again. He gritted his teeth, determined to make every sacrifice necessary.
"If I failed today, let the sky be my witness!"
With a deep breath, he poked his finger with the tip of the quill. The pain was momentary, but he had sacrificed too much to stop now.
The question was: what to write?
He thought for a moment. It shouldn't be complicated to decide what to write. Perhaps a simple greeting? A philosophical quote? No, it should be far greater.
He remembered what was written on the book's cover. The Latin incantation. He knew not why he was drawn to the words, but it seemed to be the most rational option.
With that, he wrote the words that would begin a journey of time, as the words — "Video, Scribo, Muto" — were written.
And at last... the ink stayed.
That was enough to bring life to his eyes once again. He clutched the quill tightly and ran a hand through his hair — his heart full of pride and his expression starting to change.
"Ha.."
A single laugh, and then another, followed by a maniacal laugh that had been kept hidden through years of isolation.
In this moment, Cael felt like he finally belonged somewhere, finally floating in the vast sea of endless possibilities.
—Penning a new chapter...