Beowulf; or, the Justifications of Toxicity

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An Essay

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Is a book a classic only because of the period it has been written in? Countless works have been hailed as incredible classics when many find them dull, foolish, or poorly written. From the over-hyped Romeo and Juliet to the ridiculousness of Dostoevsky’s “The Idiot,” many fictions that are revered truly lack anything that makes them overly special. What would the general public say if they knew Romeo had been in love with someone else before Juliet? Or that the prince in The Idiot was truly a calculating politician? Beowulf does not deserve its praise, for it lacks any true emotion, plot, or well-defined characters, but instead dives far too deep into the male psyche, and their obsessive need for glory, fame, and fortune. Not only that, in fact, but also degrading female roles into either docility or villainy. 

Foremost, Beowulf lacks any true emotion or plot. Rather than display human vulnerability, or our tendency to err, the text only showed their bravado, confidence, and fear. No true happiness was felt, for no true sadness was borne. “Solitary, salt-scourged, he swam screaming over open ocean, Ecgtheow’s son repatriating grief-stricken to homeland.” (Line 2369, page 102). Rather than create an atmosphere of grief, or have Beowulf show any such in his actions, rather, they (The translator) said it once and then decided that must be enough to prove his sadness, for men show only strength. The sexism of this text showed once again, as they then spent a paragraph detailing how, in the wake of the battle that caused Beowulf to swim to safety that her [Hygd] husband died in, she did not even mourn him, as the author attempted to show women in the light of mercenaries, any negative emotion but rage a weakness to be exploited. The plot remained helpless to the emotionlessness of the texts, the book progressing in a series of exponentially convenient events. The first six pages (a costly amount in a 136-page poem) were merely background information, the majority of which was useless and had little to do with the main character, Beowulf, for whom this book was named. When Beowulf comes, he is honored oddly fast for a man coming to a foreign king bearing an army fit to destroy the king’s own. Rather than be fearful, they believe him unconditionally for their desperation and his silver tongue, following that by calling the king a “good king,” a recurring theme that was only precluded by shows of “manliness,” such as violence. No king was revered for their intelligence, but rather, for their ability to fight and win. The sexism was especially prevalent in, “He has no verve, no urge to visit beds, no wish to father a new son, now his firstborns dead.” (line 253, page 106). This displays the author’s contempt for men who show their grief, following a child’s death, displaying the activities they felt he should be doing before carelessly mentioning the cause of his reluctance. This is unempathetic, and frankly, quite disgusting that they believe a man is only allowed to be considered as such unless he does the aforementioned acts that can, in some and most circumstances, be considered sins to the Bible, for which this book mentions in droves. Following this was the unrealistic following of speeches. The characters would often have rather long-winded speeches, lasting for several pages, that they could have said “quickly?” One character, after Beowulf is killed, is passing by, on horseback, giving a speech about Beowulf’s death that lasts for six pages. Six. How is it possible that this speech could have been said, while on horseback nonetheless, for all to hear? Most would hear only a portion that would be out of context unless they decided to race after him to hear the end of his speech. That is highly unrealistic, even for a fantastical novel such as this, because though it may meddle in the affairs of magic, it is still grounded with earthly laws. 

Following this, it is paramount to mention that the characters of Beowulf lacked definition. They were merely caricatures, mockery of humanity unnamed. Beowulf, rather than being shown as a character with thoughts, feelings, and a past, was shown as a superhuman figure incapable of err, but rather prone to boast. The definition of a hero has been debated for hundreds of years, over whether it references deeds, or perhaps the character of them, but a common theme among heroes of the past is strength and bravery. The myth of Theseus and Ariadne is flagrant with such ideas, calling Theseus a hero despite his abandonment of Ariadne, and then marriage to her younger sister. His later actions were considerably horrific, from the kidnapping of a child for future marriage to the murder of his son. Could such actions be considered heroic? While it may seem I have wandered upon a tangent, the principle remains the same. Can a man be considered a hero considering his actions that lack heroism? Many of Beowulf’s actions could be considered positively villainous, even those that are meant to show his strength. The murder of the dragon, while written to appear justified, was hindered by the previous explanation that a man stole from her, and when she tried to warn all others away from her, they came to kill her for not allowing them access to the treasure she has spent centuries amassing. Are we meant to lynch billionaires who do not give as much to the public or charity as we’d like? This has value, even today. Beowulf’s character was a mere caricature of masculine heroism, while the only character that retained their emotional and historical value was the main villain of this tale, the dragon, who was then killed for attempting to defend herself and her home. The king also was mentioned merely to state that after his son’s death, he had no wish to do “manly” things, such as kill, or sire other children. The oddity of such a thing would not hold in the modern day, as a man who lost his firstborn would be justified in any refusal to have other children for grief or participate in bedsport as well. “Is there laughter in far-off places, at me, and at my men?” (line 474, page 23). This line displays his lack of regard for the lives lost to the first villain of this tale, Grendal, instead focusing on the shame it might cause him if others realized his plight. The characters of Beowulf, therefore, lacked any definition and were rather caricatures of toxicity and selfishness than true people. 

In addition, Beowulf was horribly sexist towards women. Sexism is defined by the Oxford Dictionary as, “Prejudice, stereotyping, or discrimination, typically against women, on the basis of sex.” Not only did they acknowledge within the definition that sexism is usually done towards women, but they also mentioned the stereotypes usually thought of as related. For example, “Heorogar, Hrothgar, Halga, and I heard he hand-clasped his daughter (her name’s a blur) to Onela.” (line 60, page 5). From the beginning, they establish a theme of female inferiority, even going so far as to say they did not know who married the great warrior Onela, for she was merely a woman to be his wife, not anyone of importance. Her name was a blur. “Hygd tried to quicken him with the throne, offering him gold, gemstones, a potent position, a life less lonely.” (line 2370, page 102). Hygd was a mercenary, her only goal being the protection of herself and her son. Not only that, but instead of having Hygd offer a mere prize if he returned to rule, she offered herself, degrading not only her position but her honor and mourning. Her mind was not mentioned, nor her cunning or intelligence, only her beauty and wealth, as they seemed to be the only things that made her valuable. Such an argument or point of view can be a picture-perfect definition of sexism and the demeaning of an entire gender within those few sentences. Continuing upon this line, Beowulf’s mother is never mentioned, yet his father is mentioned at least once every two pages, as they refer to Beowulf consistently as “Ecgtheow’s son.” This showed how the author believed women to be unimportant to the memories and development of children, and as adults, usually find themselves lacking their mother’s aid, so that the women who raised them might fade to obscurity. According to the Healthway Medical Group, “A mother plays multiple roles in a child’s development, as she is a teacher in every aspect of a child’s developmental growth – social emotional, physical, cognitive and independence.” If mothers remain so essential to a child’s development, why was her role demeaned in her absence throughout the book? Beowulf mentioned his father teaching him to be brave and to fight like a soldier, yet he mentioned not his mother, even though due to societal constraints at the time, we can assume not only he had one but was raised by her. Also, Grendal, who is often hailed as one of the main villains of the novel, was easily felled by Beowulf within a paragraph. However, Grendal’s mother necessitated an entire battle, armed to the teeth, saved only by luck and the will of God. Beowulf admitted she was a terrible foe to face, while with Grendel, he boasted about the ease of the kill. To describe Grendel’s mother- for she was nameless but for the son she sired- they said, “Now his mother was here, carried on a wave of wrath, crazed with sorrow.” (line 1274, page 56). They made it so that the only way a woman could possibly best or dare to fight a man is when they have gone insane from the death of a male family member. Can such a novel that supports these hapless and foolish attempts at sexism truly be considered a classic?

However, some might argue that Beowulf has examples of heroism, and bravery, and allows for analysis into male psychology. Indeed, they might quote, “ The horror wasn’t muted by the measure of women’s strength against man’s brawn. Both can hold slaying swords, glazed with gore, and score the boar crests from their war helmets, warming them with blood.”  (line 1284, page 57). However, this was precluded by descriptions of Grendal’s mother’s thirst for blood, followed by a disdainful explanation of women’s lack of honor on the battlefields. A single quote that is then argued upon by the same novel from whence it came is hardly an example of the beauty of this poem. Furthermore, they could possibly mention Beowulf contains themes necessary for understanding the time, perhaps portrayed in, “War was the wife Hrothgar wed first.” (line 63, page 6). This showed how they valued battle, for they had preceded this by mentioning how Hrothgar was a good king who destroyed his father’s legacy in order to build his own. In this, we could find a reason to argue as to whether or not war should be a thing that is worshiped so highly, however, we cannot argue that Beowulf does introduce the themes and semantics of the time, and so, that point cannot be argued. However, other books were written during that time (6th-10th century, approximately) such as Book of Fixed Stars (Year 964), Deor (Year 975), and many others that followed. If the only point that supports Beowulf is its representation of the time, many other books can and have as well. So why is Beowulf any better?

In conclusion, Beowulf does not deserve to be considered a classic of our time, with far too much sexism, no emotional depth within its characters, and a lacking plot as well. The heroes showed villainous traits, and the villains were far too human, and could only be thought of as the anti-heroes of the plot. Women’s role was heinously degraded, the entire gender forced into a single box that was meant to represent us all. Beowulf was a caricature, a man borne only to show heroism rather than be a true man at all. History is so much more layered than what they attempted to show, and that gray area exists as well. It is not merely black and white. While I cannot argue that Beowulf might have been a wonder for its time, now, in this era, Beowulf has truly lost its value. How can we progress if our minds, our entire idea of classics are still stuck not only in the past but in its outdated stigmas that we have come so far from? We are more than our past, and that is all Beowulf is. A poem that would do well to be forgotten in the shadows. 

Works Cited

Britannica. “Beowulf | Summary, Poem, Characters, Monster, Analysis, & Facts.” Britannica, 7 March 2024, https://www.britannica.com/topic/Beowulf. Accessed 18 April 2024.

Headley, Maria Dahvana. Beowulf: A New Translation. Farrar, Straus and Giroux, 2020.

Healthway Medical. “A Mother’s role in early childhood development.” Healthway Medical, 17 April 2020, https://healthwaymedical.com/a-mothers-role-in-early-childhood-development/. Accessed 18 April 2024.

Oxford. “The Oxford Online Dictionary.” Oxford English Dictionary, https://www.oed.com/?tl=true. Accessed 18 April 2024.

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Beware! & Perchance,

Poetry on Human Emotion and Allegories by Sara Aziz

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Beware!

A mountain torn asunder,

A flash of lightning, filling the sky with white fire, the rain the tears of angels, as they weep for every lost soul that has cursed this wretched land!

Beware!

Beware the grass of poison, beware the hanging trees, their branches arms, their knots tearful eyes, as they weep for lost redemption!

Beware!

Beware these souls who wander the empty plains, searching for the final piece that eluded them in life, an obsession so great they cannot see they have withered and died, they have left their bodies behind, unknowing, yet searching, forevermore!

Beware!

Beware the wretched souls that haunt us, their immorality a black veil of grief as they shadow us all with their empty broken hearts of black and death, screaming of horrors like the demons of hell!

Demons, beware! Beware for every soul still guided by God’s hand, and when we die, may our actions stand behind us on our rights, a bright and shining light, so that may we stand tall again, in a life after this, so that may we stand tall again beyond the Gates of Heaven, and the Gardens of God!

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Perchance,

Perchance my soul will flame alit, with loving words and tender kiss, of mother’s love, and fathers pride, that give me hope, of a world beyond,

Perchance my soul will soar so high, the likes of which make angels cry, as I grow a heart, like a blooming rose, a pile behind me of actions grow, upon my right, not on my left, and so I beam with soul a-lift,

Perchance my heart will miss a beat, as I wait for love to look my way, perchance my heart will grow and brighten, leaving me warm like a roaring fire,

Perchance my mind will blank-or pause- before a rush of doubts and words will fall, perchance your mind might draw up plans, of the life you wish for, of the life you demand,

Yet perchance your soul will be snuffed and cold, a suffocation of sorts, a tale so old,

Perchance your heart might be torn in two, waiting for life to come to you,

Perchance your mind might well up with doubts, like a river of fear, a mountain of mistrust,

Perchance can mean a million things, a hope, a dream, a doubt, a sin.

Perchance life will find you,

Perchance it won’t,

Perchance you fall in love,

Perchance your heart will be torn in two,

A rhyme they sing in a meadow of frolic, and like the tick of a clock, your perchance will never stop, ’till you stand in that crowd, and take a deep breath, as the voice in your mind screams ‘Perchance, Perchance,’ till you smile and wave, and take the first step, till the voice in your head just fades away, and yes, you are vulnerable, and yes, you can be hurt, but you will never know, what will happen, ’till you walk up and say,

“Hello.”

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I hope you enjoyed my poetry, and please like and subscribe!

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Chapter VII- People of Stone and Ash

By Sara Aziz

Hey readers, hope you enjoy Chapter 7, and please like and subscribe! This will be the last chapter I publish over summer break, but I will continue the story after the start of the new school year!

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We continued to walk, the silence suffocating. Damien was near the front when Aleksandr suddenly stopped.

“What are you doing, you psycho?” Alyona nearly shrieked as she stumbled into him.

He have her the gesture to be quiet, than muttered in a sharp voice,

“Will you be quiet.”

“EXCUSE ME? MY FEET ARE FREEZING, I’M HUNGRY, AND YOUR JUST STOPP-“

Aleksandr lunged over to clamp a hand over her mouth, his gaze warning. He nudged a head to the bushes.

Someone was spying on us.

Alyona stilled, and Aleksandr removed his hand as he crept towards the bush, slowly unsheathing his knife. He crouched next to it -the next movements were really to fast comprehend- but I think Aleksandr grabbed the person and threw them to the ground, because they were struggling against his grip as he pinned them. Walking closer, I saw he was a boy, around the same age as me. His hair was a dark brown with black streaks, and his skin was a sort of bronze, like the people who lived in the foreign kingdoms. He opened his eyes, revealing a silvery gray color, like the portrait frames back home, and suddenly, I felt a cascade of homesickness. Shoving that to the side, I stepped back so that Alyona could have a closer look at the sneak.

As she leaned towards him, he began to yell, seeming to have finally regained his senses.

“Get off me! Get off me, you brute! You lummox! You scoundrel of the lowest order!” He went on ranting as Aleksandr quickly tied him, then rose as we moved back a step.

“Thieves! Bandits!” He continued shrieking, almost hysterically.

Aleksandr leaned towards him and muttered something in his ear that had the color draining from his face. He gulped, then turned to look at us, his eyes darting to us, then our surroundings, trying to find somewhere to run no doubt.

“Wh-Who are you?” His voice was quiet, and very scared. I winced at the fear in his voice, hating I was one of the causes of it. He didn’t know who we were, what was going on, or what amount of danger he was in. Almost involuntarily, I walked towards him and knelt next to him.

“We aren’t going to hurt you,”

“We won’t hurt you, I promise.”

He looked at me, his eyes wary, but hopeful. Unsure as well.

Finally, he let out a breath and said.

“My name’s Ishaan. What is yours?”

“Annamaria. But you can call me Maria.”

He turned to look at the rest of us looming over him.

“Then who are you?”

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She was still kneeling next to me, her skin radiating warmth in the terrible cold. Her hair shielded her face, her porcelain skin as pale as the snow that surrounded us. With her delicate skin, dark hair, and deep red eyes, she looked like a Rashkinka doll from back home, like my little sister used to play with. It was meant to stay on the shelf, but she loved that doll anyway.

The excitable brunette came closer and smiled at me, her brown hair matching her eyes like a forest.

“My name’s Alyona. Do you mind if I check for injuries?”

I immediately recoiled as she outstretched her hand.

“I don’t like being touched.”

Her eyes were startled, before looking at the dark-haired woman rising next to me, obviously hoping her friend could give her some explanation. Then, her eyes lit up, sparkling with a mischievous glint I used to see every time Charun dragged me into another of his plots.

Charun.

My best friend.

वह ईश्वर के बगीचे में सदैव ऊँचा चलता रहे

“Where are you going then, Ishaan?”

“Anywhere you’re not.”

“Then you’re out of luck, Ishaan. Because you’re going to be our guide.” Maria whipped her head up to stare at her as everyone else in her group glared. Alyona’s smile was serene as the brute that had tackled me leaned forward to growl,

“This is not your choice, Alyona. Your whims cannot determine our safety.”

“You think he is a danger to us? Don’t make me laugh. He is travelling on his own, seems to understand the terrain, and most importantly, he’s our only option.”

I decidedly already knew I despised people choosing my future for me, and this brown-eyed brunette wasn’t going to command me anymore than they had.

I felt a small hand on my arm, and I looked down to see a scarred, white hand clasping my arm.

Please. You’re our only hope of getting there within the next week. I’m begging you.”

I didn’t know what was so special about one week, or why they had to be there, but she was obviously desperate, and the tugs at my conscious did not to allow me to refuse. She and Alyona didn’t seem like bad people, after all.

“Where do you want to go?”

“Hirhol.”

Hirhol. A city of ghosts and graves.

“I’ll take you”

“No. It’s not safe, Maria.” A boy with hair as black as hers and golden eyes stepped towards her, his eyes soft as they looked at her before hardening as he turned to glance at me. They were obviously friends, and he seemed determined to protect her.

“For once, Aleksandr’s right.” The large brutes sputtering at the golden-eyed one was almost enough to make me laugh.

“We can’t trust him.”

“Really Damien, I highly doubt it.”

Damien. Alyona. Aleksandr. Maria.

“Who are you?” I asked the one hanging near the back.

“Levka.”

“Mikhail,” The other one supplied, stumbling a bit as he quietly clutching a stack of books like his life depended on it. Levka had words tattood on his arm, I saw, as his sleeves rolled up when he went to help take some books from Mikhail, who was beginning to struggle.

There is no home in life, but in death, there you will find eternal peace

The Ten Skulls

Hmm. I narrowed my eyes at the still arguing Damien and Maria as both of them decided my fate again, taking it from me.

“Why can’t she choose?” I asked.

“Because Maria doesn’t know what she’s talking about.” He almost shouted the words, fear bleeding from the broken edges of his voice, like glass. But glass is double edged.

Break glass, and you bleed.

“I can take care of myself.” Her voice was curt, and he winced before rubbing the back of his neck and sighing.

“Fine. If Maria really believes he’s harmless, he’ll be our guide.”

Aleksandr looked like he was about to choke, his face was so blue, as Maria knelt again and untied me, her hands feather soft.

She stood and held out a hand to help me rise. They don’t know who I am. Perhaps it is best that way.

Perhaps.

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Ishaan was quiet as he led us through a towering forest, the green mixing with the suns setting pink and orange hues, reflecting upon the white of the crisp, pure, untreaded snow to create a picture so enchanting, a thousand words of a thousand writers couldn’t not have described, nor could a painter have captured it, the darkness of an eternal night now melding with the light and sun of day, creating the best of both worlds.

‘That sounds wrong,’ I thought. I explain a lot of things wrong, don’t I?

Levka stood next to me, his arms carrying many of my books.

Friend.

Maria walked near the front, glancing back every now and again to make sure I was alright.

Friend.

No book could have described what it felt like to care, and to have someone care. It felt like a single misplaced word could ruin everything, and also like they could destroy everything you own, and you will still love them. Friends,

Friends,

Friends.

Ishaan stopped for a moment as the sunset began to end, the darkness beginning.

“Why are you stopping?” Aleksandr’s irritated voice broke in.

“The sunset is about to be over, and I wish to see it.” His voice was calm, and his face was serene. Once the sun had faded and the moon finally took its place in the sky, Ishaan continued to walk, footsteps forming in the snow from each fall of his boots, leather and thin. He wore a green shirt that had seen better days, each blow of the wind a whip upon my heavily prepared self, but Ishaan didn’t even flinch, his tranquility at odds with the hysterical boy Aleksandr had tackled earlier. We must have walked for hours, my legs growing tired quickly, each step a struggle. Alyona collapsed, but Aleksandr quickly caught her and carried her through the rest of the wood, her breaths thin.

“How much longer?” He finally barked at Ishaan after hours of peaceful silence.

All Ishaan did was point. And there, down the hill, was a city, fortified with walls of stone.

Hirhol.

A city of ghosts.

“If you can get inside, I can take you too a…friend of sorts, who can help you get anywhere in the city.”

“What do you mean, if we can?”

“Hirhol is one of the most well-fortified cities on the planet, and they plan to keep it that way. Immigrants and refugees are guarded against with a ferocity that is well-known throughout the educated countries.” His smooth jab at Jeterna in his calm voice was enough to make Aleksandr clench his fists, Alyona narrow her eyes, and Damien growl.

Patriotism.

I never was one for it.

“We aren’t refugees or immigrants, though.” Alyona told him, her voice a tad cooler.

“Then what are you?” He had a slim eyebrow raised, his voice genuinely curious. Maria hurried to stand next to him.

“We are nothing and we are no one. We’re just looking for someone.”

“Who?”

This was going into dangerous territory.

“My father. Marco Lopez.”

“I’ve heard of him! He’s a neurobiologist?”

“Yes. He went missing a few months ago.”

Ishaan nodded, apparently satisfied with her answer. They didn’t seem to notice the tremble in her voice, the way her fingers flexed, like she wanted to curl them.

We’re entering a city of ghosts, I reminded myself, as we walked down the hill.

Everyone has a secret,

and skeletons are stacked high.

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We stopped in front of the gates, the iron and stone a mockery of my lies. Everything was flashing in my mind, in front of my eyes.

Missing.

Alive.

But most of all,

a grave I visited, a grave I buried, near the riverside.

A stone, blank and curved marked the spot. The wind had rustled when I went to see it, the willow leaves fluttering violently, just like at her funeral. The river was a rushing torrent behind me.

“You said you’d always be there.” My voice was broken, as I looked up to see my father.

He stood in front of his grave, a soft smile on his face as his black curls fell into his eyes just like they had whenever we played tag among the fir trees back home.

He would throw his head back and laugh, a booming sound that resonated all throughout the fields. Then he would pick me up, spin me around, and call me his angel.

“Sometimes people lie, don’t they?”

He nodded sadly.

“I never meant a thing to you, did I?” My head was bowed, my voice thick, as I struggled to hold back my tears.

“I never meant a thing to you. If I had, you might have stayed.”

He shook his head, reaching towards me, arms outstretched, and with a strangled sob, I launched myself at him. But when I opened my eyes, he was gone, and all I held was a broken dream and a thousand memories, in front of a shallow grave.

“Who are you?” A man barked at us from the gate, his black hair with a streak of white gleaming in the sun like a horrid skunk creature.

“We are foreigners, good man, and we wish to enter the enlightened city.” Ishaan’s voice was cold.

“Is that you, Kaur?” A man called down, standing at the top of the gate, this one with gray hair and brown eyes.

“Good day, Robir,” He called back.

“मैं उस पास का उपयोग करता हूं जो गेट ने उनके लिए दिया है, अच्छा प्रबुद्ध शहर।” There was a pause, then,

“Let ’em in!” The guard called.

The gates creaked open, and we walked in, feeling more than a bit apprehensive as the gates clanged behind us.

“That was easier than I thought.” Damien said with a smirk even I found annoying.

“Yes. Easy.” Ishaan’s voice was clipped, and the corners of his eyes tightened.

What had he said?

Mikhail sidled up next to me.

“I wonder what the pass of the gate means.” he murmured.

“What pass?”

“You didn’t understand him?”

“No! What did he say?”

“I use the pass that the gate has given for them, good illuminated city.”

I paused, digesting that rather strange bit of information.

“I guess we have our own little mission in Hirhol now, don’t we?”

He gave me a broad smile before trotting to the front to walk with Levka.

My smile slowly faded as we made our way through the streets.

“I have a friend who can help you in there,” Ishaan nodded his head toward a building.

The Queens Inn, Best Beds in Town!

A rowdy dance, a man laughing near the fire.

Two step,

Three step,

Twirl,

Bow.

“Come on, angel!”

My father spun me around on the floor as my mother danced behind us, singing an off-key tune.

“Good night, honey,” She whispered as I fell asleep.

Waking up to her leaving.

“Go back to sleep.”

“Mama?”

“Go back to sleep.”

Her face was blurry.

“Go back to sleep.”

The streets were near empty as we walked, and the ones who were there kept there heads ducked and wore clothes that seemed to blend with the walls of stone.

I’ve been here before.

It was different, though.

“Where do you want to start looking for Maria’s father?” Ishaan asked, making me almost wince at the reminder of my lie.

“We’ll start at the palace,” Damien said confidently. Ishaan stopped abruptly, then he burst out laughing, the walls and ground seeming to absorb the beautiful sound, free and bright.

“Very few people can just waltz right in.

“You said the same about the gates,” Alyona pointed out,

“And look how easy that was.”

His calm smile never once wavered.

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“No.”

That was the only response we got from those guards.

No.

Ishaan gave us a small bow as he turned, his eyes dancing with amusement, as though to leave.

“Where are you going?” Maria asked.

“You wanted a guide into the city, and now I have been one. And besides, I have told you where you can find help. You will be fine. ” He gave her a faint smile as he backed away, then whirling around so as to walk forward, straight into a city of silence.

I cradled my books even more protectively, already missing the calm presence of Ishaan Kaur.

“What will we do now?” Alyona’s voice was thin, her eyes bordered with silver.

Maria’s smile was just as thin, but she pointed at a large building with faded words that I couldn’t make out.

“When in doubt, just go to the library.”

Her steps were light and quick, a hopeful glint in her eye replacing the small smile she had before. She pushed open the doors quietly, and a small woman looked up from behind a cart. It was piled with old classics from civilizations long gone.

Crime and Punishment.

Bleak House.

Great Expectations.

War and Peace.

Notes from the Underground.

Pride and Prejudice.

A hundred stories of a hundred lives.

“Hello, strangers.” She had a soft, feathery voice that seemed like it would rip or break with the softest wind. Her eyes were a pale blue, rheumy and deep.

“Welcome to my library.”

Aleksandr tensed.

“This is useless. Why are we here? We are merely following the orders of an untrained little girl! When you all come to your senses, I will be trying to find some actual information.”

With those words, he turned and stormed out, Alyona sending Maria a regretful smile as she followed him, Damien, and Levka out.

“Mikhail, you coming?” Levka called from the doorway.

“Yeah.” I turned to give Maria one last glance, and saw her staring after us, the slight wind pushing her hair across her face, her eyes flashing. And then she turned and vanished into the endless, dark stacks of the library.

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“Wait, child!” The old woman cried, her legs creaking as she relied on a old wooden cane. I stopped, barely inclining my head so as to see her.

“Seems you can appreciate the beauty of the written word, and the wisdom of those who are now gone.”

A riddle.

“When the dead speak, I shall listen, but till then, may I stand and fight.”

“Well aren’t you a clever one. 1000 Breakable Things, by Zarai Kernati.”

I turned at that, a faint smiling pulling at my lips.

“You like to read.”

“And you like to listen.”

With a purpose in her steps, she walked over to a shelf behind me, well-organized yet dusty. She pulled out a black book, the cover laced with blue. In faded white letters, it said,

Soulseers.

I knew that title.

It was the first book banned in Jeterna since the Brother came into power.

“People are afraid of knowledge.” I said, raising my eyes to hers.

“And yet when they need it, it is always there.”

“Yeah. Frozen Dreams by Carilque Shrinkiha”

“Your friends did not seem to appreciate the value of books.”

“No, they didn’t.”

“Don’t worry, dear. Even the most stubborn souls have a way of coming to see the right way, don’t they?”

Soulseers

Looking back up, she was gone. I found my way to a moldy looking table, and pulling out a weak chair, I sat down and opened the book.

With so many mystical and magical things in this world, perhaps the rarest and most beautiful things would be the Soulseers. Capable of seeing the soul in a human body, they can predict how dark or light a soul will become and can tell every truth you tell from the lies. But darkness also controls them. To see a soul means you can steal a soul. Stealing a soul means you can take on their memories, become that person, if only in mind. But every time you steal a soul, a part of your own is permanently damage

The words were suddenly blotted out. Blinking, I turned to the next page. It was blank. I flipped through the pages, suddenly frantic, looking, but everywhere was blank. Sighing, I closed the book and stood up. Walking back over to the cart she had been standing next to when we walked in, I pulled out Little Women.

Christmas won’t be Christmas without any presents…”

_______________________
As Aleksandr trudged on, I glanced back at the library, and suddenly, I felt angry.

“Where are we going?”

He shrugged.

“So you just dragged us out here, separated us, and you have no actual plan?”

He shrugged again, and for some reason, this just made me even angrier.

“Why do you hate her? She never even did anything to you!”

“You don’t know anything, Alyona.” His voice was ice as he whirled around to face me, his eyes fire.

“Hey, guys?” Mikhail’s timid, scared voice was enough to make Aleksandr look at him. His face was worried and pale.

“Where’s Damien?”

_____________________________________________

It took me 15 years to discover I had no talent for writing, but I couldn’t give it up, because by then I was too famous.

Robert Benchley