Eclipse: The Awakening

One man. Darkness shrouds his figure. Only his hands are visible, folded before his lips in a contemplative pose. Perhaps he is thinking, perhaps his mind has drifted into places not meant for ordinary men. Cold puffs of air escape him, the only proof he is alive. But is he truly alive… or simply enduring? He doesn’t move. He sits perfectly still. Controlled, calculated, breathing slow, deep breaths and nothing more. Two windows. Floor-to-ceiling monoliths of glass. Crude in craftsmanship, but peculiar in their presence. The cold air clings to them like a second skin, veiling them in a thin layer of fog. The tall frames do not match but they oppose each other, as if forged by rival hands. Light from beyond seeps in. A pale, cold blue glow, but even that is not enough to pry the shadows away from the man’s silhouette. Three candles. They flicker weakly, fighting the room’s immense darkness. The windows offer nothing but blue emptiness, so the candles shoulder the burden of illumination. Yet the man remains half-hidden, swallowed by shadows that refuse to retreat. Stranger still, the candles do not drip wax. Not a single drop. How long have they been burning? Minutes? Hours? Longer? The man has been here for quite some time. It would be reasonable to assume the candles arrived with him… unless something else sustains them. Four bookshelves. They stand like sentinels in the corners of the room. Before, their shelves held tomes of ordinary knowledge. For each row of books, countless secrets lingered, unseen, untouched. And four times over, the library mocked anyone who was bold enough to approach. A reservoir of wisdom. A bookkeeper's dream. But what knowledge does a book have if its reader does not understand it? Before understanding, must the reader not ask what he intends to do with it? These four bookshelves sit silently, daring any soul brave enough to probe them. Five pages. Spread carefully across the table before him. Not a book, just five pages. What kind of knowledge can hide in so little parchment? Letters and symbols crawl across their surfaces, though I cannot tell if the man is reading them or reciting them like a prayer. Is he memorizing them? Or does he already see through the fogged windows that it is coming? The candles cannot protect him forever. The shelves whisper. They want their brother returned. Now is not the time to seek their secrets. The pages flutter. No wind. No hand. Time is up. A single exhale escapes him, longer and heavier than the last. He knows. I know. And now you know. The eclipse is at hand.