Chapter 8: Chapter 8: The Plagued

The atmosphere is far worse than she expected it to be.

The port city of Skrosocivo sprawls before them in a state of barely controlled decay, its buildings hunched against the bitter northern wind like wounded animals seeking shelter. Ice forms in the corners of windows and along the edges of gutters, while frost clings to every surface with stubborn persistence. The cold here cuts deeper than anything Ananke experienced in Hafen's temperate climate, seeping through her coat and settling into her bones with what almost feels like malicious intent.

“I’m telling you. Saw it with my own eyes, clear as the moon on a dead-sky night,” says the old woman by the water. “Just floating out there, like she did that night,” she says.

Ananke listens with half an ear to the old fisherman’s wife her master is talking to, asking about a local rumour they’ve heard a few times now. The rest of her focus is on this new environment. It’s so different from what she knows.

There’s a ghost story about a ship appearing on the waters sometimes, which isn’t unusual for a busy port city like this. But what makes this odd is that this is a ship of war, sunk over a year ago during the city’s defence.

Is this rumour related to why they’re here? She has no idea. But ghost stories are common. Even Hafen had its fair share.

People move through the streets, but they keep guarded distances from one another. Ragged coughing echoes from open windows above, and she watches pedestrians shuffle past in deliberate isolation, each harsh bark of illness creating an expanding bubble of emptiness as others hurry away with frightened urgency. The sound follows them down every street.

Rows of coffins of many sizes sit lined up at the harbour, stacked.

The port city's infrastructure is tight and chaotic, nothing like Hafen's organised districts and planned thoroughfares. Buildings lean against each other for support, their architecture a patchwork of necessity rather than design. The smell of the sea permeates everything, but it's tainted with the stench of rotting fish and unwashed bodies. Remnants of the war are curiously clearly visible in only some places she looks, from houses with gaping holes that were never properly repaired to deep craters in walls and roads where naval artillery once struck. But in other places, they are entirely absent of any markings of the war, as if segments of the city had just escaped without a scratch. It’s a confusing visual patchwork. The massive port bristles with cranes and loading equipment, but many stand idle, their operators either too sick to work or afraid of catching whatever plague has taken hold of the city.

Despair.

If there’s one word she would use to describe the atmosphere of Skrosocivo, it’s that. It’s a quiet, suffocating despair.

Ananke pulls her coat tighter around herself, walking close beside her master as they move on to navigate the labyrinthine streets as if he were well familiar with them already. “So how exactly are we going to stop a plague?” she asks, her eyes wandering from one pale, drawn face to the next. “There are so many people who are obviously ill.” The sheer scale of the crisis overwhelms her. This city is enormous, easily three times the size of Hafen. There must be thousands of visibly sick people just in the harbour district, not counting those who are hiding their symptoms while continuing to spread the disease to others.

“Every chain reaction must have originated somewhere,” her master replies, his breath forming small clouds in the frigid air. “Sometimes we need to address the problem at its source. Other times, we remain where we are and simply redirect the continuation of the problem elsewhere.”

Ananke thinks she grasps the concept, at least partially. “So who makes that decision?” she asks, stepping carefully around a patch of ice on the street. “I know we receive our assignments from someone above, but who is the person out there making those choices for us?”

He glances down at her with something that might be approval, despite her digging. “You're asking me again who exactly gets to decide whom we save and whom we allow to perish?” he says, translating her carefully diplomatic phrasing into stark, simple terms. Ananke nods, grateful that he's willing to engage such a difficult topic directly. “We have many different names for them. Chronomancer Vorskaya belongs to the church and calls them gods. Waldlaub believes they're spirits of the old world.” Ananke watches him as they walk, observing how he moves with his characteristic dancing grace even here. He weaves between something she can almost see, visible threads moving through the air, carefully avoiding contact with them. “My master's master insisted they were demons,” he notes, almost with strange curiosity in his tone.

“What?” Ananke asks quietly in a quick rasp, taken aback by this final revelation. “Demons?” she asks in a whisper. “Then why would he continue doing what they wanted?”

“Fear,” the Humming Man replies quickly and with devastating simplicity. “Fear of what they would do to everyone if he refused to follow their designs for some of the world.” They pass a coughing mother who clutches her children protectively as she hurries down the street, her face gaunt with illness and worry.

“…And what do you think they are?” Ananke asks, feeling increasingly disturbed by these competing explanations.

So the Twelve don’t even really know who they’re working for? They’re just doing what they’re told.

Her master looks at her thoughtfully, then returns his attention to the road ahead as they continue through the plague-stricken port city. “I know what you're really asking me,” he says. “I keep a tally.”

“I'm sorry?” Ananke asks, uncertain what he means regarding that latter statement.

“I keep a tally,” the Humming Man repeats, his voice carrying a tone she's never heard from him before. “Everyone I manage to save. Everyone I am… forced to bring to their fate. I keep careful count of both so that when I cannot sleep at night, I can examine where the balance lies and perhaps close my eyes a little easier.”

Ananke stops.

“So we at least save more people than we…“ she pauses, searching for the right phrasing, “- leave behind?” The question emerges hesitantly. She's not sure whether this should offer hope or despair, but perhaps if the final result is at least mathematically positive, it might be bearable.

The Humming Man nods slowly. “At least I manage to,” he explains, continuing to walk as she stops momentarily in the street. “And I sincerely hope that you will be able to say the same, Ananke.”

She stares after him for a moment, processing the implications of his words, then hurries to catch up. A butterfly drifts past her eyes, pushed along by the sea breeze. Her eyes curiously follow it until it vanishes into the city.

image [https://i.imgur.com/pUoDcs0.png]

As they continue through the diseased city, she finds herself turning her head frequently, seized by the persistent feeling that they're being observed. The sensation crawls along her spine despite the cold, a predatory awareness that makes her want to look over her shoulder. But every time she glances back, she sees only the same shuffling crowds of sick and desperate people, their faces turned inward toward their own suffering, apparently oblivious to the two chronomancers walking among them. She gets some odd looks now and then. But nobody ever seems to see her master.

Then she realises it’s because he’s not touching any of the threads. He’s avoiding them entirely and, so, avoiding his own being entangled with those of the people around him. Even if he’s physically here, he’s essentially invisible to them.

Still, the feeling persists. “Master,” says Ananke quietly, looking behind them at a figure in the close distance.

“I know,” he replies as they make their way down an alleyway toward a large square on the other end hidden within the nestled houses and port buildings. “Come,” he says, grabbing her by the shoulder and heading in through a different street.

image [https://i.imgur.com/pUoDcs0.png]

Ananke steps through the library's entrance and stops dead in her tracks, her eyes widening with something approaching religious awe.

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Books are everywhere, surrounding her. Shelves stretch from floor to ceiling as far as her eyes can see, creating corridors and alcoves that seem to extend infinitely into the building's depths. The scent of old paper and leather bindings fills her nostrils with an almost intoxicating richness. After years of hunger for the written word, denied access to anything beyond scraps and fragments, she finds herself in a paradise even greater than her new room.

“What are we doing here?” she asks, though her tone carries no complaint whatsoever.

“I fear that this situation is perhaps more pressing for us to solve than I had expected, Apprentice,” her master says, walking to an old, sagging window that overlooks the plague-stricken street below. He peers through the frost-clouded glass before turning back toward her. “There is something troubling me about this situation. I must investigate the matter urgently.”

“Alright. Where do we go next?” she asks, then lowers her voice to an urgent whisper. “Are they still following us?”

He shakes his head, his eyes scanning the library's quiet interior as he studies the temporal threads only he can perceive clearly. “You'll remain here, Ananke. This place is safe for you.” His gaze traces invisible patterns through the air. “Whoever was tracking us has no threads present here.”

“What?!” she protests in a harsh whisper. “Why bring me all this way if you won't let me help with the actual investigation?”

He places a reassuring hand on her shoulder. “You are helping,” he insists, nodding toward the vast collection surrounding them. “Until I return, I'm entrusting you to discover everything possible about this plague and the history leading up to it. I'll need every detail you can gather.”

She opens her mouth to argue, but the stern look in his eyes tells her that protest would be futile. “…Yes, Master,” she agrees quietly, though disappointment weighs heavy in her voice. Her first official mission after her training has begun, and she's relegated to research duty. Not that she minds books, but she had hoped for something more actively heroic. But maybe she’s still riding the enthusiasm from having saved that man’s life back then. She’s going to keep that in her heart for a long time, no matter how annoyed any of the other chronomancers were at what she did.

He claps her shoulder once with approval. “Excellent. I'll return as quickly as possible. I'll find you here when my business is concluded. Try to stay in the vicinity.”

Before she can voice any further objection, he simply vanishes as if he had never existed at all.

Ananke sighs deeply. Fine. She'll excel at this assignment too, even if it lacks the dramatic flair she'd anticipated.

She looks around the vast space, suddenly overwhelmed by the sheer scope of available information. Hafen's library had been destroyed during the war and never rebuilt. Where does one even begin?

Just then, a tiny flash of colour catches her attention.

A butterfly, delicate and bright, weaves between the towering shelves with seemingly random purpose. “What are you doing in here?” she mutters, watching the small creature's erratic flight pattern. It must have become trapped inside somehow. Is this the same one she saw before?

Quietly, she begins following it, cupping her hands in preparation to capture and release it safely outdoors. But the butterfly proves elusive, fluttering just beyond her reach as she creeps through the maze of shelves.

Finally, it lands in a back corner where the bookcases form a dead end, leaving it with nowhere else to escape.

“Got you!” she declares triumphantly, pouncing forward with her hands forming a careful cage around the insect.

At precisely the same moment, from the opposite side of the corner, a large glass jar descends halfway over Ananke’s wrists with an audible thunk. A second voice echoes her exact words, “Got you!” their exclamations interweaving perfectly.

Both of them let out startled yelps, leaping backward from each other in surprise.

The butterfly, ever the survivor, seizes the opportunity and flutters away to freedom once again.

Ananke stares at the person she's encountered. It's an elven boy, a note taller than she is, pale and ethereally thin with a delicate build that seems almost as fragile as the escaped butterfly’s. His large eyes dominate a face that's undeniably pretty but carries an otherworldly quality, almost ghostlike in its pallor. He wears a simple dark robe with a knitted cardigan layered over it, and a small pin on his chest identifies him as a library employee.

“Sorry!” both of them apologise simultaneously, their words overlapping in embarrassed harmony as they mimic each other again inadvertently.

They stare at each other for a moment before Ananke lets out an awkward laugh, rubbing the back of her head sheepishly. He mirrors her nervous laughter, clasping his jar in both hands in front of himself. “Sorry,” Ananke repeats, breaking the cycle. “I just wanted to catch it and let it back outside safely.”

Her counterpart's eyes widen. “Oh, no. You mustn't do that,” the librarian admonishes, causing Ananke to blink in confusion as she's suddenly being wagged at with a lecturing finger. “You can't let them back outside,” he clarifies gently.

“Pardon?” Ananke asks, glancing at the large jar the gaunt librarian holds. Wasn’t he trying to catch it too?

“You can't because -” the librarian begins but suddenly turns his head as a violent coughing fit overtakes him. “You can't -” he tries to continue through the harsh wheezing, covering his mouth with a clenched hand. He braces himself against a nearby shelf for support, but the jar trapped between his arm and chest begins to slide downward, heading for an inevitable collision with the floor.

Ananke dives instinctively to catch the falling container.

He misses.

The jar shatters against the stone floor with a crystalline crash.

Ananke winces and then looks up, feeling bad and a little awkwardly shy about her failed attempt. But then she notices a second version of herself standing silently behind the librarian. Her temporal duplicate raises a finger to its lips for silence, and Ananke watches in amazed fascination as time rapidly reverses itself.

The broken glass reassembles perfectly, the jar flies upward, and slides back into position between the librarian's arm and body. Her copy vanishes as quickly as she appeared.

The jar begins to slip again, exactly as it had done before.

This time, Ananke is prepared. She catches it smoothly, her reflexes perfectly timed. The librarian stares at her with obvious surprise and gratitude. “Oh! Wow,” he says, pressing a hand over his chest as he struggles to regulate her breathing. “Thank you. You have quite remarkable reflexes.”

“Ah, I -” Ananke stumbles over her words. “I have very intensive training,” she explains awkwardly. “Are you okay?” She offers the empty jar back to its owner.

“I'm surprised you haven't fled yet,” the librarian responds, confusing Ananke at first before she remembers why they're here. “It's not the plague, so don't worry. You won’t catch anything from me,” says the young man, leaning in with a conspiratorial note to his voice. “I have the Consumption,” he adds for simple clarification.

But Ananke's heart immediately sinks upon hearing this diagnosis. “Oh. I'm- I’m very sorry,” she says.

The Consumption is a deadly blood disease that afflicts some unfortunate souls from birth. It spreads gradually through the body as they age, eventually reaching the lungs and filling them with fluid until breathing becomes impossible, usually before they reach the later bloom of fully ripe adulthood. Ananke finds herself looking at the dark circles beneath the librarian's eyes with new understanding and sympathy. But the librarian’s eyes aren’t looking her way but rather down at the jar that both of them have been holding onto now for a few moments. “Oh!” Ananke exclaims, quickly releasing her grip.

But the librarian smiles warmly. “It's nothing you need to apologise for,” he assures her. “You're my hero today. It would have been a bother for me if it had broken.” He holds the container affectionately against her cheek, the smile on his face a strange contrast to the darkness below his eyes.

“So, what was that about not letting the butterfly outside?” Ananke asks curiously.

The librarian's contentment falters slightly as he considers the question. “Oh, it's because of the books,” he explains plainly. “They're treated with insecticide to preserve them longer.” His voice remains cheerful, but his expression carries a slight hint of sadness. “If you released the butterfly, it might have carried the powder to others of its kind.” He looks sadly at Ananke. “I’m terribly afraid that the moment the poor thing entered this building, it was already done for.”

“…What?” Ananke asks in dismay. “Oh no.”

The librarian tilts his head upward, and both of them watch as a small white shape begins falling from above like a loose leaf in autumn, its strength finally depleted. The elven boy quickly opens the jar and catches the dying creature inside, sealing the lid gently. He sighs, holding the jar against himself, before looking through the glass at the little shape inside. “Don't worry, little one,” he whispers to the butterfly through the glass, then looks back at Ananke. “Oh. I’m terribly sorry for involving you in such depressing business. Were you looking for something specific?”

“I'm here to research the plague,” Ananke says.

“I see,” the librarian replies thoughtfully. “May I ask what school of magic you're studying? You don't appear to be a priestess initiate or an alchemical apprentice,” he says, studying Ananke’s robe.

Ananke hesitates for a moment before responding. “My master is a travelling dancer,” she lies, though not entirely. “He likes to incorporate magic and, uh, history into his work.”

The librarian stares at her briefly, then covers his mouth to stifle a laugh. “How… quirky,” he manages, clearly trying not to laugh more openly. Another coughing fit interrupts his amusement. When it passes, he continues, “That would explain your reflexes. I'll help you find the materials you need shortly. Let me just take this little creature somewhere more peaceful.” He lifts the jar containing the weakly moving butterfly that has fallen onto its side and only spasms weakly now. “There’s a little space out back where I like to let them come to rest,” he explains, looking at Ananke out of the side of his eyes.

Apparently this is something that happens often.

Ananke nods, staring after him as the frail librarian walks away with careful, measured steps, carrying his small burden away with a tender, dignified gait. It seems a little morbid, but some part of her can’t help but imagine the librarian as a gravekeeper, carrying a bundle of bones off to its final resting place.

She tilts her head at a slight angle, not sure why she’s staring after him as he goes.

There’s something in the air.

Ananke sniffs, running her finger over the top of a book and looking at the dust on her finger.