Over and over again it had sought reason for the many things others seemed to know uncannily. Of function, of purpose, of things an unnatural, wretched ilk such as it may possibly never come to understand – but oh, the ache to know, among other aches. It had come to each, even those less profitable with knowledge, with simplicity in its throat and starfire in its eyes; tell me, tell me, tell me... Should it have asked for them to show, instead? One particularly disgruntled man shouldering a stand in the Night Markets had scoffed at the request in a way that churned the core of the Erasmus-That-Is like a revolving mechanic of hungry teeth. Go to the library and stop bothering people. the man had retched between gasps, battling a heavy post, and the Erasmus-That-Is could not explain why the manner in which he said so had inspired such a feeling of aversion in him, or the different sort of hunger that rose. But of all the things it didn't know, it had learned that the casual denizens of Novus were not keen to seeing blood, whether it was splattered across the cobblestone streets or washed across his own coat. What difference it made eluded him, but they were especially upsetted by the sight of it dripping from its maw.
The Library, he had said. And the Erasmus-That-Is struggled to know what a library is, and when he asked the man, the man simply laughed but did not answer. It had gone away pondering the thing over and over til the next congregation of passerby, and while they stared at him quizzically, a few of them responded after a moment of contemplation. In the Night Court they have a – Oh no, Delumine probably has every book known to Novus, you might as well go there. And then – oh, how trivial the living are, and the awful things that exist between it and the Nothing, and how he (or it, if we are keeping track) wishes for the latter at each turn. Delumine, Delumine... it lopped over his tongue like a stone he couldn't swallow, and his face had distorted with something akin to anger. And they, seeming concerned but helpful, were quick to point northeast, their gesture cast over the high, jagged peaks of the Arma Mountains. Therein: Delumine, Library. He hadn't felt the same hunger toward their kindness as he had the other's insensitivity, and it was enough to ponder between coordinated thoughts of Delumine, Library, but long after he passed over the ridge of the mountains he felt the emptiness in his stomach and the awful burning that came with it and wondered how bad it might have really been if he had had a taste of at least one of them.
It had gone on similarly between the valley of Denocte and the plane of Delumine, the questions and the answers that varied wildly from helpfulness to concern to downright disapproval. It seemed each could tell something was off about this “Erasmus”, though none of them, from what it could garner, truly knew who he was. (Long after, when it learns how to be Erasmus, it thinks back on this and is thankful his efforts were not thwarted by familiarity.) And when it racked the brains of the Erasmus-That-Was, he struggled to find a semblance of memory that relayed to him some navigation through the forested groves of flowery Delumine, but all he found was ocean, jungles, and sand. There were more questions, countless questions, not enough questions, but each answer pieced together the entity that was a Library and a Delumine. So now he stood in the bowels of both, staring at the tall walls of bookends that stared back at him with the same blankness he was offered from most.
He was thankful to discover that, reaching deep into his skull with frantic tendrils of wonder and near repentance, for how awful the powerless feeling of mortality is, he had found that the Erasmus-That-Was did at times enjoy the occasional book and its tell-tale innards. He didn't have to ask what a book was and didn't even have a word for it until then, but each piece strung together slowly to make of it what it was. How simple things became, when the uncomplicated brain he possessed was so ready to elaborate! Easier than prying the brains of those he had no control over, for most had just stared at him dumbfounded, and many asked him questions instead of providing answers, questions like are you not from here or the worst one he couldn't understand, did you just come out from under a rock, as so far he had not seen any denizens, himself included, who could fit under rocks comfortably.
Still he stood before this grand altar of knowledge and its spiraled cases staring back at him with expectancy, and he thought about how awful it was that he was unsure of where even to start. The mid-day sun coursed through the grand windows and spiraling ivy and cast a gold-green glare across the vast hall and its quiet inhabitants. There was much he did not understand beyond the ancient knowledge of cosmic dream and the celestial workings of being everything that was so tiring and now, worthless. It did not matter that it knew how to make rocks sing for it, or that it knew of glassy plates that looked like ice and burned hotter than fire. These things did not matter here. All he had was a few weak dreams of lilting shadows that dripped from his countenance like cobwebs and their occasional cooperation in forming gestures and fluttering forms. This was what god-dust had been reduced to, but he would make something of it, he resolved. "where do i begin?" he muses softly, and is sparked by delight toward how deliciously absurd it feels, as was an element of the mortals he encountered, to ask questions to thin air. The Erasmus brain answered weakly instead, and he chimed silently to letters A, B, C, D... and when their likeness materialized in his head, he saw their shapes and felt the way they should feel in the bed of his tongue, clicking against the back of his teeth. And there - oh, marvelous! Each spine was marked with the letters that came to him idly, and he saw each was organized in order by the group of letters at the base, marked beneath Author.
There, A, B, C, each shelf followed accordingly, and he came to see that he stood before the shelves that started for the letter C. But the novels were boundless and their innards a mystery. It thought of all the things it wished to know, and oh, the ache was endless. For a moment a feeling came over it, and it did not know how to process it or what entirely it was, but it came to learn with time that it was a feeling of defeat and had it known then, would have been overcome with the feeling of anger, for the infancy of something intangible being placed in the mortal coil is one turbulent thing after another. But then he paused when the memories of Erasmus-That-Was came to select a familiar binding that alighted to him like an epiphany. And on it read, Flora and Fauna of Solterra by Zarusc Cereti with its beautiful gold lettering, and like the relief of remembering an old friend, he eased it from its place and sat it on a nearby table, pages fluttering decidedly to page 64, The Sacred Datura. But he knew before it knew what was on the page, and he remembered the caricature of the ink-drawn flora and its broad leaves, and his mind's eye slipped across the mark of skull and crossbones and knew exactly what it meant. And oh, its wonder was tickled, that the Erasmus-That-Was took a liking to death so cunningly, as the Aether grins and remembers what both life and death tastes like, and knows which is much, much sweeter.
