how do you feel?
i don't.
i don't.
Silence is a refuge he breathes in between the walls of books and rows of history. The world is a tower of knowledge, and every day he climbs higher and higher. Oh, he is not blessed as those with wings – able to fly to great and unknown heights with nary a care in the world – but his dedication is far stronger than that of those beings. He would pity the soul that took knowledge for granted; that is, of course, if he cares enough about another to pity them at all.
He does not.
Ceylon’s life is one of solitude. Of hushed whispers and dark looks. His is a story left untold, folded between the pages only he can read – those left within his heart, no, no…not that. His mind. It is a labyrinthian world kept clustered away from mortal hands that would seek to tear it down, to distract him from his pursuit of knowledge, of repairing what was lost the only way he knows how.
Another dusty tome floats down, a sconce on the wall lighting as he passes, and he collects his new materials to pour over before the bodies crowd in during the wee hours of dawn. Already three others float behind him. Ceylon feels the doors rumble closed more than he hears them, ignoring the sounds with soft wads of cotton stuffed in his ears. The path he’s on carries him from the depths of the library, turning corner after corner. Searching row after row.
Before he’s realized it, he’s near the front and before him is a winged thing. No. That, too, is inaccurate. He lives a life of accuracy in all things – structured and well thought out. Living for so long with monks taught him the importance of schedules, of cleanliness, of thought, of so many things save the social aspects others learned before they could even run.
He still never cared to learn. Too many other important tasks were lain before him. So his nostrils flare for but a moment, an ear does not flick (he would only hear the muffled word of curses at the end anyway, and those are of no interest), before he turns to head down another aisle.
If that funny, small man wishes to enter the library, then he should be very well off on his own. Vaguely, he wonders if he should tell him of the books and scrolls you don’t open no matter how loudly they whisper. Deciding better of it, Ceylon’s feet turn, eyes following suit, and he goes to leave without so much as a hello.
ceylon.
