Chapter 33 #3
Even Idril, who hasn’t looked up from her paperwork once in the last few hours outside of our brief interaction, is frowning at the scene in curiosity.
I sigh and stand up, resigning myself to having to break up whatever argument is brewing.
“This one is different, Dax. I’m telling you. This part isn’t in the original story.” “It is the same bullshit story that’s in all these books,” Dax argues. “Every Irish Folklore collection includes it.”
”What story?” I interrupt. “The one with the pot of gold at the end of the rainbow? I love that one. Oh!” I gasp. “Is the rainbow the gate?”
“If it were, I’d have thrown your ass through it already and let the leprechauns deal with you,” Dax mutters. “It’s The Song of Light, and it’s just another fairytale. We’ve already seen it in at least ten iterations.”
Riven plants his hands on his hips. “It’s called Amhrán an Solais—Which, yes, loosely translates to The Song of Light.
And Dax is also correct that it’s a well-known folktale about a girl who teaches the four elements to live in harmony, bringing balance to day and night, etcetera.
But—” he glares at Daxen. “This one has another verse. Written in the margins. In fucking Irish Gaelic, which I could translate if you assholes would just shut up for thirty seconds.”
“It’s a waste of time. It’s probably some old grandma’s knitting patterns, or passive-aggressive notes about her daughter-in-law. I want to finish that book so I can move on to the next one,” he complains, but his argument is losing steam.
Riven claps his hands together and sits back down, pulling out a yellow legal pad with a flourish.
“Excellent. We’re aligned. I, too, would like you to finish this book so you can start bitching about the next one.
So kindly shut up and let me translate. If I’m wrong, I’ll allow you exactly four minutes to gloat. ”
Shaking my head, I move closer to the fire, intent on continuing my own research. I dive back into my book, half listening to Dax turning pages and Riven muttering to himself as his pen scratches across paper. The logs crackle in the fire comfortably, easing the tension in my shoulders.
Soon, the sun begins to make its way across the library walls, turning shadows into long, odd shapes. For a long while, the crackling of the fire, the ticking clock on the mantle, and our collective breaths are the only sounds in the room.
Then Riven, who’s been silent for the better part of an hour, blurts: “Alright, so we know the first half—”
My book flies from my hands. I don’t even make a conscious decision to throw it. My body just reacts like… pure instinct. Survival mode.
The book spins through the air like a Fatesdamned missile, pages fluttering, headed straight for Riven’s smug face.
He barely dodges in time, rearing back with an undignified grunt before it slams into the wall with a resounding THUNK!
“Motherfucker!”
My chest heaves while Riven stares at me like I’ve lost my mind.
“I swear to the Fates, asshole.” I jab a shaking finger at him. “You can’t just—just—start monologuing out of nowhere! I’m knee deep in haunted dolls and a wolf wearing grandma’s face, and you just come out all—”
I flail a hand in the air, gesticulating wildly while I search for words to adequately explain my irritation.
“You just come out with your whole-ass professor voice like this is a lecture hall and we’ve all been waiting to take notes!?”
I rake an agitated hand through my hair, tugging handfuls of it at the roots. “You can’t just… start making sounds after you’ve been sitting there still as a statue for an hour!”
Dax doesn’t even look up, just flips another page. Riven blinks, opens his mouth. Closes it again.
“Sorry, man. I didn’t—”
“No. You stop talking. You’ve lost talking privileges.”
“I just—”
“Grandma’s face, Riven. Do you have any idea how emotionally compromised I am right now?
I’m drowning in German Folklore over here, looking for anything at all that involves lights and gates, and yeah, I know Little Red Riding Hood is going to be fine because it’s a fairytale, but now the wolf is in a nightgown and wearing grandma’s face and—”
“She gets eaten too.”
“WHAT?”
”You just said you’re reading the original German version. Little Red gets eaten. No woodsman. No rescue.”
Still clutching my chest like some Victorian widow, I open my mouth to reply when I hear it. Light and airy, like tinkling wind chimes in the library.
I turn, slowly, and freeze.
Idril is laughing. Really laughing. Small hands cover her mouth, those blue eyes are somehow even brighter, and her shoulders are shaking in something other than terror.
She looks… young. And happy. Like the weight of the world has lifted for just a moment, and she can finally breathe.
I’ve never seen anything more beautiful in my entire life.
The sound slams into my chest and makes a home there. I want to bottle it and listen to it every day for the rest of my damn life. Gods, I’d burn kingdoms down just to hear it again.
That’s when it hits me.
I’m fucked.
Thoroughly, cosmically, biblically fucked