Casual Heroing

Before doing anything to help the half-giants, I need to see how many like-minded people are. The vendor did not want a war. And maybe they don’t even need one. Not a proper war, at least. Not an open one.

If you want to sell antidotes in bulk, you must first poison the city.

…

While I walk down the street, I see a bookstore on my left. A bookstore? For a second, I remain still. So far, I had the impression that books were expensive. Then, I see a small shop with a big glass window right on the side of a small street. And the name of the place is ‘Marzallium’s Books.’ All the window glasses around the city give me the impression of window shopping in a town with medieval features.

Taken by curiosity, I can't help but enter the place.

The smell of paper or parchment even is very thick on the inside. There are many books amassed on top of each other. The place is somewhat disorderly and cluttered. But the smell inside is what every reader of every age covets when they think about getting a book. And here, it's even rawer than usual. It's a symphony of sensations from the smell to the very natural chemicals you can taste on the tip of your tongue.

The books here are oversized, some clearly made by half-giants for half-giants. However, the majority is the standard size for a book in the medieval ages. They are thick, obviously. But most of all, they are many. So many books that they make columns behind which sight breaks on pages.

There was no bell on the door at the entrance. Nothing announced my presence other than the sound of the door gently opening and closing. I touch the leathery cover of a volume entitled Epretos Chronicles while I wait for someone to get to me. I take in the smooth and, at the same time, the rough feeling of the leather on the cover of this enormous volume. Then, seeing how no one came to greet me yet, I just open it. There are immediately some illustrations of maps welcoming me.

Nonfiction and poetry are what I'm accustomed to. Indeed, fiction and prose are not my preferred choice, especially Russian or English ones. I like when words are used carefully and distilled to powerfully deliver meaning. Poetry, in a way, is like engineering; it's all about synthesis and efficiency. In prose, you can put an inordinate number of useless words to fill the pages, and the reader will likely not notice. And even if they do, they might just brush that aside as a sign of a more flowery language. In poetry, you have to be extremely careful how you use the words. Even just one word, more or less, could completely change the final result of any poetic composition.

Today, however, I'm not looking for any poetry. Even though I would be interested in what half-giants or other creatures of this continent have written, I'm more interested in practical knowledge.

“Young lady, put your greasy hands off that book,” a wizened old voice says.

“Excuse me?” I reply, not removing the hand from the book.

A half-giant comes out from behind a pile of books. Deep wrinkles line the expression on his face, but two piercing blue eyes stare relentlessly right through my soul. There’s a stark contrast between the intensity of the old half-giant’s gaze and his withering body.

“What do you think you're doing?” the old man says again with a gruff voice. You can almost hear his age from how he speaks—he gives you the impression that his vocal cords have been thoroughly consumed. Or maybe just atrophied from lack of use.

He comes up to me and snatches the book from my hands.

“I have skills to handle books without damaging them. Do you have any idea what kind of things rest on your hands?” Gently caresses the book's cover, as a mother would with a newborn baby.

“I love books; I didn’t mean to—”

“Shush,” the man says, carefully examining the cover of the book I was touching. Right after, he produces a bottle of a translucent liquid from his bag of holding.

“Hands,” he orders.

I put my hands in front of me, and he lets a couple of drops fall into each hand.

“Rub them together, also between your fingers. This is a distilled [Cleansing] potion.”

I follow the indications under his scrutinizing gaze.

“Books do not live just in the present. They live in the future, in the hands of the people who one day will not wash their hands while handling them,” the old half-giant, much taller than me, coughs for a few seconds before resuming his speech with a raspy voice. “Books degrade over the years. While we are alive, we have to take care of them. Every book lost could be its last copy. One of the greatest [Alchemist], a cheeky bastard, hid some of his greatest recipes in a children’s book. Later, when someone found a long-lost journal of his, once the children’s book was already lost, we read that [Recite Passage], ‘if an adult is not able to read with the same wonder of a child, he should never be allowed to practice the great art of alchemy.’ But that’s just one of the many reasons we should preserve books. Distilled knowledge—that’s what they are. Go to the plaza among [Merchants], then read a book. You’ll understand why we could kill this entire city but not burn down my shop.”

He assumes a disgusted face when talking about [Merchants]. The wizened half-giant has a strong misanthropic vibe.

I like it.

“I am really sorry,” I say while bowing my head. I agree with every single word he said. The fact that he could meditate so profoundly on the importance of books in his era shows how wise he is.

He sighs and passes a hand over his face.

“I’m too old to complain about the younger generation. And Humans? It’s been a while since I saw one of you. Do you still tell your children that we might eat them if they don’t behave?”

He looks at the book in his hands while talking, not at me. And even if he asked a question, it doesn’t look like he’s interested in a reply.

“Are you Marziallium?”

“Marzallium’s grandchild, Licinium. Marzallium is my grandfather’s name. And this shop is his heritage,” he looks around with wonder in his eyes. Even though he’s old and his skin looks like parchment made from old sheep, his gaze is bright and attentive. For a second, he looks like he’s daydreaming. Then, he looks at me with a frown. Suddenly, there’s animosity in the way he stares at me.

“Are you a [Merchant]?”

“No.”

“Mh. Good. Good. They should all die terrible deaths—[Merchants].”

He scrunches his face as if he wants to spit on the ground. But then, he remembers he’s in his own shop and reluctantly swallows down.

“Are you looking to buy? I only sell copies. If you need a book that has not been copied down yet, you must factor the [Scribe]’s price in the final price. The sooner you need it, the higher the fee. Damn [Scribes]. They love to be lazy around when they could be copying important books and manuscripts all day. They make enough money to copy a new book every two or three days without incurring a loss.”

The list of people this guy hates appears to be a long one.

“I wanted to take a look. I’ve read many books in my life. But… I’m not from here. I’d like to peruse some of the manuals you have. I could pay you a fee for—”

“You came here to read?” the man raises an eyebrow.

“If it’s not a problem. And I can pay,” I say, raising my hands in a defensive pose.

The old man snorts and swats away one of my arms. I wince. He’s strong.

“[Merchants] are eagerly awaiting the day I’ll finally join our ancestors in the sky. I have no children willing to take on the shop. And they will certainly sell it once they get it from me. I’m surprised those leeches in the plaza don’t hire anyone to assassinate me and get their filthy hands on my books.”

The old half-giant is panting by the end of his invective against [Merchants]. Yet another one. He also looks pale and stumbles backward. I try grabbing his hand, but I simply manage to get the book he almost dropped on the ground. After a few tentative steps, he seems to have regained his balance.

“Not today, bloody [Merchants],” he says, looking around, probably for a chair. Instead, he moves to a chair right behind a pile of books, and I follow with the tome in my arms. “Old age is a Dragon with lesser acids in his stomach, slowly digesting you.”

“But, at least, some people with common sense still live,” he says while looking at me with melancholy. “People come to books to consult them and throw them away. I can’t despise anyone more than those who just use books when they need them. They will never know the pleasures of a true [Reader].”

He stops to look around at the vast mass of books lying in the shop. Few times I have seen such an affectionate look on someone’s face. Even when looking at people with kids, there was usually irritation among the love or tiredness. But in this old half-giant’s eyes, there’s only happiness. He’s happy he’s been around his books for so long, that he has read them, that he can still read them.

“What irritates me the most is how they do it. Sure, young lady, I know that people need information, but at least inquire for something more. Ask me what kind of book could accompany such a dry read like the one about geography. A book on legends, tales, and culture. Are we all [Generals] campaigning to—”

He erupts in a fit of cough, almost doubling over from the chair.

“—Giants’ footprints,” he swears, probably forgetting whatever he would say.

“What is your favorite book?” he enounces each word carefully, trying not to cough away his lungs.

“I don’t have one,” I reply candidly, “I like poetry. Maybe I could make a compilation of the poems that I like the most—but even those change over time. And every season has a poem fitter for it. Every moment of life, to be honest.”

The old man nods.

“There’s an old poem,” he mutters, “I have never figured it out. Someone wrote it in an ancient edition of ‘Tales About Magic.’ It’s a children’s book.”

He pauses a second to breathe deeper, concentrating on his air intake.

“It’s not part of the book. It was a note found on some illustration. I think I’m one of the few – maybe, the only person in this world – to have read it. Would you like to hear it?”

I nod.

Why would I say ‘no’ to an old man and poetry?

“Very well,” he smiles feebly.

“By noble burden and foretoken dear,

A notice I pass on the sleeping seams

Of the stripped world that disappears,

For rotten enemies spun long schemes,

Aethereum’s magic long lives its death,

A faint dream of death’s nigh surprise,

Of his foe’s multiplying vile demise,

Look for Light, and shed your breath

Quench the war of the Dragon’s Folly,

Or suffer a thousand tragedies’ melancholy.”

While the old man recited this simple poem, my skin became cold—for a second. My breath was condensing in the cold air even though it’s sunny and warm outside. But while he was speaking, I could almost feel something crawling all around me, a chittering sound of doom.

“That’s it,” the man says with a shrug, clearly not having felt none of the ominous signs I just perceived.