Dream 3
Locke knew this place. The cushioned chairs, windows streaming light into an otherwise dark room, the dust dancing in the lines of sunlight, the dark tables that scattered the aisles... and oh, what aisles! Full of paperbacks and hardcovers and leather clad tomes. They called to him. They screamed to him. Books were dangerous, magical things, full of knowledge and wisdom and no tools to carry their wills out. That was the realm of mortals. Books were higher than that.
Locke dragged his long fingers against the grain of the tables, tracing the familiar worn patches where coffee cups hand once sat. This was what this place was supposed to look like. A sanctuary. There was a garnet ring upon his finger, he noticed, but he couldn't remember exactly how it had gotten there. Useless frippery as far as he was concerned, but something possessed him to keep it on.
He wandered the halls of the great thinkers and was suddenly overcome with an urge to tear the library apart until he had digested every word, could quote every wise saying, could regurgitate every piece of enlightenment distilled into text, could come up with his own. As he moved forward to do just that, he noticed a soldier standing in the corner of his eye, and stopped.
Him.
"Ah. I see this is a dream," Locke said with an arch of his brow. "And then these books will only hold words that I already know. And then you will tell me that I have gotten soft, and then you will plummet to some terrible death. This means that I have died. Am I wrong?"
"Not entirely," the soldier replied, relaxing now. "I will not, for example, call you soft. You have hardened."
"I don't suppose that's a compliment."
"You must be sharpened."
Locke sent the books down. "If this is truly a dream, then this is not truly a library. This is not real. I know what this is."
"A dreamscape?" The soldier suggested.
"A metaphor of sorts," Locke replied and stared around the library. Such a pity for such a beautiful place to be beyond the realm of reality. "Of course. A library. How clever. He has desecrated even that."
He opened a book and uttered a small noise of disgust as the insides revealed itself to be merely that of a journal. He tugged another book off the shelf, and it was the same. He began tugging them off two by two, three by three, and they were all the same. With an enraged roar, Locke, gripped onto the bookshelf itself and tipped it over onto the ground with an almighty crash.
What was visible of the soldier's face was impassive. "Angry?"
"How dare he? How dare he destroy that which is beautiful?"
"Life?"
"Knowledge."
"Of course."
Locke plucked a journal off the top of the pile, and saw his own writing staring back at him. "This is mine."
The soldier peered over his shoulder. "So I can see. Reduced to one of the multitude. Trapped in mediocrity. Forgotten, I see. Perhaps you are not doing the right thing?"
"Perhaps."
"Burn it down," the soldier hissed, his breath hot on Locke's neck. "If you cannot change it, burn it, and then you shall find what you are seeking. You seek something more than simple providence, do you not? There is no providence here. Carve the way. Make a bang so large that the world will be forced to listen, and to admit that you are right."
"I will not burn down a library."
"You would burn down a city."
"Not a library. Never a library."
Locke turned around to look at the soldier properly, and saw with horror that he was holding a smoking match and that the library behind them was now consumed in flame. Locke could feel the scorching heat as it rushed towards them, and he grasped firmly onto the soldier's shoulders. "What did you do!" He screamed. "You ignorant little fool! What gave you the right to--"
Locke coughed in the smoke. Eyes streaming, he ran out of the building and collapsed on the grassy field outside. When his vision cleared, the entire building was aflame, and the soldier stood in the doorway, smiling. He smiled as he burned, the skin peeling off hard white bone, and was soon nothing more than ashes.
Locke dragged his long fingers against the grain of the tables, tracing the familiar worn patches where coffee cups hand once sat. This was what this place was supposed to look like. A sanctuary. There was a garnet ring upon his finger, he noticed, but he couldn't remember exactly how it had gotten there. Useless frippery as far as he was concerned, but something possessed him to keep it on.
He wandered the halls of the great thinkers and was suddenly overcome with an urge to tear the library apart until he had digested every word, could quote every wise saying, could regurgitate every piece of enlightenment distilled into text, could come up with his own. As he moved forward to do just that, he noticed a soldier standing in the corner of his eye, and stopped.
Him.
"Ah. I see this is a dream," Locke said with an arch of his brow. "And then these books will only hold words that I already know. And then you will tell me that I have gotten soft, and then you will plummet to some terrible death. This means that I have died. Am I wrong?"
"Not entirely," the soldier replied, relaxing now. "I will not, for example, call you soft. You have hardened."
"I don't suppose that's a compliment."
"You must be sharpened."
Locke sent the books down. "If this is truly a dream, then this is not truly a library. This is not real. I know what this is."
"A dreamscape?" The soldier suggested.
"A metaphor of sorts," Locke replied and stared around the library. Such a pity for such a beautiful place to be beyond the realm of reality. "Of course. A library. How clever. He has desecrated even that."
He opened a book and uttered a small noise of disgust as the insides revealed itself to be merely that of a journal. He tugged another book off the shelf, and it was the same. He began tugging them off two by two, three by three, and they were all the same. With an enraged roar, Locke, gripped onto the bookshelf itself and tipped it over onto the ground with an almighty crash.
What was visible of the soldier's face was impassive. "Angry?"
"How dare he? How dare he destroy that which is beautiful?"
"Life?"
"Knowledge."
"Of course."
Locke plucked a journal off the top of the pile, and saw his own writing staring back at him. "This is mine."
The soldier peered over his shoulder. "So I can see. Reduced to one of the multitude. Trapped in mediocrity. Forgotten, I see. Perhaps you are not doing the right thing?"
"Perhaps."
"Burn it down," the soldier hissed, his breath hot on Locke's neck. "If you cannot change it, burn it, and then you shall find what you are seeking. You seek something more than simple providence, do you not? There is no providence here. Carve the way. Make a bang so large that the world will be forced to listen, and to admit that you are right."
"I will not burn down a library."
"You would burn down a city."
"Not a library. Never a library."
Locke turned around to look at the soldier properly, and saw with horror that he was holding a smoking match and that the library behind them was now consumed in flame. Locke could feel the scorching heat as it rushed towards them, and he grasped firmly onto the soldier's shoulders. "What did you do!" He screamed. "You ignorant little fool! What gave you the right to--"
Locke coughed in the smoke. Eyes streaming, he ran out of the building and collapsed on the grassy field outside. When his vision cleared, the entire building was aflame, and the soldier stood in the doorway, smiling. He smiled as he burned, the skin peeling off hard white bone, and was soon nothing more than ashes.