Fragments of Memory: Prologue

The sky bled that day.

The sun was a deep scarlet that has never been seen before, weeping as its rays caressed a silent battlefield. A strong wind stirred the dust into tiny sandstorms, blurring the forms of ally and enemy alike. Bodies littered the ground, blood pouring so abundantly that one was practically wading in it. But there was no one left to do so.

Every night I visit that place. Every night I lie there, all but dead, my eyes staring hollowly at the bleeding sky.

Waiting for the end.

And so the end has come, albeit a little later than expected. I thank God that I was given this much time, time that was not mine to keep. I was never truly part of this world, no matter what bonds, fates or destinies brought and kept me here. I always knew my time would be brief. The fact that I've been here this long is already a miracle to me.

I leave this Memory in this world as a record; a completely biased, emotional record. Even as the Bookmen write their accurate stories of black and white (and if you don't do it right I will come after you, you stupid rabbit), I write to show the shades of gray, the humanity in the ink, and how there is no such thing as the real good and bad side in a war.

And so that someone will remember that behind the ink on paper there were people, good, honest people fighting in this silent, secret war – the helpful Finders, the cheerful, caring scientists, the loyal, loving Exorcists… and yes, even the capricious Noahs.

So as I leave this world, I leave this Memory in capable hands, along with my last prayer: the reason I fought, and still keep on fighting…

I pray for their happiness…

~~o~~

"Good morning, Bookman." The Archivist bowed, tan robes brushing the ground. "It is good to have you back.

The Bookman nodded in acknowledgement. His dark cloak made an audible 'swish' as he put down his bag on the table.

The Archivist peered up at him out of the corner of his eye. Was it just him, or had the shadows under the man's eyes grown?

Wordlessly he took the scrolls in the pack, sorting them into piles as was their routine. The Bookman stared unseeing at his work, silent as a ghost. The Archivist would have described his expression as 'haunted', but that couldn't be, because Bookmen did not feel… right?

His fingers met the cold, unfamiliar texture of… metal? Startled out of his thinking, he inspected the last item to fall out of the bag. It looked like a black, leather-bound journal, with a simple design on the border and clasp. The color had faded away with age, but one could still see a single word written on the cover, in an elegant silver script: Memory.

The Archivist was surprised. It was the Clan's job to publish the Bookman's work into books that would last through the ages. The man had not brought anything like this before. "Is this yours?" he asked hesitantly. The Bookman jerked, then let his bright eyes rest on the book.

"Oh, no." he said smoothly, closing his pack but making no move to retrieve the journal. "A friend of mine died recently. He left it to me in his will."

The Archivist very nearly dropped the book at his words. Hands trembling, he put it down and busied himself with the scrolls, hoping his distress didn't show in his face. Had he heard him right? Had the Archivist just heard the Bookman – the Bookman rumored to be the best of his line, leaving his words in the readers' minds long after reading his works – mention the taboo word 'friend'?

Maybe he was talking about a business partner, an acquaintance he kept contact with to get information. Yes, that must be it. Many other Bookmen had done the same. He would not be the first. It must have been a slip of tongue, that's all.

All these thoughts fluttered through his head in a moment. "Is that so?" the Archivist murmured politely. The Bookman gave him a grin, one that had no feeling and was all teeth, as if he knew just what the older man was thinking.

"I'm leaving it here, where others can read it." He said. The Archivist bowed, and motioned towards the book.

"May I?" he asked. The Bookman waved his hand in permission.

The Archivist reached out and opened the book. It flopped open, like something once alive but now long dead. The man fought back a shudder. This wasn't one of those witchcraft books, was it? He skimmed the pages and frowned. It wasn't but it was nearly as bad. The writing was amateur, and the book was more of a journal than anything else, filled with pictures and whatnot.

His frown deepened. What on earth? The events weren't even in order! It was like a jumble of memories all smashed together into a single bound book. And the Bookman wanted this… here? In the Clan Library, the largest, most esteemed and also the most secretive one in the world?

Perusing it once more, he paused. One of the entries mentioned akuma. Ah, so it was the journal of an Exorcist. Such books were rare nowadays, after the Church tried to erase all evidence of that small, secret war 20 years ago. Only few people alive knew about it now.

This book will have to go through serious reading and editing. Hiding his disgust, the Archivist picked up the scrolls, bowing to his superior. "I shall give it to my assistants to take care of," he said, while making a mental note to report to the Clan heads about the Bookman's strange behavior. It almost seemed like he was a whole different person.

He reached out to take the book.

"Ah, wait." He turned to the Bookman, eyebrow raised in a question. "Leave it there."

"Leave it?" the Archivist stared at him in undisguised shock. Leave it here, on the table, in the middle of rows and rows of books in their gigantic library? "But-"

"Good books should be kept in the open, where everybody can see them," Bookman said gravely, his lips twitching, like it was a joke only he knew. But there was a sadness in his eyes too.

"Y-yes…" The Archivist bowed and scurried off, sweating buckets.

The Bookman never smiled. Not anymore. In fact, the last time the Archivist saw him smile was in his youth, before he left with his master...

When he was merely known as Bookman Junior…

~~o~~

Alone in the library, the man once known as Lavi stared at the book. It lay there almost mockingly, bringing up memories and feelings he had before since pushed away. Tan fingers reached out towards it… then retracted. With a hiss of frustration, he turned and strode out the door.

He took a deep breath in the open air, seeing a clear, cloudless sky but tasting blood and ash and smoke. Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out a letter. He glanced at the words he already knew by heart and gave it a wry smile.

"Really, beansprout. Did you have to call on your favor like that?" Green eyes looked out into the horizon. The sky was the softest of blues… Exactly the shade she loved. "It's what she would have wanted, after all…"

"Right, Belle?"