Chapter Text
It starts like this, an old man sits in a dark room. The only light in it coming from blood red candles sitting on an old hardwood desk. It’s littered with papers and inkwells. There is an old leather-bound book sits open in front of the man; he’s furiously writing in it. He’s writing like he’s going to run out of time. The book looks like the others that are piled up around him, littering the spaces where there isn’t paper strewn about or empty inkwells.
He’s been writing for a long time, the old man’s hands are calloused and ink-stained. The man pauses for a moment, hesitating before diving right back into his writing. It takes him a few minutes before the book that’s before him is finished. He looks at the last page, his eyes turn downwards as he sighs. Gently picking up the book and placing it onto the pile to his left; before he quickly pulls one from his right and goes back to writing.
The man writes, and he writes. Almost as if he’s running out of time. He is in a way… running out of time. Running out of time. He has only so much time to write the story before something happens. It needs to be written, the world needs to know. TImes running out, sands falling from the hourglass that’s held over his head and he knows it.
A wind blows through the room, causing loose papers that are strewn across the desk to rattle and fall of the desk. The flames on the candles flicker lightly before another gust of wind blows into the room and snuffs them out. Leaving the room in utter darkness.
A woman’s toneless voice speaks from behind the man, “Metatron. You write like you are going to run out of time,” the woman pauses and laughs softly “it’s been years. I’ve forgotten when you start writing you don’t stop. You’re writing about her aren’t you?” She walks over to Metatron, poking her head over his shoulder, her hair falling around her face.
Metatron sighs, brushing the woman’s hair out of his face, “You already know what I’m writing, what I am doing. Why must you show up here? Why must you bother me?” He tersely asked. Not looking up from his writing, the darkness not affecting him. The sound of his pen scratching across the paper continued as if he wasn’t interrupted by Atlas of all people.
Atlas laughs, her laughter echoing throughout the room, grating on Metatron’s last nerves.
“I suppose you are right. Most of the time you are. I was bored and wanted to see where you disappeared to, although I already knew. It wasn’t hard to figure out, not with how everything ended. It was obvious either you or Cain would disappear off and write it.”
“It’s my job, after all, I am the scribe. It’s my job to transcribe what happened. I… I forgot what my job was actually for. But I remember, I remember now. Thanks to her. Writing this… writing this is the least I can do for her. For them.” Metatron spoke, low and decisively.
He stops writing for a moment, his pen hesitates above the paper, “I couldn’t write a way out for them, but… I can give them this. I can give them this, they once said that they wouldn’t die until the last person speaks their name. So I’m making them immortal the only way I know how to. The only way I can.”
Atlas pulls back, looking at the back of Metatron’s head. Her eyes narrow for a moment, “Tell me how it starts.”
Metatron laughs, he throws his head back as his airy laughter echoed throughout the room, “You already know how it starts and how it ends. Why do you want me to tell you how it starts?”
“Maybe I want to hear how you’ve written it? Is that such an odd request?”
“Coming from you, yes. I know you Atlas or have you forgotten that?”
“No. I haven’t,” Atlas sighs, she looks at Metatron, the darkness obscuring his face heavily, “But that does not mean I do not want to hear how it starts from your mouth. I may know how it starts, but that doesn’t mean I know the truth. You would, and do know it better than I.”
Metatron turned around, facing Atlas. He stared at her for a moment, thinking. An air of hesitation settled over him as he thought, he let out a soft sigh before he turned to his left. Carefully picking up a book that was on top of his desk, pushed to the very back. Wrapped in white fabric.
Metatron pulls out a light brown leather-bound book. It has an intricate floral design on the cover, of carnations and forget-me-notts. There was an inlay of precious metal, silver, and gold. There was a thick, ratty piece of black leather wrapped around the bookkeeping it closed. He unwraps it carefully, careful not to damage the already fraying leather anymore. Opening the book to heavily yellowed pages. A cluster of primroses lay pressed in the front pages.
Metatron carefully flips the pages, to the first one with writing. Flipping past pictures and small mementos, “It took me a while to get this. I had to convince him to let me borrow it and transcribe what was in it. He didn’t want to let it out of his sight, understandable. I was only able to get it by promising if I transcribed it then no one else would need to borrow it from him. I need to return it soon… he keeps contacting me asking if I'm through or not.” Metatron says softly, his fingertips barely touching the pages as he read it.
He held the book delicately, holding it like a devout pastor would hold a bible. With just as much reverence as they would as well. Even though it was just an old journal with sloppy writing in it.
“He’s gotten cautious.”
“Or maybe it’s because it’s one of the few things left of her. Have you forgotten?”
“No…”
“Good.”
Metatron looked at Atlas, thinly-veiled hatred, anger hiding behind his eyes, “You know how it starts, how it ends. Everything in between, but do you know the truth? I suppose… if you did you wouldn’t be asking me to tell you it would you? No, you wouldn’t. You were, are looking at it from the point of an outsider looking in. Not how it was lived. You want to know the truth, here it is. Here’s how the story starts.”