Chapter Text
Imagine for a moment a book, not an ordinary book like a dog-eared paperback, a glossy hardcover, or even an odd collection of pages in a Ziploc bag. No, imagine a tome- a manuscript…a heavy thing with a cover of wood, and metal, and leather. Violet gemstones set into elegant metal frames. Intricate designs cut into the leather creating patterns that make the well-waxed material glisten in the candlelight. Worn, frayed edges of pages poking out from beneath the cover- not of paper, but vellum. Old ink and paint mix with the scent of leather, wood, and tarnished metal creating an ancient perfume of knowledge and adventure.
This book is a feast for the eyes, perfectly patented brass plates screwed into the leather and wood beneath, placed so that they see>m to swirl and slide above and below one another. Gemstones cut to exact measurements, the original stock picked from the highest grade and crafted into utter faultlessness. Leather dyed a deep, rich brown that leans so far to the red that in the right light it looks positively crimson. And to finish it all off- a brass plate is affixed near the bottom of the front cover, and hiding slightly behind vegetal designs are the words,
“On the Great City of Dedomilla and the Secrets of Veil Stones. Run No. 1: Original Master Copy. By Fate B. Long.”
Now take the image of this beautiful relic and toss it into a place it does not all belong too- to that of cold stone counters and colder steel desks. That of computer monitors and large screens flickering with static, illuminating an empty room of upturned chairs and scattered pages with intermittent flashes of light. Somewhere a siren blares, a haunting call in the distance- emergency lights scattering pointless rays of crimson across the walls, the desks, and the book. Outside the wind howls in a way that no wind is supposed to howl- not a long drawn out force pushing its way past but a horrible wailing as everything is pulled. Pulled backwards- pulled towards the great gash in the morning sky that has so suddenly turned as black as night. Clouds form and then collapse in on themselves pulled around and around a ravenous drain of nothingness- a bottomless well that wails out in a hunger that will not be quenched until the last star blinks out of existence.
The ground shakes and rolls, heaving with the illness that has so suddenly taken root in its core. Great fissures crack open and vomit forth freshly-turned earth turned to muddy soup with the blood of aquifers buried centuries ago. And five stories of brick and steel begin to crumble down upon themselves as the storm swells towards the office where the book resides. That gleaming tower of steel perched upon its back, laden with satellite dishes and machinery galore- the mother of the storm, groans in her labor pains. Rivets pop, support beams buckle and like the dying of a false goddess she falls- crashing down upon the rubble below with a final unearthly scream. A dying gasp swallowed whole by the wrath of her first and only child as it rears its head back in a continuous roar of oblivious destruction.
The office ceiling caves beneath the load and a thousand pages scatter to the sun, a faint red eye behind the thickening clouds of dust, smoke, and ash. As the building bends in on itself in a final desperate act to deny the inevitable, chairs and desks scrape against the steepening slope of linoleum. Tendrils of raw violet energy lash out from the storm obliterating anything it is unfortunate enough to connect with.
The book falls to the floor- rain drops dappling across its cover.
And begins to slide.
Winds lash against the room, grabbing onto anything that might prevent them from being drawn into the impossible nothingness that is gradually growing- swelling- rising up and outwards. A desk slides to the edge of the broken floor with a deafened screech, and is suddenly caught up in the whirlwind- sucked mercilessly into endless night. The contents of the office, the ruins of the building, and the earth beneath are coiled into the scar cut across the surface of reality- drawn into the belly of the Void.
Two hours later the storm reaches the ends of its Universe, growing so fast that it collapses in on itself, creating a shock-wave so powerful that any realities linked to it are suddenly struck by catastrophic earthquakes and tsunamis. Volcanoes erupt and planets rend themselves apart in one version of reality after another. Still further away from the blast, televisions flicker and entire power grids falter- slowly rearing their heads back up hours after the flare has dissipated. Yet still further, a small plastic figurine- the type that sways in the sun, haphazardly materializes on the counter of a taco truck in South Carolina. A metal desk smashes through the roof of a large yurt and lies still among the wreckage before its stunned victims- a “punishment of the gods”. The shattered screen of a television is pried apart by a small green dragon, and poked lovingly into the crevices of its treasure trove of trinkets.
And a singular strand of grapes is thrown into the fresh mud of a garden- a garden where grapes were originally never meant to grow. Though someone claims the idea anyways and the plagiarism somehow gets past all the paperwork- and so the grapes stay, taking root in the soil and raising fresh green leaves to a freshly made sky.
Thousands of years later two ordinary gentlemen will sit in the back of a Soho bookshop, and with blissful obliviousness will consume at least three aged bottles of wine- the direct product of an anomalous blip in the fabric of reality. A blip that would not have even occurred had grapes been thought up at all honestly in this dimension- this far-flung reality- that as of that moment is the only one known to either of the two. It doesn’t occur to them to bring up the question of alternate dimensions outside of their drunken philosophical conversations…but you- you on the other hand would question certain things.
Things such as who took credit for the creation of grapes. How no one noticed the happily swaying plastic dancer simply coming into existence with a sound not unlike frying bacon, or rain on a tin-roof. What foul purposes the magical metal slab was made to fulfill in order to appease gods. (Gods that did not even exist, and so could enact no vengeance on the small clan who were now in possession of a very sleek looking desk.)
What you might also be wondering is this…what happened to the book?