Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The Burner symbol was seared into Diwell’s eyes. So many blanks, up into flames. The Greek fire played at the blank’s pages one last time before they curled into ash. It was a sight he had been taught to love.

The eight Scholars with the complete opposite teachings stared into the bonfire as well. Diwell and the rest of his company had been ordered contain the Scholars. Three of the Scholars had been in the High Garda, and were not to be underestimated.

Diwell gripped his musket tightly. Though he would never show it, he was apprehensive about the Scholars. All his life he had been taught that the Library was corrupt: they massacred thousands in the name of knowledge and hid vital information from the public. The Library had kept Philadelphia under siege for 100 years. The Library had bombed Philly countless times. Hundreds of Philadelphians had died in bombings, of starvation, or lay down their lives defending the city.

There was always just enough people left to pick up the broken pieces and build the city back up again. Diwell and every other Philadelphians’ life was trapped in the vicious cycle. Build, bomb, burn, rebuild. Everyone had lost someone.

Diwell each bombing carried away at least one person he knew. His father, crushed, before he was born. His stepfather, burnt, when he was 12. His mother, asphyxiated, when he was 15. And just last year, his girlfriend, burnt. The list went on and on.

He was 19 now.

Diwell came out of his daydream as his company started moving, escorting the Scholars to their prison cells.
—

Diwell peered at each Scholar, trying to imagine what was running through their heads. They huddled, schemed. Diwell never tired of watching them, trying to understand them. What sort of upbringing could make them so... different? It was disturbing.

He tried to distract himself, sliding his hand over his crude gun, checking each compartment for flaws. Still, uneasy thoughts flickered through his mind.

Next, he tried inspecting his dousing powder pouch for holes. Still no reprieve from his uncomfortable thoughts.

Diwell had always loved reading. Most Burners read for the kicks, the thrill of foiling the Library. Diwell read because it made him feel good. Relaxed, strong, intelligent, different. It made him feel like that he could be something else, not a skinny Philedelphian Burner, but someone who could make a change in the world.

What did reading mean to the Scholars? It obviously meant a lot, so much that they were willing to sacrifice everything to fix the Library. But Diwell knew. The Library was too far gone. There would be no redemption.
—

Diwell entered the musty warehouse, the two Scholars in front of him. As the pair had a look around, he started a security check on the room.

The one named Thomas turned to face him. “Does the forge work?”

“It does, but there’s not much fuel. We can’t use wood. There’s some coal. Not much. We can bring you some Blanks to burn.”

The one named Jess asked, “Any Greek fire jugs that landed and didn’t explode?We just need a drop or two a day. Add some to a little supply of coal, you have a superheated forge that can stay hot for hours. It can burn rocks, if necessary.”

“You can keep charge of what we don’t use, I understand you would not want to give us unlimited access.” added Thomas hastily.

“You’re dead right.” said Diwell. “And if Master Beck approves it, you’ll keep your mouths well shut about it. Greek fire in Library hands? The people would tear you all apart.”

Diwell shuddered inwardly at the idea. There was no way he could trust the Scholars with Greek fire. He hoped their request would be denied. What was so important about this mysterious device they were building anyway?

Thomas tried to coax Diwell, but he remained firm. The Scholars were dangerous enough without Greek fire. Diwell tried to tune out Thomas as he preached about how the Library could be saved. I am a Burner, I am a Burner.

Jess glared at Diwell. “He’s telling you the truth. We’re enemies of the Archivist Magister, and we’re going to find a way to bring him down.”

There is no way that would work. The Library was simply too powerful. The Burners had been trying to take down Archivists for over a century, and they were much more competent than this...play at rebellion. “You. Your little band of children.” muttered Diwell sarcastically.

Jess looked at him critically. Diwell could feel the Scholar’s eyes scrutinizing his grayish hair, flinty eyes, faded burns, and scrawny build. “You’re at most three years older. How long have you been fighting? All your life, I think.” Jess retorted.

It was true. Diwell could not remember a time he did not go out into the dangerous aftermath of bombings to free people trapped in the rubble, or go without sustenance for days so that the elderly could eat, or rebuild the city piece by piece after each bombing.

They argued, until suddenly Thomas asked for his name. No. Just...no. Giving them his name was like giving them his allegiance. He would not give them his allegiance!

“Diwell.” He did not mean to say it, it just slipped out of his mouth.

Thomas looked at him with sympathy. “Diwell, five hundred years ago, the Great Library went down a dark path. But it still shines a light. Weaker now, but putting it out plunges us all into darkness together.”

Could it be true? Could Thomas be right?
No...what about the knowledge the Library hid, the people killed, the bombs dropped? What had the Library ever done for him?

“Don’t give me your recruiting speech!” Diwell exclaimed.

Jess brought Diwell and Thomas back on track. Diwell berated himself as the Scholars discussed the materials they would need. How could he let the Scholars affect him in this way?

Inwardly disturbed, Diwell settled into his guard post near the door. He watched the Scholars carefully as they took inventory. Jess was keeping a close eye on him. Almost as if he were waiting for Diwell to break focus.

Should he let them get away with whatever they were doing? No. They were from the Library. They were incredibly dangerous. If he needed proof, all had to do was think back to last month’s bombing. That had been simply awful. Highest body count since the February bombing two years ago.

Diwell noticed that his breathing had become heavier and his knees were trembling. Did the Library disturb him that much? Maybe he was just tired.

Diwell sat down. He had been getting tired faster lately. Rationing had been severe recently, one of Philly’s key smugglers had been caught by the Library. It did not help that he usually gave some of his meager meals to his late-girlfriend’s cat. He should have stopped feeding that thing a while ago. Maybe it was just sentiment. Whatever the cause, he could feel the hollow pain in his stomach.

Diwell felt himself start to relax, his muscles unclenching, mind slowing, and guard relaxing. He strained to keep himself alert. He tried to keep an eye on the Scholars, but they seemed to be up to nothing. It would not be such a big deal if he let himself rest, right? Wait! That is just what they wanted him to think. What if he faked sleep and then caught them in the act?!? Diwell closed his eyes partway and angled his face and angled his face so that he looked asleep, and began his long vigil.

Chapter Text

Diwell “woke” just as the sun began to peak up from the horizon, reminding Philadelphians that life went on.

The Scholars were just finishing up their inventory. Diwell hoisted himself up. He was ravenous, but like most Philadelphians, it has become a ordinary sensation to him and did not bother him. Much.

The guard escorted the Scholars to there prison cells, and then he was off. It was his free hour.

He stopped by the ration station on his way home. Right now, meals were two times day, but Diwell and most other Philadelphians picked them both up at once.

Diwell walked down the narrow alleyway to his apartment. He kneeled by the ledge where the cat would always wait for him, meowing loudly for its food. It lifted its face towards his, expectantly. Diwell gave it a piece of hard bread. It purred, then picked up the food with its teeth and scampered off. “Thank you?” Diwell inquired, but the scrawny thing slunk of to some old hidey-hole. Diwell shrugged, than continued on his way.

The apartment complex was rebuilt out of old steel, wood, stone, and who-knows-what. Each material had seen a thousand different uses, a thousand different Library bombs, a thousand different builders repurposing it.

Diwell stepped inside and closed the door behind him. The room was small, not much bigger than the cells that the Scholars shared. There was a small cot in one corner, a desk and chair, and an old crate for food.

There was an outline on the wall from where a Franklin stove had been. There was never any fuel, so Diwell had taken it apart for pieces to be reused. It got cold in the winter, but there was always some bomb refugees he would invite to stay with him. Body heat was enough. Some Philadelphians did not have even that.

The dearest object in his room by far was his bookshelf. Diwell did not own any books, but he always borrowed them from Dr. Askuwheteu.

Diwell retrieved one from off the shelf. He sat down on his chair and laid the book on his desk.

He took his morning ration out of his satchel. Rations had been mostly bread and cheese lately, but today there was two apples. Two. Diwell was always craving fruit. The sweet, crunchy, beautiful fruit was his nectar. It was almost painful to save the other one for the evening.

Diwell opened the book to where he left off and immersed himself in the reading. This was nice. He rarely had the chance to just sit down and just read with a full belly. It always seemed there was always some reason he had to be on guard duty longer that normal, or a rebuilding project to help with.

Then the siren went off, followed by the crash of a Library bomb. Diwell knew the drill. He had been doing it since he was born. First, he secured the most valuable thing in the room, the book. He tucked it into his shirt. Then he had to get to the nearest bomb shelter, which was across the street, under the tailor’s shop. Third, keep an eye out for anyone needing help that would not put him in danger too.

Diwell dashed out of his room and down the rickety stairs of the apartment. The apartment complex was completed empty, except him. Everyone else was at work or school. Guard off hours were so strange.

Diwell stepped into the street. He could already see the sweet smoke and green glimmer of Greek fire in the horizon. A bomb crashed into the apartments ahead of him. He was running down the street when he heard a cry for help.

It sounded like a kid. Diwell peered at the burning building. There was a little boy in a second story window. “Hold on!” Diwell cried.

Should he help the little boy? The boy was in the front, and the bomb had hit the back of the building. That was where most of the burning was. Diwell noticed the boy coughing from the smoke. Diwell needed to help the boy now, before he inhaled too much smoke.

Diwell ran over the building and started scaling the bumpy brick wall before he could change his mind. He could feel the book starting to slip in his shirt. He could see the kid clearer now. He was a native boy, and seemed to be about six years old.

Diwell positioned his chest so the boy could cling on. It would be tricky, but guard work had made him strong. “Get on!” He cried.

The book in his shirt started falling out. “But...your book!” cried the kid. Diwell angled himself so that the book fell into the flames.

“A life is worth more than a book! Now get on!” shouted Diwell. The boy clung to his chest and he slowly ascended the wall. The boy was coughing badly.

They stepped on to the ground. Diwell gasped for breath, his arms and legs quivering. Where could they go? The shelter would be closed by now.

Diwell spotted an outhouse that was partially underground. He grimaced, but it was better than nothing. He tugged on the boy’s shoulder and they headed towards the outhouse. Once they were semi-safely inside, the boy began to cry, which started another coughing fit.

“Shhhhh... it’s all right now.” Diwell tried comforting the kid. He knew nothing about children.

“My father...” murmured the child.

“Oh...” Diwell murmured. His heart ached with the memory of a similar grief eleven years ago. “He died nobly. Dry your tears. We can’t let the Library have the satisfaction of making you cry.” Diwell whispered consolingly.

“What is your name? My name is Diwell. I am a city guard.”

The boy spoke. “My name is Ben. For...”

“Benjamin Franklin. I know.” He and half the other little boys in the city. Diwell chuckled. He reached fished around his satchel and drew out the apple. “Here. Eat this.” Ben’s eyes bulged. Giving someone else personal rations was a big deal.

“For me?” He asked incredulously.

“Yes! Eat it! When the bombing is over, we will go find your mother.”

Chapter Text

When the all clear sounded, Diwell brought Ben to the children’s shelter where his mom could pick him up. Diwell would have liked to wait for Ben’s mother to arrive, but he had work to do.

Before he left, he gave Ben his address. Diwell had never had his father growing up, and it was a tragedy that Ben would not have his anymore either. Maybe it would help Ben to have a sort of “older brother”. Diwell knew that it helped him when he had been younger. It was just something Philadelphians had learned to do for each other.

As an able bodied young adult, it was expected of Diwell to help out in the post-bombing rescue and rebuilding. The second part was not so bad, but rescue could be dangerous. And the corpses...Diwell did not cry very often, but he cried himself to sleep that night.
—

Diwell was exhausted. Every day, he woke up early to help with the rebuilding effort. Then, he tantalized his body with fake sleep as he watched the Scholars. After his shift was over, he went back to help at the reconstruction site. Then he plodded wearily home, where the biggest change was.

Ben and his mother had moved into the apartment while theirs’ was being rebuilt.

It was not as claustrophobic as it might seem, as Ben’s mother worked a night job, so Diwell had left by the time she got back in the morning, and she had left before he got back in the evening. When they did meet, she treated him with cold indifference.

That was probably just her way of grieving. She was old enough to have been his mom.

Ben was a really nice kid. He was at school during the day, and Diwell saw him in the evenings. Diwell always gave him some of his rations, which Ben always refused, but Diwell said that a growing child needed to eat, and Ben succumbed to hunger. The two would talk about what Ben was learning at school,(Library book free!), and sometimes Diwell would read to Ben.

As Diwell watched Jess and Thomas work during a guarding session, he finally started to pick out the pieces that could not possibly have anything to do with books. They had painstakingly prepared shards of broken glass...for something.

Diwell’s stomach churned with hunger, and his weary limbs begged for sleep. The Scholars probably got more than he did. Did they have to wake up early every morning to rebuild their broken city? No! Did their friends loose their homes and have to move in with them? No! Did they have to give up rations so that children would not starve? No! Did they loose the people closest to them? No!

It made Diwell sick. Life is more important than Knowledge. If there was no life, what was knowledge worth anyway? Diwell was at his breaking point. Any thoughts of subtlety burnt up in the Greek fire furnace when Thomas banged it.

Diwell leaped up, and in his fury, tripped. “What the hell do you think you are doing?” he shouted, cheeks reddening with rage and embarrassment.

Thomas turned to face him, infuriatingly calm. “Just an accident. We are banking the fire for tonight. We are leaving now.”

Smoldering, he lead the Scholars back to their prison cells.
—

Diwell sat in the backroom, eating his dinner. Another guard watched the Scholars. He divided the meal carefully, slipping a third of it into his satchel for Ben.

As he was eating his stale bread, the Scholars approached him, asking to visit their injured friend, Santi.

Externally, Diwell was exhausted. He did not want
to move. That was not the main reason though. The thought of them barging into Dr. Askuwheteu’s home and disturbing sick and injured Philadelphians made his skin crawl. There were already two of them there with Santi. Dr. Askuwheteu was too kind. Precious medical resources should not be wasted on that horrible Scholar. He had been a high ranking officer in the High Garda, imagine how many Burners he had killed!

“You’re not going anywhere. Not until we’re relieved.” Diwell stated.

“Which will be when? Our friend needs to go back to the doctor’s home to tend Captain Santi.” asked the one named Khalila.

Didn’t that man get enough treatment? Dr. Askuwheteu was good enough for Philadelphians, he was good enough for Santi.

“Don’t care. You wait.” Diwell barked tersely. As the Scholars retreated, Diwell glared. They were the reason that Dr. Askuwheteu had so many injuries to treat in the first place.

Chapter Text

As Diwell walked home that night, the eternally open eye of the moon glowed down on him. Because of the severe fuel shortages, there was never any lights at night, so the sky was full of stars. The wreckage from the bombing provided a sharp contrast to the daylight sun, but now, during the night, it seemed somehow different.

He could see the reconstruction efforts. It seemed so forgiving, hopeful. Maybe he could be that way too.

Diwell thought differently now about the thoughts he had earlier. They just weren’t... incisive. The answers he had crafted for himself were too blunt, and did not seem to fit the intricacies of the situation to his satisfaction. He had been tired, hungry, and frustrated. Now, the calm of the night helped him think clearly. He recalled to questions he had asked himself earlier.

Did they have to wake up early every morning to rebuild their broken city? Yes, they were rebuilding the core ideal of the Library: knowledge for all.

Did their friends loose their homes and have to move in with them? From rumors he heard, their friends were being detained by the Library as leverage against them.

Did they have to give up rations so that children
would not starve? Maybe not rations, but they had given up their golden futures as Scholars.

Did they loose the people closest to them? Yes. Diwell knew the statistics. Not all of the postulant classes survived.

Diwell had not understood earlier, but he did now. The Library was having a civil war. The Archivist stood everything evil, like bombing and bullying the world into submission. The Scholars in the prison stood to spread knowledge and make books available to everyone.

Diwell may have not been a Scholar, but he knew which side he was on.
—

Diwell watched as Thomas prepared for his day’s work. Since his re-evaluation during the night, he felt a sort of sympathy for the Scholar. He wanted Thomas to get away with whatever he was planning.

A little hope nagged at him. Maybe the Scholars would help Philly escape its crushing siege.

Since adult rations had been cut, he was lightheaded most of the time, and while Jess and Thomas worked in the forge, he fell asleep for real. Sharing food with Ben in the weeks before had taken its toll. Diwell did not have enough fat stored up.

Ben looked much thinner lately. Some bully from his school had been beating him up and taking his rations. He needed more food, and it broke Diwell’s heart that he did not have enough too share without fainting or worse. He was tempted to go after the bully, but he knew the bully was starving too and was stealing for a reason- probably an elder or sick member of the family who needed more food to stay alive.

It was a total surprise when Thomas offered him some food. Wasn’t Thomas hungry too? But then Thomas did not have a “little brother” to care for.

Diwell knew he should not accept the food. It was against the law and against the guard rules. (Giving food to children, the elderly, or the sick was different) But Ben needed it. Maybe if Diwell accepted the offering, Ben could finally be strong enough to defend himself.

The rations were slightly spotty, so Diwell decided to save his for Ben and eat Thomas’s. Diwell had learned not to let a little mold bother him, but it could hurt a weak little kid.

It was so wonderful to eat Thomas’s rations. He had not eaten in so long that it almost hurt to finally fill himself to contentment. Diwell could not wait to give the experience to Ben.

About thirty minutes later, Diwell felt the pain. Maybe the food was a little too far bad, or maybe he had just shocked his stomach after no food for so long. Or maybe Thomas wanted to make him suffer for detaining him from visiting Santi.

As he languished in the outhouse, he feverishly debated what to do. He should dispatch another guard and call in sick, but than Cheif Indira would probably ask him why he was sick. When he would tell them, they would take his ration and Ben would be hungry. He should just tough it out. The pain would be worth it when Ben was able to eat.

When Diwell’s stomach finally calmed down enough for him to leave the outhouse, he wobbled back to the guard post. He hoped he did not look too green.

“Feeling better?” chirped Thomas, grinning sweetly. Diwell glared. “Good. You can take a message to Master Beck for us: we will have his prize ready for him to see within the next hour. I’m sure he will be pleased.”

Diwell groaned. He could already imagine the miserable journey he would be taking, and his stomach was already beginning to squeeze again. He put his head in his hands, trying to calm down his ailing belly. His lips formed to wish them good luck, but he thought better of it and left.
—

An hour later, Diwell collapsed into his guard post. He had been forced to stop countless times to dry-heave into the gutter. He hoped he had not attracted to many stares. Diseases like dysentery and cholera were highly feared in Philly, but the township usually was reliable in keeping the limited water resources clean. Regardless, it was a threat that befell many a besieged city, and Diwell felt guilty about the anxiety he might be causing.

He had managed to get himself together before reporting to Chief Indira, but as soon as he left, he heaved by the door.

“You’ve poisoned me, you Library bastard!” he moaned.

Jess smirked.

“I did not! If I had, you’d be dead by now. But some of the food might have spoiled, I suppose. My apologies.” Thomas said.

Diwell’s stomach roiled and he made his exit.

Chapter Text

Diwell emerged from the outhouse just in time to grace the entrance as Master Beck and his entourage came to see the Scholars’ creation.

After Jess and Thomas demonstrated using the press, Diwell’s first reaction was euphoric. His mind spun with thousands of possibilities while his knees gave out and his eyes filled with tears...The press could let everyone write, whatever they wanted to write, without being Scholars...News from thousands of different sources, on cheap, affordable paper...Anyone could use it, for good, for evil, for poetry, for songs, for teaching...anyone could use it for whatever they wanted. Sure, there were malicious writers, like the Library, but he could choose not to read their work. The world would never be the same again...
—

Diwell practically skipped out of Master Beck’s office. The weather might have been miserable, but he certainly was not! He had been ordered to bring one of the printed pages to Beck’s office, and then he was off. He was certain that the printing had softened Cheif Indira’s heart.

A light-hearted grin graced Diwell’s face. He felt wonderful. He could feel the crushing wait of siege beginning to lift off of Philly’s shoulders. With this press, the Library surely could not prevail very much longer.

His stomach had finally calmed down, and he could not wait to tell Ben about the press and give him his extra ration.

Diwell’s elation shattered when the bomb alarm went off. “The Great Library declares that no quarter will be given.” He knew what it meant. Everyone in the city heard it in their worst nightmares. Philly was about to die.

Diwell fell to his knees, once again retching his guts out. He could already hear the crashing sounds of bombs and the screams of civilians. What about Ben? And that darned cat? We were so close...so close! He wiped his mouth, wanting to scream from the frustration. But he had to control himself, and think clearly if he wanted to come out of this one last bombing alive.

The governance district was on the other side of Philly, far from the rally. Diwell stood up and tried to look around for anyone else who had not attended. He was headed for a shelter down the street when he heard a shout. When he turned around, he saw a middle aged woman with an elderly man in tow. Diwell ran over and helped them towards the shelter.

The air smelled like smoke and he could see the green blaze of Greek fire all over Philly. As they entered the shelter, Diwell made a irrational choice. Ben was still out there, along with hundred of other people’s loved ones. Maybe if he helped more people, someone would help Ben.

Diwell berated himself as he ran out into the street. This is why it was so dangerous to love someone else more than yourself...

A building at the end of the block was hit, and the Greek fire started to spread. Diwell ran faster. He saw a young mother with her baby trapped over some rubble nearby.

He ran over. “I can’t get through!” She cried. She thrust the baby through the opening. “Take her!”

Diwell reached for the baby and held her against his chest. He hesitated. He could not just leave the woman there! He tried to pull at the thick sheets of metal, but they were too heavy.

“Go!” She screamed. Diwell ran. The air was definitely smoky now, and there were little bits of ash floating in the air. They still had time left before the air ignited. The baby was crying weakly. Diwell’s own eyes began to smart.

There was many more people crowding the shelter now. Diwell coughed heavily, trying to catch his breath in the smoky air. “Does anyone know how to take care of a baby?” he wheezed. Someone reached out and took the infant into their arms.

Diwell ran back out. He could not leave the baby’s mother to die alone, or the baby to grow up without a mother. Someone cried out for him to stop, but he ignored them.

The shelter exploded behind him. Diwell barely had time to process it before the impact knocked him onto the burning ground. He got up and swatted out the fire on his arm, and ran as fast as he could. All those people! The woman, the elderly man, the kindly stranger who took the baby, the person who’d tried to stop him from leaving, the newborn that would never grow up! Diwell choked back a sob.

When Diwell finally outran the fire, he collapsed to the ground, coughing. He could not get in a good breath. His arm was on still fire. He could see little glimmers of Greek fire. Quickly, he one-handedly grabbed a pinch of dousing powder from a pouch on his waist. Once the fire was out, he looked for shelter.

It was too late to help anyone now. Diwell had no idea where a safe place would be. Even the bomb shelter was not safe in the end.

Diwell looked around. The only building that was not in flames was Master Beck’s office. He ran in and slammed the door behind him. Miraculously, the air inside was fairly smoke free, and Diwell gasped for breath. He ran up the stairs to save Beck’s rarest books.

Diwell had seen Beck’s office several times in guard duty, so he knew which books were the rarest. He grabbed three of those and a mysterious small notebook he had always wondered about.

The air began to sound of burning wood. The fire had finally spread to the government building. The roof was burning. Diwell tucked the books into his shirt and booked it for the stairs. Just before he reached the steps, a large piece of the roof fell down in front of him, burning. Unable to stop his run, Diwell tripped over the burning wood and fell down the stairs.

When he hit the bottom floor, he blacked out for a second, but then came to his senses.

Diwell hoped that the fire would not reach his safe haven. He panted frantically, feeling the burn from his fall on his right leg. A goose egg was swelling on his head.

Diwell could count the seconds before the air ignited. The steady whooshing noise was growing louder.

Diwell had just cheated death several times, and he had no more ideas. He closed his eyes and curled into a ball, as if he could recapture the security he’d had as an embryo in his mother’s womb.

Chapter Text

Diwell uncurled to a searing agony in his back. The burning house had collapsed and a burning piece of wood pinned him to the ground. He screamed loudly, riven with pain and fear. Diwell knew he was about to join the people from the bomb shelter.

Suddenly, the fire hissed, an then went out. The plank had pierced his fire-snuff pouch and put out the flames.

Diwell had no time to appreciate his good fortune. He was still trapped in a collapsed house. He began to cough up smoky, bloody phlegm and it smeared on his face. It hurt so much to breathe. His burns on his right leg and left arm were swollen. And the burn on his back would kill him if not attended to.

Diwell tried to do a push-up and lift the plank off himself. He was weak, and it took three tries to get the plank off.
For his efforts, Diwell now had enough space to sit up. He looked around his enclosure. Two of him could lie flat next to each other in the space. He could stand up, but he did not have the strength.

He needed sustenance so he ate the ration that was miraculously still in his pocket. He drank a little water, but tried to save it. Who knew how long he’d be down here?

Diwell took out the books from under his shirt. The three ordinary books were burnt, torn, and bloodied beyond recognition. He removed the notebook. It was a bit stained, but otherwise unharmed. What could it be? He opened it carefully.

It was a Codex. He recognized it from one of the stories he had read from Dr. Askuwheteu’s library. He did not know why Beck had one. Diwell did not really want to know. He turned it over carefully in his hands.

What could he use it for? Maybe he could communicate to someone and ask for help. Diwell thought better of it. The Library would probably kill him if they found him. To be fair though, the whole city was rubble. They would never find him. He wondered if there were other half-alive Philadelphians trapped in the rubble.

There was only one Scholar he knew he could trust enough to communicate with privately. Jess Brightwell, the one with secrets.

A pang of loneliness struck Diwell. He did not want to die alone. So he opened the Codex and unhooked the stylus. With trembling fingers, he contacted Jess...

Jess,
You are probably are not expecting this... but do you remember your me, your guard from the forge? The one that slept all the time? Whether you remember me or not, I hope you are reading this because you are holding the future in your hands. Your printing press is going to change the world. It better change, because my whole city is dying for it. But to tell the truth I think it is a lot better to be printers than Burners. So here, I’m passing the baton from our destruction to your creation.
Your Ornery Captor, Diwell

As Jess lay in his cot recovering, he drew out the Codex Morgan made him to read. To his surprise, he saw a message written in an unfamiliar hand. The only one he had contacted with this Codex was Brendan. Who could have written him?

Jess began to read. When he was finished, he was shocked. Diwell? He had so many questions. He was tempted to wait and show Brendan, but then Jess thought of Brendan’s callous attitude toward Burner lives, and hesitated.

Diwell,
Where are you? Are you in danger? How did you contact me? How did you know how? I will do my best to achieve a worthy future... Be safe.
Your Rogue Charge, Jess
—

Rogue Jess,
I am in a cave of rubble in a collapsed government building. I don’t think the Library can find me here. I have some burns and I breathed in some smoke, so I am still coughing that up. I have Beck’s Codex, I do not know why he had one. I hope you know you were not nearly as subtle as you thought you were. When you and Thomas were working in the forge, I was more observant than you may have realized. What were you making? It seemed like some sort of gun? I was planning to catch you once you finished, but Thomas poisoned me. Cruel move, by the way. How did you end up getting out? Were you able to save anyone?
Ornery Diwell

Diwell’s breath caught in his throat. He hoped beyond hope that maybe, just maybe, Ben and his mother escaped.

He had another coughing fit and wheezed for air. The bloody phlegm was all over his shirt. It was beginning to get cold in the room of wreckage, and Diwell was shivering.
—

Ornery Diwell,
The medicas here made me take deep breaths and try to cough all the phlegm out. If you have any water, wet cloth will help your burns. Thomas and I used the device you saw, the Archimedes Ray, to burn a hole in the wall. We were able to rescue some Philadelphians. I wish we could have saved more. There were about twenty, including Dr. Askuwheteu. I honestly did not realize that you were aware of what Thomas and I were doing. I
don’t apologize about the moldy ration. You should not have taken it in the first place. Can you tell me what happened to you? I still trying to piece it together myself.
Rogue Jess
—

Diwell wet two torn pieces of his shirt and put them on his burns. He tried to cough up the phlegm like Jess had advised, but it hurt so badly and it seemed to only make the problem worse. He rested on his stomach because his back hurt too much.

He recounted his experience to Jess, and then
asked if he knew if a Native American boy named Ben Ochoa made it through.

Diwell was starting to feel dizzy. It was so hot in the ruins, and his sweat was stinging his burns. The burns were beginning to fester.

Ben. Please. Please be okay. He mouthed the mantra to himself over and over. If Dr. Askuwheteu was safe, maybe Ben was.

Chapter Text

—
Ornery Diwell,
Are you all right? You were rambling and repeating in your last message. Philadelphia was such a resilient city... None of us will ever forget your sacrifice. I asked Dr. Askuwheteu, and he said Ben was able to escape with us. Is he related to you? I wish I could help you.
Sour Jess
—

Diwell huddled in the corner, clutching his Codex tightly. He could barely breathe from the anticipation. When Jess’s message arrived, he read it slowly, disbelievingly. Ben was able to escape with us. Diwell’s eyes glowed. There was still hope for Philly and its people.

Jess,
Ben means everything to me. And his life means more than anything your printing press could ever create.

When Jess finished reading the message, it took a long time for him to look up from the page. His heart thudded as the implication of Diwell’s words sunk in.

He needed to talk to Dr. Askuwheteau, and perhaps more importantly, he needed to see Morgan’s face and be assured that she was still there.

Once in the tent, he walked over to Morgan’s cot. Her autumnal leaf of a body rested against the stark white winter snow of the bed.

He felt the the doctor’s hand on his shoulder. “She’ll be all right, as long as she doesn’t manipulate quintessence. You know that.”

“Right.” said Jess, though the weight in his chest only nestled in deeper.

“Did you know the guard that was assigned to watch Thomas and me in the forge? His name was-“

“Diwell. Yes, I knew him. He spent a lot of time at my house. He borrowed my books sometimes. Why?” asked Dr. Askuwheteu, eyes weary with grief.

“He survived the bombing, and he is hiding out in the wreckage of Philadelphia somewhere. Somehow he got ahold of a Codex and began sending me messages. But I’m not sure- I don’t think- I think he is dying...” Jess said brokenly.

The doctor’s face did not seem to register any surprise. Only a vagueness. “May I read the messages?”

Jess handed him the Codex.

Dr. Askuwheteu read them, then tried to speak, but then stopped. “Nothing really could have been done for him. He’s probably too far gone...”

“The messages reveal a whole different side to him that I never saw before.”

Askuwheteu sighed. “He used to be a lot nicer. But not many from people from Philly stay innocent.”

“What do you mean?” Jess inquired.

Askuwheteu frowned. “He lost his father before he was born, and then he lost his stepfather and mother. Last year, he lost his girlfriend. All bombings. At least that is over...”

Jess’s chest tightened when he thought about loosing Morgan. She was so weak...

Askuwheteu seemed to catch on to his train of thought. “As long as she does not manipulate quintessence, she should be all right.” he repeated.

“But his fair Anya was in a bad way for a whole week after the bombing. She had 3rd degree burns on her face and chest. She succumbed to infection. He could barely leave her side.”

Jess swallowed. Well, that put things in perspective. “Do you know why Ben was so important to Diwell?”

“Diwell rescued Ben during a bombing. He and his mother lived with Diwell because their apartment was destroyed. He gave most of his rations to Ben. As for why they were close, who knows? What possesses man to make attachment? But if I had to hazard a reason it would be that it is hard to be alone, and Diwell saw something in the boy, and decided to help that something grow.”

That is why Diwell accepted Thomas’s ration. Jess was hit by a wave of guilt. He wished he had gotten to know Diwell better...they could have worked together.

“Why did he become a guard?” Jess asked.

“Not many career options in the city... I suppose to feel like he was protecting the city, as much has he could, anyway.” answers Askuwheteu.

“He had a very detached exterior, but it does not surprise me that he came around to your cause. Diwell was always borrowing my books.”

Jess was quiet for a moment, then spoke. “I think...I think most Philadelphians would have come around. If given the chance. But without proper information...”

Askuwheteu nodded. “That’s what your press is for, isn’t it?”

“Yes. I just hope it’s enough.” Jess murmured.

“It has to be.” said the doctor, eyes closed and face strained. “It has to be.”

Chapter Text

Diwell knew that he was runing out of time. His breaths were growing labored, and his burns gave a steady, throbbing, pulse of pain. His shirt was wet with pus that had been oozing from his back.

He could not focus on anything for very long, and the room seemed to swing from hot to cold. Diwell tried to stay awake, but eventually he succumbed to dreams.

In his fevered stupor, a memory resurfaced that he had tried to forget: the Library test.

Even in the Burner stronghold, there were still ways to take the Library test and become a postulate.

When Diwell was sixteen, he was still reeling from the loss of his mother. He had no family left, and was living on the floor of his neighbor’s apartment. It was his last year of school.

Diwell was at a crossroad in his life. He could continue to be a Philly Burner. He would struggle through life in a sieged city. He would never get to see the world. And he would die in a bombing, loosing everything he cared about. But he would be free.

Or Diwell could take the Library test. He had his mother’s inheritance, which he could use to pay the testing fee. He would travel the world, learning and reading new things. But would he be free? He would be free from the Philly life.

So Diwell took the test, crouched in a clandestine alleyway using a cargo container for a desk. There was only him, three other teenagers, and an undercover Scholar.

When he was finished, the Scholar would let him know his score in secret. Then, during the next bombing, the Library would rope him over the wall and take him to Alexandria.

Diwell was not even sure if he would pass the test. Several of the questions he had never learned the answers to due to his Burner upbringing.

When he was walking home from school one day, a stranger slipped him a white envelope. Diwell had passed.

Diwell never seriously made the decision until now. The reason he wanted to become a Scholar was so he could leave Philly and lead the life he wanted to live, learning, reading, and teaching. But that life came at a cost. By taking that opportunity, he was oppressing thousands of other people that wanted to learn too. He could not do that.

That is why Diwell chose to report the undercover Scholar and become a guard instead of a Scholar.

Did Diwell regret that decision? If he had became a Scholar, he would not be dead in the rubble of a dead city.

Because Diwell had chosen to stay a Burner, he had sacrificed his life for something greater: so that literature and information would be available to all humanity.

That is why even when Diwell lay dying, he was content. He would have chosen this life over any other he could have lived.