Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

I. kuriositäten

Far above in the Nachtnebel mountains, its stone tower almost touching the heavens, lies an unremarkable gray stone building. If one were to merely gaze upon its exterior, one might guess it to be one of the last outposts of the Order of the Eierkuchen, or perhaps the Knights of the Copper Moon. Only when climbs the last step of the Winding Stairs does one see it come to focus, the jewel-toned windows diminished by the gray skies that leave only when the fog rolls in. The courtyard is quiet, mist shrouding it as one makes their way to the door and knocks three times. No more, no less.

The door opens and one is granted admission by a hooded figure. It asks one question, always the same, though the face it asks it to is ever-changing. If the questioner deems the answer sufficient, admittance is granted. If not, the door is shut forever and the wanderer must make the long journey back, having failed at the very end of their quest.

None have ever succeeded, but there will always be someone who tries, for what lays within these buildings is the wonder of the Last Tableland,

It is the Kunst Wunderkammer, the last bastion of knowledge, and the holdings contained within it are vast and astonishing indeed. Few will ever see what lies in the mountain, travel the path that winds itself down into the very heart of it, for only the Sage is permitted to unlock that final door, to gaze upon the collection that spans eternity.

But the Sage is not immortal and as time draws near and their eyes begin to blur, the hands tremble as they open the door each day, they know that there must be someone new to watch over the Library. It is time to pass the torch before the flame is snuffed out entirely. For even in these foggy, murky days, the light of the Kunst Wunderkammer burns brightly, illuminating the world with the love it preserves, keeps when the rest of the world would seek to shroud itself in the darkness of ignorance.

Luminaria Bayern rings the bell on her desk. It is a soft chime, but it echoes through the stone halls, for silence is the natural state of the Library. Even a footfall can be heard far before it arrives at its destination, soft as it may be.

Meterora Osterreich arrives promptly, but not with undue haste. She is exact in her movements and there have been times when Luminaria has wondered if the girl that was sent to her more than ten years ago is an automaton. True, she has seen her grow from a small child into a slightly less small young woman, and she eats, which even the strangest of creations in their collection are incapable of doing. Still, she muses, could not even the rapid disposal of food before her into Meteora's small frame be considered to be inhuman as well?

No matter. Such thoughts are idle, easily whisked away upon a breeze. “Meterora,” she says.

The girl inclines her head. “Yes, Sage,” she replies.

Luminaria steels herself. She has known that she will speak these words ever since she met the girl, but it does not make any easier to say them. “I believe it is time for you to go on your journey.”

Meterora does not react. Luminaria knows that when she was given that information, even though she had known that Adastra's time drew near, she still had gasped. Time at the Wunderkammer passes unremarked – it is easy for years to go by only recorded on parchment in the volumes kept on tall wooden shelves in the Chamber of the Chronicles. So it is easy to forget that flesh is fallible, that the Sage can preserve only so far, and that all must fall to dust in time.

“I see,” Meteora says. She has always been a grave child as long as Luminaria has known her, never smiling or laughing whereas previous failed acolytes proved to have more foolish and reckless temperaments. Luminaria has only given her three reprimands in her life and all were within the first few years of her residence at the Library. She is faultless, perfect, able to answer any question posed to her or to redirect and delay until she can obtain further information when it is beyond her scope.

She will be an admirable Sage and Luminaria has already made the preparations for it, but in truth she cannot be one until she has completed the journey that all sages do. Only then will she be granted her title. Luminaria was given her name after returning from her own journey, proclaimed The Sage of The Frozen Spring, after she returned from the Winterwald, presenting the last flower, perfectly enshrined in a sphere of crystal. It still twinkles in the Chamber of Light next to a still smoldering ember of Luftschloss, all but forgotten by man and time.

“It will not be easy,” Luminaria cautions her. “You will be provided all your basic needs for travel and a small purse, but everything else is up to you. Should you not return within the year or fail to bring back something from your journey, a wonder that must be preserved, you will not be permitted to enter the Library again.”

Meteora nods. “I understand.” She takes the pouch that Luminaria gives her, tucks it into her cloak and bows her head.

Luminaria fights the urge, as she has for so many years, to pat her on the head. If all goes well, in a year's time, this girl will be the new Sage. There can be no coddling of her, not when so much rests on her shoulder. The Library exists to preserve the world, to keep that which is precious safe, until either everything falls to ruin, or a hero emerges to step forward and stop the darkness.

A hero to bring their blue skies back.

“One more thing,” Luminaria says and Meteora raises her head. Luminaria picks up the book on the table and carefully lays it into Meteora's hands. She nods as an answer to Meteora's unspoken question and Meteora opens the book. The pages are blank, clean and smooth vellum upon which anything can be inscribed, from the most minute of observations to the greatest of magic.

“For you to write your experiences in,” Luminaria says. She smiles at Meteora and puts her hand ever so gently on Meteora's. “Have a good journey.”

After a minute, Meteora nods back. She tucks the book also into her sleeve and Luminaria watches her leave the room. There will be a beast waiting for her outside, already saddled by the shadows that tend such things in the Library. It is a good morning to leave, the fog somewhat receding and she should have no problems making her way down the mountain to--

Wherever she wants to go, Luminaria thinks. It is her journey and Luminaria can have no part of it, must let the girl make her own decisions and trust that she will return. Not all have from this journey. Some are only brought back in fragments, remnants of a life that will only be preserved in the Library.

Others vanish entirely, lines in a book that will never be read again.

Luminaria closes her eyes and just for a moment, allows herself the luxury of fear. “Fare well,” she whispers. “Travel far and wide and return to me.”

II. artificialia

It is quiet in the halls of Muksmäuschenstill. The sound does not travel, each voice or squeak of a shoe muffled, like a candle going out. To some visitors, the silence is unnerving, a reminder that this condition is not a natural state of being, but something man has devised and enforced with rigorous obedience.

To Meteora, stepping lightly upon the tile, her eyes focused on the walls, it is the least of the strangeness she has viewed so far in the world. The sounds of humanity bustling about, the crowds that push past her in the markets, even the laughter of children playing... all of that is what is unfamiliar. Silence is not an old friend, it is a sister that lays next to her at night and whispers dreams into her ear.

She does not remember entirely how she got here and there is no sign of a way out. Each hall spirals outwards, making it impossible to trace one's steps back There is no sign of anyone living either, no beating heart or hung breath to give evidence to any other traveler besides herself. It is a shrine that has no god, a tomb that holds no bodies.

Though it is not entirely devoid of life.

The paintings hang on the wall in golden frames, capturing a moment in a life. A girl swings on a tree in one, a boy swims in a lake in another. A couple gets married, another holds their child, hand in hand. None of these moments are ones that stand out, and yet they all do by the totality of their normality.

Meteora stops in front of the last one at the end of the hall before it branches off into two more. There's no one in the portrait, just a blue sky, vibrant and glowing with potential. Even in the frame, it comes to life and she reaches out, hesitating right before she touches it.

Lovely, isn't it, the voice says behind her, and she startles at it, before she realizes that it is not in her ears, but in her mind, something that thrums to her very bones.

Meteora nods. It is, she says. It is easy to adjust, trained as she is in certain arts. But there's no one in it. Not like the others.

There could be, the voice says. It's just waiting for the right person.

She looks around, but there is still no one there. She is alone in this hallway of faces, her breath hanging in the chill of its air.

Think about it, the voice says. And when you're ready, I'll be waiting.

She wanders through more halls until the paintings blur into one, each face repeating with only slight variations. Perhaps that is what humanity is, she thinks, and wonders if she will even know the hero when they come. Will something spark in her mind and she will recognize them as soon as they walk in or will it be something else, maybe a series of hazy figures that she speaks to, forgotten as soon as they leave the Library? The Sages speak of this, written down in past chronicles, that the memory of those who have tried and failed is just as important as those who succeed.

Outside, the gray sky is darkening into black, stars dim and red above. There is nowhere besides the Halls for miles around, but there does not seem to be anyone here who would mind if she stayed. On the contrary, there is an uneasy feeling in the back of her mind that she would be more than welcome to dwell here. Perhaps for the rest of her life.

Meteora firmly pushes the thought as far out of her head as she can, though she cannot remove it entirely. Instead, she undoes her bedroll, lays it on the floor, and pulls out the bag to eat some bread. It is dry and tasteless compared to some of the food she has been able to try.

That, above everything else, has made this journey worth while. There is a sameness to the Library, everything done precisely by routine, each day a study in the process of iteration. It is orderly, neat, nothing out of place.

The world she has seen so far is not. There are patterns, things one can notice by mere observation, but there are differences as well, fractals spiraling outwards. A woman may milk her cow every morning, but if the sky is darker because of rain, she will start later, or may not entirely. The man fishes in the sea, but the fish he catches is not the same. What would it be like to live in a world such as that?

She lies down on her bedroll and lifts her eyes above to look at tiled ceiling, repeating red and black squares that stretch on as far as her eyes can see.

But there is danger in such a world, a voice says. Wouldn't it be better to freeze a moment forever, to always preserve the happiest time of your life and know that it can never be taken from you? A child can never be taken from its parents, nor parents grow old and forced to leave their children behind. A couple will never lose their love for each other, quarrel and bicker, until what once filled their hearts with joy is nothing more than bitter ashes.

She cannot say that the thought does not tug at her, does not strike something sympathetic in her heart, but Meteora shakes her head. No, she says. The cycle happens to everyone. Time must flow in order to give life meaning.

And yet time will steal and destroy everything around you. I knew you as soon as you came in, child of the Kunst Wunderkammer, the Library that seeks to preserve all. This is what we do here. We cherish life, protect it, keep it from ever being ruined.

Meteora stands up, walks over to the painting of a couple sitting in a garden under a flowering tree. They gaze at each other in rapture, and yet she can see the cracks in the world, the dust gathering at the corners, the inevitable decay of even a world created to lock a moment into eternity.

It cannot last forever, Meteora says. Nothing can.

The voice is quiet in her head. I see, it says. Then there is nothing I can say to persuade you.

No.

Then I only ask that you leave in the morning and never return. These Halls are not meant for one that does not wish to remain here.

Meteora nods.

Her dreams are empty as always, a darkness in between moments of waking, and when her eyes open to another gray morning, there is a door in front of her that was not there before. It swings open quite easily to her touch and she steps through.

Outside, the morning is cold, clear, a wind ruffling through her clothes and when she turns to look backwards, there is nothing behind her but a barren landscape, dotted by a few trees. The Halls have vanished for good and Meteora looks down at her empty hands.

She supposes it's better to have nothing and know it, than to be content with empty dreams.

III. scientifica

The city of Luftschloss is already dead when she gets there, a broken down thing of rusty cogs and crumbling stone. The automatons are in various states of disrepair, some needing only minor polishing to look like they could be woken up again, while others are nothing more than piles of copper and steel being held together by fraying wires.

Meteora enumerates each one down as best she can, sketches in the margin of the book what they look, jots down ideas of what she thinks their function might be, and manages to fill dozens of pages by the time she realizes that it is getting dark and she really should find a place for the night.

There are no ideal options for shelter – the buildings themselves do not look structurally stable enough that she would not fear triggering the collapse of one of them, while the winds are fierce to the point that staying under a tree would be equally as risky. There is some magic she possesses that might shield her from such things, but it would be foolish to expend it now when she does not know what dangers might still exist in this city.

Eventually, she settles on the graveyard. It is not the most intuitive of options, but it does provide a break from the wind and the stone here seems to be of higher quality, more well-maintained than the rest of the city. The names are not so weathered and beaten away that they cannot be read, and in the litany that covers the entire wall of one of the mausoleums, Meteora sees a history of a family and its end.

“Gone,” she hears. “All gone.”

She turns and looks and there is something still moving in this dead city, a brass figure with one of diamond, the other missing entirely, that stumbles forward, like it is unused to movement. It is a woman, she thinks, though that observation is based merely on surface conjecture and could be entirely wrong.

“Everyone here,” she says quietly. “They all left?”

“They do not function anymore,” the automaton says. There is oil congealed in its joints, rust radiating out from it, and yet its very ability to move makes it in far better condition than the rest of its brethren. “They have ceased for quite some time.”

“How long?”

The automaton halts, tilts its head and Meteora can hear the clicking in its neck, the whirring as calculations are made. It is strange to see the outward manifestation of thought, even more so that she finds something familiar in its concentration. It's as if her mind is laid before her, a mirror of glass and gold that shows the internal workings of something she herself even cannot understand.

“Fifty-six years, two months, three days, and seven hours,” the automaton says. “Apologies that I cannot be more precise than that but some of my internal chrono sensors have been damaged.”

“Well, you are only human,” Meteora says and watches it blink.

“Apologies again,” the automaton says, “but I believe that is not entirely accurate.”

Thus Meteora is in the familiar position of having to explain that she was only joking, which apparently is not one of her talents, judging from the general reception to her attempts. “You are correct,” she says instead. “Do you have a name?”

The automaton thinks again, but its calculation is much quicker this time. “Olympia,” she says. “That is what my creator designated me.”

“Meteora,” she replies. “I suppose that is what mine did as well.” It is meant to be a joke, she thinks, a remark about the parents she does not remember or perhaps the one that waits back in the Library for her to return, but it lays cold on her tongue. A city almost completely dead, and it is the first place in some time where she finds someone she understands.

“You are not intending to stay long here,” Olympia says, not a question but an answer. “There is nothing here for you.”

She knows this, of course and yet she finds herself reluctant to leave. Perhaps it is the sight of Olympia, broken and battered, but still clinging on to life in the face of death and decay. It could something as straightforward as programming, a function built into her that does not allow her to cease until her entire body breaks down and yet Meteora does not think it is so simple as that. The eye that still gazes upon her has a spark in it that the rest of this city does not.

Meteora does not know what possesses her to say this, but she finds the words spilling forth as if they were not her on but some urge to preserve life. Perhaps that is what being a Sage is, wanting to save something when everything else is lost.

“Come with me,” she says. “You don't need to stay here.”

Olympia stops, all processes coming to a halt. Her good eye fixes upon Meteora and something far more complicated than a calculation of time occurs behind it. It is not an accounting or an analysis, and that more than anything stirs something in Meteora.

“Leave here,” Olympia says. “Leave the city behind? I--”

“If there is something that compels you to stay behind,” Meteora says, “then surely it must have ended when everything else did. There is no one left to report to.”

Movement ceases entirely in Olympia and for a few horrible moments, Meteora thinks that she has unwittingly triggered a fail-safe, something designed to shut down the last of life when all else has stopped.

But it does not end for good. There is a spark again and Olympia whirs to life, looks at Meteora. “I understand,” she says. “I have made the appropriate adjustments.”

Her hand reaches out, dented metal tracing along the last name on the wall. There is something hesitant in it that lingers and Meteora may be attributing something that even she does not quite understand, but there seems to be... loss there.

“There is nothing left,” she says. “Gone. All gone.” Her hand falls away with a clack, harsh in the stillness. “I will go with you,” she says. “But I do not know if I will reach the end.”

“Nor do I,” says Meteora. “But let us try all the same.”

The city gates open before them one last time, iron wheels rolling into place with a groan as they step through them.

They do not look back.

IV. naturalia

“I do not understand why you chose to venture here,” Olympia says. “Surely the temperature must be too cold for you.”

The trees are glittering with frost, green needles frozen to the branches. There are berries there too, pale things that do not burst when Meteora touches them, but split in half, crystallized on the inside.

“My teacher came here,” Meteora says. “She told me about her journey here. She said that it was a nice place. I now believe that she meant to say an ice place instead.”

Olympia's eye darts about for a second. “That was a joke as well,” she says. “A play upon words between what is expected and what actually occurred.”

“Yes.” Meteora wraps the cloak tighter around herself. “It would not work as well in another language, though a good translation would endeavor to make a joke that would work similarly, trying to capture the spirit more than any accuracy.”

She can see Olympia adding that to her pool of knowledge, writing it down in whatever form her memory takes. “I see,” she says. “So if I were to say that there was snow place I'd rather be?”

Meteora nods in approval. “Yes,” she says. “That would work equally as well.”

The snow crunches beneath their feet, though in Olympia's case, there is slight melting beneath it as well. Meteora has done what she can to repair her joints, make her movement more fluid, but there is only so much she can do, even with Restoration. Things can be preserved, but not protected forever and obsolescence is not something that can be overcome just with magic.

The sky is still gray above them with the trees blocking the view of it constantly. Occasionally, a branch shakes in a gust of wind and they have to duck the snow. It is a beautiful, if cold sight, everything sparkling from the light reflected off the trees. Meteora thinks about taking that back, but just touching the luminescent fungus on the tree is enough to make it quiver and go dark, as if it were trying to hide from view.

She knows the feeling.

“You are looking for something,” Olympia says. “Do you know what it is?”

“I'm not entirely sure,” Meteora confesses. “But I believe I will know it when I see it.”

They walk on further, deeper into the woods. Here, the trees are closer together, dark heads bowed and entangled, roots and limbs wrapping around each other and the light is far dimmer. There is a darkness at the heart of this, and Meteora wonders just how the Sage made it so far on her own.

Something snags at her cloak and she pulls herself free, leaving a few loose threads to whip around in the wind. The trees almost seem to be reaching out to stop her, prevent her from passing beyond the barrier they set.

And yet she must. She wants to see what the Sage saw, for perhaps that might help her understand the purpose of all of this. Is it to take the last memory of a place back? To save something from destruction? To--

Olympia pushes forward with a final crack and they are in a clearing, the light blazing in front of them. There is no wind here. The air is still, everything seemingly hanging like a breath.

There is one tree in the center of the clearing, its branches barren and stark. Its trunk is wrapped in fungus and as Meteora steps forward, it opens its eyes.

All of them.

She stumbles back even faster as the tendrils of the fungus reach forward, trying to lash around her feet. It has been watching her all this time, trying to see how far she was willing to go to find what her teacher did and now--

Now it sees her. Now it knows.

Meteora turns and flees, Olympia already ahead of her. Returning is more difficult. Now she believes the trees to truly be actively hindering her progress, snagging at her clothing, as roots snake out to trip her. She keeps pushing forward, ignoring the whip of wind in her face, the sting of blood on her cheek from something that hits it.

“Keep moving,” she says over the sudden rush of wind in her ear. “Don't stop until we're out of the forest.”

And then she hears it. The crack of several branches above Olympia. She can see a huge drift of snow already preparing to fall, to bury them both.

Meteora throws up a shield, but it is too late. Far too late.

They are buried in snow, in darkness, in an impossible cold.

She cannot open her mouth to speak, cannot move her hands to make the necessary sigils that might move some of the snow out of the way. She is frozen in place, trapped in a coffin that does not permit movement or sight.

It does not want her to live.

And so she drifts, much as the snow, after a while. It is easy to lose oneself in the mind, to compartmentalize what is happening to you. She retreats further and further into the center of it, ignores the chill settling into her bones and the gradual realization that her body is starting to shut down.

I am sorry, she thinks, and she does not actually feel sorrow, but it is important to say this, to try to send these thoughts to the Sage. I should not have attempted to follow your steps, not when the whole point was that I strike out on my own.

I am sorry that I could not do what must be done and that I failed you.

The darkness sets into her mind and she is gone for a time.

And yet...

It does not last.

Soon, she hears the sounds of something above her, muffled as if it was from a great distance. There are voices, the sounds of something metal above her. She cannot respond to it, only listen with a vague interest as if it were happening to someone else.

Light begins to come in, at first pinpricks, but soon more and more streams through. The layers above her get lighter, the pressure less intense. She still cannot move but it does not bear down upon her.

“There's someone down here,” Meteora hears.

“I told you there would be,” another voice responds.

And finally, the light breaks through entirely and hands reach to pull her out. She can do nothing to aid them, tired as she is.

But she is saved, she thinks.

She is not alone.

V. exotica

They call it a galleria, a word that rolls around on Meteora's tongue with an unfamiliarity, but she knows the place as soon as her eyes open. The chambers may not be deep in the Earth, choosing instead to stretch out around her, encircling her, but the locks on the doors, the signs posted above in a tongue she tries to understand are all familiar to her.

The Kunst Wunderkammer, it seems, is not the only place of its type.

“You are a guest,” The Collectrice says, smiling gently as she tucks the blankets tighter around Meteora. The breeze wafting through the window is warm, carrying with it the scent of flowers and fruit, a heady perfume, but Meteora still shivers, the cold having worked its way to her bones.

“And my companion,” she asks, her voice a soft rasp as the chords unfreeze themselves, what happened to her?”

The Collectrice looks away. “I apologize,” she says quietly. “There was no one with you.”

“I see,” Meteora says and she does, for it is not hard to tell a lie when you have been taught to detect one. Either Olympia is dead and they do not wish to tell her that, fearing how she might react, or she is not dead and--

The possibilities are a bit more hard to calculate in that instance, but Meteora finds herself hoping for the latter.

She falls back asleep, lets the darkness take her again, though it is a warmer one this time.

Recovery is swift for her. The cold recedes and restlessness sets in, a reminder of her duty and the task before her.

“I must leave,” she says one day to the Collectrice, though she makes sure to clear her mouth before doing so. If nothing else, almost dying has rewarded her with new tastes, the salt of a fish coated in flour or a fruit that bursts in her mouth with a tangy sweetness. It would almost be enough to stay, to experience these new joys but there is someone waiting for her to return and no amount of food can stave that realization off.

The Collectrice frowns. “You cannot,” she says calmly, her hand pouring out a cup of tea into a porcelain cup. “You are too weak to travel. You must rest here and get back your strength.”

Meteora takes the cup of tea. “I believe I am strong enough,” she says, sipping it. It is bitter today and she winces at the taste before setting it down.

“I must disagree.” The Collectrice's hand reaches out and gently pats Meteora's. “See, you are already falling asleep.”

And she is not wrong. There is a sudden lassitude in her body, an exhaustion that sets in quickly, but it does not feel natural. This is something from the outside that seeps into her blood, not the cold that has lingered.

She knew the tea didn't taste quite right.

Meteora falls asleep at the table and wakes again in a darkened room with bars across the windows.

So, she thinks, they are finally revealing who they are.

There are books in the room, but not her book, and she spends an unknown amount of time paging through them, reading words she does not understand though the shape of them allows her to trace them back, a tree returning to its roots. Her translation is inexact, clumsy, but in these books, she starts to make sense of the galleria, of the world that she is now trapped in.

“You will not let me leave,” Meteora says when the tray is set in front of her, the Collectrice smiling just as patiently as before, though there is a firmness to her eyes.

“No,” she admits. “I do not think I will.”

It is impossible to truly tell how old the woman in front of Meteora is. Her hair is still dark, lustrous, and her skin is unlined, as smooth and unmarked as the remaining vellum pages in Meteora's book, but there is an unfathomable weariness in the Collectrice's eyes, a depth that seems to go back decades, if not even longer.

“Is it just you here?” Meteora asks quietly.

The Collectrice does not respond, but the tightening around her mouth is all Meteora needs to see.

“If you are like me, then you must know that I cannot stay here.” Meteora knows that she cannot feel the same depth of emotion that the person in front of her must. There has always been something that blocks it, like a sheet of glass that separates her from the world. But she knows what it is to be alone, and she reaches out a hand to touch the woman's own. “You must let me go.”

“You do not have to leave,” The Collectrice replies, after a few minutes of silence have passed. “You could remain here with me and keep me company, help preserve my collection.”

“I cannot.” Meteora shakes her head. “I must return back to my own.”

“Then you will be a part of it,” The Collectrice says. “Either way, you are not leaving the galleria. I have paid too much for you to let you fall into other hands.”

Meteora does not remember the time between the forest and here with any great detail, but bits of memory do surface, fragments of a puzzle that gradually pieces itself together. Hands that wrapped blankets tightly around her, binding her to a litter. Being carried through the woods, her book plucked from her sleeve neatly as she opened her mouth to protest. A woman's voice, soft and low, and the sound of metal clinking against itself.

It slots into place and a picture comes into focus.

“Then I am a prisoner,” Meteora says.

“I prefer to think of it as preciosa,” the Collectrice says, standing up. “Please do not make your time here more difficult than it needs to be.”

The door shuts and Meteora hears the clank of a bolt being turned in it.

She eats, chewing each bite of bread thoughtfully, while she thinks. Escape would not be impossible. If the Collectrice is telling the truth, then it is just her here and it would be an even match at worst.

But--

That's assuming she does not have servants of her own, shadows to help keep the place running. Meteora does not know precisely how the galleria works, if their day to day functioning is the same as the Kunst Wunderkammer, but assuming it is even remotely similar, she may not need her own strength to force Meteora to remain.

No, patience and planning is the key. Perhaps waiting it out, breaking down the Collectrice's guard until she believes that Meteora would be happy here is the key. She should have accepted her initial offer, because now it may be a bit more difficult to escape. But she has time.

Except that she does not even as she mulls that statement over in her brain. There are less days remaining in front of her than behind, the journey starting to draw to a close. Her book is filled a good portion of the way, the pages littered with observations and notes. If she does not return to the Library soon, then she will never be able to return.

Never be able to go home.

She closes her eyes, pushing the tray aside, and drifts off into a troubled sleep.

It is not for long, though, as she hears the sound of something whirring next to her, a metal clank against stone and Meteora opens her eyes.

Olympia is there, a bit more dented than before, but still functioning, bending over her, the cogs in her turning loud enough for Meteora to hear.

“Olympia,” she says, struggling to sit up. “You came.”

“I have been here,” Olympia says, her metal arms reaching out to steady Meteora and help her out of the tangled sheets. “I was brought here the same as you.”

“But they said--”

“They believed me to be non-functional,” Olympia says. “I did not dissuade them of the notion.”

“You lied,” Meteora says, marveling at it.

“Technically, it was just not telling a truth.”

Semantics, Meteora thinks, but useful. “We need to leave,” she says. “But I need to find my book before we--”

Olympia motions to a lump on the bed at her feet. Meteora's pack lies there, her clothing neatly folded on top of it. There are a few tears in it when she puts it on, but nothing that cannot be restored. Her book is nestled against it and slips into her sleeve.

“They did not conceal it well,” Olympia says. “I believe they did not think that someone would come looking for it.”

But there is someone looking now. Meteora can hear the sound of rapidly approaching footsteps. “I do hope that you have a plan for this as well,” she says. “Otherwise, this will be a very short-lived escape.”

In response, Olympia passes a cool glass orb over into Meteora's hands. It glows with a blue light, rays pulsing from around it.

The door opens and the Collectrice is there.

She reaches out a hand to stop them.

Meteora wraps her arm around Olympia and drops the orb.

It smashes on the ground in a burst of light and they are gone.

VI. mirabilia

The moon is in the ocean, and the stars streak through it, impossibly fast. Meteora dips a hand into the water, watches it ripple around her. It is the Ocean at the End of the World, a place she has only ever read it about, a story to be told to children, for it was told to her, she knows from distant memory.

Above her, a whale drifts through a starless sky, singing a lament for the end of it all.

“The last of them,” Meteora says quietly, when no more come to join in. “It's all alone.”

Olympia does not seem to hear her, too busy listening to the song, but she responds after a few minutes. “I did not think I would ever see such a thing,” Olympia says. “It was not something I would have ever calculated in my existence.”

“Nor I,” Meteora agrees, watching the whale turn, surprisingly graceful for a creature of its bulk. A star below it shoots upward, explodes in a ball of light next to it, and the whale sings back to its hum. It is a symphony of sound that must have been carried on for eons, now reduced to a single voice.

“I do not know where you wish to go after this,” Olympia says. “I did not know where the orb would transport us when I gave it to you, only that it would take us somewhere else.”

There is a bit of light still clinging to Meteora's book when she flips through it, as if whatever was captured inside that sphere has inscribed itself on the pages. Magic clings to it, and she knows there is enough for one more trip.

Teleportation is not a difficult spell to learn nor to master. The only difference between traveling a few hundred feet and a thousand miles is the energy needed to power it. She thinks that what remains is enough for that journey, or at least to get close enough to it.

Meteora does not mention that it would not be enough for two. There is no point, not when she is unwilling to abandon that which she promised to take with her.

Instead, she watches more stars shoot upwards, lighting up the night sky. The moon will not rise for several more hours and she has enough food in her pack that it will not be a problem for that time.

This is the end of it all, she thinks, but cannot feel regret, not when such sights are before her.

She moves in closer next to Olympia, feels the warmth of the metal body next to her, still whirring away as she too, watches the whale dance in the sky above.

It is easy to bask in it, to let it be a lullaby that sends her into a soft dream of stars and song and a sky that turns as blue and endless as a vast ocean. There is light everywhere she can see, and the whales frolic through it all.

She does not know how long she spends in that trance, suspended in time, uncaring of the vast array of problems before her, but eventually she rouses when Olympia moves away.

She is standing before Meteora, looking down, and there is a curious light in her remaining eye.

“You will need to return home soon,” she says. “I do not know precisely how long the remaining journey will take you, but I have calculated that you should be able to make it if you leave now.”

Meteora gets to her feet. “Olympia,” she says. “You cannot think that I would leave you here, not when--”

“You will have to,” she says. “There is no other way.”

“There is,” Meteora says. “We can stay behind together.”

“I will not watch you die,” Olympia says. “And I would not wish you to do the same.” Her face is incapable of smiling, broken as it is, but the spark in her eye is warm and there is a different cadence to her voice as she says. “I will not be alone at the end. I will be sung to sleep here.”

It is an impossible choice to make. “I--”

“I did not tell you why my creator made me,” Olympia says. “He was a brilliant man, but he was a cruel one as well. He built countless creations to use at his whim, to hurt others or to make them hurt themselves. I was designed to torment one individual in particular, to lead him down the path of ruin all because my creator was angered by him.”

Meteora says nothing.

“To be a creation designed to cause pain is the loneliest purpose of all and to carry on long after that has been fulfilled is even worse. It is an existence that I would wish upon no one else and so when the world ended and I did not, I thought that it was a proper punishment for what I had been designed to accomplish.”

“But it was not your fault,” Meteora says. “You did not choose it.”

“No,” Olympia agrees. “The first choice I made was leaving with you and this is my second choice. I would ask that you grant me this as well.”

Meteora closes her eyes. Above them, the whale's song grows louder, a call for something that will never return.

“If that is your wish,” she says. “But I will remember you.”

She opens her eyes and Olympia is there, reaching forward to take Meteora's hand. They hold tightly for some time before Meteora reluctantly releases it.

“That is all I ask,” Olympia says.

And she will. Meteora will write of Olympia, not as the broken down machine that she found in a dying city, but as the last living creation of a world, witnessing the last one of another, two impossibly beautiful things calling to to remember what they were.

The light pulses blue around her as she opens up the book. The sigils flare to life in front of her, symbols that settle into her and wrap themselves tightly around her body.

She takes one last look at Olympia, raises her hand to bid her farewell.

“Goodbye,” she says softly.

“Goodbye,” Olympia echoes. 

VII. Heim

Each morning is the same as the last since Meteora left.

Luminaria marks it on a calendar, crossing off each day in black before the same routine presents itself. She feels her body ache more as the days pass, gray and unremarkable. If she is not a lamp that has quite gone out yet, then the oil in her is starting to be burnt up, the reserves of energy in her body no longer able to support the weight of the magic around her.

She sleeps in later than she should, eats less than she should, does not write as much as she used to. There seems little need to as the anniversary of Meteora's journey draws closer. Luminaria returned after eight months.

Meteora has not returned after eleven. Perhaps she never will.

Luminaria does not know what she will do if Meteora does not return. There are contingency plans in place, of course. A new acolyte can always be summoned, trained quickly, sent on a journey with a far shorter time frame, but such things never work out properly. These Sages tend to last as long as it takes to find a replacement, and such things are scarce these days.

There are very few left in the world who would wish to live such a life, to devote themselves to solitude and a futile desire to protect what little remains in the world.

It is three days remaining when Luminaria wakes to the sound of footsteps echoing in the hall, slow and determined.

She lifts her head from the desk where she fell asleep and reaches for the bell, ringing it softly.

The footsteps pause, then resume, walking towards her.

“Meteora?” she asks, her voice hoarse from disuse.

The door opens.

The girl does not look different at first glance. Her clothing is frayed in parts, clearly no longer the crisp robes she set out in, but it still hangs around her the same. Clearly, Meteora will never grow taller than she is, which Luminaria hopes will not come as a terrible shock the day the girl finally realizes this.

“Sage,” Meteora says, inclining her head and it is here that Luminaria notices the difference. Her voice is the same, calm and quiet as the child she has always been, but there is a weight to it now, a knowledge present that was not there before.

Wherever Meteora's journey took her, it was not one that did not leave a mark upon her.

“Was it a good journey?”

She can see something cross Meteora's face, a struggle that plays itself out in her eyes. Luminaria almost regrets asking the question, but then--

Meteora smiles, a light breaking through the clouds on her face and it is a beautiful sight.

“Yes,” she says. “I believe it was.”

Luminaria nods. “And what did you bring for the collection?”

Meteora says nothing, reaches into her sleeve and pulls out the book that Luminaria gave her. “I apologize,” she says. “I have nothing but this.”

Luminaria takes the book, opens it up, and sits down, paging through it. It is filled from beginning to end with all manner of things – brief sketches of flora and fauna, the instructions for spells etched on a page, a list of various foods that Meteora has tried and reviews of each.

She suppresses a laugh at the last one. It is comforting to know that no matter how far the girl travels, some things never change.

And then she reaches the end and stops. It is a song, a story, a tale of a girl and the end of the world and what remains when everything else is gone.

She closes the book. Meteora stands before her, hands clasped, patiently waiting.

The silence stretches on, neither breaking it.

Luminaria sighs eventually. “This is what you have brought me,” she says, standing up and walking over to Meteora.

The girl looks up at her, eyes clear as the sky they no longer see but in dreams. “Yes,” she says. “It is all I have to offer.”

“It is enough,” Luminaria says. “Sage at the End of the World.”

She watches Meteora acknowledge the title, lets it sink into her and settle like a proclamation. “Thank you,” Meteora says softly. “For everything.”

Luminaria looks down at the book still in her hands, traces the cover with a golden-tipped finger, revealing its title. Every creation knows its true name, though sometimes it takes some longer to remember them than others.

“The Book of a Thousand Miles,” she says. “I think it will keep well.”

Her hand reaches out and touches Meteora's hair, gently stroking it. She will allow herself this. Luminaria's time is almost up and a new age will begin. She does not know what the future will hold for the new Sage, if she will ever meet the hero, or if she will grow old and gray here, preserving a dying world for her successor. But if anyone is equal to the task, she knows without a doubt that it will be Meteora.

Meteora's hand reaches up and wraps around Luminaria when she moves to take it away. “Just a little bit longer,” she says. “Before it all ends.”

“Yes,” Luminaria says. “I think I can manage that.”

Chapter Text

I know there's a lot of talk about this and exactly how canon it is, considering that Noboyuki Sakamoto never officially released any of this information. I've heard a few arguments that it's just a cash grab by the company to capitalize on the new-found popularity of this NPC and I can't say it's not without merit, considering some of the fanworks that have sprang up in the meantime (looking at you, Sexy!Meteora creators).

I think that does a disservice to the story. It's a little rough, probably because it never actually went through the actual publication process, and I'm sure some people are going to argue about canonical contradictions, but I want to argue that that's what makes it so interesting. The stuff that never made it into Avalance is equally as important (if not more so) than what was included. I'd like to go section by section and just jot down my own notes about it. Not an official review or anything, just some observations.

Section I – I think the inclusion of Luminaria is the biggest WTF for the fandom, because we'd never really seen any of the sages before Meteora. Heck, some of us even thought she was probably the only one, like some sort of immortal loli (don't lie, I've seen the locked threads about it). But there were a a few players who'd actually taken the time to collect all the journals in the Kunst Wunderkammer (props to the 0.2% of you who did it, if the achievement stats are right) and they did mention that there were references to previous scholars, Adastra in particular.

Luminaria seems to be a bit more out of left field, but I like that Meteora had a mentor. It makes her feel more relatable, like she wasn't always this knowledge dump at the end, but someone who went through a journey, the same as you. Speaking of which:

I totally called it! I knew that they were hinting at the Hero not being the only person who'd had their own quest and it's cool to see that maybe that's why Meteora's so motivated to help you out at the end. I mean, if somebody just burst into my library and started demanding info, I'd probably kick them out on their ass, but it's nice to see a Watsonian explanation for why she doesn't. (Yeah, yeah, I know the Doylist one would be that the game programmed her that way, but isn't it more fun to think of it in-story?)

Section II – Creepy shit and I can't say I'm not glad they cut that part from the game. There's already that things with the statues that move behind you when you're not looking and the last thing we need is people trapped in paintings on top of it. I do wonder if that would have been a non-traditional game over, like the bad ending is that you touch one of them and you're stuck forever. Also, guessing that the voice in this part was probably used later for the Skylands section, in that optional sidequest with the guy that wants you to steal people's dreams for him.

Section III – Why did we not get a cool robot companion? I guess it's because they stripped that part out so it's just you on your lone journey (and whatever mount you picked up), but still, I want my robot! Obviously, this entire section is a reference to E.T.A. Hoffman's The Sandman, which goes along with the whole theme of creation and destruction, but it was probably a little too abstruse for the general public. Also, I can't imagine that throwing a steampunk-oriented city into a high fantasy game would be anything other than deeply confusing (though I suspect if I ran a poll at the end of this, the majority of you guys would be down with it).

Section IV – Here, at least, is something they did keep in the game. I think we all remember how much fun the Winter Forest was to get through, especially with the survival mechanic (you didn't stock up beforehand? Sucks to be you!) and I do remember the trees blocking certain paths, though I thought that was just one of those artificial wall things, like to keep you from wandering off and breaking the game. Again, nice to have an in-game reason for it. Still kind of bummed they cut the glowing sentient fungus from the game, even if the replacement boss battle with the Icewolf was pretty fun, once you figured out how to juke it.

Section V – Not surprised they cut the existence of a second exposition dump area, since they probably figured it would be redundant, and it sounds like The Collectrice would be a whole lot more irritating to pry information from (and I swear to God, if you guys start thirsting over seemingly hot Italian lady who locks everyone up, I have no more faith in humanity. Meteora is right there being best girl, people.) It would have been cool if they had sort of kept part of it in as a dev room or something, like you jump down a canal and go underwater, exploit the wall glitch there and bam! There you are!

Also, that orb is totally the prototype for fast travel in the game and you cannot tell me otherwise.

Section VI – This is probably the part that hurts the most that they cut out because man, it just sounds awesome. An ocean made of space and stars that swim in it! Space whales! Having an awesome NPC robot to watch it with you and then having to sacrifice them in order to get back home! It would have made me cry and then write a dozen fix-it fics where my robot friend and I both get out somehow and then we come back to save all the whales! Yeah, I've heard the rumors that the remaster might bring back something similar to it, but there's nothing concrete and in any event, it won't be nearly as cool as what could have been (RIP Sakamoto).

Section VII – Similar to the first one, it's just cool to get some backstory for things – how Meteora got her name, where that book she had came from, why you don't see anyone else in the Kunst Wunderkammer when you hit that part of the game.

It just seems like Sakamoto put a lot of time and thought into his characters, even the more minor ones, and to say that they're only releasing this information because they want to capitalize on the renewed interest in the game (and whatever the hell went down at the Elimination Chamber Festival, because I'm still scratching my head over that shit), seems like it doesn't take into account how much he clearly loved them all. Yeah, some tie-ins and DLC shit is clearly designed to just take your money and run, but I don't think this is part of it. For one thing, it was released for free online (and I hear you going maybe you should have led with that), but for another, even if it was made to get interest in the game, so what? Isn't that why we all play it anyhow – because we love it and we want it do well and we want to see more people seeing how awesome Avalance is and how cool the characters are?

And who knows, maybe if they do get more money, we'll finally get our space whales.

--AvalanceLover0521