The Archive of the Forgotten (Hell's Library #2)

by A.J. Hackwith

Rather calm, Hero thought, since Ramiel was absolutely terrifying when he went full Wrath of God. Well, Wrath of Hell now. Wrath of Books? No, that didn’t have quite the right ring to it.

And it occurred to Hero that not once, throughout the entire ordeal, had Probity referred to Claire by her name.

“There is no place more sacred than stories,” Probity said lowly.

Maybe the story of humanity is learning to be brave enough to be the character in their own story.

“They burn them first, the stories. Humans always come for the stories first. It’s their warm-up, before they start burning other humans. It’s their first form of control, to burn the libraries, to burn the books, to burn the archives of a culture. Humans are the stories they tell. If you want to destroy your enemy, destroy their stories. Even if the people survive, it will be as if they never existed at all.”

I’m not sure if humans have sacrificed more ink than blood to their gods over the years, but if not, it has to be a near thing.”

At his heart he knew he was still a story. A story with a broken book, but a story. He didn’t know where that left him anymore. Not immutable but also not a cold assemblage of parts. Perhaps he was a draft, half-born but unfinished. Unruly and unfixable. Yes, Hero could definitely be that.

“Look. Say this piece o’ paper is a bit of a life, yeah?” “All right.” Claire attempted patience as Walter folded the paper up neatly and dropped it inside the jar. He screwed the lid on and snapped his fingers, and the paper caught fire and smoked. By rights, the lack of oxygen in the jar should have snuffed out the flames, but instead the smoke began to sully up the inside of the glass. Claire shook her head at the flagrant disrespect for physics, but Walter was moving on. “So everything inside that jar, that’s a life, right? Whether it’s paper or smoke or ashes or heat, it’s all what we put in to begin with, yeah?” “I’m with you so far.” “But say we take away the container.” Walter moved with an uncharacteristic swiftness, flicking the jar off the counter with a finger. It slid and shattered on the floor with a crash. Claire flinched back, but the shattered glass evaporated before it could scatter. “Is what was inside gone?” “. . . Well, logically, no,” Claire allowed. It was a peculiar thing to be schooled by Death. “Then can ye point to where the life is? Or what it is?”

The curse of unwritten books is to never truly live but exist forever.

“In my experience, this job is ninety percent following or waiting for inscrutable women.” Rami nodded as they set off in Iambe’s wake. “What’s the other ten percent?” “Oh, blind terror mostly.”

Rami’s smile persisted, even as it softened at the edges. “I never cared for the puritan notion of policing a man’s thoughts. I think the weight of a man’s life lies in what he does with it. Reasons and heart are important, but it’s your actions that have long-reaching effects.”

No creature edited its own reality so viciously as a human. After watching a man get sacrificed to oblivion, a rational creature might rebel, decide that three gods and a judgmental bridge were a poor form of moral government. A rational creature might at least consider whether any paradise one has to sacrifice others to get into is worth the price of admission. But no, not humans. Even in death, they picked and chose a comfortable sort of truth.

“Your adventure with Rami has changed you.” Hero sniffed. “Change? Me? Never. I am constant as the sun.” “And just as insufferable.” Claire

Humanity isn’t defined by feeling, or the facsimile therein. Humanity is defined by fragility. We are a cherry blossom, and they are the frost. Frost melts, but it is the blossom that dies.