Weeping God

Content warning: Mentions of death

Hauntingly, like an ever watchful ghoul, the old library loomed over, its towers rising high to the cloudy, autumn sky. It breathed fog all around its stony walls and though Gabriella had become quite familiar with its intricate designs, the library still racked a sense of eeriness through her cold bones. Gargoyle eyes guarded her every move. A particularly freezing breeze rattled her into entering the gothic building, iron gates clanging in her wake. She’d come there with a purpose and time was quickly ticking away.

Corridors of velvet red and dark wooden floors sprawled before her, enchanting like a mystical labyrinth. Silence bled into her ears. Her very own scurrying steps and the dust particles falling to the ground were all that the girl could hear. As she continued down an especially long hall, the flames of lit candles dancing alongside her hurried form, Gabriella began deciphering the buzz of hushed whispers forming in the icy silence. She sped up, passing portraits of past professors or accomplished students.

All her life, she’d been alone, her pen and paper as her only companions. All her life, she’d longed to belong somewhere. All her life, she’d focused on pleasing everybody around her. But, each time the setting sun marked another day’s end, she’d return to her scribbled words, to realms unknown, to stories untold.

Today is different, she told herself, a small smile shyly draping her frosted lips, today my stories will finally be told.

With all her paper clutched close to her chest, Gabriella pushed the tiniest of doors open, revealing a nook like a cramped cave within the library. In the middle of the room, an old willow wept long branches full of leaves all around the dusty interior. There wasn’t much inside, apart from a few purple cushions littering the ground and the growing tree hovering over everything else. The floor had cracked, unveiling muddied roots that had spiraled over the library’s old foundation. As though they were a mirage, four people were sprawled under the dimming light of candles waxed to the walls of the room.

On one of the velvety cushions laid Taylor, her auburn hair burning in the setting sun’s farewell rays, her piercing chocolate eyes bearing down on the new-comer like a fox watching her prey. Leaning against one of the walls was Adrien, tall and scrawny like an apparition, his pale skin glistening under the darkness of his locks. Toying with a loose string from his maroon vest, Richard was crouched in a shadowy corner, brown hair ruffled like a mad-man’s. And, at last, sitting on the circular table carved in the willow’s bark was Maeve, her blue eyes cold as a frozen lake. She was everything Gabriella had ever wished to be: an elegant writer full of grace, the leader of their secret club, haloed by her astounding talent. And, perhaps most importantly, Maeve’s creations were adored by the Storyteller, the deity that had once harness all artistic talent, mercifully gifting it to all of them; the God they had all pledged loyalty to. There were few folkloric tales describing the Storyteller’s existence, though, in the blood flowing within them, the five artists knew it to be true.

The four of them formed the Secret Teller’s Club, catching everyone’s eyes wherever they went. They were the perfect picture of prestige, of what it meant to be an artist, a writer. And now she’d become one of them.

“Where have you been?! You’re as late as one could have been!” Taylor spat, displeasure wrinkling her face.

Gabriella stammered over her words, blood completely draining from her face. No excuses could be found and she knew how serious all of them were about being on time. Though she had rushed on the way over, her own anxiety had kept her from leaving early, painting all of the negative possible outcomes that it could come up with. If she wanted to be a part of their group, basking in creating all her heart desired, she’d have to adhere by their rules. The Storyteller’s appreciation would be a welcomed bonus. Readied to apologize, Gabriella was startlingly cut off by Maeve’s sweet words.

“Do not scare off our new bird like that, Taylor. It is unbecoming of a member of this club.” Though her voice dripped melting honey, she eyed her friend disapprovingly.

Grateful for the intervention, Gabriella shuffled as close to Maeve as she could get, ignoring Taylor’s annoyed stare or the fact that none of them had even greeted her. In time, they’d grow close, she was sure of it.

A delicate hand held up a crystal glass filled with crimson liquid to her lips, perhaps a silent welcome gift. Maeve watched her carefully, her smile growing as Gabriella took a sip. Then, in the blink of an eye, the angelic writer turned to the rest of their group.

“So, what shall we start with today?” She whispered, voice growing solemn.

“Read us one of your newest works.” Adrien answered, a mischievous grin playing at his lips. “After all, everyone knows you’re dying to.”

Maeve swatted at him, chuckling lightly. “Oh, you! Fine, since you asked so politely.”

Hopping off the table, she glided towards a discarded bag as though she were a magical being. Gabriella would have been surprised if the girl’s feet had even touched the ground. With the voice of an angel, calming and alluring, Maeve began reciting her own verses. As her words floated magically in the air between them, as she spoke of tragic loss, of flowery vines pulling people close and, then, after entwining their hearts together, pulling them apart, the world aligned to the writer’s raspy tone, beating in sync with her poetry. For a few moments, time stopped in its track, the Storyteller’s favor making their bodies light. Blessed by the deity with enchanting talent, Maeve had cast a spell on the room, taking Gabriella’s breath away. With her heart racing at every word, she felt more alive than ever. And if the walls had started to spin in a dizzying waltz, that was just another part of the charm.

Once the writer finished reciting, everyone exploded in a storm of clapping hands. Looking thoroughly pleased, Maeve gracefully bowed to the applause.

“May the Storyteller weep at your words.” Adrien spoke first, their secret code, their beloved praise echoing from all of their voices in turn.

Soon, the room dulled, the magic gone, as Maeve returned to her spot on the carved table. She grinned proudly, almost expectantly, at Gabriella, before turning to a very silent Richard. He’d been stuck in his corner, imperceptible, this entire time.

“Didn’t you have a big revelation to tell us of?” The writer asked, a knowing undertone laced to her question.

“Oh, yes.” He seemed surprised, being put on the spot like that. Though, in no time, he was up, gathering a few papers and distributing them around. His hand lingered on Taylor’s, sharing a discreet look with her, before approaching Gabriella.

The edges of his form seemed blurry, overtaken by a kind of fog she couldn’t quite name. She chose to ignore it, though her heart had continued beating faster since Maeve’s recital. With trembling fingers, she gently took the paper Richard had extended towards her. On it, scribbled words melted into one another without sense or direction. Gabriella couldn’t decipher them and she suddenly felt so very thirsty. Reaching for the crystal glass, she took a sip, then another and another. It never quite quenched her thirst, but it would be disrespectful to down it all in one go. She didn’t want to give the wrong impression on her first day in the club.

“I have found a way for… well, for all of our writings to come to life.” Richard explained, voice low as though the wind could steal his words and tell the whole world of his discovery. “It’s an old ritual, told long ago in poems and sung verses, but it’s never been truly done.”

Everyone listened intently to his words, to the ingredients needed: a small, isolated room not so different from their nook in the library; an old willow tree which the Storyteller could descend from; the flickering candles glued to the walls; the creativity and power of their writings. Gabriella’s eyes fell on the scattered pages she had set on the floor. Her stories, raw and lonely as her life had been. Dark tendrils slithered at the edges of her vision and, as another sip prickled her throat, she felt the air too coarse to breathe.

“But…” Richard paused dramatically, his eyes wandering around the group before settling on her. “As all acts of creation, it requires a sacrifice.”

The room spun faster and faster. Gabriella tried to get up, to run out, though Maeve’s delicate hand clasped around her wrist, pulling her back down.

“Wh-what was in… in the glass?” She heaved out the words. Her mind had been swept into an unknown whirl, spinning alongside the room.

“Nothing, dear, just some tea.” Maeve’s sweet voice came like a far-away chant. She lied so beautifully, greed swirling in the lakes of her eyes. “Now, how about you read us one of your stories?”

Her heart beat loudly in her head, faster and faster, pounding at her consciousness. Gabriella was drowning on the shore, her eyelids growing heavy. Looking down at the pages, a blurry twirl of forms greeted her.

Managing to get up, she rasped. “No. No, I have to go.”

Hands closed around her wrists, her legs, pulling her down. Her stomach had become a void, ever-growing, ever-hungry. The metallic taste of blood slipped on her tongue, clogged her nose, deafened her ears.

“I have to go. Please, let me go.” She began sobbing, but nobody could hear her.

It was why they had decided for the towering library, for the abandoned nook, the place where nobody would bother them. The ritual had started the moment she had stepped foot in there. All she could feel as her vision turned to an endless black was the cold embrace of death. Once again, she was alone.

If anyone was to stumble upon the abandoned room, they’d find a sleeping girl beneath the willow tree, a halo of pages around her unmoving frame. The world wouldn’t remember her, though, perhaps, the Storyteller would take a few seconds to weep at the stories now drenched in her own blood.