The Indelible Stain

Fastening the last of his belongings onto his horse, Poe Fitzgerald struggled to breathe or even swallow. His heart was pounding in fear and anticipation of his impending journey. He was wrapped in a scarf that covered his face and head, protection for his pale skin from the deadly sun.

He patted the neck of Estella, a sturdy sorrel mare. His pack was light, containing only the essentials: his well-worn blanket, a few extra sets of clothing, several slabs of jerked meat, and his Electric Lantern, a parting gift from the Repository's Artificers.

He turned the glossy black panel on the side of the lantern, ensuring the blistering sun powered the rare device. The Librarians had also provided him with a satchel containing three reams of high-quality paper manufactured using the ancient machines they maintained within the Hamilton Information Repository. "Paper is scarce out there," they had told him, their voices hushed with concern. "It'll serve you well for bartering."

Poe had accepted the gift gratefully, along with three blank journals and several pens and pencils with which to record his travels and discoveries. He could have taken more, but the manufactured reams were heavy, and too much wealth beyond these walls could get him killed.

Standing at Estella's lead was a man dressed in the robes of a librarian, but unlike any librarian Poe had ever seen. Warden King Orwell's ash-grey robes were tattered and stained, a far cry from the pristine garments worn by the Librarians within the Repository. Beneath the robes, Poe caught a glimpse of ballistic armor, the fabric faded, the metal scratched and dented from countless battles. A machine gun hung from Warden Orwell's back, a pistol at his hip, and a large curved blade strapped to his thigh.

Despite his wire-framed glasses and the streaks of grey in his dark hair, King Orwell looked more like a battle-hardened warrior than a librarian. Poe couldn't help but feel a sense of awe and intimidation in his presence.

As he prepared to leave, Poe stared at the oversized vehicle door that separated him from the outside world. He knew this was an attempt to postpone having to look into the mournful faces of those gathered behind him. He hesitated a moment longer.

The gate lay open and beyond stretched a dry, dusty land with few trees and little green. Out there, the days were brutally hot, the nights miserably cold—a stark contrast to the safety and tranquility of the Repository where he had only heard tales of unknown creatures, dangerous machines from the old world, and of course, the men who killed his parents.

A breeze gusted in through the large door, and Poe thought it would be refreshing. But it was hot and dry with grit and sand that got in his eye. He cursed and turned his head, blinking. This would be nothing like the books he had read. Out there, terrible danger awaited him. He thought of Frodo and Sam, leaving the Shire, and smiled. The moment of joy faded almost as quickly; he was not setting out on a noble quest.

Poe took a deep breath, trying to steady his nerves. He turned to face the crowd of librarians gathered, huddled in the shade of the arched passageway, their pale faces etched with worry and sorrow. They remained hidden in the shade to protect their sensitive skin. These were the only people he had ever known—his mentors and friends. Seeing their tears made his throat clench.

Poe looked down, not wanting to meet those pleading, sorrowful eyes. He turned to the dark stains that marred the concrete floor of the courtyard. Impossible to get out, they said. Poe could feel those stains on his hands, in his heart. Invisible, but indelible. He quickly averted his eyes, a sharp pain lancing through his chest.

He could still hear the somber voice of Elder Librarian Hemingway as he delivered the devastating news. "Poe, I'm afraid there's been a terrible incident," Hemingway had said, his usually stoic face etched with grief. "Your parents... they're gone. Thieves breached the Repository's walls and..." His voice had trailed off, the unspoken words hanging heavily in the air.

The weight of the revelation had crashed down upon Poe like a physical force, crushing the air from his lungs and sending him to his knees. The pain of loss had been overwhelming, a searing agony that had left him feeling hollow and lost for days.

But as the shock had begun to fade, a new emotion had taken root in Poe's heart: a burning need for action, a desperate desire to do something. To do anything other than shuffle through the dark corridors. Dust another shelf. Oil another book.

The thieves had not only taken the lives of his beloved mother and father but had also stolen one of the Repository's most valuable assets, a Rand 3200 printing machine, and kidnapped Apprentice Librarian Walker Shelly, who was learning about the machine from his parents.

Poe's mind raced with the grim possibilities of what fate might await the young woman in the clutches of such ruthless savages. The thought of her suffering, of being subjected to unspeakable horrors, fueled the rage that had begun to smolder within him.

He clenched his fists as he thought about it and spun back to his horse, but his burning thoughts were interrupted by footsteps.

Elder Librarian Hemingway approached Poe, his vibrant yellow robes swishing softly with each step. A collection of reading glasses and spectacles dangled from cords at his sash. Hemingway's pale skin and thick grey beard looked snowy in the harsh bright light of the outside world. He placed a weathered hand on the young man's shoulder, his grip firm yet gentle. "Poe, my boy, you don't have to do this," Hemingway said, his voice low and earnest. "Venturing out there won't bring your parents back."

Poe's jaw clenched as he fought back the tears that threatened to spill from his eyes. He knew the Elder Librarian meant well, but the words stung nonetheless. "I can't just sit here and do nothing," Poe said, straining to remain calm. "They took everything from me. The Rand, my parents and… that poor girl. She's out there, scared and alone. I can't abandon her."

Hemingway sighed, his shoulders sagging under the weight of Poe's grief. "I understand your pain, Poe. Truly, I do. But the Repository needs you. We need your knowledge, your skills. The girl... her fate is regrettable, but she is not your responsibility."

Poe closed his eyes, the temptation to stay, to retreat into the safety and comfort of the only home he'd ever known, tugging at his heart. But even as the thought crossed his mind, he knew he couldn't do it. He couldn't live with himself if he didn't at least try to save the girl and recover the Rand.

He opened his eyes, his gaze locking with Hemingway's. "I'm sorry, Elder Librarian. But I have to do this. I just can't let it go."

"Do you remember the lesson of revenge, Poe." The elder's eyes implored him, his firm hand still resting there on his shoulder. Steady. Comforting.

"When on a path of revenge, remember to dig two graves," Poe said, meeting the eyes of the Elder Librarian.

Hemingway gave a slow, deliberate nod.

Poe’s heart hardened as he hissed, "I'll dig a hundred graves if I have to. A thousand to make sure another child is not robbed of his mother or father."

Hemingway studied Poe's face for a long moment, searching for any sign of hesitation or doubt. Finding none, he nodded slowly, a sad smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. "You're nothing like your father, you know. And while I loved your father, I mean that as a deep compliment. We strive to encourage free thinking. We are, after all, Librarians and educators, even if, at least for now, we are only educating ourselves. But we need people to think for themselves." He paused, his eyes distant. "I don't know if your father would have had the will to do what you are planning. While I do not have high hopes of ever seeing you again, I am grateful to have known you. Grateful for your free thinking. Your tenacity to see a difficult task done."

Poe felt the lump in his throat return at the mention of his father. He swallowed hard, blinking back the tears that threatened to fall. "Thank you, Elder Librarian. For everything."

Hemingway patted Poe's shoulder one last time before stepping back. "Go then, my boy. The machine is of little consequence, but find the girl. Save her if you can."

Poe turned back to Estella, his hands shaking slightly as he double-checked the saddle straps. He took a deep breath, the tears that had been threatening for the last five minutes now spilled. Streaking his cheeks and thankfully hidden by the head wrapping. He took a shuddering breath and composed himself.

Elder Librarian Hemingway watched the young man with a heavy heart, his own eyes shimmering, but the tears never fell. "Remember, Poe," he said, his voice low, "the secrecy of the Repository's location must take priority. You'll be blindfolded before you leave, and if you do return, you'll need to go to the city that Warden Orwell takes you to. You will have to wait there to make contact.

Poe nodded, swallowing past the lump in his throat. "I understand, Elder," he said, his voice barely above a whisper. "I know the rules."

The Elder sighed, the sound heavy with the weight of finality. "We only send trade excursions once a month, so you may have to wait a while," his eyes boring into Poe, forcing the point to sink in. "I wish we could do more to help you, but..."

Poe shook his head, cutting off the Elder's words. "You've already done so much," he said, his voice thick. "Thank you, Elder. I will do everything I can to bring Librarian Shelly home."

Hemingway smiled sadly, raising his hand in farewell.

Warden King Orwell guided his horse, a powerful grey with pale spots and black socks named Winston. King drew up alongside Estella, the clop of hooves echoing in the courtyard. He stared down at the young librarian, his hard flinty eyes not blinking as he gave Poe a slight nod. "You will address me as Warden or Warden Orwell. Is that clear?"

Poe nodded. "Yes, Warden."

"Good, now mount up."

Poe placed one foot in the stirrup, his movements clumsy and uncertain. He struggled to mount Estella. Despite the book learning done to prepare for this journey, his lack of real-world experience was painfully evident.

With a gruff sigh, King leaned over, his strong hands gripping Poe's arm and hoisting him into the saddle before saying, "You will have your work cut out for you. Are you sure you want to do this?"

Poe settled onto Estella's back, his heart pounding as he steadied himself and said, "Yes, Warden."

The Warden handed Poe a dark hood, his gruff voice cutting through the silence. "This is your last chance to turn back. Once through that gate, there'll be no bemoaning your choices."

Poe took the hood, his fingers trembling slightly as he gripped the rough fabric. He met the Warden's gaze, a flicker of defiance in his eyes. "Would you turn back? Leave those monsters to do this to someone else?"

The Warden's face remained impassive, but Poe caught the barest hint of a shake of his head. At that moment, Poe knew he had made the right decision.

"When we get out there, I will be your guide and your guardian. I will train you to survive, to hunt and to kill. When we part, I will provide you with a weapon." The Warden placed a hand on a leather satchel, and Poe's eyes searched the shape for some hint as to what lay within.

With a deep breath, Poe nodded, and slid the hood over his head—the world going black as the fabric settled over his eyes. He sat straighter in the saddle, his resolve strengthening with each passing second.

"Get comfortable. It will be an hour before that hood comes off," the grizzled man said, making a clicking sound that caused both horses to begin walking.

As the heavy gates of the Repository were closed, they creaked and groaned. The gasps and sobs of the gathered librarians faded into the distance as Warden Orwell led Estella forward, the horse's hooves clopping against the hard-packed earth. Behind them, the Repository gate slammed, the finality of the sound thundering in Poe's ears. The darkness of the hood matched his mood. Within this stifling void, he could still see the stain. Like ink splattered across parchment—it was permanent. And he knew, even if he succeeded in his task, he would never return home.