Page 25 of We Were Eternal Once

There is a library in Egypt.

I’ve heard of it—the rise and fall of it, the knowledge it holds. How it’s been burned or sacked or desecrated, only to save itself. I hear it whispered on the tongues of the academics, mentioned in the squares, heralded in theatres.

Libraries in Rome do not have the answers I seek. I flip through their pages and tiptoe down their aisles in search of others like me. I find the edges of tales, of folk creatures. Stories, fables, fairy tales. Children’s nightmares.

I could leave it. You warned me to stop asking you questions, but the need for the truth digs at me. We are not alone, there are others like us. Two others, with purple eyes instead of red.

Why?

It is your fault for teaching me to read and write, for promising to show me the world and riches. It was only through you that I knew I could ask for more.

If you won’t give it to me, I will take it.

But not without you—never without you. You forbade me from asking you, not asking in general.

“There is a library in Egypt,” I say.

“Alexandria,” you say. A human lays slumped between us, his wrist sliced open, his blood slowly filling a mug. He will die soon. This is when blood is the sweetest, just before their heart stops beating. Those last few pulses, the last attempts of the heart to keep them alive…then the acceptance that it is all over.

Sweet, sweet surrender.

“You’ve heard of it?” I ask.

“I’ve been there,” you say.

I bite back my next question—when? It is how I have to piece together your existence and my history. How long before you found me were you in Alexandria?

“Is it as grand as they say?” I ask.

“It’s been a long time,” you reply.

“Grander than the libraries here?” I ask.

You reach out and run a hand through my hair, toying with the locks. “You have an insatiable thirst for knowledge,” you say. It is fond, but your grip on my hair is firm.

I must take care with my words. I would never lie to you, but I cannot reveal the full truth. I lean into your touch, closing my eyes. Please, I beg silently. Do not take this as disobedience.

“I have you to thank for that,” I say and smile. I do—you taught me to read, to write. I did not know the depth of my ignorance until you opened my mind to the world around us. My life was a temple in Delphi, now it is the entire world.

“Yes,” you agree, and your grip loosens. Not enough to know I am out of danger.

“I hear the Egyptians are older than the Greeks,” I say. “That they knew astronomy and counting before the Greeks did. That they built grand pyramids and diverted water before Rome had running water.”

“They did,” you agree and stroke my cheek. “Do you wish to see this library?”

“One day,” I agree. “But…we cannot walk there.”

“No,” you agree.

The quiet stretches between us. You tilt my face to yours, and I open my eyes to search yours. They’re the twin of mine—red, glowing softly in the evening light. I swallow more questions—why red? Why why why.

I am an endless hole of whys.

“Boat travel is not always treacherous,” you say. I am in the box again, the water trickling through the cracks, my voice swallowed by the sea. I shiver, and it’s not feigned. We walked from Greece to Rome, up along the contested territories and through the wars of humans. We walked through endless valleys and plains, where I thought we might starve for lack of humans.

But never, ever by boat.

“The wars of man are quiet,” you continue. They are not—they are never quiet. But I do not interrupt.