Barracks (War of Hearts)

28- Whistles

Amidst the ancient stone walls, I tread the dimly lit isles of the library—a sanctuary where parchment whispers and forgotten knowledge slumbers. The air hangs heavy with the scent of aged paper, and dust motes dance in the feeble sunlight that filters through narrow windows. Books, like ancient watchers, stand guard in haphazard stacks, their spines bearing the weight of centuries.

Julie emerges from the chaos. Her gown, faded and threadbare, mirrors the sepia tones of the tomes around her. Coughs punctuate her sentences, a testament to the dust-laden air she breathes. She glances up, and her eyes widen in recognition.

"It's you, Lady Leizabeth," she rasps, her voice echoing off the vaulted ceiling. "I hope I can survive by the end of the day here."

I clear my throat, my own lungs protesting the ancient particles suspended in the air. "What ran through this place?"

The last time I ventured here, it bore no resemblance to this chaos.

Julie's laughter is brittle, like the yellowed pages of a forgotten manuscript. "Nothing, my lady. Its doors were sealed against the world. But now, it stirs, restless and eager to be opened once more."

"So you are working in the rearrangement." I gesture at the disarray. 

She nods, her fingers brushing the spines reverently. "I don't mind the solitude. Silence is my companion, and there is ample space for both of us."

I smile, my gaze sweeping the cavernous room. "You don't like the outside world, huh?"

"Does it look like I do?" 

Together, we labor among the chaos. Books become our allies, their secrets unfurling as we rearrange shelves and decipher cryptic inscriptions. I trace the faded map of the library's new display and offer to work on the top floor instead. I can learn something if I find the right books.

For the next hours we focus in cleaning the place. Or at least me. Julie gets distracted more than she works. Her voice weaves spells into the air as she signs fragments of ballads while she dusts.

Some times, I've caught her reading. Her cheeks flush with exertion. "I love reading," she confesses, "but I get distracted. The place isn't suitable for you and I can handle everything myself."

"Another pair of hands for a few hours can be helpful, trust me. Besides, I don't have many places to go." I say, my fingers trailing over a tome bound in cracked leather. 

Julie's laughter echoes, and she gestures toward the second floor. "The higher we ascend, the closer we come to the heart of knowledge. And perhaps, my lady, you'll find that the greatest adventures lie not beyond these walls, but within them."

The shelves groan under the weight of forgotten tomes, their spines cracked and yellowed. I move them one by one, revealing secrets etched in ink—histories of battles fought, love lost, and whispered promises. I am no stranger to solitude; it wraps around me like a well-worn cloak. The sun slants through narrow windows, illuminating motes of dust suspended in time.

Lunchtime passes unnoticed. My hunger is eclipsed by curiosity—the hunger for knowledge. I trace my fingers over the leather-bound covers, seeking for history among the pages. But the books yield little. They are like faded echoes, their stories half-told.

Midday finds me outside, the castle's stones warm beneath my boots. The path leads to my humble cottage, nestled against the hillside. I wonder how it all ended.

 The fireplace stands defiant, its stones blackened by flames long extinguished. I tread carefully, avoiding shards of broken glass that crunch beneath my boots. The bed frame, once draped in silken sheets, lies reduced to ashes.