Chapter Text
A bird hitting the glass is what jolts her awake.
“Sorry!”
And the apology out of her mouth is what makes her stand quickly and rush forward to open the window. The sudden series of movements rattled her brain and blurred her vision; she moved too fast to even consider anything. But the bird tweets at her from a high perch, just one of the many shelves in this room, and she blinks at it, willing her mind to wake completely and talk to it properly.
“Hello–”
Wait. Talk to it?
She shakes her head, rattles her brain even more, and makes a sound between a groan and a yawn. It’s morning and she should have slept properly somewhere, not here where she’s surrounded by–
The bird chirps at her, but doesn’t move. Instead, it flits from one high shelf to another. This time, on a stack of books sitting haphazardly on the edge.
Oh, no.
“The window’s open,” she says, gesturing to it. “See? Fly out now.”
The bird looks at her, and she thinks it’s starting to consider it.
“It’s open,” she urges. “You can go out now, sorry.”
She thinks the bird must be rattled too.
“How did you get in here, anyway?”
She considers the eaves, the gaps, if there was part of the roof that needed to be fixed, but then again, closing it off would inhibit the airflow. The room would be stuffy and unbearable in the summer, and in the rainy season, potentially allow a more rapid growth of– Oh, now she’s thinking like them.
She sighs.
“You’ll find your way out,” she mutters as she approaches the window. “This is no cage.”
It’s early morning in Piltover, but she’s grateful to be on the outskirts of the city, closer to what little fields and farmlands there are, and farther from the loud, clanging sounds of progress.
Progress, she remembers the words, as if all progress looks to the future.
She scowls.
The bird decides it’s the opportune time to fly past her and out the window.
A series of dull thuds make her turn. The books have fallen on the floor, and she sees the specs of dust in the sunlight. She makes a reminder to clean, to sort all the books and other things in this room. This wasn’t so disorganized before. When she approaches the books to return them on the shelf, she sees a folded paper, a makeshift envelope really, with a wax seal. Between the pages of an old book, a letter like this is out of place, but she wedges it back in, anyway. It’s about time, she thinks. It’s been enough time. She gives a quiet apology to the worn spine and wipes the dust from the back cover with her hand.
Property of the Viridian Library
Below it, her family insignia.
Her scowl dips into a frown.
Always, always meddling, aren’t we?
The Giopara Conservatory sits along the edge of the University District, farther from the bustling buildings and laboratories, and closer to the quieter gardens and fields. It is at the center of Viridian Park, behind the Library and before the Grand Menagerie, with the Caldwalder Atelier in the east and the Tariost Maze Museum in the west. Viridian Park, as some have said, is being left behind in the past, claiming its occupants choose to leave broken pavements as they are to achieve a certain… anachronism.
There is a kind of beauty, she remembers the words, in letting time pass.
She knows the majority of Piltover doesn’t think so, even Zaun doesn’t think so. She regards the book in her arm and the letter wedged in the pages of the book. It’s early morning on a Sunday, the library doesn’t open until noon, and she is the sole librarian assigned to work on Sundays. And very few choose to spend the remainder of their weekend among old collections that gather dust on shelves more often than names on the borrower’s card.
When she moves to prepare the library for the day, she turns to the book and sighs. Really, this book has probably traveled all over Piltover because of the two people who borrow it, who exchange secret letters to each other through it. She doesn’t think it’s tragic; she doesn’t even know if it is love, she just appreciates how it’s something new. It breaks the mundanity of Sunday afternoons in the Viridian Library. It gives her something to look forward to.
Two weeks ago, the sender had asked her to hold on to it for a while, and for the first few days of the first week, she kept thinking about what the letter contained. She had thought about what their letters contained and why only one person, hence her considering them the sender, would borrow the book while the recipient remained a mysterious library visitor. At first, she thought of scandalous affairs. Dangerous plots. Assassinations, perhaps? Typical espionage, information gathering? But then she thought it was too obvious. She had at least one name on record because it’s always the same book.
Then she thought of conspiracies. Ancient rumors. Gossip from a time gone by. Something… strange and nearly unbelievable. Something exciting. Something completely unexpected that she’d have something interesting to tell him when they– if they meet again.
There is a kind of beauty, she remembers the words again, in letting time pass.
But how much time should pass? How much longer does one need to wait? The questions persist. What kind of time, years, months, days? What kind of beauty, natural, artificial, otherworldly?
Questions always, rarely answers, she remembers the words. Sometimes guesses, guesses sometimes.
She tries not to laugh, fails, and muffles the echo among the books.
When she discovers the truth of the letters, it is almost bland and disappointing. At least that’s what he’ll tell her, if he ever gets to hear her say it.
“My son likes pirates now,” the sender admits over a book on the history of pillaging in Runeterra. “Can you recommend some friendlier stories about them?”
Of course. It had to be a parent wanting what’s best for their child. In this case, a mother writing letters to her son as different characters from books. It should have been clearer to her sooner. The book was a collection of fables passed down through oral tradition. It had an impressive cast of characters with their own personalities and memorable stories, and… she thinks he’ll tell her, We often doubt the answers laid bare in front of us.
The answers I seek are rarely willing to be so exposed, she thinks she’ll reply. They’re oftentimes hidden beneath ground and refuse to be dug up.
She thinks she’ll make a joke about the Old Piltover Catacombs and he’ll laugh not because it’s funny, he’ll laugh because he won’t know what else to say.
Huh.
“There’s a collection of stories at sea,” she suggests. “Pirates and their ships, ocean-dwelling creatures and the like… Here.”
She writes down the location and points.
“There are many more stories too,” she smiles. “Maybe you’d like to consider extended borrowing?”
The mother smiles back. “I will, thank you.”
She thinks to tell the mother to collect those written letters into a book someday, but doesn’t think it’s the right time. So when will be the right time? Oh, there’s never really a right time, is there?
She shakes her head and exhales through her nose. Sunday afternoon at the Viridian Library is just starting to get into its usual swing of murmurs, page turns, and soft-spoken questions. None of which will be done by him, she reminds herself, because there’s no reason for him to visit this library. No, he’s never had reason to, and everything he does is within reason.
Everything she does is within reason too.
He’s assistant to the Dean of Technological Studies, and she’s a research sponsor mainly for the College of Humanities. He looks to the future and she looks at the past, and everything is fine. He can dabble with mechanisms and gears and whatever else they do at the Academy, and she can scrutinize art forms and artists and whoever else wishes to receive funding for their pursuits.
She can’t keep granting every request there is, can she? There are standards, she’s been told before. Standards by which all and everyone are subject to, so all forms of study are equal. Arts, sciences, humanities, not one is more important than the other.
She remembers one rejected study from months ago because of the… absurdity of it all.
“Magic, really?”
Because it was her friend.
“You say it like it’s a bad word.”
Because she knew what it meant.
“If you’d read what I have--“
“That’s the only thing you do. Read!”
And yet she wanted to believe in it too.
“There’s no such thing as magic anymore.”
“To you and everybody else, but I know it still exists.”
Because she also knew it did.
Knowing enough is fine, she recalls the words. But knowing too much is pitiable.
She remembers his question.
“And not knowing enough is… stupid?”
And her answer.
“It would be human.”
And the look of sadness on his face like he couldn’t accept it, like it was something unbearably wrong.
She doesn’t remember what she’d said or done next. She thinks it’s better this way, to keep it as chunks and pieces, bites of knowledge and humorous wisdom. Just enough to remember. Just enough not to forget. In her personal studies at the College and in her own advice to the students, there’s never knowing too much or too less, there’s only just knowing.
Think of knowledge as a river, and we can either be the rocks lying in the depths, the fish inside it, or the boat above it.
Which one was she and which one was he, she never thought to ask, to answer. Maybe it’s better that way.
The rest of the Sunday afternoon passes uneventfully.
The mother borrows three books. Some students come in to work on a group study. Many other people come and go, passing their time between bookshelves and desks. The sounds of flipping pages and scratches on paper accompany the soft murmurs and the occasional swing of the doors.
Just like every Sunday in the Viridian Library, sometimes she catches herself wishing for something… explosive. Or at least unexpected. Of course, nothing of the sort happens here. The most… loud thing she’s experienced on a Sunday afternoon is a stack of books falling over after somebody runs past it.
Today–
Today, she thinks this might topple that event. But it wasn’t loud, it was quiet. Eerie, but not strange. Unexpected, yes. Surprising too. But not… explosive. She thinks this is reminiscent of that poem. This is how the world ends– But rather, this is how the world stops. Or more correctly, this is how one can experience the world stopping. A likeness to it, perhaps.
Today, she sees him enter the doors of the library. Quiet and unassuming, as she’s always known him. Each step is purposeful and careful. He doesn’t look any other way but forward, almost determined to get to… somewhere. Like he’s no stranger here. She wonders if he goes here on the days he knows she won’t be. She wonders if he’s only here because of something he urgently needed to know. He couldn’t be here by chance. He wouldn’t be.
She remembers the words again. Think of knowledge as a river, and we can either be the rocks lying in the depths, the fish inside it, or the boat above it.
In this moment, neither of them is a boat. He is a fish swimming in this river of books and she is a rock sitting still at the desk. They can remain unaware of each other’s presence, and she knows it’s better that way.
The river that runs between Piltover and Zaun, she thinks, should be studied on its own. What fish are inside it? Where does the water come from? Where does the water go? How deep does the river cut? How deeper can it go? What stories are carried by it? Written with it? Founded in it? Destroyed by it?
She fills her head with questions because she doesn’t want to think about his presence here. There’s no reason for him to be here. His study is leagues apart from her own, unless…
“Excuse me.”
A student, one she’s often seen on Sundays, approaches her.
“I tried looking for this book, but I’m not sure where it is.”
She’s handed a decimal code on a piece of paper. She’s going to have to stand from here, isn’t she?
“Let me help.”
She smiles at the student and stands from the desk. She’s not going to falter or worry now. She’s not– She’s working now. And he’s probably working now, too. They’re both acting within reason and she won’t be unhelpful. She leads the student to the shelf easily and even hands them the book from the bottom shelf, a first volume of studies on folk stories across the continents. It’s one she’d referenced before.
The student thanks her, and she smiles at them.
“This is a good book to start with.”
When they nod goodbye and go on their way, she sorts the misaligned books. The student must have been looking for that book for a while before coming to her. She thinks it’s about time to start checking on the shelves, see if there are books that need to be returned, or…
When she rounds a corner, she nearly wishes she hadn’t.
Because there he is, standing with a hand on the shelf and a book cart beside him that had four books stacked on it. It’s almost… funny, she thinks, catching him in this… private moment. It’s almost embarrassing too, she thinks, to catch him like this, to have her assumptions corrected in this manner; due to the nature of the world, they were bound to meet again at some point. What science was it? The study of probability… What are the chances–
She stands at one corner and he stands at the other, still unassuming of her presence, and that’s when she decides to make a sound, a signal, a warning.
She takes a step forward.
He takes a step back.
The distance remains largely the same.
And then he notices her.
The river that runs between Piltover and Zaun, she thinks, describes this… gap between them. The distance that remains largely unchanging, but carries in it something unstoppable. Time, perhaps. Time is a river, after all. Time that remains ever-moving. There is time between this and their last meeting. But was it enough time? What amount of time will make a difference? If she had turned the corner a few seconds later and he had moved a few seconds earlier, would they not have met? Maybe she should have gone to the Horological Institute for advice. Maybe that’s what he’ll tell her and she’ll try not to laugh.
Time moves ceaselessly and they are standing, staring at each other. What do you call two beings existing outside of time? She knows neither of them can answer that if no one asks it.
So she asks.
“Hello, Viktor.”
She asks in her head and thinks about what he’ll answer. Anything better than confronting what’s in front of you.
“I would like to borrow these books.”
He looks at the cart and then at her, and everything is fine. Everything is as it should be.
“Of course,” she answers and looks at the cart. “Anything else?”
“There are some titles on the top shelf.”
He shows her a list of decimal codes, three more books, and she adds them to the cart. When she looks at the titles, she wonders why he’s suddenly sparked an interest in studying runic languages.
But she doesn’t ask him.
“Thank you.”
He clears his throat and she takes all the books in her arms, and it’s… normal. She walks to the borrower’s counter and paces her steps for him, and it’s… still normal. What are they for her to think this way? She won’t ask herself that and she won’t ask him that. Right now, he’s just someone who wants to borrow books and she’s the librarian. He didn’t come here for her.
Neither of them says another word beyond what’s needed in processing the borrowing until she finishes stamping the dates on the cards.
“I can help you carry them back.”
She worries about sounding insensitive, but he’s never once chided her for it.
“Thank you, I would… appreciate that.”
Even now, this being their first conversation after some time, he is genuine when she says it. Part of her feels guilt. Another part feels anticipation. Another, fear. Another, curiosity. He could have gone other days to not encounter her. He could have gone tomorrow, but why today? Sunday is ending. There’s only fifteen minutes left and everyone else is starting to pack up and leave, but she won’t leave until she’s made sure there’s nobody else here.
“I’ll just be doing some rounds,” she says, taking the books and leading him to a nearby desk. “Can you wait?”
He gives her a single nod and nothing else. Why borrow all these books at once? Why not borrow a few at a time? A safe number to carry back. That isn’t as heavy. Why?
She doesn’t ask. He doesn’t answer. She does her rounds and he waits. She doesn’t think about it as she does this, and she doesn’t think he’s getting impatient. He’s always been patient. It’s in his nature, even as an inventor, a scientist. By the time she finishes, he’s already standing, gesturing slightly to the books on the desk. There’s almost a wistful look on his face, and she almost smiles.
“Sorry it took a while,” she takes the books in her arms. “I’m the only one assigned here on Sundays.”
“I understand.”
He’s the one who steps forward, who takes the lead, and she follows quietly behind him. Neither of them sees each other’s faces, and yes, everything is as it should be.
Viridian Park this late in the afternoon is painted in bright and almost burning colors. Fiery hues bleed into the pavement and make trees cast almost ominous shadows. In the distance, the sun settles into the horizon. In the distance, there is the noise of the city that never sleeps soundly. Sometimes she is thankful she lives on the outskirts of it. As they walk, she thinks the river that runs between Piltover and Zaun describes them together. It’s quiet at this time of day. Almost unmoving. Almost tranquil. The distance between them remains the same.
He doesn’t say a word and neither does she, even as they approach the University Housing. It’s the same building, with the same façade, the same plants, the same stained windows… She can’t say she doesn’t miss living here too.
“I still live on the first floor,” are his first words to her.
“Okay,” is her first word to him.
And so they make their way through the doors, and the sight of the unchanging walls and floors, she thinks, might make her feel sad. Instead of looking at them, she looks at the books instead. As she follows him down the corridor, she can’t help but remember this isn’t the first time. This won’t be the last either, as helpful as she is.
When they reach his door, and she knows it’s his door because there’s still the same plant sitting on the cabinet beside it. Nothing has changed, so she settles the books beside the plant and thinks this is her cue to leave.
“Thank you,” are his next words to her.
“Goodbye,” is her next word to him.
The river that runs between Piltover and Zaun, she thinks, holds all the words that need to be said, but neither of them were taught to fish properly.
So his next word to her is, “Goodbye.”
And her final words to him are, “It’s nice to see you’re well, Viktor.”
And his final words to her are, “You too.”
Everything is fine. Everything is as it should be. When she makes her way outside, she looks to the sky and wonders what about runic language has him so fascinated that he would come to the library, knowing she would be in it, borrow all these books, and not once ask her about it. After all, he knew this was what she studied, runic languages and their histories, their literature.
What is the difference between one who studies runes and one who studies runic languages?
She thinks the answer is easy. She thinks the answer is the reason why they are the way they are now.