54 Ymiden, Arc 720
"Oh no, it isn't quite clear at all. You see, you say ether in one language, and it means ether in another, but in this other language, it might very well mean energy and who are we to say that the ancient texts have been recorded correctly. It's only our approximation that says that that is ether, and not simply another word that we do not know yet. A word we have not discovered yet, even a word that may never exist for we shall continue to call it ether as if that is what it is when it is anything but!"
Llyr exhaled lowly, leaned back in his seat with his hands against the back of his head. He stared at the ceiling, eyes churned of colors under an ice blue sheet of ether barely contained within the elfin shapes. It had been a long time since he'd spent time in the Prime Atheneum. Or at least, it felt like a long time. He wasn't, of course, on the regular floors but hidden away in what had quickly become his sanctuary in the past seasons: the restricted third floor, in a particular corner at the very back of the many bookshelves, where shadows hid away a pair of desk tables and chairs. He had a small lantern set to the corner of one, as it was the middle of the night. He'd arrived far earlier in the preceding trial (or was it a couple trials ago? three?), but he hadn't left.
He had spent much of the season earlier in travel and business ordeals. Soon, he would be back to it as well. Business never waited, and he had to keep up lest he lose his positions in certain affairs. It helped, having employees and assistants, but Llyr knew that wasn't an excuse to kick back and do nothing. It meant he had to do more, in his mind, because he had to make sure he had the funds to care for these people and their lives, even families. Yet, he hadn't given up on his academics either. Something about never having attended a school made Llyr desire to continue in the academy, even when it seemed unfeasible or especially difficult.
After he had received the mark of Yvithia upon his face, though, the teachers and administrators were far more gracious to him. They didn't chide him for missing lectures (as much), and the dean of the Arcana department didn't threaten expulsion anymore on the basis of his literal attendance of coursework. It was enough for him to turn in the several-hundred page papers that he'd been submitting directly to the man's office. It wasn't that difficult, thought Llyr, to write a few thousand pages about this or that. Especially when he made use of scribes to help him dictate such writing. He considered investing in a printing press of his own, like the one they had down in Etzos... maybe he could purchase the one from the imp, Langley, himself.
Regardless, Llyr had taken this opportunity - not to settle into complacency, not to finally breathe as he had everything figured out, not to accept that he should just focus in monotone nature on his work... but rather, to enter an entirely new field with a new degree - in addition to the other! His domineering Transmutation spark thrilled at this, of course. There were, it seemed, fewer things by the trial that challenged Llyr and thus stimulated his soul.
Llyr closed his eyes for a few trills, and he continued, "And the very implication that there might be a word for ether. Aether, that is. Not too far off, obviously where the very word is derived from. How close we are to the Ancients, then, is the suggestion this makes. That of all the languages, it is the language of the Immortals that dictate how we communicate our perception of this force... this... energy... this... this..."
"This..." He leaned forward and opened his eyes. A few pale blond strands of hair slid loose from the various ribbons he used to hold his long bangs out of his face. His dark brows furrowed while he searched through the layers of papers and parchments and books that covered the desk's surface. "...animus?"
Silent, he went, though his thoughts continued to run in multiple paths of contemplation, while he flipped open a book. His etherlit fingers flipped through and he used the magical glow to his fingertips to help read the lines in the relative dimness of the library at night.
One might assume that Llyr had his Diri with him, and perhaps that was who he spoke to. This was not the case. Perhaps one might think that he spoke to the ghost of his adopted daughter, who still lingered around the anchor within him, but this also was not the case. Or maybe a nearby scribe? But no. Llyr spoke not even to the figment of his connection to Yvithia - though he suspected if she wished to, she might be able to hear him... but he did not believe that he would need to speak aloud for that to be the case. Rather, Llyr spoke to no one at all. He was completely alone, other than the sparks attached to his soul.
"So, if you examine the source of these... that maybe Aether is not even ether as we mean it. Have you considered that?" he inquired to the loneliness around him. "It's- oh- perhaps that might be..."
Llyr stood from his chair, reached across to the adjacent table. Palms slapped flat against some papers, he dragged them over to where he was, then sat back down. He dabbed his quill in the inkwell... only to find that the ink inside had gone dry. The mage scoffed, then took out a new well and started to write quickly in cursive slant through a list of foreign words that regarded in source to the concept of ether.
"Not animus," he muttered. "That's wrong. Wrong, incorrect, false, poor translation."
He lightly tapped the quill against one of his fingers, until the skin gave, and silver welled. He used the shimmer of his blood in mixture with the ink to continue his writing. "Anima. Yes. Better. A-ether, æther, and anima and... spirit, soul, psyche... different, different, though... élan vital? Mesmerism? Emereal... Emeric... no, yes? Perhaps... perhaps... what else, ah, yes!"
As he went quiet, his fevered scribbling echoed as the only sounds in the shadowy restricted portion of the library. Llyr smiled, though, while he pushed away the sheet of vellum to grab the next one. Half-way down, his smile vanished then he shook his head.
"No, no, no, no," he hissed while he gathered the papers again and started to search through the various stacks in the several layers. Llyr stood quickly. His gossamer wings fluttered behind him and his halo went from dim to a bit brighter. The chair rattled behind him, but remained up. He grabbed onto a few stacks and stared at a copy of exactly what he'd just written. When had he written it? Why did he have two lists of the same words? Was he going around in circles? He had to be. Llyr threw the lists onto the chair, then started to brush aside the papers in search for anything else. As he got past the first, then the second layer of papers, he uncovered the many copies of the same list he had been working on. All stopped at different words, but stopped in mid-process all the same. Had he done this before? How many times? How many copies?
Llyr threw the papers onto the floor, while he tried to count. Then frustration gathered in the mage. He shoved off everything from the desk surfaces, and onto the floor in a flurry of parchment and books and inkwells. A streak of silver blood followed and he looked at his hand. There were small dots of blood over all his ink-stained fingers and palm and... how many times had he pierced the skin to gather the blood? His pale skin had gotten marred with the faded gray and pitch black of ink. He raised his hand in front of his face, to examine it, though part of him trembled. Why couldn't he remember doing this? And... was that a pattern in the dots? Had he mapped a constellation on the back of his hand?
"Maybe you need some sleep."
"Perhaps," he whispered. He lowered his hand. Llyr glanced around at the mess he'd just made. He went down onto his hands and knees. With a few slow blinks to momentarily restitch together his torn consciousness, he gathered the papers into stacks. He crawled on the library floor, and while he did so, he thought about the list of words and of why he'd been learning them at all. For his studies? No... though he certainly used it as an excuse to get access to such knowledge... For himself? Also, no... he didn't need to write any of this down if it was for himself. This was something else. For his... book? Technically accurate, but not true. What he aimed to create was far more than a book. The book was just the vessel to implant it into other people... into their minds, their hearts, their lives... if he could only get enough people to learn, to know of the things he had come to discover... everything would change.
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