Lucien by Verity

I keep the books. No one else.

This is my life.

No one knows the whole or the count of the books, save myself. And my Master, of course, but he knows all, and his omniscience is as much a part of my being as the library itself.

The library. A maze of bookshelves and staircases and above all, the dusty tomes from beyond time and the newer ones that smell of ink fresh from the printing press. The castle is my home - but this, the library - it is my life's work, my paradise, my dream...

And it is also an aspect of the Lord Dream himself, so I suppose that's all right.

No one else, I assure you, could ever catalogue the library as I have. I have known these books from the day of my conception, held them in my mind since the day I first knew concious though. I do not remember childhood, merely the books; this is my life. As I told you. I myself am an aspect of this place; the historian eternal.

Even when all else is gone, I shall remain, a dream of a dream whose owner has woken up and gone away.

And the books shall remain. Oh, the books.

The books, above all things...