You return to your Personal Library, turn on the lights, hang up your coat. You look to the little box on your huge workshop table. It is time.

You know what to do.

You take the box, hearing the charred remnants of the Orb you sent to its death clink around, knocking on the wood like how the little Orb must be knocking on heaven's door by now.

Dammit. How're you supposed to get through this.

You steel yourself and start making preparations. The orb needs an orb coffin and a little orb shovel to dig a little orb grave. You even glue some lolly sticks together for a headstone, wondering all too long what to write on it, what one sentence could commemorate the entire life of this orb, most of which you weren't even there for. They were simply making scones and tea until you barged in and sent them to battle.

Much like war does.

You even pull out a black shirt and black suit for the occasion. You don't know why you're getting so worked up over a sentient ball of light. At first you thought it was but a metaphor, reminding you of the lives that must have been taken by the weapons you create. But as you fill your bathtub with used coffee grounds that have been accumulating over the past few weeks (exacerbated by the orbs' love for coffee), you wonder if there's something more. You wonder if perhaps, by a slim, slim chance, that you have actually gotten attached to these creatures.

They do not call you emotionless or tell you you're not sensitive enough.

They swear with you and are always there to protect you.

They've almost become, sort of, like friends.

You use your tiny, homemade shovel to dig a little grave, while all around you orbs sound off in a cacophony of voices. You place the hardened, marble-like mound of solidified dirt, the one remnant of the orb you have left, into its coffin. It is a modified wooden box with a sliding top that used to hold cigarettes, now with some pillow stuffing and a cupcake liner at the bottom to act as cushioning. So that the Orb may be surrounded by memories of simpler times.

As you close the coffin, you hear wails of “why!!” and “Ouch, fuck”, along with general falling or tumbling sounds that the Orbs must have captured from various Chosen through their time in the Libraries. You take it that this is how they choose to mourn.

You place the little coffin in a grave made in coffee grounds, then usher the beetles to bury it. Once they do, you stick the little headstone in. Then flip off the bathroom lights, shrouding yourself in complete darkness.

Slowly, gradually, the Orbs light up, one by one, in dim yellow, they cast shadows onto the tiled walls and refract through the glass of your mirror and shower. They float over their comrade, getting close to the grave. You see them examining it with the curiosity of an animal that has never seen their death treated this way before.

With such respect.

There is so much space in this bathtub, all for one little grave. You can't help but think that after the fight with the Original Book, you may have many more little souls to bury.

“FUCK!” You yell, slamming your fist on the side of the bathtub as you sink to the damp tile. Letting dirty coffee water soak into your nicest dress pants.

You're not sure if you can do this any longer. Did you really lack emotion, or was that something you told yourself so you could continue to see death as but a number on a chart? Because then you could trick yourself into believing that high numbers were good, high numbers meant the enemy was dying.

The enemy was losing.

The enemy was burying their dead.

Mourning.

Crying.

Just like you.

“FUCK!” All the orbs yell back at you.

You couldn't have said it better yourself.

One of the Orbs turns on the shower in the box next to the bathtub. The pitter patter of water on the tile makes it sound like it's raining.

As if it's a cue for the mourning to leave the graveyard. But the most affected always stay through the rain. Letting the raindrops mix with their tears.

Perhaps, if the Tablet is destroyed, you wouldn't have to witness death like this. Without the threat, your world wouldn't be constantly on the edge of war. But would you trust a being that wants to ban knowledge as a solution to some problems? And will destroying the Tablet really bring an end to all this death? If you know anything, you know that humans always find a way to kill each other.

You see that an orb has turned into a tiny violin, and another has turned into a tiny bow. Together they play a soft requiem for their fallen brother. The mom orb, the first one you caught, floats up to the grave in a tiny black veil (where did she get that?). You can almost see her crying tears of golden light.

Some turn into teacups, others into scones. Together they clink glasses and pour one out.

Even in the saddest of times, they remember themselves. They remember where they came from, and what their deceased would have wanted.

What would the people who you killed want? Would they wish for complete destruction of the knowledge that killed them? Or would they wish it to remain, in hope that it can be used for the greater good in the future?

Maybe it could be a water pump or something in the future.