If he had been asked, two weeks ago, the Librarian would have been shocked and offended at the intimation that he had anything in common with elves. He'd have bristled, wriggled his facial tentacles, and radiated a low level sense of offended, cattish disdain for the entire day. Librarian had been selected, after all, as the majordomo of Lord Winsom's estates
because
he was not bound by the same traditions and Tellings that the fae were. He could break character, he could improvise, he could arrange things without needing to be a
character
.
Now, after two weeks of the Americans turning what they kept calling California upside down, Librarian wished that everything could go back to the way that it had been for decades: Predictable, steady, as even as the changing of the seasons.
When he had brought this up to Doctor Goldberg, one of the seemingly endless numbers of 'scientists' that the Americans had brought with them, Goldberg had looked him square in the eyes and said: "For most of the past century, our climate has been so
meshuggah
that we'd be lucky to have a stable growing season twice in a row. So, you know. Keep things in perspective, Berry."
And Librarian had seen the thoughts that swirled around Golberg's mind: The images of the vast, bleached deserts. The forests that were patterened too neatly and too cleanly to be natural. The great sea-walls keeping the killing salt of the Atlantic and Pacific oceans away from coastlines that were covered with ruined, abandoned cities, loomed over by pyramidal structures that housed millions of humans in enclosed ecologies, where their food, their waste, their consumer goods could be kept in a closed loop, away from their ravaged planet.
This was why Librarian was currently in the offices on the highest tower of Lord Winsom's estates, regarding a glass of firebrandy that the old Lord Winsom had purchased several centuries back and forgotten about. The brandy glimmered and glinted with crystallized chunks of fire essence - the mana keyed to enhance and broaden the flavor. It would taste so very good going down, so good that he'd be able to ignore the sandpapering of his throat.
"I do not like Americans," Librarian said, dolefully. "I do not like them at all."
The door to his office rattled. Librarian set his mind out and brushed against the thoughts outside - and felt that it was
not
one of the humans. It was, instead, the confused and uncertain mind of a troll. Librarian wracked his brain, trying to remember why exactly there was a troll on the estate, only to remember. He snapped his his fingers, telekinetically unlocking the doorway. The Quarry from the hunt that Lord Winsom had died on stepped inside. He was looking quite mouseish and uncertain for a troll: Skittishly, he stepped into the room and glanced around, then hurriedly closed the door behind him. His clothing looked crudely patched and even more crudley washed.
Librarian wrinkled his facial tentacles as the musk brushed against his scent receptors. The troll bowed his head. "Uh, sir, your lordship," he said.
"Please, just, Librarian," Librarian said.
"Right," the troll said. Librarian waved one hand, his purple fingers flexing. The chair across from him rasped backwards, skittering along the floor and leaving the troll a place to sit. The tusked fellow took said seat with eagerness, settling down. "Thanks."
"So," Librarian said, picking up his brandy and rolling it slightly in his hand. "I see you're still here."
"I have nowhere else to go," the Troll said, nervously. "My family bade me goodbye when I was chosen for the Hunt.
You
gave them silver. If I go back-"
"Ah, yes, yes, yes," the Librarian said. "Has Fireheart bothered you?"
"I've been hiding," the troll said, nervously.
"Hmm..." Librarian rubbed his facial tentacles. "You are quite a strapping figure. The Americans do love to have heavy things carried around - scanner this, recording device that, sampler this other thing. Why don't you go to them and tell them that I sent you?" He nodded. "Yes, and you can bring me messages from them - if they ever wish to speak to me."
And thus,
Librarian thought.
I won't have to deal with them anymore.
The troll bobbed his head. Then, nervously, he said: "Won't they be insulted?"
"They're humans. They have no idea about any of our relationships," Librarian said, casually. "They have the own set of ridiculous concepts. Ask Dr. Goldberg to tell you about antisemitism one of these days." He shuddered convulsively. "Or, better, don't."
Dr. Goldbeg hadn't actually spoken much, beyond a terse single sentence, half distracted by the device she had been setting up as part of the American's goal of driving Librarian mad. But the wave of thoughts and memories and vivid images that had sprung to her thoughts, flitting around her like a school of sharks, had been nearly as bad as anything the humans thought of when he asked them about the seasons or their deer hunting habits or any other polite nothings. The troll looked uncertain - but soon, he was bustling about the humans, helping them around the grounds.
Librarian thought that this would allow him to focus instead on the task of keeping Fireheart from murdering the new Lord Winsom - a task that took a careful juggling of Helen Trevor's meals and visits with the library and communication sessions with the mages guild while keeping in mind Fireheart's unchanging schedule of training and study and practice for the next Telling. The next Telling was, in its own way, another thing to worry about. The American captain, DuPont, had made it quite clear that the United States government (Librarian was still not sure how one derived "American" from "United States") wanted to have peaceful, healthy relationships with the Faelands and the Sunset Kingdoms.
They
also
wanted to avoid putting their officer into any diplomatic situation what so ever - citing the fact that humans had their own ambassadors, their own protocol, their own structures of governmental communication and relationships - structures that Ensign Helen Trevor, no matter what her other qualities, simply did not posses.
These were two completely contradictory requests. Trevor was Lord Winsom. She
had
duties, and she
had
the ability to perform diplomatic duties, far more so than any missive carried from Stark. Preventing her from doing any of those things...
Well.
It was why the firebrandy didn't last very long.
Librarian decided to get the Telling out of the way the day after he sent the troll to help the Americans. He got himself dressed in his best set of purple and black and gold robes, tied a ruff around his collar to make himself look even more impressive, brushed his facial tentacles into the most elegant set of rows he could manage, schooled his face to impassivity to not ruin the parallel lines, then began to sweep through Lord Winsom's manor house. He walked past the library where Fireheart was seated in the largest, most comfortable chair, her eyes narrowed as she read a large tome that an ancient t'row had written about the Telling of Lord Winsom and the Queen of Ice.
The Telling that was coming.
Librarian just barely managed to keep a wriggling frown off his face as he continued forward.
He came to the lower chambers. Isabella - the magician that the humans had been showering such attention on - was sitting at the large table that served as the common room's dining area. She was surrounded by several jerry rigged devices that looked as out of place as a troll lass in a ballgown - they were ringed and made of wires and curved copper and shimmering, crinkly foil that looked as fragile as a newly hatched larva's skin. Dr. Goldberg, Dr. Mann and Helen were standing at a distance, each looking attentive.
Dr. Goldberg's eyes were locked onto her slate. "Are you doing it?"
"Yes!" Isabella snapped.
"So, that's another detector that doesn't fucking work..." Helen muttered.
"How do you detect, uh, paranatural energies?" Dr. Mann asked.
"You mean
mana
?" Isabella asked - her voice sounding like it had been sharpened by a whetstone. "Why do you humans have to say a dozen words that you invented to avoid saying
one
that describes what is happening and being done perfectly sufficiently. It's
