Chapter 8

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 magic. I use mana to sculpt spells. Magic!” She wriggled her fingers at them in the way children did while pretending to use magic. “Magic magic magic magic!”

Considering the lifespan of elves, Librarian marveled at how irritated Isabella sounded.

Dr. Mann sighed. “For decades, magic and magical thinking have been used to ... to ... describe things that simply do not work, Dr. Isabella,” he said, his voice soft. Apologetic. “It is hard to shake oneself of the habit.”

“Every quack, quick fix charlatan in the world was peddling some new magical thinking way to save the planet,” Dr. Golberg said. “Pure renewables, holistic ecology patterns, ecotism.” She shook her head. “That last one was extra fucking evil.” Her brain buzzed. Memories of camps – people lined up, their ‘carbon crimes’ read off from a chart. Weapons stuttering. People falling into ditches. “Magical thinking, all of it.” She paused. “And outright eco-fascism in the last case.”

Librarian wanted to put his fingers to his temples and pray to the Brain Mother to get the Americans away as fast as possible. Instead, he coughed and spoke aloud: “Lord Winsom, I wish to speak with you.”

“Sup, Berry,” Helen said. Librarian’s tentacles twitched. “What’s up?”

“There is a Telling scheduled soon,” Librarian said. “You must be ready for it.”

Helen frowned at him. “Berry, we’re trying to figure out how to teleport into an orbiting Russian spaceship so we can keep them from colonizing the fuck out of Siberia.” She shook her head. “You do know that, with magicians and water remassing their ships on flight, teleporting for cargo transfer and local industry, they can throw together automated scow transports that can transport gigatons of plastic, petrochem products, and fucking gasoline back to Earth, right?”

“I...” Librarian paused. “I have no idea what you are talking about.” The images flitting around Helen’s head were filled with so many alien concepts, alien images, that Liberian found them hard to parse. Vast collections of rectangles, brightly colored and stenciled with numbers. Gurgling tanks of a blackish glop, pressurized and suspended in a wire work frame, with a huge pair of fins thrusting out of the back and a single nozzle of bright, white light. Armored vehicles with wheels nested in leatherish belts that ground up the earth and loam beneath them, affixed with a rounded turret and a long canon barrel, swinging slowly to bear.

“She’s stuck in a Neo-Cold War era mentality,” Dr. Goldberg said, her voice dry. “Ignore her.” She tapped a stylus against her chin. “Can you try bringing up some more of the water magic, Isabella?”

Isabella looked so grateful to hear the word ‘magic’ that she began to incant immediately. Helen scowled, muttering under her breath. “Oh yeah, last time we decided the Cold War was over, Putin was kicking around and ruining shit, I’m sure this time will go juuuust great.”

“The Telling matters,” Librarian said. “This is the Telling of Lord Winsom and the Ice Queen.”

Helen put her hands over her face. “Listen,” she said. “The Russkis are, currently, prepping to begin yanking glop out of your planet called petroleum. They’re going to be turning it into fuel for their heavy industry sector. They’ve been cut out of the heavy metals market that is needed for the high density batteries that heavy industry needs if you don’t have carbon for the past decade.” She pointed her finger at Isabella. “Thanks to people like her, they’re going to be able to instead bring a 20th century’s motherload of Siberian oil back to the motherland. That’s kinda like taking the incredibly delicate balance of Stark’s current military and geopolitical situation and just ... setting on fire.”

Librarian’s facial tentacles writhed in agitation. “But ... the Telling...”

“I don’t care!” Helen said. “Stark matters more to me than some stuffy elves.”

[But they’ll kill you, Helen, ] Librarian said, his voice hissing into her mind. [Remember?]

Helen chewed her lower lip. “Death isn’t what it used to be...”

Fear jolted through Librarian’s body. Coldness that he hadn’t thought he’d ever feel – a terror so deep and so instinctive that he lashed out, grabbing onto the slender human’s shoulders, spinning her around to face him directly. [What do you mean by that?] he thought, his voice booming in her head. [Are ... is there ... are there undead on Stark?]

“What? No!” Helen scowled. “G-Get out of my head, Berry.” She gritted her teeth slightly. “I mean that one of our eggheads is being haunted by her dead husband.”

Librarian sighed, explosively, his facial tentacles writhing. “Thank the gods.”

“Is this about that Dark Lord you guys keep whining about?” Helen asked. “I thought he was dead.”

“Banished is not dead,” Librarian said.

Helen shrugged slightly. “Besides, even if he was on Stark, there’s no magic there. That’s why we called it Stark.”

Librarian felt a knot of tension in his belly begin to gently unwind – the fear that Helen had put in him rippling away. But then Isabella stuck her oar in.

“Actually,” she said, lowing her hand. “It is entirely possible that there is some trace magic in Stark by now – Vidya did tell me that she had very ... vivid dreams about her husband before even reaching the portal.” She grinned, wryly. “Classic romantic haunting symptoms.”

Dr. Mann coughed, his cheeks darkening even more beneath his beard – even his reserved, contemplative mind that Librarian normally felt so relaxing went straight to erotic images. Honestly! Did humans think of nothing else? He shook his head, while Helen made a soft ‘hum’ noise, then shrugged. “There’s got to be more than one dimension out there. But if it makes you feel better, Berry, I’ll send a beam up to Enterprise. They dropped a com buoy back at the portal, it can squirt the request back to the United States, tell them to be aware if any Dark Lords pop up and start trying to conquer Middle Earth.”

“You’re mocking me,” Librarian said, his arms crossing over his chest.

“Only a little!” Helen slapped his shoulder.

The humans went through their rituals – their attempts to understand how magic worked. It seemed utterly useless to Librarian. Magic was magic. If you wished to understand it, you should instead listen to the sages and the wizened masters who knew it inside and out. Learn at their feet and understanding would flow. Instead of doing that, the humans seemed focused on picking it apart from the smallest component and working upwards. Entirely backwards, if Librarian understood the principle at all. But he resigned himself to cornering Helen for the discussion when she was done helping to oversee the project – only to find that she managed to evade him and find herself in the same room as Lucas.

The feeling of their sex seeped through the doorway, buzzing along Librarian’s nerves. Humans felt things so ... powerfully. And their feelings mixed into one another. He could sense Lucas’ tightening muscles and the feeling of his member entering into Helen – but that wasn’t the thing that dominated Lucas’ mind. Instead, it was the smell of Helen’s hair, the way that her fingernails dug into his back, the little giggly laugh that escaped her lips. The happy croon of her voice ah, for a nerd, you fuck hard. For Helen, it was a growing sense of delight, a satisfaction. Like she had wagered something with herself and was collecting her winnings. Her mind flared with awareness of how her toes curled. Of the gently, circling caress of Lucas’ soft, soft finger against her clitoris. Of the feeling of his lips on her scalp, on her cheek, on her chin, on her neck. His teeth.

It was strong.

It was heady.

It left Librarian standing outside of their door for an indecorous amount of time, feeling his own member beginning to awaken. His tentacles writhed and his purple cheeks flushed nearly midnight as a sense of shame and shock overwhelmed him. He was far from a spawning pool, far from any female of his kind, and entirely out of season. The psychic call of the beaches and the blood-warm water that the Brain Fiends chose for their pleasure was nowhere to be felt. There was only the humans and their indecently loud minds.

He turned and hurried away, trying to adjust his robes as subtly as he could to hide the bulge. He walked past the servant rooms and stopped dead. Another flare of sexuality was bubbling from under this door – mixed with noises considerably louder than Helen and Lucas. It was one of the ... the ... the marines, those warriors, those men-at-arms that the Americans kept around to protect their scientists. He recognized the mind – and the name, Lance Corporal Avanti – even as he realized that Lance Corporal Avanti was currently laying...

The troll?

“Careful, Jesus!” Avanti’s warm, masculine laugh came through the door. “That’s not a cybercock, you know.”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about, Tatton,” the troll said, his voice full of entirely unservile amusement. Then the soft sound of slurping, sucking, and erotic sensations that...

Two men!?

Two?

Without a female?

Librarian clutched at his chest, feeling even more ruffled than before. And even more aroused. He hurried faster, his feet carrying him along the corridor, towards the chambers set aside for his own personage. He slipped into the room, then closed the door behind him, and turned around to find himself facing Fireheart. She was sitting on his bed and for one terrifying, thrilling moment, Librarian imagined that she too had been infected by the humans and their rampant, unstoppable lust, and was here, naked and eager for him to breed her. But then he blinked and saw she was still clad in her shimmering red tunic and green hose. Her legs were crossed under her, and she had a sheathed sword across her lap. Her fingers drummed on the flat of her sword.

“Librarian,” she said, her voice soft. “We need to talk about the Telling and Lord Winsom.”

Librarian gulped.

Fireheart stood and she focused – and he felt her mind reaching out for his. This meant that whatever it was she wanted to speak of, she wanted it to be as private as could be. Without another Brain Fiend, anything share thought to thought would be his sacred treasure. Under the rules of the Court, under the geias of his employment, he’d be unable to share whatever she said. Normally, Librarian would have only minded in so far as he was certain that Fireheart was considering treason. But there was a second wrinkle, in the form of the roiling, buzzing lust that the humans had filled him with.

“Open yourself, Librarian. Now.”

The order cracked against Librarian’s frazzled mind and his thoughts unfolded like a flower, his tentacles stilling as he touched, mind to mind, with Fireheart. He could feel her rehearsed phrases, her carefully selected thoughts and pruned outrages, everything she thought would have convinced him that Lord Winsom had to be replaced with her, and as quickly as possible. All those thoughts began to curl in on themselves, like dry tinder touched by a single spark. The flames spread faster than Librarian thought possibly as Fireheart gaped at him, the sword falling from her nerveless fingers. It clunked and clattered on the hardwood floor and Librarian felt an electric attraction buzzing along his purple, slightly slick skin. He needed to be touched, and he felt Fireheart’s need to be touched, and the two needs fed into one another, growing hotter and hotter.

He wasn’t sure who was the bellows and who was the coke furnace. He only knew that Fireheart was the one to move first – she planted her hands on his narrow shoulders, pushing him back against the door, using his body to close it tight. Her face pressed against his facial tentacles and he reacted instinctively – seeking to twine them. But the elf had no facial tentacles of her own. Instead, they slithered along her cheek, pushed up a strand of her flame-red hair, slithered along one of her ears, wrapping around the tip and squeezing. One wrapped around her throat, another pressed to her chin, tilting her face up and backwards, so that the mouth hidden beneath his tentacles could press to her lips. His tongue thrust forward and met her tongue, and oh, she was eager. She was quite eager. Her eyes rolled back into her head, her body trembling as he felt her pleasure, spiking from every contact point of his tentacles – though the hottest, most throbbing pleasure came from the tip of her ear.

Fireheart’s strong, strong hands gripped the front of his elegant robes and began to tug and push. Buttons popped off with sharp ping noises, bouncing and skittering along the floor, ending up who knows where. Soon, his robes were puddling on the ground around his long, delicate ankles, leaving him as naked as he had ever been while around someone not of his own kind. Since Fireheart’s eyes were currently closed and her face and head were wrapped in the gentle, slightly moist embrace of his tentacles, she explored him with her hands – and Librarian had never known that he could feel something like this.

Her fingers were dry and so blazing hot against his slightly chilled skin. She found the narrow, angular sweep of his ribs, the bones jutting against his thin, purple skin. She felt the iron hard cording of his belly muscles, the broad sweep of his pronounced hip bones. Then she cupped and cradled his manhood – long and thin and ridged in a way that he knew was alien to elven or human bodies. But Fireheart didn’t draw back. Instead, her fingers counted each ridge, rubbing thumb over line after line after line, until her thoughts had a clear enough picture of him.

And, radiating from her like the heat from a coal, was a single thought. It was not a word or even a sentence. It was a visualization. A mental image, comparing her own sex and his – and remembering where her own pleasure had been stoked by the former Lord Winsom. Where his finger had found a place inside of her that she hadn’t even known existed and played her like a harp.

The finger and the ridge, in her mind at least ... matched.

She drew back and Librarian felt his tentacles loosening their grip on everywhere but around her throat. It was one of his longest, and one of his strongest, and he squeezed her as she thought, desperately: [I need you. Now.]

Librarian focused. His telekinetic grip took hold of her – and her hose began to tear, invisible lines of force ripping down from her hips and up from her ankles. The sleek material split apart and left her bare, pale skin exposed in the magelight of the bedroom, while her tunic popped off her chest, freeing the timeless perfection of her elven breasts: Small and tipped with eager, perky nipples. Remembering what he had felt from the humans, Librarian leaned forward. His telekinetic grip lifted Fireheart at the same time, causing her to gasp in shock and wonder as her breasts were brought to his face. His tentacle tightened around her throat, while his others slithered across her chest, leaving thin tracks of eager moisture on her paleness.

He stroked her. He caressed her. He played his facial tentacles across every inch of both of her breasts, using the tips, using the lengths, using their strength to apply just enough pressure to wring tiny gasps and mewls from Fireheart – her normal guard stripped away by the intensity of her want. His mouth, though, was closed around one of her aching, needing nipples. He could feel exactly how much she wanted, and he could ridge along a mirror fine edge of pleasure and of pain, pushing what Fireheart thought she wanted to a height that stunned even him.

Her pleasure flowed into him, and his pleasure into her, and the two shone off one another, growing hotter and hotter as Fireheart writhed and bucked in his telekinetic grip. Her hands gripped his bald head, hooking her fingers on the ridges and frills of his crest. Her eyes closed and the lifted one of her hands up to her mouth, biting down on two knuckles, muffling herself. Librarian, for a moment, thought of siphoning some of his attention to throw up a wall of thoughts ... but then he remembered.

He was the only one who could hear her thoughts.

[Are you ready?]

She didn’t respond with words. Instead, the battering ram of want/neednownownownow hit him so hard that his telekinetic grip nearly lapsed. Instead, he supported his mental grasp with a physical one. His long fingered hands cupped her perfect ass, squeezing her elven skin tightly enough to drew a gasp past her knuckles, while he lowered her and thrust himself upwards, guiding the two of their bodies together with hand and mind alike. He nearly lost all control as she came close – then did as his cold member plunged into her. Fireheart’s hands gripped his shoulders and she muffled herself by biting down on his shoulder hard enough to sting. But his telekinetic grip slipped off her body, and she fell upon him, all of her weight pushing his cock deep inside of her deeply alien pussy.

Librarian had bred before. With other females.

It was suspended in pools of warm water, with elders guiding the younger through gentle psychic pressure. The water kept any who lost their grip, telekinetically, from collapsing. As it was, all that Librarian had was his own strength, his own will. His muscles strained and his knees locked as he gripped, holding the elven woman close to himself, her body trembling as she got used to him being inside of her. Librarian knew the strain couldn’t last. He took a staggering step forward. Then another. Then, his hands slipping out quickly, like sailors playing out slack on a sail, he laid Fireheart upon her back, her thighs spreading even wider. Her hair puddled around her head – and for just a moment, a pensive, uncertain look flitted across her face.

Then, desperation.

“Fuck me,” she whispered. It was too needy to be an order, too hard edged to be a plea.

Librarian rocked his hips – using nothing but muscle and want. His mind was too overwhelmed by the heat radiating from her sex, from her thighs, from her toe, pressed to one of his palms as he cupped her ankle. His eyes half closed and his tentacles curled upwards as he slammed into her again, drawing back to that just the tip of his cock was left inside of her, then burying himself to his balls again. Said balls bounced off her ass, making her mewl and moan. She threw her head back, arching her back, animal eager. Her arm lashed out and she caught hold of one of the pillows, pressing it to her face, muffling herself.

Libarian knew he couldn’t last. But a strange, masculine pride that seemed to transcend race and even dimension kept him from simply bursting deep within the elf. Instead, he placed one long finger upon her clit, finding it easily thanks to her hairless sex. He rubbed her with firm, circular strokes, in time with his driving hips. He closed his eyes and tried to review every mental discipline he knew – the disciplines normally used to resist a psychic attack or intrusion. By running through the patterns, singing the little songs, he was able to keep his own peak suspended, as if by a string.

It grew harder as, driven by hand and by cock, Fireheart’s own peak came and crested, then came again, her moans growing louder and more shameless, her pillow tossed aside as she flung out her arms in bliss. Her back arched again and again, and her velvety slickness clenched on him – like an eager fist.

Librarian hit his own crest.

He slammed him home and a psychic wave of pleasure, a moan that shot through the entire castle, bust outwards. Elves woke from their slumber with confused signs of arousal – hard members, dripping pussies. The lovers in other chambers found their own climaxes – Lucas grunted as his member spurted over Helen’s face, her eyes closing as she giggled, while Lance Corporal Avanti shuddered as he came inside of his trollish bedmate. Fireheart’s own orgasm reflected back at Librarian as he felt his seed – normally reserved only for females, only for mating season – filled her elven womb.

Uselessly.

There was no purpose to the act. Just...

The act.

And that raw, wasteful decadence nearly set Librarian to cumming again. His balls ached as he spurted more and more and more into her, his tentacles fanning wide, as if he was about to actually devour Fireheart’s brain. For a moment, all was pleasure and white and the trembling closeness of tightened muscle and gasping, panting lungs. When Librarian could see again, he could see his seed dripping slowly down the curve of Fireheart’s ass.

Slowly, the two of them began to slip apart. Fireheart looked up at him, a look of shock on her face. Librarian’s knees trembled. He tried, desperately, to think of what he could possibly say. And so, he fell back on his majordomo training. “Is ... there anything else you wished of me, Squire Fireheart?” he asked, his voice all formal edges and hard diction – as if he was still in his robes, as if he wasn’t dripping with her juices.