The Importance of a Proper Welcome
One Month-Many Lives Challenge. Part one of two, continuing the Narratives Archive story. Tilindra becomes aware of what has occurred, and addresses Melir's hospitality shortcomings.
Features several prompts from One Month-Many Lives: 2-Ash the Witty, 3-Madam Frey, 7-Master Erron, 8-Judge Dellan, 10-Orran the Leader.
All entries in this series can be found here.
Tilindra glided through the aisles of the Narratives Archive, her fingers trailed along the edges of books, leaving the glisten of golden ink behind, that settled and sparkled before slowly fading. She was the opposite of both Melir and Mardnab in almost every way. Where Mardnab stood at a perfectly correct three foot six, Tilindra’s slender form stood just a few inches over six foot. Where Melir face held a youthful countenance in the brief moments that it could be defined, Tilindra was always dignified and mature. And in contrast to Mardnab’s chaotic purple locks, and Melir’s kaleidoscopic bowl-cut, Tilindra’s long scarlet hair always held a deliberate wave. All three wore the mercurial robes of the Archivist, its surface covered in flowing script. But where Melir’s flicked frequently, and Mardnab’s swirled and jumped, the script on Tilindra’s ankle length robes, slowly drifted across the parchment like surface, always sure of what story was being told.
Tilindra smiled gently to herself as her thoughts wandered to her latest crop, seeds of inspiration, sent off into the liminal spaces, to land where they would in the minds of the world. From the recitations of Melir’s readers that she had caught, the growth of her seeds was well in hand.
A groan caught her attention from behind the bookcase she was passing, a neighbouring aisle of modern war stories. Tilindra paused, and brought her fingers up together, to part them. The bookcases separated in response, giving her passage to the next aisle where a woman in a bedraggled white wig and dust-covered formal robes was staggering to her feet, in a single high heel. She was clutching her head, a trickle of dried blood on her fingers.
“This isn’t right.” She was murmuring. “Why did they bomb the courthouse? So many injured.” She looked around, her eyes beginning to focus. “Where are the inj- … What’s with the books?” Her breathing quickened, as panic set in. When she caught of Tilindra, she gave out a little scream, and slipped backwards into a shelf. “What are you? What’s going on? Your face, it’s-”
“Hush now. To answer your first question, they are the narratives of worlds. Although, you appear to have been disconnected from yours. ” Tilindra calmly took the woman’s hand before she could react. She jerked away - or tried to - and almost lost her balance, teetering on her single shoe. Tilindra steadied her, and gently wiped the woman’s forehead, the dried blood and wound faded as a trail of gold ink passed across them “That should help you, until I can welcome you properly. Your presence here is most unusual. May I have your name?”
The woman went to give a stronger pull, but a moment later, as the golden ink seeped into her skin, and her eyes dilated, her resistance stopped. She answered Tilindra, calmly. “My name is Flora Dellan, A Judge from Meral City.”
Tilindra’s eyes lit up. “How intriguing. You are from the current crop. What has brought you to the Archive, Judge Flora Dellan, of Meral City?”
Dellan blinked slowly. “I was delivering the verdict when the sirens started. A surprise attack I think. Then… I remember an explosion. I think I blacked out a second. Next thing I heard was screaming and panic. I was going to run, but they were looking to me. I was going to help the clerk, trapped under rubble. I reached for him, and then… I was here.”
“A decision point then, a pivotal moment.” Tilindra ran her fingers down Dellan’s face, just above the surface, the gold ink following, and spreading out as Tilindra directed. Dellan swayed a little, but said nothing. Her hand paused when it reached Dellan’s left, the gold ink focusing on a spot. “And a trace of something Archival. Although, long in your past, and not part of your seed. I must speak to Mardnab on this.”
While a speck of ink transformed into a heeled shoe on Dellan’s bare foot, Tilindra gently took Dellan by the arm, along the aisle. “Come my dear, let me introduce you to my sister and brother. We must make you welcome.”
Even Tilindra’s calm countenance was slightly wrinkled, when she reached Mardnab’s normally cosy nook. The comfortable armchairs and low table were squished between one of the shelves, and the wooden walls of a room, that could have been straight out of a haunted cabin in a wood. Hovering beside them were the figures of two men, hanging upside-down, as they floated around the edge of it. They started calling for help when they saw Tilindra and Dellan, waving their arms, although their voices didn’t reach the women. Tilindra ignored them for the moment, looking for Melir. She could hear the voices of five of his readers coming from beyond the wooden wall, but there was no sign of Melir himself.
Dellan blinked owlishly, the calm from the golden ink holding firm against the odd sight of the floating men, even as the illogical nature of it hit her. “What’s going on? Are they in danger?”
“Not at all,” said Tilindra. They can’t come to any harm there. I do need to address Melir’s understanding of colloquial phrases, however.” She tapped a chin thoughtfully. “He appears to have misunderstood what ‘hanging out’ with someone entails.” She beckoned one of the chairs that was crushed against the wooden wall, with a finger. It pulled itself out, with a little difficulty, and straightened itself. Tilindra approached it with Dellan. As she drew near, the faces of the two men became further panicked, filled with the same confusion Dellan’s held on first entering the Archive. Tilindra gave the chair an order. “Would you fetch Melir, please.”
The chair bobbed its agreement, and hopped away on creaky wooden legs.
Tilindra, still ignoring the men, guided Dellan over to the remaining furniture that was slowly resettling in a newly opened space. Bookcases pulled themselves away to create a new cosy nook. Tilindra’s gold ink slid across the surface of the low table, leaving a teapot, and cake-stand, neatly lined with petite-fours and macarons. Tilindra, gently placed Dellan in the remaining comfortable chair, with a small teacup and plate.
Tilindra studied the setup and nodded to herself. “I believe that satisfies Mardnab’s criteria for a soft chair and pleasant food.”
Dellan avoided looking at Tilindra, even in her calmed state, and looked over her shoulder at the two men, who stared back at her with pleading eyes. “What about them? Are you going to leave them there?”
“Those are Melir’s guests. It would be rude of me to interfere with them before I speak to him. Now, please partake, you will feel better once you do.”
Still looking at the men, Dellan slowly brought the teacup to her lips, and took a sip. It tasted of honey, lemon, and ginger, and felt warm as it flowed down her throat, washing away both the golden ink’s calming effect, and the terrifying panic she had been feeling since her arrival. She blinked in surprise, as her surroundings stopped shifting, and became merely painfully vibrant. And the multitude of noise that had been clamouring since they neared the wooden walls, shifted to individual voices, that she could now understand. It felt like a curtain had lifted, and she was properly inside this bizarre place for the first time. She went to voice her surprise, looking at Tilindra directly for the first time. And instantly closed her eyes. The tall woman was still impossible to look at.
“Eat your macaron, my dear. All will be clear then.”
Taking a breath, Dellan nibbled on the small sandwich sweet. It was a different sweetness from the tea, but just as pleasant, and Dellan found herself finishing it in no time at all.
“Excellent. If you open your eyes now, you should find your welcome is complete.”
Dellan slowly opened one eye, to see a smiling red-haired woman in front of her, who vaguely reminded her of a stern Aunt she had met once as a child. “Oh! You’ve changed.”
“You could put it that way I suppose, but it would be more accurate to say you have acclimatised to your surroundings.” Tilindra put down her empty teacup, and looked towards where a bumping could be heard. Ah, Melir is coming now. We will soon have our other guests settled as well.”
The hopping armchair reappeared with a cross-armed, cross-legged Melir sitting upon it. The voices of his ever-present readers, dropped to below a whisper, as the armchair reached Tilindra.
“Was this really necessary?” Melir asked, the cross look on his face, matching the rest of him. “Clarence had got to a good bit.”
“You left your guests unattended.” She gestured to the floating pair. “Care to explain why you haven’t offered them refreshments.”
“I gave the other two some, and they just kept screaming; didn’t even touch the bourbon biscuits. I really don’t see the point in wasting them. When Mardnab offered that Mayrel fellow the same, he soaked Agrel with the coffee, and invaded a book.”
Melir glared at the men, pouting. “Providing them air space seemed like a perfectly reasonable alternative, given how often these anomalies keep manifesting. They get to hear the stories, and have a pleasant view, while not being able to touch or damage anything.”
“That would be so, brother, if holding them was the objective, but they won’t be able to interact with us properly in their current state. You must see to it they are properly refreshed. Take my guest here.” She gestured towards Dellan. “She isn’t screaming at the sight of you, and we have even had a small amount of conversation. None of your guests would be capable of that, at this time.”
He glanced at Dellan. “What is this one?”
“This is Judge Dellan. I believe she comes from my latest crop.” She narrowed her eyes, studying the wooden wall. “Would the ‘other two’ you mentioned, be in there?”
“Yes.” Grinned Melir, proudly. “I let them use my favourite room.” Then he frowned. “Agrel made me get rid of the shadows, though. He said that was why they were screaming, which is ridiculous. Looking after visitors is hard.”
“That is why Mardnab is normally in charge of it. Do you know where she went?”
“She followed Mayrel into an unfinished space story, Scourge of the Shard Flotilla. She’s mentioned briefly in Zombies Attack Seattle, so I think she chased him there.” He raised a finger, and one of the voices began to speak loudly, in reverse. “Oh! Sounds like she has nearly finished rewriting it. It’s called A Quartermadam’s role in a Warlord’s Stronghold now.”
Tilindra looked alarmed. “Why would she be rewriting it?”
“That Mayrel fellow. I’m not sure, but there were some Archival ink markings I don’t recognise in that tale after Mardnab landed there. And,” he raised a finger, pointing it at the two floating men. “I found similar marks in the stories I think those two sprung from. That would make them cuts, not visitors. And cuts don’t need refreshments.”
“Now Melir, you know that isn’t true. I doubt they are the cause.” Tilindra gave Melir a firm look. “But even if they were, we can still be polite. Now unravel your notes, and I will show you how to properly welcome someone.”
Melir, sighed - rather loudly. “Fine, if you insist.” The wooden wall began to lower into the Archive floor, revealing two more individuals huddled together on a bed. They screamed and pushed backwards on seeing the Archivists, but their retreat was halted, as the bed smoothly reshaped into a comfortable couch; one perfectly matched to the armchair Dellan sat in. The two hovering men rotated slowly, and came to rest next to them.
“Good.” Tilindra stood and approached the four, all cowering and covering their eyes by this point. “Welcome to the Narratives Archive. I am Archivist Tilindra, and this is my brother, Archivist Melir. Our sister, Archivist Mardnab, will join us shortly. I apologise for my brother’s rather haphazard approach to hospitality, and ask you to forgive him. He has only been here for a few eons, and is still learning.”
She crooked a finger, and the table glided forward to settle in front of the group. With another finger, she sent a trail of ink spiralling around the four, calming them enough to partake in the small meal.
“Now, I understand you have had a rather uncomfortable experience so far. Let us consider this a new beginning. We will share tea and cake, and then I will show you to the lodgings I have prepared; you will each have a suitable room within the façade of a hotel from a slice-of-life short-story anthology, which the author has almost gained the courage to publish.”
“How is that better than the cabin?” protested Melir. “That isn’t dark at all!”
“As Mardnab has told you repeatedly, Melir, not everyone enjoys horror. Now, eat your cake.”
Grumbling to himself, Melir took a petite-four off the cake-tray. Dellan helped herself to one as well, finding herself rather enjoying this bizarre experience now she could see it properly. The remaining four guests slowly sipped on their tea and ate their treat, each acclimatising in turn.
Tilindra took her own teacup, and looked at each guest in turn. “Now that your minds are settled, let us begin properly. As I mentioned, I am Tilindra, and this is Melir. This is Judge Dellan of Meral City, from a war story. May I ask your names?”
“Captain Ash d’Witt, of The Siren’s Song,” responded the attractive man on the left of the couch. He had a lightning bolt earring, and was dressed in a close fitting jumpsuit.
“He’s from the space world Mayrel jumped into, but I couldn’t get him back in it,” said Melir, and one of the readers around him began reciting The Last Will & Testament of Ash d’Witt. “Based on how I found him, he’s from before that moment started.”
“Don’t know what you mean by scene or space world,” Ash said, irritation clear in his voice. “What I know is I’d just pushed Luce out of the way of a blaster shot, when things got painful, and I woke up surrounded by scratching noises, bulging walls, and those voices that kept wailing. How’s about you send me back now? To where my crew is if you can, not where the shooting was.”
“Hmm, the second seed then,” Tilindra murmured. “A coincidence on Mayrel’s part, or intentional?” She pondered a moment, and then replied to Ash. “We will answer your questions in due time, but you will have to be patient.”
She faced the woman next to Ash, dressed in well maintained but faded cloth and leather, with metal plates attached as armour, and several colourful medals on her left breast pocket. “And you are?”
“Lucille Frey, Quartermadam of Gran Memtal. And I second the Captain’s desire to be returned,” she said, her voice also annoyed, but more controlled. “I was just about to…” she inadvertently blushed, and coughed slightly. “That is to say, I was in mid-negotiation with Garnet, on our future plans, and would like the opportunity to continue them.”
“I think she’s from the world Mardnab is in, but the plot has changed so much, I can’t figure out where.” Melir glared at Frey with irritation. “She threw a gun at me, and knocked the biscuits on the floor.”
“Now Melir, that is enough.” Tilindra said firmly. “I said we were to begin properly, and that means putting aside our differences until the proper time. If you cannot participate correctly, then I will see to it Mardnab removes half your readers when she returns.”
“But I’m already falling behind with these interruptions! I’ve got less than fifty-thousand shelved since Mardnab came asking about Mayrel.” The voices of his readers cried out in synchronised protest. The five visitors covered their ears.
“Then, you had best compose yourself, brother, or I will have no choice.” Melir scowled for a moment, but then his expression smoothed, and the voices returned to a whisper. Melir now looked almost as dignified as Tilindra; the image only ruined by his rainbow hair’s kaleidoscopic waves of colour.
Tilindra gave a satisfied nod and faced the third person on the sofa, a man in an evening suit, and small spectacles who smelled strongly of chalk dust and bleach. She raised an eyebrow, indicating it was his turn.
“I am Master Jacob Erron, a statistician at Oxford University. I was about to speak to an officer of my parent’s acquaintance who had taken some interest in my work.” He leaned forward, an oddly excited look in his eye, considering he had been upside down not long before. “May I ask how you have devised this space? I have seen several examples of euclidean mathematics, that were thought impossible to apply to any practical purpose. And the spiral of those bookcases going up into the ceiling! An exquisite example of impossible logistics!”
“As passionate as intended for the seventh seed, although your chosen focus is unexpected.” Tilindra murmured, before replying. “As I said to the good captain, questions will come later.”
“I think he’s from a 1960s spy thriller, that the author got too creative with and couldn’t settle on the title.” Melir said, speaking quieter than before. “The archival marks appeared in it shortly before I found him. The same with Orran there, who’s from a long-winded speculative piece on a dictatorial regime cracking down on artistry.” He gestured at the last man.
“The man sat up a little straighter, as attention focused on him. He was in a painter’s smock, and his hands, blackened with old burn scars, trembled as he held the teacup. “Maestro Delatare Orran, at your service,” his hoarse voice barely above a whisper. “I was in my studio, and then I was here. I do not know why.”
“The tenth of the current crop. This is certainly not a coincidence.” She flicked her fingers, and a four trails of golden ink meandered over to the guests, searching for the marks that Melir had seen. The ink circled a different spot on each. “A trace on the eyes or hands it seems. You each held or saw something you should not have encountered, just enough to separate you from your narrative, when a significant moment was reached. It is unlikely Mayrel is responsible, given his roots are the same as yours, but I cannot rule it out. I will need to confer with Mardnab when she returns.”
Tilindra stepped away from the table, and Melir joined her. “Have you seen the marks before?” he asked.
“Not that I recall, but there is something familiar to them, from before your time.”
“Mardnab mentioned the Minor Roles Rebellion when she ran after Mayrel. Could it be to do with that?
Tilindra tapped her chin gently. “It is… possible. Although concerning if so. I do not think speculation will serve us well here. Did Agrel venture an opinion?”
Melir shrugged. “He made some unhelpful suggestions about my hospitality and then wandered off. He said he was going to look for more manifestations, but he’s probably napping again.”
“More of them? That is a distinct possibility given there are five versions of my current crop here, and another one acting in a malignant manner. It is entirely possible that twenty-four more may surface.”
“What?! Why so many?”
“I find thirty germinating at once, has a longer-lasting impact on the authors,” Tilindra explained. “If all planted with Mayrel are connected to this, then it is plausible we will see versions of them. Though, given Orran is the youngest we have found, then at most I would expect maybe four others are currently within the Archive. They will be fine if Agrel finds them. His presence is as calming as my ink.”
Tilindra turned back to their guests. “Ladies and gentlemen, thank you for your patience. I will now show you to where you can wait, while we investigate the circumstances.” She made a spiral with her finger, creating one in the air from golden ink. It stretched, and expanded into a set of glass double-doors, which opened to reveal an elegantly decorated reception room.
“Through here you will find facilities that should cater to your needs. Your rooms are labelled with your names, and if you require anything else, then speak to the portraits. They will direct the furniture to fulfil any requests, within reason.”
She spiralled another finger, this time in a figure of eight, and her golden ink trailed around the five individuals. All were pulled into a standing position, and then gently floated through the door. The ink returned to her finger, as the door closed behind them and vanished.
“Return to your reading, Melir, but keep a watch for any more visitors. Make sure to welcome them properly this time, before escorting them to the hotel. I will wait here for Mardnab to return.”
“I still think the cabin was suitable, but fine, I’ll feed them properly.” Melir sat back in his armchair, which proceeded to hop away, carrying the Archivist back to Clarence and his other disembodied readers.
Thanks for Reading! This story comes from a sudden epiphany for the Narratives Archive, that is my answer to being unable to come up with a story every day this month. We will see the other four (possibly more if I add in all prompts so far) in the next part, where Mardnab returns, and is extremely angry. Spending a decade in a zombie filled landscape followed by a postapocalyptic wasteland will do that to a person.
If you’re a subscriber, check out the chat threads later today, where an extra titbit connected to this story will appear for each of the prompts so far.
