"Please don't kill me! I—"
"Ya damn, bastard!"
A tiny green man met her eyes when she opened them.
"You dropped Real Trade Accounts Between the Kosmairians and the DeMeteors Before the Red Death!"
The small man panted heavily, hands on his small knees.
A confused tone left her lips.
"I'm sorry I—?"
"Second Edition!"
He finished, heaving and stretching his small body.
Gwyn was dumbfounded. This was quite clearly a goblin if her reading of fantasy literature has taught her anything.
He wore a magnificent cloak fit for a king. The cloak dragged on the ground far behind him, collecting dust bunnies in its furred edges. His hands were adorned with gold and silver, and he even wore an expensive-looking chain around his neck. His neck craned forward, and he wore a constant scowl. He was maybe three feet tall.
"What do ye have to say for yerself?"
He adjusted his tiny spectacles. He had a thick, almost Scottish-like accent. He rolled his 'r's with a violent vigor.
"I'm sorry. I got lost and—"
"Ye decide to fuck around in my library? Who are ye anyway? Hmmm? The new maid, perhaps?"
The green creature pointed an accusing finger at her, holding a little wooden stick by his side. The snakes came closer; they were directly in her face now, ready to strike.
"N-no. I was just summoned here and—"
Gwyn couldn't finish a sentence around this tiny man.
"So, it was yeeeeeee who was making all that noise?" The goblin laughed. The snakes vanished, and Gwyn fell to the floor, exhausted and terrified. "Ha. Fuckin' summon a loaf of bread. Been more useful than yerself."
He let out an exasperated sigh.
She took several moments to compose herself.
"Thanks for… not killing me."
Gwyn didn't know what to say. She felt so powerless in this situation. Someone just made an attempt on her life, and she was thanking them.
He looked guilty.
"Don't thank me, people out there calling for yer head, not in here…" he paused. "At least not me."
"What did I do?"
"Nothin'," the goblin admitted. "Yer mere existence is enough to bring turmoil."
He put the wooden stick in his cloak and clapped his hands.
"Enough of that. Here. What's yer name? I'm Tinkletonkle Rattail! Fifteenth Chosen One."
"Chosen One?"
Gwyn unintentionally looked skeptical.
He scowled further.
"Yea, is there a problem, Missy?"
Gwyn laughed nervously, waving her hands.
"N-no! No problem… just… You know."
He narrowed his eyes.
"I know what?"
"Well… you're like… a goblin."
A feature that made Gwyn think this was his elongated ears, like those of the elves, but not in a pleasant way. It was more accurate to say that they were grabbed and stretched wide to be nearly as large as his head. Tufts of hair poured from his ears like cotton balls.
He put his hand on the hilt of his wand.
"What did ye just call me?"
Gwyn wore an innocent expression.
"A goblin?"
He shot a blast of air near her face, making a small scratch in the door beside her.
"Don't ye ever call me that again, Missy! I am not a goblin." He placed a hand to his chest and looked astute. "I am a Lotmon."
"A what… I'm sorry?"
"Lotmon? What are ye fuckin' dumb?"
"No, I—"
"What's yer name anyway? Ye not gonna tell me, huh? It's somethin' ugly, I bet. Like Jessica, Grace, Elizabeth, or Anastasia, probably."
I think those names are pretty.
"No… it's… I'm Gwynevere… Gwynevere Grim. Twenty-fifth Chosen One."
"Gwynevere, ay?" He nodded. "Fuckin' horrid name, but ye got a cute face, so I'll forgive ye."
"Thanks?" Gwyn shook her head. "By the way… did you say your name was 'Tinkle'?"
"Beautiful name, isn't it? But only my close friends call me that. Ye? Not ye… to ye, I am The Keeper. Master of the Great Library! Holder of infinite knowled—"
Gwyn interrupted him this time.
"Okay, Mr. Keeper. Thanks for not hurting me there."
Tinkletonkle whined.
"No, no. The Keeper. Not 'Mr. Keeper'. Shiet makes me sound like a little wuss."
"I think it sounds kind of cute…"
Gwyn said sadly.
He narrowed his eyes, then sheathed his wand.
"Don't do that shiet around me, Missy. I know how ye truly feel."
Mr. Keeper turned around and headed back up the stairs. His tiny legs struggled against each raised edge. Watching him closely, she could see why it took him so long to get down to her.
"Why are ye here anyway? To ruin the perfect categorization of my library? Harass me? Sell me drugs?"
Gwyn laughed, following him up the stairs.
"No, no."
This odd little man is so pleasant, in a sort of obnoxious way.
"I was talking with the Head Whisperer and—"
"Oh, that prick. Fuckin' always thinks he's right, he does," Mr. Keeper rolled his eyes and pulled out a cigar from his cloak pocket and began to smoke it. "Yea, he fuckin' begged the Great Eight for another one of ye 'Chosen One' to come here. Said somethin' like he had a plan this time." Mr. Keeper let out a deep cackle. "Man hasn't had a plan for the last thousand years, and everyone knows it."
That's reassuring.
"So you said you were a… Lotmon, right?"
"That's right… ye don't listen well, do ye?"
"I was listening, well, you look exactly like a gob—"
He pointed his wand in her face when she said the first half of that word.
"Lotmon! We're green creatures! With what we lack in height and strength, we double that in intellect!"
He said with pride, reciting the idiom by heart.
"Oh…" She trailed off, looking to the side. "In our stories, from my world." She emphasized. "Little green men like you are called 'Goblins'. In the stories, at least, your kind is much more savage." She paused. "Your kind isn't technically real."
Mr. Keeper looked confused.
"Wait a minute… not real? Whatever could ye mean?"
"I mean… you're like… fantasy. In a story book."
As those words left her lips, you would have thought Mr. Keeper won the lottery. He pulled out a piece of parchment and manifested a quill from nothing, furiously scribbling.
He leaned in close to her, the anticipation killing him.
"Let me get this right. Magic and elves and all that isn't real in yer world? But ye still have it in yer stories?"
"Yeah! That's exactly right, actually."
Gwyn was surprised he caught on so quickly.
"But then how am I standin' before ye then? Heheh." Mr. Keeper laughed and pieced it together. "The Lotmon of my universe is like the Goblins—" He said the word "goblins" with heavy disdain. "—of yer universe?"
"I think so."
She wasn't entirely sure.
"This is so. Fuckin'. Extraordinary!"
Mr. Keeper's jubilation was apparent.
This brought a smile to Gwyn's face. It momentarily made her forget the immense pressure of the expectations of the entire elven nation weighing on her.
Ethereal hands holding quills appeared around Mr. Keeper as he had them furiously write down everything Gwyn had to tell him about her universe.
She told him about video games, TV shows, movies, and popular books from her time. She would answer anything and everything that seemed relevant or what Mr. Keeper would ask her about. Mr. Keeper looked alive, much happier than when they first met.
"Ye know," Mr. Keeper sounded serious. "Outside of a few scribes, many people don't come here anymore." He finished writing on the paper, and a magic hand picked it up and organized it with the several dozen he had already written. "Elves are too worried about the encroaching Red Death and civil war. Asked me to find a solution in all these texts, but so far?" His sorrow was palpable. "Nothin'."
"Have you read every tome in here yet?"
"Ye," He paused. "This isn't even all of it; down the stairs, there is a basement bigger than this room filled to the brim with red-stained papers recovered from the Red Death." He let out a small chuckle. "Gods, if I lived another two thousand years, I could get it all done."
Gwyn did some mental math. If he were the fifteenth Chosen One, then he must be at least one thousand years old.
"How long do Lotmon live, generally?"
"Oh, around twelve hundred years."
"That's a very long time!"
"Not compared to these bastard Elves. Some of them live to be three thousand." Mr. Keeper looked Gwyn up and down, and she knew what he was about to ask next. "What about yer kind, the uh… humans, right? How long does yer kind live?"
"Yes and... well, we live—"
Mr. Keeper interrupted her yet again, raising his stubby fingers.
"Nah. Don't tell me, don't tell me," He pondered momentarily. "Two thousand years!"
Gwyn shook her head, pointing a thumb downward to indicate he should guess lower.
"Less than two thousand years? Ain't much of a life, that is. Ermmmuhhhhhh." Mr. Keeper just kept making noises. This made Gwyn laugh. "Ay, girl, what's so funny?"
"You are much kinder than I thought you would be."
Mr. Keeper genuinely blushed. His cheeks flushed a darker green, and he started sweating as he looked away from her.
"Well, um. Thank ye… for that."
Gwyn nodded at his comment.
I definitely like this little Lotmon.
He continued to guess the human life span.
"One thousand years!"
Gwyn let out a little laugh.
"I wish."
"Bloody Trusket, ye don't live a thousand years?!"
"No. We do not."
"How about five hundred?"
"Nope."
"Three hundred?"
"Maybe a turtle?"
"A what?" Mr. Keeper shook his head as an ethereal hand wrote down "turtle". "Never mind. One hundred years!"
Hope was in his eyes.
Gwyn nodded.
"If you're lucky."
"If yer lucky?!" Mr. Keeper boomed out. "How do ye expect to get anything done?! How do ye expect to enjoy life or advance at all? Does yer kind just fuck and die?"
Gwyn wondered the same thing.
"I don't know. It seems that's how our cards were dealt."
Mr. Keeper stood on the stool he was sitting upon and reached out his stubby arm.
Gwyn grabbed his hand and shook it.
"If ye ain't got fuck all fer time, I'll make sure ye are the best damn Chosen One, Keceo has ever seen! I The Keep—" he hesitated, correcting himself to his new, now preferred title. "Mr. Keeper will teach ye!"