On the other side of the door was an empty room, save for a single large desk and a large figure sitting behind it. It was hunched over, reading a book several times larger than the one in her satchel.
Marceline took a few careful steps forward on the thick carpet that ran the length of the room. Just then she noticed there were more floating books, surrounding the figure at the desk. By reflex, her hand bolted to her sword. The action created a whooshing sound that could be heard clearly in the quiet room.
The figure stopped reading. It slowly raised its head and looked at Marceline. Or rather, she assumed it was looking at her. The figure’s face was obscured by a dark emerald hood, thus making eye contact impossible.
It pressed its hands against the surface of the table and slowly stood up, groaning while it did. Any noise it’s hands would have made pressing against the table were muffled by the thick cotton gloves it was wearing. Wordless, it walked around the desk and stood in front, facing Marceline.
After a few moments, a voice emanated from within the dark void of the hood.
“Stranger, why have you interrupted my pristine sanctuary?” It said, with a deep but raspy voice.
Marceline responded, “Which sanctuary are you referring to? The one filled with all the skeletons? Or this,” she motioned with her hand, “room full of empty sadness?”
It’s hood shifted down slightly, indicating dissatisfaction with her questions. She could feel it scowling.
It responded, “I am, of course, referring to all of the places I hold domain. Wherever there is knowledge, I am it’s keeper. You may call me the Curator.”
The Curator was sinking slowly as it stood. It was clear they were not accustomed to standing for long periods of time.
Well,” Marceline smirked, “you left the door open.”
The Curator’s discomfort was palpable.
They stared at each other for what seemed like five minutes, although it was probably much shorter.
“If you are not going to respect my sanctum,” the Curator said, pausing to readjust itself. “Then I’m afraid you will have to be removed. I will leave it up to you whether you depart of your own volition, or if I have to have my colleagues do it for you.”
The Curator raised a cloaked arm and pointed at the murder of magical manuscripts that had begun circling above their head.
Marceline looked up at the books individually, but didn’t say anything. After studying each one, she brought her eyes level with the Curator again.
Taking her non-response as an answer, the Curator said, “So be it.”
The arm that had been raised to point at the books came down at a speed she didn’t think possible. The Curator pointed directly at Marceline with a single gloved finger. Immediately, all of the books rushed towards her.
Marceline rolled forward, barely missing getting her head torn off.
She swiftly recovered from the roll and began running towards the Curator. Stride by stride, she was closing the gap in seconds. Very quickly she was within reach. She unsheathed her sword and went in for a clean slice at it’s hooded neck.
Instead of meeting steel with flesh, she slammed into an invisible barrier and stumbled to the side. She involuntarily rolled over again, but gracefully recovered onto one knee.
“Fuck,” she grunted.
From within the hood the Curator began laughing. The books had recovered from their miss and were floating towards the ceiling, seemingly taunting her.
Under strained breath Marceline mumbled, “Why can’t anything be easy?”
She bests him at fisticuffs.
As the curator fell to the floor, its hood came off revealing a hairless man. The skin of his face was aged and wrinkled, but nearly perfect otherwise. There was not a single spot or freckle. Marceline began to feel a strange sense of pity for a man who spent his entire life inside, amongst books. He must have known so much, but experienced so little.
The Curator was wheezing and coughing, but he was motioning for Marceline to come closer. She sat down on the floor next to him and cradled his head in the crook of her arm. His body shuddered with each cough.
In between raspy coughs, he said: “You have beaten me, of which I am surprised. If I speak the truth, no one should live for as long as I have. I resign this life, in relief. For this gift, I offer one in return. What is it that you seek?”
Staring into ancient emerald eyes, she replied plainly: “I only seek treasure enough to carry. I have read there is great treasure deep in the dungeon.”
Pausing to let him cough, she continued, “I have seen the door.”
After a moment, he replied: “It is true the master of this manor spent his life gathering a great many things. They are all held at the bottom of this castle. They are of no use to skeletons, take what you wish.”
He looked away from her and stared into the distance. Then a smile appeared on his face.
Frowning, Marceline asked, “Why are you smiling?”
Still staring off at nothing, he responded, “You may have found the way to the door…”
He paused again, still not looking directly at her.
He slowly took a deep breath and said, “But you will never open the door without the key.”
He died with a smile on his face and a frown on Marcelines.
