I'll be home for Christmas… one day…
by Mr Panik
Sgt. Bordner prior to his disappearance.
Addendum WL-25-12-2025: At 07:18, 4 December 2025, an MTF Tau-9 (“Bookworms”) exploration team entered the Wanderers' Library to establish a forward base for future operations mapping previously unexplored sections of the Library. The mission is considered a failure, with the confirmed deaths of 17 Foundation operatives. One individual remains missing. Several short prose tales, all indicated to belong to a collection of stories whose authorship is attributed to "Ardell with No Name," are suggested to contain information on the missing operative's whereabouts. These tales have since manifested in various locations throughout the Wanderers' Library. These items have been collated for ease of reference below.
Book Title: Ardellous Tales, Vol. III: Chicken Soup for the Cosmic and Abyssal, p. 7
Discovery Site: This tale was discovered on an abandoned writing desk in a concealed study connected to an archive near Tau-9 Outpost 41. Despite the frequency of travel through the archive, the study had never been discovered. Unknown entities native to the Library make infrequent use of this study, but no contact has been made.
Onward
On soft grass, through dense shadows cast by suns unseen, you walk. The bookshelves dot the lazy hills that stretch around you; the breezes pushes the occasional lost page to dance across your path. Whether miles high, or shorter than you, the bookshelves here are ever present and you weave your way through them, homeward bound.
Your rifle's strap digs into your shoulder; its weight once a reassurance, now just a reminder of the half-magazine you have left. Not enough bullets, too far from home, and no way to know you're heading the right way except good faith in the beetle-man that pointed you this way.
"Across those hills, and to the left, you'll find the way you came!" the beetle-man had said, pointing through a door at the hills you now fare.
"And it's safe?" You asked, but the answer never came as the beetle-man pushed his soup cart further down the tiled halls of the Library, leaving you to step into a world without a roof, in a building that shouldn't be.
Your rations ran out weeks ago, but food finds its way to you. Dropped from the heavens, found on a tree, delivered via cart — the Library provides. So you carry a satchel you made from your torn jacket, filled with not much beyond a compass that spins, a wand that you found, and half a copy of the Lord of the Rings, The Two Towers. You considered throwing it away, but it feels right to keep it. You try to ignore the soft metallic clinks of the chain with the tags that carry your name — the name of a man who once mattered.
You pause at a bookshelf, craning your neck to gauge its immensity; the cool breeze playing on your skin. Your eyes trace the flight of the paper birds that drift on the air singing songs in languages you can't understand, and you squeeze your eyes shut willing them to be sparrows from your childhood. But they aren't. And they won't be. You are not home. You are wandering. You are lost. You force your gaze down and trudge on; each bookshelf seems unique, but they're not worth the time. You hum to drown out the baleful tones of the paper birds passing books you don't understand, under the sunless, bright sky. The tune isn't something you remember from anywhere other than here. It came to you to pass the time when you were the only one left, and now it helps. You think it helps.
But your eyes find the door that the beetle said would be there, and the humming stops for moment, as you gaze across the hills unsure of what comes next. This wasn't the way that you came to this place, but this is how you leave. So across the soft grass you force your steady step, unsure of why your chest tells you this is wrong, or why now you aren't humming, you're hyperventilating.
The door stands before you, plain and brown. Nothing more than a door and a brass knob on the top of a hill. You don't move. You can't let yourself hope too much; you've been told the way out before and wound up in stranger places than this. But you can't fight it. Home calls to you from across the cosmos — the safety of your people, the comfort of your place in the world, the familiarity of the routine, the simple knowing of love. That's all that drives you onward — home.
You place your hand on the doorknob, your arm is lead as it moves. The knob turns silently, and holding your breath, you push the door open. Your heart jumps, and you nearly weep when it's a corridor and not wilderness. The corridor runs to your left and to your right; wooden floors and panelled walls leading in either direction and turning beyond your line of sight. You know these walls. You've seen them before. They remind you of where you lost the others and for the first time in weeks there's more than desperation — there's hope. You look back for a moment at the peace of the hills you're leaving behind, never knowing if you'll return to them, and let the picture settle in your mind.
Finally, you turn and step into the corridor, shutting the door behind you.
Researcher's Notes: 79 days after the tale was removed from the study it was found in, a note was left in it's place. The note reads, "You fuckers, I wasn't done. Here's the updated version." Comparisons to the original confirm the updated version contains a single comma that was left out of the original copy. The tale above has been updated accordingly.
Book Title: Ardellous Tales, Vol. XVII: The Itch Beneath The Skin, p. 1184
Discovery Site: This entry was found nailed to a bookshelf in an otherwise undisturbed and clean section of the Library. The blood spatters on the page have not been identified.
Bonds of Man
Your hands shake as you collect your toll, your burden. Each chain with a tag with a name gets collected from its owner and then you lay it out neatly on a table you found. You stand within the chaos of a gunfight that could have been days ago noting the names of the companions you lost and swore to return to. This isn't the way back, and this wasn't the last place you saw them, but this mundane library with its dust and carpets and windows that look into blackness, became their unceremonious tomb.
You can't do much for them. They're gone. So instead you collect the chains that carry their names taking stock of everyone you couldn't save.
Recollections of that day stir lava in your stomach. The ambush, the fire fight, the thaumaturge that sent you flying out a window into blackness not dissimilar from what now surrounds you. You were going to find them again. You were going to go home and share drinks about the adventures beyond the Veil.
Instead, you collect the chains from bodies mangled by magic, cleaning each with as much care as you can from the canteen that you filled. Your gritted teeth feel like they're going to crack, but if you unclench your jaw you fear you will never stop screaming.
The shuffling of paper across the floor draws your attention, and you whip your head around and you are not alone. Before you stands a cultist, obsidian flames springing from his hands, and you dive behind the table, reaching for your gun that doesn't have enough bullets. The air erupts into black flame above you as you slam into the ground, instantly scrabbling to find a better vantage point. They killed your squad. They will kill you. The caustic static of magic fills the air again and the table between you and your attacker is lifted and thrown aside. Wordlessly, your assailant steps forward, the next flash of void-fire appears in his hand above his head; you aren't even off the ground yet.
You force yourself up as his hands descend, and you're sprinting down an aisle with black fire chasing your steps. The heat beats against your neck as you dive around a corner, behind the demolished desk in a reading nook at the end of the row. You hear the footsteps charging down the hall, and you ready your gun. It's been running low on bullets for weeks now, and avoiding the Library's more dangerous inhabitants has always been your preferred option, but the luck of prey animals always finds its end. You take a knee, your eyes trained on the spot he'll appear from, your focus burning in your body, blackening your mind.
The man with his black flames turns the corner, and a roaring staccato erupts from the muzzle of your gun, briefly deafening you as your assailant screams and falls from view behind the bookshelves. You wait just a moment for the flames to dissipate, listening for movement before you leave your spot and creep around the shelves, deeper into the rows to get a better angle, keeping safe distance between you. You must have hit him, you can hear him moaning, but that doesn't mean you're safe. You're a few rows down when you step out for him to see. He's bleeding — the white robe is turning red fast — but he's not done. Black fire roars down the aisle at you and you answer with the few bullets you have left and cries of defiance until a dreaded, empty click is all that's heard from your assault rifle. Black fire explodes before you and you're thrown from your feet. Shelves collapse, books explode, the shouting drowns in the cacophony as you finally come to rest under a precariously leaning shelf.
And finally there is stillness once more as you lie, exhausted and scared, waiting for what's next.
You might have lain there for a minute or a month, but it all feels too long. Maybe you lost consciousness, but when you emerge from the collapse, all the burning embers are cooled, and the smell of smoke is old. You leave your gun on the floor — it's useless now — and you trudge forward through the paper and wood to find your assailant at peace beneath a bookshelf, bled out and smiling with a few bullets in his chest.
The pain of the day grips your voice and you scream, echoing down the halls of the Wanderers' Library, but here rage is impotent. When this passes, once the chains bearing names are collected, you know that all that's left is to keep walking.
Knowing that, you scream louder.
Researcher's Notes: All family members of the missing operatives have been appropriately amnesticized and cover stories have been deployed, honouring them for their service. Those found dwelling on the past after reading this tale should be sent for amnestic therapy.
Book Title: Ardellous Tales, Vol. XLII: Gravity Of Ways, p. 62
Discovery Site: Delivered to MTF Tau-9 by a dense flutter of butterflies. All agents touched by the butterflies reported elevated moods, but were catatonic for up to 4 hours after the encounter. Efforts to identify the cause of these effects are to be prioritised.
Magnificence of the Murky House
She stands between bookshelves, her wings splayed aloft. Jet black and violet, the light dancing on her scales, her majesty freezes you in place. Behind her, her powerful tail sways slightly, agitated. Above her the roof is cracked with age, and in the gloom of these archives, you hear the crash of a waterfall somewhere hidden within.
"Will you steal from me too, stranger," the beast's voice is a lullaby belying her form. "Or will you leave me a trinket instead?"
"I don't think I'll steal from you, but there's not much I can leave." You raise your hands, hoping you seem meek. "I'm just a wanderer."
The silence hangs between you as she stares for far too long. Then she steps forward, swiftness incarnate, thunderous steps bringing her majesty to bear before you; gleam-scaled snout lowered to your eye-level, "Then perhaps just your company as you wander."
And you exhale, nodding, and say, "I can try."
"And where are you wandering to?" Her snout fumes with wisps of dreams and whispers, and she waits expectantly.
"Home."
"Where is home?"
"If only I knew," you say, bitterly enough for her to notice. "Some said they know the way."
"None do."
The heavy purple of her eyes glisten as she turns her head. Following her gaze you see the rows of shelves, burdened with greenery and books, leading deeper in to the Library, and you see how small you are. She takes a step, beckoning you with a nod. "We'll walk a while together then, and I shall swear to only tell you what I'm sure of."
"And you don't know the way home. So what are you sure of?"
"I am sure of myself."
"And is that enough?"
"Sometimes," her wings stretch wide, saluting the shelves flanking the path. Her footfalls don't cease as she parades her hoard before you. "But I have company around me, scribbles and epics, delights and torments. There is joy to be had if one knows what one wants, and knows what can be."
"Do you know what can be?"
"I know I will never leave this place."
"And why's that?"
"The door's too small." Her wings sort of shrug. "I outgrew it years ago."
It's been weeks since you smiled, but she breaks through, and you welcome it as you chuckle at her inanity. To know the happiness of a smile when all you want is home almost feels like betrayal, though. That's what's kept you going this long. When the world turned upside-down, and you finally saw the things that skittered on the edges of normalcy, the horrors that whispered off pages, the impossible spaces in between understanding, going home was all that mattered. The jokes at the dinner table seemed sweeter, the bickering over poorly ironed clothes seemed safe, the pizza delivered late was just how things were. To smile now feels wrong.
But you let it linger, despite yourself. Strolling through the soft light of the archive, the chirps of night insects pierce through the growing roar of the waterfall, accompanying you and your companion until the soft spray of water touches your face. The floorboards give way to grass, and from a rocky hole in the roof water pours into a large pool that overflows and forms a river cutting through the domain. The bookshelves keep a healthy distance, but a few dot the grassy boundaries of the river, inviting you to sit a while and read.
A few park benches dotted with fresh fruits wait by bookshelves, beneath trees, and the bounty invites you over — the feeding system you've grown used to. You excuse yourself and set your bag down, unpacking to make space for food while your companion watches closely. You're halfway decided between the mango or some apples when her snout appears at the edge of your table, her eyes narrowed on the pile of your belongings.
"What's that?" She asks, and you follow her intent gaze, guessing she means the book.
"Oh. I'm not sure why I keep that," you say. "It was a gift before it broke. It's the Lord of the Rings. The Two Towers. Well… half a copy."
"And I thought you said you don't have trinkets to leave."
"You've never read The Two Towers?"
"I have!" She says, nearly defensive, nearly proud of herself. "I own many copies, but I've never owned half a copy. And there's something about that."
You narrow your eyes for a moment, but reach for the gift from a friend that got mangled while you ran for your life, contemplating its worth to her… realising it didn't have worth to you. You slide it towards her snout and watch as her eyes light up.
"You're welcome to it." You say it so calmly, so matter-of-fact, but do you owe it more than that?
Her eyes gleam proudly and her whole body shakes from the joy, and she wastes no time. The half-book floats from where you placed it, rising for a while as she looks around, eyeing the nearby shelves. Finally, the half of The Two Towers you've been carrying nestles itself into a shelf away from the spray of the waterfall where it sits watching the water flow by.
"You're a gentleman and a scholar," she says, the lullaby of her voice turning warmer.
"I'm only glad it found a home," you say, choosing the mango.
"And I suppose you'll keep trying to find yours?"
"I suppose that's quite a question." Your hands rest on your belongings lightly as the cool air touches the wetness forming on your eyes, but you blink it away and look up to smile at your host. "Thank you for the company, but I think it's time I found a way across."
She closes her eyes slowly, smiling in her way, and looks downstream. "Follow the river and you'll find a bridge. There's a door not much further than that. One day you'll find what you need."
"One day," you say and then you share a farewell and the behemoth made of whispers and dreams pads back into the caverns of her archive, content with her collection. You remain where you are, seated on a bench that shouldn't be here, and listen to the woodland sounds of the Library. You're lighter than before, but your eyes linger on the gift you left her, sitting on its shelf, and you wonder too long if you'll miss it.
Finally, you repack your bag, nestling the metal chains in their place at the bottom where they can't bruise the fruit, and you set off once more to find a bridge.
Researcher's Notes: Those reading this tale may encounter anomalously induced ennui for up to three weeks after the fact. Affected readers are encouraged to indulge this by engaging in evening walks, frequently visiting (but not making use of) travel agency websites, complaining about the blandness of food, and partaking in lengthy ramblings regarding grating mundanity to speed the process. If the ennui persists after this period, book the trip, but prepare for rain.
Book Title: Ardellous Tales, Vol. LXXI: Winter, p. 481
Discovery Site: This tale was discovered folded on a windowsill beneath a stained glass window depicting an angel. Removal of the tale caused the angel to frown, but the angel started smiling again after a copy of Winnie the Pooh was placed on the windowsill. Rotating copies of classic children's literature has been provided as enrichment for the window.
Here Lies Whoever
You failed.
You were going to be home in time for Christmas, but Christmas is definitely gone. You were someone once. A leader. A husband. A father. A man who arrived at the last minute with the right gift and a smile. Now you are simply lost. You forge through endless halls of endless somewheres and none of them the correct one. So you drift…
You were a lover. You built a life with her, but before her you planned a life with him.
You were a father. You mapped the road ahead and hoped they'd like the plan. You even started saving for college.
You were a son. You made them proud at one point, but when you joined a "private military contractor" you could see the disappointment.
Now you've proven it true.
So you drift here through nowhere, torpor claiming you bit-by-bit as the memory of home frays…
You are lost. You are alone. You are never going home. Exhaustion nips at your heels, and desperation has claimed your heart. Your knees rest on cold marble, your pack is set down next to you and you stare at the endless rows, silent. Your hands rest in your lap, loosely cradling the remains of the wand that was supposed to find the exit, and you just stare. Finally, you lay yourself down on the tiles. There is nothing more to say except the only thing that make sense.
"Here lies whoever…"
Researcher's Notes: Your name does not appear in this tale. If your name appears in this tale, seek amnestic professionals immediately to ensure memory of the tale is lost.
Book Title: Ardellous Tales, Vol. CLXXXII: The Trails of Dragonflies, p. 1
Discovery Site: This tale replaced a page of Gray's Anatomy from Earth 748-A. The textbook was discovered completely by accident in a section of the library dedicated to the cultural practices of the dominant Rana Sapiens species of Earth 748-A whose anatomy is captured within the rest of the textbook.
A Man Who Once Mattered
An august drone surrounds you as you soar through the ravines of the Wanderers' Library on the back of a turquoise dragonfly, its chitin gleaming in the light. Wild laughter flies from your lips as you carve your way towards the rolling hills you've walked across so often now. A second passes and you and your immense mount breach the edge of the ravines, leaving the cliffs behind. Below, the hills undulate in all directions and the paper birds drift lazily. Up here the flocks are larger, drifting in peaceful clouds as you fly onwards, heading to nowhere.
Steadily, you raise your hands above your head, letting the wind whip across your unkempt hair, cooling your body. You still wear the fatigues, but aside from the chains with the names of your comrades, you carry no symbols of who you were. Those names now sit safe and at rest in your pack. It's laden with climbing materials, you keep a light bedroll strapped to it now. It's best to be prepared for the next cliff face; relying on dragonflies can be a gamble.
Mighty wings drive you forward, the dragonfly vibrating beneath you. It aims for two enormous bookshelves, the silent gates to a quiet vale, and it dives to pick up speed. You lower yourself against the insect, a grin spreading across your face. Exhilaration grips you, and howling cheers burst from your lips as you breach the boundary between the rolling hills and this secluded valley, covered in fruit trees and paper birds. They are not the sparrows from your childhood, but they are the songs of Now and your ear is finding their charm. But right now, you are not seeking song, and the dragonfly leads you deeper into the valley until finally you spy a road, and next to the road, a soup cart where you land.
"The same as always?" The beetle-man calls to you before you've even jumped off the dragonfly.
"Chef's Choice just like always!" You shout back leaping from the insect, landing with a roll for just the fun of it before the dragonfly rises once more and flits towards the shelves where more of its kind dance with the paper birds. She will return when you need her later. For now, there's a cool breeze, books to read, and a smile on the person serving the soup; a day to be had if you've ever seen one.
You set your bag on the counter as the beetle-man chirps a song to himself. Old habits die hard, and you still check your supplies whenever you rest even though the Library provides. It's a quick practiced process, but that's probably why you've never thought of it. As the smell of something curried reaches your nose, your eyes spy the compass that spins and the splinters that were a wand you carried but knew nothing about; that last ditch chance and failure you nearly didn't come back from…. In the end it seemed better to at least try.
"Doesn't seem useful," the beetle-man says as he plops a bowl before you, his eyes are fixed on the splinters and compass.
"It's not, is it?" you say, and perhaps he catches the question in your eyes because he holds out his hand.
"I can get rid of it for you if you want," he says. "There's junk traders about if you're keen to go looking, but I see them around, so I'm happy to help." And it doesn't take a word more before you hand over the compass and splinters, free of the weight.
Then grinning, you take a deep sniff of the steaming soup in front of you and ask, "And what did the chef choose this week?"
"Curried pear and leek," the beetle-man shrugs. "Mundane, I suppose, but now and then it works. Besides, it moves faster than this." And he lifts a lid on another steaming pot and immediately a tentacle reaches out followed by a mist that whispers about tomorrow. The beetle shuts it quickly and then smiles at you instead. "The curried pear and leek tastes more like home than regret."
So you dip your spoon in, filling it as much as you can. Then once you've cooled it with a breath you sip the soup deeply, letting the memories of home fill you for a moment, and then you smile. "I'd say it tastes of memory, but I don't know about home."
"And what memory is that?"
You don't answer, because you don't know, and maybe the beetle-man is right. Here, where you sit, you are safe amongst the tales of universes beyond knowing. Here, where you sit, there is peace for a man who once mattered. You smile a little softly, wondering what comes next. You lay your head on a soft pallet in a treehouse each night, you visit the beetle-man when he comes, you're learning the paper birds' songs, you read books on the shelves here on the hills under suns unseen.
So maybe, where you sit, with the beetle-man and his cart, this soup tastes of home, after all.
Researcher's Notes: The page the tale is written on will occasionally struggle against being handled, but positive reassurances that it will be returned to its copy of Gray's Anatomy will return it to a docile state. Once reading is complete, returning the tale to its correct place in the hijacked textbook is imperative, or the ink will bleed, rendering the piece unreadable for a time. While temperamental, the tale enjoys being read and the smudged ink will return to its normal state after roughly three days.