Chapter Text
Come close.
Let me tell you a story.
For an amount of time so large words cannot describe, chaos and disorder reigned. Mayhem lead. The Amber King sat upon the throne of everything. But to say the Hidden King ruled would be incorrect. Rather, he let his subjects do whatever they pleased whenever they pleased. He didn’t cause war and bloodshed, he just did nothing to stop it. Each creature in his kingdom was propelled by two innate goals; survival and desire. For some, it was as simple as the desire to survive. For others, it was the desire to end survival. For the minor god, now known as The Doorman, it was the desire to feel.
Emotion as a concept was not lost on The Doorman. It was incredibly easy to see that mortals could be happy or sad. This, however, is not feeling. The idea of being angry is not what sends a mortal to war. The idea of love is not what causes new life to be born. The feeling is. The Doorman could tell the world that he was happy. That did not mean that reflected how he truly felt. In reality, The Doorman felt nothing at all. For millennia he drifted throughout time and space. Content. Yes, that is the most accurate description. Content with himself and the state of things, The Doorman continued to aimlessly wander about. Until one day the Gods, ones more powerful and respected than himself, decided to create mortal kind.
At first The Doorman didn’t care. I don’t think he had the ability to. After a while, however, he got curious. Curiosity was one feeling that The Doorman felt intimately and often. You know the saying, once the cat gets out… The Doorman saw the seemingly pointless drive in mortals and his curiosity grew. Their wars were pointless. There was nothing to gain other than destruction and death. Then, a thought came to The Doorman. Maybe destruction and death was the goal. So he fell down to the plane of humankind and began to join in. Perhaps he thought he would discover what makes mortals so special.
It was during the era of the Witch Trials, that he first descended upon man to join their havoc. No, not the ones in Salem. He was there for those too, but his first encounter with man was during Roman ones, from 1560 to 1630. Now, let me be clear, he had no part in starting it. No, no, that was all you. I suppose that’s one of the things that drew The Doorman to mortals in the first place. An endless capacity for violence… Although, he’d put it as an endless capacity for feeling.
The first human he killed was not as much of a special event as he had been hoping for. It was much later, back then he only helped cause other men to murder. He never had gotten his hands dirty. Now was a time for trying new things. Besides, it had been 250 years and he was now in the great city of London.
A suspicious string of murders had recently occurred in Whitechapel, giving him a great opportunity. His victim was an innocent woman walking home alone in the dead of the night. He knew he could get away with it, no man actually cared for women. Not in anyway that was deeper than one cares for a nice vase. No one would look for her. If he was caught he could claim she was just a whore and who would give it a second thought? He was a man, and no one argued with men. He had snuck up behind her with a knife. A primitive tool, but nothing mankind possessed wasn’t. He struck her in the back of the neck. The blade stuttered and crunched as it made its way past her spine. She dropped to the ground. She had no time to scream for help. Alone in the dark, he listened to her breathing as it slowed, then stopped.
He had expected… more. He expected to find that fuel that caused man to start pointless wars. He expected something that made what he just did worth anything at all. There was something there, though. Some feeling. A pit in his stomach had opened up, and he didn’t know how to close it. The Doorman got rid of the knife and left London. He figured he had to have done something wrong with his first kill. He headed to the States, and vowed to figure out how to get that feeling.
He moved to the up and coming “City of Lights”; Chicago, Illinois. When he arrived he heard of some big event. The World’s Columbian Exposition was supposedly starting nearby. Lots of people in one place, and all of them distracted? It was the perfect place to continue his search. This would be the time he could finally grasp the feeling he so sought for. He adopted a new name and opened up a hotel. Getting people to come to the hotel was the easy part.
At first The Doorman killed in the same way as he did the first time. After a year of the feeling not appearing he decided to change his method. He began to add rooms to his hotel and set up elaborate deaths. He tried to get the quickest kill, then tried to prolong it as long as possible. Drowning, asphyxiation, poison, combustion, decapitation. He tried to break the human body in as many ways as he could. Over time, he got quiet good at it. He even started to find it fun.
But nothing worked. The blood on his hands was entertaining, but nothing more. The pit in his stomach grew and grew with every kill. He washed his hands until they were as red as the blood he just wiped off. He scrubbed every surface until the stains of his failure were gone, and even then he could still see faint outlines. He discarded every weapon he used to kill, getting replacements every time. This was certainly a feeling, but not the feeling. He was consumed by this pit opening up within. He stopped pretending to need sleep, food, or water. The people around him started to become wary.
And then he got caught.
I’ve always said he's never handled failure well. Some misdemeanor charge of horse theft is what started his downfall. Soon the local police were at his door, demanding that he stop right where he was. The Doorman had never been stopped before, why were things different now? Standing on a platform, rope around his neck, he started to see it. The streets were lined with patterned brick. Small garbage cans had been placed along the sides of the road. No smoking signs littered street corners. Stores now hung permits and bars now needed licenses. Everything around him had a place and was in it. Order had returned in full swing and now she was showing her face.
(50 YEARS LATER)
It wasn’t an police station or government building that she holed herself up in. No, The Archmother is not the god of law or justice. The Patron of Order spent her time weaved into everything that made up the neatly organized British Museum. The chaotic keepsakes of humanity’s past, taken from their place and kept in pristine glass boxes, lined in neat rows, all with their own plaque to describe where they were stolen from. White marble walls always scrubbed clean at the end of the day by her staff. Even the rugs were dry cleaned every night.
The Doorman, disheveled and dirty, shuffled his way through the museum. Leaving a trail of muck behind him for the janitors to mop up later. Down the steps, deep into the basement, he arrived for his meeting with the City Mother. The City Mother’s pet, to be precise. No one talked directly to the Archmother, not even the other gods. Even the basement was orderly. File cabinets lined the walls and each was numbered and lettered. At the back of the room was a single desk, perfectly centered between the rows of cabinets.
A tall, slender woman dressed in a light blue pantsuit sat behind it. Her hair was streaked with gray, and her eyes and forehead had prominent wrinkles. She had not the slightest impression of a smile line next to her mouth. She looked up at him and scoffed.
“You are filthy.”
“It’s good to see you too.”
“The Archmother disapproves.”
“When doesn’t she?”
The Archmother’s herald pushed up her half-moon glasses. The Herald gave him a once over and sighed. She turned and typed something out on her shining typewriter. It was one of the newer more expensive models. A light pastel blue, like everything else in the building. The Doorman had never truly gotten the hang of the qwerty layout. The Herald turned to look at The Doorman once more.
“You are forbidden from continuing your mad slaughter. However, the Archmother concedes that she does not hold absolute power over you. So instead, she offers you a deal.”
“A deal?”
“Ever the curious soul, aren’t you?” The Herald adjusted her blazer and reached down to grab a thin manila folder from underneath her desk. She placed it in front of her, holding one hand on top of it.
“The Baroness. The finest hotel in all of New York. The Archmother asks that you take care of it.”
“What, like some lowly laborer?”
“Yes, more specifically, you will be the doorman.”
“That is all I get out of this?”
“Need I remind you, the Archmother may not have absolute power over you but that does not mean she has none. I suggest you take the deal.”
The Doorman said nothing and picked up the envelope. By the time he reached The Baroness, his old attire has been discarded and replaced with a new crimson and gold bellboy uniform. A ring of keys hung from his side. He tugged on his pristine white gloves, took a deep breath, and headed inside. It was not like he was completely unprepared. He had run a hotel just 50 years ago. While hotel management wasn’t his main focus at the time, he hadn’t completely abandoned that side of things.
The lobby of The Baroness was nothing special. Black and white tile covered the floor. The walls were a dark wood, maybe walnut, and accented with shimmering gold. Potted plants with large fronds sat as decor in the corners. The welcome desk was directly in front of the entrance doors. A small golden bell was placed at the corner, warm light from above bouncing off it. The section of wall behind the desk was covered in around a hundred small hooks holding smaller golden keys. Golden was putting it nicely. The keys had been passed from hand to hand for years and were showing their use. They looked more brass than gold at that point. Stepping behind the counter, The Doorman spotted a note addressed to him left next to the guest book.
“The Archmother is grateful for your assistance. Included you will find an employee handbook, safety guide, and touring script. Please hesitate to reach out should you need support. Remember to provide service with a smile!”
A crude smiley face was drawn in the corner. No signature was given, The Doorman already knew who left it. The Baroness was very capable of taking care of herself. She had made it that far, hadn't she?
It didn't take long for The Doorman to become acclimated to the hotel life. He struggled less with keeping track of room keys than he did with the customers. In all his years amongst them, he never paid much attention to anything other than their death. Now he had to pay attention to their every want and need. Which was proving more difficult than he had expected.
There was already staff at the hotel when he arrived. They wasted not a second before getting him informed and trained on the various procedures and duties he was to perform for the hotel. Washing dishes, setting tables, cleaning rooms, resetting after a guest had left, how to talk to guests, and what to do if they had an unpleasant stay. Most importantly, they taught him to smile. The Doorman may not have known what it was to feel happy, but he could certainly imitate the symptoms of it.
The first few weeks flew by in a flash. He wasn’t allowed to interact directly with the guests until the staff, and the Baroness herself, was sure that he wouldn’t do anything to bring harm to them. He was but a creature of habit and habits can be hard to break. But break they did.
On the Monday of his fourth week, the staff felt that it was safe enough to let him man the front desk. He had been performing this duty for two weeks now but, until today, he had always been accompanied by another member of the staff. The Doorman had thought it was redundant by the second week, however he made no fuss about it either way. He was appreciative that they trusted him this much. The people-watching was a nice bonus as well. From his observations he learned to perfect his smile and customer service attitude to ensure every guest was satisfied. Unfortunately, the guests did not feel the same. Multiple complaints had been filed about the “off-putting young man attending the front desk” making too much eye-contact and smiling for too long. He supposed not everyone appreciated his time at the front desk as much as he did.
As the sun was setting and a golden hue was filling the room, the door to the Baroness opened. The Doorman had not been expecting any arrivals at all this day, let alone this late in the afternoon. Regardless, he put on his best smile and turned to great the stranger. A small girl stood on her tip-toes, peering over the counter. She had a small pink dress on, with a matching bow keeping her hair tied up and out of her face. When she saw The Doorman she smiled, revealing a tooth missing.
The Doorman had never helped a guest so small. Or so young.
“How may I serve you today, Miss?”
“Can I ring your bell?”
The small girl hopped up onto the front desk and began to reach for the golden bell. The Doorman paused. The conventions of regular conversation had been forgone here, and he didn’t know how to proceed.
“… I suppose there is no harm in it.” He picked up the bell by the edges and held it out toward her reaching hand. A small ding rung out through the foyer. The girl looked up at the Doorman and gave him a large grin.
“Can I ring it again?”
“I don’t see why not.”
The Doorman and the girl did this back and forth dance for about ten minutes before he placed the bell back on the counter, out of reach. The girl hopped off the front desk. Her shiny black shoes made a sharp tap as she landed back on the tile floor. She made no move to leave. Rather, she begun to stare at the Doorman in silence.
“What else can I help you with?”
The girl made no reply. She continued to stare at him silently, blush rushing to her cheeks. She held her hands behind her back and was gently rocking back and forth on her heels. The Doorman didn’t know how to handle this situation. The staff had not prepared him for such interactions with children. They had told him to leave the dealing with children to them, so that’s what he would do. The Doorman got up from his seat and walked around to the front of the desk, directly in front of the girl.
“Follow me, Miss.”
“Okay!” The girl giggled quietly.
The Doorman turned on his heel and headed towards the lounge of the hotel. He knew there would be at least one other member of the staff residing there at this hour. Hopefully it was someone who would know how to handle a situation such as this. While thinking through this dilemma, the Doorman made no effort to slow his pace to let the girl catch up to him. The idea that she wouldn’t be at the same speed as him hadn’t even crossed his mind. His attention was grabbed by a sudden thud.
Behind him, the girl lay face first on the carpeted hallway. One of her small shoes had come undone and had been left a meter or so behind her. The girl sat up on her legs and began to cry. She made no noise other than the occasional sniff. Her face was wet with tears and her knees were covered in carpet burn. The Doorman paused. He had not considered that her legs were too small to keep up with him. His stomach churned with a familiar feeling. It was his negligence that resulted in this small girl getting hurt. He felt guilty.
The Doorman retrieved her lost shoe and then walked up to her. He crouched down to talk to her. He didn’t know why, but it felt like the right thing to do. The girl looked up at him. She had stopped sniffling but the tears were still flowing down her cheeks. He presented her shoe to her, like one would produce a wedding ring for a proposal. The Doorman expected the young girl to take the shoe from him, instead she stuck out her foot. Perhaps she was making him do this as an atonement for his transgression? Carefully, he slipped the shoe back on. He then held out his hand and helped the girl stand up.
The girl stood up and brushed some debris off of her dress. Then, to the Doorman's surprise, she reached for his hand again. Has she forgiven him so soon? Cautiously, he accepts her hand in his. They continue their path to the lounge, slower this time. Periodically, the Doorman must pause to let the girl regain her footing. She walked as if she needed to plan each step before making it.
The Doorman had seen children before, of course. Usually the children he saw were older boys, fairly older than the girl walking along side him. He can't remember when exactly girls started to be allowed into the war room. He never interacted with the few children he had seen while he was orchestrating wars and bloodshed. At the time they had seemed… unnecessary. So helpless for so long. He regarded them more as a burden one took on out of duty rather than anything willfully accepted. Just a means to an end of continuing the population. Looking at this small mortal next to him, he began to feel something new.
At the end of the hall, and to the right, was where the staff lounge was located. The Baroness provided it’s staff with the finest amenities and almost anything that they might need. Fully stocked fridge and cupboards. The newest and nicest coffee machine. It almost made the Doorman pity the fact that he didn’t need to eat. The rest of the staff enjoyed the lounge enough for him, however, and that is what mattered. During the day the lounge always had a few staff members milling about. At this moment, there was only one.
An older woman, mortals would describe her as middle-aged, with braided brown and gray hair, and small oval glasses. The Doorman did not know her name. He wasn't sure if any of the staff did. Everyone just called her Mama, and it fit perfectly, so there was no need to call her anything else.
Mama was sitting on a navy leather couch near the back of the room, legs crossed and newspaper in hand. She had made herself comfortable by removing her shoes and leaving them on the floor near her feet. She had many habits that were peculiar to the Doorman, but he always held his tongue. Mama did so much for the Baroness that questioning it felt rude. Unfortunately, he would never get the chance to ask her about them.
Mama peered over the newspaper at the creak of the door opening. Her round eyes widened and she quickly put the newspaper down. She slips her shoes back on and rushes over.
“Why do you have a child with you?” Mama leans down and puts her hand on the girls cheek. She checks up and down looking for any damage. She saw the tear stains and the red kneecaps, but she made no comment.
“She entered the hotel alone.”
“Her mother isn't anywhere to be found? How could someone just abandon such a sweet baby?” Mama picked the girl up and balanced her on her hip. She began fussing over the smaller details; she fixed stray hairs, a crooked bow, and licked her thumb to wipe off some dirt on the girls nose.
“Maybe the mother is outside, waiting?”
“We'll you would've seen her when you checked-”
“I did not check.”
“You… what? Why the hell wouldn't you check outside for the mother?”
“It didn't occur to me at the time.”
Mama sighed and rushed past the Doorman, out of the room. He had forgotten that most children are accompanied by an adult guardian. Children do not often exist free range. He shrugged, turned on his heel, and left the room. He made sure to lock it up first, of course.
Mama and the girl were outside when the Doorman caught up to them. The girl had been placed back on the ground but was still holding onto a fistful of fabric at Mama's hip. Mama had her hands on her hip and a sour expression on her face.
“What has the world become.” Mama muttered to no one in particular.
“Orderly, but chaos still lingers.”
Mama gasped. She spun around and smacked the Doorman lightly. “You scared the bejeezus out of me!”
“Apologies, Mama.”
“It's alright, Cherry.” Mama liked to call people by their name. She said it was the respectful thing to do, that there is a lot of power in a name. The Doorman did not have a name other than the Doorman. So Mama bestowed him a nickname. I’ve always been quite fond of it. It felt less condescending than Strawberry, at least.
“Now you are absolutely sure you saw no woman looking about?”
“I was distracted by the child.”
“Of course you were.” Mama sighed and lead the girl back into the Baroness.
A small group of staff had gathered by the front desk and were watching the events unfold. The staff were a nosy bunch, but then again so was the Doorman. They were whispering to one another when the trio walked in, and promptly stopped once they noticed.
Mama handed the small girl off to the Doorman. Pried her off is a more accurate description, the girl was firmly grasping onto Mama's uniform. The Doorman held his hand out to her and tried his best to look welcoming. Once the girl realized who he was, she gleefully skipped over.
“You keep track of her while I'm gone, okay? If any harm comes to her Cherry, I swear-”
“I will protect her with my life.”
“Good. Now,” Mama turned to face the collection of staff, “You all follow me. We are going to go searching for this babies mother.”
In a whispered tone that was just slightly too loud, one of the staff members asked, “Are you sure we should be leaving a child with him?”
“He'll be fine.”
“No, Mama, I mean the girls safety-”
“Her? Oh, I don't think you'll need to worry about her.” Mama looked over her shoulder at the girl and gave her a wink. The girl giggled in response.
The staff member shrugged, they knew better than to argue. Mama got all of the nearby staff into a group huddle and began to give out roles for her game plan. On the outside of the circle, the Doorman stared blankly at the girl. He had never been taught how to take care of a small child. Did they need to be fed and walked like pets? Or were they more self-sufficient? At what age does one need to teach a child about the greater going-ons of the world and universe? How close was this girl to that age? The Doorman began to feel overwhelmed. So he stopped thinking about it. All he needed to do was protect her from harm. Nothing more, nothing less. Simple
(ONE HOUR LATER)
The Doorman very quickly realized he had not asked a very important question; what counts as harm? The girl was crying. The Doorman couldn’t figure out why.
For the last thirty minutes the girl had been playing by herself in a nearby room. The Doorman needed to continue his front desk duties, so he thought it would be smart to place her safely in a nearby room. That way, he could focus on his task, and guests would not be bothered. The girl had asked for some toys and a tea-set. The Doorman provided them readily. He did not know why the child would need fine china, but that was none of his business. So he left her to herself. At a certain point she brought out a folded piece of paper she had colored on, handed it to him, and rushed back into the room giggling to herself. The Doorman had put it aside for safekeeping.
Then she began to cry. It had been about ten minutes since she returned to the room. The Doorman couldn’t think of a single thing that could have happened since then that would cause this reaction. He peered into the room. She had set up her tea-set on one of the coffee tables. The stuffed bears that she had been given were placed around the table. One of the seats remained vacant. The girl was no longer playing. She was red in the face and sobbing into her hands. Snot and tears were falling down her face and dripping off of her chin. Her shoulders shook every time she took in a heaving breath.
The Doorman felt that familiar feeling; he felt guilt. Behind the guilt, and shame, however, was a new feeling. One that was wholly unknown to him. It was something deeper, something that made him want to make sure the girl never cried like that again. The Doorman turned to the lobby entrance. Not a soul was in sight. He could forgo his duties for a little while. He reached under the desk to grab the “On Break!” sign, and placed it on the counter. He picked up the small paper she had handed him earlier; perhaps she would want it now.
He knocked on the door before he opened it fully. He didn’t want to startle her. The girl looked up at him and quickly wiped her snot and tears away on her sleeve, trying to look more presentable. The Doorman smiled. Not his usual customer service smile, plastered falsely on his lips. This smile was a softer, more genuine smile. He was smiling because that was how he was feeling.
“It appears I missed the invite.”
“I gave you one earlier,” the girl sniffled and pointed at the paper in his hand.
“Ah! My apologies, Miss. I assumed you gave it to me to keep safe. The art on the cover is so wondrous, I would hate to see it damaged.”
The girl giggled, “No, silly! Its the invite to my tea party.”
“Is it too late to RSVP?”
The girl coyly shook her head as the Doorman took his spot in the empty seat. It was too short of a stool for him, so his knees hit his chest when he sat down. He picked up an empty teacup. He looked at the rest of the cups, also empty.
“Miss-?”
“My name is Alice!”
“Miss Alice. It appears these cups have no tea in them.”
“I know, you are supposed to pretend!” Alice giggled and brought her cup to her lips, making an exaggerated slurping sound. She made a loud ahh as she set her cup back on its plate. The Doorman picked up his cup and nodded. Before he could reach his mouth, he was stopped.
“Nuh-uh! You are doing it wrong!”
“Am I?”
“You are supposed to have your pinky up. Like a proper princess.”
“I see. I will ensure I have proper form this time,” The Doorman raised his pinky. He made sure to receive the nod of approval from the young Alice before he continued his charade. He mimicked her loud slurp. After he returned his cup to its place, he took his napkin and dabbed the corners of his mouth. Alice laughed at this and scooted her chair closer to his.
“I like you!”
“Why thank you, Miss Alice.”
Back and forth they went. Sipping their imagined tea and chatting about pretend arguments that the stuffed bears were having. It was quite the scandal when one of the bears announced they were divorcing the other at a public meeting. Alice had an active imagination and told quite the story with it. The Doorman always asked clarifying questions about the interpersonal relationships of these bears. He did not particularly care about this story being weaved, but if knowing every line of this tale would ensure Alice stay happy, he would do so. Alice’s bright smile and ringing laugh made it worth doing. The strange feeling in his chest did not go away. As she told her tale and spun her thread, his heart grew warmer and lighter. In the moment he did not realize it, but the Doorman was beginning to care for her.
“You are way funner than my mom.”
“Why do you say that, Miss Alice?” The Doorman set his cup down.
“She’s always busy and on the phone with people from her work and never plays with me ever. I think she hates me,” Alice pouts.
“I don’t think that is true. Does she work often?”
“Yeah. My dad is dead and we don’t have any money so Mom is always at work trying to get more. She told me she might have to take me out of school because we can’t afford it."
“Do you enjoy school?”
“Yeah all of my friends are there and the teachers are nice to me.”
“It seems to me that your mom is working in order to provide you with a life full of things you enjoy. You should give her some grace.”
“Yeah. I guess I don’t wanna be treated like that.”
“Is that so?”
“That’s what my mom always says. Treat others how you want to be treated. They say it in school all the time too. Its the golden rule.”
“It is a very good rule.” The Doorman picked his cup back up and took a pretend sip. Alice giggled, and the two returned to their tea party. It was indeed a good rule to live by. Perhaps it could explain many things about the inner-workings of mortals. It was a rudimentary explanation, dulled down for childhood consumption, but it was a good answer. To be hated is to hate. To be loved is to love. The Doorman looked across the table at the young girl, Alice, smiling. Yes, this mortal was unlike any he had encountered before. Such a sweet soul that rested behind those eyes. She observed the world around her with interest and adoration. She was experiencing the world and every good thing it had to offer for the first time, and she loved it all unconditionally.
The Doorman was familiar with the ennui that lingered behind the eyes of the adults passing through the Baroness. The smile they gave him as they left, right before putting in a complaint about his “unsettling nature.” Those guests had seen what they thought was the whole world and were troubled by anything that did not fit within it. But this young girl was different. Alice accepted everything, and everyone, as they came her way. Perhaps there was more to mortals than he initially assumed.
An hour after the sun had set, the Doorman and young Alice were sitting together in the front desk chair, fast asleep. Alice was snoring lightly, cuddled up on the bellhop’s lap. The Doorman was mediating with his eyes closed, he didn’t need sleep. The lights were shut off and the front door was locked shut. Only the moon and the stars were watching at that moment.
A disheveled woman ran up to the locked front door. Her black high heels echoing off of the concrete pavement. Her makeup was smudged and running down her face. She cupped her hands on the glass window, desperately trying to see in. Behind her an older woman placed a hand on her shoulder. The older woman told her to wait as she brought her jingling keys out of her pocket. Mama unlocked the door as quickly as her freezing hands would let her. As soon as the door was open the other woman pushed her aside and dashed inside.
“Alice? Alice, baby, where are you?” Her voice was hoarse.
“I’m here Mommy!” Alice happily ran up to her mother and into her arms.
The woman was a few years younger than Mama, maybe thirty-five, and was wearing a pastel blue dress, a white apron, and a gold name-tag on her right breast. She had the same dark brown hair as her daughter, and matching hazel eyes. The Doorman waited for the two to finish with their reunion, for the time he would relish in his newfound understanding of why the feeling was called “heartwarming.”
The woman stood up and wiped some of the smudged makeup off of her face. Alice was teary-eyed now as well. The Doorman crouched down and handed her a handkercheif from his suit pocket. She accepted it with a toothy smile. He looked up at the mother, at her name-tag.
“Ruth, you should not worry. Your daughter has been a very gracious guest today.”
“Thank you so much for watching over her. I can’t express my gratitude enough.”
“There is no need, ma’am. I am happy to help.” And the Doorman smiled, this time he meant it with his heart.
Mama took them into the staff lounge to provide them with some warm drinks. The Doorman lagged behind the group. Something within his soul required his attention. This feeling within his heart puzzled him. Unlike what he had been experiencing throughout the day, this was a mix of the good and the bad. He was happy that Alice was reunited with her mother, he was, but there was something frigid at the edges. The Doorman was glad that this day had gone well, but he also knew that this meant Alice would not be inviting him to anymore tea parties.
The mortal word for it… it was “bittersweet.”
The Doorman entered the staff lounge and sat in one of the chairs at the exterior of the room. He let the cordial laughter and chatter wash over him. He did not want Alice to leave. In the past, he would have just kept her. She would not be the first mortal he would have kept as a pet. It would be so easy. It’s not like she, nor anyone at the Baroness, had the power to stop him.
Alice would not approve, however. He felt a voice somewhere within that told him to do anything but disappoint Alice. The voice insisted that Alice was to be protected, that this would harm her, and that harm would be the worst possible outcome. He couldn’t explain it. No logic was presented by this voice. It was presented as an indisputable fact; such a thing didn’t need to be proven, just accepted.
“I drew this for you.”
The Doorman looked up. It would be more accurate to say he looked out; he turned his view away from within and back towards the world around him. Alice stood before him holding a brightly colored drawing. She was smiling from ear to ear, a rosy glow on her cheeks.
“To say thanks!”
“Of course.” The Doorman accepted the paper.
It was, in an objective sense, a crude drawing. Nothing was within the lines, the colors were all wrong, and the perspective was non-existent. In the moment, however, the Doorman didn’t notice. What he saw was an art piece of him and Alice having tea. He saw his own smile; completely natural. He seemed joyous. He had rosy cheeks, like Alice, and they were laughing. He did not look like the murderous god he saw in the reflection. Nor did he merely look like staff. The Doorman looked almost… human.
He looked up at Alice, a tear in his eye, “Thank you, Alice.”
Alice giggled and hugged him tightly.
“It’s time for our special guest to check out and go home, I’m afraid.” Mama and Ruth stood by the exit to the lounge room. Alice frowned.
“But I don’t wanna! I wanna keep playing with my friend!”
“We can see your new friend another time, baby. It’s past your bedtime.”
Alice yawned. I think she realized she was, in fact, ready for bedtime. She rubbed her eyes and walked over to her mother. Ruth and Mama laughed knowingly. The Doorman stood and brushed the broken pieces of his composure off of his uniform.
“Let me walk you ladies out.”
And so Alice left the hotel. The Doorman had learned something new; what love felt like. Now don’t you freaks go and misconstrude what I’m sayin’ when I say love. Love encompasses many facets of the mortal experience with feeling. Platonic, romantic. You name it and mortals experience it. It flows through the veins of everything and is the powerful link between us all. Love is like a drug, y’know. When you have it you feel like you are on cloud nine. When you lose it? It feels like the end of the universe.
And don’t you sadists out there worry, Doorman would find out what that felt like soon enough.