"But, my dear, they are all here," Seshat said quietly, glancing up at Mitch from behind the desk and its mountain range of books. "All of the Greats have tombs in our halls. We wouldn't be much of a Library if we didn't." She slunk to her feet, and her hand swam through the air, one of the library's halls seeming to swim towards the outstretched arm, rather than the other way around. "What is one of your favorite authors?" Her voice whispered into his ear.
Mitch swallowed. "T-Terry Pratchett," he muttered.
One perfect eyebrow rose in surprise. "Tolkien is one of the more usual responses, but Pratchett it is." She flowed around the desk and down the indicated hall, and Mitch found himself following more as if he were caught in her wake rather than a conscious choice. Her sonorous alto continued a running commentary, and he found himself running to keep up with her soft speech more than to stay in sight.
"Most well known for Discworld, Sir Terry Pratchett was a frequent visitor to the Library, and his spirit remains here, as well as many other authors." She paused at that, and looked over her shoulder, expectantly. Mitch followed at her heels, looking up at her expectantly. "To the question you didn't ask," she murmured, drawing Mitch in even closer, "We do not have their bodies. No, that is too vulgar. This is no mere cemetery, and I am no mere death goddess. THIS is the Library, and I am Seshat." With a slight sigh of fabric, she came to a halt.
Mitch found himself unable to stop in time, and closed his eyes as he braced himself for a collision with the goddess. A soft, warm hand wrapped itself around one of his, and he suddenly found himself moving. Spinning.
A warm arm wrapped itself around his back as he came to a halt, and he opened his eyes to see the laughter crinkling the Librarian goddess' eyes. He quickly realized that he was being held in one arm, in a dancer's swoop. The Librarian's hand twitched, and he found himself once again spinning away from her strong arm's support, and he came to a stop directly facing a large pair of double doors wrought from a dark, solid-looking wood.
Across the doors there were no decorations. No plaque or name-plate. Only a simple phrase, written in a shimmering, purplish color. "AT LAST, SIR TERRY, WE MUST WALK TOGETHER."
"You have no idea," Seshat murmured, "How difficult it was to invent the colour of magic. I could have just gone with purple, but only Octarine would do for him." One hand floated up to the doors, and at a soft caress, both doors opened silently.
Inside, an orangutan looked up from a desk and a pile of books that echoed Seshat's from the main entrance. Upon the desk, there was a simple nameplate that read "Librarian." "Ook," it remarked blandly, and pointed to a nearby sight before he returned to his paperwork. The sign read "The three rules of the Librarians of Time and Space are: 1) Silence; 2) Books must be returned no later than the last date shown; and 3) Do not interfere with the nature of causality."
Seshat made her way inside the room, and Mitch found himself once again caught in her wake. Shelves were filled with colorful titles, and were adorned with organizing plaques proclaiming By Chronological Order, City Watch, Witches, Rincewind, Wee Free Men, Kids (and Kids at heart), By Order of Silliness, Death, and Cats. The books rustled quietly, the covers flapping quietly. Tacked to one wall were a series of maps.
In the back, an enormous book lay on a marble podium, with a white light shining down on it. Written on the podium, in Octarine, was written "Complete Works of Sir Terry Pratchett (in a single volume)." The massive book had a wrought-iron cover, and the cover was flapping urgently, trying to lift off into the air, but a chain with links as thick as one of Mitch's arms kept it firmly secured to the podium. From the pages, an Octarine sheen could be seen rising from the pages like a heat mirage.
"Welcome to the Tomb of Sir Pratchett," Seshat intoned quietly. "We do not deal with such petty things as bodies here in the library. Give it a few hundred or thousand years, and all that will remain will be dust. Here," she said quietly, brushing a finger over a display case full of loose sheets of paper placed in seemingly haphazard piles, labeled Rough notes, 1978. "we do not remember what someone looked like, or merely what they did. Here, in the Library of Forever, our catacombs lay to rest the prose and ideas of great men, rather than their bones and marrow.
"You may destroy a body completely," she continued smoothly. "But it is much harder to destroy a dream. It is my job to ensure that those such as he are never forgotten, and remembered until after the end of time itself." She smiled tenderly. "As he himself once wrote, 'Do you not know that a man is not dead while his name is still spoken?'"