#An Inkling of Magic

[laurahepworth-author]

“That is not a house cat!” Elspeth said when she could finally find her voice again. Derek rolled his eyes. “It's a cat the size of a house, ergo, 'house cat',” he told her drolly, “now run!”

-- An Inkling of Magic, Chapter 10: "Stalked"

Just finished rereading the first 20 chapters of my work-in-progress library/writing themed, urban fantasy! Planning to have chapter 21 ready to serialize on Patreon for January. All current chapter drafts though can currently be read for free while I continue to work on the story (patrons get first access to all new chapter drafts before they, too, switch over to public). Visit my Patreon to read more of the story.

[kanerallels]

In Saecula Saeculorum

My contribution for @inklings-challenge 2024! Content warning for death and injury

Playlist link (I HIGHLY recommend listening along I spent like four collective hours on this thing I'm super proud. I am, however, adding which songs are best listened to at which points. They will be the bold italicized captions at the beginning of different sections. All the songs mentioned can be found on the playlist! (also, when you finish Afraid Of Time, just listen to the rest of the playlist straight through. It should line up well enough!))

~Time~

When Stephen Reid was nineteen, he almost got hit by a truck while trying to cross the street. A young woman a few years older than him yanked him back onto the sidewalk as the massive garbage truck barreled past, seemingly unaware that it had almost caused his demise.

Stephen steadied his breathing, heart pounding so hard he could feel it in his throat, then turned to thank the young woman who’d saved him. His mother had drilled good manners into him from a young age, and she’d have scolded him soundly for wandering into the street without looking first, let alone not thanking the person who’d saved him.

But she’d already started moving down the sidewalk, shoulders hunched in her green jacket, her hair (the tips of which were dyed an electric blue) brushing her shoulders as she moved. She was hunched over her cupped hands, whispering to something she was holding, and Stephen frowned. Strange way to hold your phone.

But there were more pressing things on Stephen’s mind. Namely, the fact that the world was tearing itself apart.

When he was little, things were so simple. It wasn’t just that he was a kid—Stephen remembered things had been happy, peaceful. He remembered summers spent digging holes in his backyard with his friends and raking leaves in the autumn. His mother and father had been happy, and life had been good.

As he got older, he saw the little ways things weren’t so good. The strain his father’s job put on him, the leaner times. But his family was still happy.

And then he turned eighteen. And things got really bad. Countries baying for each other’s blood, corrupt leaders turning their backs and doing nothing to help. Every day, the news showed more horrors. Every day, things got worse, and war was on the way. And Stephen knew he couldn’t just sit by and watch. His mother had taught him manners, common sense, and how to be fierce when it was needed. And his father had taught him that if you could help, you did help, and to care even when it was hard. 

So that was what Stephen planned to do. In every way possible.

He’d started out with volunteering as he started college classes. There were even more people living on the streets now than ever, and helping make meals at shelters was a step toward helping them.

But then things took an abrupt turn for the worse. And suddenly, they were at war. And Stephen found himself dropping out of school to enlist.

He was twenty when he saw his first dead body—a woman on the side of the road. Face pale, limbs at unnatural angles, blood still staining the front of her shirt. It was an image that didn’t leave his mind for a long, long time.

Two months later he killed someone for the first time. He tried not to remember that. But it wasn’t the last time. Every time he took a life, he found himself mourning, for what the world had come to, for the life that he’d ended.

Stephen may have known the reasons for what he was doing. But that didn’t make it hurt any less, or stop him from wondering if there was a better way he could help.

At twenty-two, he was shot in the line of duty.

It wasn’t the first time he’d been injured. But it was the first time it had been serious enough to warrant being sent to a hospital for a prolonged stay. And as it turned out, it was serious enough that he was discharged from the army. The bullet had shattered bones in his leg, leaving him with a serious limp and pain that never fully went away.

It was strange. One minute he was fighting for his life, the next he was home. Like nothing had changed, like he was supposed to pick up where he left off. Stephen found himself adrift, unsure of his next step. He went back to school, but his old major didn’t seem to fit anymore. Nothing did.

He was twenty-two and a half when one of his classmates dragged him to their local church. Howard was stubborn and usually said exactly what was on his mind, without thought toward how he’d affect others. It was an odd combination of refreshing and very irritating.

And yet, in that sanctuary, Stephen had never seen Howard light up the way he did when the singing started. And listening to the words, he started to understand why.

He’d gone to church growing up, and it had been fine. But this was different. This was something beautiful rediscovered, and he cherished it. Soaked in every word spoken from the front. It was like water after years in the desert, healing after pain for so long. It brought peace he hadn’t known could exist.

Stephen was twenty-three when he changed his major. Not to a pastor, though Howard joked that he might as well, with all the Bible reading and questions. But to a counselor. Someone who could guide others through what he’d gone through, and worse. Someone who could help.

It was a refreshing of his original purpose, a rewriting of his story. It was the right thing to do, and that was all he’d ever wanted.

When he was twenty-seven, he started on an internship. And that was where he met Marian.

She was an astrophysicist, and while Stephen admittedly didn’t understand a lot of what she did, he liked to listen to her talk about it anyway. He liked her smile, too, and her warm brown eyes that lit up like gold in the sunlight. They both loved music, and swapped favorite songs every time they saw each other. She loaned him her favorite book, and Stephen read it eagerly, looking for what she loved in every line.

It took him a while to gather the courage to ask Marian out. Howard—now graduated, running his own construction company, and happily engaged—teased him relentlessly about it. “She likes you, you clearly like her,” the young man would tell him. “What’s the problem?”

“I’m waiting for the right moment,” Stephen would respond, and Howard scoffed in response.

In the end, he didn’t ask her at the right moment. He simply asked her, one day when she was stopping by at his work to talk about the book she’d just finished, eyes bright with happiness. Her smile outshone the sun when she said yes.

One year and six months later, she said yes again when he went down on one knee on a date to one of the few functioning observatories left in the country. He would have given her every star in the sky if he could have, but Marian settled for a diamond ring and a small wedding at her brother’s farm. Stephen hadn’t known someone could hold this much joy within them without bursting.

Two years later, Stephen was thirty years old. And that was when things started to get strange.

~~~

~Prepping For Rescue~

“Are you sure you want to do this?”

She avoided his gaze as she strapped on her protective gear. While the technology they were using had come a long way since the beginning of its use, there were still dangers. Being pulled through time and space could cause serious injury or damage, and the cuffs she was locking into place would generate a field that could protect her from that. Strange, how they almost felt like shackles, weighing her down, when they were the only thing bringing her hope right now.

“You know I am,” she said. “We already tested it. We can go back now, not just forward. And if I have that chance—”

“You’re gonna take it. I know,” he said. “But we still don’t know everything about this. We don’t know how it could affect the timeline. You could start wars, cause innumerable deaths. You could prevent yourself from even being born.”

“I know the risks.” She finished with the cuffs and grabbed her jacket, pulling it on to hide the cuffs from sight. “I don’t care.”

He looked like he wanted to comment on that very much, but just sighed. “Okay. Do you have your location drone?”

“Her name is Penni,” she informed him, and he sighed again.

“It’s a robot. It doesn’t have a name.”

She couldn’t hold back a smile at the old argument. “She does now. And I have her here.” Slipping a hand into her pocket, she pulled out a flat, circular object about the size of her palm. The domed top flickered between different colors, trying to camouflage itself with its surroundings, and it zipped into the air, hovering right above her shoulder. She brushed a hand along Penni’s surface, taking a deep breath.

“Good. Keep her with you, and I’ll be able to bring you back,” he reminded her. “Otherwise…things could get ugly. Because this is all supposed to be theoretical.”

“Then I guess I’m a pioneer,” she said, mouth suddenly dry. Squaring her shoulders, she said, “Let’s do this thing.”

~~~

Exactly twenty-seven days before his thirty-first birthday, Stephen was on his way home from work. He stopped at a grocery store to pick up a few things for dinner—Marian was working later than usual, and he wanted to surprise her with a delicious home cooked meal when she got home.

When he stepped out of the store, a car drove by at top speed and shot him three times in the chest. Two other pedestrians were hit, but he was the only casualty.

Except he wasn’t.

He heard the car screech around the corner, and looked up in time to see the dark barrel of a gun pointing out a window—and then a girl slammed bodily into him, sending him crashing to the ground.

Glass from the store windows shattered upon the bullet’s impact, tinkling against the pavement. There were screams, and Stephen pushed himself into a sitting position with a groan, looking around as the car roared away.

Two other pedestrians lay on the ground—one hit in the shoulder, the other only grazed in the arm. Stephen automatically moved to help them, calling for someone to call the cops, his head spinning.

Because there had been a moment where he’d known, he’d been sure, that he was going to die. Not just fear. Utter confidence. He’d all but felt the bullets pass through his body.

But instead, a girl had saved his life.

The girl. Stephen glanced around—but there was no sign of her. And all he could remember, as he later recounted to the cops, then Marian, was a blur of green jacket and blue hair.

Something about the description itched at the back of his brain, but he wasn’t sure what. All he knew is that he was somehow, impossibly alive. And he was grateful for it.

Two days later they found out Marian was pregnant.

~~~

“It worked,” she gasped, stumbling away from the framework of the machine.

Her friend looked up, eyes widening. “It—it did? Are you okay?”

She nodded, then stumbled again, and he caught her by the arm, hauling her upward. “Whoa. Sit down, have something to drink. We should check you out—”

“I’m fine,” she said, waving away his worry. “It worked, Tad. He—he’s not dead. Is he? I can’t—I can’t think—”

Steering her into a chair, Tad said, “Disorientation is a common side effect after traveling. Let me look at the database—drink some water.”

Taking the water bottle he shoved into her hands before moving to the computer, she gulped down some of the contents, her head spinning. “Do you remember how it was before?” she asked. “You said that you might not—”

“I think being close to the temporal field distortion preserved my memory,” Tad said, typing rapidly. “It’s fascinating, and if we don’t get arrested for this, I’ll write a paper–oh.”

Her stomach dropped as his face fell. “What?”

“You…almost succeeded.” Reading from the screen, he said, “Stephen Reid, died age thirty-two, in the ‘65 train bombings.”

“What?” Rocketing out of her chair, she moved to his side, swaying a little. Tad put a hand out to steady her as she bent over the screen. “How?”

“Looks like he was injured, but didn’t let on because he was busy helping others to safety,” Tad read. Glancing at her, he said, “I know that’s not what you wanted to hear, but—”

She was already moving toward the machine. “We have to go again.”

“What? I don’t think that’s a good idea. You already somehow created a temporal loop when you first went in. Who knows what—”

Spinning around, she said, “We can’t save him from being murdered just to let him die in a freak accident. It’s not—no. We’re fixing this.”

“And you don’t think this has anything to do with—”

Fixing him with a fierce glare, she said, “We’re going. Again.”

~~~

~The Typewriter Theme~

If that was the only incident, Stephen would have accepted it and moved on. He wasn’t dead, and that was something he was fiercely grateful for. His wife was pregnant, and instead of being dead he was there. For the moment when their little girl came into the world, and he held her close for the first time.

They named her Zara Grace Reid, and Stephen’s heart was full. For two long years, they had peace.

Then, when he was thirty-two, things started getting bad again. The governments were all fighting, and groups of dissenters were getting angry at, well, everyone, no matter who they claimed to hold responsible for everything going badly. Danger of terror threats grew more and more present.

The day after Zara’s birthday, Stephen was taking the train to a meeting across town. But when he got to the door, his ticket was missing. Racking his brains, Stephen vaguely remembered slipping it into his jacket pocket—and a girl bumping into him as they crossed paths in the station.

Strange. Who would steal a train ticket? He considered buying another one, but it was a nice day and he was in no hurry. He decided to walk.

Two blocks later the world exploded. Four trains, all across the city, blew up at once, killing hundreds in a deadly attack.

Stephen not only saw it when it happened, he felt it. In his chest, like he was on the train when it happened. But no sooner had the feeling come then it was gone and he was running toward the rubble, hoping desperately that he could pull someone, anyone out.

He missed his meeting and saved twelve lives that day. All the while wondering at the phantom pain in his side, but there was too much to do for him to care.

Hours later, he made it home after Marian, cleaned up, and only by the time he fell into bed did he wonder—did the girl who took my ticket know?

~~~

“SIX MONTHS?”

Pacing back and forth, she glared into space. “I only bought him six months? What does he do that makes these people want him dead so badly?”

“It’s pretty fishy,” he agreed, typing rapidly. “Okay, the records are a little messy, but I think I know the exact date. Are you feeling okay?”

“I’m fine. Let’s go again.”

~~~

The thought didn’t really leave Stephen, as he racked his brain to remember what the girl looked like. He remembered dark hair with a splash of blue, and the girl had been holding something small. And those thoughts tugged at other memories—of a day almost twenty years ago, when someone had pulled him out of the way of a truck. Of the shooting before Zara was born.

He wasn’t able to really consider the idea, let alone voice it. Not until six months later, when there was a fire in his work building, and someone locked the door of his office, leaving him trapped inside while the flames grew and the smoke filled his lungs.

He’d been in tight spots before. He’d been trained, in the Army, not to panic, even when it was logical to do so. But as his oxygen seeped away and the door refused to budge, even as he bashed at it with a chair, Stephen found himself absolutely terrified.

No. No, this can’t be it. Images of Marian and Zara flickered through his head and he knew he had to fight, had to live at all costs. But if there was nothing he could do—

The door swung open, and someone pulled him forward.

~~~

~The Hornburg~

“I wonder what makes them choose the intervals they do,” Tad mused as he typed. “Is there someone else preventing them? Do we just do this for the rest of our lives? Are they experts or are they just trying everything and every year they can to kill him? Furthermore, what’s going to stop them from just going back to the same year and trying again—”

He stopped short when he saw her face. “Which…they definitely can’t do. Most likely. I think they can’t, anyway. It’s just that the science is so—I’m sorry. They haven’t done it yet, they probably won’t ever.”

“I hope not,” she said, checking her cuffs and scooping up Penni, who chirped a little greeting. “The last thing we need is more things to worry about.”

“Or to send you through more times.” His worry showed through the edges of his speech. “You don’t have to—”

“Let’s go again.”

“Okay.” 

~~~

Stephen made it out of the fire and he could have cried with gratitude. The firefighters who arrived on scene seemed very startled to see him stumble out of the building, coughing—they said that the last man to come out had sworn up and down that there was no one else inside.

And they swore with equal fervor that they hadn’t sent anyone else in. They claimed that he must have made it out under his own steam somehow—adrenaline, maybe?

Stephen knew better.

“There are two options,” he told Marian when he explained everything to her later that day. Her brow was furrowed like it always was when she tried to solve a problem. “Either I have a literal guardian angel, or somehow the exact same person is traveling through time and space to save me.”

“I’m not sure which is more improbable,” Marian said slowly. They were sitting at the table, and her fingers twitched against the surface like she wished she had something to write on. “Bending time and space isn’t…unheard of, per se, but we’re years away from being able to achieve it under our own steam. And if we assume they’re from the future, they’d be moving into the past, which is, theoretically, even harder.”

“But then there’s the guardian angel idea,” Stephen said, grinning at her expression. “Which you think is scientifically impossible?”

She let out a long sigh. “I’ve learned not to count anything out when it comes to our faith. So…I don’t know.”

Reaching across the table, Stephen caught her hand and gave it a squeeze. “We’ll just have to pray that whatever this is keeps ending up at the right place at the right time.”

Their prayers were answered when, two years later, someone tried to shoot Stephen again. And again, he was pulled out of the way just in time.

~~~

“So,” Tad said, staring at the screen.

“Yup,” she said.

“A sibling, huh?”

She rolled her eyes. “Let’s do it again.”

~~~

It started happening more frequently. A near knifing in an alleyway, a car barreling toward him as he crossed the street. Every time, it was thwarted. Sometimes, he didn’t even see it coming—the coffee knocked out of his hands that hissed alarmingly on contact with the concrete, leaving it pitted and worn, for instance.

But every time, the attackers failed. And eventually, Stephen started to wonder if they should stop prevention and start focusing on the attackers. The only problem? He had no idea how to do that.

So he decided to reach out to the person who did.

~~~

“How. Did he do that?” Tad asked, staring at the screen.

“He must have realized what we’re doing, somehow,” she whispered. “I mean, he’s married to an astrophysicist, he has to have picked something up.”

Shaking his head, Tad said, “Okay, then how do we respond?”

She stared at the screen for a moment longer, thinking as she reread the lines on the screen. More specifically, the email Tad had found during his usual archive wide search for anything pertaining to Stephen Reid.

He’d sent it to himself, apparently hoping that it would be good enough. And it had been.

To whoever is helping me:

Thank you. I don’t know who you are or if you’ll receive this, but I have faith it’ll end up in the right hands. 

Clearly someone wants me dead, for whatever reason. Instead of preventing it, why don’t we get rid of the attackers? Let me know how and when to help.

Stephen.

“What do we do?” Tad asked quietly

She studied it for a moment longer, then said, “We answer. I can slip him a message on my next trip. Have you located who it is and why yet?”

“I think so.” Opening a new screen, Tad tapped on the article he pulled up. “There’s a stabbing, two years from the next attempt, in an alley nearby his route to work. Exactly the kind of thing he’d get involved in and try to stop, right?”

Nodding slowly, she said, “Right. But why this person?”

“No idea. They’re dead in every timeline so far. They must do something that the attackers aren’t a fan of.”

Taking a deep breath, she said, “Then let’s hope we’re not actually on their side.”

~~~

~FREEPORT~

For a while, Stephen didn’t think his message had worked. Things were peaceful—no attacks, no poisonings. Marian found out she was pregnant again, and nine months somehow managed to fly and drag by until she gave birth to a healthy baby boy, who they named Isaiah.

And then three months after that, it happened again.

At exactly the right moment, he was pushed forward, just in time to avoid a bunch of tiles crashing to the ground from the roof. When he caught his balance and his breath, there was no one there. But when Stephen put his hands in his jacket pocket as he started onward again, he found a slip of paper.

10/11/71. Four in the afternoon on your way home from work. Watch the alleyway off Racine. Be ready.

This was it. This was the answer. A little under a year in future, he’d be able to fix this, for good. Whatever this was.

So he kept the paper tucked in his pocket until it grew worn, the folds flimsy. He kept going with life—worked and went to church and looked after his wife and children. He avoided two more attacks in that time, and every time, his mysterious helper was there just in time, only to disappear before he could get a good look at her.

Finally, the day came. Stephen usually carried a knife, out of habit, and this time he made sure he had it, just in case. The day passed in a haze of business as he worked with patients and did paperwork and wondered what exactly was going to happen.

And then work was over. It was 3:45, and he was walking home from work, hands tucked in his pockets, trying to pretend like his heart wasn’t thundering in his chest.

3:47. He passed the cart that sold churros. Oftentimes he stopped to buy one and chat with the owner, but for now Stephen just gave her a little wave and kept moving, pace brisk.

3:50. A couple of kids zipped by on bikes, laughing.

3:51. He heard footsteps behind him, and his heart lurched. Be ready, Stephen.

3:55. The sidewalk came to an end at an intersection, and he turned onto the sidewalk along Racine.

3:58. He wove through a group of teenagers and sped up a little. He could see the opening for the alleyway.

3:59. Heart pounding in his throat, Stephen came to a stop outside the alleyway.

4:00.

For a heartbeat, there was nothing. And then he heard a muffled scream from the alleyway.

Instinctively, Stephen started forward, concern rippling through him. It had been the voice of a girl—young, too young. Most likely not his helper, but that didn’t lower his concern.

He made it two steps forward before he was grabbed from behind. Stephen vaguely registered the cold press of steel against his throat for a heartbeat before he moved, driving an elbow backward into his attacker’s gut.

There was a grunt—a man’s voice, judging by the baritone—but the grip didn’t loosen. Until Stephen snapped his head backward , connecting solidly with the other man’s nose.

There was a crunch and a howl of pain, and Stephen felt the knife at his throat break skin—

And then the grip was gone, and he was stumbling forward, hand pressed against the shallow cut on his neck. Spinning around, Stephen registered a man in all black taking a swing at a young woman—green jacket, hair dyed blue at the tips, holding a weapon he didn’t recognize. What looked like a tiny flying saucer hovered next to her shoulder.

“Help her!” she shouted, dodging her opponent’s blow with ease.

For a moment, Stephen didn’t know what she meant. And then he remembered the scream from the alleyway, and turned. Pulling his knife from his pocket, he moved.

There were two men, both trying to subdue a struggling, terrified girl. One had a hand over her mouth, and the other held a wickedly curved knife. Stephen took a moment to wonder why these people insisted on using knives, and then he was on top of them.

Clearly, either of the men were expecting him. The one holding the blade went flying into the wall with a cry of pain, clutching his shoulder where Stephen’s knife had gone deep, tearing through muscle.

 The second tried to reel backward, avoiding Stephen as he clutched for his own weapon while clinging to his victim. But Stephen smashed his fist into the man’s face, catching hold of the girl’s arm and pulling her away at the same time, using the man’s momentum as he fell to tear her free.

He took a minute to glance at her—no sign of injuries, just bright red hair and freckles and shocked tears starting to escape—and then turned to face his opponents again.

Only to find them gone, a trace of blood on the ground the only sign that they’d been there in the first place.

What? Baffled, Stephen turned in a full circle, then glanced at the girl. “Are you okay?” he asked, and she nodded shakily. “Okay. Wait here a minute. Call if you need me.”

Moving quickly, he headed back to the mouth of the alleyway, to see if there was any sign of his mysterious helper, or her opponent. But there was nothing. Just the now oddly dusty sidewalk, passersby who seemed to have no idea what had happened, and—

A scrap of white paper. Stephen bent and picked it up, unfolding it, and read the now familiar lopsided script inside.

She’s safe. You both are, unless you see me again. Look after her. Don’t worry about the other attackers.

There was no signature, although Stephen hadn’t expected one. A wave of relief swept over him, and he breathed out a prayer of thanks.

He was safe. They were both safe. It was done.

~~~

~Afraid Of Time~

“It’s not done,” she said.

“What?” Tad stared at her, baffled. “How can it not be done? We saved the victims, including a victim we didn’t even know we had until now, helped catch time traveling murderers, and hopefully we’re not even getting arrested for using government property without permission. Your mom might not even yell at us. How is this not a win—”

He stopped short, looking at her. As she looked at the computer file in front of her, wishing the words were different.

Stephen Reid. Died 10/12/83

“Zee.” Tad’s voice was soft. “You can’t stop everything.”

“That’s kind of the point of this whole time travel thing, Tad. I can.” Taking a deep breath, she said, “I’m stopping this. I’m going in again.”

~~~

Stephen had always loved autumns. The crisp, cool air, the knowledge of the approaching season that heralded celebrations and wonder and joy and family time. How could he do anything but love it?

Sure, he’d almost died at this time of year a few times, but with his life, when was that not true? 

It had been 12 years since the last incident. He’d helped the girl—Jenny, a teenager who’d been alone and afraid and had no idea why those men had attacked her—to the hospital to get checked out. They repeated the same impossible story to the police over and over until they finally got tired of asking and declared the case closed. Stephen was fine with it. He’d been told they were safe, and he believed that.

Years had passed. Jenny became all but a member of the family, and he and Marian encouraged her and supported as she chose a career path and moved forward with her life. Stephen still wasn’t sure what the men wanted with her, but it didn’t matter. Her purpose was her own to discover.

His other two children were far too close to grown up for his taste, as well. Isaiah was thirteen, flirting with girls, and discovering a love for basketball paralleled only by his love for mischief. And Zara was in college, pursuing a degree in physics.

He held great hope and joy for both of them, that they would grow up to change the world in whatever small or big ways the Lord had planned for them. If Stephen was being honest, he held a very specific theory for one of them, as time passed and the similarity grew stronger and stronger.

And that was why, on his walk home from work, he wasn’t overly surprised to see a familiar figure at his bus stop.

She was sitting on the bench, knees pulled up against her chest. Her hair, dark like her mother’s where it wasn’t blue, covered her face in a curtain, and the tiny flying saucer hovered at her shoulder again. As Stephen drew closer, he heard it letting out soft little chirps, like it was trying to comfort her.

Sitting next to her with a grunt, Stephen set down his bag and leaned back. Glancing at her, he said, “Nice day, isn’t it?”

Her chin jerked up a little, like she was surprised to hear his voice, then lowered again. Stephen watched her for a moment, debating whether or not he should speak again, when she did, voice low and cautious.

“If you could know the day that you died, would you want to?”

Stephen considered for a moment, tapping a finger against his knee. “I don’t know,” he admitted. “My instinct would be no—why live in dread of something like that? But I can’t say I would be curious.”

“Who wouldn’t be?” the girl agreed, voice still quiet. “What if…what if you could stop it? If someone just told you the right things?”

A heavy feeling began to settle over Stepehn’s chest. “Can you?” he asked, abandoning all pretense.

She let out a choked sob, and Stephen felt a stab of sadness. “I tried,” she choked out. “I tried again and again, but no matter what I do—”

“It’s okay,” Stephen told her, gently reaching out to touch her shoulder. “It’s not your fault.”

Letting her feet drop down, the girl scrubbed a hand across her face angrily. “You don’t understand.”

“I think I might,” Stephen said, his voice very soft.

She shook her head. “No, you don’t. For you, it’s been another twenty years, but for me…I thought I’d get to go home and—” she stopped short, staring across the street, eyes red.

“And I’d be there?”

She swiveled to face him, eyes going wide. “What—how did you—”

“You’re my daughter, Zara. How could I not recognize you?”

Her face crumpled, and Stephen slid across the bench to pull her into a hug as she burst into tears. She pressed her face against his shoulder and he ran his hand over her hair, the way he used to when she was a little girl.

Closing his eyes against tears of his, he whispered, “It’s okay.”

“It’s not,” she mumbled, voice muffled by his shirt. “I was supposed to get you back.”

“You did,” Stephen pointed out. “Just not for as long as you wanted. But you were the one who saved me, so many times. You’re the reason I got to watch you and Isaiah grow up, and I will never stop being grateful for that. You’re the reason Jenny’s alive.”

“It’s not enough,” she whispered. “This shouldn’t be the last time I see you.”

Stephen almost laughed, tears springing to his eyes. “It won’t be. If there’s one thing I hope your mother and I taught you, it’s that.”

Pressing a kiss against the top of her head, he pulled back a little, taking a look at her. Zara had his wife’s beauty and dark wavy hair, and he wondered when she would dye the tips blue. Her eyes were the same warm brown as Marian’s—oh, Marian—and right now, they were wet with tears.

“I don’t want to let you go,” she said, voice shaking.

“I know,” Stephen said, heart aching. All he wanted was to tell his daughter that it was going to be okay, that he was going to be able to come home. But it was becoming increasingly clear that he couldn’t make that promise.

Instead, he asked, “Tell me about what you do next. Tell me everything.”

So they sat on the bench, and Zara told him about her work and her best friend Tad—whom Stephen had already met, but the two hadn’t grown close yet—and how Isaiah was coaching at a local high school and Marian was still working, still looking out for Jenny, still going to church every day. “She still loves you so much,” Zara told him. “Even when I never knew you, she’d tell me about you and how important you were to her. I—I thought I could bring you home to her.���

“You did,” Stephen pointed out, remembering all the days he’d almost died, and all the days his daughter had saved his life. His daughter.

Eventually, the bus came around the corner, and the little flying saucer at Zara’s shoulder let out a chirp. Zara’s eyes widened, and she glanced up. “I—”

“You have to go,” Stephen guessed.

“I don’t want to,” she whispered.

“I know. But if this is it, I don’t want you to have to watch it.”

Shaking her head, Zara said, “You shouldn’t have to be alone.”

“I’m not alone,” Stephen told her, and he meant it. Though his heart was heavy with grief, it wasn’t for him. And he knew—he was sure of it—that his family would be alright. They were strong enough to look after each other without him.

Getting to his feet, he waited until Zara did the same, then pulled her into a fierce hug. “I love you,” he told her. “And I’m proud of you. You and Isaiah, you’re the best thing I’ve ever done.”

She was openly crying now, but nodded, holding him tightly for another minute. “I love you, too,” she said.

And then stepped back and the bus was there. Stephen took one last look at her, taking in every detail. At last, he turned and boarded the bus, taking a seat in the back.

It lurched into motion, and Stephen glanced out the window at the now empty bus stop. I’ll see you again, he thought. And he knew, in his heart, it was true.

Pulling out his phone, he opened up his text messages and began one to Marian.

I love you, Mari. I love the life we’ve lived together for the past twenty years. Thank you for being the best wife and friend I could have ever asked for. 

Looking up, Stephen took one last look around him, and wondered what would come next. He knew more than most sitting on the bus did, and yet found himself frightened. And yet, at the same time, excited.

Whatever else happened, he was ready, with no regrets.

He sent the text.

~~~

Zara was still crying when she stumbled back into her own time, bones aching fiercely. Most trips, she’d taken a break in between, but for the past five or so, she’d gone in without stopping, time after time. Trying desperately to stop what she knew was going to happen.

It hadn’t worked.

But somehow, despite the tears and the ache in her heart, it was okay.

“Zara?”

Tad had moved to stand in front of her, face twisted with concern. “Are you okay? Or—are you hurt?”

Shaking her head, Zara took a shaking breath. “I’m okay,” she said, and he gave her an unconvinced look. “Fine, I’m not hurt. And I…” she trailed off.

“It didn’t work,” Tad said quietly. “Zee, I know you want to do this, but so many trips in a row are hurting you. And if this is so hard to stop—”

“I know,” Zara said, taking a deep breath. “It’s okay. I’m…I’m not going in again.”

Tad’s eyes widened. “Really? I—I didn’t expect that to work.”

“It didn’t,” Zara said, and couldn’t hold back a laugh at his expression. “I…I talked to my dad. It’s okay.”

“You’re sure?” Tad said slowly. “Because five minutes ago you were very ready to keep doing this or die trying.”

Nodding, Zara swiped a hand over her face, ridding herself of the last traces of tears. “I am. I got to say goodbye, and…he’s right. I’m gonna see him again. Someday.”

Resting a gentle, if slightly awkward, hand on her shoulder, Tad nodded. “I’m glad. He’d be proud of you, Zee.”

“Thanks, Tad.” Zara took a deep breath. It was time to stop living in the past, and start looking at the new, and slightly changed present she had waiting for her.

And when the time came to see her father again, she would greet him with joy and the knowledge that she’d lived her life to the fullest, like he had. Until then, all she could do was take the first step toward doing that.

[togaki-kun]

Okay but if I wrote a “kid gojo goes to find kid nanami in his time” spin-off for konpeitō, what then? Huh?

[bookshelf-in-progress]

I'm approaching the most terrifying part of the Exciting New Story Idea process: Writing it down.

[magicaloxford]

St Peter's College in Oxford looking very summery. A long-time prof here, Francis Warner, was the last graduate student of C.S. Lewis, author of the Narnia books 🌿.

[walterdecourceys]

honestly it is also really fun to be watching a show where i have basically no exposure to the fandom (besides posts from the beloved mutuals) and no major spoilers. i feel so free. anything could happen

[fictionadventurer]

I have three stories that I would like to write at least some part of before the deadline for the Inklings Challenge.

I am scrolling tumblr and obsessively looking up book recommendations online.

I see some problems here.

[dogtoling]

adults. + unsupervised non-adults

[kingthreshie-official]

It makes sense why he doesn't have a nose/method of breathing that wasn't his mouth if he was engineered in a lab to make marketable plushies!!!! Wizards why!?

[ask-the-luna-knight]

trixie are you a kid or a squid?

(Trixie Lulamoon) Now Trixie is going to some turf war

[laurahepworth-author]

March's chapter draft for An Inkling of Magic just switched to public on Patreon! The next one will be out sometime in the first week of April. As usual, paid members will have access to the chapter draft first before it also switches to public.

[kanerallels]

The Waystation

Finally finished my story for @inklings-challenge, and I figured I'd post it today!! (I'm also gonna tag @laughingphoenixleader cause she showed interest when I mentioned it to her!)

Link to my playlist for it here, just for fun! I'm in love with the profile pic @accidental-spice made for it, so feel free to admire that at the very least

Our tale begins on one of the main roads in the region. Bricked with gray-brown stone, it strode through the forest with a confidence that didn’t stop for anything, let alone a tiny dirt path that split off from it, winding through the whispering trees in a far more subdued manner.

Most that passed didn’t even notice the side path, too busy on their errands and quests to stop. But there were some who stopped, who’s gaze wandered to the side for just a heartbeat long enough that they spotted the path. There were even a few who came looking for this path in particular— but they are not who this tale is about.

This tale is about a chilly autumn day, the kind where the sun only occasionally dares to peek from behind the clouds, with golden and red leaves spilling across the path and mounding up along the edges. It is about a girl wearing a cloak riddled with holes and stained with travel. The wind fluttered the ragged edges as she walked along the main road. Her face was weary and set with a determination that was almost as worn out as the cloak she wore.

But she kept walking, and would not have stopped if she hadn’t tripped over an uneven stone. Flying forward, she went face down in a pile of leaves with a gasp and a tiny yelp of pain.

She didn’t get up right away, but instead let out a long, long sigh, and didn’t move. If one were close enough, one could hear the sounds of sniffling, like someone very, very close to tears fighting off the beginning of them.

There was no telling how long she would have stayed there if not for a brisk breeze. Rattling the branches above, it sent the leaves around her swirling into frothing crimson and ochre waves. And finally, with a burst, it yanked her cloak away from her. One of the two ties, already badly worn, came free, and the battered garment went flying into a nearby bush.

Jerking upright with an undignified scramble, the girl looked around, her face twisted with frustration and misery. She spotted the cloak, and pushed herself to her feet, moving off the road and towards it.

And then she saw it. The tiny, unassuming path, winding through the woods and away from the main road.

Hand closing around the fabric of the cloak, the girl stared down the path a little uncertainly. There was no sign of anyone down it— well, any humans. As she watched, a squirrel scuttled across the path and up one of the nearby trees, sending a spray of leaves in his wake.

For a moment longer she looked. And then the wind shifted, bringing with it the smell of woodsmoke and something so savory and delicious that the girl’s stomach growled audibly. She flushed with embarrassment, despite being alone— other than the squirrel, of course, who paid her no mind.

Picking up her cloak, she pulled it around her shoulders, shooting another longing glance towards the path. Another burst of wind brought an even stronger whiff of the smell, and she wavered.

“Maybe,” she whispered to herself. “Maybe I can just go look— just to see what it is.”

Slowly, she stepped out onto the smaller, narrower path, heading away from the main road. Holding her cloak closed with one hand, she started walking, the drifts of leaves at her feet crunching pleasantly.

The woods around her glowed with color. Autumn was in full swing, and every tree was ablaze with scarlet and copper and gold, bare branches threading between the fiery masses. The path and the grassy banks on either side were covered in the leaves. Here and there the dying brown grass appeared from beneath it, tiny spikes of green still living in spots.

The musty but pleasant smell of the fallen leaves floated up on the breeze, not quite overpowering the smell the girl was following. She pulled her cloak a little closer, shivering at the crisp, cool air. Her limbs ached, and it was an effort to take every step. But curiosity pushed her onwards.

Following a bend in the path, she came to an abrupt stop, eyes widening at the sight before her. Settled in the middle of the forest, shrouded with trees, was a small cottage. 

The peaked, grass thatched roof pointed towards the sky, speckled with bright fallen leaves. A chimney sat on one side, steady plumes of gray smoke smelling of pine floating out and up through the branches. The walls were painted a cheerfully bright shade of yellow, and the girl knew almost instantly that this was the source of the wonderful smell she’d been following.

She hesitated for a moment, staring at it, wondering what she should do. And then, before she could make her decision, the door swung open.

Out stepped a tall man, with messy gray-brown hair. His gaze landed on the girl, and she almost stepped back, nervousness spreading through her.

But then he smiled— a warm, open smile that seemed to glow on his face like the last rays of the sun on a chilly autumn day. “Hello there, miss,” he said. “I take it my fire caught your attention.”

“I— I’m sorry,” the girl stammered. “I didn’t mean to bother you.”

“Not at all,” he assured her, the corners of his eyes crinkling as he smiled. “It was quite expected. I was wondering when I’d see my next visitor, in fact.”

“What do you mean, next visitor?” the girl asked shyly.

Gesturing towards the cottage, the man said, “This is a waystation. People find it when they need it, and with all I’ve heard from the rest of the world of late, I knew I’d have a visitor soon. Would you like to come in? Dinner is almost ready.”

The girl hesitated, knowing it was most likely unwise. Even in fantasy worlds, not all people had one’s best interest at heart, and it probably wasn’t wise to go into the house of a random stranger.

But her travels had not been kind to her, and the house looked warm and inviting. So she stepped forward, heading after the man into the house.

As the door swung shut behind them, the girl looked around with wide eyes. The house was nothing fancy— they’d stepped into a wide room that seemed to be both a dining room and a parlor. A large table sat to her left, surrounded by several chairs, although it was mostly blocked from view by an immense couch that sat facing the fireplace, which was crackling pleasantly. Four arm chairs filled the rest of the space, a pair flanking each side of the couch. 

Off to her right was a kitchen area, with a stove and oven emanating warmth and delicious smells. Dried herbs hung from hooks around and near the window, interspersed with a few frying pans. The counter nearby was scattered with bowls and implements. Clearly she’d caught the man right in the middle of making dinner.

“May I take your cloak?” the man asked, and the girl nodded quickly. She flushed a little as she handed him the tattered garment, but he didn’t seem to pay it much attention as he hung it up on the rack next to him. “Please, have a seat,” he said. “I’ll have dinner ready in a few minutes— and bless me, where are my manners? I’m Donnie, and you are, miss?”

“Claire,” she said, taking a few hesitant steps into the parlor. After a moment of wavering, she sank into the couch. The soft cushions seemed to swallow her up, and the warmth of the fire washed over her. Closing her eyes, she let out a little sigh of relief that felt a little too similar to a sob.

But she wouldn’t start crying, she told herself. Not now. Instead, she took a few steadying breaths as Donnie, who was working in the kitchen, spoke up. “I assume this is your first encounter with a waystation, Miss Claire?”

“This has been my first encounter with a lot of things,” Claire admitted, and he let out an understanding noise

“You’re a portal hopper, then?”

“I… don’t think so? I came here by accident,” she told him. “One minute I was walking through the woods, then I heard this strange sound, and when I tried to follow it, I ended up… here. In this world.”

She shot a glance at him, to where he was stirring the pot sitting out the stove. Nodding sympathetically, Donnie said, “I’ve heard stories like it before. You’re trying to find your way home?”

“Trying.” Claire’s voice wobbled a little, and she cleared her throat before continuing. “But… I’m supposed to do something first. Deliver something to… to someone.” Flushing self consciously, she said, “I can’t say who or what. I’m sorry.”

“No apology necessary,” Donnie assured her, adding a few spices to the pot before him. Scooping up a spoonful of what seemed to be soup, he tasted it before responding. “Missions like that will need a bit of secrecy now and then. Waystations aren’t about interrogating you anyhow.”

As he went to one of the nearby cupboards and started rummaging through it, Claire asked, “What are waystations about, then? If I can ask, sir.”

“Oh, I’m no sir,” Donnie said, taking out a pair of bowls painted deep orange. “But I’ll answer your question nonetheless. Waystations are here to help travelers and wayfarers when they need it most. Anyone who comes to my door is tired and broken-down, in need of help. They’re on their last legs and need a hot drink, a bite to eat, and a word of encouragement or wisdom before we send them on their way.”

“How do they find you?” Claire asked.

“Same way you did, miss,” Donnie said matter of factly. “They needed us, and there we were. Waystations draw in the people who need them most when they need them most.”

Ladling soup into the two bowls, he added, “That, or they’re door to door salesmen. I usually get them a bite to eat too, though. Ready for a bit of soup?”

Reluctant as she was to stir herself from her position next to the fire, Claire’s hunger drove her to her feet and over to the table, where Donnie set a bowl and spoon before her.

“Let me know if you want any bread to go with that,” he told her, setting his own place at the end of the table nearest to Claire’s chair. “I believe we have a bit of that around here somewhere.”

“I’m fine, thank you,” Claire said politely, taking her seat and picking up her spoon. Taking a bite, she closed her eyes reflexively at the warm, rich flavor of cream and salt and potatoes and onions and cheese all swirling together. Tiny pieces of bacon had been sprinkled over the top of the soup, adding a savory crunch, and Claire could almost cry with joy at the combination. Hungrily, she applied herself to the bowl.

By the time she finished it, she was properly warm for the first time in days. As she dragged her spoon along the bottom, collecting the dregs to make sure she’d truly finished it, Donnie chuckled. “You needed that, didn’t you, miss?”

“I did,” Claire admitted. “Thank you.”

“Of course. Do you want some more?”

“I— I wouldn’t want to impose—”

Smiling, Donnie picked up her bowl and headed for the pot. “Not at all. It’s just me around here at the moment, until my wife gets home.”

“Oh— you have a wife?” Claire asked, surprised. Now that she said the words aloud, she spotted the ring on Donnie’s left hand.

“I do,” he said, his smile turning soft and fond as he slid her the filled up bowl. “Her name’s Lara. She’s off doing the other half of our work. Waystations are sometimes about waiting, and sometimes they’re about going out to find the people who need help, and helping them out there. Some people can’t afford to wait.”

“I’m sorry,” Claire said. “You must miss her.”

Nodding, Donnie said, “I do, a little. But she’ll be back before the first snow falls, and with many a tale to share.”

“Are you worried about her?” Claire asked as she started on her bowl of soup. This time, she went a little slower, savoring each bite.

Donnie looked thoughtful as he stirred his bowl of soup. “A little— the way anyone would be. But before we did this work, we fought side by side, and I’ve never known such a formidable warrior. She’ll come home safe soon, and with plenty of stories, too.”

Taking a bite of his soup, he swallowed before adding, “Besides, we each take our own turn out there. She just gets restless when the leaves start to turn.”

The two of them ate in surprisingly comfortable silence for a while, until Claire’s bowl was empty again. Setting down her spoon, she said, “Thank you very much, sir. For the food.”

“Of course, miss,” Donnie said. “If you’ve got room for it, I have an apple cider loaf cake in the oven that’ll be out shortly.”

“That sounds lovely,” Claire said gratefully. As Donnie collected her bowl and spoon, heading for the sink, she hesitated before saying, “Why are you doing this? I mean, you don’t have to help me. I’m a random stranger who just showed up at your house.”

Setting down the bowls, Donnie turned to face her. “Because,” he said, “it’s what we do. There are plenty of people who turn their backs on those who need help. Those who work in waystations are called to be different. To change the way the world works, if you will.”

“But why? Who calls them?”

“That’s a little more complicated,” Donnie said thoughtfully, “and I’m not sure I could answer it properly. But know this much— the waystations were created, same as us. They help people because they were meant to, to give people hope and peace. Their creator surely has the same intentions.”

“I think I know what you mean,” Claire said, memories of her past journey flickering through her mind.

“Good,” Donnie said, a look of approval crossing his face. “I can tell your journey’s been hard on you, if you don’t mind me saying so, miss. But you haven’t lost hope, and that’s what matters. Hope is more important than anything else— except maybe love. It’ll keep you going in the darkest night, and warm you when you need it most. Don’t forget that, alright?”

Claire nodded obediently, and Donnie smiled. “Good. Now, let’s check on that cake.”

Grabbing a pair of oven mitts, he tugged them on before opening the oven. It let out a wave of sweet and cinnamony smells as he pulled out a bread pan lined with crisp brown paper. Setting it down on the counter, he tugged off his mitts, and gingerly grasped the edges of the paper, using it to pull the brown loaf free of the pan.

As he set it on a nearby rack, Claire asked, “Um, is there anything I can do to help?”

Glancing at her, Donnie said, “With this? I’ve got it handled— thank you, though, miss. You’re very kind to offer. Shouldn’t be more than a few minutes before it’s ready!”

As Claire looked on, he fetched a considerable amount of butter from the container nearby and put it into a small bowl. After putting that into the still warm oven, he began mixing together cinnamon and white sugar.

When he finished that, he pulled the butter, now melted, out of the oven, and began spreading it over the loaf, soaking it with the salty butter. Claire felt her mouth begin to water as he finished, then started to sprinkle the top and sides with hefty amounts of cinnamon sugar.

“The perfect dessert for a fall day like this,” he told her, dusting off his hands to shake loose grains of sugar. “May I interest you in a slice?”

“Yes, please,” Claire said gratefully, and he cut two slices, one for each of them, and they both settled down to eat it. The loaf cake was lightly sweet and warm, the sugar forming a delicious crust around the top.

By the time she’d finished, Claire was full, in the most satisfying, warm way where you’ve eaten just enough to make you a little sleepy, but happy. The cold misery of the outdoors had been all but forgotten, and Claire found herself more at ease than she had been in days.

“Thank you,” she told Donnie. “For everything. I— I should probably get going.”

“You’re more than welcome to stay the night,” Donnie said, and Claire cast a longing look at the warm couch next to the fire.

But she shook her head. “I can’t. I have to keep going— if I don’t do this, no one will.”

Nodding seriously, Donnie said, “And right there, you’ve hit upon the most important part about the waystations. They’re for people who are doing what no one else will. Well, if you can’t stay, wait here a moment.”

Hurrying into the kitchen, he filled a metal container with soup. That, along with a few wrapped up slices of the cake, some bread, and a few other packets, went into a satchel, which he handed to Claire. “That should keep you for a little while,” he said, handing her a flask of water. “Now, then, let’s do something about that cloak of yours.”

Holding up a hand, he disappeared down a hallway. A few moments later, he came back around the corner, holding a blue cloak. “It’s Lara’s,” he told her, holding it out. “But she won’t mind if you take it.”

“Oh— oh, I couldn’t,” Claire stammered. “If it’s hers—”

“She has others. And she’d want me to do everything I could to help you, trust me,” Donnie told her. “The least we can do is give you something to stay a little warmer.”

So Claire accepted the cloak— a sturdy, warm garment woven of wool. It would keep the rain out and the warmth in, and she already knew it would be better than her old threadbare one. Pulling it around her shoulders, she smiled at Donnie. “Thank you. For everything.”

His returning smile was as warm as the fire. “You’re welcome, miss. One last thing before you go. May I give you the waystation’s blessing? It doesn’t seem like much, but it’ll steer you on paths to those who’ll feed you and give you a safe place to stay, and give you light when you need it most.”

“Alright,” Claire said, and was surprised when Donnie reached out, placing a hand on her head.

The words he spoke were in an unfamiliar language, odd and rhythmic to her ears. But they sank in, lifting her heart just a little as he spoke. Removing his hand, Donnie gave her a nod. “Safe travels, miss. Keep your eyes on the path ahead of you, and never forget that hope will warm you when there’s no fire.”

“Thank you,” Claire said, swallowing hard against the lump in her throat. But the food and the words, little though she understood them, gave her just enough energy to step towards the door and pull it open, stepping out into the cold day.

The sun was far lower in the sky, shrouded by clouds— it wouldn’t be long before it was dark. Squaring her shoulders, Claire cast one last look over her shoulder at the cottage behind her, Donnie standing in the doorway. He raised a hand in farewell, and Claire did the same.

Then she turned and headed back the way she’d come, towards the bigger path.

As she walked, the first few flakes of snow began to fall.

[ladyphlogiston]

I finally finished my entry for @inklings-challenge! Just a month and a half late, but what's six weeks between friends? 😆

Tagging @lady-merian and @kanerallels because I think you were kind enough to comment on the first part

Anyway:

Greenroot Growing

Posted on Ao3 at https://archiveofourown.org/works/51990529 or read below

"Where should we be next, Zillah?" Vesta asked.

Zillah straightened up, shook her long brown braid back, and surveyed the ruins of the village of Cubrickton. The survivors of the fire had been relocated to the remaining homes, and wounded were being treated in the Home's infirmary. Hestia was helping to rebuild some of the houses, but high summer meant there would be plenty of time and available hands to rebuild before the harvest. They could probably move on.

"How is Eden doing?" she asked.

Vesta shrugged. "She's okay. Getting tired, but everyone has been treated so the heavy triage is over."

Zillah nodded. She closed her eyes and pressed her palms together, focusing inwards on her Gift. She opened her eyes again. "We're still supposed to be here," she said, frowning.

Vesta looked around. "Why? Did we miss someone?"

Zillah shrugged. "Don't know. Maybe there's something else coming and they need our help building?"

"Might as well." Vesta moved towards the nearest burned-out shell. She picked up a half-burned board, tucked it under her arm, and began sifting through the rubble for others.

Zillah worked her way along the side of the ruined wall, collecting china plates that must have fallen from an interior shelf. Some of them were intact.

A purple light formed in the air between them, rippling oddly in the air. Both the sisters turned to look at it, then look at each other in consternation.

"Or maybe we're here for that?" Zillah suggested.

"Any idea what it is?" Vesta asked, backing away carefully.

"My Gift just says it's a portal, which is less helpful than you'd think," Zillah replied.

"Is it dangerous?"

"Don't know."

The sisters watched it grow larger and brighter. Then, as suddenly as it had started, it vanished, leaving a young man in strange clothing behind. He dropped hard against the stone and rolled over to slam against the foundation of the house, as if he'd fallen from a height.

"Well." Zillah looked at him, then bent over to check his pulse. "Still alive. Better make a stretcher for him, in case that fall rattled something."

"What's his name?" Vesta asked. She laid one of her boards on the street, then pulled a length of twine from her pocket and began tying shorter sticks to the top and bottom. Under her hands, the air shimmered as her Gift turned the boards into a full stretcher.

"Paul," Zillah replied. "I can't see his home. It's very far away. For now he belongs with us, I think."

They carefully loaded him onto the stretcher and carried him towards Home. The big egg-shaped structure, apparently woven from willow branches, was on the edge of the town, and they passed through a hole in the side into the clay-lined infirmary inside.

Eden looked up as they entered. She helped Zillah transfer the young man to an empty bed, then unwrapped the orange band that wrapped over her curls and covered her ears. "What's his name?" she asked.

"Paul," Zillah answered. "He was unconscious when he....appeared."

Eden looked Paul over, focusing intently while her hands hovered over his body. "Just bruised, I think," she said. Briskly she refastened her headband and grabbed a pot of salve from the workbench, then rolled him over and began peeling his short tunic away from his back so he could apply the salve to his back and shoulders.

Vesta allowed the stretcher to fall back into pieces of wood and twine, and put the twine back into her pocket. She headed back towards the entrance to throw the pieces of wood away, and met her twin sister coming in.

"Another?" Hestia asked, seeing Paul on the bed.

"He's not a villager. He just appeared. Like a Major Gift, but there wasn't anyone there to use it," Vesta explained.

Hestia raised her eyebrows. "A True Miracle, then?"

Zillah joined them. "I think so. He's from far away."

"Well, there's not much to do until he wakes up," Hestia decided. "Does he need to stay here or can we get moving?"

"He belongs with us, so probably we can go. Did you say our goodbyes?" Zillah asked

Hestia nodded.

"Good."

They made their way through the clay-lined rooms of Home to the driving bench at the front, where a woven window opened into the streaming sunlight. A map of Gasardia was pinned to the wall, covered with careful annotations in colored ink.

Hestia found Cubrickton, on the road between Thire and Philomel. She added a purple X and the date to the map, tracking their journey so far. Zillah would update the logbook with details of their work while they traveled.

Zillah sat on the bench, facing the map, and pressed her palms together. She allowed her eyes to unfocus, looking at what her Gift was saying rather than at the map itself.

Finally she looked up, puzzled. "We're supposed to be in Acoda Keep."

"We can't get to Acoda Keep!" Hestia objected.

"I know that and you know that," Zillah replied. "But apparently my Gift thinks we can."

Hestia sighed, and traced the road south. "Acoda Point is at least a three day journey," she said. "I guess we could start in that direction. If we end up having to stop, we'll figure it out from there."

Zillah nodded. "Thanks. We'll pass through Lorton tomorrow, so I'll check our stores. We can stop at the market."

Paul woke up. His last memory was of hiking in the woods near his home, so waking up in a bed was concerning. It didn't sound like a hospital, but he couldn't decide whether that was better or worse than the alternative. Also, his head hurt. And he was thirsty.

"Here's some water, and then I have a Head Healing Potion for you," said a nearby voice. A hand touched his shoulder and then helped him sit up to drink from a cup.

Paul opened his eyes. The person helping him was a young woman about his own age, with wide blue eyes and softly curling brown hair. She put the cup down on a table next to his bed.

"I'm Eden. Do you know your own name?" she asked.

"Paul," he said.

She nodded. "Good, then the fall can't have exploded your head too badly." She handed him a smaller cup, this one filled with a thick liquid that tasted of rosemary.

Paul drank it, and reached for more water. "Where am I?" he asked.

Eden twisted her fingers together. "I'm not sure how to explain, exactly. You're in our Home, in Gasardia. My sisters say you came through a portal, and you came from very far away. Maybe even a different world."

"Gasardia is....?" Paul asked.

"Gasardia is all the land from the Northern White Mountains to the Besstwing Sea. We're currently on the road between Thire and Philomel, though we plan to turn south soon, but I don't think that helps you."

Paul shook his head, then stopped when it made the pain worse. "No. I think you're right about this being a different world. Unless you just have different names for places I know, but I doubt it."

Eden nodded. "That's what Zillah thought. She said your home was farther away than anyone she's seen before."

Paul nodded, then thought about what Eden had said and frowned. "Wait, how does she know that?"

"That's her Gifting," Eden said, taking the empty cup from Paul's fingers and turning to put it away. "Zillah knows what a person's name is and where they belong. She says that your home is far away but you belong with us for now."

Paul's shoulders stiffened. "So you're—"

"Of course not!" Eden whirled around, wide-eyed. "We don't make anyone go anywhere. Zillah's job is to tell the truth, not make people do things. We can't return you to your home, but if you wish to go somewhere else in Gasardia we'll give you what help we can." She paused, and then added, "I'm sorry, I didn't let you finish your question, did I? I try not to do that. That's my Gifting: I hear intentions and emotions."

Paul blinked. "These....Giftings. Are they magic?"

"They're gifts, Paul. I don't know how else to explain them. I don't think anyone does."

"Oh."

Eden shifted back and forth on her feet, then said, "Do you want dinner? I can bring you food here, or you can come join us at the table."

Paul followed Eden through the interconnected clay-lined rooms of the Home, feeling the floor sway slightly below his feet.

"Is the floor moving, or is that dizziness or something?" he finally asked.

"That's real," Eden told him, "We're moving, and Home always rocks when we do that. It's the legs moving."

"Legs?" Paul asked, ducking through one last doorway and entering a wide room.

The room had several tables. At one end, a round table was set near a fireplace, covered in brightly woven cloth. At the other end, four long workbenches were covered in books, tools, fabric, and all sorts of creative detritus.

In the middle of the room, a young woman was standing on a platform that was set below the floor of the room, so that her head was level with the tables. Her clear similarity to Eden marked her as another of her sisters, though this one's hair was pulled back into a long braid. She appeared to be walking on the unseen platform.

She turned to smile up at Paul. "Legs!" she confirmed. "It's the simplest way to move Home. We keep the legs partially assembled when we're not using them."

Paul looked at her, puzzled. When he listened, he could hear thumps and creaks from below. "So...you're controlling legs on the house?"

She nodded. "I'm Hestia. Vesta and I have the Crafting Gift, so we manage the legs."

"So Eden has empathy or something, and she said Zillah knows where people should be, and now you and Vesta have a crafting gift. What does that do?" Paul asked. He crossed to one of the chairs at the round table, so he wouldn't tower about Hestia so much. Eden served him a slice of bread and some roasted vegetables, and then went to sit over by the benches.

"We make things - assemble them out of rocks and sticks and whatever else is on hand - and they become real," Hestia explained. "They only last as long as we're paying attention, but that's long enough. We have six legs for the Home, like an ant, and we make them work by walking or swinging when we need to move."

A few minutes later, two more women entered. One was a mirror image of Hestia, and Paul realized she must be Vesta. She came over to the table and set down a sizzling pan, which promptly turned into a piece of flat slate rock with hot sausages on it. The other woman looked a little older, and her brown hair streamed straight down her back, well past her waist. She sat down and began slicing the rest of the loaf of bread.

"Any progress?" Hestia asked, looking up at them.

Vesta sighed. "We have the list for Lorton, of course, but no. Zillah still says Acoda Keep, and I don't see anything that will get us in." She turned to Paul. "I'm Vesta, by the way, and this is Zillah. Your name is Paul?"

Paul nodded. "What's Acoda Keep?"

Zillah sighed. "Acoda Keep is a fortress controlled by Brusha, the harbor city to the south. There's an herb, greenroot, that can be used for powerful healing. Brusha's army torched most of it, about a decade ago, and now the only greenroot is in Acoda Keep."

"I assume it's heavily defended?" Paul asked.

Vesta nodded. "We've dreamed of getting some for years, so it can be grown again, but there's no way we can get in."

"So why try?" Paul asked.

"Because that's what my gift says, and Giftings only work if you listen to them. And maybe we'll find something unexpected - you never know - but the point is obedience. If you aren't careful to listen to your gift, it'll seem to be working just fine, but it'll be less and less effective." Zillah stabbed her sausage and took a bite.

"Do you want to swing in a bit?" Hestia asked.

Zillah sighed. "I should. It'll help me sort out my thoughts. Unless you need a turn, Eden?" she called across.

Eden flapped a hand but didn't turn around.

"Okay," Zillah replied, and continued her meal.

"So you have the Crafting gift too, right?" Paul asked Vesta. "What sort of things do you make? I mean, what do you like making?"

Vesta's eyes lit up. "I don't get much use out of them, but I love making weapons. Swords and spears in cool shapes, and especially powerful bows and arrows, and I like making armor too. Though temporary armor is ridiculous. Once in a while there's a use for the ranged weapons, but armor that falls apart if you're knocked unconscious is just dangerous."

"Do you see much fighting?" Paul asked, worried. He didn't have any background in weapons training!

"We mostly see the aftermath," Vesta explained. "The cities are all fighting each other, and there's bandits as well, but Zillah's gift keeps us where we can be useful, which means avoiding a lot of the fighting. Even if we were better at fighting, Eden's gift means she can be overwhelmed easily, so we have to be careful."

"Oh, okay."

Zillah had finished, so Hestia brought the house to a halt and climbed out of the hole in the floor. She lay on her stomach and stuck her head and arms into the hole, apparently rearranging the legs. Paul felt the house settle onto the ground, and then pick itself up again. Hestia got up and served herself at the table, and Zillah descended into the hole and disappeared from sight.

"Zillah likes to swing instead of walking," Vesta explained.

"How high are the legs?" Paul asked. The movements up and down had surprised him.

"The Home is usually around ten feet off the ground, but it varies a little," said Vesta, passing her sister the vegetables. "We need the legs to be long so they can take long steps."

Some time later, Vesta knelt by the hole in the floor and helped Zillah out, and Eden took her place walking Home. Hestia and Vesta set up a loom and set up fabric they were weaving, and Zillah moved to one of the work benches and pulled out a box of dried herbs and a mortar and pestle.

"Can I help?" asked Paul.

"You could read to us," suggested Eden.

"Uh, sure," Paul said, looking around to see if he could spot any books.

"Before you read, we should discuss Lorton tomorrow," said Zillah, smoothly working the herbs into powder. "We need more flour and cheese, but Cubrickton gave us enough vegetables to keep us for a while. Eden? How are your stores?"

Eden cocked her head to the side, thinking. "I have plenty of bandages, but I'm shorter on burn paste than I'd like to be, especially going into the dry season. We should get more."

"We have quite a few lengths of fabric to sell," Hestia piped up. The loom click-clacked steadily under their hands.

Zillah nodded. "Paul? Anything you need? Lorton is a market town."

Paul shrugged. "I'm okay, I think. I guess I might need different clothes, if we want me to fit in." He hesitated, then added, "What about for Acoda Keep? Will you need anything for that?"

The sisters looked at each other. The room was quiet with nervous energy for a moment.

"It's hard to say, since we don't know what we're going to do," Hestia said slowly.

"That's fair," Paul replied. He pursed his lips, thinking over what they'd said. "Do we know anything about the keep?"

Zillah shrugged, then began transferring powdered herbs to a new container. "Not much. We've been near there, even to Brusha, and it's all cliffs and rocky islands down there. I've seen the keep from a distance, but I don't know anything about the inside."

"We could visit the bookseller in Lorton," Vesta suggested. "They might have maps."

Hestia nodded. "I'll ask around. Someone is bound to know something."

"We need pots for the plants," Eden spoke up. "And jars, for cuttings. Aunt Comfort told me once that greenroot propagates easily."

"What about seeds?" asked Paul.

"It wouldn't hurt to bring papers for seeds," said Vesta, "but I don't expect we'll find any. They're keeping it restricted, and leaving seeds out just makes them easy to steal. Any seeds they have are probably in a vault somewhere."

"Okay," Paul said. "So maps and information, and pots and jars and...I guess shovels? For digging up plants?"

"We have trowels," Eden assured him.

"Right. Okay. And...." Paul searched his memory for adventure stories and the supplies needed. "Rope? Just in case it's useful?"

Zillah nodded. "It wouldn't hurt, especially with all the cliffs."

"Right. And then....I guess we don't know," Paul ended.

"Do you have a gifting?" Hestia asked.

"I....don't know. People where I'm from don't have gifts," Paul explained. "Is there something I can do to get one? Some trick to get it going?"

"The only 'trick' is obedience," said Zillah. "You get quiet and listen, and do what comes to mind, as long as it isn't dangerous or anything of course. It takes practice to know what to listen for."

Paul blinked at her, but she didn't seem to have anything more to say. "Okay then. I guess I'll try that."

"And we'll fit it together," Vesta added. "Now can Paul read?"

Since the topic seemed to be over, Paul turned to the shelf Zillah indicated and looked over the books available.

They left Home and split up when they reached Lorton. Eden and Paul went with Hestia: Eden would use her gifting to help Hestia haggle and ask for information about Acona Keep for as long as she could, and then Paul would accompany her back to Home if she got overwhelmed. Zillah and Vesta would go to the book sellers, to look for maps, and then stock up on necessities.

Vesta had found a tunic for Paul. It was worn and a little threadbare, but it would attract less attention. She'd also given him a few coins. "We don't have much spending money, but you can have a share in case you see something useful. It's only fair."

Paul thanked her and slipped them into his pocket.

Lorton wasn't a large town, and the market reminded Paul of a large flea market from home. He hefted the bundle Hestia had given him and followed her to a row of stalls selling fabrics. As they approached, Hestia looked over at Eden, whose fingers flickered as she indicated who was in a good mood and who should be avoided.

"Can they hear us from here?" Paul asked, surprised that she used hand signals instead of speaking.

"No, probably not. But sometimes speaking is difficult," Hestia replied.

Hestia approached the seller Eden had picked, and Paul followed Eden as she drifted towards the back of the stall, running her hands over the colored fabrics. Hestia called them back a few minutes later.

"All set," Hestia announced, looking pleased. She turned to look across the market, pursing her lips as she considered where to go next for information. "We'll try the brewery, I think," she decided. "There's usually a few older soldiers and sailors there."

An hour later, Eden was safely back at Home, the other women were still in the market, and Paul had some time to himself. Remembering Zillah's words, he thought he might as well start listening for a gifting.

He sat down on a fallen log and tried to listen. Nothing happened.

Paul sighed, rearranged his legs, and listened again. This was stupid. There was nothing there. They had no reason to believe he had a gifting in the first place, so that was to be expected.

He tried once more, and the only thing that popped into his head was that the inside of the huge clock tower, with all its gears and springs, would be interesting to see. That obviously had nothing to do with a gifting, so his mind must be wandering.

Still, Zillah had said to do what came to mind, so he went and looked. The clock tower's narrow stairs were a long climb, but the workings at the top were pretty interesting to watch. Still, nothing magical happened.

The next morning, they headed south again, into Brusha territory. Zillah's gifting still said Acoda Keep.

"We did find a map," Zillah announced, spreading it out on the table. They all crowded around to examine it.

The Keep was a five-sided fortress, with thick walls and reinforced towers. It took up practically all of the island it was on. The center was open, so that greenroot could be cultivated, and storage rooms were marked along the perimeter.

The oceans and cliffs nearby were marked, and it was obvious that there was no easy way in or out. The rocks were steep along this part of the coast, and the water was too deep to easily cross.

"We don't know how many soldiers are there," Vesta explained, "but we're not exactly fighters anyway. If there's a back door or a secret entrance, nobody we spoke to knows about it."

Hestia nodded. "Same here. There is a loading dock," she pointed it out on the map, "but that's guarded as well. Though that door can't be locked from the outside, so if we do manage to get in, we could use that as our way out."

"Can Home go in the ocean?" Paul asked.

Vesta frowned. "Like a boat, you mean? We've never done it, but probably. We don't know much about sails, though."

"I suppose we could make very, very long legs," Hestia said.

Vesta thought it over, then nodded. "It would be tricky, though, with the waves and the rocks."

"You don't feel very certain," Eden commented.

Vesta shrugged. "I'm not."

"So we'll keep it as a possibility, but not a strong one," Zillah decided.

They headed south. Paul told Zillah about how he'd listened and nothing had happened, and she'd shrugged and said that was how it was sometimes, and to keep trying. So he did. It was still pointless.

He read to the women in the evenings, or helped with the simpler parts of medicine-making. He tried to help with the weaving as well, but Hestia and Vesta could settle into a rhythm so fast and smooth that his efforts were obviously slowing them down. Eden taught him to spin yarn, and kindly told him he was doing well for a beginner before re-spinning his attempts.

During the days they often came across people who needed help: broken bones to set, fevers to heal, houses to build. They were away from the contested territories, so military attacks were rare, but accidents still happened.

When Paul was on his own and was tired of listening to nothing, he started drawing. Paper was expensive, but a slate and chalk were easy to find. He drew Home in its various configurations, and his bedroom and bicycle from his real home, and animals they passed, and odd bits of half-remembered machinery. It passed the time.

Finally they stopped, at the top of the cliffs on the shore near Acoda Keep. The cliffs were high above the waves, and the salt air blew fresh against their faces.

"That's Acoda," Zillah said, pointing. "And there on the shore is Brusha Harbor. The big island in the distance is Pofash; it's controlled by Brusha also."

Paul peered down over the cliff. The waves broke on a narrow shore of rocks and sand. "Are there ways to the bottom?" he asked.

Hestia leaned over too. "Not easy ones."

"We could make one," Vesta suggested. "It wouldn't be any harder than our tree-climbing rig. Just longer."

"That sounds fun," said Eden, sitting at the edge of the cliff to run her fingers through the sandy soil.

"Well, let's have lunch," Zillah said, always practical. "Maybe something will come to us."

Paul finished his bread and leaned back on the stiff grass, letting the sun warm his skin. An insect buzzed above him, its wings flitting in the sunlight.

Suddenly Paul got the urge to draw. His fingers felt almost itchy with it. He sat up, frowning around.

"What is it?" Zillah asked.

"I want to draw," Paul said. "It's...weird."

Zillah smiled slightly. "It always is."

Eden crouched next to them and handed Paul his drawing slate. He hadn't noticed her get up in the first place. He thanked her and set to work.

He drew the bug first, with its slim body and flitting wings. Then he rubbed it away and began to draw again: something that was like the bug and like a helicopter and like an old da Vinci drawing, but not exactly like any of those.

Finally he passed it to Zillah. "I can't think of anything else to draw."

"Then it is done," she replied. "What is it?"

Paul shook his head. "It looks rather like some of the flying machines from my home universe, but not exactly. And it needs someone who knows way more than I do to build and construct it."

Zillah smiled and passed it to Vesta. "Can you and Hestia make it?"

"It - it won't work!" Paul objected. "I have no idea how these things really work!"

Vesta grinned at him. "Hestia and I don't need it to actually work, Paul. Just mostly."

Paul couldn't believe he was doing this. Hestia and Vesta had assembled a coalition of rocks and sticks and ropes and a bedsheet, and now he was inside it and flying over the edge of a very high cliff. It took both of them to focus enough to make the linkages work, but somehow they were off the ground. Zillah was in the front, calling out directions to the island she could barely see in the moonlight. Eden sat next to her, straining her ears for attention or aggression from the guards ahead.

Paul sat in the center of the ship, helping to pedal the wings of the flying ship. Pots and jars were strapped into a net behind him, and Hestia and Vesta sat on either side of him, their focus entirely on the ship.

They flew out to sea and approached the keep from the rear, trusting the darkness to hide them. Eden reported that the guards were sleepy and bored and unlikely to wake up. Paul held his breath as they crossed into the keep, the tension of the moment thrumming through him, but no one shouted out their presence.

They landed with a thump in the center of the keep. Eden immediately pointed in two different directions; someone had heard them. Paul and Zillah scrambled out, hoping it was gardeners and not guards they had to deal with.

Their luck held; the two men who came to investigate had no weapons and seemed stunned by the sight of their flying contraption. Paul didn't blame them for that. He and Zillah were able to use the confusion to their advantage and soon had the men tied up.

Eden came out next, carrying pots and jars and a trowel. Paul and Zillah took the pots and began digging up greenroot plants and packing them to be transported. Eden drew a sharp knife from her belt, and added cuttings to the propagation jars.

Paul was just finishing his second plant when Eden hissed. All three of them turned and sprinted for the flying ship. They made it inside just as a pair of guards entered the courtyard and saw the ship.

"Fly!" Eden whispered to her sisters. She secured the jars as Paul ran to his set of pedals.

They heard shouts outside, and a few spears or arrows clunked off the side of the ship, but they were already airborne.

Paul laughed with relief as they flew into the clear sky. They could go back to Home and disassemble the flying ship, and no one would be able to figure out what had happened. They had done it.

They were still breathing in their success when the air in the middle of the ship began to glimmer purple. "Zillah!" Vesta called, "is that another of those portal things?"

Zillah turned away from her navigation to look at it. "It is," she said. She got up and came back to hug Paul. "I think you're going home."

Paul nodded. It felt right. "I'm glad I could help after all."

"Come back if you can," Hestia said, as she and Vesta came to give him their hugs. Eden didn't say anything, but she squeezed his hand and smiled gently at him.

"I will," Paul promised, and went home.

The end

[puddimilk]

I made new sticker sheets!!! I wanna design 100 more!!! Will debut at AN2023!!

[zeydaan-isabella]

Situation 3 - Transformation Overload

Commission by QuiteUnusual - Zeydaan's powers working willingly involve drawing energy from other versions of themselves from other universes. This process is mostly flawless barring any magical corruption- often the energy used can linger slightly to allow for easy re-transformation. However, neglecting this excess energy can be dangerous should they forget it and let it build up. Zeydaan has to 'clear their cache' every now and then, or something like THIS would happen. Body going out of control, and they end up as a mixed chimera of different forms. Sadly, this happens a lot, to the point the Hawkmoths nickname it 'Situation 3'- the team just have to give them some space until they finish glitching out- let them settle down and then give 'em some food to help them from getting too wiped out.

[bodirockdog]

I drew Bodi as an Inkling!!