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catkin-morgs-kookaburralover · 3 months ago

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This story, for which there are seven parts, is dedicated to everyone affected by Hurricane Helene. It was not written because of that, but a water-based natural disaster is part of the plot. It does not focus on it, but is a story of hope. The text of section one is under the cut. I hope to post all sections before the end of the Inklings Challenge. Despite this being my third year, this is the first I've actually posted anything other than snippets, so I hope I'm doing this right. I haven't yet written more than this, but I do have an outline for the other six parts, so hopefully that will work. @inklings-challenge

One: Admonish the Sinner

First of all it must be understood that every world is connected, as every village is. Some are just further away.

This is not a story of Earth; this is a story of a world nobody bothered to name, in a village nobody called anything other than the village. But that does not make it any less beloved—by people or by God. Sometime, a long time before this story is set, someone from Earth came to this nameless world and gave them the greatest gift of all, truth: but that is another tale entirely.

The night sky of this world is strikingly different from ours. Most prominently, two moons watch the world below, and every forty-seven years or so, flooding hits the island. They call it Big Tide, for it is the pull of the two moons combined that does this. It is regular enough, and has enough warning signs, that everyone should be perfectly ready for it.

As is common in humans (and these are humans like us, though the world is different), not everyone believes the evidence laid out in the world.

This is a story of Big Tide, specifically the one of the year three thousand, two hundred and twenty by their reckoning. This is a story of Paula McArthur.

%%%%%%%

The wattles were flowering, and it was Paula’s favourite time of year. There were several different wattles, but this was the deep gold ones she loved the best, the ones she gathered by the armful and adorned her home with. Now she only held a single sprig and enjoyed it to the full. It was too close to Big Tide to unnecessarily damage the wattle trees; they could be badly damaged by the rushing waters, and might need everything they had to survive. But one twig wasn’t going to hurt it.

The sky was a clear pale blue shot with fine clouds, a mass of them shining near the horizon with the sun gentle on them. Paula raised her face to the sunlight and closed her eyes, smiling. It was spring, and she never felt more alive than in springtime.

She had been working all morning to prepare for Big Tide, largely transport. Her hands were tired of the precise positions needed to be held in order to hover exactly enough to transfer items in mid-air between hoverboards rather than landing to do it, which would waste time. Tide waited on no man, but Paula was skilled enough to know when she could be sloppy about hoverboarding, and enjoyed hoverboarding in a more slapdash manner than most people she knew. She had graduated earlier than most of her classmates from a controller to haptics. Tomorrow, though, she might use the controller again to make sure she was fresh enough to hover efficiently overnight during Big Tide itself.

Presently she took out her lunch, and ate it while walking. In the distance a kookaburra laughed; Paula came to an abrupt halt as a green-blue iridescent flash clued her into the presence of a river dragon nearby. It turned and looked at her, bright blue eyes wise and calm. After a moment of silence and mutual respect, the dragon moved properly into her view and arched its sinuous back, raising its crest. Paula lifted her chin and brushed back the dark fringe to look more intimidating. The only sign the dragon gave of seeing any change was to raise its scales in a largely vain attempt to inflate its size. Abruptly it put down its scales and ran in a blaze of colour, uttering a high keening cry that faded as it retreated.

Paula turned to see who had disturbed her, smiling as she recognised the intruder. “What brings you here, Martha?”

Her friend grinned in response, lighting up her tanned sombre face. “You, actually. I came in search of you.”

Paula half gestured to herself, merrily. “Why trouble yourself?”

Martha grew serious at once. “I care about you. Aren't I allowed to?”

“Certainly, as I do.”

Martha smiled a little incredulously. “Anyway, surely it's time to go back now?”

Paula raised a single eyebrow, then tilted her head back and assessed the position of the sun. “I guess. Why did you come to find me, Mar?”

“Oh, you know, I hardly see you now.” Her manner was evasive, which baffled Paula. “You're always out walking.”

“It's spring.” Paula waved the sprig of wattle at her. “The best time of the year. What's your favourite season?”

“Winter,” said Martha definitively. “Cold and empty and bleak.”

“Why do you like it that way?” she asked in surprise. Last time they'd talked about the seasons, she thought Martha had waxed poetic about the dying fire of autumn.

“It's silent,” was Martha's quiet response. “Nobody bothers you.”

Paula paused to assess the time, decided they had to go back and led the way; Martha trailed her. “I thought you liked people.”

There was a short silence. “People don't tend to like me.”

“That's nonsense,” she responded immediately. Martha smiled, sad and sarcastic.

“I don't tend to like me.”

Her calmness bothered Paula, and she sped up slightly. “Well, I do. You're fun, conversational and well read.”

“Which is why you disappear alone for hours.” She caught up and shot Paula a sidelong look, as if to say, I know your secrets. Except there were no secrets to know.

“I like spring. It feels so alive and fresh, like all the past year's mistakes are washed away and there's new growth instead.”

“Very poetic.” Instead of amusement, Martha's tone was sour. She dodged past Paula and trotted quickstep the whole way back.

%%%%%%%

“I don't know what I did wrong,” finished Paula, twisting her hands nervously. “She got mad and I don't know why.”

Her mother glanced hurriedly across to check the next load wasn't ready, then turned to Paula again. “When people aren't happy it can be a temptation to take it out on others, especially those who are.”

“She said she was worried, and then she just changed and didn't want to talk to me.”

“Rebecca!” The shout made her mother focus on her own work; Paula moved her hoverboard closer to her father so he could load it up. This one was three bags of flour, heavy on the back and requiring stabilisation, which Paula remained still for while her father adjusted the controls. When it was done, he gave her a thumbs up and she gestured with her gloves, rising away from the site and on the journey to higher ground. It wasn't as easy to handle the unbalanced board; she would have done a lot more, and easier, with a transport hoverboard rather than the jury-rigged family board, but it was more economical and the decree had been that fuel, not time, was of the essence, since they'd planned well in advance. Indeed, today being the day before Big Tide, they had expected to have no more transport to do apart from the people, but someone had been digging too enthusiastically in their garden and cracked an underground storage container, so all of that had to be moved.

She was most of the way there, wind in her face, when a fast personal hoverboard raced up beside her, village elder crouched to stave off the wind. He matched her speed, then unwound and said, “I'll take over from here. Take my board and go back—we need you to persuade people to go.”

“What?” She was already moving, assessing how to swap boards without any risk of either of them tumbling into the trees below while stepping across. “Why?”

He grimaced. “Turns out there are people who haven't prepared and don't want elders coming to help. Your dad suggested you could try and help instead.”

She started to shuck the gloves, then changed her mind and pressed buttons, keying them to the elder's hoverboard instead. As ownership switched, both boards lurched violently, and Paula barely held her position. The elder was wearing magnetic boots and so didn't run the risk of falling. Once she had stabilised it, she said, “So where do I start?”

“Ask your dad when you get back.” His expression was calm and focused as he adjusted the settings to accommodate for his weight. “For now, just get going. Time is of the essence. Big Tide waits for no man.”

#inklings24 #please i want feedback #inklingschallenge #team tolkien #genre: secondary world #theme: admonish #story: unfinished #my writing #if you prefer to read it in google doc form I can provide that also #talk to me about it i beg. i am not good at speed writing #also i do not have a title. thought about one for a while and just didn't like it #so for now it is continuing to be untitled #i am. oddly scared about the idea of sharing this i don't know why

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inklings-challenge · 3 months ago

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Inklings Challenge 2024: Team Tolkien

It is time to officially announce the members of Team Tolkien for the 2024 Inklings Challenge

Members of Team Tolkien are challenged to write a science fiction or fantasy story within the Christian worldview that fits into one of these two genres:

Secondary World Fantasy: Stories that takes place in an imaginary realm that’s completely separate from our world

Time Travel: Stories featuring travel through time

These genres are open to interpretation, and creativity is encouraged. You can use either or both of the prompts within your story, or if you’re feeling ambitious, you can write multiple stories.

Members of Team Tolkien are also asked to use at least one of the following seven Christian themes to inspire some part of their story.

Admonish the sinner

Instruct the ignorant

Counsel the doubtful

Comfort the sorrowful

Bear wrongs patiently

Forgive all injuries

Pray for the living and the dead

Writers are challenged to complete and post their story to a tumblr blog by October 21, 2024, though they are encouraged to post earlier if they finish their story before that date. There is no maximum or minimum word limit. Writers who have not completed their stories before the deadline are encouraged to post whatever they have written by October 21st and post the remainder at a later date. Writers are also welcome to post the entire story after the deadline.

Posting the Stories

All stories will be reblogged and archived on the main Inklings Challenge blog. To assist with organization, writers should tag their posts as follows:

Mention the main Challenge blog @inklings-challenge somewhere within the body of the post (which will hopefully alert the Challenge blog).

Tag the story #inklingschallenge, to ensure it shows up in the Challenge tag, and make it more likely that the Challenge blog will find it.

Tag the team that the author is writing for: #team lewis, #team tolkien, or #team chesterton.

Tag the genre the story falls under: #genre: portal fantasy, #genre: space travel, #genre: secondary world, #genre: time travel, #genre: intrusive fantasy, #genre: earth travel

Tag any themes that were used within the story: #theme: admonish, #theme: instruct, #theme: counsel, #theme: comfort, #theme: patience, #theme: forgive, #theme: pray

Tag the completion status of the story: #story: complete or #story: unfinished

Team Members

The writers assigned to Team Tolkien are:

@anipologist

@bunnyscar

@bytes-and-blessings

@catkin-morgs-kookaburralover

@dragonteaandfairyhoney

@edgeladyramblings

@e-louise-bates

@enjoliquej

@fairytale-lights

@fictionadventurer

@find-the-path

@frominsidetheblanketfort

@galahadiant

@healerqueen

@herbofgraceandpeace

@icwasher

@incomingalbatross

@kanerallels

@ladyminaofcamelot

@larissa-the-scribe

@lilaccatholic

@lydiahosek

@melliabee

@o-lei-o-lai-o-lord

@phoebeamorryce

@physicsgoblin

@plainshobbit

@quill-driver08

@ripple-reader

@rosesnvines

@rowenabean

@screwtornadowarningsimsouthern

@secret--psalms--saturn

@shakespearean-fish

@shaylalaloohoohoo

@shiningshenanigans

@simplyghosting

@siriusfan13

@solovei-solovey

@starknightgirl

@supreme-leader-stoat

@taleweaver-ramblings

@thegreenleavesofspring

@wikipedianna

Writing resources, including the Challenge overview, FAQ, writing prompts, and discussions of the genres are available at the Inklings Challenge Directory. Any writers with further questions can contact the Inklings Challenge blog for guidance.

Welcome to the Inklings Challenge, everyone! Now go forth and create!

#inklingschallenge #inklings challenge 2024 #team tolkien #inklings challenge participants

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thegreenleavesofspring · 2 months ago

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Last Rest

For @inklings-challenge 2024

She leaned on her steering wheel and looked up at the sign. It bathed the parking lot in bloody red and deep orange, the neon Vacancy beneath flickering uninspiringly in and out. This was the last hotel before the desert, and it had less than two stars in rating. The reviews had been an interesting blend of people disappointed that it had not lived up to its haunted reputation, and people disappointed in the poor service and strange happenings that had occurred during their stay. But no one had complained of bugs, so she would give it a shot. There would be - or had been already - a Disturbance out in the desert, and it was her job to manage it.

She cut her engine and stepped out the car. The door fell shut with a thump that seemed both louder and more muffled than usual. She glanced back at it and entered the lobby.

It was warmly lit in sickly yellow, and sparsely populated. A sullen Native teenager scrolled on her phone behind the reception desk, lounging in a desk chair that had seen better days, and a man in impressively meticulous reenactment garb circa the 1850s sat in a squashed hotel lobby armchair with a newspaper, his hat on the low table beside him. He looked up with beetling brows as the woman came in, but made no move to stand or greet her. She nodded to him politely, noting as she did so that the words and dates on his newspaper swam before her eyes.

She moved up to the desk, waiting patiently for the girl behind it to acknowledge her. It took a few seconds for flat dark eyes to meet hers; the teenager deliberately chewed her gum twice more and blew a bubble until it popped and demanded impatiently, "What do you want?"

"Do you have a vacancy?" the woman asked politely.

"Sign says so, doesn't it?" the receptionist answered scornfully.

"I wasn't sure," the woman explained, "since you seen to be having a bit of trouble with it."

The girl muttered and smacked at her computer, as though that would fix the glitchy sign out beside the road. The neon reflection on the granite-patterned laminate desktop stopped flickering and held steady, glowing orange and pink across the red-toned counter. The girl swiveled back to face the front of the desk. "Yeah, we got a vacancy, if you want it."

"I do," the woman said firmly. The girl sneered as if this was the wrong answer to a test, and swung away again to pull out from beneath the desktop a plyboard drawer with the stick-on finish peeling away. Trays of metal doorkeys sat inside, and the girl grabbed one and glided back over to drop it ringing on the laminate. "Room 113."

The woman picked up the key without a flicker of expression and paid in cash and turned to go back out the glass doors. The man in the chair was still watching; staring, even, and he still did not acknowledge her as she passed with another nod.

The desert night air was cool and tasted of lightning, the sky above velvety and unrelieved black. Anemic lights placed at intervals along the outside walkway helped after-sunset guests guess at which door was theirs. It took the woman only a few tries to get the key into the lock, but once it was, it turned smoothly and the door opened to admit her into a room that had the familiar smell and softly humming temperature control unit of a thousand other mid-grade hotels.

The woman flicked on the lights, which glowed to reassuring life, and moved at once to draw the heavy light-blocking curtains over the window. Whatever was out there that night, she did not need to see it, nor it her.

~•~•~•~

The Last Rest breakfast room reeked of grease, which was slightly odd, as eggs and bacon alike were both dry as the dust beyond the windows. The smell lingered in memory of meals past, perhaps.

The woman did not take long to break her fast. She filled her water bottles from the tap in the dining room and slid into her car, pulling away from the hotel and into the desert, her car moving along the road like some black beetle creeping across an unwound ribbon of cracked asphalt. Mirages shimmered skyward off of blacktop and sand alike, fading elusively away as she approached.

She stopped at last, on a stretch of road indistinguishable from the rest of the road around it, and got out. The Disturbance tugged at her, and she followed that pull, deeper into the desert, until the ribbon of road with its thermal illusions vanished behind her. Her car turned into a toy, and then a dark speck, and then dwindled into insignificant invisibility. She kept trudging on, the sand shifting treacherously beneath her soles, the sun an oppressive unrelenting weight on her head and shoulders.

She stopped at the rim of a valley. The vegetation here was sparse; a snake hissed away into the sand. Skeletal remains jutted skyward, bleached bone white by the sun. The wood of the wagons, exposed to the elements once more by wind-whipped shifting sands, lay broken and scattered; the metal frames for canvas covers that were long rotted away stood tall and stooped like broken monuments to sorrow. The skull of an ox grinned up at her.

She slid carefully sideways down into the valley. One of many, but this one was Disturbed. She walked fearlessly among the wagons, the ancient vehicles tilted forlornly to their sides, or decayed until only the tongues were left, bones scattered among them, chips of pottery and clay, a single glimmering fragment of glass. There was no sign of what had caused the Disturbance, and she stood in the very middle of the ring, hands on her hips as she looked around. A hawk screamed somewhere high overhead.

She had Observed. Solemnly she turned to scramble back up the hill, glancing back into the valley only briefly as she attained the top. Not a breath of air, no small animal, nothing stirred below, the scene caught frozen in an endless moment of time. She turned away and started back towards the far distant road.

The steering wheel burned her hands. She sat with the air condition running, sipping water, until it cooled down enough to touch. She drove back up the road, heat shimmering deceptively on its surface, the sun pooling her car's shadow on the grimy sand beside the pavement. Before her, stars shimmered to life in velvet blackness, and the neon lights of Last Rest rose out of the desert, orange and crimson and green.

The smell of dinner clung to the dining room, meat and vegetables and savory sauces. She sat taking small forkfuls of flavorless mashed potatoes and some sort of dry, chewy, unidentifiable meat. Her back was in the corner, a heavily tinted window to one side, her other open to the dining room and the lobby beyond. Her dinner was neither appetizing nor interesting, and so she was rather glad of the distraction when the front door opened to admit a group of people.

Men, women, and children, all of them tired and dusty and wearing reenactment clothes with the same level of detail as the lobby-man when she had checked in. Men doffed their hats and looked around wearily; women adjusted their grip on the hands of children and swaddled babies in their arms. One gentleman squared his shoulders and stepped forward, apparently the spokesman of the group. He went up to the Native girl behind the desk, who looked up with a shattering lack of interest, and clutched his hat and cleared his throat and said, "We are seeking rest. Can you give us rest? A place to rest?"

"I can offer you rooms for the night, if you can pay for them," the girl said, still supremely disinterested. Outside, the Vacancy sign flickered, washing the faces of those before and behind the desk an eerie red.

"We can pay for them," the man said in relief, and reached into a ragged pocket to pull out handfuls of bills. The woman, watching as she slowly chewed, could not quite see the denominations on the bills, and it gave her a headache to try. Behind the spokesman, a baby started crying. Somewhere out in the desert night, a dog howled, long and mournful.

The woman went to bed.

~•~•~•~

The group was at breakfast, too. There was a baby crying again, but by and large they seemed to be enjoying the rather tasteless food rather more than the woman was. She did not look too closely at their plates, and lingered over her coffee, muddy and bitter as it was, while they departed. Only one man remained, in the corner farthest from hers, his hat on the table in front of him. She recognized him from her first night at the hotel, and he watched her when she stood to leave but did not move himself.

The dust of the parking lot was crossed and recrossed with footprints. She did not look at them too carefully, but slid into her car and drove into the desert.

Gone were the wrecked ruins of wagons, weathered by nearly two centuries of sun and scouring wind. Gone were skulls bleached white. Canvas flapped tattered and forlorn on metal wagon arches. Horses whickered and oxen lowed, heads drooping, and the people from the hotel milled about aimlessly. A large black dog lay panting in the shade of one of the wagons, ears pricked alertly as it watched the slow-moving river of activity around it.

The woman slithered down the side of the sandhill into the gathering. None of the people seemed surprised to see her or alarmed by her advent, and she walked freely among them, helping to hitch horses to wagon tongues and dig wheels out of the shifting sands, ignoring the feeling of grass brushing against her legs. A child scrambled up into the back of one wagon.

It took all day to get the little band ready to move. They took little initiative of their own but moved gladly to follow her directions. The dog lunged to its feet and, panting, rounded the wagon out of sight. The sun reached its zenith and started down again. The woman drank from her water bottles; the wagon people drank from buckets and dippers that did not drip. The horizon turned orange and scarlet, the land a dark slash beneath the massive setting sun. Shadows wavered thin across the ground.

The spokesman approached the woman, hat in his hands. "What do we do now?"

She looked out across the desert, still and shimmering with heat. A path of deep amber stretched out from the setting western sun, and she pointed to it. "Follow the light to your destination."

The man turned to look. His eyes did not reflect the sun, though it fell full on his face. But he nodded in comprehension, and turned to smile at the woman, looking her full in the eyes for the first time. A shiver whispered down her spine, but she ignored it, smiling back. "Thank you," the man said. "We will."

The woman stood watching as the wagon train rolled out, her hand over her eyes as she squinted into the sun. The party was heading due west, dark silhouettes against the sinking sun that shrank to tiny dark dots far too rapidly and quickly vanished. The eastern night reached out cold fingers to brush the back of her neck and she shivered, turning away from the dying light towards the darkness.

Her car was a black blob on the road. The dim glow of the interior lights when she opened the door seemed incongruously bright, and she closed the door hastily on whatever might lurk in the desert beyond and turned on the ignition. The road rolled out before her, an endless line of asphalt, and time slipped away beneath the rubber of her tires as she drove.

The red and orange lights of the Last Rest sign rose up before her, the sullen actinic white of the building lights casting small pools of illumination that did nothing beyond their dull boundaries. The Vacancy sign had gone dark, invisible in the desert night.

The woman passed by the hotel, glancing through the plate glass windows of the lobby as she did so. A man sat in a lobby armchair, a brown hat on the table beside him. A girl's dark head was bent over her phone behind the desk. Neither glanced around at the passing car.

The woman drove on, the hotel shrinking in her mirrors, the lights of civilization a distant white glow ahead.

#inklingschallenge #team tolkien #genre: time travel #theme: comfort #story: complete

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kanerallels · 2 months ago

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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.

#inklingschallenge #team tolkien #inklings challenge #genre: time travel #theme: counsel #theme: comfort #story: complete #this actually turned out so much better than i thought it would #there were. some moments #but i like the vibes #also now i'm obsessed with two of these ocs and need to feature them in more content #fun fact this could and probably does exist in the same universe as my kyvis stories #which is a HILARIOUS concept that i shall have to explore more #anyway i digress #i'd apologize for how overboard i went with the playlist BUT #a) you can just ignore it if you want to #and b) it's a masterpiece and i love it so much #it's for the VIBES GUYS #and i haven't spent this long waiting to find a character that fits how do i say goodbye only to not share when i do find one #MOVING ON #writing stories is a kind of magic too

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incomingalbatross · 2 months ago

Text

Castaway

Well. Here is SOMETHING for the @inklings-challenge. Thank you as always for the challenge! I had some trouble with this one, and am not sure how it ultimately came out in terms of completeness, but I am attached to it and glad that it's written.

Team: Tolkien (time travel)

Theme: Instruct the ignorant

---

The thing of it was, when a person washes up on your beach, it’s presumably your responsibility to take some kind of care of him. This goes double for unfortunate teenagers who have already taken on other extraordinary responsibilities, like “battling the forces of chaos and darkness;” as has been said more eloquently elsewhere, somehow the consequence of stepping up for hard jobs is that you turn more and more into The Person Who Does The Hard Jobs.

Which meant that, in between maintaining their equipment for sealing up cracks in reality, trying to figure out where the cause of said cracks would strike next, and looking over potential colleges for next year, Kathleen was sitting by a Mysterious Stranger’s bedside and wondering what they’d do with him when he woke up.

“What if he’s dangerous?” she observed — half to be contrary, but not without genuine anxiety — to her brother.

Brian shrugged. “He didn’t seem like it when I found him.” Maybe because he’d been the one to find the young man lying in the surf, or because he was the only one so far who’d seen him with his eyes open, Brian’s eyes held much more concern than wariness. “Seemed scared.”

“Which doesn’t contradict ‘dangerous.’”

“No, but we definitely shouldn’t start by giving him more reasons to be scared.”

Kathleen was about to answer, when something caught her eye. She could swear the man’s eyebrow had twitched, which was an odd movement for an unconscious person…

She narrowed her eyes, scrutinizing his face and breathing.

“He’s faking,” she said accusatorily.

Brian followed her gaze. “He is?”

For a second, they both just watched the man. He remained very still.

Then he groaned and opened his eyes.

“Oh no,” he said in a monotone, looking from one ot the other of them. “Two teenagers are holding me captive. I’m so scared.”

And that was the first thing Kathleen learned about Brian’s mystery beach rescue; he was sarcastic, proud, and, if he didn’t get over those traits, likely to be killed by his own ego.

The second thing she and Brian learned was that (in keeping with her first impression) he was astoundingly uncooperative.

"Where am I?" he demanded, and then blinked at their answer (Nantucket) as if he wasn't sure it actually meant anything. "What day is it?" and "How did I get here?" also got polite responses, and no clear reactions from him. When they started asking questions, though, he apparently had never heard of fair recompense -- he clammed right up.

“What’s your name?” Hostile glare.

“Where are you from?” Silence.

“Do your remember how you ended up on the beach?” Defensively hunched shoulders, and an even more hostile glare.

Brian stood up and stretched. “Are you hungry?”

“…I suppose.”

Finally. Things their mystery guest would respond to, apparently: 1) a chance for him to make a snarky response and 2) offers of food.

Unfortunately, this was not a breakthrough. The evening continued in a frustrating vein, as their guest unbent enough for sarcasm but not for information. He seemed to be judging them on one level or another at every moment -- he was baffled by their food choices, observed dinner prep with silent scrutiny, and glared fiercely at Kathleen's phone. After dinner, he requested paper and a pen, and then huddled in a corner with the notebook Brian found for him and began scribbling away at it.

“Shouldn’t we decide what to do with him, now that he’s awake?” Kathleen urged Brian. “We should at least make him explain something.”

Brian, stubborn as always, shook his head. “There’s a ot we haven’t explained to him yet,” he answered, “and he’s a lot more disoriented than we are. I say let him think some stuff through, and then wait for a good chance to break the ice again.”

“A chance?” she repeated. “And what kind of chance is that going to be--”

The household siren went off.

“This might be it!” Brian leapt up. Kathleen hurried after him, stopping in the entryway to grab their equipment before running outside.

Evil never rests, and neither did the aforementioned forces of darkness and chaos. It had been a while since one showed up directly in front of the house, though.

Behind them, their guest -- apparently also capable of being moved by curiosity, or at leas sirens -- stumbled to a halt at the sight of the rip in the evening air. Strange lights twisted through it, like sun glittering off of waves, or snowflakes spinning in the wind, and discordant sounds came through.

Kathleen pulled a sheaf of papers out of her pack, handed one copy to Brian, and unfolded her own. “If you want to help, read over our shoulders,” she said to the guest. Then she took a deep breath…

And began, as usual in these situations, to sing the Psalms with Brian.

It didn’t have to be psalms; they’d gotten good results with anything they really knew well, sacred or secular, and sometimes you needed something you knew all the words to. But chanting the Office wasn’t hard, as long as you paid attention, and you never really ran out of material. The even, measured progression of verses worked just as well as modern music’s strict meter, if not a little better.

By the time they wrapped up the final Gloria Patri, the rip had closed itself, knitting back together into plain air without anything coming through.

Kathleen sighed in relief.

“Did you just sing that shut?” their guest demanded.

All right, so maybe it was an ice-breaker. Kathleen looked at his wild eyes, and decided to take pity on him.

“Sort of,” she explained. “We don’t know exactly what these are, but they… they destabilize things, left untreated. They mess with… order. Reality. It’s messy.”

“So we treat them with order,” Brian added. “Order and harmony and stability. Reciting poetry can work too, if you really concentrate, but singing is the best defense. It usually works as long as we catch them soon enough!”

“I know it’s freaky --“ Kathleen began.

But the man cut her off. “Singing,” he repeated incredulously. “That’s -- it’s so primitive --”

Kathleen’s eyebrows climbed toward her scalp. “Do you have a better suggestion?” she asked. “Any input on our local threat to reality that we’ve been trying to figure out for five months?”

If anything, this made him look more furiously stunned. “I -- that --”

He looked between them, as if searching for a sign. Then, abruptly, he thrust forward the notebook Brian had given him.

Kathleen took it, Brian crowding next to her, and looked down at the page.

October 25th, 2022?

Once upon a time, there was a man who had grown up in a place of darkness and dangers.

"The world is splintering," someone (who?) told him, when he was small. "All we can do is try to stop the cracks."

He believed this, solemnly, and he grew up training himself to fight. The darkness and the dangers were not natural things -- or not wholly, anyway -- there were people who encouraged them, made them worse (why? why would anyone?). Seeing the results, the instabilities of the world in their wake, filled him with horror from his youth. There were other people, of course, who thought and planned and built to repair those instabilities -- but he was a fighter to his core.

(Who did he fight?)

One day, there came a day when he was on an expedition with other fighters, and those they protected, striking out from their stronghold to stop another danger to the world. When they found the wicked people, the man took the lead in the fight. Alone at the front, the enemy surrounded him. There was a moment when he understood, fully and darkly, that he had fallen into their power.

Then all was dark.

(Who was he? What was the enemy? Who were his comrades? Where did he live? What were the dangers? What was his name?

What is my name?)

“...Oh,” Kathleen said, looking back at their mystery guest. A mystery, apparently, to himself as well.

“I recognize the disturbances,” he said, looking not at them but at where the rip had been. His fists were clenched. “Nothing else. This -- what I wrote is all I have. Just an outline, like a story in my head. Everything since waking up here has been strange to me, and what I can remember is blurred.”

Kathleen looked at Brian in silent consultation. They’d been dealing with these disturbances for months, but he’d been fighting them all his life. What he’d written sounded remote, not just in form but in content, and if his memories were true…

“There’s something else that might help,” Brian said quietly. “We think… we think the rips might be openings between worlds. Or between times.”

Their guest closed his eyes, but then nodded. Somehow, he looked steadier than he had all day. "Well," he said, straightening, "I suppose even knowing that is something."

And Kathleen realized, with a sudden twinge of empathy, that sometimes the Hard Job they had to do was, in fact, just giving the news of a new job description to someone else. Like every other Hard Job, this one promised to be more work down the road... but at least neither they nor the castaway was figuring it out alone, she supposed.

"You tell us about the rips," she said, handing back his journal, "and we'll explain frozen pizza."

#inklingschallenge #team tolkien #genre: time travel #theme: instruct #i WANT there to be a part two with more time travel but we shall see

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icwasher · 2 months ago

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My first idea for the @inklings-challenge (the space cowboys one) did not work out. I pumped this out tonight, and I'm actually pretty pleased with it!

✠ ✠ ✠

Title: Honor Among Devils

Summary: Erebus, a thief and conman, steals a magical object from an illustrious mage. After being captured, an unexpected ally frees him, sparking an inner conflict over the darkness of his heart.

✠ ✠ ✠

And here, displayed on these ink-ridden pages, the musings of a man who should have been a poet, but was forced to be something else. Something some would deem greater, something others would deem lesser. And, by others, something deemed a combination of the two. - An excerpt from the private journal of Erebus Penn

✠ ✠ ✠

Among the scum and villainy of the Harbor, I considered myself an honorable man.

The description might not hold under the scrutiny of the nobles, or under the eye of the Church, but from the perspective of a part-time gambler, part-time thief, and all-time conman, I was, for all intents and purposes, incredibly honorable.

“You toe a dangerous line” my mother had often told me, usually after I returned from an escapade picking fights with older boys, who had picked fights on weaker boys, who were unable to defend themselves.

“Angel or devil,” my father had said. “Sinner or saint. You must choose one. You cannot be both.”

Well, I thought differently. There was no honor in devilry—stealing and maiming for the sole purpose of profit (or among the more twisted, pleasure). Nor was there honor in sainthood—for saints were often killed, and their names were cursed by drunken sailors who had long given up on faith.

And honor, cursed as it may be, was a goal I could not help but aspire to.

The streets of the harbor were slowly growing dark, the grime so visible during the day falling under a mask of inky black. I strode along the cobblestone road, hands in my pockets, whistling a tune under my breath. My shoes, polished to a shine so bright I could see my reflection on the tow, made soft tapping sounds on the stones. A beat for the tune I whistled.

And a warning for those who lurked in the shadows.

This night was one that often appeared in my musings. For a good long while, I was not certain why the memory wished so ardently to appear on the pages of my journal, but when I finally set my quill to the parchment and honored its request to be written, the memory revealed all of its secrets to me.

Lights were turned off, curtains drawn closed. A part of me liked to think that the reaction was due to my passing. I enjoyed toying with the idea of people cowering in fear before me. Yet the other part of me, the part that still yearned for the golden cathedrals with their colored windows and marble statues, recoiled at the very idea of having a reputation that sparked such fear.

“What sort of dark path must you be falling down,” I said to himself, “that you would wish for people to fear you?”

The people’s reaction wasn’t for me, though, so I pushed my worries aside and continued on my way.

It was soon completely dark, black as pitch. For the briefest of moments, I could no longer see my way. I had it memorized, I could make the turns with my eyes closed, yet I stopped, and waited for the lights.

They blinked into existence slowly, little golden rectangles and arches high on the hill above. Slowly they wound around the incline, growing brother and larger until the palace itself began to come to life.

Nobles were nocturnal creatures. I had learned this during my time as one of them. Their parties would begin at dusk, and continue until the last dregs of the night. The nobles would be asleep before sunrise, and they would only wake in time to prepare themselves for the next party.

It was not the sounds of the parties that I was waiting for, however.

No, I was waiting for the Vallant.

They did not arrive in the same fashion that nobles did. The Vallant were more subtle, their cloaks richly embroidered, yes, and their tunics made of fine cloth, but of dark colors, and decorated with thread that would only shine under the direct light of the moon.

I could see the Vallant now, jumping over rooftops, the moonlight lingering on their cloaks briefly, so I could only see brief flashes of their visages. I could not help but watch in awe, standing alone in the middle of the street, my eyes wide.

But this position provided a horrible vantage point. I stepped off the street and found a drainpipe to shimmy up. I alighted upon the roof and settled comfortably on the tile, content to sit and watch the activities of the Vallant as they trained and performed throughout the night.

I had long since wanted to learn their magic, which allowed them to pass through the shadows unseen, to turn into particles of light and travel from one spot to another thousands of miles away. They could jump from roof to roof with not a single fear of falling.

For they could fly. They could soar. They had invisible wings that could carry them high enough to touch the stars.

And I would give anything just to brush a finger over a star.

Tonight, though, I wasn’t here to watch the Vallant.

I was here to steal.

Luckily for me, a Vallant saw me sitting on the roof, a black silhouette against the flickering lights of the Hill. The figure in its resplendent cape leaped toward me until it landed on the building beside the one I sat on. The Vallant perched on the chimney like a bird prepared for flight, the cape waving gently behind it.

“You are not supposed to be out after dark,” said the Vallant. The voice was female and sounded like the thrum of a fiddle. Her cloak was deep blue, decorated with hundreds of twinkling stars. They were diamonds, I saw, framed by starbursts embroidered with shimmery silver thread.

“I am not supposed to do many things,” said I, tilting my head to look directly into the Vallant’s eyes. Shrouded by the hood of the cloak as they were, I could only make out their vivid purple color. “It is unfortunate that the majority of the things I wish to do fall under that category.”

The Vallant was not amused. “I advise you to return to your home. The others are not as lenient as I.”

“Hmm.” I leaned back, showing that I had no intention of leaving. “I was under the impression that you were supposed to hunt Shadows and capture criminals, not argue with simple folk who wish to watch the lights of the Hill.”

The Vallant’s brilliant eyes narrowed. “Perhaps you are a criminal.”

I grinned, my teeth flashing brilliantly white in the dark. “In that, my dear, you are horrifyingly right.”

And I sprung from my perch.

I leaped upon her, fingers grasping around her throat. I had seen the glint of silver there as the wind shifted her cloak. My hand came back clasped around a silver necklace embedded with emeralds and pearls. Yet it was not the worth of the gems that intrigued me. A Vallant did not wear jewelry out of mere vanity—there would be something more to this necklace.

Likely, I thought, a cache of magical energy.

The Vallant wasted no time in attempting to take the necklace back, but I had already slithered away, jumping across the space between roofs. My feet hit the tile with a scrape and then I was running.

I heard the Vallant turn sharply and chase after me, her feet casting sharp thumps on the tile. She was faster than I—I couldn’t beat around that fact—but I knew the streets better than she did. I could tell that from the way she hesitated before following me down an alley or leaping to another roof.

The Vallant didn’t know where she was going.

I smiled. “Perhaps they should train you better!” I called.

The Vallant growled. “They train us perfectly well!”

And she dissipated into a thousand tiny particles of light.

I reached for my knife warily, waiting for her to reappear. I hadn’t forgotten about that particular ability the Vallant had, but I had foolishly believed this necklace would be her only cache of magic.

Clearly, I was wrong.

I felt the hairs on the back of my neck stand up and I turned, seeing the Vallant emerge from the golden sparks.

She jumped on me, wrapping her arms around my neck.

I fought down the panic that was threatening to rise in me. I placed my hands around her wrists and shoved, trying to remove her viselike grip.

I had no luck.

My vision began to spot as the Vallant squeezed harder. Her hood had fallen off, revealing a pale face and white-blonde hair that had fallen from its careful braid. Her expression was furious. I could almost feel her white-hot anger that was directed, unfortunately, at my neck.

In the corner of my dim field of vision, I saw another Vallant appear in a cloud of sparkling light. This Vallant—male, with shockingly orange hair—knelt down and carefully plucked the emerald necklace from my weak hands. I could not even attempt to tighten my grip, and let the Vallant take the piece.

At least, I told myself I was making the decision myself. I knew I really had no choice—and no ability—to do anything else.

The female Vallant pressed harder, and I saw hazy darkness overtake my vision. Only then did I fight, did I writhe and scream and shout for help. But the black forced itself upon me, and I succumbed.

✠ ✠ ✠

Despite having spent three years of my life gallivanting with the nobility, I had yet to see the throne room.

It was, admittedly, very grand. Gold covered almost every surface, coating the statues that lined the walls, gilding the throne, and even dusted on the King’s skin and hair.

The male Vallant who had assisted in my capture pushed me to the floor, the chains around my neck jerking against me painfully. I reached up to touch the collar, pulling it so there was a bit of distance between the cold, grating metal and my skin. Already, a raw line was present on my neck.

Again, I considered the nocturnal nature of the nobility.

The King, dressed in rich red velvet and draped in silks, studied me. “Why have you brought this common thief before me, Vallant Cadmus?”

The man bowed, saying, “It is not my complaint, but rather my companion’s.”

The King turned to the female Vallant I had stolen from. “Vallant Khione, what is your complaint?”

The girl stepped forward, her nose pointed to the floor. “This man stole my necklace and attempted to run off with it. I was able to intercept him using light displacement, even though the theft of the necklace severely depleted my access to magical energy.”

“How fascinating.” The King turned to the male—Vallant Cadmus. “Do you not train your apprentices better than this.”

The female—Khione—flushed as Cadmus said, “She is most resistant in following my teachings.”

“A sorry fact that must be fixed with discipline.” The King gave Khione a chilling smile. “I shall leave it up to your master to decide upon the punishment.”

Again, Khione bowed, her eyes closed.

While I was fascinated with the inner workings of the Vallant, I would much rather speak of my punishment. “Pardon, your Majesty,” I said, ignoring the appalled looks my words sparked in the two Vallant. “I would greatly appreciate a chance to speak for myself. Is that not how these courts work?”

I could see the King grit his teeth, but he nodded.

I smiled. “My defense is not against the accusations against me—I did steal from Vallant Khione. Her necklace was incredibly tempting, but not for its monetary value.” I fixed my eyes on the female Vallant, shivering under her cool glare. “I cared only for the magic the jewels possessed.”

“You must know that magic is only to be held by the Vallant,” said Khione, throwing her hand into the air. “It would be a crime to use it yourself—a crime, that, like this one, would result in your immediate death.”

“I am of the opinion that it should not be a crime,” I said.

One of her pale brows raised. “The stealing or the using of magic?”

“The latter.”

She frowned at this.

“Nevertheless,” said Vallant Cadmus, “the man has committed a crime—high treason against the Crown.”

“Now, that seems like a bit much, does it not?” I said, masking my nerves with a tone that conveyed I was telling a joke. “I simply wished to have a chance to fly.”

Both the King and the two Vallant turned their cool gazes upon me. I raised my hands in pretend submission.

“He should be hanged!” cried Khione. “Justice must be served!”

“I agree,” said the King. “He laid a hand on one of my Vallant, be it a product of her negligence or not. Send him to the dungeons, and I will have him hanged with the upcoming round of traitors.”

“Yes, my King,” said Vallant Cadmus.

He took me by the chains and dragged me from the throne room.

✠ ✠ ✠

The first warning I received was that the dripping—the dripping that had been aggravating me from the moment I stepped into my cell—stopped.

I slowly sat up, having been lying on my cot, and peered around the dungeon. From my cell, I could see the smallest bit of the common area, where the guards played a game of cards at a rickety little table.

They were no longer playing the card game, for they were no longer there.

Alarm immediately coursed through me. I automatically reached for my boots, preparing to pull the knife I kept there out, before remembering that the guards had relieved me of my weapons upon entering the dungeon.

The second warning I received was when the shadows covered every cell but mine.

My eyes went wide as saucers and I pressed against the wall, watching the pools of black creep across the dungeon floor, sinking into the stones in little rivulets. The shadows shrouded both cells next to me and the common area, yet stopped at the bars of my cell.

After a moment, I deemed it safe to come away from my position pressed up against the wall, and stepped close to the shadows that pooled outside my cell. Mesmerized, I reached out a finger to touch the shadows.

“I would not.”

The voice startled me, and I jumped back, both hands raised in fists.

A figure stepped out of the shadows, which billowed like smoke around him. He was draped in black wool embroidered with a deeper black. The hood of his cloak covered all but his mouth, which was set in a neutral line.

A Shadow.

I balked, returning to the wall.

I had no love of Shadows, the same as every sane person who had ever heard of their existence. They were heartless murderers, serving only the darkness.

The last time I had seen one was when they killed my family.

I did not know why this one was here now.

The mouth shifted into a smirk. “Do not be afraid. I have come to set you free.”

Of course. I laughed softly. “And you think I’ll believe you.”

“It would be dangerous not to.” The Shadow moved closer to the bars, then passed through them, the edges of his body turning into clouds of shadowy black smoke. He reformed in my cell, shoulders rolling back as if the use of magic had left him with a crick in his muscles.

“I’m sure it would,” I said as I inched away.

He only stepped closer.

“We reward those who stand against the Light,” he said, lifting a hand. I flinched away, expecting him to utilize magic and disfigure me in some morbid way, but he only lessened the shadows so that I could see better.

At my reaction, he laughed. It was an awful sound, and I fought to not cringe away. “Erebus Penn,” said the Shadow, “poet, conman, gambler.” He smiled, showing bloodstained teeth. “And, as of the last hour, master thief.”

I shivered.

“It is an honor to steal from the Light, you know,” said the Shadow. “It is my—and my order’s—greatest calling. If only you had not been caught. The power in that necklace could have been twisted so wonderfully. We could have used it.”

He crept closer to me. “But for your tenacity, I wish to reward you. Honor among devils, Erebus. I shall do the good thing and offer you freedom. And perhaps someday, you will assist my order again.”

I did not tell him that I had no desire to help him and his order. I only nodded, desperate to escape this cell—and my death.

“Very good.” He pressed both hands together, and a shadowy arch appeared in the wall of my cell, revealing an empty courtyard beyond. “Go to your freedom. Escape this city. Then, when you are ready, call for me. I will find you.”

He disappeared.

✠ ✠ ✠

I wasted no time in crawling through the arch. There was no one in the courtyard, and I shuddered to think of what the Shadow might have done to the guards. I had no doubt they would kill me on sight, but the guards likely had families, children, who would be grieved to find them missing.

I tried not to dwell on it as I made my way out of the city.

There was a stark contrast between the city and the land beyond it. A wall separated the two, the streets turning immediately from neat, though grimy, cobblestone to dirt. The clutter of buildings that was the city abruptly turned into vast acres of empty land, the landscape peppered with trees and bushes, the mountains in the distance.

I traveled along the road for a bit, then decided that if the Vallant deemed to look for me, they would search along the road first. So I stepped off of it and continued through the long grass, hidden from immediate view.

The stars and moon were my only source of illumination. I followed them religiously, my eyes flitting to check my course almost every minute.

I was traveling North, away from the city and to the wilder lands, where the Vallant had little authority and where the Church kept the Shadows at bay.

As streaks of orange and pink began to touch the horizon, I saw a cathedral in the distance, the rising sun framing the bell tower in brilliant gold. It was to the East, far enough away that my course would be greatly disrupted should I go in that direction.

Even now I do not know why I changed course. Perhaps it was the distant yearnings of my heart—I had long missed the cathedrals. Or perhaps it was because I knew the Church would be safe.

But the explanation did not matter. What mattered was that my feet turned, and then I was walking to the cathedral.

It did not take me long to reach the elegant building, with its tall, arched windows and intricate stonework. I wearily climbed the stairs and rapped once on the big wooden doors.

I did not expect anyone to answer and was prepared to break in if needed, but then the doors swung open and a short man dressed in a plain brown robe poked his head through the crack.

A smile lit up his face. “Welcome, young one. Come warm yourself inside.”

I stepped into the cathedral gratefully, my breath taken away by the sheer magnitude of the room.

Even the King’s throne room, drowning in gold and wealth, could not compare to the beauty that was this cathedral. The windows climbed all the way to the ceiling, the brilliantly colored panels of glass depicting scenes from the Saints’ stories and scenes from the Maker’s Book. The sunlight filtered in through the windows, casting a colorful pattern on the floors and pews.

An altar stood at the far end of the cathedral, centered underneath a skylight. The sun had not risen enough for the light to pass through that particular window, but I had no doubt that when the time was right, the sun would cast a golden halo around the altar.

The Priest must have noticed my awe, for he said, “It is beautiful, is it not?”

I nodded, my gaze still transfixed on the intricate carvings that framed the windows.

“Have you not been to a cathedral before?” asked the Priest.

“Not in a long while,” I said, finally looking at the Priest.

He tilted his head. “Why ever not?”

The questions Priests asked. I supposed it was part of their trade—it is their job to ask why one does not attend church. Still, I did not want to answer.

I did anyway.

“I have . . . fallen out of the practice.”

The Priest did not frown, as I thought he would. He only nodded. “Is there a particular reason why you have not attended a service recently?”

There were a thousand reasons, but I only gave one. “I am a criminal, Priest. The Maker’s Book condemns those like me.”

“And he forgives those like you, too.” The Priest lay his hands on my shoulders. “It does not matter what you have done. He will forgive it all. Hw will forgive you.”

“I do not think you will be saying those words when I tell you what I have done.”

He told me to tell him.

I did.

I recounted my tale, starting with my childhood, telling him that I was raised in the Harbor with little to eat. I recounted how the Shadows came when I was thirteen, killing my family. I told him that I escaped with nothing but the clothes on my back, and had to resort to stealing to survive. I told him that the local Priest banned me from the church because I continued to steal from its coffers. I told him about how I climbed up the ranks of one of the Harbor’s gangs, conning and gambling and cheating my way to the top. I told him about how I was betrayed by my sceond-in-command and left, again, to starve. I had been eighteen. I told him of the nights I spent watching the Vallant, dreaming of flying. I told him of how, three years after the betrayal, I stole from a young Vallant girl, and about how the Shadow came to visit me before my execution. I told him that I had been freed by the Darkness, and how I had come here to escape.

He was silent for a few minutes after I spoke. Then he said, “You are still conflicted.”

I started. “How—how did you know?”

“It is in your voice,” he said with a smile. “What conflicts you?”

I looked down, rubbing my fingers over the smoothly polished back of the pew. “I thought my actions were warranted. Only the Vallant have magic. Is it unfair that the common folk cannot wield it. I’ve always wanted to fly.” I picked at a fleck of white paint that was on the pew. “Yet when the Shadow condoned my actions . . .”

“You believe the Shadows are evil, yes?” said the Priest.

I nodded.

“Then think. If they approve of your choices, what does that say about you?”

“I am evil,” I said promptly.

The Priest raised both brows.

“Fine,” I said, squirming. “Not evil. But my actions were.”

The Priest raised his brows further.

“I—I am evil?”

He sighed. “We all are. Darkness corrupts even the most pure of hearts—even mine. All but the Maker’s. You—” He poked my chest. “You are just listening to the Darkness, obeying it. It is corrupting your heart, turning it to stone.”

Crossing my arms over my chest, I said grumpily, “Do you realize that’s not helping?”

“I am not finished,” said the Priest. “It is corrupting you, yes, but you can let the Light back in.”

“The Light will pierce the Darkness and vanquish it,” I quoted. “Yes, I know. But I cannot—no Priest will accept you.”

“You should not seek the acceptance of Priests,” said the Priest. He walked away from me, and I thought he was leaving, but then he reached into a row of pews and procured a beaten tray with a pitcher on it. I only then realized my thirst, and gladly accepted the cup he offered me. “Seek only the Maker.”

“That is a bit difficult when no Priest will let you into a cathedral.”

“I let you in, did I not?” asked the Priest.

I smiled. “I suppose you did.”

The Priest patted my arm. “Come, son. I will show you the tower, where there is a room where you can stay.”

I stepped back a pace. “I cannot.”

“Yes, you can.”

“Then allow me to pay you.” I reached into my pocket. “I doubt you want stolen coin, but it is all I have—”

A hand forestalled mine. “No payment is required. All I ask is that you join me in my morning readings of the Maker’s Book.”

“ . . . that is all?”

His smile, already large, only widened. “Yes.”

I tucked the coins back into my pocket and considered. It was my best offer, and should the Vallant come after me, I would be protected by the Church. The same would be true should the Shadows seek me out.

Yet, it wasn’t the protection the cathedral offered that drew me in. It was the offer of teachings, to join a Priest in his pursuance of the Light.

So I lifted my chin and said, “I accept you offer.”

#inklingschallenge #team tolkien #genre: secondary world #theme: admonish #story: complete #writing #short story

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ladyminaofcamelot · 3 months ago

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He reached out a hand to help her to her feet, and she scrambled backward. That was the hand which held the dagger, the hand that killed her husband, and killed her with its touch. He gave an amused smile at her fear. “What’s wrong? I’m only a simple poet, not some ghost or master of arms. I can’t do you any harm."

"I'm not so intimidating, am I?" “No,” she replied with a glance at the bells on his hat. “I suppose not.”

For @inklings-challenge 2024! Posted on Ao3 because I think things are easier to read there than on Tumblr (and because I wanted to add some warning tags). The story is a little bluntly allegorical (I've always struggled to be subtle) but hopefully it will still touch some in a meaningful way.

#inklingschallenge #team tolkien #genre: secondary world #genre: time travel #theme: admonish #theme: instruct #theme: comfort #theme: patience #theme: forgive #story: complete

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lady-merian · 6 days ago

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Seeds of Community

finally finished my 2023 @inklings-challenge story! Once again a huge thank you to @valiantarcher, who has read this almost as many times as I have and caught many errors for me. Posting the whole thing from the beginning rather than reblogging the old post with the new parts added on.

>>——>

The knock at the door gave Rose Bryar a start at first, but halfway to the door she realized it was probably a neighbor who had missed her family at the kirk services yesterday and was coming to check on them.

It was not.

Or not a near neighbor, at any rate, considering the young man on the doorstep only made it to the services once in a while. She knew his name, and that he had no family nearby, and lived some distance away, and very little else.

“Erran,” she said, hoping he didn’t notice her disappointment. If it’d been a concerned neighbor offering help she could’ve used it, if only to set her husband’s mind at ease that the work would get done. “Is there something I can do for you?”

“I thought, actually, that there might be something I could do for you.” Erran held up the bulging bag he carried. “I have so many apples on my trees right now, I’d thought to bring some to you all when I saw you on Sunday, and then I asked when you weren’t there and heard your husband had taken ill. I hope it’s nothing too serious.”

There was some trepidation in his bearing that hadn’t been there a moment before. He shifted awkwardly and rubbed the back of his neck with his free hand.

Two surprises in one day. Whether because of the distance he lived that kept him from attending kirk services every week, or some other reason, he had not gained many ties to the rest of the community. Though he was a few years older than Alastair, her oldest, he had not seemed to have much in common with him, let alone any of her younger children. That he would take the time to visit when he hardly knew them was one thing, that he had cared enough to save some apples for them rather than sell his surplus was another.

“Ill? Well, yes, in a matter of speaking.” She beckoned him in out of the chill wind. Erran’s tunic was looking a mite threadbare. Her oldest boys were out at their chores, but she’d seen to it they were well bundled before they set out.

“He was mending the thatch and took a hard fall. The broken leg would be hard enough, but he isn’t comfortable getting about on crutches just yet, the bruising was that bad.”

Erran entered. If he had been afraid of the illness spreading it ought not to trouble him any longer, but a glance at him showed the same hesitancy. He had to duck under the herbs that hung from the roof. Perhaps she’d misjudged and he was simply nervous and slow to get acquainted with his neighbors.

But then he smiled and waved to the twins, to Lachlan, to Shona, and to Isie who was minding the youngest while she carded wool for Shona to spin.

“They said at kirk that at least the harvest was well in, but I hear there’s never really a good time for a croft to be short handed. I’ve little experience but if there’s anything I can do…” He trailed off.

She was, absurdly, filled with the urge to ease his mind. She took the offered apples.

“If it’s help you’re offering, I’d be most grateful, but it’s my husband you’ll have to talk to.” She smiled to show her appreciation. “He’s mending, but he’s anxious to be up and about and seeing to things himself. It’s been a hard thing to dissuade him. He knows what needs done and what Alastair and Tann can handle. Shona?”

Ten year old Shona looked up, her spindle still whirling and pulling the cloud of wool she held into thread.

“Will you check and see if your da is up to a visitor?”

Shona gave a nod, and without a break in the rhythm of her spinning she darted into the other room.

Meanwhile the sight of the visitor and his bag had caused some minor disruption among the story Isie was telling Lachlan and the twins as she carded. No longer would two year old Caden be content to sit and hear about the brownie who left because he thought the farmwife had insulted him. (Rose was surprised he had lasted this long.) Now he clamored over asking to see what was in the bag.

“Is it all right if I give them an apple, or will that spoil their appetite?” Erran gave a nod towards the pot she had on the hearth.

“I like apples,” Caden solemnly declared, reaching for the bag. “They won’t spoil anything.”

“How about we start with one to split with your sisters now?” Rose said, right as Shona returned.

“Da’s awake, and says aye, he’d be pleased,” she said.

Rose selected an apple and handed it to Shona to split amongst them. Alastair and Tann could split one later, and she had a plan for the rest that she thought they would all like.

Erran held back a pace from her as she led the way in to where her husband Iwan lay, propped up on every pillow they owned to cushion his bruises and ease his breathing. He’d struck his side against the edge of the roof as he fell, and though nothing was broken there the bruises were an added hardship.

But he had a smile ready for Erran when they entered.

“Hello… Erran, isn’t it? Shona tells me you brought a treat for us,” he said.

Erran ducked his head, though there were no low-hanging herbs above him now. “Only some apples. I also came to see if there was anything I could do to help.”

Rose hovered in the doorway as Iwan gestured to the stool beside the bed. “Have you ever thatched a roof, by chance?”

Erran sat. “I’m afraid not. I do have a decent head for heights and good sense of balance though. I’m willing to learn if there’s someone who can show me.”

Iwan looked up at Rose. “Alastair? Just to show him how?”

Rose relented. Alastair knew what to do, but after what had happened to Iwan she had been wary of letting any of them up there. But it was true, the task needed done, and if Alastair need not be up for long she could rest easier.

“My oldest two are capable lads,” Iwan continued once she agreed, “but altogether ‘tis a lot on their shoulders. There’s also a large portion of the pasture fence needs mending. Normally I’d be seeing to that with them. The lads would be making sure the shed is ready to shelter the sheep and trimming their hoofs, keeping a watch for foot rot after this damp weather turned their pasture muddy.”

Aye, this damp weather, and Erran in need of warmer clothing if he was to be out in it. Rose left them to their discussion on what else Erran might help with. She had the beginnings of a new task nudging her to action.

>>——>

The sun was high overhead, and unfortunately so were Alastair and Erran. Alastair should be climbing down any moment now, but he was inspecting Erran’s progress so far and looked to be enjoying himself.

Twelve year old Tann fidgeted beside Rose as she looked on in concern. She had no head for heights herself, but it mightn’t have been so hard on her if it hadn’t been for the recent accident, and her husband the experienced one among them. Tann seemed envious of his brother, but one son and a kind neighbor was enough to be up so high for now. Alastair had sense enough to be cautious, but so had Iwan. It was a pity the part that needed mending was at the very top. She hated to think what would happen if Erran also slipped, let alone Alastair.

She refrained from calling Alastair to hurry down and instead sized up Erran, comparing his size to her son since she couldn’t very well have asked Iwan to stand up beside him and she needed to know before she could proceed with her plan. Erran was taller, which had been evident from the first, but seeing them together it was also evident that he was broader in the shoulder. She remembered thinking of him as a lanky youth when he’d first made an appearance in town, all arms and legs, but he had grown significantly since then.

Erran noticed her scrutiny and gave a little wave, then said something to Alastair, who came down as carefully as even she could wish.

“He’s doing all right,” Alastair said. His cheeks were reddened from the cold wind up there, but when she remarked on it he said it was warm enough up there in the sun.

She’d been waiting for him to come down before she went indoors to finish getting the noon meal ready with an easy mind, but hesitated when she saw Erran still up near the peak.

“Does he know he’s welcome to come down and eat with us,” she asked. “He didn’t come prepared, and surely he’s getting hungry.”

Alastair looked up, shielding his eyes from the sun. “I didn’t think to tell him.”

“Neither did I.” Erran had gone straight from visiting Iwan to the pasture to see Alastair about learning how to mend the thatch. They’d had a busy morning.

“Can I climb up just to tell him,” Tann begged.

Rose ruffled his hair. “You may go halfway up the ladder, I’m sure he will be able to hear you from there without you having to shout.”

He mumbled that it was not the same, he wanted to be at the top, like Alastair, but dutifully went no further than that. Even so the ladder wobbled under his exuberance as he climbed.

Erran noticed its movement with a start and reached out to steady it as Tann called up the invitation. Erran called something back to Tann, who said something back before he bounded back to them.

“He says if it’s no trouble. I told him of course it wouldn’t be.”

>>——>

Alastair and Tann went in to report the day’s progress to Iwan. His mind was already greatly eased with the prospect of help, even if it was inexperienced help, and he would be eager for news of how it was coming.

Erran’s awkwardness returned as he came in the house, and she thought at first that he would just as soon have taken his meal out on the roof, but it wasn’t long before he relaxed again. Bless him, he even wanted to help, and contributed by entertaining Lachlan and the twins and keeping them from running underfoot as Isie set the table and Shona sliced the bread. Erran taught Lachlan a silly rhyme about a bunny, with hand motions so simple that soon even Caden and Lissie could join in. It had them in fits of giggles and kept them for a time from running around in the house like wild things. She’d have to remember it.

It made her wonder about his family. He had to have had one once. What had brought him to their town all alone and so young? At the time he could not have been older than Alastair was now and had seemed even younger. Too young to be without family. Mayhap it wasn’t shyness that had kept him from developing ties in the community, but grief.

This occupied her mind while she portioned mutton and carrots onto everyone’s dishes and cut the youngest ones’ meat into bite sized pieces for them.

“Is Master Bryar going to be able to come in to eat, or does he take his meals in there?”

Erran’s voice behind her startled her. Goodness, his tread was light. He moved as quietly as the cat.

There was a bashful grin on his face. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to scare you.”

She waved him off with a smile. “It’s all right. It is a lot of trouble for him to come to the table, so the older ones have taken turns eating with him, and keeping him company. It’s a hard thing to eat alone when you’re used to being surrounded by family.“

He nodded. Not a flicker of anything showed on his face to confirm or deny her guess, but it seemed he understood.

“I asked because I thought I might bring his in for you and sit with him a while,” he said, “but they should have their time with him. That would be something special, I’m sure.”

It was a treat for them, and she nearly said so aloud, but on the other hand, Iwan would probably enjoy getting to know Erran better as much as she would. And it would be a long recovery. There would be time for many such visits for the children.

“I think he would welcome a visit from you as well,” she said. “Tell you what, it would be Isie’s turn, but I know she won’t mind waiting just a little longer for her turn.,” she lowered her voice so it wouldn’t carry to the table where the little ones were now sitting, “There’ll be a surprise after we eat. Isie can bring that in to him and she might enjoy that more because she helped me make it. Isie?”

Isie readily agreed to the switch, and so while Rose wouldn’t get to engage Erran in conversation and learn more about him during the meal, her husband surely would, and then there would be the apple tart she had made.

>>——>

The only thing that didn’t go according to plan was that the children were so excited about the apple tart she’d made that all the talk around the table centered on apples.

“I swallowed a seed,” Lachlan said. “Will it grow an apple tree inside me? Shona said it might.”

“I never did,” Shona protested. “I said that’s what Alastair told me when I was little, but apple trees need dirt and sun and rain to grow so it couldn’t work.“

Alastair snickered, and Rose shushed him.

“They do, Love, so no, don’t fret, there’ll be no apple tree growing inside you.”

“Caden ate the dirt outside,” Lachlan said. “I saw him. And Isie made him wash his face and drink some water. All he needs is sun. Could he grow a tree inside him if he stood outside in the sun? He ate all his seeds.

“It still wouldn’t work that way,” Rose said.

“Why?”

“You’d have to find a way to eat some sunshine to make it work,” Erran said. “And more dirt. Every day. That’s what my n— that’s what my family told me.”

There would have been the opening she was waiting for, but Lachlan hardly stopped chattering for her to ask.

“I saved most of mine ‘cause I didna want it to grow inside me. I want one outside. Can we grow one? Please?”

“We’ll ask your da,” she said. “I don’t know where we’d plant it, but he might have an idea. It would take a long time before it grows enough to give apples, mind you.”

All too soon, and before she could work the conversation back around to Erran’s family, the tart was gone, and the boys went back out to work. Ah, well. She would ask Iwan what they had talked of.

>>——>

Isie’s pile of carded wool varied, depending on whether Shona was spinning or plying. Lissie was too young yet to be taught how to card or spin, but she could and did chase after stray balls of yarn if they got away from Shona as she plied. She lined them up in neat rows and she and Caden practiced counting with Shona’s help. Caden could also chase after the stray balls but he would throw them wildly as often as return them, so that had to be discouraged—at least until his aim was better.

Both carding combs and spindle were abandoned for a time when, after they ate and the boys went back out to work, Rose let her girls in on this new project. It wouldn’t be finished fast enough if only one worked on it, but if the three of them pitched in it could be done before long. Nothing very fine, just a serviceable tunic out of a sturdier wool. The linen he was wearing now was terribly frayed at the cuffs and had small holes at the elbows that would grow into bigger ones if left unpatched, besides not being warm enough for this weather.

She cut, using one of Iwan’s tunics as a guideline, and the girls began the seaming, taking turns at first the shoulders, then setting in the sleeves. She finished the bottom of the sleeves as they worked on the shoulders, and hemmed the bottom as they set in the sleeves. It left them all room enough to work. For a time, Lachlan, Caden, and Lissie were convinced to sit quietly and listen to more stories from Isie, Shona, or herself while they sewed. Sometimes they sang. The time passed swiftly.

The thatching was not finished that day. It was growing dark before the hems were complete, and Erran took his leave shortly before sunset, promising to return the next day, and the next, if it took that long.

Rose paused her hemming mid stitch as she realized she had not given a thought to an important detail..

“Oh, but where will you stay?” It was sure he couldn’t make it home that day. If there was one thing she did know about him it was that he lived too far from town to make the trip in a day. “If you need—“

“‘I’ve a friend in town who’s asked me to,” he assured her with a wry smile. “He often does, so that I won’t have to leave town before the evening services or travel at night. This morning he asked if I could stay longer and I told him I’d see about it. I can make it back there before dark if I leave now.”

He parted from them with a wave of his hand before she had time to ask after his friend or thank him.

Other neighbors had sent well wishes, and some had likewise visited and even brought gifts of food, but all had their own homes and families and tasks needing done and she’d understood. She had children old enough to take on some extra responsibilities, so there was no question that they could get by. Which might be why Erran’s offer of help felt like such a gift, despite his lack of experience. He could have looked at what they had and assumed that he wouldn’t be needed or wanted. He could have decided that his own responsibilities (whatever they might be, for surely he had to make his living somehow,) were more important, and yet here he was intending to see these tasks through.

Working on the tunic till it was time to start supper brought them a fair ways toward completion. Shona and Isie each finished setting in a sleeve while Rose finished the bottom, then once the sleeves were set in place, the long sleeve seams were begun. They often stopped to compare progress and make sure neither of them strayed off course. If Shona had a slight advantage in age and experience over Isie, it showed more in speed than in neatness, and at the end of the day when Rose compared the sleeves they were both even.

>>——>

The next morning, earlier than before, Erran was back and the work on the thatch resumed. He’d arrived with red cheeks, twinkling eyes, and three more apples for the children to share but his hands had been very cold.

She did raise her brows at the apples though. Where had these come from?

“Wynn Fullrede sends his greetings and says to say thank you for feeding me yesterday,” Erran said, rather sheepishly in response to her look.

Rose smiled. Wynn must be the friend he had stayed with. A good man by all she knew of him, and a good teacher…and one who knew what it took to feed a growing lad. “You can return my thanks to him for these and for lending your help to me when I’m sure he’s missing his student.”

Erran lifted one shoulder in a half shrug, but smiled. It was enough of a confirmation of her guess, though he said only that he would pass along her thanks and no more before heading out to work.

>>——>

The tunic was coming along, but the ordinary interruptions of everyday life delayed them. Toddlers to keep out of mischief, fires to keep going, food to prepare. Those sorts of things. Even so, with at least one pair of hands always working away at them, the side seams were complete before noon.

As it happened, Iwan hadn’t learned much from his conversation with Erran the day before. They’d talked mostly of the work, as she might have known they would. She pondered over what she’d gleaned from Iwan as she prepared food for the day: only a confirmation that Erran was not from the area, and that he had lived in a city before coming to live somewhere away west of town. An odd change to make, especially coming alone as he had. What sort of work had he done? Had he been apprenticed in a trade? Iwan did not seem concerned about his lack of experience. He was willing to learn and the fact that he’d offered his services at all seemed to speak well of him, and that was enough for Iwan.

“The lads know enough to teach him,” Iwan had said. “T’will be good for them as well. Don’t fret.”

It wasn’t that she disagreed, but something more ought to be known about him.

Erran indeed had a good head for heights, and though she could not watch him work for long without a shiver, Alastair assured her that from what he’d seen Erran’s sense of balance was fine and he’d taken to the work quickly.

In fact before the food was ready, Alastair popped in to say Erran was finished with the roof and they were ready to tackle the fence. As Alastair went to tell Iwan, Rose breathed out a sigh of relief and sent up a quick prayer of thanks for the job being finished without further mishap. She had seen Alastair wobble up there on the roof once, and once was enough.

She had hoped to be finished with his tunic before this, but it was better that the roof hadn’t taken as long as she had expected. Now she needn’t worry about another fall.

“Don’t start on the fence straight away,” she told Alastair as he headed back out. “All of you should wash up, lunch is nearly ready.”

>>——>

She learned little more from Erran that day in conversation during their meal. He was good at keeping a conversation going with her children, as well as with her, but so little of it told her anything about himself or his life before coming to the area.

The more she observed him, the more his shyness seemed an unnatural thing to him.

Lachlan had been deemed just old enough to be careful and take his meal in with his Da, though not of course to take in the tray himself. Erran had volunteered for that, and so when they finished at the table and while the dishes were being cleared away, Erran also retrieved the tray and brought it to her.

“Master Bryar says to say it was delicious. Lachlan seconds it.”

“Thank you,” she said. She was surprised he’d thought of retrieving it for her. She’d thought he would be on his way back out with Alastair and Tann…but no, they were helping the girls clean the table.

“Thank you again for the meal,” he returned with a crooked smile. “My cooking doesn’t turn out nearly so well, and,” he lowered his voice just a little, “Wynn’s is better than mine, but he doesn’t have your knack either, so it’s not just a matter of experience.”

“Some of it is, I’m sure,” she laughed. “You do enough of it every day for growing children and it begins to come easier to you. How long have you cooked for yourself?”

He thought for a moment before answering. “It’s been a few years since I was doing all of it. A friend of mine stayed with me for a bit when I first moved near here. He was somewhere between you and Wynn in skill, and took more than his share of the turn cooking. He certainly enjoyed it more than I did.”

He sounded a little wistful as he spoke. If she thought about it she ought to remember anyone else who had shown up at the same times Erran had, but another line of thought seemed more pressing at the moment and she had little time before he would be out again with her sons. What had brought him to Wettham, if not family?

“Erran, before you go back out, may I ask you something?”

She felt a change in his whole bearing as soon as the words left her mouth, though his expression seemed as open as before. “If you like.” He took hold of the cleaning rag she’d set down and scrubbed at a spot on her table.

“You don’t have to answer if you don’t want to, but until yesterday I would have guessed you preferred to keep to yourself, and yet after yesterday and today I think that’s not true, even if you do live away out there alone.”

She halted before getting to the question. The last thing she wanted to do was make him close himself off. What right had she to push?

“That is not really a question,” he said. There was enough of a smile to his voice to encourage her.

“You’ve not once mentioned a family. Did something happen to them?

He let out a light breath, almost a laugh with that slight twist of his lips, but not quite; the wistful expression was back. “I should have known you’d be wondering about that. Aye, I did lose my father right before coming to Wettham. Wynn was a friend of his, and helped get me back on my feet along with another of his friends. That’s the one who stayed with me.”

“I’m so sorry.” She instinctively put her hand on his arm. “And your poor mother?”

He twisted the rag in his hands. “Fever. Years ago… I was a child.”

To her eyes he was little more than a child now. This grief was older, but it was still a grief. To have lost so much and him scarcely older than Alastair…

Was this why he had come so readily to help when he heard about the accident?

Erran glanced up and his eyes were kind. “You were right about me though, I’ve kept to myself long enough. Far longer than is good for me. I’ve—“

“Erran!” Tann waved from the door. “We’re ready.”

She tried not to be disappointed at the interruption and took the rag from his hands. “Well you’re welcome here anytime, if that helps at all.”

His smile was quick.“It truly does. You have no idea how much.”

>——->

With renewed effort, keeping in mind the chill in the air and wondering how in the world Erran had managed thus far on his own, Rose threw herself into finishing the tunic.

She reinforced the neck opening with extra stitching on the border. Her boys were too often rough on that to leave it a weak point. And it might as well look nice.

Shona and Isie resumed their carding and spinning. They all alternated mediating arguments between the youngest three. It didn’t help that today Caden wanted more than anything to be out of doors with Alastair and Tann, whom he was convinced were having fun without him. Rose had decided they had enough to do out there without minding Caden and ensuring he stayed warm enough. There would be time for that when he didn’t need so much minding to keep out of trouble.

The time flew by, and as the light outside began to dwindle Erran took his leave for the day.

She was prepared for his leaving this time. She handed him a hot pasty. “For the road home. T’will keep your hands warm until the inside is cool enough to eat.”

>>——>

The low-hanging grey clouds the next morning showed their respite from the wet weather was nearing its end and it was nearly time to bring in the sheep to their sheds and the smaller pasture where they could get into shelter themselves whenever they liked.

Between the morning chores and breaking their fast they wasted no time since the weather did not appear willing to tarry long for them.

Whatever sense of urgency was in the air, it had spread to Erran as well, as he arrived shortly after the boys left for the field. Rose wondered at how early he must have started off. Surely before it was light out.

“Are you hungry?” She asked. “There’s plenty here if you like.”

“Thank you, but I had something on the way here.”

She eyed him, but before she could protest that he’d be working hard and that “something” didn’t necessarily mean it would hold him till lunch, he had gone to catch up to Alastair and Tann.

She came to fetch Iwan’s breakfast tray from him and saw a twinkle in his eyes. “Rose, when did we get an eighth child?”

“Oh, about two days ago. Don’t tell me you just now noticed?” She raised her eyebrows and he chuckled. “Not at all, my Rose, nor am I surprised.”

She sat with Iwan for a while as she sewed, sometimes in conversation with him and sometimes in companionable silence until she had to begin preparing the noon meal.

>>——>

While Alastair, Tann, and Erran went back out to the pasture after lunch, Shona bundled up Lachlan and the twins and brought them out with her so they could play while she gathered more willow bark for Iwan’s tea. They came in with rosy-cheeks and high spirits. Rose nearly sent them back out to run around and spend that energy out of doors in case Iwan was ready to sleep again, but Iwan called out to them to come and sit by him and tell all about the games they had played outside.

“Is coooold outside, da.” Lissie could be just heard, plopping down to sit on the bedside rug.

“It isn’t that cold,” Lachlan said, with all the superiority of an older brother; older by three whole years, who could better tolerate the cold. “But it’s getting wet. And windy too.”

Rose looked out in alarm. It was only a little drizzle, not loud enough to be heard in the house, but she thought of the cold and the wet and the wind all combining, and the last thing they needed was for the boys to become ill, and then there was Erran in his thin, worn tunic.

“Tis just beginning,” Shona confirmed for her as she prepared the bark for tea. “I imagine they’ll be in soon. Or would you like me to fetch them in early?”

Rose shook her head. “If it gets worse and they’re still not back, I’ll go. For now I’ll trust their judgment on how close they are.” She didn’t yet know the measure of Erran in this respect, but Alastair had sense enough to know when to push forward and when to stop.

She set a pot of broth to heat, and hurriedly put in the last reinforcement stitches on Erran’s tunic.

She clipped the last thread with relief as well as satisfaction. Though it was too late for it to have given him more comfort in the rain, at least he could warm up afterward.

There was still no sign of them and the weather took a turn for the worse. Just as she decided she should go out to them the boys came in, soaking wet, having made sure the animals were secure in their shelters. They had been close, but not close enough and the fence was not yet finished.

Alastair and Tann she sent to change out of their wet things straightaway, but she held Erran back a moment rather than send him along with the bundle she had already collected. By rights Shona and Isie should be there to see his reaction.

“I couldn’t help the trousers without borrowing from Iwan’s. They’re old and worn, but they’re dry. As for the tunic, well we had that sorted already.

She presented him with the folded tunic. “From all of us, though t’was Shona, Isie and I that did the sewing. I only just finished it.”

Erran held it up, looking intently at it. She could not tell what he thought. She waited with hands folded for him to say something, but though his mouth was open he was speechless.

“Will it fit you, do you think?” She hesitated then added, “I cut it loose for comfort but if it is too large we can fix it, Shona, Isie and I.”

Erran brushed his finger over the stitching. “You three made this for me?” He looked round at their grinning faces, his astonishment plain.

“Aye, we did. Go try it on and tell us if it will do.”

“Oh, but you didn’t have to do— I didn’t—“

“T’was not a question of us needing to,” she said.

“But we didn’t even finish the fence. If I’d known more about carpentry I’d have been more help to you., but—”

“But someone who knows more about carpentry hasn’t come. You have. Go on and ask Iwan. He’ll tell you just how much of a load that has lifted off his mind. Besides, though this may have started out as a token of our thanks, tis now just a gift.”

His gaze was drawn back to the stitching around the neck. “It’s very fine.”

“Thank you. Now go on with you!” She shooed him to follow Alastair and Tann. “Put it on and get out of your wet things.”

He shook his head and laughed softly. “All right, I won’t argue. Thank you.”

Tann emerged first with his wet things to dry by the fire, then Alastair, and very soon after Erran also returned, looking pleased with his new tunic. It was a good fit. Loose, as she’d intended, but not over-large.

She gave them the warm broth to ward off a chill and they held a council.

There was no question of them finishing the fence until it let up, and it showed no sign of letting up before dusk.

Likewise there was no question about sending Erran home in this weather, and even if it let up before dusk he wouldn’t make it back to town that night. No, it was better for all concerned if he stayed here where there would be a roof over his head. Even he had to see that an evening tramping out in that weather was unwise, though she had to dissuade him from camping in the sheep sheds with the flock rather than staying in the house. He had some idea about it being a bother.

“I’ll make you up a comfortable bed by the hearth,” she insisted. “Tis no trouble.”

Erran finally relented to that on the condition that she let him help in some way.

He could keep the little ones from being underfoot, clean up for her after supper, that sort of thing. Or anything else she might think of.

To that she agreed readily. Less because there was anything she could think of that needed done, and more once again to put him at ease. She supposed in his place she would feel awkward about being an unexpected guest. The children had been in and out of the room where Iwan rested, as he’d been sleeping less and needing distractions more. She could tell he was awake now. Alastair had probably told him of the state they’d left the fence in as he passed on his way up to the loft he and Tann shared.

“Why don’t you have a visit with Iwan?”

It would, she thought, do them both some good.

>>——>

For supper they all crowded in. It would end up with more cleaning, this picnic indoors, but it had been too long since they had all eaten together.

And it would have been worth it for the look of utter contentment on Iwan’s face alone, but it was that good for all of them. The meal had a celebratory feeling. True, there was work yet to be done, and the boys were all disappointed that they hadn’t had a little more time to work on the fence, but they were dry now indoors with a freshly mended roof and laughing together.

It was Caden who begged a story. He seemed to have been guessing at the approach of bedtime and was greatly interested in delaying it, and decided a story would be a fine way.

Erran spoke up before Rose could think of one. “What was the one with the brownie that Isie was telling the first day I came? I only heard a little and I don’t remember ever hearing that one.”

“The one with the farmwife who insulted the brownie?” Isie asked.

“Did she? Last I heard, she was pleased with him.”

“She was, ‘twas an accident. Do you know what to leave out for a Brownie?”

“Bannocks,” Caden said before Erran could reply, and at the same time that Lissie added “Cream!”

Erran grinned. “Bannocks and cream.”

“Well there are things you must never leave out for a brownie,” Isie said solemnly. “You must never leave money, as you can’t pay a brownie for their work as if they were a hired servant. They take great offense.”

“Ahh,” Erran said. “So she left money for him instead of bannocks and cream?”

“Oh no. She made him a suit of clothes, but to this brownie at least that was just as bad as money! See, at great houses where they have servants, part of their pay comes as nice clothes to wear because everything must look fine in a great house, including the servants. And the farmwife knew none of that, but this brownie did.”

Erran coughed. He seemed to have gotten something stuck in his throat, so Isie paused until he took a sip from his mug and asked her to continue.

“Well that’s almost all of it. The brownie found the nice little suit and thought not only that the farmwife was putting on airs, but that she was considering him her servant and that he would never abide.

“Do the voice!” Caden said with a giggle. “Do it, Isie!”

Isie obliged with a twinkle in her eye and her high voice that she gave a cantankerous twist.

“Give brownie coat, give brownie shirt, ye’ll get no more o' brownie's work!”

Before the giggles had quite died down she resumed her storytelling voice. “And then he took himself off and ne’er returned again.”

“Never?”

“At least not that I ever heard,” Isie added in a normal tone. “It is a sad ending, don’t you think? But there. Brownies are a strange folk, and easily offended.”

Lachlan cocked his head, a furrow in his brow. “Erran, you’re not a brownie, are you?”

Erran blinked. Rose could almost see him trying to trace Lachlan’s train of thought to see where the idea had come from, though it was obvious to her, and had to suppress a laugh. Of all the stories to have told that night.

“I’m rather tall for one, don’t you think?”

Lachlan shrugged. “I dunno. I never saw one.”

“Of course he isn’t one, silly,” Shona said with a laugh. “A brownie would be smaller than the twins.”

“He came and helped,” Caden put in.

“Brownies have magic, maybe he could make himself big!” Lissie stretched up her hands as high as she could reach.

Erran had to have the input of the twins translated for him, as they’d spoken so quickly and their words ran together and he wasn’t so used to that yet. But he smiled and said “No, I’m no brownie. I’ve never seen one myself either but I do hear they’re very wee creatures indeed, and they don’t change their sizes like others of the fair folk can seem to when they’ve a mind.”

“That’s good. I wouldn’t want you to leave and never come back now that mama’s made you something to wear.”

Erran’s mouth dropped open in a startled Oh before he gave soft laugh and shake of his head. “Don’t worry. I won’t be able to stay long but I’ll visit. You can be sure of that.”

-Epilogue-

Late spring saw Iwan back on his feet with only a slight limp when he wore himself out. Which, knowing him, would continue to be often. One fine Sunday though they walked to the kirk and when Caden got tired Iwan carried him, as had once been their usual arrangement, and he only needed his walking stick towards the end of the journey.

Erran was there by the door, greeting one of their neighbors. His eyes lit on them and he waved. A moment later he turned back and was on his way to greet them. The children met him halfway, even shy little Lissie.

“Erran!”

“You should see our apple tree!”

“It’s thiiiis big now!”

It certainly wasn’t as big as all that, but it had survived the winter and the sprout seemed hardy.

“You should come see it!”

Erran laughed, then crouched down to be on their level.

“I’m glad it’s growing so well. I’d love to come and see it.”

“Da says it’ll take a while to bear fruit,” Tann put in. “And when it does they might taste different from yours even though they came from your seeds. When we get ours you’ll have to come and taste some.”

“Hear, hear.” Iwan called out. He was leaning on his walking stick a little now. Erran stood and offered a hand to help him at the steps.

To Rose it mattered less what came of the tree in the end, whether the apples were good for eating, or for cider, or if it bore nothing at all; she was at this moment giving thanks to the Almighty for one seed that had already borne fruit.

#inklingschallenge #team Tolkien #genre: secondary world #Theme: food #theme: visit the sick #Theme: clothing #story: finished #Inklingtober #Erandir’s Reckoning #Erandir #For those of you who’ve read the chapters I have you may remember that many people only know Erandir as Erran #(Not a very creative alias but it is pronounced differently from Erandir and yet similar to his own name)#Added the tags from the first part here

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bookshelf-in-progress · 2 months ago

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From the Other Side of the End of the World

A time travel story for @inklings-challenge.

Thanks to @awesomebutunpractical, @thatscarletflycatcher, and @rogerhamleys for beta help that made it possible to finish this.

I. Josephine Forester to Rachel Forester

Agril 19, 551 T.E.

Grimsfell, North Arza

Dear Rachel,

At last! The war is over! I know my history as well as anybody, but it still took me by surprise. I sobbed with relief when news of the treaty came. We haven’t heard any shelling for three days. No more wounded have arrived. It seems like a miracle.

But the work is far from done. Grimsby Hall is still filled with wounded soldiers, and we hard-working nurses are kept busy from morning til night. It will be weeks before some of these boys are well enough to travel, and years until they are completely healed, if they ever are at all.

The suffering I’ve seen! There is little even modern medical knowledge can do to ease their pain. Their war machines are primitive—cannons, tanks, machine guns—but they've wrought destruction on the land unlike anything we could imagine in our time. If I hadn’t seen our future, I’m not sure I could believe this land could be healed, that the world could ever find peace. But I have seen it, and the hope it inspires is the greatest gift I can give to these people.

Now, more than ever, I know that I've been called here. My research will be invaluable to history, but more than that, I feel a connection to these people, this place, this time. This is where I'm meant to serve.

I have a connection to you, too, of course. Your letters always make me feel I'm right there with you. Write back soon. I want to know about everything.

Love,

Josephine

P.S. I’ve shared a couple of the stories you wrote me with some of my patients. I hope you don’t mind—they need cheering up, and there's nothing in your stories that requires knowledge of the future. They very much enjoy them.

II. Rachel Forester to Josephine Forester

Agril 32, 771 T.E

Variby University

Dear Josie,

I know it’s taken me ages to write back, but the life of a college girl is a whirlwind. I made a list of all the things I’ve done this week, so you can see that I barely had time to breathe.

Two papers, three exams, and a presentation about the life cycle of the Aribanian tree frog.

Airball playoffs and championship. (I scored twenty-eight points!)

Trip to Grimsby. Twelve of us in one car. Visited the war museum. No pictures of you. Try to pose for any cameras if you see them.

Climbed the bell tower after Ferdie dared me to. Am now the hero of the school.

It sounds terribly shallow compared to what you're going through, but if I didn’t do all these things, where would I get the charming anecdotes that fill my letters and raise your poor, war-weary spirits? Even though the war is over, it still sounds dreadful. I don’t know how you manage it. At least you'll be home soon—it's a little over a month, right?

If I ever had hopes of becoming a time traveler, your letters would burn that dream right out of me. I'm perfectly happy in the safe and cozy modern day. I'll stay here in comfort and leave the do-gooding to you.

I’m glad you could make some use out of my stories. I’ve half a mind to tell that worthless university magazine editor that they’ve proven to be truly timeless. I’ll send another one along with this letter. Let your soldiers read it to their hearts’ content.

I could tell you loads more, but I’ve got play practice in an hour. I’ve been cast as Elsie in Less Boring, and I’ve got to learn my lines. (I've been laughing my head off. Darrin Royston is a genius).

I promise I’ll write more promptly next time.

Your sister,

Rachel

III. Josephine Forester to Rachel Forester

Maj 3, 551 T.E.

Grimsfell, North Arza

Dear Rachel,

It's always good to know things are going well for you. You're right—my term is over in less than a month. I had almost forgotten. It seems impossible. There's so much I still have to do.

I don't have time to give a proper response, except to tell you that I gave your story to the most voracious reader among my patients, and he's already finished it. It's exactly the type of story that he likes best, so he's asked to write a note of appreciation to the authoress. I’ve allowed it—my letter-link isn’t all that different to the ones they have in this time period. Maybe this will make up for the magazine’s lack of appreciation for your work.

Your sister,

Josephine

IV. Darrin Royston to Rachel Forester

Maj 3, 551 T.E.

Miss Rachel Forrester,

Your sister Josephine has informed me that you are the authoress of a little tale that has brought light and joy to my sickbed. Your comic fantasy is one of the most enjoyable works of fiction I have read in recent memory. It isn’t often one finds just such a blend of the beautiful and the silly. Too often, the comic fairy tales neglect their world, while the more grounded fantasy works take themselves too seriously. Yours struck just the right note.

There's little enough cheer in the world these days, and I'm glad to find that someone still remembers its secret. I pray—if it's not too presumptuous—that you have many more such works for your sister to pass on for our amusement.

Gratefully,

Darrin Royston

V. Rachel Forester to Josephine Forrester

Maj 3, 701 T.E.

Josephine!

You let Darrin Royston read my stupid little stories?

“They’re just the kind of thing he likes to read,” she says.

Because they’re based on the kind of thing he writes! Or did write. Or will write.

How old is he?

Have we broken history?

What if, having read my stories, he doesn’t write one of his great works? How would I know if he didn’t write it? Maybe you’ve already erased a dozen masterpieces from history, and I’ll never know they were never written!

Couldn’t you have given me some kind of warning before showing my fiction to one of the great literary minds of the post-war era? I want to curl up and die at the thought of his eyes looking at my inane scribbles. I might have done it already if his letter hadn’t suggested that he, for some reason, enjoyed it.

Maybe the war shattered his sanity. Maybe he has some kind of infection. You should check.

Rachel

VI. Josephine Forester to Rachel Forester

Maj 5, 551 T.E.

Grimsfell, North Arza

Rachel,

Who is Darrin Royston? You’re the one who knows about authors. To me, Darrin Royston is a dark-haired, undersized private recovering from a broken leg, who has every right to read your stories if he wants to.

You don’t have to worry about changing history. I’ve told you before—it can’t be done. History is chronological—everything that happens as a result of time travel has always happened that way. I’m here because I was always meant to be here.

It’s possible your story inspired whatever it is that Royston wrote, but it won’t erase anything.

His words were genuine. He really did enjoy your story. Take it as a compliment. It sounds like a good one.

And maybe send another story? The boy’s going stir-crazy and he’s driving me up the wall.

Yours,

Josephine

VII. Rachel Forester to Josephine Forester

Maj 6, 701 T.E.

Josephine,

Who is Darrin Royston?

Time travel is wasted on you.

He's only one of the most brilliant writers of the last century! Poems, plays, essays, novels—you name it, he's written it. He has wit, wisdom, genius. He's a little bit niche, but you've lived with me. You should at least have known his name! I just told you I'm acting in one of his plays!

There are a million things I'd love to ask him about, but he probably hasn't done any of them yet.

What does he look like? What's he like? I need details!

Yours,

Rachel

P.S. I've sent along a nice, long story. I hope it won't destroy his opinion of my literary talents.

VIII. Josephine Forester to Rachel Forester

Maj 8, 551 T.E.

Dear Rachel,

That Darrin Royston? Now that you mention it, the name sounds familiar. You have to admit this whole situation is mildly hilarious. I never expected to accidentally introduce you to a celebrity.

I'm not sure what you want to hear about him. He's dark-haired. Slender. Not over-tall. Has a melancholy streak. Rather too quiet—except when he's demanding reading material. Your story is keeping him nicely pacified. I leave my letter-link next to his bed (with all the personal letters hidden, of course—though I can't say I wasn't tempted to let him read that last one).

He's not what I would have expected the author of Less Boring to be like. (I guess I have seen that play. I remember laughing.) But he's young, and this isn't exactly a cheerful setting. Broken bodies, broken minds—blood, bones and suffering, dust and dirt and smoke. Even with the shadow of the war gone, it left plenty of darkness behind.

You're going to think this is crazy, but I've written to ask the university for an extension of my time here. The people here have become my friends and allies. There is so much work to be done. I can't leave them to deal with it alone.

It's only another six months, and after all, what's time to a time traveler? I'm going to miss you, but you have plenty to keep you busy. Before you know it, we'll be back together again.

I hope you understand. Pray for me.

Always your loving sister,

Josephine

IX. Rachel Forester to Josephine Forester

Maj 11, 701 T.E.

Josephine,

Are you crazy? Is the university crazy? The fact that you want to spend more time in that horrible time and place should be proof that time travel has messed with your mind.

I get it. Now that you're hob-nobbing with celebrities, ordinary modern life just can't compare. I should never have told you who Darrin Royston was. He can't be that interesting. He won't even write anything for another ten years. Can he really compare to your charming, adorable sister?

But seriously, Josie, what are you thinking? Time travel is cool and all, and I'm sure you're doing good things, but you belong here. In a safe, civilized century. There are plenty of people in this time period who need you—I'm at the top of the list.

You're going to miss my birthday now, you know that?

Disgruntled,

Rachel

X. Rachel Forester to Josephine Forester

Maj 15, 701 T.E.

Josephine,

Are you mad at me? I'm sorry if I got snarky. I'm upset you're not coming home, but you're a big girl and we both have our own lives and you can make your own decisions. I can respect your choice to stay.

I know that you're busy, but can you spare ten seconds to send me a line so I know I haven't destroyed our relationship forever?

Rachel

XI. Rachel Forester to Josephine Forester

Maj 20, 701 T.E.

Josie,

Are the people of that century so much more important that you can't even send a line to your little sister? I know I'm not one to talk about prompt letter-writing, but under the circumstances, this is worrying. And kind of hurtful.

Rachel

XII. Rachel Forester to Josephine Forester

Maj 20, 701 T.E.

Josie,

I'm sorry.

Please write back.

Rachel

XIII. Darrin Royston to Rachel Forester

Maj 20, 551 T.E.

Miss Rachel Forester:

I am writing with a heavy heart to inform you of the death of your sister, Nurse Josephine Forester. She went missing several days ago, and her body was found yesterday. She seems to have been killed in an accident with a stray shell near the hospital grounds. Millions of such unused artillery shells litter the countryside, and I'm afraid your sister was unfortunate enough to stumble upon one and become a casualty of war even in this time of peace.

No doubt you will receive notification through official channels, but I am aware she often contacted you via this letter-link, and I thought you might prefer to receive the news through a more personal route.

Your sister was a credit to her profession. She was a diligent, cheerful, kind, and invariably patient nurse. I am forever indebted to her for her personal kindnesses that brought light to hellish days.

Know that you and your family have my sympathy and my deepest condolences. You will remain in my prayers.

Yours,

Darrin Royston

XIV. Rachel Forester to Darrin Royston

What do you mean, dead?

She can't be dead. She won't be born for a hundred and fifty years.

Time travel's not supposed to work like that. She was supposed to do her research and come home.

It can't happen like that. I refuse to believe it. God wouldn't do that to us.

I haven't heard anything from her, but that's because you stole her letter-link. That must be it. Give it back, you thief, and think again before you go terrifying me with wild stories.

XV. Rachel Forester to Darrin Royston

Mr. Royston,

Don't read my last response. It wasn't supposed to send. Please ignore it. Give Josephine her letter-link back.

Thank you,

Rachel Forester

XVI. Darrin Royston to Rachel Forester

Maj 21, 551 T.E.

Miss Forester,

I'm afraid I read both your of your letters, and they greatly puzzle me. Is this a fragment of one of your fantastical tales? That would be the most sensible assumption, except that the unopened letters you sent to your sister seem to confirm an impossible truth. Your sister came to us from a different time, you exist far in the future, and I am writing to a woman who has not yet been born.

I apologize for reading words that I was not meant to see, but the confusion they've caused has more than punished me for my curiosity. The implications of what you suggest are dizzying.

You are not writing in Valorian, which suggests that the peace holds, and you seem to write from a far more peaceful time. No wonder your stories held such hope. I can barely imagine a world beyond this battlefield hospital.

If I am reading the story correctly, your sister left a place of safety and peace and came to serve the suffering in a time of war. It makes her actions even more heroic and her death even more of a tragedy.

I don't pretend to understand how this is possible, but you have my gratitude and my sympathy.

Yours,

Darrin Royston

XVII. Rachel Forester to Darrin Royston

Maj 22, 701 T.E.

Darrin,

Yes, my sister is from the future. Yes, she came to help out during your war. And yes, you people killed her.

She could have been an aloof researcher, gathering information about the Western War, but she decided to help because she couldn't stand by while people were suffering. And she died for it.

What does it matter if you know the truth? Josephine always said that history can't be changed. I can't even wish that she hadn't gone on the trip, because apparently, the fact that she died in the past means she always died in the past. She was dead before she was born.

But how is that any different from the rest of us? Where I come from, you're long dead. To people in the future, I'm long dead. There's nothing we can do to change that, even with time travel, so what does anything matter?

If our every action is part of an unchangeable history, we're just cogs in a cosmic machine. It doesn't do any good to cry over it.

Rachel

XVIII. Darrin Royston to Rachel Forester

Maj 23, 551 T.E.

Rachel,

I can't pretend to understand how time travel occurs, and the philosophical questions you pose seem far beyond my ken. But it is clear that you are grieving, and I can try to offer what comfort I can.

I'm no philosopher, but I know that the things we do, whenever we do them, matter. From where I lay in this hospital, your sister's actions were far from meaningless. She did not control her fate, but she had free will within it. Her choices made a world of difference to the men she helped.

We have a God who is outside of time. He incorporates our choices into His divine plan. Even if He, the author, knows the end of our story, our actions are what make the story what it is. We can choose to care or be callous, to create or destroy, and those choices ripple across time, for good and for ill.

This war will have effects far into the future, but there is also goodness that transcends time. God sent your sister to help from far in the future. I pray for you from far in the past. Your sister, outside of time, is now better able than ever to pray for us both.

I can't pretend that your sister's death was good. I can't pretend that this war is good. But if there is goodness beyond the end of the war--as your letters suggest--perhaps one day you will find some good that exists beyond the bounds of grief.

Yours,

Darrin Royston

XIX. Rachel Forester to Darrin Royston

Maj 24, 701 T.E.

Darrin,

I wish I could believe in what you say, but right now, hope seems impossible. Thank you for trying.

Rachel

XX. Darrin Royston to Rachel Forester

Maj 25, 701 T.E.

Rachel,

That did get rather abstract, didn't it? I wish I could express myself in a way that makes the truth felt.

Maybe someday I'll have wisdom enough to do so.

Yours,

Darrin Royston

XXI. Rachel Forester to Josephine Forester

Maj 27, 771 T.E.

Josie,

The university sent me your personal belongings today, your letter-link among them. My last connection to the past—and, it feels like, to you—is gone. But Darrin says you're outside of time now, so maybe writing in here can reach you. I'm pretty sure that goes against science and philosophy and theology and probably lots of -ologies, but those were your kind of thing. I can never understand anything but stories.

I'm afraid I've loused things up. I freaked out and revealed time travel to Darrin Royston. It doesn't seem to have broken anything yet, but I feel terrible. You went into the past to help these people through suffering I can't even imagine. Meanwhile, I'm living in comfort and asked the poor boy to deal with my problems on top of his own. I've been selfish from beginning to end, and it's giving me a lot of guilt.

All the time travel in the world can't change that. All I can do is move forward. But I can't believe I can do that, not without you. Whatever stupid things I did, I knew I could count on you to have my back. To understand. To pull me back from the edge of the cliff or pick me up if I jumped off it. Now it's just me and I feel frozen. I'm cut off from the past and the future's a blank. How am I supposed to go on?

Pray for me, I guess. It's supposed to work across time and outside of time. It's the best we've got now. But it's nothing like getting a letter from you.

Love,

Rachel

XXII. Josephine Forester to Rachel Forester

Maj 11, 551 T.E.

Rachel,

Happy birthday!

Anyway, it'll be your birthday when you read this. I'm sorry I'm not there to celebrate with you, but maybe a good present will make up for it.

I can't send objects through time, but I sent a message to Harriet on the research team, and she's come through. This will arrive on your birthday, even if I can't come with it.

What you hold in your hands is a first edition of Darrin Royston's first collection of stories. Given recent events, it seemed only fitting. Here's proof your letters haven't stunted his career.

You're amazing, Rachel, and you've got a great future ahead of you.

Love,

Josephine

XXIII. Dedication in New Beginnings by Darrin Royston

For Rachel

May hope reach you at the proper time

Octon 12, 561 T.E.

XXIV. Rachel Forester to Harriet Zima

Maj 33, 771 T.E.

Harriet,

Thanks for the help with the birthday present. It means more to me than you can know.

Could you do me one more favor? For Josie's sake?

I have another thank you to send.

Rachel

XXV. Rachel Forester to Darrin Royston

Maj 33, 771 T.E.

Darrin,

I read your book. Actually, I reread it. I've read every one of those stories before in anthologies, in collections, as standalone stories. I had some of them practically memorized. But this was my first time reading the original collection. So it's the first time I read the dedication. And it's the first time I've known they were written for me.

I can't begin to explain what that feels like. Imagine a whole lot of tears—joy and guilt and just sheer overwhelmed—and you'll have a general idea.

The stories are fantastic, of course—they're classics! They're funny, profound, sweet, witty, thoughtful.

But the thing that means the most to me is the writing of them. I know something of what your life was like there at the end of the war—Josie sent me plenty of letters. You had so many problems of your own. You didn't need pampered little me throwing more problems on you. But you cared. You built a life after the end of the world and you sent out a light to brighten mine.

That's all we can do, isn't it? Every moment in time. Care about each other. That's what gets us through when it seems like the world has ended. It transcends time. You told me about it back then, but your book showed it to me. I can't imagine what I could have done to deserve such consideration ten years after our few letters, but I can't thank you enough.

Your future and forever friend,

Rachel Forester

XXVI. Harriet Zima to Rachel Forester

Rachel,

I'm letting one last letter through. Only because this is awesome. But I don't have the budget to justify any more favors.

Harriet

XXVII. Darrin Royston to Rachel Forester

Novrum 23, 561 T.E.

Rachel,

Your stories brought me comfort and hope at a time when I felt that I had none. The least I could do was return the favor.

These years since the war have brought grief and suffering, but also more joy and healing than I ever could have imagined. Time is a great healer--and I needed time to see the truth of that for myself, before I could begin to make others believe in it.

My little book, even now, is gaining attention. It is gratifying to know it will last. I can only pray my other words will last long enough to reach you. If ten years of experience can teach me this much, I am curious to see what I can learn with a little more time.

May we meet again on the bookshelves.

Your friend,

Darrin Royston

P.S. I've visited your sister's grave three times since the war. Knowing I will be her only visitor for more than a hundred years makes it a solemn duty, but it is also an honor to visit one who proved so good a friend. Each time, I ask her prayers for both of us. I know they are answered.

XXVIII. Rachel Forester to Josephine Forester

Maj 12, 702 T.E.

Josie,

I visited your grave today. The war-torn country you described in your letters is a lovely springtime meadow. Grimsby Hall is torn down, but there are plaques where the hospital stood, and the little graveyard stands in a peaceful grove of trees. The world has healed, and, slowly, so am I.

Your grave is marked by a clean white stone that's been kept free of moss and dirt. Darrin's family cared for it well. It only has the date of your death, but its existence proves that there are times in the past where you're alive. Outside of time where you are now, you're even more alive.

One day, we'll meet again, but until then, I've got work to do. I tried to avoid suffering in the past, leaving the painful work to you. But pain finds us no matter where we are. I can't stay focused on my own and ignore everyone else's. There are plenty of people, even in our own time, who need help. I've added some volunteer work to my rampant social schedule, trying to find out exactly where I can do the most good.

My experience with your work makes me a good candidate for the time travel program. I'll admit that I'm considering it. There's plenty of work to be done in the post-war world, and I've got connections there.

Love,

Rachel

#the bookshelf progresses #inklingschallenge #team tolkien #genre: time travel #theme: comfort #theme: pray #story: complete #not terribly happy with it but it's done

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simplyghosting · 2 months ago

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Cherished Emery

Written for @inklings-challenge. Definitely out of my comfort zone, but I gave it my best go, even if it wasn't quite what I expected.

—— It was an early spring day and a lingering chill breezed past worn checkered curtains and swirled around the feet of the couple settled in the small living room.

“You’ll see, my dear! I’ll have it all solved!” Ernest crowed as he scrabbled and grabbed for another tool from the box sitting amidst the soot spilling from the fireplace before hurrying back to his work desk by the south window. “I’ll find the root of why my grandfather lost his fortune so that I can obtain my rightful inheritance and we shall be rich! No more cooking on that old, temperamental stove! A new dress for you and a new suit for me! Why, I can get you the wedding ring that you deserve!”

Emery smiled softly from the simple, wooden rocker where she sat mending, placing her latest project down to turn the plain silver band around her finger. “I’m happy with my wedding band, Ernest. I treasure it as much as I would any other ring for the memory of our vows.”

“But you deserve more!” Ernest insisted as he took a small ball-peen hammer and began tapping at a sheet of metal. “Something engraved! Something set with precious stones! Anything you would want, my dear! Rubies, diamonds, emeralds, sapphires! Any or all!” A strap of leather was pulled out and a punch tool clicked away. “A new home! One employed with a cook and a maid!”

“Oh, do you not like my cooking that we would need a cook?” Emery asked in a lightly teasing voice.

“No! I love your food!” Ernest turned his head around hastily before turning back to his work. “I just wanted you to be able to relax and enjoy yourself instead of slaving over that wretched stove.”

Emery hummed reassuringly, “It is work, but I enjoy cooking. I like to see what I can come up with and it makes me happy to enjoy what I make with you.”

Ernest huffed in acquiescence, “Maybe just the maid then. To help you.” He tacked on quickly.

“That would be nice, I suppose.” A beat. “Someone to help me fix that drafty sill of the window maybe?”

Ernest paused once the words registered and then huffed again at the subtle reprimand. “I know you wanted that fixed last winter-“

“-Last fall, dear.”

“-But this plan will work and as soon as it is done you won’t need to worry about that anymore. We’ll simply buy a new home that doesn’t need any of these endless repairs.”

Emery sighed softly before focusing back on the sock she was darning. It had several patches already put in place so much so that the original material could hardly be distinguished. She picked up her needle and continued on. “Are you going to be finished with your project soon?”

The sound of rivets being tapped into place filled the room.

“Ernest?”

“Hm? Oh, oh! Yes, yes, I think with just a few more finishing touches I should be able to depart today.”

“That’s certainly soon.” She paused, then tilted her head, hovering her needle over the patchwork sock, “but… is it safe? It hasn’t been tested before.”

“I’ve made all the calculations needed.” He answered, eyes focused on checking the alignment of some impossibly small gears in the heart of the apparatus. “I’ll be able to safely pass through time via the portal generated by the device with no harm to myself. Worry not, my love, all our troubles shall be far behind us soon.”

“Alright.” she breathed. “Will you be gone long?”

“It may take several tries back and forth to find the culprit, chasing down dominoes to catch a butterfly, may even be multiple butterflies.” He grunted as he wound a cable into a tighter spiral. “The investigative process can’t be measured exactly, you see.”

“Ah, that makes sense. Still, do you have any sort of estimate?”

“Maybe a few days with some luck. Maybe a few weeks to a couple of months. I won’t know more until I actually get there.”

“You’ll be leaving today then?”

A gear popped further into place and with a sharp click the device began to softly whirr. “Yes, the sooner the better.” He pulled the device off the table with a grunt and pulled it over his back, strapping bands connected to it across his chest, adjusting the leather buckles so that it was fitted, and then began adjusting some dials embedded in a cuff connected to his wrist. “The sooner we get to it, the sooner our lives will start!”

“Do you know where you will be?”

“I should land outside the location where my grandfather’s mill was first constructed. I don’t know the exact time he arrived there, but the old letters my grandmother saved said he should be in the area in the time I’m to arrive, so for that it’s only a matter of time for me to encounter him and find the reason for all of this mess.”

“I see. Is there anything you need for your journey? I can make you a lunch before you go.”

“No need.” Ernest said, grabbing his coat thrown over a peg by the door. “I know there was an orchard not too far from the mill, so I’ll be able to grab a meal from there. My great-uncle used to speak of them giving meals and even board to those willing to do some work, so I’ll manage in that regard.”

“You’ll be staying there overnight?”

“I’ll come back as often as I can. If I have a strong lead, I may need to work overnight to follow it. May even have to trail some people. Never know.” He explained, adjusting the sleeves of the coat to hide the controls on the cuff.

Emery rose from her seat and came to stand in front of Ernest, adjusting the collar of his coat. “Alright. Please, be safe and come back soon.” She brushed the lapels of his coat lightly before resting her hands on them. “I married you for richer or for poorer. Don’t feel that you have to do this if you’re looking for my happiness. I’ve already found it.” She looked up into his eyes. “I don’t need anymore than that.”

Ernest softened his eyes before kissing his wife and embracing her. “But you deserve it.” The couple lingered like that for a moment in silence save for the machine’s soft hum, before Ernest pulled away and gave her a beatific smile.

Emery smiled softly back and stepped back. “I’ll be waiting for you.”

“My dear Emery, just you wait I shall have all our financial woes resolved!” And with that Ernest flicked a switch near his breast pocket and vanished with a ripple as a stone dropped into a still pond, leaving an even stiller room.

—

The air warped with a low hum and like someone stepping from behind a panel of tulle, Ernest reappeared from the air. “My dear! I’ve found my grandfather! It only took a day of searching but luckily he wasn’t far from the mill grounds!”

Emery looked up surprised from where she kneeled before the fireplace, face smeared with soot from her efforts to scrub the brick clean. “Ernest?” She rose and made a futile attempt to dust herself off. “You’re back? A- a day?”

“Yes!” He ran over and grasped her arms before pecking her lips which resulted in a soot smear on his nose. “It’s such good luck!”

“A day?” She breathed.

Ernest nodded excitedly. “Yes! A day! Considering I didn’t know his routine or exact whereabouts yet it was marvelous luck to spot him inside the local general store. Of course, I didn’t interact and only followed for a bit to get a better idea of his regular path and-“

“Ernest, my love.” Emery spoke with a look of quiet horror. “You’ve been gone for a week.”

“I- oh.” The elated expression slowly dropped from his face. “A week?”

“A week.” She whispered tearfully. “I didn’t expect you to be gone for so long.”

“A week.” He mumbled to himself. “There must be some kind of time dilation. I expected some kind of difference in time flow between present and past, but I didn’t think that it would be that great.”

“Ernest…” She clung to his coat. “I don’t know that this is right.”

“Yes, yes, need to account for that. Adjust the dials for a second iteration.” Ernest patted her hands absently and started pulling away to fiddle with something on the control cuff.

Emery looked up with wide eyes. “You’re going back?”

“I’ll jump ahead a bit to shorten the time now that I have a more precise idea of my grandfather’s old haunts. With the luck I’ve had so far, it shouldn’t be too much longer.” He placated, not looking up from a spinning dial.

“I… mm… alright. I’ll… be waiting for you.”

Ernest grabbed a paper and pen from his work desk and shoved them in his coat pocket before striding up to Emery to place a kiss on her cheek. “Worry not my love! I know what I’m doing.” And he took a step back, flicked a switch on the cuff, and vanished.

——

When Ernest next returned, he found Emery sitting in her rocker hemming the frayed edge of a checkered curtain and rushed over to kiss her cheek. “A new lead, my love! I’ve found where the deed is kept for the land of the mill and it’s soon to be founded! I should be able to skip forward a bit now that I know the men involved.”

Emery looked up at him, surprised, “Ernest. How long were you gone?”

“Just a few days. Really good luck again!” He strided to his desk to grab a box of small gears and a screwdriver. “It’s been fantastic and- oh! The groves are lovely the time of year there. I think you’d love it.”

“A few days… it’s almost been two weeks.”

“Mm? Oh, the time dilation difference. It can’t be helped much I’m afraid. I’ll be as fast as I can, but really it shouldn’t be much longer.”

“Ernest, please, if you’re doing this for me, I don’t need anymore than what we already have and you. I miss you.”

“Emery, don’t worry,” He said dropping the tools into a pocket. “I’ll be back soon with more good news!” and smiled as he flicked a switch and disappeared.

“I’ll… be waiting.”

—

The next time Ernest stepped out of the past and greeted Emery, he found her sitting in the rocker again working in between two baskets full of clothes. “Where did all of that come from?”

Emery didn’t look up, focused for the moment on a stitch. “I’ve started working with the women from the local church to help the community by doing some mending for them. It’s mostly charity, but sometimes small donations are given as a thank you or aid to those who volunteer. It’s been a nice routine.”

Ernest went back to his desk to pick up a thin curved tool. “If you like it then that’s all well, I suppose. You don’t need to do that for coin though. I’ve found a new lead with the mill workers and found a group that I’m convinced had it out for my grandfather and caused some of the later business failings.”

“It’s been almost three months, Ernest. I don’t want to wear away at our savings too much.”

“Three? Hm. Well, still, shouldn’t be much longer.” He came over and kissed her forehead. “I’ll get to the bottom of it and return,” and promptly vanished with a flick and a whirr.

—— “A new lead! Multiple points of interest as it turns out. The workers and some shady merchants involved. Took a bit to track the merchants down.” Ernest popped back in and scrabbled in his toolbox for a moment before pulling out a coil of wire. “It’s all going so very well! Such good luck, I can’t believe it!” And popped just as quickly back out as Emery brushed back a wisp of greying hair.

——

The next Ernest returned with news of a new lead, Emery sat knitting a blanket.

“My hands have been getting too sore with detail work.” She explained, working in the glow of the lamplight. “I’ve been making blankets and winter-wear for the people at the church. A few kind boys often come down on the colder days to pick up anything I’ve made so that I don’t need to make the trek over. Spring will be soon, but it’s still chilly and warmth is needed.”

——

A few more returns met with Emery working and waiting each time, and Ernest’s quick departures just the same, before he last arrived to find an empty room and where Emery had always sat in her place was a folded knit blanket with an envelope resting on top. “I think I’ve found the last piece, Emery! Emery? Hello?” The house was small and a quick search revealed no sign of Emery. He was just about to investigate the letter when a knock sounded at the door. Visitors were rare and he was not surprised not to recognize the woman who stood at the door. “Hello. Who are you?”

“Ah! Good afternoon! I’m surprised to see someone here. I often stop by at least once a week and let myself in to do my usual check, but always knock just in case, which seems to be rewarded this time. Are you Emery’s husband?”

“I… yes. I’m Ernest, her husband. If you’re looking for her though, she’s not here at the moment.”

The lady’s eyes became pained and her smile strained. “No, no I wouldn’t expect her to be. She asked me to stop by regularly regardless of her presence. Have you found a letter by chance?”

“A letter? There’s an unopened one on the chair, but I haven’t touched it. Did she leave it and the blanket for you?”

“Ah, no, no they’re not for me, Emery left them for you. Mr. Ernest, I would suggest you read that letter, and… perhaps sit down for it.”

“The letter is for me? How do you know that? Who exactly are you?” Ernest quizzed.

“I’m an old friend of Emery’s from the church she volunteered for. She served for a good many years- a joy to have- always a kind word and good quality work from her. She spoke of you often, always kindly, always kindly.” She added with assurance. “She mentioned you needing to be away for work- overseas merchant or something, yes?- and worried about your health, if you were warm for the winter and that sort of thing, though it seems she needn’t have been, as much as a spring chicken you look. The other ladies and I worried about her being alone for long times, but she wanted to make sure to be able to catch you on your short returns so she wouldn’t stay with any of us for long, bless her- what was your question? Ah! Right! Emery told me about the letter and instructed me to check in to see that you received it. Now that you’ve returned from your travels, I’m glad to have been able to likewise return a long-standing favor to her. Now, I do have to be off. I have to run to pick up my youngest grandchild. I pray you have a good day, sir.” And with that she hurried off, and Ernest had shut the door before he realized he hadn’t even gotten her name.

“A letter for me?” Ernest slowly walked over to the old rocker, now coated in a layer of dust before lifting the envelope. It was a bit yellowed with age and had Emery’s twisting scrawl on the front of it, a little wobbly at the ends, but still distinctly hers, clearly addressing the letter to himself. He removed the blanket from the chair and sat down before draping the plush, green material atop his lap. He took a small knife from his coat pocket and opened the top of the envelope, pulling out the letter and began to read as a spring breeze snuck past a crack in the sill of a window framed by worn checkered curtains.

#ghost posts #ghost writing #inklingschallenge #team tolkien #genre: time travel #theme: patience #theme: admonish #story: complete #at least those were my intentions but *looks at story* WELL #i kind of left the ending more open than originally intended #this is also taken heavily from some real life issues so that def took a big part of the control in writing #i'd like to come back and refine it more some day i think #BUT I WROTE IT AND GOOD OR BAD IT'S DONE #i think i made time travel less of a genre and more well it's there. plot device?#i wrote this in 5 days help #okay great now that that's settled i'm going to just kind of hide my face for like a week waaaauuuuugghhhhhhhh

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inklings-challenge · 2 months ago

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2024 Team Tolkien Story Archive

Secondary World

All Things Great and Small by @supreme-leader-stoat (unfinished)

Ananse and the Haunted House Club: The Old Poe Place by @rosesnvines: Chapter One

Beyond the Starless Sky by @starknightgirl (unfinished)

The Executioner's Sword by @ladyminaofcamelot

Field Work by @phoebeamorryce

The First Magic Lesson by @o-lei-o-lai-o-lord

From the Other Side of the End of the World by @fictionadventurer

Homecoming by @shakespearean-fish (unfinished)

Honor Among Devils by @icwasher

Inklings Challenge 2024 by @secret--psalms--saturn

Inspired by True Events by @plainshobbit (unfinished)

The Invincible Spell by @bunnyscar (unfinished)

The Lake and the Moon by @rowenabean

The Princess, the King, and the Troubadour by @ladyminaofcamelot

Saint and Sinner by @brisingirl (unfinished)

Son of the Dragon King by @taleweaver-ramblings

Stolen Moments by @fictionadventurer

The Top of the World by @physicsgoblin

Unfinished Tolkien Entry by @shaylalaloohoo (unfinished)

Untitled by @catkin-morgs-kookaburralover

Untitled by @find-the-path (unfinished)

The Woodsman by @ripple-reader (unfinished)

Time Travel

Castaway by @incomingalbatross

Cherished Emery by @simplyghosting

Familiarity by @phoebeamorryce

From the Other Side of the End of the World by @fictionadventurer

In Saecula Saeculorum by @kanerallels

Last Rest by @thegreenleavesofspring

One Last Chance by @ladyminaofcamelot

Playing Catch-up by @lydiahosek

The Princess, the King, and the Troubadour by @ladyminaofcamelot

Stones of Memory by @healerqueen

Tell Me About This Time Loop, Again? by @larissa-the-scribe (unfinished)

Warning Signs by @fictionadventurer

#inklingschallenge #inklings challenge 2024 #inklings challenge stories #team tolkien #genre: secondary world #genre: time travel

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healerqueen · 2 months ago

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Stones of Memory

Here is my entry for the 2024 Inklings Challenge. The @inklings-challenge is an annual writing challenge for sci-fi and fantasy writers, using certain subgenres and themes.

This story is a sequel to a short story I wrote many years ago. That story is referenced in this story, but I tried to make it readable on its own, as a standalone story.

********

I wrestle my huge suitcase through the narrow door of Aunt Alice’s little house. Do they make things smaller in England?

I pause in the familiar entry, breathing in the sights and smells I’ve missed since last year. Aunt Alice’s house is stuffed to the brim with oddities and artifacts. Shelves and tables and walls are lined with interesting things. I could spend hours looking at them.

But Aunt Alice is behind me, laughing at me, holding my other bags. She’s waiting for me to move.

I drag my suitcase into the sitting room and resume my goggling. I examine old photographs, ancient weapons, cracked vases, and worn tapestries. There are so many things to see! Clocks and seashells and lamps. And there’s a story behind each one. I ask Aunt Alice about them as we make our tea, and she tells me fascinating tales. The stories of how she came to own these things are almost as interesting as the stories of the objects themselves.

Aunt Alice is a little odd at times, but I’ve grown to like her eccentricities. Her wardrobe is interesting, for one. I can never decide what I think of it. Today, she’s wearing a blouse with metallic embroidery and a swirl of bright colors on an orange background. It brings out the reddish tones in her short, dyed hair.

After tea, I begin to help Aunt Alice wash up, but she says, “Run along and take a walk before the light goes. I can take care of the dishes.”

So I do. I step out the back door into the golden evening light. Only a swelling hill and a stand of trees separate the little cottage from the sea. I smell the salt on the fresh breeze. I take the path through the trees, climb the low hill, and emerge on the crest of it. Below me, there’s a shallow bay with a sandy shore, and beyond it, the sea.

A strange memory washes over me. I walked here many times on my visit to Aunt Alice last year. But the first time was the oddest. Something bizarre happened to me when I stood on this shore. I’ve almost forgotten it until now—because it seems almost like a dream.

When I arrived at this spot last year, I found a metal cloak pin in the grass by the shore. When I touched it, I had a vision of an ancient village, a painted ship, and an attack by Vikings. I shudder now at the thought of the Vikings chasing me. It was so real. It happened to me as if I was really there.

If I didn’t know better, I’d say I traveled back in time.

I shake away the strange sense of déjà vu. Today, there is only the empty shore, with gentle waves on the sand and rough grasses ruffled by the cool breeze.

It couldn’t be more natural. There are no Vikings to be seen—and perhaps there never were.

***

The next day, Aunt Alice and I are on the road, traveling in her battered, ancient station wagon. It’s still strange to me to drive on the wrong side of the road, but I’m no longer afraid that another car will crash into us.

We’re headed to the site of a Roman fort on Hadrian’s Wall—or what remains of one. It’s amazing to me, an American, that something so old could survive for two thousand years, even in ruins. Perhaps that’s what attracted Aunt Alice to Britain. It’s hard to escape history when I’m in the company of my aunt.

The station wagon rattles bravely up and down green hills and around curves, swooping into valleys and over ridges. As we mount one more hill, Aunt Alice lifts her hand and points. “There,” she says. “There’s the fort.” On a hillside ahead of us lies a stony gray grid—a Roman ruin. A few minutes later, we tumble out of the car and hike up to the fort. Then I’m standing on ancient stones for the first time. The crumbling Roman walls stretch in orderly lines and right angles beneath my feet. Only the foundations remain, but it’s enough. It takes my breath away to think that Roman soldiers once patrolled these walls, back when they were still new. These stones are so old, but they’re still here. There’s still a low foundation, knee high. It’s amazing that it’s survived this long.

Beyond the wall, the countryside stretches away, ridge upon ridge. Hadrian’s Wall connects to the fort on either end and follows a ridge line up and down, slashing across the land.

Aunt Alice is watching me with a little smile. “Well?” she asks. “What do you think?”

“It’s beautiful,” I say. No, it’s majestic.

Aunt Alice turns me loose to explore the fort while she goes on to inspect the walls—just as if she was the fort commander in Roman times.

I wander around the rim of the fort, outside the walls. Below the walls, the ground drops quickly away in a downward slope.

I can’t take my eyes off the view, and I’m not watching my feet. My foot catches on something hard in the turf beneath. I nearly trip. I bend down to see what it is. I pat the grass, and my hand meets something sharp and cold. I pick it up. It’s something made of rough metal, corroded by exposure. It’s as long as my hand is wide, and it fills my palm. The metal is shaped like an arch, with a sharp spike sticking out of it. It looks like a pin—a cloak pin?

I suddenly remember another cloak pin—the one I found a year ago that gave me a vision of Viking times. A thrill runs down my spine. This piece of metal could be only a few years old—or it could be centuries old. What if it’s a Roman cloak pin?

I’ll show it to Aunt Alice. She’ll know. I turn and begin walking back to the fort to find her.

I move too fast, and my head begins to spin. The ground feels unsteady under me. I stumble.

The whole world whirls around me like a merry-go-round. The fort, the countryside, and the sky above mingle together in one solid blur. I can’t feel my feet on the ground. I’m floating, out of touch with the world—except for the hard metal pin I clutch in my hand.

I feel my feet on solid earth once more. The world comes into focus again. But everything has changed.

Instead of a bare hillside with a ruined stone foundation, a high wall rises above me. The fort is no longer in ruins. A town spreads out below it. The slope is paved instead of grass-covered, and it’s crowded with low thatched buildings. The place is alive with people. They’re dressed strangely in checkered fabrics, draped and pinned at the shoulders. I look down and find that I’m dressed in the same fashion, in a straight garment of thick brown wool.

A horn sounds, and I turn around. A patrol of men on horseback rides toward me. People scatter to get out of the street, and I hurry to follow, after a moment of staring. The men are mounted soldiers with shields and rough leather armor. At their head rides a man in a blood-red tunic with metal plate armor and a red-crested helmet—a Roman centurion.

Chills run down my spine. I stare. Could it be? Is this real? This has happened to me once before, and it’s happening again. Just like before, I am in the middle of another time. Am I dreaming, or have I truly traveled back in time?

Someone jostles me in the crowd, and a child darts around me, chasing a scrawny dog. The smoke of cookfires stings my nose, and a din of voices, human and animal, fills my ears. I finger the rough wool of the dress I am wearing.

It seems real. No dream could be so alive.

Then I feel the pinch of hard metal in my other hand, clenched in my fist. I lift my hand and open my fingers. The metal pin is still in my hand. But it’s no longer dull gray, roughened by the years. It’s shiny and new, shaped in a smooth curve. There’s a red jewel at one end of it that wasn’t there before. The same thing happened with that other pin—the one that took me to Viking times. Maybe it’s proof—proof that this is real.

The cavalry detachment disappears through a gate in the high wall of the fort. Dazed, I drift along with the crowd as they follow the departing horses.

A woman’s voice snaps at me. “Girl, what are you doing?” I look down and find I’m almost stepping on a flock of squawking chickens. I hastily move away.

There are so many things to see here. A woman spins with spindle and distaff in the doorway of a hut, with a baby on the ground beside her. Off-duty soldiers duck into the door of a wine-shop. A hunter carrying a spear walks past with a wolf-skin slung over his shoulder. He wears a shining neck-ring and a magnificent cloak pin.

As I keep walking down the street between rows of huts, I look down at the pin in my hand. I think this bow-shaped cloak pin is called a fibula—and it’s Roman, not British. The gem embedded in one end of it might be carnelian, or perhaps only glass, but it’s probably not a ruby.

I stare at it in wonder. Once before, a cloak pin took me to another world—another time—the time of the Vikings. Now I’m here, in a bustling Roman fort—holding a second cloak pin. It’s strange but somehow fitting. But what kind of power could do that? Time travel is the stuff of fiction.

“You, girl!” a sharp voice shouts. A man is marching toward me, dressed in Roman armor and carrying a spear in one hand, with a crested helmet under one arm—a centurion. I look up, startled.

“What do you have there?” the soldier demands in an accusing tone. He’s pointing at the cloak pin in my hand. Instinctively, I close my hand and clutch the pin to my waist.

“You stole that fibula. It’s not yours,” the centurion guesses. Other people are looking now. A few of them approach.

I open my mouth to protest. “No, I—” But only a whisper comes out. I back away, hemmed in by accusing eyes

“Take her to the magistrate!” someone says. The centurion beckons another Roman soldier, and they close in on me.

I look around for help, but there is none.

“She looks daft,” a woman says. “Look at her eyes. See, she doesn’t understand.” But I understand. The vacant look in my eyes turns to panic.

The soldiers reach out to lay hands on me. I shake them off. I turn and run, bursting through the crowd. The soldiers weren’t expecting me to put up a fight. They run after me and give chase.

My feet pound down the cobblestone street. I don’t know where I’m going. All I can think of is to get away—somewhere they won’t find me. I turn sharply to dash down a narrow side street between two thatched huts.

The Romans are still behind me, chasing me. They follow as I dash down a maze of narrow, zigzagging alleyways.

Once I leave the main thoroughfare, the streets are quieter, but they have no order. Living huts are tangled together with taverns and shops. A cat startles and flees at my approach, shrieking.

The heavy, nailed sandals of the Romans ring on the street behind me. Where can I go?

Just then, someone pops out of the doorway of a hut—a stout older woman. “Come—hide!” she says.

That’s all the invitation I need. I veer out of the street and dive through the low doorway of the woman’s hut. I press myself against the wall beside the door, ducking to avoid the low ceiling. A moment later, the soldiers barrel past with pounding feet. I’m safe—for now.

“They’ll be back,” the woman says knowingly. I turn to look at her. “Come. In here.” She ushers me to a curtain that partitions off half the hut. We duck behind the curtain, and it falls behind us. “If they come,” says the woman, “hide under the blanket.” She gestures to a low bed covered in skins and woven rugs in faded colors.

The whole place smells unpleasant, and the blankets smell worse, but I’m too desperate to care. I smile and nod gratefully. I collapse and sit on the bed at the woman’s urging. Only then do I notice how exhausted I am. I’m still breathing hard from my run, and my limbs feel like jelly. This does not feel like a dream.

The woman disappears for a few moments and comes back with a hot, fragrant bowl of meaty stew. I taste it, and it is rich and good. I wonder if I’d still like it if I knew what was in it—but I’m hungry as well as tired, and I eat it anyway.

A commotion outside sends the woman scurrying back through the curtains. Men’s raised voices reach me, hardly muffled by the curtain. The soldiers. I put down the bowl of stew, suddenly terrified. My insides feel frozen, and I can’t stomach more food at a time like this.

I feel the hard cloak pin in my sweating hand. I keep forgetting it’s there. I should probably hide it, but I can’t bear to let go of it. It seems like my only lifeline to reality and sanity, to my own world—my own time.

The novelty of this adventure has worn off. Maybe later I’ll appreciate it. Right now, I just want to go home.

I screw my eyes shut against the voices at the outer door of the hut. Any moment now, the soldiers will barge in to search the place, and I’ll have to hide under the blankets—as if that will be enough to keep them from finding me.

Then I realize—it’s quiet. The soldiers are gone.

The woman appears through the curtains, and I jump. But she reassures me: “They're gone.” Her shrewd look tells me she’s done this before. “Wait a little. Then you can go.” I try to tell her how grateful I am, but she waves me away. A few minutes later, I step out of the hut and breathe the fresh air again. I’m so happy to see the sky. The fort walls tower above me once more, with the town nestled at their feet.

I open my hand once more and look down at the cloak pin. The red jewel glints up at me like a winking eye. I reach out with my other hand and touch it gently.

The world begins to spin around me again, whirling at a dizzying speed. Then everything slows, and the world is steady once more—and I’m back at the Roman ruins, in modern England. The sun streams down above low, crumbling walls. Tourists wander around the site with cameras and neon-colored jackets. I’m dressed in my windbreaker and jeans.

I look around in wonder. Did that really just happen? Did I travel back in time? Or was it all a dream? If it was a dream, then it’s happened twice now—and it was more than a daydream. It seemed real. But it couldn’t be. Things like that don’t just happen.

But then I feel hard, cold metal in my palm. I expect the metal will be dull and gray. But the cloak pin in my hand shines in the sun, polished and new. The red gem bursts with color in the sun. That jewel wasn’t there before. Maybe—just maybe—this really did happen.

Someone calls out to me. It’s Aunt Alice. I turn and look for her as she comes toward me, carrying her outlandish, mammoth handbag. “Come up and see the walls,” she says. I’m still dazed, but I nod vaguely and start toward her, swaying a little. Aunt Alice looks hard at me. “What’s happened to you, my girl? Has history changed you?” She’s joking, with a twinkle in her eye. But she’s right—it has changed me.

“You’ll never believe me if I tell you,” I say.

Aunt Alice squints, studying me with a wise light in her eye. “I’m not so sure about that. Why don’t you try me?” I might do just that.

#inklingschallenge #team tolkien #genre: time travel #theme: comfort #story: complete #writing #my writing #writing challenge #writing prompts #roman britain time travel story #stones of memory #healerqueen

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shakespearean-fish · 2 months ago

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Homecoming

[I know where this @inklings-challenge story is going, but ran out of time to get it there before the deadline. I plan to finish it soon.]

The third-class carriage was crowded, and Adrian a’Loretia sat less than comfortably beside a burly man chewing pepperleaf and a pair of chattering women. He at least had the place nearest the window, which let him forget his surroundings as best he could. Grey fields of stubble and groves of golden half-bare trees kept unwinding past him. Autumn was nearing its end, chill and damp, and his bad leg ached like a guilty conscience. Another glance at his watch showed that it was not quite three o’clock, with half an hour yet before they reached the station at Loretia. Only a moment, when compared to twenty years.

(He and his father were in the vestibule waiting to leave, waiting for the state police to arrive at the given time. There were voices outside; a heavy hand pounded on the door. “Let them in,” his father said.

Adrian opened the door, and they pushed into the house. Men in grey uniforms, men with ordinary faces that he might have passed by on the street. “Under the terms of the Appropriation Act,” the chief officer said, as if reciting a speech he had learned in school, “you are permitted to retain property the value of which is not more than sixty miré. We will perform an inspection to ensure compliance with such terms and escort you from these premises.”

The two of them watched as the officers began to search through the bags they had packed, unfolding shirts and riffling the pages of books. Adrian’s father stood tall and straight, unchangeably still the Prince a’Loretia. One of the men caught sight of the gold ring on his hand. “That ring. What’s it worth?” he demanded.

“It was a gift from my wife. It does not exceed the limit.”

“Surrender it,” the chief officer ordered, before the man who had spoken could reply.

The prince slowly took the ring from his finger and held it out on his palm.)

A sudden change of light brought Adrian out of memory. The train was passing through a tunnel in the side of a hill, and the window had become a dim mirror where his own pale face gazed back at him. It could no longer be called the face of a young man, with the first hints of grey in the dark hair, the fine lines drawn under the eyes. The years had run away from him into emptiness. His father had hoped that he would enter a profession; he had gone through a succession of petty clerkships. His father had hoped that he would marry and produce an heir; even if he’d felt any desire for marriage, he had nothing to offer a wife.

#inklingschallenge #team tolkien #genre: secondary world #theme: patience #theme: forgive #story: unfinished

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starknightgirl · 2 months ago

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Beyond the Starless Sky, Chapter 1

This is the first of (hopefully) three chapters for my story for the @inklings-challenge. I'm on Team Tolkien and I chose to do a Secondary World story with the main theme of Comfort the Sorrowful. I'm not sure how well I did on the theme part for this chapter. As of the writing of this post, it is the only complete chapter. It is very unpolished so constructive criticism is entirely welcome.

-✦✦✦-

Chapter 1: The Shining City Below

“I, Camilla Rowen, on this, my majority, do hear-by swear to fulfill the Crown Trial.” I said, heart hammering in my chest as I knelt before the Regent Council. “I shall set forth from Adytum and I shall not return until the Crown is returned to our home.”

The crowd gathered at the back of the council chamber erupted in a flurry of whispers. But the Regent Council in front of me was stony in their silence. I swallowed nervously.

Finally, the Prime Regent in the center, a severe man named Braden, nodded. “Very well.” He said. “Let it be known that from tomorrow on, Camilla Rowen has set upon the Crown Trial. She shall be sent to the surface and shall not be welcome back until the Crown is returned.”

I stood and bowed before exiting the chamber. I managed to take four steps out into the city proper before what I’d just done caught up to me. It fell upon me like a heavy weight.

I had all but exiled myself from Adytum. The cavern city, with its familiar luminescent ceiling and walls. The only safe-haven from the Wraiths that stalked the surface. My home of eighteen years. What had I just done?

I’m not sure how long I stood outside the Regent Council Chambers frozen in fear. But it was long enough that Eskil, my best friend found me there. And he was furious.

“The Crown Trial?! What were you thinking, Camilla?!” Eskil yelled. He was still wearing his knight uniform. He must have just come off duty then.

“It’s the only way I’ll find out what happened to my brother, Eskil.” I said, throat tight.

“It’s a death sentence, Camilla! You and I both know what happened to Aidan. He died on that fool’s errand just like everyone else who sought the Crown!” Eskil said. “Or are you not wearing mourning braids for him even now?!”

I slumped slightly. Eskil was right. I didn’t wear my braids just for my parents. But even still.

“I need to know. I could be— We could be wrong.” I said, before adding in a whisper, “besides, you and I both know the only skill I know is illegal surface ruins scavenging, which I can’t exactly get a job doing legally.”

“You could be a knight like me.” Eskil said. “Please don’t throw your life away on this worthless quest! There’s a reason no one has tried since Aidan!”

“It’s too late.” I said, hoping I sounded more resolved than I felt. “I already swore myself to the Trial. I have to leave tomorrow. No matter what.”

Eskil sighed deeply. “I wish you had told me you were planning on doing this.”

“You would’ve tried to stop me.” I said softly. Might have succeed too.

“Yes, because it’s a bad idea!” Eskil said. Then he sighed, his shoulders slumping. “But I suppose it’s too late for that now.”

“It is.” I said. “I’m sorry, Eskil.”

“No, I’m sorry.” He said. “You should go pack. You’re going to have a long night in front of you.”

“It’s alright.” I said, nervous to admit something that would probably make Eskil feel worse. But I pushed through it. “I packed yesterday.”

He sighed. “Of course you did. Alright, well, since you’re doing this, I’m going to look over what you packed. A second pair of eyes could help make sure you’re not missing anything you’ll need.”

“Thank you, Eskil.” I said.

“Don’t thank me yet.” He said. “I’ll be a bit— I should go drop off my kit.”

“Alright.” I said. Then, trying to be a bit humorous, I added, “don’t take too long though or I’ll leave without you.”

It didn’t really land well. He just groaned. “Please don’t joke about that, Camilla.” Which was perhaps a bit fair.

-✦✦✦-

My home was a small alcove close to the surface which had been walled off for privacy. There wasn’t much here. Especially not now that I had packed pretty much all of my worldly belongings into my backpack. My very battered backpack— the number of times I had to sew and patch that bag up, well. At least it would only have to survive one more journey.

Honestly, I was lucky to have a home at all. Even if it was a mere stone’s throw from the entrance to the cavern. Adytum had a serious overpopulation problem— the cavern wasn’t exactly designed for the population that had squeezed its way into it. Plans to expand the caverns had been proposed, but they were dangerous. The last thing anyone wanted was for the cavern to collapse on the city.

Still, there was a cowardice in the way that the Regent Council refused to consider any plans to expand. But then, I suppose it was easy for me to judge from the outside looking in. I tried to remind myself of that every time the Regent Council’s petty in-fighting and self-interested selfishness got on my nerves. It was rather hard at times.

Maybe finding the Lost Queen wouldn’t help. I wanted to be optimistic about it all. I wanted to believe I would find my brother alive and we would bring the Lost Queen to Adytum. But even if I managed to succeed in all parts of my quest, there was every possibility it would just make Adytum’s precarious situation more unstable. The Regent Council all swore an oath to support the Queen when she returned. But how many of them would uphold it?

I shook my head. That was putting the chicken before the eggs. I had to find the Lost Queen first. I had to succeed where so many before me had failed. Some much more well equipped than me.

“Well, this place looks slightly more bare than usual.” A voice said from behind me.

I jumped, my heart racing, before I realized who it was. “Don’t scare me like that, Eskil!”

“Sorry, I knocked but you didn’t answer.” He said, walking over to me. “I figured you wouldn’t mind me just entering.”

“You don’t have to knock, Eskil. Just don’t sneak up on me like that!” I said as I turned to face him. He had indeed taken off his gambeson, mail and helmet, leaving him in a dark tunic and pants. He also had what looked to be a large pole wrapped in a cloth. “What’s with the pole?”

“It’s a gift.” He said. “I’ll show you in a bit. First, what did you pack?”

“Nothing too crazy. A canteen of water. Hardtack, some oats and a bit of honey. A small metal pot and spoon. A fire-starter. A bedroll. Linen and rope for shelter. A spare change of clothes. And, of course, my crystal lantern.” I said.

Eskil smiled fondly. “You were so disappointed when Aidan gifted that to you. But that little lantern has probably saved your life several times.”

“Well Aidan wasn’t too happy when he realized giving me it allowed me to take more risks while scavenging.” I said sheepishly. “So, what do you think?”

“Seems like a pretty good kit.” He said. “I don’t want to know where you got a fire-starter, do I? You know they’re heavily regulated here.”

“I only got it a few days ago, Eskil. Don’t worry, I haven’t been sitting on an illegal fire-starter for years.” I said.

“I said I didn’t want to know, Camilla.” He said, but his tone was fond.

I shrugged slightly. “I mean, I didn’t tell you where I got it. Just when I got it.”

“You’re incorrigible.” Eskil said.

I grinned at him, half-bowing sarcastically, “with pride.”

“There is something you’re missing though.” He said, with a slight air of theatricality.

“Oh?” I said. “Might that be your mysterious present?”

Eskil unwrapped the object he’d brought. It was a sword, securely held in a rust-colored leather scabbard that matched the hilt. “I meant for you to take this on your Knight Trial but luckily it still works for this too. I hope you never have to use it. But just in case.”

“I— I don’t know what to say, Eskil.” I said. “Surely this cost way too much.”

Eskil rubbed the back of his neck sheepishly. “Well, actually, I made it.”

“What?” I said, staring at him in shock. “How? What about the Smith Trial?” I couldn’t comprehend the idea that Eskil of all people might’ve broken the law.

“I’m not selling it, it’s a gift.” He said with a grin. “It’s a bit of a loophole but no one ever said you needed to pass any Trials for gifts. Oh, speaking of, you haven’t seen the best part yet.”

With a flourish, Eskil unsheathed the sword. But surprisingly, where I expected to see metal, was instead a crystal blade. It shone, filling every shadowed corner of my home with light.

“Wow.” I said. “It’s beautiful.”

“Yeah, but it’s also practical.” Eskil said with a shrug, dropping the scabbard on my bed. “If, heaven forbid, you end up running into some Wraiths, this should help more than a regular sword.” Then he gently handed the sword to me.

I stared at it, baffled. “Weird.” I said. “I expected it to be heavier. I mean, not that it’s light by any means, but it’s made of bright crystals right?”

“Well, sort of.” Eskil said. “There is a bright crystal core to it. But you’re right. Bright crystals alone would’ve been too heavy— that’s probably why no one has made a sword like this before. But notice how the surface is clear? I used aninite.”

“But aninite isn’t clear.” I said, turning the sword in fascination. Most of the cavern walls here were made up of ainite; that lucky fact had probably saved us all because aninite was a very light, yet strong rock. But those walls were also every shade of dark gray.

“It’s not usually, no.” He said. “But I heard of some bright crystals that don’t glow. And I got curious. And it turns out, they’re not bright crystals at all. Under the right circumstances, aninite can be everything from a smoky gray to full on clear like here.”

“That’s amazing.” I said. “Are you sure you don’t want to keep it?”

“I’ll feel better knowing you have it.” Eskil said. “I made it with you in mind. Besides, I can always make another one.”

I gently set the sword down on my bed and grabbed Eskil in a tight hug. “Thank you, Eskil. For everything.”

“You’re welcome, Camilla.” Eskil said. “Now come on, if this is going to be your last day in town for awhile, you deserve to have some good food for once.”

I tried to smile, even though I could feel the weight of the Trial looming over me. “Alright. Let’s go.”

-✦✦✦-

I shifted nervously standing before Adytum’s main gate. There were other, narrower tunnels out, even though there weren’t supposed to be. Most of those I knew like the back of my hand. But I had never actually left by the main entrance. My surface expeditions were illegal after all and the main gate was where the guards stood watch.

My new sword was an unexpected weight on my right side, but my backpack was little heavier than I was used to. It should’ve felt almost like a normal expedition. It really didn’t. There was something about knowing how I might never return. It weighed on me.

Last night had been amazing. I had never wanted it to end. But eventually it had, Eskil forcing me to go home early to get sleep for my early departure time. I had not slept well.

Surface travel was going to be hard. On my expeditions I had always left just after sunrise and come back before sundown to avoid the Wraiths. I no longer had that option. A nocturnal schedule would allow me to defend myself at night. But traveling by day would be safer. There didn’t seem to be a good option.

“Nervous?” Eskil said as he walked up from behind me. It was his day off so I wasn’t too surprised to see he had once again forgone his armor.

I nodded, turning to face him. “Mostly I’m waiting for them to be ready. Well, that and trying to determine if it’s better to travel by day or by night.”

“Try by day first.” Eskil said. “A properly secured campsite might be able to save you from having to fight Wraiths at all.”

“Or get me killed.” I said, shifting nervously.

“You’re going to be fine, Camilla.” He said. “I believe in you. Trust me, the surface is survivable. And I know that you of all people can do it.”

“I’m going to miss you.” I said. “Especially if— if I fail.”

“Hey, don’t think like that.” He said. “You’re going to be the one to pass this Trial.”

“You didn’t think that yesterday.” I said, slumping slightly. “What if this is really as you said, a death sentence?”

Eskil sighed. “You’re right. I didn’t think that yesterday. But that had nothing to do with you and everything to do with me. Me and my fears. Because when I really stop to think about it, I know you can do it. I believe in you, Camilla.”

“Thanks, Eskil.” I said.

“Hey, it’s all I can do for you now.” He said.

“It still means a lot.” I said, pulling him into a hug. “I’m going to miss you.”

“You’ll just have to pass your Trial then.” He said, slowly pulling back. “Go onto victory and safely return.”

“May your path be lit until that day.” I said softly.

“For having known you, it will be.” He said with a bittersweet grin. “Now, go on, you’re going to be amazing!”

“That’s not part of it!” I said, shaking my head fondly, turning towards the gates. The guards were changing to the day shift which meant it would be time soon.

“I don’t care, it’s true!” Eskil called after me.

“If you say so!” I said, not even bothering to turn back. In front of me, the guards finished swapping. I walked towards the one on the right. He was in charge of the gate. That meant he would be the one alerted to my Trial and subsequent departure. I felt surprisingly steady all things considered.

“You Camilla Rowan?” The guardsman asked. He probably didn’t see too many people trying to leave given the circumstances.

I nodded. “That’s me.”

“Here. Your Crown compass. Don’t lose it.” He said, handing me what looked like a compass made of dark opaque crystal.

I’d only seen one once before, when Aidan had set out on his quest, but its appearance was seared into my brain. A dark opaque crystal compass set with white markings hung on a leather strap. An enchantment on the needle would make it always point to the Lost Queen. It would be my guide for the Trial, leading me in the straightest possible route. Of course, it also didn’t account for obstacles in the way.

“Camilla Rowan,” the guardsman said sternly, “Return with the Crown or not at all.”

“I— I swear I will.” I said.

The guardsman opened up a door into the guardhouse. Another guard stood there to lead me out. The last memory I had of Aidan was of him walking this same route.

At the time, I had imagined that they would open the portcullises for him; I imagined I would watch him walk up the cavern entrance until he vanished from sight. It had rather broken my imagination to learn that there was a hatch between the two portcullises that single travelers could exit via rope ladder. Only one portcullis need open, the outer one.

In hindsight it was a silly assumption because they didn’t even open both portcullises when the Knight Trial candidates needed to leave. They cycled the portcullises, first one the the other.

The journey through the guardhouse was short— I spent most of it lost in thought and was quite surprised only a few minutes later to have already made it to the exit. The hatch was larger than I expected, but certainly not beyond measure. The guardsman anchored the rope ladder and then opened the hatch. He threw the ladder down.

My hands felt clammy as I slowly climbed my way down. The ladder seemed to sway with every step, sure as they were. Compared to the walk through the guardhouse, the short climb down seemed of interminable length. Still, eventually I reached the end. I stepped off the ladder and had but a moment to catch my breath before one of the portcullises slowly rose.

It revealed a tunnel of dark gray rock, much more wide than the passages I was used to sneaking out of. Maybe that was what made it feel so different to leave. Maybe it was that the Crown Trial had just begun. At any rate, I was on my way.

-✦✦✦-

1 2 3 - Next Chapter >

#Beyond the Starless Sky #inklingschallenge #inklings challenge 2024 #team tolkien #genre: secondary world #theme: comfort #story: unfinished #my writing #original writing #catholicism

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secret--psalms--saturn · 2 months ago

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Inklings Challenge 2024

Hi! This is my first time finishing an inklings challenge( @inklings-challenge !) Yay! I've decided to keep it short and sweet.

My team is Tolkien and I've decided to do Secondary World Fantasy with the theme of comforting the sorrowful. With that being said,

TW: death mention, specifically suicide mention

I don't go into specifics and honestly just heavily implied, but I wanted to tag it just in case!

Anyways, enjoy! Please just ignore the ugly grammar lol:

Odeda looked up at her husband from her laptop, watching him wash dishes from today's breakfast. His skinny arms were quick but thorough, and his eyes focused on scrubbing each dish with care. He looked like he was studying each one as if he had saw them for the first time.

Constantine was just about done, she had guessed. Breakfast wasn't big, just some eggs and toast, with a few fresh strawberries. Work was a little slow this season, so he was able to sit down and have breakfast with her.

It was quiet, as so had the morning been. Neither of them talked much, just small talk about their plans for the day. Sunlight had trickled in kitchen window, illuminating Constantine's pale, smooth long face and tickled his long pointed ears. Odeda smiled softly, loving the simple but beautiful view. She tucked her curly hair behind her similar ears and rose a coffee mug to her lips, choosing to break from her writing to observe his long figure. He finally finished up, shook out his hands and dried them fully with an embroidered hand towel.

"Okay beloved, I'm gonna get going. We're gonna be picking up soon." Constantine pushed up his glasses as he walked over and gave her a tender kiss on her lips. He then looked down and put a hand on her dress, right on her stomach. "Be good for your mama, little one." He whispered with a smile and walked towards the door.

"Be safe honey." Odeda said, as he opened the door.

"Will do, business is just a mile down the road."

"I know, sometimes I wish you would just take a Ruby Share."

"Yeah but the time it takes to get a cab out here and drive me… I'd be there already." He let a small smile escape from his lips. "I'll be careful, don't you worry" He nodded in assurance.

"Okay, love you. Just text me when you get there alright?"

"Will do. Love you, bye." With that, he closed the door, barely making a sound.

She took a small sip of her black coffee, warm and comforting. Looking around, she took in the small kitchen space, enough for basic appliances and a few smaller ones pushed to the back of the light green walls. The toned wooden cabinets sat above the counters that held enough space for their dishes. Floral matching curtains were pushed aside the window and door window. A floral lamp that was off hung from the ceiling but gave light at dinner. A couple spring themed mats sat on the brown wooden floor near the sink and door.

Odeda whispered a small prayer, before closing her laptop and packed her things. She took a deep breath, hiked her bags up, and headed out the door.

Odeda placed a bag in her passenger seat, walked over to the driver side, and plumped down. It was getting a little harder to adjust in small spaces being 35 week pregnant, but she managed. She had offered her husband a ride to work the night before, but he declined knowing she had a doctor's appointment in the next town she had to get to. Shifting the car in reverse, she backed out of the driveway and headed down the dirt road. Drive was about an hour away, so she turned on her playlist and let her mind ease… at least as much as she could.

But her mind drifted instead. Odeda thought about the unusually warm May day it was, and how she brought a cardigan just in case but chose to feel the warm breeze against her skin anyway. Odeda gripped the staring wheel, thankfully sighing and taking deep breaths. She knew her doctor would tell her to relax her shoulders and unclench her jaw. Things have settled a bit since March, the last cold blow to their family. Finally, a warm day to bring some kind of relief to her and Constantine. The winter was long and bleak, as this region often gets. But this year had] been particularly hard. So many losses and hardships… they made it out, but barely.

Odeda shook her head, taking another deep breath. She turned up her music and tried to blare out her thoughts with her favourite playlist. She thought it was working, but asking her to not think about a white elephant, just brought a whole herd in. Soon her tears flowed and her driving sense kicked into auto pilot. Who was she to fight the memories that begged her to address them properly?

Just a few more days Odeda reminded herself. Her therapy appointment was Thursday, and then she could continue chipping away at the pain. Since she didn't want to burden her husband, she sought out to wear her heart out on her sleeve only in certain times.

Trees waved past her as she got onto more solid back roads. She loved it a bit more than highways. They were winding, quiet, and had a great view of the hills she passed by. Some clouds scattered the sky, allowing the sun to kiss the blooming plant life that is starting to wake up from the chilling winter. Broken brick side rails and wooden fences weaved in and out of the side of the road, separating the pavement from fields of gold and lush green pastures. It caused Odeda to glance upon it with a smile, giving her just enough hope to look forward to summer's glow.

About half way there, she heard her phone buzz. She knew better than to check her phone, however she knew it was her husband letting her know he was at the shop. They had started a floral business together, about a year ago. It's been a wild ride, adding weeds to their garden but for now, the garden is about to flourish again. Odeda usually helped a lot in shop, but as her pregnancy progressed she focused more on taking it easy.

Odeda put a hand on her tummy, looking forward to her ultrasound and hearing her little one's heartbeat. The young elven woman looked even more forward to meeting the child face to face,

xoxo

Odeda dialed her husband's number as she got into the car and sent it through Bluetooth.

"Hey love!" She greeted him.

"Hey honey, how'd your appointment go?"

"All is well." She assured him. Odeda knew he wanted to tag along with her, but if he did he would've had to stay late at the office. Constantine knew she rather would have him be home by dinner, so they both didn't mind.

"Good. Did you go to Sandy's afterwords?"

"Yeah, you know how I've been craving their chocolate croissants."

She could hear a small chuckle. "You and your chocolate."

"Hey! The baby wanted it."

She heard a sharp but short laugh. "Okay okay, your story going well?"

"Yeah."

There was a few moments of silence.

"Okay love," she finally said. "See you when I get home?"

"See you then"

"Love you"

"Love you too."

"Bye"

xoxo

"I got a summons to the court" Constantine said quietly, pulling out an envelope embellished with golf lettering and a wax seal of their kingdom's emblem.

"A summons!?" Odeda exclaimed, in disbelief. "For what?"

He opened the letter, and then smiled, breaking the 'act' that he had been concealing.

"Honey," he looked at her with a wide grin. "you know the prince is getting married, right?"

"Yeah? What about it?"

"Well they need a florist"

"A florist…?" Odeda trailed off, thinking for a moment with her head focusing on the ground, tapping her chin. She then looked up at him, wide eyed. "And they asked..?"

"Us!" He exclaimed.

"Wonderful!" She yelled, jumping in his embrace. She gazed at his eyes for a moment, full of pure joy and happiness. She hadn't seen this look in his face in a long time. 3 months… she missed it.

"So we're going to the castle??" Odeda asked.

Constantine frowned a bit and grimaced. "Well I am…"

"You? Just you? Why can't I come?"

"Sweetheart you're getting to the end here. I don't want to travel so far out of town away from your midwife just in case something happens."

Odeda sighed. "I guess you're right but…" She straightened up a bit. "I've had a really healthy pregnancy and I am only 35 weeks. I guess if we plan for a week and a half there, it's not likely I would go into labor in that time."

Constantine looked at the letter again. "Babe I really think its best you stay. The travel might be a bit much."

Tears weld up in her eyes. She knew this was a losing battle. "What if… what if I talk to my midwife? What if she gives me the clearance to go? I just think I can be valuable for such an occasion."

Constantine thought for a moment. "Okay, I do really need you so… If the midwife give the okay, then it'll be okay with me." he smiled, embracing his excited wife once again.

xoxo

The train station was bustling with travelers going to and fro. Constantine clutched both their suitcases while standing on the platform. Odeda stood beaming next to her husband, looking at the tickets in her hands. Her majesty was kind to cover travel expenses as they rode them in here.

She was especially thankful her midwife, Malea, gave her the okay to go on the trip. "You're the picture of perfect pregnancy." Malea had labeled her, and she hasn't stopped smiling since.

"Train 564, red line, heading towards Audrella Spring Gardens, now boarding."

The steam train, very traditional in nature, rolled up to the platform. The conductor came out, opening the doors to let its passengers walk out.

"All aboard!" The conductor called out, after clearing the train.

After getting on, the couple made their way to their room. Sliding the door open, they both walked inside. To the left, there were bunk beds made nicely and a ladder leading up to the top bunk. To the right, there was a corner leather bench and a long, 4 foot table. Odeda smiled warmly and put her suitcase on the side of the bottom bunk.

"Dibs!" she cheered, flopping on the bed.

Constantine nodded, returning her smile. "Well I certainly wasn't going to ask you to climb."

Odeda laid down. "Do you mind if I lay down and rest a bit?" She asked him.

He nodded. "Take all the rest you need."

xoxo

Odeda's eyes fluttered open as she woke. Still a bit foggy, she peered through her sleepy eyelids to survey her surroundings. The golden light from the window trickled in, illuminating the room. It shun light on the floor, and onto the long wooden table. Though the shadowed wall next to it blocked some of the light, the light reached to a few of the paintings on the walls. It spilled on the leather bench where Constantine was sitting. Her husband was holding a book, relaxed and resting his head in his other hand. He leaned up against the wall in the corner bench. The light hit his soft auburn hair, making it glimmer and kissing his golden cheeks. He was a very beautiful man, she thought, bringing a smile to her face. Finally she yawned and stretched and sat up.

"Have a nice nap?" He asked, glancing slightly up at her.

"Yeah it was good." She affirmed, sitting up and swinging her legs around. Odeda got up and made her way to the bench next to him.

"I could tell, you were snoring quite loudly." He chuckled, turning the page.

"Yeah yeah." She smirked, waving him off. She reached down to her leather laptop bag and pulled out it out. "Whatcha reading?"

"Ah, a book that uh, Harry recommended to me at the beginning of this year. A theological book."

Odeda nodded, the name still giving her a slight pain through her chest. She chose however, not to dwell on it.

"What's it about?"

"It's about God the Father, and his attributes. Currently reading about His love."

She nodded again, waiting for the laptop to boot up. "Is it good?"

"Oh it's fantastic." He softly smiled. "Very convicting and comforting."

"That's really nice to hear." She said, putting in her password.

A few moments of silent lingered between the two. Odeda felt a bit of sadness begin to loom, and she shifted a bit in her seat. She brought up her book, and continued to type away. However, every few sentences her gaze went from her computer to her husband. She noticed he was reading much more slowly, or so she had thought.

"You know, Harry had great recommendations. Books, games, shows you name it. He was knowledgeable about them too."

"I know I heard you guys till 1 in the morning talking about Pelego the Porcupine." She smirked.

Constantine nodded slowly, a bit solemn. His smile dropped as she noticed he stopped reading, just staring at the page now.

Odeda let the silence linger a bit, memories flashing back in her mind. It was just another day; sunny, not a cloud in the sky. It was a few days since they had heard from Harry, but she reassured her husband he was taking some kind of break. Oh, how she wished she was right. That day, A friend from church was visiting and had just left. Then she got the call, from her husband himself. His voice was shaking, slowly telling her the news.

They found him. No breath, no pulse, and alone.

Constantine was impacted the most out of the two of them. Their friend was his best friend. The sobs she heard in the following days was something she could never forget. The pain in his eyes, his hollowed footsteps and sleepless nights overtook him.

Her pain couldn't even touch his, but she struggled right next to her husband. Maybe it was the fact of how he died, but nevertheless, she couldn't focus on anything the following days. There were multiple times Odeda just broke down alone in her car. She didn't want to burden him with her grief, of course. Despite having a therapist, she couldn't help but take the brunt of it. She had a million unanswered questions. Haunting questions that will hang like ghosts in her closet, and baggage in her heart.

Why did he do it? Why didn't he call someone? Why didn't he get help?

Odeda would've dropped everything to save his life. Could she have done something? Something more? Tell him she loved him more? Be more involved in conversations with him? She clenched her jaw, feeling a tear brim her eye. Despite living a few hours away, Odeda was sure that even if he had any inkling of struggle, she would be the first to risk a speeding ticket just to show up at his doorstep, if it meant he would still be here today. Constantine would do even more. Odeda knew that her husband would even take his place and sacrifice everything to save his friend's life.

Taking a deep breath, she looked over to her husband. Constantine had put the book down, and was now staring off into space. A few tears had escaped from his eyes as well, but remained perfectly still. Odeda scooted closer to him, and put her head on his shoulder, linking her arms through his. She closed her eyes, sighed, and silently prayed. There were no words needed; she had already said everything she needed in the last few months. Now, she will grieve with him in silence. It was comforting; to know someone was there, hurting with them. The gesture was whispering, "I'm here, it's okay, you're safe." without a word being spoken. He didn't have to say a thing; she knew it was all that was needed in the moment. A grief shared meant the absence of suffering alone.

That following night, as they said their "I love yous" and goodnights", she waiting until she could hear soft snores from on top of her. Her mind still resonated on Harry. She reflected on the remembrance service, surrounded by friends and family. Odeda remembered looking around. Hundreds of people there, but not one could do anything about it except wish they had the power to rewind time and make sure they finished the race together. Not a dry eye left that day. But a willingness to live, did.

xoxo

#inklingschallenge #team tolkien #genre: secondary world #theme: comfort #story: complete

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