#Team Tolkien

[bookshelf-in-progress]

Stolen Moments: A Fairy Tale

A spur-of-the-moment story for @inklings-challenge

The princess steps into the center of a whirling masquerade. She is resplendent in green as the Queen of May. A man slips through the crowd and stands before her, dressed all in brown as the Autumn King. He bows with a flourish, silently asking for a dance.

She stands like stone. “You should not be here,” she says.

“Can I not dance with my wife?”

He reaches for her hand. She pulls it away. “I have no husband.”

“In this place, no. Yet I remember otherwise,” he says. “And so do you.”

She turns on her heel and strides away. He follows, quick as ever. The dancers part around them like water. She scowls. He was always too clever for her, always too quick. Even a world of her making bends to accommodate him.

“Do you know what I’ve done to find you?” he asks. “The countries I’ve crossed? The mountains I’ve climbed? I’ve fought gryphons and giants. Searched for treasures lost since the invention of time. Flown to the moon and tunneled to the center of the earth.”

“I’m sure you enjoyed yourself immensely.”

“I bargained with the four winds, gave up my shadow, traded three days of my life just to have this moment with you.”

“I am sorry you wasted your time,” she says. “Do what you will, you cannot take me from here.”

“No,” he agrees. “You are trapped here by your own will, and only by your will can you escape.”

She chose this day well when she arranged her escape. The grandest ball the Mountain King ever held, the day of her sixteenth birthday. Long before she ever met that too-curious trickster who stole away her heart with cheap promises. Here there is music, beauty, bounty, every pleasure she can imagine. She will gladly live in this day forever if it means freedom from her ties to him.

“You think you can persuade me,” she sneers.

He laughs. “No one in the twelve worlds can do that.”

“You think you can steal me.”

Even behind his mask, she can see his gaze darken. She has offended him. “I will not steal a wife.”

“What do you call our wedding day?”

“You chose me.”

“Do you call it choosing, when you hid your true face behind so many lies?”

“You had your own secrets.”

“Do you blame me for hiding them?”

“No,” he says.

She stops. Of all the things she imagined him saying, this was not one of them.

“No,” he says again. “You were right to keep your secrets. I was wrong to seek them out.”

She turns to look at him. He removes his mask, revealing his deceptively young face. His eyes, once blue, have turned greenish-gray. His face has three jagged scars.

“You hid from me,” he said. “As I hid from you. I should have been patient--proved that you could trust me. Instead, I forced my way into your secrets and destroyed everything. I'm sorry.”

She is speechless. She expected excuses. Dazzling explanations.She had never expected contrition.

He reaches beneath his jacket and removes a small glass pendant. It shines the same bright blue his eyes had once been.

“This is yours,” he said.

Her heart. Taken from her in a childhood curse so long ago. Only her husband could put it in its proper place, if it remained unbroken during five years of marriage. Prince of thieves that he once had been, he had found it and broken it on the eve of their second anniversary.

“You repaired it,” she said.

“I replaced it. With mine.”

She has seen him in a million lies. This is not one of them.

“You may stay here if you wish,” he says. “I came only to atone. I do not expect you to forgive me.”

He places the pendant in her hand, bows, then turns away.

When he leaves, she knows she need never see him again.

“Wait,” she says. She removes her mask. “Don’t leave without your wife."

He stops. The other dancers disappear.She puts her hand in his and kisses him as she did on their wedding day.

He is alight with joy as she pulls away. "Does this mean--?"

“I forgive you,” she says.

He laughs aloud.

The heart he gave to her, she freely gives to him. The blue returns to his eyes as their hearts are restored, new and whole.

As the curse crumbles around them, they leave the ballroom behind.

[catkin-morgs-kookaburralover]

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.”

[inklings-challenge]

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!

[thegreenleavesofspring]

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.

[kanerallels]

In Saecula Saeculorum

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

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

~Time~

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

~~~

~Prepping For Rescue~

“Are you sure you want to do this?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

~~~

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

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

Except he wasn’t.

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

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

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

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

But instead, a girl had saved his life.

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

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

Two days later they found out Marian was pregnant.

~~~

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

~~~

~The Typewriter Theme~

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

~~~

“SIX MONTHS?”

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

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

“I’m fine. Let’s go again.”

~~~

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

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

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

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

The door swung open, and someone pulled him forward.

~~~

~The Hornburg~

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

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

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

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

“Let’s go again.”

“Okay.” 

~~~

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

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

Stephen knew better.

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

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

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

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

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

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

~~~

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

“Yup,” she said.

“A sibling, huh?”

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

~~~

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

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

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

~~~

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

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

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

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

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

To whoever is helping me:

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

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

Stephen.

“What do we do?” Tad asked quietly

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

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

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

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

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

~~~

~FREEPORT~

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

And then three months after that, it happened again.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

4:00.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

~~~

~Afraid Of Time~

“It’s not done,” she said.

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

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

Stephen Reid. Died 10/12/83

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

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

~~~

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“And I’d be there?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You have to go,” Stephen guessed.

“I don’t want to,” she whispered.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He sent the text.

~~~

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

It hadn’t worked.

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

“Zara?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

[incomingalbatross]

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

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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."

[taleweaver-ramblings]

Inklings Challenge 2024: Son of the Dragon King

Here's my story for @inklings-challenge! I discarded two ideas before settling on this one, whoops. Very pleased with how it turned out, though! Ended up with secondary world fantasy (shocking, I know) and the "counsel the doubtful" theme.

Enjoy!

Son of the Dragon King

The crack in the back wall around the Palace of Azure Seas still hadn’t been fixed. Anzheng dug his toes into it and felt for his next handhold. It made sense, he supposed. In the wake of King Qinglong’s death and the confusion over who the next Dragon King would be, most people probably gave little thought to the condition of a wall that showed no other signs of crumbling — especially not as it was the innermost of the five walls surrounding the palace and the others still stood tall, strong, and smooth as ever. Even so, someone should have noticed it by now. Someone should have done something.

He scrambled the rest of the way to the top of the wall, swung his legs over, and looked down. The ornamental fir still stood near enough the wall that he could easily drop into it when he was ready. Another security risk that someone should do something about. In the meantime, though, it would serve him well.

He waited long enough to see the guards pass by. They, at least, were more alert than they had been on Anzheng’s past visits. Before King Qinglong’s passing, they would often yawn through their patrols, especially back here. Now, however, they kept alert, sweeping their lamps side to side to get a good look at their surroundings and holding their long spears at the ready. Each had a pistol on their belt as well, Anzheng noticed. That was a new development. Which of the princes or princesses had been behind that? Or had it been General Chengzhe’s idea?

In any case, the presence of firearms meant Anzheng would have to be doubly careful not to be noticed — getting shot was an annoyance he had no time for right now. Not that there was much chance of the guards spotting him. Even if they did . . . well, he had every right to be here. He’d just have to make that clear before they could shoot.

Of course, that would be another annoyance, and it might be worse, on the whole, than getting shot would be.

The guards moved on, and Anzheng jumped lightly from the wall to the top branches of the ornamental fir. The needles poked his hands and sap clung to his fingers as he scrambled down, but he paid them little heed. Once on the ground, he paused a moment, listening and watching. Then he darted to the next patch of cover, one in a pair of guardian lion statues. Then to a sheltering bush, then a round garden table, lingering a few moments each time to make sure he hadn’t been noticed.

From the garden table, it was only a few yards to the palace itself. A covered walkway encircled the main building, its shadows providing ample hiding places — but this was not where Anzheng aimed to reach next. Instead, he waited an extra minute, listening hard, then took off running. He gathered himself and leapt. One foot made contact with a bench set at the edge of the walkway, and he pushed off that, reaching for the edge of the roof.

For a moment, he thought he’d missed his target. Then his fingers found the edge of the tiles as if some force had lifted him the final inches. He grabbed on and pulled himself up. The tiles dug into his chest and stomach as he swung his legs up and half-climbed, half-rolled onto the rooftop.

One of his feet hit a cracked tile, breaking it fully. The loose piece skittered off the rooftop, fell to the ground, and shattered. In day, the sound would have been barely noticeable. Now, in the quiet night, it seemed as loud as a cannon. Anzheng stilled, straining his ears. Perhaps he was still safe; perhaps the guards hadn’t noticed . . .

The light of a guard lamp appeared below, and Anzheng heard the man’s voice call out, “Who goes there?”

So much for that. Anzheng pressed himself against the tiles, making himself as flat as possible, barely breathing. People rarely looked up, and he prayed that principle would hold now.

Within him, Power rose like the tide, eager to be used, promising that he could hide himself, ensure that no guard would see him even if they looked straight at him. Anzheng bit his tongue, willing it to a lower ebb. He hadn’t asked for this Power, and he’d not use it, no matter how worthy the cause. Besides, it was too risky — too likely that once he used a drop of that Power, its full measure would burst forth and reveal him instead of hiding him.

The guard continued to peer around for a good ten minutes before shaking his head and walking onward. Anzheng held back a sigh of relief until he was sure the man was gone. Then he carefully clambered the rest of the way up the roof.

Compared to the outer walls, the wall of the palace was easy to climb; window ledges and decorative carvings provided hand- and foot-holds that a child could cling to with no difficulty. Anzheng scrambled upwards in a matter of moments, though he still stopped and flatted himself each time he reached a roof, waiting for any indication that someone had noticed him.

At last, he reached his goal: a window on the fourth floor. It was shut and latched, but a few minutes’ work with a thin knife let the paper and wood panes open freely. He swung himself through, feet hitting the wooden floor with hardly a creak, and started forward —

Only for a long, gleaming-sharp glaive to block his path as a massive, broad-shouldered form detached itself from the shadows of the room. The figure stepped closer, moonlight gleaming off familiar white hair and bright blue eyes. “Well, well, well. What business does a prince of the Ten Thousand Islands have sneaking in the window of the youngest princess?”

“What business does a general have guarding the least of the old king’s children?” Anzheng snapped back. “Surely you have greater threats than I to keep your eyes upon?” He pushed the glaive aside and stepped past the general. “You know what I’m here for.”

“And I can say the same to you.” General Chengzhe turned as Anzheng passed. “Surely the future queen deserves the best guardians available, does she not?” He caught Anzheng’s arm, pulling him around. “Surely she deserves to have her safety assured.”

Anzheng couldn’t help a bitter smile. If only anyone other than General Chengzhe had thought the same about him. “She does.” He shook the thoughts away, summoning back his usual grim expression, and pulled free from the general’s grasp. “Which is why I hope you’ll not stand in my way, General.”

General Chengzhe’s glaive once more blocked Anzheng’s path. “You know I cannot simply let you take her, your highness.”

“Why not? We both desire her safety. We both know she won’t have that here.” Anzheng glanced back to General Chengzhe. The general’s eyes glowed blue — a warning, Anzheng knew. “Will you let me look at her, at least? Or have you gone so far over to another’s side that you’ll deny me that as well?”

General Chengzhe pulled back his glaive, but his eyes still shone in the darkness. “I serve the rightful heirs of King Qinglong, as you well know. That has never changed.”

There was a curious weight in the way the general said the rightful heirs — a weight that suggested that he knew something — something he couldn’t know. But, whispered a voice in the back of Anzheng’s mind, what can’t the general know, when he puts his mind to it?

Nonsense. General Chengzhe was not omniscient. Only the Triune Emperor could claim that distinction. So, Anzheng strode forward, trying not to let his nervousness show as he sensed, rather than heard, General Chengzhe fall in step behind him, making no more noise than a great cat.

Princess Tianxi’s bed lay behind a screen, which Anzheng pushed aside. A small spirit-lamp warded off the deepest shadows and provided light enough to see the little princess. She lay curled up on the mattress, blankets askew, hugging the little panda-doll Anzheng had brought her three visits ago. Tiny blue horn-nubs poked through her black hair, barely a few inches long, the ends just beginning to split — but they glowed ever so slightly as she stirred and whimpered in her sleep.

Anzheng brushed a hand over her round cheek and patted her shoulder. “Shhh. I’m here,” he whispered, just loud enough that she’d be able to hear. She sighed and settled again, the light fading from her horns.

He couldn’t leave her here. Anzheng turned to face General Chengzhe. “I’m not leaving without her.”

“Are you not?” General Chengzhe asked. “Where will you take her, oh dragon’s son?”

There was that tone again. Anzheng steeled himself. “General, she cannot stay here. You cannot stand alone to protect her against the other sons of Qinglong.”

“Hmm.” General Chengzhe surveyed Anzheng, a knowing look in his eyes. “Walk with me, your highness. Let us talk. If you are still set on this plan when our conversation is through, I will let you and the princess go.”

Anzheng raised an eyebrow. “Oh, now you would leave Tianxi unguarded?”

“She will not be unguarded. Lieutenant Qiaoyan is close at hand, and he will see that she is safe,” General Chengzhe replied. “Is this satisfactory?”

“I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised you’ve once more planned for everything.” Anzheng inclined his head slightly. “Fine. I will hear you out.”

He followed as General Chengzhe led the way to the door. There, they paused as General Chengzhe let out a high whistle, more like a birdcall. A moment later, a man some fifteen years older than Anzheng appeared from around a corner. He wore blue robes beneath his guard’s armor, and a long sword hung at his side. He made a short bow to Anzheng, murmuring, “Your highness,” then addressed the general. “I see he came, as you said. Shall I guard the princess, then?”

“Do so, and be sure to close the window. We would hate for another intruder to find his way in while we’re talking.” General Chengzhe stepped aside, clearing the doorway for Qiaoyan. “Thank you, lieutenant.”

“Of course, general. Good to see you again, your highness. I hope you’ll stay longer this time.” With a final salute, Qiaoyan stepped past and inside to his new guard position.

Anzheng and General Chengzhe continued some distance down the hall before General Chengzhe said, at last, “You intend to take the princess away. Had you a thought for what would happen after that?”

“I would take care of her as I could, and I know others who will help where I cannot. To that end, your friend in the North sends his greetings, as does his wife.” Anzheng kept his gaze ahead. He had walked these dark halls many times with General Chengzhe in the past, on nights when nightmares tore sleep from him and he found comfort by the general’s side — but those nights had been long ago, when the top of his head barely reached General Chengzhe’s hip.

Life had been easier in those days, in some ways. No matter how bad things were, no matter how his brothers tormented him or his father overlooked them all, General Chengzhe would be there like a tower of comfort, ready to hold Anzheng close and shield him from sorrow and pain. Now . . .

Well. No doubt General Chengzhe would still shield Anzheng if he could. Anzheng knew that, despite what he’d said earlier. Yet some things, not even the White Tiger of the West could hold off forever.

And if he looked at General Chengzhe now, his resolve might just break. He couldn’t afford that, not with Tianxi’s safety on the line. “She would be safe. She would be in hiding where none would look for her.”

“Would they not?” General Chengzhe asked. Though his tone was far from harsh, the edge of doubt still stung. “She is an heir to the Dragon King. Can an old warrior, a young prince, and a reformed monster truly hide her for long? However remote a locale you flee to, those who wish to use her will hunt her down.”

“We would manage.” Anzheng couldn’t keep the stiffness from his voice. He wished he had a spear in hand to grip — not that he would ever use it against the general, but he needed something to hold onto. “She will be able to hide her horns in a few years, if all goes well. And surely if a certain general were to throw off the trail now and then . . .”

General Chengzhe let out a weary huff. “You underestimate your siblings if you think they will give up so easily. They will continue to search for her, and she and whoever hides her will be in danger the whole time. But let us say that you are successful in hiding her — let us say you convince your family that she is dead or beyond their reach. Would you see one of your siblings take your father’s throne?”

“They are welcome to it,” Anzheng spat. “The throne, the palace, and the rest of his legacy. My only goal is that Tianxi is safe.”

“Is it?” General Chengzhe stopped walking, forcing Anzheng to pause as well. “You have lived among the common people these past years, your highness. Would you see them used as pawns by Qinglong’s children in their quest for power? Would you see them suffer under whichever tyrant manages to claim the throne? Make no mistake; whoever succeeds will be a tyrant. They will not show any more care for the people than they did for you.”

“What would you have me do, then?” Anzheng clenched his hands into fists. Within him, Power bubbled like boiling water in a pot, begging to be used. “I cannot leave Tianxi to their machinations. They would set her up as a puppet queen, and then her shoulders would bear the weight of their cruelty towards both her and the people.” The thought was too much to bear — he’d die before he let such a thing occur.

General Chengzhe spoke softly, but his words held as much weight as if he’d shouted. “If another rightful heir appeared, then Princess Tianxi would run no risk of being forced onto the throne, nor would the people be burdened with an usurper for a king.”

What did General Chengzhe know? Anzheng forced himself to stay staring straight ahead. With how the Power within him was surging, he feared his eyes might give him away even if nothing else did. “And where do you expect to find a rightful heir?”

“Anzheng.” General Chengzhe almost sounded as if he were stifling a laugh, stern though his tone might be. “I have served under one Dragon King my whole life. Do you think I would not know if I stood in the presence of another, even if he had hidden his horns?”

Anzheng put out a hand, steadying himself against the wall as dread made his head spin. “I . . . I’m not . . .” No, there was no good denying it. How had he ever thought he could hide anything from the general? “I have no desire for the throne.”

General Chengzhe placed his hand on Anzheng’s shoulder. “Yet you are called to it all the same. Your father and the Triune Emperor have chosen you. Will you refuse their choice?”

How Anzheng wished he could cling to General Chengzhe as he would have when he was a boy! But how could he, when the general asked such a thing of him? “What good would it be if I tried?” His voice broke, for all that he tried to keep it steady. “I couldn’t stand against my brothers when we were mere boys playing in the palace halls. I couldn’t stand against them when they had me exiled for what I had not done. I couldn’t stand against them when that exile was lifted. I have spent the last years running and hiding. How am I supposed to stand against them now?”

“Oh, Anzheng.” The pain in General Chengzhe’s voice echoed that in Anzheng’s own heart. The next moment, the general’s glaive clattered to the ground as Chengzhe pulled Anzheng into his arms.

Despite all his best intentions, Anzheng found himself leaning into the embrace, pressing against Chengzhe’s heart as if he were a little boy again. “I cannot be a king, General.” He swallowed a sob before it could break forth. “I cannot do this.”

“You can.” Chengzhe’s grip tightened. “The Triune Emperor would not have appointed you this task if He had no intention of enabling you to complete it. Trust Him, not yourself. And trust me. When you were a child, I could not help you against your brothers as I wished, not with your father insisting that there was nothing amiss. But I am sworn to serve the Dragon King’s rightful heirs, and I will do all in my power to protect both you and your sister if you but gave the order.”

“I know.” Anzheng let out a long sigh. “I am sorry for suggesting otherwise earlier.” A whisper of a thought slipped through his mind: if the general meant his oaths, then Anzheng could give the order to let him and Tianxi go, and Chengzhe would have to obey.

But could he do that? Could he force General Chengzhe to do such a thing?

And could he deny that Chengzhe was right? Tianxi would be in danger unless Qinglong’s other children were thrown off her scent. Even then, the people would suffer. Things were hard enough for the peasant folk under a good ruler. Anzheng knew his siblings too well to believe that they would even approach decency.

Anzheng had been given Power. He’d been given it for a purpose. It was time to stop denying it.

For a moment longer, Anzheng remained where he was, held tight in Chengzhe’s arms. Then he straightened and pulled away, though he remained facing Chengzhe. “Very well.” With a final twinge of reluctance, he let go of his disguise. He felt the shift at once: the weight on his head from the branching antlered crown — nowhere near as impressive as his father’s had been, but enough to draw the eye just the same — the increase in his height, the readiness of the Power within him to spring to his command. “For Tianxi’s sake, for the people’s sake, and the sake of your oaths. But I cannot do this without you.”

“I would not expect otherwise.” General Chengzhe bowed, and his fallen weapon flickered back into his hand. “Your majesty.”

Anzheng winced despite himself. “My first order, General — unless we are in public, I will no more accept bows or titles from you than I would from my father.” He held out a hand to help the general rise — unnecessary, he knew, but Chengzhe would understand the meaning in the gesture. “Now, will you tell me what I need to know? If I am to do this, we cannot waste time.”

General Chengzhe gave Anzheng’s arm a comforting squeeze before letting go. “It would be my honor, Anzheng. We will speak, and then you should sleep.”

“Are you sure you don’t mean that you wish to sleep?” Anzheng managed a smile. “How many nights have you been waiting up for me to climb in Tianxi’s window?”

“Fewer than you would think,” General Chengzhe chuckled. “I had my sources determining when you would most likely arrive. Still, you are not wrong. We will both need rest to face the challenges ahead — but face them we will.”

“We will,” Anzheng echoed, praying that his courage would not fail him. Then he followed General Chengzhe down the hall to another room where they could speak without fear of disturbance. The road ahead of him would be hard, he knew, but he could run from it no more.

It was time to stand. Time to find out what he was meant to be.

[icwasher]

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!

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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.

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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

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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.”

[ladyminaofcamelot]

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.

[bookshelf-in-progress]

Warning Signs

I guess I'll count this for @inklings-challenge

A sunny day at a seaside cafe. Lyle relaxed in his seat, chatting with his friend, not a care in the world. The future looked bright.

With a flash of light, a man in a silver jumpsuit appeared next to the table. His hair was singed and his face was soot-streaked.

"One day," the man said, "you're going to invent time travel. Don't do it."

With that, the man disappeared.

Lyle looked across the table at Greg. "What was that?"

Greg sipped at his drink. It had a little paper umbrella in it. "Oh, that guy. He shows up every once in a while. Warns people against inventing time travel. Tom ran into him last week. He talked to me a month ago."

"And you're going to listen to him?"

Greg shrugged. "Seems like a win-win. Saves me a lot of work."

"If he prevents anyone from inventing time travel, how does he time travel here to warn us?"

"Maybe he wants to be the one to invent time travel."

"You think we should warn him?"

"Maybe." Greg set down his drink. "What do you know about time machines?"

[physicsgoblin]

The Top of the World

Okay doeky, I have completed my short story for the @inklings-challenge! It really was a challenge for me because I got team Tolkien and I am not much for creating true secondary worlds (and I am too scatterbrained for something clever with time travel). The story is kinda unedited and uh, perhaps a bit on the nose (or beak--read it you will see). I picked praying for the living and the dead as the theme. I am linking the PDF to google docs because for the life of me I cannot get the correct formatting to work on tumblr. Any-hoo, please enjoy!

[inklings-challenge]

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

[simplyghosting]

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.

[healerqueen]

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.

[shakespearean-fish]

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.

[taleweaver-ramblings]

Inklings Challenge 2023: The Last Immortal of Evitra

'Tis the deadline day for the Inklings Challenge (@inklings-challenge), and I have not finished my story, but today is also Ren Faire day, and I will therefore not be able to finish today . . . but it's a long story that I'll have to post in multiple parts anyway, so have part one now, and I'll post the rest over the next week.

Also, in classic Taleweaver fashion, this is a fairy tale retelling. Which fairy tale should be fairly obvious. It is not, however, a romance.

Unedited; please be nice about typos.

~~~~~

The Last Immortal of Evitra, Part 1

Anatole Bérenger Judicaël Télesphore Corentin, lord of Blackrose Manor, last immortal of Evitra, woke to the sound of a child crying.

He let out a quiet growl as he reoriented himself to his surroundings. He’d dozed off in his study, it seemed. The last he remembered, the sun had been just at the top edge of the tall windows. Now it was gone, and the whole room was drenched in black shadows — though, of course, shadows had hidden nothing from him for the last four hundred years.

Anatole stirred and stretched, tracing the sound down the threads of magic that carried it. The child wasn’t within the manor house itself, thankfully, but it was concerningly close. Behind the stables, if Anatole read the magic aright. What it was doing there, he could guess, and the thought made him growl again. It had been a long, long time since small boys dared their friends to creep up to his home and spend ten minutes within his gates. If the practice was starting up again . . . well. It might require him to go down to the town again for the first time in decades.

Unless, of course, he could put a stop to it now. Anatole took his cloak from its hook by the door and swept it around his shoulders. Then he stalked from his study, through the halls to a side door, and out into the night.

By the time he found the child, it had stopped crying and moved inside the stables. There were no horses there anymore, nor even any hay — Anatole had no need for such things these days. But in the back, in a corner of the very last stall, there was a small boy, curled up and shivering with his eyes shut and hands balled into the ragged sleeves of his much-mended shirt.

Anatole stepped into the stall, making sure to leave space in the doorway, and growled again, low and menacing. “Boy. Leave my home or face the consequences.”

The boy startled, and his eyes flew open. Anatole knew well what the boy saw. His cursed form was a work of art, he had to admit — curving horns and red eyes and sharp fangs and claws all sharp and distinct and gleaming even without light, and the rest of him a hulking beast of shadows with just enough substance to resolve into one’s worst nightmares. It was a form to make the bravest of men turn and run.

 But rather than fleeing, the boy pressed himself more firmly into his corner. “No. I’m not scared of you, demon.” His voice strongly suggested otherwise. “Oúte o thánatos, oúte i zoí, oúte ángeloi, oúte igemoníes, oúte oi dynámas —”

“Oúte oi dynámeis,” Anatole snapped. “If you’re going to threaten demons with the Holy Writ, boy, you’d better say it correctly. Fortunately for you, I am not a demon. But I am a monster.” He bared his teeth further and growled again. “Now, begone. Go home.”

“Don’t have a home.” The boy’s hands scrabbled on the floor as if searching for a crack or crevice to hold onto. “You’ve got the whole house and all the land. You can spare a corner for the night.”

“If you have no home, then get yourself to the orphanage. I understand that’s what it’s there for.” Anatole pointed out the door. “Go.”

“Won’t.” The boy, finding no handholds, crossed his arms and shut his eyes. “Go away, monster. You’re probably a bad dream anyway.”

How dare the boy defy him! How dare he!

Anatole felt the enchantments woven into every inch of the estate swell in response to his wrath. They didn’t anticipate his need the way they once would have — the curse ensured that — but they would answer swift enough if he called upon them. He could have this boy ejected and back on the road in moments, and in the morning he could add another layer of spellwork to more effectively discourage trespassers.

But it was full night, the town was well over a mile away, and there were wolves in these woods. Sending the boy out on his own would be a shade too close to outright murder for Anatole’s taste. So, with a sigh, he reached down, grabbed the boy, and slung him over his shoulder. Then he turned and trudged back towards the main house.

The boy thrashed and struggled to get free. “Let me go! Put me down, monster!”

“No.” Anatole shoved open the side door, stepped through, and then paused to lock it behind them. “If you’re spending the night on my estate, you’ll do it where I can keep an eye on you.”

The boy continued to wriggle and protest as Anatole made his way swiftly to one of the smaller guest chambers. There, with much relief, he dropped the boy onto the couch. No dust rose — cleaning spells were child’s play, and Anatole had spent his first week of isolation laying multiple in every room. But somehow, the cushions still managed to let off an air of long disuse.

Anatole took a step back. “You’ll sleep here and then leave in the morning.” Now that he’d brought the boy inside, the long-practiced rules of hospitality gripped him like an instinct. “Are you hungry?”

The boy eyed him with suspicion, but gave a tight little nod. Anatole shut his eyes, probing his awareness of the house to check what he had to offer. Apples, cold turkey left from his dinner, cheese — that would do. A few commands and a plate appeared on the low table beside the couch, along with a sturdy mug of water. Anatole opened his eyes again. “Eat.”

The boy poked at the apple suspiciously — rude of him, as Anatole had even gone to the trouble of having it sliced. “Is this fairy food?”

“I have no interest in trapping you in my home.” Anatole resisted the urge to roll his eyes. “I summoned it by magic, but the food is real.”

The boy picked up an apple slice, tasted it, and seemed to approve. “Are you planning to eat me?”

“There’s not enough meat on your bones to be worth the effort.” Anatole turned. “Eat, sleep, and be gone in the morning. I will come to this room at ten o’clock, and if you are not gone, I will remove you myself — and should you return, I may rethink eating you.” He waited to hear no further protests, but rather stalked out of the room, shutting the door behind him. As an afterthought, he locked it, laying a small spell so it would unlock again only after the boy had slept, and sent a command through the estate to close and lock all other doors and to only let them open at his own touch, or if they were necessary to let the boy out in the morning. With that, he made his way to his own bed and fell into a light slumber.

At half-past seven the next morning, he roused as he sensed the boy scurrying out the same side door they’d entered through the night before. Anatole remained awake until he felt the boy vanish off the edge of the estate. Then, satisfied, he drifted back into deeper sleep. He had done his duty; no one could argue that. And now the boy was gone and, with any luck, the threat of being eaten would be enough to keep others away for another hundred years or so.

~~~

Three days passed peacefully, and the fourth dawned cold, grey, and threatening either rain or snow. Anatole had decided some centuries ago that, on such days, resisting the urge to hibernate like the bear he somewhat resembled was far more trouble than it was worth. So, he spent most of the day in the library, alternately napping and listening as a speaker-spell read a book to him, stirring only when hunger made it necessary to summon a meal.

He was just waking from one of these naps when he felt a clumsy tug on the estate’s magic. Immediately, he shook himself, reaching out to see who or what dared try to use his power.

Once again, there was a child at the other end of the disturbance. The same one as before, if Anatole wasn’t mistaken. And there was another with him, smaller than he. Anatole growled, extracting himself from his blankets. Apparently, he’d been too kind to the boy last time. He would not make the same mistake again.

Outside, the sky had resolved into a storm of wind and driving rain and occasional flashes of lightning. Anatole trudged onward all the same, following the periodic tugs in his web of enchantment. A curse and a pox on the boy for choosing this day of all days to come back! And he was further from the main house this time, all the way out in the gamekeeper’s cottage — even longer disused than the rest of the estate’s outbuildings.

The door was locked, but it opened at his touch. The floorboards creaked beneath his feet as he swept inside, drawing himself up to his full height so he nearly touched the ceiling. “I told you not to return.”

The boy — indeed the same one as last time — looked up with wide eyes. He scrambled to his feet, darting in front of the other child. “What d’you care? You’ve got all this space and no one to live in it. We’re not hurting anything. I didn’t come anywhere near your house this time.”

“I care very much when someone trespasses on my property and tries to use my power for his own.” Anatole peered past the boy at the second child: a little girl, perhaps half the boy’s age, yellow-haired and thin-cheeked. “And you should know better than to wander into a monster’s den.”

“There’s monsters everywhere. You aren’t special.” The boy glanced behind him, and his shoulders sagged a little. “One night, Seigneur, please. Then we’ll leave. I promise. We’ll leave and we won’t come back.”

Anatole considered — but the rain and wind outside left him no choice. “I will hold you to that promise.” He turned. “Come.”

The two followed, straggling along behind him, the boy carrying a small bundle on his shoulder and helping the girl along with his free hand. However, after ten minutes, in which Anatole had to stop and wait five separate times for the children to catch up, he turned and simply scooped up both, ignoring their panicked protests. They were light as feathers, both of them — lighter than they ought to be, but perhaps that was merely the greater strength of his current form. Or perhaps he was misremembering. It had been many, many centuries since he’d had reason to carry a child.

He didn’t set the two back down until he’d reached the small guest room where he’d let the boy stay last time. There, he deposited both children onto the couch and once again summoned a platter of food: two bowls of the thick rabbit stew he’d started earlier that day for his dinner, cold flatbread rounds left from lunch, soft cheese, and juicy pears. This time, he very deliberately chose to materialize it on the table by the fireplace. “The food will stay warm until you eat it, at which point you will take care not to make a mess. You will remain in this room, the adjoining one, or the connected bathing chamber until after dawn tomorrow, and you will leave no later than ten o’clock. At no point will you disturb me. Is this understood?”

The girl just stared, but the boy nodded. “I understand. We’ll do as you say.”

“Good.” Anatole stalked from the room — but, to his surprise, the boy followed him out. “What did I say to you a moment ago?”

“I need to ask you something, sir.” The boy held his head up, dropping his tone. “If you eat one of us, make it me. Not Aimée. I’m the one who brought her here. And can you make sure she goes somewhere aside from the orphanage when you send her away?”

Anatole cast a cold glance at the boy. “The two of you together wouldn’t make as much meat as the rabbit I put in tonight’s stew. You may attend to the girl’s fate yourself when you both leave in the morning.”

“Thank you, Seigneur.” There was a bitter note in the boy’s voice, no doubt at the fact that he had to express gratitude for not being eaten. “We’ll not disturb you.”

He disappeared back into the room, and Anatole strode hastily away, working a belated drying-spell to pull the water from his cloak, clothes, and form. One night more. Then these two would be out of his hair and, with any luck, far, far away.