#theme: shelter

[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.

#story: unfinished #inklingschallenge #inklings challenge #team tolkien #genre: secondary world #(couldn't figure out how to work in both this time) #theme: food #theme: shelter #I actually have more written #but this is the cleanest break #and I want to leave myself a buffer

[thegreenleavesofspring]

The Time Sea

@inklings-challenge I hope this fits the requirements because I have bullied this into its final form.

~~~~

Gritty sand beneath her, and she dragged herself higher up the strand, the waves lapping greedily at her sodden dress. Tiny rippling wavelets washing up to pull out again with a dizzying feeling of the ground itself rushing from beneath her. She shivered there awhile, barely conscious of the lightning limning the roaring sea behind her in silver, painting the cliff above her white. The thunder blended with the noise of the waves, none of it touching her consciousness as she drifted.

The heavy black of night slithered into the dark grey of a stormy dawn. She came back to herself, shivering violently in her wet dress. The waves that had deposited her on this shore retreated down the sand, now. Her fingers were numb, hair clinging to her face like seaweed between sand grains. She brushed ineffectively at her face with shaking hands and blanched fingers. Hypothermia, her mind supplied helpfully, and then, get up and walk, it will help warm you up and you may find shelter.

She stood and looked at the cliff rising above her. It was a very small cliff, as cliffs went; only five or six times her height. The thought of trying to scale it in yards of drenched material and with numb fingers made her quail.

The storm had not passed over, though the rain had ceased for the moment; a sudden crack and roll of thunder made her jump. She glanced out at the tide – starting to come in again, now, but not quickly; she had a few moments – and backed up to look up at the top of the cliff.

Lightning flashed very helpfully in that precise moment, drawing her eye up towards the castle crouched atop the hill above the cliff. It seemed a very vampire’s lair, all sharp spires and sheer black stone and cramped window slits with no light in them and flying buttresses spiderwebbing between the towers. She rather fancied she saw bats dancing around the top of the tallest tower as tiny black specks.

It was the least inviting building imagination could conjure, but she was of a very practical turn of mind, and even the least inviting building with all its imagined horrors would be less dreadful than waiting on this narrow strip of cliff-bottom beach to be sucked back into the hungry waves behind her, or dying slowly of cold.

The castle’s inhabitants, it seemed, enjoyed trips to the beach, at times, for a thorough exploration of the bottom of the cliff revealed a narrow twisting path up the rock-face. Perhaps, she thought to herself as she hoisted her bundle of skirts – all shape lost in the ocean to a formless mass of heavy cloth, crusted stiff with salt – they came down on finer days than this, when all was sunny and the sea was calm and glass-green. Or perhaps, she thought humorously, they were vampires indeed, and descended only on the full moons to dance gruesome dances upon the strand.

The castle was further away than it had appeared from the beach, and rain started sheeting down just as she attained the grass at the top of the cliff. She heaved a deep despondent sigh, her hair slicking down around her face and shoulders all over again, shivering uncontrollably now, and started her forward slog, clutching her stomach to try and keep warm. Thunder shook the skies and ground around her, rattling through her bones. Lightning shot white and violet and indigo from sky to ground, and she peered forward at the castle each time, orienting herself off those jagged spires. A pebbled path ran from castle to cliff, but now it ran with water, a miniature rapid rushing along and tugging at her feet.

She was too tired to fight the current, slight as it was, and stepped off into the grass beside the path. The water rose to her ankles as she splashed through puddles, washing the salt and grime of the ocean from her feet and replacing it with tiny blades of grass and fragments of leaves and one very startled frog that rode on her arch for two steps before leaping away with a disgruntled cro-oak.

Her stomach had ceased its growling complaints and her mind was nearly as numb as her extremities by the time she fetched up against the rough stone and wood of the castle. She took a stumbling step back from the unyielding wall and looked around and realized that the path had widened into a drive and swooped right up to a broad shallow front step and a niche with imposing double doors. An unlit torch was set in an iron bracket to the side of it; if it had ever blazed with fire the wind and rain had long since snuffed it.

She considered sheltering in the door nook for all of half a second before another gust of wind sent her stumbling forward a step. Her mind made up, she mounted the stairs, wadded her hand inside a length of her voluminous sleeve, and lifted the massive iron knocker.

It fell with a boom that echoed through the house and faded into the thunder a half-second behind it. But the door was not even latched; the weight and momentum of the knocker pushed it ajar a few inches. She took a hitching breath and peeked in through the crack and then pushed the door open a little farther and slipped inside, leaning back against the rough wood on her hands to close it as she took in the hall.

It was long and narrow and soared to heights she could not see in the dark; the lightning coming in the windows insufficient to show the ceiling. At the far end of the hall – a mile away, it seemed – a tiny fire glowed in a massive fireplace that entirely dwarfed it. Open, doorless entryways to other rooms gaped cavernous to either side, black and opaque as pitch. The walls were bare and carved into sharp pillar motifs, climbing high out of sight. Everything was sharp and spiky and looked deeply uncomfortable and unhomelike, but there was a fire at the end of the hall and she was so cold…

Her footsteps echoed across the bare floor – marble perhaps; it was hard to tell in this dimness – rising all the way to the distant unseen ceiling and reverberating off all the walls over and over before whispering away into silence. But she did not let it stop her; she lightened her footfalls as much as she could and hurried over to the fire, whimpering in gratitude as she held her hands into the hearth itself to stick them over the anemic flames.

A bang from behind her startled her badly – she jumped and turned, scanning the hall. A staircase she had hitherto not seen, set back where the wall had fallen away – she had not seen it in her rush to get to the fire – rose to split into opposite directions. A thin wavering light hovered on the balcony of the second floor (she supposed it was the second floor) – a torch, held aloft in a hand cast deep into shadow. A tall figure held it; she caught a glimpse of a large hooked nose and robes the color of blood beneath silver-streaked auburn hair, two black eyes glittering like moonlight on a forest pool deep beneath craggy brows.

“Welcome, traveler,” the figure rumbled; a man’s deep voice. She shivered, staring up at him, caught in – not fear, precisely. He did not sound hostile or threatening. Unease, perhaps. Awe. Mind-numbing exhaustion.

When she did not respond he continued, “A room is being prepared for you. I… did not expect visitors tonight. Perhaps I should have,” he added lower, as if to himself, but the vast chamber caught his voice and carried it to her clearly. “My hospitality is not what it would usually be. Nonetheless, you will find water for washing, and food, and a change of clothes – though they may not be precisely what you are used to, they will serve for tonight.”

She found her voice at last, tongue heavy and throat sore with salt; her voice came out in an unfamiliar rasp. “Thank you, kind sir.”

His robes shifted; she caught a glimpse of a pale strong hand as he waved it dismissively. “It is my job. When you are ready, ascend these stairs and come down here where I am standing. There is a torch in the bracket beside your room.”

The promise of a wash and warm dry clothes and food was enough to send her scrambling for the stairs upon the instant. But she paused a moment at the top, looking up at the massive diamond-paned windows that rose before her. She had not seen them from the beach, nor approached from an angle that permitted view of them. But now she stood a moment, gazing out upon the storm-lashed ocean, the sun hidden behind frothing masses of grey-black cloud. Arcs of lightning speared down from the heavens to the water below, showing for just a minute waves high as buildings and hills and black as tar, shining like obsidian for fractions of a second.

She shivered, so very grateful to no longer be adrift in that furious sea, and turned to go up the staircase to her left. There was no sign of her host, now, but his torch had been left, as he promised, outside an iron-chased door.

It looked more like a dungeon door than a guest’s bedchamber, but she did not take time to worry about it, pushing the door open. A gasp of utter relief from her chapped lips – a fire, much larger than the one below, roared in the cozy little fireplace. The stone floor here was covered with a thick sheepskin, and a giant brass tub sat waiting and steaming before the hearth. Covered dishes sat on a small table in the middle of the room with a single chair drawn up; a four-poster bed stood against the far wall, buried under layers of quilts and blankets. A small heap of folded clothes lay atop it, and a single fluffy towel.

Part of her wished to take forever in the heavenly hot water, but cramping pains in her stomach alerted her that this would not be a good idea. She stepped out and wrapped herself in the towel – warming by the fire during her bath, soft as a summer cloud and almost as white – moving as close as was safe to the fireplace for a few moments. Her shivering had finally subsided in the bath, but she still basked in the heat, her skin prickling as it slowly warmed back up.

The food was simple and heavy – stew with beef and potatoes, some kind of green leafy vegetable, rolls split in the top with pats of butter pushed in to melt into the bread. A large mug of tea sat beside the plate and bowl. She scarcely paused to give thanks before falling on the food, devouring it down to crumbs and smears of gravy.

For all she knew, the master of this castle was indeed a vampire. But he had yet to offer her harm, and indeed had been very kindly and welcoming to the waif that had blown in his front door. The sheer exhaustion weighing on her now annihilated any reasonable caution. With no concern that it was, beyond the storm, still broad day, she hied herself right into that inviting bed.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

It was broad daylight when she woke up again, too, the storm passed at last. She lay a minute, looking out at the azure-washed sky. Not a cloud to be seen anymore, but only an endless blue as deep as the ocean beneath it.

Out from beneath the heavy blankets – a drab dark green, but warm and cozy and slightly scratchy – and over to the window. The surf still ran high, the waves topped with foam as though the clouds had fallen from the sky to the sea. She stared, oddly mesmerized, for far too long, until hunger pangs reminded her that it would perhaps be prudent to seek breakfast.

She turned. The table had been cleared of its dishes, a single folded piece of strange parchment left in its place. She opened it and stared blankly at the script within; nothing she recognized.

She shook her head and set it aside, lifting the dress hung carefully over the back of the chair. It was nearly as strange as the writing on the odd parchment, with thin sleeves that clung to the arms and a bodice that laced almost up to the neck and a severe lack of ornamentation. But it was a delicate rose-pink that pleased her much more than the deep purple of her own dress, and it swept modestly all the way to the floor. Perhaps even more importantly, it was easy enough to get into without assistance.

The castle was nearly as intimidating by daylight as by thundering dim, severely plain without any relieving decorations. Dark blue-grey walls and black marble floors swallowed light, returning only a reluctant polished shine. But the vast windows at the stairs had an even better view of sea and sky and horizon than her own window had had, and she found herself arrested once more by the eternally shifting palette of blues and greens and greys.

She stood, lost a moment in time, as she watched the ocean, before turning and descending the stairs. A table had been set up before the massive fireplace with its comically small fire, and a hearty if simple breakfast laid out across it. Two chairs were pulled up before the table, and she assumed her mysterious host would be joining her.

She sat down, resolutely ignoring the tempting smells wafting up from the food spread across the table. Her stomach growled and she dug her fists into her gut to silence it, looking around at the stark hall and the sunlight sliding across the floor rather than the meal spread out.

The silence was oppressive. There was not even a clock to show the time passing, only the black stone walls and black marble floors and the bright yellow sunlight creeping back towards the near wall and the slowly cooling food.

The bang of a door upstairs startled her badly and she jumped before twisting in her chair to look over at the staircase. Her mysterious host was joining her at last, it seemed, his footfalls heavy and brisk as he descended the stairs towards her. “Good morning, lady.”

She rose at his approach. “Good morning, my lord.”

She studied him now, in the bright morning light. Grey-streaked auburn hair and a great curved nose, deep lines chiseled in his face around a heavy brow and kind dark eyes. He was truly absurdly tall, towering over her head and shoulders, a shapeless mass of deep wine-red cloak. It was quite impossible to judge his age; he looked perhaps middle-aged, save that there was some indefinable ancient air that hung over his shoulders like his garments.

He stood examining the table with a faint frown that looked rather forbidding on his heavy-featured face. “Did you not receive my note, lady?”

“I… could not read it,” she admitted, brushing nervous fingers down the thick material of her borrowed dress.

He turned that intense frowning regard on her person and she stilled. “Untaught,” he asked slowly, “or the script was unfamiliar to you?”

“It was… unfamiliar to me.”

He studied her a moment longer before sweeping a long hand, bones and sinews standing out beneath the skin, towards the table. “Please, sit and eat.”

He sat opposed to her and for awhile they both broke their fasts in silence. Only as their concentration lapsed into dallying did he brush his lips with an old ivory napkin and query, “And the dress. Was it also unfamiliar to you?”

She looked down at herself. In the bright morning light, it was truly lovely. But… “Yes, my lord, it also is unfamiliar.”

“My goodness,” the man murmured to himself. “I must be slipping. I have not misjudged an origin in… quite some time.” For some reason this last comment made him smile grimly.

She plucked up her courage. “My lord, I beg you to forgive my impertinence,” she began.

He gestured again, the craggy face settling into kindly lines. “I am no lord,” he interrupted. “You may call me… the Keeper, if you wish. Ask whatever you will, child.”

She squared her shoulders. “Where is this place, pray, sir? And do you live here all alone?”

“I do.” He reached languidly for his tea cup. “I am the Keeper of this castle, and of the shore below. The ocean below us is the Time Sea – people who are lost to the ocean are brought to my shores. It is my job to assess their original location and time, and send them home.”

This seemed entirely reasonable, but she had a concern. “And how do you do that?”

He smiled slightly. “Well, I am afraid you will have to cross the Time Sea again.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The boat was small and unprepossessing and she regarded with with deep wariness and distrust. Her dress was remarkably clean – the Keeper had put it in something he called a Washing Machine, deep in the depths of the castle – and returned to its old familiar shape. She lifted the bundle of her skirts, took a deep breath, and stepped into the rocking little shell of wood.

“And this will bear me home?” she asked nervously.

The Keeper brushed long slender fingers over the gold-embossed runes carved into the rim of the boat, the wood around them stained the same black that was between the stars at night. “It will bear you where I have told it to bear you, and I have told it to bear you home.”

Hours spent in a library taller than the hall downstairs, the maze between the shelves miles long, the domed arch of the ceiling made almost entirely of glass so that sunlight would pour in no matter the time of day. Maps and books spread out across the heavy oaken tables, dusty tomes that weighed as much as she did and were nearly as tall. Gadgets and gewgaws in crystal cases and on shelves and sitting upright on the thick forest-floor green carpet, gold and brass and silver and many other metals she did not recognize, amazing and incomprehensible. A map of the heavens all along wall that one could study for ten years and not examine all of it.

She wandered in awe-struck exploration while the Keeper consulted his books and his maps and his gizmos. It was, perhaps, hours that they were in that wondrous library, or maybe days; time seemed to pass differently here.

She could have spent ten years there without losing interest.

But amber light was stretching towards the far wall, the sun plunging towards its own brilliantly multi-hued setting, when at last the Keeper stood upright. “I believe I have found your time and place,” he announced. “It may be less fearsome for you to cross the Time Sea by daylight, so you will depart tomorrow – such as it is.”

The food that night was the food of her home – the sleep-clothes laid out for her were the old familiar type she wore every night. Her own dress awaited her the next morning, laid out carefully across the chair. The same breakfast on the table in the hall that she ate every morning.

It felt like having a piece of home with her here in this strange place.

It was jarring.

She sat very carefully. The rocking of the tiny boat made her uneasy, an instinct hissing that it would tip and dump her out again, that those waves were dreadfully large and rough.

“Are you ready?” the Keeper asked where he crouched on the slick wet boulder, holding her boat securely.

Her heart quailed, anxiety seeping up her throat like bile. “Yes.”

“Then may the Lord of All Creation return you safe home.” He shoved her tiny vessel out into the ocean and she suppressed the urge to clutch the sides by clutching her skirts instead, swallowing a nervous shriek.

“Farewell!” he called behind her, and she dared to carefully twist and look back. He stood still on his pile of rock some yards into the ocean. His shapeless robe wet to the thighs and clinging, even as spray and sea-wind alike whipped his hair. The spires of his dark castle behind him stabbing the sky, their secrets well-hidden behind the thick stone.

She rode the waves, the swells cradling her fragile boat like a mother cradling the soft head of her newborn, watching until the very tallest tower-peak sank out of sight. She sighed softly and settled into facing front again. For a long second, she was surrounded entirely by ever-shifting blue-green water, before another wave caught and lifted her high towards the cloud-daubed heavens above.

A strip of pricklingly familiar coastline ahead of her – docks and quays and shops and houses and ships and sailors and darting urchins and dogs. She gazed at it a moment in wonder and awe but no surprise at all.

The wave dropped her into a trough that propelled her forward quickly enough that she swayed back with a startled squeak. Another wave rose beneath her and crested and slung her forward like a stone from a boy’s sling, her boat overturning and vanishing under the waves behind her.

She thrashed amid bubbles rushing through the emerald water. Garbled shouts came to her submerged ears as she struggled to reach the surface. A hand seized the back of her dress and she was yanked up into open air, and then over the rough side of a crude wooden boat to land in a slippery pile of fish. Two bearded grizzled men stared down at her in considerable astonishment. “Where’d ye come from, missy?” the older one demanded. “An’ how’d ye get way out here?”

She blinked up at them. She had not realized how much she had missed the familiar accents of her people over the last two days. “My ship was wrecked in a storm.”

“The storm last night?” the younger, taller man asked, nodding. “The flotsam has been coming in today. But where have you been all this time?”

“All this time,” she murmured to herself. A dark pointy castle rose in her mind’s eye. “I was lost in the Sea of Time. But I am home now.”

#inklingschallenge #team Tolkien #genre: time travel #genre: secondary world #theme: food #theme: drink #theme: clothing #theme: shelter #finished #further tags: #fantasy #castle #ocean

[rowenabean]

At the corner of time and space, there is an inn.

Well, sometimes. If you go there today you can find an inn. Tomorrow it might be a ruined and empty husk, and on Thursday you might find the workmen just starting to lay the foundations. If you’re lucky, you can walk a few steps in the right direction and come out on Tuesday to a bustling taproom. If you’re lucky.

There are many stories that grow up around a place like this. This is the innkeeper’s story.

***

The first thing you have to know is that you don’t end up at the inn by chance. Sure, it might seem like it; it seems like just another wayside inn, another step towards your destination, wherever that might be. It’s not.

When Aleia arrived at the Inn, it was a winter’s day, and the rain was blustering around her, threatening to turn to ice. The inn’s windows were warm and inviting, and the fires inside cozy. It was late when the conversation petered out and the various patrons started moving towards their beds. Had Aleia looked out the window on her way, she would have seen autumn leaves blowing under a silver wash of moonlight; so perhaps it is good that she did not.

But wait; let’s backtrack a bit.

Let’s start on the fateful day when Aleia left home.

It was winter. She had a backpack and boots, and very little else, other than what her not-too-large backpack could fit and her shoulders could carry. She left into the bitter rain, turning her head in a vain hope that she would keep her face dry, but it was only a hundred metres in that she gave up and shook her hood off. Let her get wet. It was nothing compared to the alternative, compared to what she’d been living for far too long now.

Her hands were white, her feet soft, her hair bedraggled. Only her chest was dry, and the warmth of her coat barely enough to keep her from freezing, but each step she took warmed her a little, even as it drove her further into the rain.

The first place she came to had no rooms. The second was too expensive. The third, they let her stay in exchange for help in the kitchens, room and board paid for out of her meagre salary. She lasted almost two weeks before she was kicked out onto the street for daring to make a complaint.

The fourth place was a ditch under a hedge.

She left town with the taste of rejection on her tongue; spat out the town with the taste. She’d show them, she thought, although she was vague on what she would show them, or how. Certainly if she ever had the power, no one from that town would be finding shelter under her roof. She spat on the road in symbolism. That night was the first night she slept in a ditch, but not the last. The first was dry, but windy; the second she slept on a bed of pine needles hastily gathered; the third in a heap of heather. On the fourth night it rained. She sought shelter under a thick-leaved conifer, but fat drops plopped through the trees to land on her back, and in any case the ground was riddled with tree roots.

It was that evening that she came to the Inn.

A day earlier, she would have said that she couldn’t afford to stay there. A day earlier again, she would have said she didn’t need one, anyway, she was fine. Today, she stared at it in longing and pulled out her meagre purse, wrapping her coat tighter against the driving rain.

The coins topped into the palm of her hand. Thirteen days’ wages, less room and board. It didn’t add up to much. She counted and recounted, and said fuck it, and walked in. The barmaid looked curiously familiar, but Aleia couldn’t place her, and very shortly gave up trying. Instead, she ordered her meal, and turned her back on the room, crept into the corner, and sat.

***

Aleia put down her mugs and ducked into the kitchen, an inscrutable expression on her face. “Jay, would you spell me for a minute?” she asked, and he threw a mock salute and walked out front. Aleia took over his position stirring onions on the stove, but Raina, who was cook today, had to jolt her more than once as they charred rather than caramelised. The third time it happened, Raina took over the onions herself with a pained look.

“Might be your house, but doesn’t mean you can ruin my food,” she said. “What’s got into you?”

Aleia nodded out the door. “Did you know it would be today? I look so skinny! I wasn’t prepared for this! What am I supposed to do now?”

Raina looked up with sudden interest. “Is that you out there? Oh man! I gotta see baby Aleia!” She was halfway across the room when she remembered the onions. “Don’t you dare stop stirring,” she said.

Aleia called back. “Can you... oh I don’t know. Wait? Give me some time to process this before you go out there? I don’t know what to do!”

Raina came back to the stove. “I’ll give you tonight. But I’m sure as hell seeing her before she leaves. Don’t you remember this?”

Aleia grunted. She wasn’t sure she did, or rather, wasn’t sure her memories were reliable, filtered as they were through who she had been back then. She shied away from the memories that did rise up. It wasn’t a person she particularly wanted to remember, either.

Well. Looked like she had no choice in the matter.

Had she known, back then? She couldn’t really remember when she’d realised, that the House was what it was, the Housekeeper herself. It had mattered – she was sure it had mattered – but it was so long ago. Not yet, she thought, and that was enough for today.

“Come on,” Raina said. “Have your existential crisis and then send me my kitchenhand back. Since you’re doing such a hot shot of it.”

Aleia ran her hands through her hair, then over her whole body since that didn’t seem to be enough. She shook out her clothes, and took off her apron since the stains didn’t seem to be shaking it out, replacing it with another from the stack. She walked resolutely over to the door, but stopped three paces from it and walked equally resolutely towards the back door of the kitchen. Raina grabbed her, spun her around, and said “Enough!”

Aleia let herself be shepherded to the door, only stopping for long enough to take a draught of her long-abandoned cup of tea. She wanted to say that the rest of the evening passed in a blur – she wished it did – but the truth was that everything was a blur, except the single figure at the back of the room. Every interaction, every time she approached that table was fixed permanently in her memory, no matter how much she wished it wasn’t.

“It’s just...” she started, sharing a drink with Jay and Raina after the last of the patrons had gone up to bed. “I just don’t really like her. You know, I don’t think I saw her smile once while I was out there? And she barely acknowledged me when I was serving her, just grunted. I felt like I wasn’t there.”

Jay and Raina exchanged a look, and Jay lost. “Because you were so chatty yourself,” he said. “Every time I came out you were glaring.”

Aleia hadn’t even noticed.

“Look, she’s here now,” Jay continued. “This is our first time living it, but it’s not yours. Just be nice to her, ok?”

***

Aleia woke to a crisp morning. As she walked to the window, an observer watching the outside would have seen the scene changing rapidly; the sun shone on summer-dry grass, spring flowers came and went, and driving rain beat the ground for less than half a second. This was all lost on Aleia, however, who threw open the blinds just as it settled into a winter’s day, an improbably thick blanketing of snow.

The taproom was almost empty when she came down. She had hoped for a bright and early start in the morning, but the snow was at least knee deep, and she shuddered at the thought of heading out into that.

All right. One more day.

***

“I’m a dick!” Aleia said.

Raina went to correct her, but Aleia just kept talking. “I really am, you’re not out there serving me, are you. Believe me when I say you don’t want to. Because I’m a dick.”

She stalked off before Raina could reply.

***

“I can’t believe it’s still winter,” Jay said looking outside. “The house never stays still this long.”

Raina looked up. “Feels like a different winter,” she said. “Not sure which one. I think it’s older, though.”

Jay grunted. “You’ve been here longer than me.”

Aleia walked into the kitchen with a huff. “I can’t do it any more,” she said. “How on earth am I supposed to watch my own face just – smirking like that?”

***

“Another day,” said Shae again, this time to an elderly gentleman who had been stuck there when the snow started to fall.

“Another day,” he replied as he dealt the cards. Both Aleias watched the game, the one from her corner at the back of the room, the other from the bar.

An interval of intense concentration, then they returned to the conversation as the gentleman shuffled the cards to deal a new game.

“Your house doesn’t usually do this.”

Shae nodded. “I think it’s trying to make a point.”

A pause. Then the older Aleia stalked over and took a seat.

“Deal me in?” she said, and gestured to the fireplace. “You joining us?”

***

Another day of snow. Aleia woke up and looked out.

She pulled out her purse again, in the vain hope that it migght have filled up overnight, but it was just as empty as it had been when she lay down to sleep.

Time to head out.

The snow was laying two feet thick when she opened the front door. She shivered, and pulled her coat as closely around herself as she ever could. Shaking her head, she slammed the door behind herself to force herself out. Step by uneven step, she walked out into the storm.

***

“And you’re just gonna let yourself go?” Raina demanded. “As if there’s no connection?”

“I did let myself go!” Aleia protested.

“Hark at yourself! She replied. “You’ve lived here long enough to know it’s not as fixed as that! Go on, make a decision for yourself this time.”

“And what if I decide that I want to let her go?” Aleia demanded.

“As if. Come on, it’s your turn to play your hand.”

***

Aleia walked out into the storm.

***

Aleia walked out into the storm, and found a body in a ditch under a hedge.

***

Aleia walked into the storm, and Aleia walked inside into the warm inn, and Aleia walked in again behind her.

***

At the corner of time and space there is a house.

You can find it, sometimes, if you’re lucky. It might not be there next Tuesday.

If you enter the room and say the right name, a woman will come out, the same woman although today she is young and tomorrow she is old, and sometimes the two will stand there side by side. She will welcome you in, and ask your story. There are many stories that grow up around an inn like this. If you ask for hers, this is what she will tell.

@inklings-challenge

#inklingschallenge #story: complete #theme: shelter #genre: time travel #team tolkien #consider this a complete draft i think #i plan to revise it but for now i'm going to go see my friends

[lemonduckisnowawake]

Living Before the Edge

Okay wow. I did not expect to actually do the @inklings-challenge but I somehow did! This was so fun, as well, so many thanks to the organizers who created this! I was on Team Lewis and decided to take the more sci-fi-ish prompt (though I fear it's more fantastical regardless). I shouldn't have to give and content warnings but please let me know if you think I do!

_

“Are you lost—”

“meluAAAAAAAAAN!”

A sigh.

“Are you—”

“Meluan, where are you, you little brat?”

The voice is close.

“Are you lost in the—”

The door burst open, interrupting Meluan’s third attempt to record her advertisement. She swiveled on her chair to see a very irate Wynan standing at the entrance, one hand on the door to keep it open.

Meluan considered jumping out of the window into the deep expanse of space, but she was pretty certain that Meryan had installed safety locks to avoid that happening…again. Eh, she’d get past them like always, but Meryan’s inventions were getting a lot harder to reverse engineer these—

A smack on the head and the door creaking shut reminded her that she currently had company.

“Ach, what do you want? What do you want?!” Meluan complained, shaking her head and rolling back, her chair crashing against the desk and jostling all the equipment on top of it.

Wynan was still glaring, her deep violet-black eyes boring into Meluan’s displeased form.

“You’re such an idiot,” Wynan stated, as if it was a fact rather than an opinion, her gaze settling back into something more neutral and relieved. “Meryan and I have been calling and texting your phone for the last half-hour. Relani even went outside to look for you, thinking you’d thrown yourself out again.”

Meluan grumbled, rubbing her head where Wynan had smacked it and using her other hand to dig through her pockets to fish out the phone she’d put on mute. “I was fine. I left you guys a note in the kitchen…”

Her words trailed off as she fished out both a phone and a sticky note attached to the back that said, ‘Will be in the silent room. Get me in an hour if I don’t establish contact within then.’

She stared at the yellow piece of paper with black ink stains.

“Oh…whoops.” Her eyes flickered to Wynan, who rolled her eyes. “Hey!” Meluan protested the action. “I was fine! I was planning on leaving a note, see?” She waved her phone with the note still on it at her sister.

“Key word being planning, actual fact being that you worried the three of us sick by disappearing during the morning,” Wynan sighed, settling down on the other chair and taking out her own phone. “Anyway, what were you doing?” she asked conversationally, texting the Meryan and Relani that Meluan had been safely located.

“I was just recording an advertisement for our station,” Meluan explained, pocketing her phone and the note once again and gesturing to the recording equipment on the table. She tapped the mic, sending an echo bouncing within the silent room. “But why were you guys looking for me? I’m not usually up in what we’ve established as the morning.”

Wynan raised an eyebrow at the first statement but didn’t comment, instead choosing to answer, “We have a new guest.”

Oh.

Meluan hopped out of her chair, remembering to switch off the mic. “Right, sorry…” she winced, fetching her jacket. “Lead the way.”

And lead the way Wynan did, going through the hallway of their space station, dramatically nicknamed the Abode Before the Void, then the A-Void, thanks to Meluan. It was a rather small station—not really a station at all, actually.

A-Void was a three-story house, to put it simply. It had a few extra features, such as a rocket engine and some additional parts that made it more…rocketish/stationish. But when one lost in the deep abyss of space would find it, their first comment would likely be and astonished, “Well, what’s a house doing floating at the edge of space?” When going inside A-Void, the same person would probably continue to be astonished on how it looked like a completely ordinary home with completely ordinary rooms, save for two, inhabited by completely ordinary-looking women.

When Wynan and Meluan found their way to the living room, they indeed found one such astonished person sitting on the sofa, blanket around them and steaming mug of one of Meryan’s concoctions on the coffee table in front.

“Welcome to the place you should A-Void!” Meluan exclaimed by way of greeting, sliding down the banister and bouncing up to land lightly on the coffee table.

While the figure in front of her did jump at her sudden entrance, the drink amazingly did not.

“Off the table, Meluan,” a new voice spoke up.

Both the figure wrapped in the blanket and Melun looked up to see a smiling woman with round glasses coming from the door. She carried a tray full of biscuits and cakes, which she promptly set on the table once Meluan had jumped off it.

“Sorry, Meryan,” Meluan muttered, not sounding sorry at all as she grinned impishly at their guest.

The figure swallowed, their eyes flitting from Meluan and Meryan.

“So sorry to keep you waiting,” Wynan spoke up, settling behind the sofa. When the figure flinched at her voice, jolting to look at her, Wynan added more carefully, “…would you care to give us a name?”

The figure swallowed, opening their mouth before closing it, hanging their head.

Meluan and Wynan exchanged a glance.

“Ah, can’t speak?” Meluan guessed, staring at the person, trying to get a better read when they nodded, confirming Meluan’s guess.

At first glance, the figure seemed to be a rather short and scrawny man, with dark brown hair closely cropped and sharp almond-shaped eyes. Their skin was about a shade darker than Relani’s but lighter than Wynan’s, and though their hunched posture was not very impressive, the knives they had strapped in multiple places and the muscles carefully hidden under their concerningly sheer sleeves—almost covered by the blanket—were not missed. Also not to be missed, Meluan noted, were their prominent tapered ears decorated with rather intricate earrings.

“Uh, don’t hate me for this but are you a man?” Meluan decided on blathering, sensing their discomfort at her staring.

Their guest blinked and rather guiltily nodded before grimacing at Meluan’s nonjudgmental gaze and quickly shook their head.

“…woman?”

A pause before they nodded, not really meeting Meluan’s eyes.

“Do you want to write down your story? Would you rather sign? Meryan here knows all the languages in the multi—er, world,” Meluan continued easily, taking a seat on the coffee table and smiling at their guest.

Their guest hesitated before slowly taking out her arms. “…who…are you? All of you.”

Fortunately, the sign language was one all three present knew. Given that, Meryan and Wynan stayed silent, letting Meluan do all the talking.

“Us? Uh…well, that’s difficult. You could say we’re sisters—we have another one but she’s currently outside,” Meluan answered, leaning back and looking up to the ceiling. Thinking about it some more, she returned her gaze to their guest. “I mean, our living situation is odd but we’re not anyone you should know, you know? But what about you? Do you have a name?”

The guest hesitated before signing the symbols for “solar eclipse.”

Wynan and Meluan both glanced at Meryan, unable to parse the language from the signs. For her part, Meryan took a seat on the rocking chair, frowning.

“Your name is…Sinnelia?” she tried and received an eager nod. Meryan smiled. “That’s a lovely name.”

The beam Sinnelia gave back to Meryan transformed her hesitant and somewhat pinched features into something softer, rather…adorable, too, despite her height. Actually…

“One moment, Sinnelia. You don’t have to answer this if it makes you uncomfortable,” Meluan broke in, tilting her head in suspicious curiosity. “But you’re…not a man or woman, are you? You’re a child, a girl.”

Sinnelia froze, whipping her head at Meluan, her brown eyes widening in fear.

“Woah, no need to look so afraid of us,” Meluan soothed, tapping the table. “We’re at the edge of the universe. And there’s no reason for us to send you back to wherever you came from. You’re a guest here, and you can run away from here at any time, too…though, uh, please at least steal some provisions from us first. And preferably a space suit.”

While Meluan’s words managed to take the edge of Sinnelia’s skittishness, she still looked tense. And also confused.

Wynan sighed. “Ignore her, Sinnelia. She doesn’t know what she’s saying half the time.”

“Well, it’s true,” Meluan protested, making a face at Wynan before her expression morphed back into something friendlier for the wide-eyed Sinnelia. “Don’t listen to her either, dear. Wynan’s just cranky because I caused some trouble.”

“If I was cranky every time you caused trouble, I’d be perpetually in a bad mood.”

“Are you not?”

A loud sigh from the stairway leading to the living room interrupted their argument. “Children, don’t fight,” Relani’s quiet soprano voice chided them.

Sinnelia jumped at the new voice, turning to see the other women’s dark-haired “oldest” sister in a space suit. When Relani caught Sinnelia’s gaze, she gave her a kind smile. “Welcome to our humble home.”

“And that’s Relani, our oldest sister,” Meluan explained to Sinnelia, handing her the still-steaming drink before the child could huddle back into the blanket.

Sinnelia took it, gratefully sipping the warm liquid and blinking at the pleasant taste. That was Meryan’s specific kind of magic for you.

“And our guest is called Sinnelia,” Meluan introduced. “Happy to see you back, Relani! How was space?”

The flat look Relani gave Meluan was response enough, and Meluan took that as permission to focus on their guest again. “Sooo…Sinnelia. Again, you don’t have to answer if you don’t want to. But what brings you to the edge of the universe?”

Sinnelia stopped drinking, the mug still in her mouth before she set it down and looked down at her lap, her hands tightly clasped together there.

“You don’t want to tell us? That’s fine,” Meluan waved off, nodding with a look that one would call smug if it wasn’t so full of mischief.

When Sinnelia looked up at her, she laughed. “I’m serious.” Meluan gestured at the other women and herself. “Again, we have no reason to probe about your life story, though you’re welcome to probe us about us! We love talking.”

“You love talking,” Wynan corrected while Meryan and Relani laughed. But her expression softened somewhat when Sinnelia stared at her. “But she’s not wrong. You must be feeling overwhelmed, after all, lost in space and now suddenly having four people be loud around you. We’re always happy to answer any more questions you have.”

Slowly unfurling her fingers from their tight grip, Sinnelia looked up, blinking at Wynan and Relani behind her before her eyes traced the line between Meryan and Meluan, settling at the last woman.

Lifting her fingers, she carefully asked, “What…is this place? I thought…there was nothing at the edge of the universe.”

Meluan laughed, throwing her arms out and almost hitting Meryan. “This place? This is the Abode Before the Void—”

“That’s the best name we have so far,” Wynan supplied.

“—it’s a…resting stop, if you want,” Meluan continued as if uninterrupted, tapping her fingers against the wood again. “It can also be a place to resupply, a place to talk, a place for…anything, really. Because you’re right that there’s nothing at the edge of universe, but that doesn’t mean there isn’t something before it.” Her sparkling dark eyes softened as she met Sinnelia’s brown ones. “And, you know…it can also be a home.”

Sinnelia blinked. “Is it…your home?”

All four residents of said home nodded as Meluan chirped, “Yep! It used to just be Meryan’s home here, then Wynan’s, then Relani’s, and finally mine. We weren’t always sisters but…the relationship kind of built from there.”

Meryan’s eyebrows went up at the comment. “Uh huh…don’t listen to her, Sinnelia. It was actually Meluan here first.”

Meluan glanced sideways at her sister. “Well, perhaps, but I said it was your home first. It was never my home until all three of you were here.”

At those words, Meryan and Relani’s eyes almost instantly teared up, and even Wynan looked away.

“Meluan…” Relani sniffed, skirting around the sofa to crush said woman in a hug.

“Argh, get off, Relaniiiii! What did I do this time?!” Meluan protested, startled at the sudden display of emotion from the other ladies. “Sorry, sorry, Sinnelia!” she sputtered, looking over Relani’s shoulder at the girl. “They’re all so sensitive, honestly, and I always make them cry—ouch! Too tight, Relani…”

“Sorry,” Relani unrepentantly apologized, letting the shorter woman go, turning to smile at Sinnelia. “Do you want a hug as well?”

Sinnelia startled and shook her head, blushing at the offer. “I see that you’re all very close…” she quickly commented. There was something almost longing in her gaze, a story untold before she shook it off, adding, “But I still don’t understand this place.”

Still behind her, Wynan crossed her arms over the sofa’s backrest, humming in thought. “Well, I’m not sure how to explain this,” she pondered. “It’s like Meluan said. It’s an abode at the edge of the universe…and anyone who finds this place can do whatever they want. Stay, leave, rest, even attempt to destroy it.”

There was a knowing smile exchanged between all four women at the last words that seemed to bewilder the poor child.

“Preferably don’t destroy it. I’m rather fond of this place, not that it can be easily destroyed,” Meryan added, grinning mischievously as she took a biscuit from the plate. She broke half of it and offered it to Sinnelia, who took it after some hesitation.

“Just know,” Meryan continued between bites of the bready pastry, “we’re very serious in telling you that you’re welcome to stay here as long as you need. Or want.”

Setting her treat back on the plate, Sinnelia stared at Meryan, her hand gestures small and tense as she asked, “I’m not…intruding?”

“Of course not. This house is always open to anyone who needs a home for the time being,” the bespectacled woman assured. Her eyes falling on Meluan, who was stacking the cookies while Relani was carefully rescuing them from breaking, she added, “And to anyone who ever needs to come back.”

“You couldn’t intrude on us if you tried,” Relani agreed. “Besides, didn’t Wynan and Meryan bring you here?”

They had, in fact, and while neither Relani nor Meluan had been present, they could guess that they had saved the poor child from the emptiness of space. The somewhat healthier state they saw Sinnelia in right now was probably due to Meryan’s particular touch on the drinks. After Wynan used her own touch to give the girl a restful sleep, and Relani whipped up some of her special food, she’d likely be in tiptop health.

But the child didn’t know any of that.

She merely nodded at Relani’s observation, her shoulders relaxing from the tension they’d been locked in. And looking back at Wynan, Sinnelia signed clearly to her, “Thank you for helping me when I was going to die…I suppose…I didn’t really want to die, given how grateful I am to be alive.”

“And thank goodness that you’re alive,” Meryan quietly muttered, rocking back and forth quietly. “I hope you don’t ever feel so burned and trapped that you believe you must flee to the cold edge of the universe to find healing.”

“Mhmm,” Wynan agreed, smiling when Sinnelia’s head jerked back forwards to gape at Meryan. “I’m just glad we found you when we did.”

Tears began to form in Sinnelia’s eyes.

Clearly, they had touched a sensitive area.

“Oh, woah! Ladies, keep the sappiness down a bit!” Meluan stammered, back on her feet. “There, there, Sinnelia, don’t cry. Or, no…just let it out. You’re all right to cry here.”

And she did…crying silent tears, head lowered and one arm covering her face. Wynan rubbed the girl’s back soothingly while Relani went to the kitchen to fetch some of her more savory treats and warm up more of Meryan’s drinks.

When Sinnelia had collected herself, however, she looked up at them all, eyes rimmed with red and looking more and more like the child Meluan had earlier noted she was. “I’m sorry,” she managed shakily. “I just…am scared that this is a dream.”

“No, no…dreaming is for sleeping—oof,” Meluan sputtered when Wynan threw a pillow at her face.

“There’s no real way to tell if this is a dream, true, except for our assurances that this is very real,” Wynan offered the girl. “But there’s nothing to be scared of here.”

That only set off more tears, though they seemed tears of relief.

“Unless you want to be scared! But again, if you want to run, at least steal some of our stuff before heading back out—ach, Meryan!” Meluan gagged when the other woman unexpectedly grabbed her in a chokehold.

Meryan chuckled. “Enough, Meluan, you’re confusing the poor girl, and she seems confused enough already.”

Tentatively, Sinnelia wiped her eyes as she offered the two of them a smile. “I’m…all right. And…if it’s all right, can I stay? Just for a little bit. I know I’m asking a lot when you don’t know me but I…want to stay.”

“Of course,” Relani laughed, offering the girl one of the more savory cold pastries. “I wish we could explain better what this place is, but for now, if you know that you’re allowed to stay here at this Abode Before the Void and rest, that’s enough.”

And after another drink from the mug, Sinnelia took the pastry, watery eyes shining.

…………

“Are you lost at the edge of the universe? Have you reached the final frontier and realized you want to go beyond? Well, my friends traversing this cold emptiness, my fellow lost ones who have wondered if going beyond to the void and emptiness is better than wandering this eternal frost…before you decide to take that step across the edge of your universe, won’t you consider sharing a meal with four rather bored personages? Our company may be wanting but our home and food should hopefully be enough to make up for it. And you won’t even have to look for us either. We’re more than happy to find you if you so wish. And anyway…”

A merry little laugh interrupts the cheerfully dramatic monologue.

“Our home is always right there before the edge of the universe. Feel free to come in.”

#inklingschallenge #team lewis #genre: space travel #theme: shelter #i suppose food and drink and a touch of visiting the sick as well? #story: complete #for the words! #lemon duck quacks #i hope i got the story posting format right for tumblr.... #anyway christian themes in spaaaace! woohoo! #lemon duck tales

[bookshelf-in-progress]

The Sylph in the Storm

This story was what I originally planned to submit for this year's @inklings-challenge--a scene from my fantasy universe that's like a fairy tale version of Anne of Green Gables. I haven't finished it yet, and what I have is very rough, but I'd like to give you a taste of what I have so far.

#

I've lived on the Island all my life--my father was keeper of the Mary's Vale lighthouse, and I kept house for my brother when he assumed the role--and I've seen many strange things. Some of them the ordinary adventures of lighthouse life--storms and shipwrecks and sharks. Some of them are more magical--not many humans can say they've raised a mermaid from infancy.

I loved Amy from the moment I found her, but raising a mermaid had its difficulties. When Amy turned twelve, she became as truculent as any human child of that age, with the added difficulty of an increased fascination with the sea. I tried to give her as much freedom as was good for her, but Amy always tried to take more than her due.

It was an unusually warm day in late October, 1892, when the crisis came. I was irritable because I'd spent the morning chasing the pixies out of the pantry--they'd gotten into the sugar again--when Amy came traipsing up out of the ocean, rainbows glimmering on her pearlescent skin. I'd let her go for a swim before breakfast--mermaids do need to keep moist--and it was now well after noon.

"Where have you been?" I asked in a low tone.

Amy stopped in surprise. "You said I could swim!"

"For an hour. It's after noon. I don't have time to care for this house, and the lighthouse, and the meals, and chase you all over the face of the earth."

"I came back!"

"You knew you were dawdling. I give you clothing and meals and a roof over your head. It's not too much to demand a little help in return."

"If I'm so much trouble, you should have left me on that beach."

That got my blood up, and to my shame, I shouted, "Perhaps I should have!"

Amy stood as if I'd struck her.

I regretted the words immediately. I tried to apologize. "Amy, I--"

But Amy was already running down the path to the shore. I tried to chase after her, calling her name, but in moments, she was on the shore and she dove beneath the waves, swimming to the east just as fast as she could.

I called after her, to no avail, and at last, I trudged up the winding stairs back to the lighthouse. We'd both spoken in anger, and our tempers would cool with time.

I went to the gardens and pulled out dead vines with vigor, pouring out my fury through my work. My emotions ran high--fury one moment, remorse the next. I swung from planning the lectures I would give upon her return to crafting apologies.

But the garden cleared, the sun sank lower, and still there was no sign of Amy.

At the sight of storm clouds gathering on the horizon, I grew frantic. I called on my aunt down the shore, but she hadn't seen Amy. When I came back to the house, I found Captain Avery had come by to help Edmund with the light, and I raced toward him, frantic as I babbled out the story of Amy's flight.

"Can we take out the boat?" I asked.

"All we'd do is wreck ourselves, and for no good purpose," the captain said. "There's no telling if she is still at sea, or where she went if she did."

"She could dive below the waters where we couldn't see her," Aunt pointed out.

The truth stretched out before me--vast and hopeless. Amy could be anywhere--curled up somewhere in the Island, lost in the Atlantic--and I could do nothing to help.

"Is there nothing we can do?" I cried.

Rain burst from the clouds above--a cold drizzle, blown about by the gusting wind.

Aunt led me toward the house. "We can wait," she said. "And pray."

#

A cup of tea steamed before me as I sat at the kitchen table. Aunt urged me to change my wet clothes, to sit in front of the fire, to warm myself with the tea, but I couldn't move. All I could hear was the howling storm--driving rain, angry winds, the blaring horn at the lighthouse, thunder that sounded like the end of the world. All I could see was my mermaid girl, washed up and broken on a lonely shore somewhere.

It was after just such a storm that I'd found Amy, nearly twelve years before--a tiny wet bundle wrapped in seaweed. Her mother had been several paces down the shore, singing out her daughter's name with the last of her strength, and begging my help with her dying breaths. Was this how I'd repaid her hope in me? Driven her daughter out to sea to be destroyed in a storm as she'd been? 

I felt a hand on my shoulder, and looked up to see the bearded face of the captain looking down upon me, much as my father had once upon a time. "You're singing," he said.

With astonishment, I found that I was--a flowing tune so familiar that it sprang to my lips without thought. "Amy's name," I explained.

The explanation was unnecessary. It was the captain who'd explained it to me, in those early days when he helped me to care for the baby merrow. Every mer's full name was a song--names upon names detailing family histories, connections to other clans, great deeds of long ago ancestors. The captain knew a fair amount of the merrow tongue, and we'd puzzled together over the meaning of the tune that had stuck in my memory after just one hearing. Amy had a family, a lineage, that we knew nothing about. Now, all she had was us.

The lines on Captain Avery's weathered face were deeper than ever. If Amy had a grandfather, the Captain filled the role. He had helped me keep her alive in those early days, and, I realized, he loved her as deeply as I did, worried as deeply as ever I could, even if his face didn't show it.

"She'll be well," the captain said. "Amy's got a good weather eye. She'll have come ashore before the storm hit, or gone below where the sea is calmer."

I shook my head, trying to banish the image of Amy's broken body. "But what if she didn't?" I asked.

"There are always miracles. I've seen them before."

I stared into my tea, trying not to snap. This was no time for the captain's stories of sylphs and sea kings.

"We can't count on that."

"No, but we can pray."

I tried to. Truly, I did. But I could find no words, no hope, to penetrate the gray despair of my mind, the roiling power of the raging storm. For what felt like a week, I sat there, misery seeping between the seconds and stretching out time to unbearable lengths.

I was dimly aware of Aunt tending to the fire in the parlor, and Captain Avery going to the tower to offer assistance to Edmund, and coming back soaking wet, but nothing truly roused me from my misery until I heard a strange voice from outside.

"Ahoy!"

Aunt and I both jumped.

"Edmund?" I asked.

"Couldn't be," Aunt said.

Captain Avery shook his head. "He'd never leave the light in a storm like this."

"Ahoy!" cried the voice that was most definitely not Edmund's. "Anybody home?"

I rushed to the kitchen door and flung it open. A strange young man stood on the threshold. I could barely see him in the darkness of the storm, but there in his arms was my mermaid girl--safe and whole and sound asleep.

"I believe," the man said, "that she belongs to you."

"Amy!" I breathed.

"I found her on the shores of Selkie Island," the man said.

At least, I thought he did, but I assumed I'd misheard. In the time since she'd left, Amy could barely have swum to Selkie Island. It was impossible that this man could already have brought her back--especially in such a storm.

I welcomed him into the house and rushed him into the parlor, glad that Aunt already had a fire blazing in the little hearth. I made a nest of blankets on the floor and urged the man to lay her down. He moved through the room with such speed and grace, as if she--or he--weighed nothing at all.

I stepped back to give him space, and he moved between me and the fire. Then the firelight revealed what the night had hidden. Though the man stood as tall and real and human as any of us, the light shone through him.

Amy had been rescued by a sylph.

I fell back against the wall, dizzy with shock. I felt as if I'd fallen into one of the captain's fireside tales. A sylph, a spirit of the air--one of the most powerful creatures in the universe, so rare that even on the Island, some people doubted their existence--stood within my little lighthouse parlor.

No one breathed, no one moved.    We all just stared, struck motionless by awe and fear, because this solution, miraculous as it was, meant that Amy had been in far more danger than even I had feared.   

Sylphs are like the wind, the legends say, unheard and unseen, rushing about the world to do as much good as they can in the three hundred years allotted them.  Direct intervention is rare.    It takes too much time, too much energy, when a simple, passing bit of magic will help humans solve the problem on their own.    The sylph could have hurried the storm along, or moved a few trees to shelter Amy until she could swim home, or let us know where we could find her when the storm ended.    But he had come to her direct aid.    He had taken form to bring her home.  How badly had Amy been hurt, that she couldn't wait an hour or two for aid?

Aunt was the first to speak. "Was she hurt very badly, sir?"

The sylph ran his fingers gently through Amy's red hair.  His hand seemed as solid as a flesh one.  “Broken in a few places,” he said.  “It seems as though she'd misjudged some currents and been dashed upon the bathing rocks.    She wasn't in pain long—I reached her after a few moments."

My throat tightened. "Is she...?" I knelt at her side and examined her in a panic.

The sylph stilled me with a hand on my shoulder. "I healed her injuries. She needs only rest now."

Amy was whole--pure and perfect. Even the scar on her leg--from when she'd fallen from that tree last summer--had faded to perfect skin.

I looked into the sylph's face. I'd never seen such kind eyes. "I don't know how to thank--"

From the lighthouse, the foghorn sounded, drowning out the last of my words.

The sylph jumped, looked toward the lighthouse, and suddenly the sound faded away, as if it were coming from far out at sea.

The sylph answered my look of astonishment by saying, "She needs rest."

I stroked Amy's hair and nodded. What had she suffered, while she'd been away? What had driven her the miles and miles to Selkie Island's shore?

“Sarah,” the Captain said suddenly, “could you pour some tea for our guest?"

Tea? For a sylph?  I didn't understand how he could consume anything, but the Captain knew about these sorts of things.  And when faced with the question of what one did with a sylph in the parlor, tea seemed as sensible an answer as anything else.

The sylph stood and tried to decline. "That's very kind, but you needn't..."

The Captain's face was as firm as it ever could have been when he'd commanded a ship.    “You've form enough to take food, and you're tired enough to need it.”

“I can't take repayment...”

“Good,” the Captain replied, “because none of us have any hope of repaying you.  But you need to allow us our gratitude, and you'll need nourishment before you can do much else.”

The sylph humbly nodded his head. "Very well."

"Sarah," the Captain said, looking at me. "Tea. And whatever food you can find."

I brough the sylph a fresh cup of tea from the kitchen, then offered him a seat in the softest chair in the lighthouse. He accepted the seat--not sinking into the cushions at all--and sipped the tea, then asked the captain, "Met sylphs before, have you?"

“I'm a sailor,” Captain Avery replied.    

The sylph nodded as if that explained all, and I suppose it did.    A ship's home was among the winds on the open sea, and so was a sylph's.    And if the stories are trues--I was beginning to suspect they were--sylphs were more likely to intervene for those who are far from any human help.

We hadn't much food in the lighthouse, but between the two of us, Mrs. Avery and I managed a to put a respectable spread--thick slices of bread, boiled eggs, the remains of two kinds of cake, my prize-winning pickles--on the small parlor table. The sylph watched with eager astonishment, like a child at a circus, unwilling to miss a single delight.

When I set out three jars of jam, his face lit up with delight. He seized a teaspoon, placed it in the nearest jar, and had a spoonful of blackberry preserves in his mouth before he caught himself.

He set down the spoon and gave me a questioning gaze. "May I?"

I smiled. "Take as much as you like."

The sylph spooned three dollops of jam into his tea and one into his mouth.    

When the food was spread, I settled on the floor next to Amy, who still slept peacefully.

"She will be well," the sylph assured me, and it sounded like the voice of pure truth. "Will you join me?" he asked. "I prefer not to eat alone."

How could I resist such an invitation? I tucked some blankets around Amy, pulled in some kitchen chairs, and invited Aunt and the captain to sit. Then, unbelievable as it sounds, we all dined with a sylph. It felt like a dream; if the captain and Aunt didn't remember it, I may have been able to convince myself it was.

Despite his light, transparent form, the sylph was able to eat and drink like any creature.    When the food entered his mouth, it disappeared from sight, just as it did for us opaque creatures.    He didn't chew much, but he imitated the motion, as he seemed to understand it was the proper thing to do.    And he could certainly taste—he savored each bite, and delighted in flavors.    He combined flavors with extreme creativity—butter in his tea, ham atop slices of cake, salt and pepper on buttered bread, jam on anything he could spread it on—and found satisfaction with everything.    

As we ate, the sylph spoke of his travels--marvels in the Orient, the Pacific, great cities, vast deserts, both poles. Yet he never chattered, never boasted. He seemed happier to hear someone else speak, delighting in hearing about the ordinary details of our lives. He listened more fully than any creature I've ever known, giving his full attention to each word, even if he was also spreading jam on a boiled egg at the time.     

That was the paradox of the sylph.   When he listened, he seemed so calm and wise that I was certain he must be one of the oldest sylphs in the world.    Yet, as he ate jam by the spoonful or marveled at the light of the fire, he seemed to be the youngest person in the room.    Such a combination of wisdom and innocence is impossible to describe, but a joy to experience.    Neither wisdom nor innocence allows for pettiness, cruelty or anything small-minded, only for joy and wonder, respect and understanding.    

The spread, though small, filled all four of us nearly to bursting, and I filled a plate for Amy, in case she woke hungry. Even in such happy circumstances, I wouldn't be completely easy until Amy woke.

The sylph was speaking to the captain about the progress of the storm, when suddenly his eyes flickered, and he turned his gaze toward Amy. He burst into a smile. "You're awake!"

Slowly, Amy rose from her nest of blankets on the floor, her red hair tangled in a cloud around her head. She blinked sleepily and looked around the room.

"Amy!" I cried in joy. I rushed to her side. "How are you feeling?"

She didn't even look at me. Her eyes went straight to the sylph. "How did I get here?" she asked.

“I brought you,” said the sylph.

Quick as lightning, Amy rose from the floor. Faster than any of us could comprehend, she stood, approached the sylph, and then slapped him across the face.

#inklingschallenge #team chesterton #genre: intrusive fantasy #theme: food #theme: shelter #story: unfinished

[inklings-challenge]

2023 Inklings Challenge Stories By Theme

Feed the hungry

Give drink to the thirsty

Clothe the naked

Shelter the homeless

Visit the sick

Visit the imprisoned

Bury the dead

#inklingschallenge #inklings challenge 2023 #theme: food #theme: drink #theme: clothing #theme: shelter #theme: visit the sick #theme: visit the imprisoned #theme: burial

[rosesnvines]

The Legend of the Blackberry Sword - Part 1

@inklings-challenge so, this story takes place on two worlds, it starts on Alixandria and the majority of it is on Havorest. The Christian theme kinda doesn't come into play until the final act, which is in part 2, so, I assume that works? Anyways, enjoy this lovely artwork I commissioned (Autumn Adventures is the name of the set of, well, adventures these characters have on Havorest), and I hope you like part 1!

(Some words to know: kisiae are pumpkin nymphs/fairies, lampades are lantern nymphs, meliades are apple nymphs, spunkies are a short and stocky humanoid race with glowing eyes. From the picture below, Gasper Gold and the Forsters are humans while Jackie Little is a kisia.)

“Come on Greg, let’s go!” Bert whispered, trying to usher his younger brother out the door. 

“I’m coming, I’m coming!” Greg whispered in reply as he shouldered his backpack. He grabbed his jacket off his bed and followed Bert out of their room. Bert slowly and quietly closed the door. The two glanced down the darkened hall at their parents’ door. No light could be seen through the tiny sliver at the base of the door, nor could a sound be heard. The brothers shared a look before tiptoeing down the stairs. They made their way to the front door without any noise. So far so good. Bert turned to Greg and let out a soft huff. Greg merely nodded. Bert gave a curt nod and grasped the front door's handle. He pulled, and it refused to budge. He let out a soft gasp and pulled again. It still would not budge. Greg began to giggle. 

"Greg!” Bert hissed. 

“The deadbolt,” whispered Greg as he pointed. 

Bert blinked and turned back to the door. Sure enough, the deadbolt was locked. Letting out a frustrated huff, Bert slowly unlocked it. There was a soft clang as the deadbolt released its grip on the door. The boys winced and waited. No sound came from up the stairs. Bert proceeded to open the door again, this time with success. Greg tiptoed past him, and Bert followed, closing the door softly behind him. The two ventured into the woods back of their house, keeping to a path they knew well, one that seemed to vanish behind them. 

Before long they were standing in front of an old, gnarled tree. Bert grabbed a piece of bark at the base of it and pulled it away from the tree, revealing a large, gaping hole. Greg dropped to his knees and crawled in. Bert followed, carefully pushing the bark back into place. They crawled through the tree and came out the other side. They straightened up, and took a breath. 

Greg stretched. “Wow, how do those taller guys do it?” 

“I guess they can squeeze in anywhere,” said Bert with a shudder. “I’m just glad they got the portal moved here so they can’t get to our house again.” 

Greg pouted. “But now it’s a longer walk to get to Pottsville.” 

“That’s why we’re here,” came a voice from behind a tree. 

“Your own personal linkboys!” Two Spunkie boys no older than Bert stepped out from behind two trees with glowing turnips on sticks and huge grins on their faces. 

Bert gave them a deadpan face. “Oh hi Freddie, hi Lenny.” 

Greg gave them a very enthusiastic wave. “Hi Lenny, hi Freddie! Did we keep you waiting long?” 

Freddie scoffed. “With your brother, I’m surprised you got here as soon as you did.” 

“Hey!” 

Greg giggled. “He did have trouble with the deadbolt.” 

“Greg!” 

The two Spunkies laughed. 

“Why am I not surprised?” quipped Freddie. 

“Well don’t just stand there, come on!” Lenny waved them on. “The festival’s going to start soon and the others have already arrived!” 

“All of them?” asked Bert. 

“Yes, all of them, even the Torresses,” said Freddie. 

Bert brightened. “The Torresses are here?” 

“Oh yes, the Torresses are here.” Freddie smirked and a mischievous glint appeared in his eye. “And last I heard, Jason Falkner wanted to dance with Sara Torres all … night … long …” 

Bert let out a yelp and dashed down the lane. “Well come on, let’s go!” 

“It always amazes me how you always know what to say to get him to move,” quipped Lenny. 

Freddie grinned. “What can I say? It’s one of my many talents.” Lenny laughed, and the two and Greg took off after Bert. They caught up with him, and with Freddie and Kenny leading the way with their turnip torches, got to Pottsville in a matter of minutes. 

"Whoa!" The brothers exclaimed upon following the Spunkies past the village. A giant fairground had been set up, complete with rides and stalls. There were loads of boys and men dressed up as knights, while women wore medieval gowns. Turnip lamps lined the fairground, providing the much needed light in addition to the glow from the harvest moon. Strange animals walked beside their masters, but the brothers knew them all by now. One such animal, a repean, or the glowing turnip bird, flew around their heads once before flying off over the fairgrounds.

Greg took a long sniff. "I smell popcorn!" 

Bert took a sniff. "And funnel cakes!" 

Lenny waved his hand. "Well, let's go get you in your costumes before we go eating! It's early enough that there's still plenty to go around." The brothers followed them to a mid-sized, red-and-white striped tent just on the outskirts of the fairgrounds. People were mostly coming out of the tent, decked out in medieval outfits. 

"Bert! Greg! There you are! Was wondering when you were going to get here." Bert's twin, Betty,  approached them from the side of another tent. She had already changed into a blue dress, with her hair pulled up into a fashionable bun. A few ringlets fell loosely around her face. 

"Bert was trying to open the door before unlocking the deadbolt," said Greg between snickers. 

Bert groaned and rolled his eyes. "Greg!" He then pointed at the backpack. "That's the real reason." 

"What?" Greg unzipped it. A frog poked his head out. "I couldn't leave Jeremiah!" 

“And you should not have to,” came a woman’s voice. A tall, elegant Kisia, a pumpkin nymph, joined their group. She leaned over and petted the frog. “After all, if it hadn’t been for him, we might not have had a Michaelmas faire. He’s just as invited as you are to all our events.” 

Greg grinned. “Thanks Mrs. Fields!”  

A head popped out of the tent. “I thought I heard your voices.” The teen turned back into the tent. “Mom! Bert and Greg are here!” 

“Well get them in here! The faire’s about to start and they’re not in their costumes yet!” 

The teen turned back to them with a grin. “You heard Mom, get in here!” 

“Coming, Aunt Caroline!” Bert shouted before grabbing Greg’s arm and pulling him into the tent. Freddie and Lenny dashed in after them.

A few minutes later, they emerged all dressed up in medieval garb. Greg even had a medieval bag that Jeremiah was comfortably sitting in. Aunt Caroline also stepped out, and handed each child a bag. Greg immediately opened his bag to see bills shaped like leaves and coins shaped like acorns. 

“There should be enough to get you through the night, but if you need any more, come see me, or any of your aunts and uncles. We should be able to get you some more.” 

Greg pouted. “I wish mom and dad could have come.” 

Aunt Caroline placed her arm around his shoulders and gave him a hug. “I know, they wish they could be here too. But there’s always next year. Plus, your baby brother will be old enough to join us then, and we’ll all have a great time.” 

Greg grinned. “Yeah, can’t wait!” 

“Wonderful. Now run along and enjoy the fair. But be sure to head to the big tent in an hour! The play starts then!” 

“Will do!” The children waved as they dashed off. 

"Where to first?" Bert asked Freddie. 

Freddie grinned. "You'll see. We hit it up first every year, it's a tradition Gaspar started." The group weaved their way through the crowd, Freddie in the lead. They passed stall after stall of mouth-watering goodies. 

Greg giggled and pointed at one. "That one says Trick or Treat and Tea!" 

"Aw, that's cute!" Betty exclaimed. 

"We'll come back to them, don't worry. They're another yearly tradition." 

"But isn't trick-or-treat for Halloween?" Bert asked. 

Freddie shrugged. "I mean, yeah, but they got to be so popular that they just stayed open all year round." He shot them a grin over his shoulder. "Besides, this is Havorest, the autumn planet. We could technically go trick-or-treating for all the holidays." 

Greg jumped in the air. "Yeah! Free candy for all the holidays!" 

"Greg, we get free candy for all the holidays," said Bert. "We just don't go trick-or-treating." 

Greg pouted. "But trick-or-treating is more fun!" 

Betty chuckled. "Yes, but that has always been a Halloween tradition." 

"Well, it should be a tradition for all holidays!" 

Freddie chuckled as he slowed to a stop in front of a stall. The aroma of fresh baked bread got caught in the chilly, autumn wind while the  sign overhead advertised the name “Hollowed Bread”. "Spoken like a true Havorester." 

"And a true Havorester is never late!" Another Spunkie lad around Freddie’s and Lenny’s age stepped to the front of the stall, his arms crossed. 

“You can thank Bert and Greg for that,” quipped Lenny. 

“Hey, we were just wanting to make sure we didn’t wake our parents and baby brother!” said Bert as he crossed his own arms and let out a huff. 

“Then you should have left earlier.” 

“Oh knock it off, Charlie, it’s only a few minutes.” The lanky teen laying at the foot of the sunset colored maple, Gaspar Gold by name, lifted his straw hat just a bit, an odd accessory with his medieval garb. “If it was two hours, yeah, get upset, but a  few minutes?” The teen scoffed. “You have got to give people a break. The bread is still fresh, and there’s still plenty to go around.” He jumped to his feet. “But now that you are here, why are we waiting? Let’s get some dragon bread!” Gaspar led the group to the stall and they perused the different kinds of dragon bread. There were the small dragon croissants, the regular dragon loaves, the serpentine-like dragon baguettes, dragon head biscuits and scones that had apple slices for teeth and craisins for eyes, treasure box bagels that had an assortment of fruit clustered in the middle, and sword-shaped breadsticks with a blackberry at the ends. They each opted for a dragon croissant, a dragon head biscuit, and a sword breadstick, with blackberry syrup drizzled over all of them. Each was given little bowls of butter and blackberry jam on the side. 

Gaspar bit into the biscuit. "Mm, oh yes, Michaelmas has officially begun!"

Betty laughed. “Oh man, know what you mean! It doesn’t seem like it’s Christmas if I don’t smell that fresh pine and sugar cookies!” 

Freddie clicked his tongue. “This is Havorest, autumn holiday talk only, Betty.” 

“Yeah, Betty,” quipped Greg between chewing mouthfuls of bread. 

She rolled her eyes and sighed. “Alright, then it doesn’t seem like Halloween without that lovely pumpkin scent or that delicious aroma of apple cider.” 

Gaspar grinned. “That’s more like it.” He placed his arm around her shoulder. “And now that we have our dragon bread, it’s time to get into the rest of the traditions of Michaelmas.” He glanced around at the group. “Who’s ready to hit the games?” 

“Me!” chorused the boys. 

“Do you think we should hit Dragon Fight first, or wait until after the Michaelmas play?” Lenny asked. 

Gaspar rubbed his chin in thought before glancing at the Forster siblings. “How well do you know the story of St. Michael?”

 Bert shrugged. “That when Satan rebelled against God, St. Michael took up the lead in fighting him on God’s behalf.” 

"He defeated Satan and sent him down to Hell," said Betty.

“And that a third of the angels went with Satan and became demons,” said Greg with a frown. 

Gaspar gave a slow nod. "Right, but, do you know about the Blackberry Sword?" 

The siblings blinked. “The Blackberry Sword?” 

“If that’s a part of the St. Michael legend, I’ve certainly never heard of it,” quipped Bert. 

“Is that why there’s a blackberry on the sword bread?” asked Greg as he picked up the bread to look at it and the blackberry on the end. 

Gaspar nodded. “Yup, but I won’t  say anything else until after you’ve seen the play.” He turned to Freddie. “I guess that means Dragon Fight after the play.” 

Freddie shrugged. “It’s alright with me, as long as we play it once today.” 

“Another Michaelmas tradition?” asked Betty. 

Gaspar grinned. “Naturally, and now we can head to all the games and rides we want to until the play starts.” 

“Not necessarily,” remarked Charlie as he glanced at his watch. “We have about an hour before we need to head to the big tent.” 

“Ah well, we’ll show them as much as we can.” 

“Oh Gaspar, didn’t you say there would be hayrides?” said Betty.

“Aw, but I wanna go turnip carving,” said Lenny. 

“Nah, let’s go play some of the games,” said Freddie. 

“Personally I would like to see the jousting,” remarked Bert. 

“And the knights!” exclaimed Greg. 

Gaspar tapped his chin. “Well, how about you guys head to the jousting area, the turnip carving and several of the games are close by. I’ll take Betty on a hayride and we’ll meet you at the big pavilion in an hour.” 

"Great!" chorused the boys before taking off. 

Gaspar turned to Betty and bowed. "Shall we make our way to the best hayride this side of Golding, my lady?" 

Betty curtsied. "Yes, my good sir, let's!" Gaspar held out his arm, she took it, and with the two balancing their plates, walked to the hayrides. 

Everyone was having so much fun that the hour flew by very quickly. Gaspar and Betty were the first to head in the direction of the pavilion. When they arrived, a girl no taller than their waists was standing in the doorway, her arms crossed and feet tapping. 

"How did I guess she's why you're late?" 

"Oh come on, Jackie, I'm not that late, maybe a minute. I'll head to the back and start on my portion of the play." 

"Oh, Gaspar, you should have told me you were helping with the play! I would have kept an eye on the time!" 

Gaspar shook his head. "I wanted to keep an eye on it myself. I need to get better at it." 

Jackie placed her hands on her hips and huffed. “Well, you are getting better at it, but you’re still late, so get in there!” 

Gaspar let loose an infectious laugh. “I’m coming, Jackie! Don’t lose your top!” He turned to Betty with a grin. “I’ll see you after the play. Can;t wait to see what you think of it.” 

“Then get in here and get started!” 

Gaspar rolled his eyes. “Did I not just say to not lose your top? I’m coming!” He walked into the building and Jackie slammed the door behind  him. 

Betty let out a huff and made her way to the front of the pavilion and found a seat. Only a few people had begun filing in, so the pavilion was mostly empty. She reached into her pockets and pulled out two books. The first one was the first book in the Anna Woods mystery series, Secret of the Ghost Tree, and the other was a Gothic story, Ravenmist Manor. She glanced at the summary on the back of the book.

“Three orphans live in the shadow of Ravenmist Manor, a grand, castle-like estate that has its fair share of spooks and secrets. One specter takes a particular interest in the three, and as they grow up, the mysteries of her past intertwine with the mysteries of their future.” 

“Hmm, interesting,” she muttered to herself. 

“What is?” She jumped a little before glancing up. Her brothers had walked up to her. 

She showed them the book. “According to Mrs. Crane, this is a Havorester classic.” 

Bert clicked his tongue. "Go figure. Any books for me or Greg?" 

Betty shrugged as she pocketed the books. "Not that I noticed, but Mrs. Crane was trying to sell these books first before pulling out any others. Maybe by the time the play is over, she might have a few you and Greg might enjoy." 

"Hopefully one is about frogs!" 

Bert rolled his eyes and turned to their little brother. "I don't think they would have many books on frogs, if any. Frogs aren't exactly a fall animal." 

"But there might be one. Mr. Crane told me that frogs can stay out longer than most other cold-blooded animals, but they all have to be in hibernation by winter." 

Betty shot him a smile. "We can look, but you might want to think of a different theme, just in case." 

Greg gave her a very serious nod. "Right." 

“Say, where’s Gaspar?” Bert asked, glancing around the room. 

“Oh, he’s in the play,” remarked Freddie as he tossed popcorn in his mouth. 

“He’s in the play?” the siblings chorused. 

Lenny peeked around Freddie’s frame and bobbed his head. “Oh yeah, he’s in the play. We don’t know which part he got, he wanted that to be a surprise.” 

Betty turned to the stage with a smile. “I’m sure he’ll do well.” 

“Hey, don’t eat all the popcorn before the play even starts!” blurted Bert as he tried to snatch the bowl away from Freddie. 

“This is my popcorn, I can eat it whenever I want. Go get your own!” quipped Freddie as he tightened his grip on it and pulled it away. 

"Yeah, Bert, I want some popcorn!" Greg said. 

Bert groaned. "Fine." He turned to his sister. "You want some too?" 

Betty stood up. "Yeah, and I'll come with you." She looked at Greg. "Now make sure no one takes our seats, and I'll get you a big bowl of popcorn." 

"Yes!" Greg quickly got up and sat in Betty's seat. "Make sure it's loaded with butter and cheese!" 

Betty grinned. "You got it!" The two went off in search of the popcorn. They found it not far from the pavilion’s front doors. They placed their orders and paid. “I wonder which part Gaspar got?” wondered Betty as they waited. 

Bert shrugged. “According to Charlie, there are only three roles in the play; Saint Michael, Satan, and the narrator, who also plays God.” His face broke out in a toothy grin. “It would just be his luck to play as God too.” 

Betty pursed her lips. “Though he would rather have the role of Saint Michael.”

Bert scoffed. “Who wouldn’t. But I am curious about this whole blackberry sword bit. How does it all tie in?” 

Betty shrugged. “Guess we’ll just have to wait and see.” They had to wait a couple more minutes for their popcorn, but as soon as it was ready, they grabbed the three bowls and made their way back into the pavilion. 

The pavilion was filling up now, people were wandering about, looking for seats. As promised, Greg had kept their seats reserved. And as Betty promised, she had gotten him popcorn loaded with butter and cheese. 

Greg licked his lips. "Yum!" He grabbed the bowl and popped a couple pieces in his mouth.

Betty gasped. "Greg! Did you wash your hands after handling your frog?" 

Greg popped another in his mouth as he nodded. 

“He had to use the bathroom before we came, and I made sure he did,” stated Bert as he sat in his chair. 

“Attention, attention please. Quiet please!” The hall went silent at the sound of the booming voice as all eyes turned to the stage. A leaf-eared meliade stood in front of the curtain. “Everyone get to your seats, we shall be starting the play in five minutes. Thank you.” He stepped behind the curtain. Everyone who was standing rushed to their seats. 

The Forsters glanced around in bewilderment. 

“Wh-what’s going on?” asked Bert. 

“You’ll see,” quipped Freddie with a grin. “And don’t worry, it’s part of the play.” 

“It only lasts a couple of minutes until the narrator's done,” blurted Charlie. Freddie whacked him. “Ow! What was that for?” 

“Don’t tell them!” 

“It’s not like I spoiled the whole thing! Besides, they need to know that they need to be absolutely quiet for the beginning!” 

“Why?” the Forsters asked in unison. 

Freddie elbowed Charlie for good measure and said, “You’ll see.” 

A moment later, the pavilion went dark, pitch dark. Several people gasped while others hushed them, and all was silent. The Forsters jumped in surprise when the booming voice from earlier broke the stillness. 

"In the beginning there was only God. But He desired to create many things, and out of love, He did. But he had to start somewhere, and what a start it was. Let there be light!" 

The lights burst back into life, nearly blinding everyone. 

"Whoa," whispered Greg, eyes wide. The meliade grinned and winked at him before continuing with the narration. 

“God created the universe in six days. But within those six days, he created angels. One angel, called Lucifer at the time, found great favor with God and was given grace, beauty, wisdom, and command over the others. But then, for one reason or another, it’s never revealed, Lucifer gets the idea that he should be the one running things, not God. He starts talking to the other angels, trying to get as many of them as possible on his side. But most did not agree with his way of thinking, and one angel in particular voiced his disappointment in Lucifer’s desire for control." The curtains parted behind the meliade, revealing a sky blue backdrop and fluffy clouds floating on string. 

"Lucifer, stop! This is ridiculous!" A teen walked on stage wearing a red and black suit with golden accents and wings. Gaspar Gold followed him on the stage, also wearing golden wings, his signature straw hat absent from his golden head. A few people gasped, Freddie and a few others let up a short cheer before quickly being hushed. "I would call what you're doing treason!" 

The teen in red waved his hand dismissively. "And what would you know of this matter? You're nothing but a mere archangel!"

"I warn you, Lucifer, if you try anything, I will see to it personally that you are kicked out of Heaven!" 

The Lucifer character scoffed. "You, kick me out of Heaven? Ha! Not only are you a mere archangel, but you were not given command of all the angels. I was! Now enough of this! If you've made up your mind on the matter, then leave!" He walked off stage. 

"No, wait! Lucifer! Lucifer!" Gaspar followed him off the stage, and the curtains closed. 

"The angels, once united by love and duty towards God, were split into two factions. What's worse was, angels were created with a hierarchy, and Lucifer was close to the top. It threw them into disarray. But that one angel rallied the good angels around him and fought Lucifer and his army. Soon they had chased them out of Heaven and to Earth." The meliade stepped to the side as the curtains opened again. The Lucifer character let out a snarl as he stepped on the stage, sword drawn. Gaspar, as Michael, stepped on after him, sword raised. The Lucifer character turned and charged him, their swords ringing as they met in the middle. The swords met again and again, the fight getting fiercer and faster with each blow. 

Freddie let out a gasp as his eyes widened. "They're, they're using real swords!" he whispered harshly.

Betty turned to them with wide eyes. "You-you mean they usually used fake swords?" Freddie nodded.

"I bet that's why they got Gaspar and Bobby, they're the best swordsmen in town!" Lenny blurted. 

Bert's mouth twitched. "And Bobby makes a rather intimidating Lucifer," he mumbled. 

"And Gaspar makes a handsome Michael," said Betty.

"He's kind of intimidating too," muttered Charlie. 

“Good, Bobby Bones can’t be the only intimidating guy in the town,” muttered Bert before plopping another kernel in his  mouth. The group stopped talking as the battle between Gaspar and Bobby intensified, the two moving across the entire stage, swords ringing.

#inklingschallenge #Team Lewis #genre: portal fantasy #genre: space travel #theme: shelter #which shows up in part 2 #part 1 is the main theme as I had started this before Michaelmas #It's just taken me this long to get this far on it #part 2 will probably be coming by the end of the month #story: unfinished

[teabooksandsweets]

A short – but finished – entry for this year's Inklings Challenge. These are ten drabbles serving as glimpses into the story I have planned, and of which I have begun (and intend to finish, and post later on) two different versions. Everything went a little different from my original expectations and plans, but a challenge is a challenge and I decided to make the best of it. So I finished a "miniature" version of sorts, rather than nothing. Some elements are alluded to that will appear in the longer stories.

Team Tolkien // Secondary World Fantasy // Visit the Imprisoned – Shelter the Homeless – Clothe the Naked // Finished – 1000 Words @inklings-challenge

This is not the story as told by the girl who was said to be dark-leaved; that will be a longer story, penned by said girl in her study in the tower.

She has fire and shoes — she knows what these things are now. She is warm, she is at home.

She knows many other things and will tell her tale in time.

This is also not the shorter story, as told not from too far away, which will follow in due time.

This is a glimpse into a faraway world and two lands, both not too far away.

Come along into this world.

Oh, do not ask “What is it?” — let us go and make or visit.

Let us go now, you and I —

and the bird (large, dark, a friend) will show the way, to meet a boar (Great and brown), a doe, a hare, a (strong, brown) bear, the moon, lamp and woman, wolf and man, and another man, who has a beard, and a princess or a prisoner (from what I have heard).

Her first friend in October — the girl's friend, in that land — will show the way.

Let us go.

The Princess in the Tower has shoes and fire, is not warm, is not at home.

The Prisoner in the Tower has no comfort but her conscience. (A clean conscience is no comfort in this place. Contrition is.)

If imprisonment is not undeserved, can liberation be deserved?

Her greatest grief is loneliness. The doe (water-coloured) knows, the woman (by the lamp-post) knows.

The bird (large, dark, the girl's first friend in October) knows snd leads the way, to make a visit, if a visit is her need.

(The damsel in the tower doesn't know; the girl will soon find out.)

For a girl (dark-leaved, they say) who knows neither shoes nor fire, a cuppa is a strange thing, especially if there's tea in it (— especially if there's brandy in the tea).

Pickled walnuts are another surprise if you grew up in a warm, wet forest with only fresh fruit and ripe nuts to eat.

But the greatest surprise is how a fire's warmth feels on cold skin in October air, in a stable, in strange company. Company that looks neither up to you (though you come from the forest) nor down on you (for you are dark-leaved).

Strange comfort.

The Great boar makes no promises, but he speaks the truth. He said the girl would see her tree again.

(Not yet, not yet!)

Said the girl would meet her friends again (vixen, and robin and pale blue eggs).

Said the girl ought to follow him, out of the forest, into the land beyond.

(“The wasteland!” said the girl. The boar accepted this term as hers. The bird called this place “the middle of October.”)

But what was the girl to do?

What could a (dark-leaved) girl do?

Good deeds? Great deeds? (A “naked child” in the middle of October?)

Ground like water, only dry — cold ground, that's what shoes are for. (Are there shoes for breasts? For hands? Ears? the girl wonders. A cape, perhaps, as winter-women wear. No such things in a green-leaved forest.)

The Great boar had brought the fallen leaves — sunlit leaves, golden leaves. Change scares the people of the forest. The dark-leaved children scare them, too, for they are not scared of change.

Following a hot cuppa in the stable, the girl received a cape against the cold. Out of plain kindness — and of good use for a later kindness, also plain.

The doe is the colour of water, and the moon is the colour of milk. (The hare is of the moon, but the girl doesn't know.)

A friend of the bird (her friend!) is the doe. Never seen from the forest, is the moon.

To the tower they lead — to visit the Prisoner.

(“Is she dark-leaved, too?”

“Is that what you call those who have dine horrid things?”

“It's what my people call those who might yet do that.”

“Then we are all dark-leaved except for the Princess, for she already has.”)

But leaves turn dark before they fall.

Every spring come green leaves, unless it is always spring. (So if it is always spring, it can never be spring again.)

The girl wears a crown of dark leaves, but the Princess' head is bare.

The doe leads the way up the moonlit stairs, leads them to the Prisoner.

“Who's there?” a light voice asks (an aged voice of a young throat).

“A friend — and me.”

“Come what for?”

“To see a tree in winter.”

“Oh — is it winter again? No wonder I'm so cold!”

(It's the middle of October, but for the Princess comes another spring.)

In her forest she was dark-leaved.

“But really, it's the middle of October,” she says to her friends. “My spring will come again.”

“You will want to go home.”

“I wish I knew how!”

“What — how?”

“Where!”

“Oh.”

“The forest is not my home. I will go there again (for the Great boar always tells the truth) but it will not be my home, for spring will never come in a forest that is always green.”

Spring comes after winter, after fall.

And yet, one woman's prison is another woman's castle, and one woman's desolation is another woman's solitude.

“Take my cape, for it is cold outside.”

“It's cold in here and you wear but a few leaves around your hips.”

“The fire is warm, you are cold now from within. (I know someone who can warm you with a cuppa tea.) I your woollen dress you are more naked than I am in my leaves. Take the cape and bring it back to the man in the stable, and thank him from me.”

“And then?” asks the Princess.

“Go into the forest, and find out how to turn dark leaves green again.”

And so the women parted ways.

#inklingschallenge #inklingschallenge2023 #inklings challenge 2023 #team tolkien #theme: shelter #theme: clothing #theme: visiting the Imprisoned #genre: secondary world #story: finished #(technicallly also unfinished re the other versions)

[bytes-and-blessings]

Smuggling Hope - Inklings Challenge 2023

So I signed up to do a little writing challenge this year called the @inklings-challenge! Which you can read more about here: https://inklings-challenge.tumblr.com/about Basically, I've had story ideas in my head for as long as I can remember. Now I finally found something to give me a kick in the pants to write. Maybe this is the first draft to the first chapter of my first novel ever. Maybe I never touch this story again. Who knows? not me.... But without further ado, welcome to the first installment of what I currently call "The Beacon Universe" (Actual name TBD) -----------------------------------------------------------------------------

Captain Nia Twig woke up at the wheel her ship to the sound of a proximity alarm.

BEEP EEP EEP!

There was message from an incoming ship.

“This is gate border checkpoint Theta-Sigma-Alpha-5, please prepare for boarding with your itinerary, ship registration, and passenger manifest. Failure to cooperate with border patrol will be reported to Zytharian authorities and may result in fines or arrest. Thank you, and Glory to the Emperor.”

Nia groaned and scrambled out of her pilots chair to prepare for the inspection. As she walked through the ship she stashed away a box of stuff from back home and placed it under her bed, with a menstrual garment and some pain pills on top to keep any searchers from touching it. Looking around the area, there was a torn piece of paper that she though she had drunkenly thrown in the incinerator months ago:

The oath and way of the Beacons are as THE LORD once declared: “You are the light of the world. A city that is set on a hill cannot be hidden. Nor do they light a lamp and put it under a basket, but on a lamp stand, and it gives light to all who are in the house. Let your light so shin-”

Nia was interrupted in her distracted readings by the ship’s alarm system again:

~~~~~WARNING ~~~~ AIRLOCK ENGAGED ~~~~ INTRUDER ALERT~~~~~

“Computer! Stall’em!” She yelled out. The ship’s AI wasn’t anything fancy, but it could pretend to have just enough dysfunction to slow down anyone trying to board. (Or with any luck, kill anyone in a rush via asphyxiation so she could claim it was an accident. Technology sucks, right?)

She stuffed the paper in her pocked and climbed down to the hold. At the bottom, she reached behind the ladder and flipped a leaver.

A few of the crates started to lower into a hidden compartment beneath.

“Come on, come on, move you stupid thing” Nia slammed her foot against the floor.

Suddenly the mechanism squeaked to a halt.

She could hear the boarder ship’s airlock finish connecting to The Night’s Reverie. She’d have to greet the Inspector at any minute, or else the rest of his people’s fleet would show up and blow them both out of the sky.

She dove below the boxes, and started to hunt around. In the tangled mess of wires, there was a stray piece of jerky stuck between the gears. Nia couldn’t quite reach through the gap to catch it.

BANG BANG BANG

Someone was knocking on the other end of the airlock doors, trying to gain entry. If she didn’t let them it, it was going to be a firefight, but if the fuzz caught sight was what was in these crates, well, she’d have bigger problems.

The Captain pulled out a lighter with the symbol of a white bird in flight carved into it.

A small flame springs out with a flick of the flint, she barely has a moment to enjoy the feeling of the flames dancing in her control before she shoots it to knock the jerky out of place. She immediately threw the lighter up onto the main deck, then turned herself into a small flame and landed on the deck as the boxes almost crash into their compartment, crushing the area where she had just been an instant ago. The false floor slid over the contraband as the captain punched in the code to open the airlock for her unwanted guests.

“Still not going to be a Beacon, but Uncle’s old lighter trick is handy in a pinch.” She thought to herself as she punched the intercom button to speak to the visitor waiting in the airlock. “This is the Captain of the ship speaking, who is there?”

A posh voice responded, “Captain Glory Ashwell, are you in there? This is Inspector Zimri Klerk, of the His Greatness’s Most Noble and Important Hyperlane Border Inspections Agency. I am here to proceed with a random inspection of your ship. I assume you have your paperwork in order and are ready for inspection, Captain?” a

From the voice, Nia expected someone much taller on the other side of the airlock. Instead standing there was an short and fat man in a faded but finely pressed dress uniform. He stood proud before her not a piece of his balding silver hair was out of place. His mustache was curled perfectly at the ends, looking at it was almost like looking at a second pair of eyes. At his left side he held a bright red cane with the Empire dragon snarling at it’s head, like forgotten Celtic letterhead come to life. In his right hand he somehow managed to hold both a clipboard and a lit cigar.

Nia cleared her throat, and then addressed the man. “Ah yes Sir, as you can see here on my manifest, my ship, The Kobold is just on a routine courier run to the middle systems of the Empire. If we could make this quick, my clients are very important people with urgent business, Captain. They’ve waited long enough for these goods.”

“Very well Captain. Let’s keep this quick shall we.” He took a puff of the cigar and stormed past her onto the ship.

It may have been the longest inspection she had lived through in her entire life.

He poked in the flight room.

He tapped his cane all around her living quarters.

He crawled under the sink.

He licked the dust between the crates.

He even accidentally knocked out a fake wall Nia didn’t know the ship had.

By the end of it, he looked less like a man to her, and more like some cross between a relentless hound dog, and a relentless hound dog breathing tobacco smoke from his lungs. An evil, fire-breathing dog of war armed with a clipboard of wrath and health code violations.

Finally, it was almost over. Inspector Zimiri stood right next to the holds ladder and put away his pen.

“Well, everything looks fine here, as long as you don’t have any rebel contraband under here then I’ll be on my way.”

With a single motion, he flipped the hidden switch with his cane and stepped aside to reveal the contraband crates.

A moment pasted, then a second as the crates were slowly lifted by the traitorous mechanism. Neither person seamed to move or breath for a second. Finally Nia let out a long sigh, and pulled out a wad of bills from her inner coat pocket.

She faked a smile, and tried to approach the Inspector congenially,“Look here friend, there’s nothing harmful here. It’s just some luxury goods I need to keep extra protected for a client in Casino Monte. Some rich dude wants camping supplies to reenact some ancient survivalist U-tuber. Bear Gorillas or something? I don’t know man, can’t we just figure this out? It’s not like it’s weapons or anything, you know, right?” She said, holding out the bribe money.

The Inspector let out a deep sigh. He leaned his cane against the wall. Then he removed his glasses and began to methodically clean them. For a moment Nia could swear he tapped a button on his jacket. The little man straighten up to glare at her. The cigar smoke began to fog up his glasses once more and reflect the dim light of the ship. The Captain began to back away from the twin burning suns staring at her from his glasses.

“Do you take me for a fool?”

He walked over and opened the first crate to find a stack of water bottles, blankets, and food with single stuffed goose sat on top of the pile of goods.

“We both know that there’s no way a ship of this size has the fuel to get to the destination on your manifest.” He waved the faked papers in the air, “You’re more likely to drop out of the hyperlane somewhere above the Miser-Cordia system. Right where his Greatness’s Military has currently blockaded a group of those traitorous followers of the Beacon’s Path and the foolish civilians roped up in their little games. Do you think I didn’t realize from the moment your little star skipper left the hyperbridge that figured out that you were carrying the most dangerous weapon known to man inside?”

He dropped the cigar and waved the stuffed goose in the air, as if demonstrating his point.

“My good captain, it appears to me that you are smuggling hope.”

Nia whipped out her pistol and pointed it at him. “Listen, buddy, I don’t know who you are. And I don’t care. As I was saying, I’m not smuggling weapons, or drugs, or slaves, or any of the other fucked up shit that all of your friends turn a blind eye to every day for a couple of creds. So unless your sanctimonious pride and your thin wallet is more important than your life, maybe grow some brains out of that mustache. I’m not a Rebel. I just see a demand and I fill it. I don’t care about your stupid wars, buddy. This is just business. Just take your cut of creds like every other self serving sleaze bag in the galaxy, and let me go.” She insisted, probably too firmly. But Nia didn’t care, her pulse was in her throat and she could feel fire aching at her fingertips for the first time in years. This was about to go south, fast.

Still brandishing her pistol, Nia took in the sight of the little inspector. She had to keep her gun arm pointed down at an awkward angle to place the muzzle beneath his nose. When he wasn’t running around her ship, it was easier to see that this man only reached her shoulder. His mustache barely twitched at the sensation of cold metal. He dropped the goose back into it’s box. With it fell the clipboard. His fingers twitched for the cigar that had once been in his hand. Suddenly, the man before her wasn’t a robotic inspector of a dictator anymore. The cold glare in his eyes had softened into something still determined, but also seemingly defeated. Like the last blue flame of a dying fire. He reached down to pick up the cigar again.

“I have to say, I am quite disappointed in you, Miss Philomena Bryne.” He said, letting the smoke blow into Nia’s face. He grabbed onto a pin on his lapel, and broke it. Nia could see a few ripped wires leaving what she could now see had been a wiretap. “We both know you don’t need that toy to turn me to ash, so let’s drop the pretense, hm?”

“That’s not my name, that girl is dead. Who are you, and how do you know her?” She backed off, but kept the pistol high.

“Ah my mistake Captain,” He said, reaching up to scratch his lip. “Here I was, under the impression that I had caught up with a great Beacon of Old: A mythical group of people who could take flight in the stars without a ship, a Peace Keeper, a great Defender of the innocent, a living flame in the galaxy’s eternal night. I thought I was tracking a relic of a forgotten era of Crusades and Caped Heroes; one who was stuck in a universe that has progressed beyond, or perhaps, sunken below religion. And now l see that I have found a jaded business woman looking to profit off another’s misfortune, no? I had hoped that anyone with your flame, who could incurs such wrath of my employees and countrymen, could be nothing less than a saint. But if it’s business you want, then it’s business you’ll get I suppose. You can come out now, my dear.”

Zimiri Klerk tapped his cigar against the wall of the ship, and out of the embers emerged a young girl who could almost have been Philomena's cousin. But her hair soon changed from fire red to pale blonde. She was even shorter and thinner than the man next to her. Nia quickly realized that this was most likely the Inspector’s daughter. Her eyes were the same jet engine blue as his, and just as sharp.

“I will make a deal with you Captain. Get my daughter out of reach of the Empire's ashy dogs, and anyone else who would make her a living weapon. Then consider your bribe to be paid. Now I must go, my colleges will be looking for me. I’ll buy you what time I can. Good luck, my dear.” Then Zimiri Klerk walked to door of the Night’s Reverie.

“And remember Captain, even if you do not think of yourself a hero, to my daughter, and all of those people trapped on Miser-Cordia, you are the last light of hope.”

#inklings challenge #team lewis #genre: space travel #theme: food #theme: drink #theme: shelter #Bytes Writes

[angedemystere]

"The Night Shepherd": An Inklings Challenge Submission

Author's Note: Well, I did my best to follow the Team Tolkien prompts, but I definitely blurred (cheated) on the premises and genres. While I'm tagging this story as unfinished, there's an attempt to give it some temporary completeness. Thank you @inklings-challenge for setting this up!

Title: The Night Shepherd

Summary: A nun traveling with strange company finds herself thrown into an even stranger situation when her curiosity gets the better of her.

~

Sister Mor was no stranger to woodlands, but even so, having grown up near groves and, in her youth, ventured into them in the late (or early) hours, she found this forest unnerving. Was it the cawing of the nightbirds that prickled her skin? The chilly wind? The perpetual fog in the treetops? Even in the daylight, the trees wore a dreary cloak that frustrated the sun’s gleaming rays. Now, whether hidden by the branches or the haze, the moon had no chance of cutting the darkness. Only the fire of their camp could stir some comfort in her soul.

If she could but say her companions inspired comfort, too. Three of them she knew. They’d traveled together all the way from Wales. Brother Talfryn snored like a bear, and his brown cowl made it easy to mistake him for one. One clue to aid the unsuspecting intruder about the brown lump’s identity lay in the sword wedged under the brother’s arm. The weapon served to protect Sister Mor as well as its wielder, but that point didn’t please her. They labored in Christ’s name, the Prince of Peace. She had debated with Brother Talfryn many times that the Lord’s words, “I have not come to bring peace but a sword,” referred to his message about the Kingdom of Heaven rather than a literal sword. He countered that the Lord had advised his apostles to acquire literal swords shortly before his death. No matter how many times they parried over the use of violence, neither sister nor brother in Christ budged. Sister Mor trusted Brother Talfryn with her life. She wished she could entrust others’ lives to him, too.

The other two companions didn’t carry swords or daggers. Instead, Guar and her son Coch had teeth, claws, tails, and wings to defend themselves. They hunted like animals and ate raw meat. Another of their kin had met and joined them. Arculf hailed from Brittany. He wore scars from fighting other graiggwerin, a custom in their clan that was not evident among the graiggwerin living in Pembrokeshire. Perhaps Arculf had faced greater challenges to survival. But when any creature, including men, justified brutal actions with self-preservation, they became much more dangerous. If Sister Mor couldn’t caution a monk, she didn’t expect to cull the instincts of these intelligent but no less bestial beings.

And then, Lord have mercy, there remained the rest of the company. Two of them slept close to a tree at the edge of their encampment, a man and a woman. Danes, pagans. The woman, Vigdis, lay by the feet of the man, Stigandr. The man sat up against the tree with cords of thick rope holding him to the trunk. To think Vigdis, his sister, had done that to him, and with his cooperation! Sister Mor tried not to dwell on whether Stigandr might rip through those ropes, should he stir and suffer an attack of madness. Vigdis had this concern, too, hence her presence at his feet. Whether or not his madness would prompt a transformation into a wolflike monster, she could just as easily transform to stop him, and with her sanity intact. Well, so she claimed.

Sister Mor’s guts swam. Vigdis’s and Stigandr’s lupine forms loomed as a fresh memory. She prayed again that they’d sleep through another shift before it was Vigdis’s turn to keep watch.

She also offered a prayer for the thrall, the young man who slept a little further away from the Danes. He was Gwendal, a Breton. He knew the bare bones of cooking, and he could carry as well as his twiggy arms let him. Vigdis could carry more thanks to her years of training with a sword and axe alongside her brother. Gwendal looked like he’d done very little manual labor even for his own sustenance. He depended on his musical talent. Thanks to his angelic voice, all his previous masters used him primarily for this purpose. For Stigandr, Gwendal’s singing soothed his mind into sleep.

Sister Mor’s prayer for Gwendal not only entailed his freedom and safety, but that his voice might join a monk choir to praise and please the One who deserved it.

Observing these sleeping characters tempted her to shut her eyes, too, despite the harm any one of these people might do. Sister Mor bit her tongue and scribbled on her sheets of vellum. To help her focus, she wrote notes for a letter to her brother Cuan, a recent initiate to the monastery on Caldey Island. This was the same monastery where Brother Talfryn lived, and where he and specially selected monks, along with the abbot, monitored the comings and goings of the graiggwerin who sheltered among the island’s seaside cliffs. Poor Cuan became entrapped in this business because of her; the lad could only agree, being so young and already a likely candidate for monk, anyway, among the many children of Prince Ronain of Munster.

Sister Mor had preceded him in his connection with the monastery, but Cuan’s presence validated her visits to Caldey Island, which in truth centered on the purpose of composing a grammar for the graiggwer language. The graiggwerin borrowed many words from Welsh thanks to their contact with the Caldey monks, but the grammatical rules had clearly evolved from another linguistic source that Sister Mor could not decidedly trace to a human language. There must have been an old graiggwer tongue that had gradually transformed or became lost over the centuries thanks to this clan’s separation from others of their kind and more frequent human interaction.

By now, Sister Mor could converse with Guar and Coch and their clan in the Cliff Tongue. Brother Talfryn snidely called it Dragon Tongue. Sister Mor nearly pointed out that most dragons, or serpents, had either no legs or two legs, placing the graiggwerin in a unique category of super-natural creature. But the Southern Britons seemed to believe in the preeminence of four-legged dragons, as shown on their banners of red dragons. In fact, Coch’s reddish-ochre hide endeared him to most of the monks who belonged to the clandestine circle. They interpreted his birth as a sign that God was rewarding their piety and peaceable relations with the graiggwerin. The abbot believed Coch heralded the longevity of the Britons in the face of antagonism from Anglo-Saxons and Danes. But Brother Talfryn saw the graiggwerin as hardly more intelligent than wolves and just as trustworthy. (One could imagine his regard for Vigdis and Stigandr.) He agreed to come with Sister Mor to the mainland only because he didn’t believe anyone else took the peril presented by the graiggwerin seriously enough. She, despite Brother Talfryn’s anxiety, was prepared to risk her life to help the graiggwerin reunite with their kin from the north, who used a different language influenced by Danish, much like how the Cliff Tongue was influenced by Welsh. As the only fluent speaker of Danish, Welsh, and Anglo-Saxon who knew the graiggwerin, she owned the choice to embark on this journey, and here she was. Brother Talfryn called her ambition and generosity foolish both before and after agreeing to accompany her. And here he was, sleeping with his sword in the middle of a foggy forest, helping her stay awake with a probably deviated septum.

She wrote down these observations and honest thoughts to her brother (that he would likely never read—no reliable messengers here in the wilds of East Francia) until they and her stylus came to a stop thanks to one last wall of ignorance. She had many pieces of stories about her companions, all but one. This final, unaccounted-for member of the company was the only person, other than Sister Mor, who was awake. Well, she might have been awake, or she had fallen asleep while sitting up against a different tree than the one occupied by Stigandr.

The woman called herself Hulda. More accurately, she told everyone else to call her Hulda. She often wore her hood and drew it low to spare everyone the sight of her face. The hood still covered Hulda’s head while the travelers slept. If she’d left it down, maybe Sister Mor’s curiosity wouldn’t have nagged her. It knew Hulda’s face, but so much hid behind that face. Gazing directly at the split visage—half living flesh as fair as heaven, half dead and blackened like a tree charred by lightning—had convinced everyone to mind their own business about this strange woman’s origins. But by throwing a shadow over that grotesque vision with the hood, Hulda inadvertently invited Sister Mor’s attention now.

What could she tell Cuan about this woman? Only that Guar, in flight, had warned them of a tall figure approaching Sister Mor and Brother Talfryn. When Hulda had reached them, she’d said she would help them rendezvous with the northern graiggwerin (or fjallfolk, as she called them). She had the werewolf Danes and their thrall in tow and hitched them to the troupe.

Why was she helping them? “I was told to.”

By whom? “If you don’t know, you need not know at this time.”

Cajoles and demands did nothing to extract more information, nor did they drive away Hulda.

Very well. Then let her suffer a little human curiosity if she truly wanted to aid them.

Sister Mor tucked away her pages and stylus in her leather bag, shuffled to her feet, and tiptoed to Hulda’s reposing figure. Awak or asleep, Hulda looked cozy enveloped in her wool cloak. The cool air made Sister Mor’s breath puff into clouds. She quieted her exhalations and turned her ears in every direction. Memories from adolescence crept into her imagination: what creatures might be stalking them? Simple beasts? More intelligent folk like the graiggwerin, only worse? More like …

An image, a face, splashed across her mind’s eye with a mocking laugh. The cold, leering stare of a sid.

She shook her head, crossed herself, prayed for steeliness of mind against such memories. This forest was spooky enough.

An owl’s hoot made her flinch, but she kept her tread as mute as a cat’s until she reached Hulda. She drank in the slight chill, held it, and cleared her throat.

“My lady?”

Hulda sighed. “My turn already?”

Sister Mor blinked and frowned. “For what?”

“To be bombarded with questions.”

With a snort, Sister Mor came around the tree for a better angle to look at Hulda. She’d heard such tones from curmudgeons in her family’s royal court and even among the older sisters at her abbey, especially in her novice days. A few cross words wouldn’t deter her.

However, even the most wrinkled elder, man or woman, couldn’t make her shudder like the face under Hulda’s hood. A glimpse of the chin, mouth, and the tip of the nose betrayed the unnatural fissure that cut a jagged line down the center. The healthy skin turned bluish-gray before meeting the invasion of black, flaky flesh. The mouth on the dead side was little more than a crack until she opened it again to speak. White teeth blinked in the sparse light; so did gray, green, and brown teeth.

“Mind what you ask. You might wish you never learned the answer.”

Very odd to hear a pleasant voice coming out of that mouth, and speaking as though a child were pestering her.

Sister Mor straightened. She might well be a mewling child in Hulda’s eyes if the woman was as inhuman and ancient as she acted. That didn’t make Mor any less a prince’s daughter.

“I never ask a question when I fear the answer. If it disturbs me, I find a way to bear it. But I have not yet asked a question.”

“You did, and the answer is ‘no.’”

“What question?”

The living side of Hulda’s mouth smirked. “I am not your lady. Sometimes I’m granted the title, and others, but … what do you truly want to know? And why should I bother telling you?”

Sister Mor needed a moment to remember her diplomatic training to cool her tongue. “Seeing as we are traveling together, and you have volunteered your aid, a closer acquaintance can only improve cooperation. Such has been my experience as a princess of the Munster court.”

“The Munster court. Is that supposed to mean something to me?”

“Only that I am well acquainted with thorny characters who insist on forging their own paths and look down their noses at anyone else. These people don’t thrive in court, even if they’re part of the royal family.”

“How fortunate I am—I have no court to deal with.”

Maybe she ought to go back to Brother Talfryn and his snores, after all. Sister Mor let herself pause and think before trying another approach. “You serve someone who has an interest in our endeavor. Whoever they are, they trust you to collaborate with strangers. Why is that?”

Hulda didn’t answer right away. “That is a good question.”

Sister Mor scoffed. “You can’t be serious. You must know.”

Hulda tipped back her head. Now Sister Mor could see her eyes. One blue. One cloudy, as happens to corpses after a time before the sclera and corneas start to rot. Perhaps Hulda was blind in that eye.

“I’m not here to help you,” she said. “I’m here to help the fjallfolk. Guar, Coch, Arculf, and their kin. That’s my duty.”

Well, it was a start. Sister Mor nodded. “Thank you for your honesty. Then, your lord or lady cares about these, uh … do they care about Vigdis and Stigandr, too?”

“You presume that Vigdis and Stigandr want you to know the answer to that.” Hulda spoke dryly, but her eyes quickened like a cat’s as it torments a mouse.

Sister Mor stood even taller. “Very well, I suppose that much isn’t my business. Do you serve the fjallfolk?”

“Hardly.”

“Ah. Then … are you their steward?”

Hulda looked away, thinking. “I suppose I am.”

“Ah! Why is that? The graiggwerin strike me as an independent people, ruled only by their own tribe. But in a larger group, do they have a more sophisticated hierarchy? How do you—”

“Slow down, girl. I’m not about to give a history lesson on these people to whom you are, at best, an incidental boon. I will tell you this: while Guar and Coch might be amiable, most of their kin want nothing to do with humans, and that’s as friendly as they get.”

“For what reason?” Sister Mor took a seat beside Hulda. She lowered her voice to a whisper. “I take no offense. Many humans have ample reason to detest one another.”

“Even though that’s against your creed?”

Sister Mor smiled. “‘Wide is the road that leads to destruction.’ Have humans harmed graiggwerin?”

“It goes beyond mere harm. ‘Harm’ the fjallfolk can handle. And it’s not only them.” Hulda nearly continued, but her brow creased, and she sharpened her stare.

“Not only the graiggwerin?” Sister Mor pressed. “Other races? It is … quite a vast number?”

Hulda closed her lips.

“I don’t find that shocking.” Sister Mor had made some headway, and if now she had to carry this conversation, so be it. “In my country, we have stories about the Tuatha De Danann, a mighty people of wondrous power who lived in Ireland before mankind. After a war with our people, they gave up their homes above ground to dwell in the Otherworld, Tir na nOg. If the legends are true, I can imagine it wasn’t a happy resolution for them, even if the arrangement came about by a treaty. Are the graiggwerin like the Tuatha de Danann? Or perhaps more like the Fomorians since they don’t possess the famous beauty of the Tuatha De. But these graiggwerin are good-hearted, regardless of their appearances. As you say, others of their kind might hate mankind for understandable reasons. Is this your way of warning me and Brother Talfryn that we should conclude our part Guar’s reunion with her distant kin as quickly as possible?”

“I wondered why you no longer live at your beloved royal court,” Hulda said. “I think I’ve found the answer. I know a few things about politics, and there are two useful skills to have: subtlety and brevity.”

Once again, Sister Mor joined her teeth and prayed for patience. “As you say, we’re not in court now. You could just answer my questions and be done with me sooner.”

“Oh, I fear the fount from which these questions arise gushes evermore.”

“I have good reason for it! I’m in a strange land, far from home, with only one of my own people whom I know and trust as my protector. If you wish to help, you could offer a little more information to guide us!”

“I will guide you exactly as you need to be, and no more. That is my only obligation.”

Sister Mor opened her mouth for a rebuttal. A light caught her eye. When she faced it, her retort flew away. The light came from a walking staff that leaned next to Hulda. Sister Mor had thought nothing of its presence until threads of light started climbing from base to top. They drew curves and rose in a spiral. The staff’s head was carved into a grooved, sharpened point, almost like a lance. At some angles, the white lines of light split into tiny rainbows. The streams multiplied and raced to meet each other at the pointed tip. It too glowed, and the effulgence spilled back down.

“What is that?”

Hulda jerked her head around. She gasped, then groaned as she pushed off the tree. “Now?” She looked up into the tree’s branches. “Truly? Right now? I’m already …”

A pause, then a sigh. Hulda brought her looming stature to bear. “This will be but a moment.”

“What do you—?”

Hulda touched the staff and vanished before Sister Mor could finish the question. She cried out, then clapped her mouth.

“Hnng?” Vigdis raised her head and propped herself up. “What’s happened?”

Sister Mor shuddered. It didn’t matter who had woken up. The words pushed their way out of her. “H-hulda. She … she’s gone.”

Vigdis blinked and woke a little more. “Where?”

“I don’t know. She’s disappeared.”

Vigdis blinked again. Her body sagged. “She’s a witch. She comes and goes. She’ll be back.”

“But—”

Again, Sister Mor never finished. Vigdis plopped back down into sleep.

A moment later, Hulda reappeared the way safe she’d left. Her staff no longer glowed. She placed it against the tree with slumping shoulders.

“Oh! Thank God and the saints. Where did you go?”

“Not your concern.” Hulda sounded tired. How? She’d been gone a handful of seconds.

“How does it do that? I … I mean, I know a little … that is …” Though her face burned with mounting embarrassment, Sister Mor kept watching the staff. “Are you a witch? Witchcraft is ungodly. But is it witchcraft or … Is it dangerous? Where did you get it?”

“Stop asking questions, girl. Go to sleep. I’ll keep watch.”

Would Hulda be able to stand guard with that weariness? Or perhaps disappointment more than fatigue.

“Hulda, what happened? Did you see something … unpleasant?”

Hulda pushed back her hood and spared Sister Mor nothing. The face broadcast a glare that was bisected by life and death and framed by brittle gray hair on one side and full, thick brown hair on the other. All of it was wild and mussed by the abrupt removal of the hood. Harsh eyes and straightened lips scolded her.  

Yes, it was disquieting, but Sister Mor had met worse in her nightmares.

“Forgive me,” she said with a slight tremor. “If something is wrong, I want to help.”

“Leave it alone,” Hulda said slowly. “Go.”

The word landed like an executioner’s blade. Sister Mor began to obey the sheer force of it. She lowered her head and stepped away.

Another flare of light ran up the staff. The command to leave vaporized from Sister Mor’s mind. She stopped, gaped, and glanced at Hulda. The half-living woman turned around, too. She saw Sister Mor, the staff, the tiny gap between them.

Sister Mor reached out to the staff and its beckoning lights.

“No!” Hulda whipped around and lunged.

They touched the staff at the same time.

A sensation most easily compared to being headbutted by a horse collided with Sister Mor before oblivion spared her from further assaults. A moment or a lifetime later, she heard Hulda’s voice, a distant wave that grows in loudness as it rolls toward the shore—

“Mor! Mor! Can you hear me?”

A frigid, bony hand slapped her cheek. Sister Mor groaned and rolled her head away from the offending touch.

"You mad creature," Hulda grumbled. "Can you feel all your limbs?"

Sister Mor managed to flex her fingers and toes. They ached. She nodded.

"Good. Stand up."

That command met momentary resistance, not all of Sister Mor's volition. She whimpered in her effort to sit up. The muscles in her back clenched, and she collapsed on the stony ground. In the haze of pain, she wondered why she couldn't feel any dead leaves or wild grass that carpeted the forest. As the pulsing in her head died down, she could open her eyes.

A light burned behind Hulda's head. Was it the moon? The sun?

Some horrible, foreign smell hit her nose. Something was burning, but not wood or incense. It was like smelting, but even more acrid. Maybe this was Hell.

“Get up.” Hulda’s hands, one cold and one warm, grabbed Sister Mor’s elbows. She danced with vertigo but landed safely on her feet. The soles of her shoes clapped and made something clack on the ground. Was that gravel? She blinked in the nighttime gloom that the ball of light above them continued to dispel as best it could. She very nearly asked what it was, but other peculiar elements caught her attention and accrued her question collection. She guessed they were standing in a cemetery; headstones and a few mauseoleums raised their gray forms above sloping earth. Gravel-covered paths wound among them. A broader view of the scene directed her attention to a piked fence at the edges of the grounds. Who guarded cemeteries so vigorously? And where was the church? And that light—no, lights. She spied a few more about twenty paces from the first one outside the fence. She began to walk toward them—

Hulda caught her arm. “Where are you off too?”

Sister Mor blinked. Goodness, what was she thinking? She ought to be the one asking the questions!

“Where are we?”

Hulda regarded the cemetery. “Let’s look at the headstones.”

A surprisingly sensible suggestion. Sister Mor grasped Hulda’s intention and hastened her to steps to the nearest grave marker. It was in fact a double marker for two people. She managed to discern the names “Samuel Weld” and “Thomas Weld.” The letters she could read, being Latin, but she didn’t know the language. No year to mark either man’s passing. The style of the headstones struck her with their refinement and morbidity. A yawning death’s head floated above both names and epitaphs, but floral and equally delicate engravings decorated the stone, too.

Sister Mor checked behind her to ask Hulda if she knew the language on the stones. The witch had already moved on. She’d ventured down the path and found a low wall of red, rectangular stones. A plaque was affixed to it.

“This one is more helpful,” Hulda said.

Sister Mor joined her. She knelt and nearly brought her nose to the stone so she could read it in the dark. The name Joseph Dudley followed a mysterious abbreviation (Gov.). But Sister Mor forgot the name as soon as she read the numbers below it.

“One-six-four-seven. That can’t be right. Six … 1647 to … to 1720?” She read it three more times before looking at Hulda. “Do the people in this country have a different calendar?”

“More likely it’s the same as yours. Whatever the year is, it’s later than 1720.”

The year of the Lord was 880. And they were supposed to be in East Francia, and this language didn’t look like any Germanic dialect she’d come across. As these facts fermented into a wild conclusion, Sister Mor struggled move or breathe. When she finally recovered enough mobility, she used it to place one hand on the ground. Her eyes sought the staff. It wasn’t glowing at all. Its body comprised of ordinary wood.

“We … we didn’t just move in space. We moved … in time.”

“Yes,” Hulda said, as if Sister Mor were describing a route to the nearest market.

“With your staff.”

“Yes.”

“… oh. Oh, Mary and Joseph.” Sister Mor gave a sound that immediately mortified her; it blended horror and ecstasy.

“You insisted on touching a glowing stick without knowing what it did.”

Another yelp, close to a shriek, leapt out of Sister Mor. Hulda grabbed her arm.

“Ow!”

“Quiet! We don’t belong here, so don’t draw any attention.”

Sister Mor started panting, but she bit her lip, whined quietly, and began to calm down. “Nnnnghthen why are we here?”

“The staff sent me here. You’re here thanks to stubbornness and stupidity. But since you’re here, and I can’t send you back, you might as well get a grip and help me.”

Sister Mor gasped. “You can’t send me back? But, but it’s your staff!”

“I don’t control it. When it fills with light, I go where it takes me and seek the one I’ve been tasked to help. I didn’t even think until a few moments ago that another person could touch it and be thrown across lands and centuries, too. Thank your god that I touched it, too, or you’d be a very lost, very dead woman.”

“How do we get back?”

“We will return to your time when the staff gives us the power to do so.”

“How long will that be?”

Hulda shrugged.

“Then, we could be wandering across the ages for years. We could die.”

“I didn’t make you touch the staff.”

Despite herself, or maybe because of the panic trying to fill her chest, Sister Mor laughed. She did sound mad.

“Are you going to lose your mind,” asked Hulda, “or are you going to keep your senses and help me? Either way, I have work to do, and you’re not my priority.”

Of all the emotions to triumph at this moment, Sister Mor marveled at the joy rising above everything else. Terror lingered beneath it, but, in a way, that buoyed her joy even more. Maybe this was the first sign of madness setting in.

Still catching her breath, she smoothed her headdress and habit. “Very well. What are you bound to do?”

“Usually, I land near the soul in need. He or she must be somewhere in this graveyard right now. The One who gave me this staff is kind enough to afford me darkness and remoteness for my work. Most of the time.”

The archness in Hulda’s voice made a smile jump to Sister Mor’s lips. She quashed it for fear of offending the grim lady. “Who is this person?”

“It’s my concern alone. Your concern is staying close to me, and staying alive if you want to see your home and family again.”

The notion that she might never see Cuan or any of her kin made her shudder not by its incomprehensibility but in familiarity. She banished the reminder of another brush with a superhuman power that had whisked her away to a land that, if legends were true, also defied the bonds of time. Sister Mor nodded, brushed herself off again, and followed Hulda in standing up.

As Hulda predicted, they wandered the graveyard for no more than a quarter of an hour, passing a few more of those balls of light. They must have been lamps on tall posts, boxed in by glass to stop the wind from blowing them out. Sister Mor heard more of the world outside the cemetery: voices in that foreign tongue, shouts of alcohol-brined opinions, dog barks, hoofbeats, clattering wheels on cobblestone streets. And yes, that horrid smell. Hulda believed, having visited this period before, that they were in the age of coal combustion.

“Are we in a city?” Sister Mor asked. “I’ve only ever visited Dublin twice. Cities promise so much, but they appear more wretched than not. Dare I hope our descendants will improve on the idea?”

Hulda looked back at her and smiled. Sister Mor didn’t take that as a happy portend.

She was grateful, in light of this conversation, to soon meet another soul. Their presence meant the end of their visit.

Gratitude would evaporate into pity, then shock and revulsion.

Both women turned a bend on one of the paths and spied a prone man in front of one of the mausoleums. Sister Mor took him to be a drunkard or homeless beggar. The warring instincts to help and to turn away shamed her; how could she hesitate, especially as a religieuse, to minister to the least, as the Lord had commanded? Her hesitation allowed Hulda to move first toward the destitute man. She followed.

“Stay back,” Hulda ordered.

“Why?”

“If you value your life.”

Was Hulda threatening her to not help after all the fuss she made about Sister Mor girding herself for this adventure?

Then the man jerked up like a puppet hoisted up by a string, and he turned his head like owl-like dexterity. His eyes glinted like those of an owl, too. He gasped and groaned.

Hulda gave a “shhhhh” that matched the wind moving through the trees. In fact, the timing was perfect. A breeze brushed the trees growing throughout the graveyard as she spoke. The coincidence changed Hulda into much greater a force. Was it just a coincidence?

The man, the creature, didn’t move any more. Hulda stretched out her mummified arm to him, beckoning. Sister Mor stepped back.

“Don’t run, either,” said Hulda. “That will provoke him. He’s hungry. Trust me.”

Sister Mor fought to control her breathing. “Might not he hurt you?”

“He won’t.” New gentleness touched Hulda’s voice. It remained even as she deepened her tone and projected in the man’s direction. “Come.”

The man’s hands started twitching. His shining eyes narrowed. Step by step, he crept toward Hulda. Sister Mor quaked all over. Oh, how she hated his look. His features were perfectly human in shape. More and more, though, the pallor and sunken cheeks, as a corpse looks before bloat sets in, reminded her of a nonhuman face that had chased and tormented her years ago. Yes, all due to her own foolishness once again. This could be divine punishment.

When the man, or creature, came within two paces of Hulda, he whimpered and dropped to its knees. Mouth open, crying, he showed his pointed canines. He spoke what sounded like a full sentence, possibly a question.

“What did he say?” whispered Sister Mor.

“I have no idea. I don’t know his language well enough.”

The man, the creature, gawked at Hulda like she’d spoken in the tongue of angels and imparted a profound message from the Almighty.

Hulda moved closer to him. Her dead hand, still outstretched, rested on his scalp. He gave a deep, shaky sigh.

“Does he know who you are?” Sister Mor asked.

The man’s posture stiffened. Sister Mor stepped back again without thinking. His head rotated so his reflective eyes tracked her.

“Don’t move,” Hulda said.

Both Sister Mor and the man kept still.

“Sister Mor, this child of the night needs food. If we leave him, he’ll attack a poor soul and taint his own even further. Where do you suggest we find human blood?”

A simple answer came to Sister Mor, and she grimaced at it. A stationary search of the cemetery yielded no other options. “I … I could give him some of mine.”

Hulda turned to Sister Mor and stared as though she’d heard a string of gibberish.

“What?” said Sister Mor. “Isn’t that what you were implying?”

“Of course not! I asked because, as a human, you have more familiarity with human settlements than I do and would know where to find fresh blood. Do you want to die?”

“No!” Sister Mor flushed at the question. Her temper cooled. She touched the silver cross hanging around her neck. “No, but … will he die if he doesn’t eat tonight?”

“It’s not his death I’m worried about.”

That helped Sister Mor breathe more steadily. “Then … I will not send him off to some ‘acceptable’ source of blood. I have some here to keep him docile.”

She pulled up her sleeve. The man-creature lunged. Hulda swung down her staff and hit him in the chest. He screeched and dropped lower. Hulda stooped, too, either to check he was all right or to keep him at bay.

“It’s not that simple!” Hulda snapped. “He has no reason to show restraint.”

“Then keep him restrained, if you please.” Sister Mor finished rolling up the sleeve. She patted the pouch hanging from her belt. “Oh. I don’t think I have a knife.”

Hulda sighed. “I do.”

Sister Mor kept Hulda between herself and the creature, rustled about Hulda’s belt as quickly as she could, and thanked God when she found the knife. The hilt bore Danish runes that read “famine.” Sister Mor almost laughed.

“Does this have magic, too?”

“No. Cut the outside of your arm if you must. That will do.”

Ideally, Sister Mor would have cleaned or cauterized the blade. She settled for a swift wipe on an inner fold of her habit. A gasp left her with the knife’s slice.

“Be quick,” she ordered the man-creature.

The cut discouraged the man-creature from biting through her skin. She still felt the fangs. They pressed insistently. She flinched at first contact, and he growled.

Hatred for this beast boiled in her throat. She gave him her arm again and shut her eyes.

“Tell me when he’s finished,” she said to Hulda.

“You had better tell me when you’re finished, unless you want me to let him continue until you faint.”

It wasn’t so much the loss of blood as the smacking and slurping and the feel of his cold tongue on her skin that made Sister Mor lightheaded and long for escape. Anxiety made her head pound like a drum.

“That’s enough!” She ripped her arm away. Rather unnecessary in hindsight. Neither the monster nor Hulda had taken hold of her arm.

Hulda had him in her complete grip, like a farmer holding a young bull to fit him with a nose ring. The beastly man left no red drop wasted. His tongue wiped away his meal from his chapped lips. The eyes, more human-like but still a little luminous, gleamed without gratitude. There was only delight from a sated appetite. It was rather childlike, the manner of which convinced Sister Mor that she did not like children.

If Hulda had given her blood, she might not have rubbed the man-creature’s back to ease him further. Still, her presence was the only reason Sister Mor had even considered sharing her blood with this thing. She did worry her that Hulda cared more for the blood-drinker than any human. At least she hadn’t let the monster kill Sister Mor. That had to carry some import.

“What now?”

Instead of answering Sister Mor, Hulda tilted the man-creature’s chin. Still lean and vicious, he trembled under her steady stare. Hulda leaned down and whispered in his ear. He didn’t seem to understand whatever she said, but that soon didn’t matter. After a sly glance at Sister Mor, he shut his eyes and leaned into Hulda as she helped him stand. He muttered something. Hulda squeezed his shoulder, the side furthest from her. Sister Mor reminded herself to squeeze her cut with her handkerchief while most of her attention remained on the strange intimacy between the creature and the tall, half-living woman keeping him steady. Hulda did not radiate much warmth, but even a stone can give its own kind of comfort.

The staff, still in Hulda’s other hand, began to send tendrils of light up to its top.

Elated and fearful, Sister Mor dashed forward and grabbed onto it. “Thank God!”

Hulda chuckled. “Hold that thought.”

This time, although blackness did briefly swipe away her consciousness, Sister Mor came back to herself while still on her feet. This time, nausea punched her gut. She doubled over and wretched. The man-creature made similar noises.

“It’s not so bad after the tenth time,” said Hulda. She raised her head and whistled: a single, long, melancholy note. Just as Sister Mor stopped gagging, something flapped out of the trees—yes, the trees were back!—and cawed right before landing on Hulda’s shoulder.

“Take this one,” she said.

Sister Mor stumbled a step or two away and checked that no one was touching her. No, Hulda was nodding at the man-creature, the blood-drinker. She brushed his face with her living hand. The bird, a crow, practically barked at him, took off, and ascended into a loop. The grace with which it dodged the branches managed to enchant Sister Mor. Words passed between Hulda and the man that she didn’t hear. The crow redirected her to the pair when it flew over their heads.

Hulda pointed at the bird and pressed the man’s back. The instruction did not require a common tongue to be understood. The man hesitated, threw a fretful look at Hulda, then at Sister Mor without the former hunger or mischief. Finally, like a frightened child eager to get home, he walked into the forest to follow the crow’s path.

Sister Mor checked her cut—still clean and only slightly bleeding. Hulda joined her.

“Where is he going?”

“My servant will find a home for him.”

“But how do you know what he needs? You couldn’t speak with him.”

“I’ve helped many of his kind over the years, from all places and ages. They have nowhere else to go. Once that happens—once their lives, in a sense, have ended—I shepherd them to a new life that will keep them and the humans they might hurt safe.”

Sister Mor peered around at the familiar trees and mists. “Here?”

Hulda gave another of her small, not very assuring smiles. “You believe I would let you come to harm here?”

“Well …”

“Remember who volunteered her blood to a draugr.”

“Draugr?”

“An undead being.”

Sister Mor shuddered. Not just a blood-drinker, but an undead one. She’d let it touch her!

A dead hand reached for her. She jolted back. Hulda stopped. She seemed surprised not by Sister Mor but by her own action. Her hand joined the living one on her staff. Brittle fingers wrapped around it more tightly than needed.

A pang plucked at something in Sister Mor’s chest. It took some time to untangle her tongue. “Are you helping the graiggwerin—I mean, the fjallfolk—for the same reason?”

“Yes. And the vargfolk. And, on occasion, a human or two. Well, not to come here permanently, but in this woodland, you are under my stewardship. If any other folk trouble you, they will answer to me.”

Sister Mor could hardly breathe. She dared not think who Hulda really was, what sort of company she and Brother Talfryn and the rest of their party were keeping. She tried very, very hard not to think of the sidhe and their rules, their sense of entitlement over anyone who crossed into their land. Already she was beginning to ache for the comfort of her abbey, the strong stone walls that kept out the monsters of the world.

Yet they didn’t keep out all monsters. They didn’t banish the ones that had slipped into her dreams. Would she dream of that blood-drinker now? Would she dream of Hulda?

The same woman was silent. Her gaze drifted between Sister Mor, the ground, and the canopy and its wispy tresses. The staff had returned to its ordinary color. Brother Talfryn and the others weren’t in sight. So many questions buzzed in Sister Mor’s skull, and she couldn’t find the courage to let them out just yet. One did persist, sitting on her tongue until, at last, she had to breathe and set it free.

“Why do you have stewardship over this place?”

Hulda opened her mouth, left it open, gave a slow sigh, and finally said, “It’s a long story, and I’m not ready to tell it. But … I will tell you that the One who placed this duty on me gave you the same duty to help the fjallfolk.”

Sister Mor didn’t bother hiding her astonishment. She found her nerve again soon enough. “And who is that?”

A raised eyebrow. “Who else could it be?”

One moment, Sister Mor was stone. The next, she bubbled with laughter. She swallowed it, feeling rude for disrupting the forest with the noise. “But you don’t know anything about Him.”

Hulda had her turn to laugh. “The things I could tell you! But not now.”

The staff seemed to agree: it began to shoot its lines of light upward.

“Either this will return us to your proper time,” said Hulda, “or to my next appointment.”

In that respect, Sister Mor had no excuse to hesitate. She steered her hand to a spot on the staff just a little below Hulda’s overlapping fingers. A few frantic heartbeats later, they entered the blackness, then reentered the forest. This time, their sleeping companions surrounded them.

“There. Off to bed with you,” said Hulda.

Almost as soon as Sister Mor took her hand off the staff, it glowed again. Her stomach flew up like water when a stone drops into it, and in the same way, it settled again. She touched the staff.

Hulda frowned. “What—?”

“Will any time be lost?” Sister Mor asked.

“… no. Not if we’re brought back to this same moment.”

Sister Mor bit her lip and nodded. Her fingers clenched around the wood.

Hulda made that same bewildered scowl as the one in the cemetery. It couldn’t stop a smile, the biggest one yet from the grim lady. “As if I don’t have enough to worry about.”

“I’ll help you,” said Sister Mor seriously. “Haven’t I already?”

An intrigued hum. “We will see.”

They vanished into the air.

#inklingschallenge #team tolkien #genre: time travel #theme: drink #theme: shelter #theme: food #story: unfinished

[afairmaiden]

For the @inklings-challenge

(Late as usual, and just the beginning, but it's something, at least.)

An Acceptable Sacrifice, Part 1

From the journal of Nicholas Leonard, member of the Maldonado Expedition to Zone 13 Northwest

Monday, October 18

58°F, clear skies, low humidity.

Departed base at 13:00, under the command of Arik Maldonado, after considerable delays and against the advice of Rylan Gaines. Reports of severe weather approaching, believed to be greatly exaggerated.

Drove southeast about four hours until the road ended between the old wildlife preserve and state forest land. Nearly dark by the time we got out and unloaded everything. Walked another forty-five minutes past overgrown fields and what used to be a town before splitting up. Team A north, team B south. Continued east toward the river with Zane Benson. Made camp in what looks to be the parking lot of an old factory or something. Forced to put up with Benson's incessant chatter the whole time.

Transcript of the last known recordings of Zane Benson and Nicholas Leonard of the Maldonado Expedition, recovered 10/26/25

10/18/25 19:09:41

BENSON: Hello, hello. Can anyone hear me? If there are any spirits here, please make your presence known.

LEONARD: Hey! What do you think you're doing with that?

BENSON: I'm just testing it out, relax.

LEONARD: That's professional equipment for official record-keeping purposes, not playing ghost hunt, got it?

[pause]

BENSON: It is supposed to be haunted, you know.

LEONARD: [inaudible]

BENSON: Come on, you know people have gone missing out here. Of course they don't talk about it, but it is strange, don't you think, that every time there's an expedition, someone doesn't end up coming back?

LEONARD: You volunteering or something?

BENSON: Look, I'm just saying—

LEONARD: And I'm just telling you to keep your mouth shut and do your job. We didn't come out here to trade ghost stories around the campfire.

BENSON: Well, I'd like to know what we are doing here. We're not looking for ghosts and we're not looking for people and there's certainly nothing of value left in these ruins. You'd think if they really want environmental data so bad, they could just send out some drones or something and be done with it.

LEONARD: Yeah? And how are they supposed to do that? You can hardly get a signal in half the city these days, let alone out here. We might as well be back in the dark ages. [pause] Is that thing still on?

BENSON: Would you relax? I brought extra batteries. I'll delete the files when we've got something to report.

[pause]

LEONARD: You got the tent set up yet?

BENSON: Yeah, yeah, I got it. Bent all the tent pegs trying to drive them into this gravel, but I got it. You sure know how to pick a campsite, don't you?

***

Tuesday, October 19

Couldn't sleep. Weird dreams. Benson's ghost stories must have gotten to me more than I cared to admit. Keep thinking what the place must have looked like before, imagining people in strange, old-fashioned clothes walking around outside the tent. Crazy stuff—I know it really wasn't abandoned that long ago. Probably would have slept better on softer ground, but it felt safer here than in the field or woods, closer to reality.

As much as I hate to admit it, Benson's right. I don't know what we're doing out here. Could have just dropped off the equipment and come back for it in a few months, no reason to wait around a whole week, and they never did tell us exactly what we're supposed to be waiting for. Just to log the data and look out for "anything weird." This whole place is weird and getting weirder by the minute.

Woke up to thick fog. After breakfast, finished setting up equipment and logging preliminary data, then took photos of the area before breaking camp and heading further east. Walked about three hours. Should have reached the river already, but it's slow going with so much stuff, and on top of it all, we don't have nearly enough food. Rations barely enough for a week at the office, let alone a week of tramping through the wilderness. If the elements don't kill us, poor planning just might. Or maybe that was the plan all along.

Planned to stop for half an hour at most but Benson wandered off. Tried calling him but no response. Keep thinking I hear something, but Should be able to see him at least. In the woods now, but the trees aren't that thick and the fog cleared up hours ago. He took his pack, so he should have a couple of emergency flares and a whistle on him.

Worse and worse. Definitely heard something. Started running. Fell. Hopelessly lost. Still no sign of Benson. Getting dark quick, looks like rain. Thought to check pack and found signal flares missing, radio damaged beyond repair. Thinking my best bet might be to try to stay where I am. Don't know if they'll be able to track our last known location, doubt they'd send out a search party either way. McLaren would be in charge of any search efforts, and I know he's had it out for me since orientation. Wouldn't put it past him to sabotage the whole thing. Wouldn't be surprised if he orchestrated all this in the first place. But at least they might try to retrieve the equipment.

***

10/19/25 16:35:14

BENSON: Hello, this is Zane Benson. It's about...four? Four-thirty? Tuesday, October 19. I—I'm not—I'm not really sure what just happened. I just stepped away for a moment after we took some readings and I got turned around. I don't know where I am, or where Nick is. We were supposed to be close to the river so I kept walking east but I'm not seeing anything. I think— [pause] Hello? Nick? Is that—

[end of recording]

Transcriber's note (10/27/25): Recorder was found by Zane Benson's pack, approximately two miles from the other recovered equipment. Benson and Leonard remain missing, presumed dead.

Signal to the Outer Ring has been restored.

[part 2]

#inklingschallenge #team tolkien #genre: time travel #theme: food #theme: drink #theme: shelter #story: unfinished

[popcornfairy28]

@inklings-challenge

Well, here's my submission for Team Chesterton. I kept on wanting to expand it, so I did not finish it in time, but I thought I did pretty good for this being my first time doing the challenge! I look forward to finishing the story later. This is just the first chapter because I am a perfectionist lol. I kinda blended genres in it because I like fantasy.

Summary:

Princess Sasha of Vesulia had thought it was going to be an ordinary day until someone loudly knocked at her door, announcing that a knight from the neighboring kingdom Kivna had arrived with urgent news. With her brother Prince Aden and his love Lady Nicoletta, Sasha rides out with the knight Sir Ewan to help Kivna with a mysterious affliction affecting one of their villages and the surrounding lands.

#inklings challenge #team chesterton #genre:adv #theme: shelter #story: unfinished

[thegreenleavesofspring]

Maybe publishing part of my @inklings-challenge story will help motivate me into finishing it.

~

It's also entirely unedited, so bear that in mind.

~

The Time Sea

Gritty sand beneath her, and she dragged herself higher up the strand, the waves lapping greedily at her sodden dress. Tiny rippling wavelets washing up to pull out again with a dizzying feeling of the ground itself rushing from beneath her. She shivered there awhile, barely conscious of the lightning limning the roaring sea behind her in silver, painting the cliff above her white. The thunder blended with the noise of the waves, none of it touching her consciousness as she drifted.

The heavy black of night slithered into the dark grey of a stormy dawn. She came back to herself, shivering violently in her wet dress. The waves that had deposited her on this shore retreated down the sand, now. Her fingers were numb, hair clinging to her face like seaweed between sand grains. She brushed ineffectively at her face with shaking hands and blanched fingers. Hypothermia, her mind supplied helpfully, and then, get up and walk, it will help warm you up and you may find shelter.

She stood and looked at the cliff rising above her. It was a very small cliff, as cliffs went; only five or six times her height. The thought of trying to scale it in yards of drenched material and with numb fingers made her quail.

The storm had not passed over, though the rain had ceased for the moment; a sudden crack and roll of thunder made her jump. She glanced out at the tide – starting to come in again, now, but not quickly; she had a few moments – and backed up to look up at the top of the cliff.

Lightning flashed very helpfully in that precise moment, drawing her eye up towards the castle crouched atop the hill above the cliff. It seemed a very vampire’s lair, all sharp spires and sheer black stone and cramped window slits with no light in them and flying buttresses spiderwebbing between the towers. She rather fancied she saw bats dancing around the top of the tallest tower as tiny black specks.

It was the least inviting building imagination could conjure, but she was of a very practical turn of mind, and even the least inviting building with all its imagined horrors would be less dreadful than waiting on this narrow strip of cliff-bottom beach to be sucked back into the hungry waves behind her, or dying slowly of cold.

The castle’s inhabitants, it seemed, enjoyed trips to the beach, at times, for a thorough exploration of the bottom of the cliff revealed a narrow twisting path up the rock-face. Perhaps, she thought to herself as she hoisted her bundle of skirts – all shape lost in the ocean to a formless mass of heavy cloth, crusted stiff with salt – they came down on finer days than this, when all was sunny and the sea was calm and glass-green. Or perhaps, she thought humorously, they were vampires indeed, and descended only on the full moons to dance gruesome dances upon the strand.

The castle was further away than it had appeared from the beach, and rain started sheeting down just as she attained the grass at the top of the cliff. She heaved a deep despondent sigh, her hair slicking down around her face and shoulders all over again, shivering uncontrollably now, and started her forward slog, clutching her stomach to try and keep warm. Thunder shook the skies and ground around her, rattling through her bones. Lightning shot white and violet and indigo from sky to ground, and she peered forward at the castle each time, orienting herself off those jagged spires. A pebbled path ran from castle to cliff, but now it ran with water, a miniature rapid rushing along and tugging at her feet.

She was too tired to fight the current, slight as it was, and stepped off into the grass beside the path. The water rose to her ankles as she splashed through puddles, washing the salt and grime of the ocean from her feet and replacing it with tiny blades of grass and fragments of leaves and one very startled frog that rode on her arch for two steps before leaping away with a disgruntled cro-oak.

Her stomach had ceased its growling complaints and her mind was nearly as numb as her extremities by the time she fetched up against the rough stone and wood of the castle. She took a stumbling step back from the unyielding wall and looked around and realized that the path had widened into a drive and swooped right up to a broad shallow front step and a niche with imposing double doors. An unlit torch was set in an iron bracket to the side of it; if it had ever blazed with fire the wind and rain had long since snuffed it.

She considered sheltering in the door nook for all of half a second before another gust of wind sent her stumbling forward a step. Her mind made up, she mounted the stairs, wadded her hand inside a length of her voluminous sleeve, and lifted the massive iron knocker.

It fell with a boom that echoed through the house and faded into the thunder a half-second behind it. But the door was not even latched; the weight and momentum of the knocker pushed it ajar a few inches. She took a hitching breath and peeked in through the crack and then pushed the door open a little farther and slipped inside, leaning back against the rough wood on her hands to close it as she took in the hall.

It was long and narrow and soared to heights she could not see in the dark; the lightning coming in the windows insufficient to show the ceiling. At the far end of the hall – a mile away, it seemed – a tiny fire glowed in a massive fireplace that entirely dwarfed it. Open, doorless entryways to other rooms gaped cavernous to either side, black and opaque as pitch. The walls were bare and carved into sharp pillar motifs, climbing high out of sight. Everything was sharp and spiky and looked deeply uncomfortable and unhomelike, but there was a fire at the end of the hall and she was so cold…

Her footsteps echoed across the bare floor – marble perhaps; it was hard to tell in this dimness – rising all the way to the distant unseen ceiling and reverberating off all the walls over and over before whispering away into silence. But she did not let it stop her; she lightened her footfalls as much as she could and hurried over to the fire, whimpering in gratitude as she held her hands into the hearth itself to stick them over the anemic flames.

A bang from behind her startled her badly – she jumped and turned, scanning the hall. A staircase she had hitherto not seen, set back where the wall had fallen away – she had not seen it in her rush to get to the fire – rose to split into opposite directions. A thin wavering light hovered on the balcony of the second floor (she supposed it was the second floor) – a torch, held aloft in a hand cast deep into shadow. A tall figure held it; she caught a glimpse of a large hooked nose and robes the color of blood beneath silver-streaked auburn hair, two black eyes glittering like moonlight on a forest pool deep beneath craggy brows.

#inklingschallenge #Team Tolkien #genre: time travel #genre: secondary world fantasy #theme: food #theme: drink #theme: clothing #theme: shelter #story: unfinished

[shakespearean-fish]

To All Generations

[so, I decided against my original @inklings-challenge plan to rework an already partially written story and had a different idea late in the game. it took me a while to figure out, and thus, my story is not completed yet. I do intend to finish it! for now, please enjoy this opening teaser.]

-------------------------------------------------------------------------

One moment, the antiseptic light of the police station, the hard footsteps behind him down the corridor. The next moment, there was a shift, a dissolving, passing through him like electricity in his bones.

He fell to his knees on a cold pavement. The gray corridor was gone. In its place were brick walls on either side and a smell of rain in the twilight. A voice cried out, and he looked to see a woman in a dark red coat, who was staring at him with frightened eyes. “Who are you?” she said.

“My name is Darya Verossian,” he faltered.

“You came out of nowhere. Where did you come from?”

“From Baderseit.”

“What—what do you mean? This is Baderseit.”

Darya didn’t understand what she was saying. There was no part of the city built this way. Then, suddenly, he thought of the archival images he’d seen, the low buildings, the alleyways—“What year is it?” The woman looked at him as if he were insane, but she answered him, and it struck him like a blow to the chest. “Ninety years,” he said out loud.

#inklingschallenge #team tolkien #genre: secondary world #genre: time travel #theme: shelter #theme: food #story: unfinished

[wildlyironicbee]

@inklings-challenge

This...is about as finished as it's going to be for now: time and the characters got away from me.

But, that being said, I had a ton of fun with this—it’s been ages and ages since I’ve pantsed anything. (And I don’t think I’m quite ready to leave this world alone just yet, so maybe I'll finish it to my satisfaction someday!)

------

Stairs to Nowhere

News of the death of the king took three months to reach the Gap.

News, even news as important as this, always took three months to reach the Gap—that little sliver of no man’s marshland wedged between the northern border of Meath and the southern border of Kithage. It was said among both kingdoms that only the strangest of folk lived there: those with nowhere else to go or no desire to be found.

Marta, as she was calling herself these days, ran the only tavern; a small, stooped thing aptly called The Battered Kettle. She had no love for the king and would’ve been unbothered by the news if the messenger—a screeching kestrel—hadn’t swooped into the tavern in the middle of the dinner rush and startled her so badly she dropped a full tray, shattering several mugs and spilling ale down her skirt and all over her freshly mopped floor.

“Oh, Rat’s bones,” Marta swore. She swatted at the kestrel with her now empty tray, flicking foamy ale across the room. “You nasty thing!”

Her tray never came close. The kestrel ignored her spluttering and swooped down to land on the bartop. Patrons sitting at the bar hastily pulled their plates and cups back as it spread its wings wide and cried in a loud voice, “The King of Meath is dead!”

There were a few surprised gasps. Across every table, heads leaned together, and murmurs spread throughout the tavern.

“Has an heir been chosen?” called the butcher from the back of the room, his voice loud and clear (as was polite when speaking to a king’s messenger).

The kestrel flapped its wings and said, “No heir has come forth! The chamberlain seeks those whose face matches the other! Only those such as these shall be crowned!”

In the middle of the room, Marta cut herself on a piece of broken mug. She swore quietly, sucking on her cut finger.

“That old chestnut again?” said the blacksmith from the bar. He turned his head and spat on the floor. “Didn’t they try that the last time?”

They did. Oh, they did. Marta remembered.

But what she said was, “Don’t you spit on my floor again, Riad.” 

At least Riad had the decency to look sheepish. “Beg pardon, Miss Marta,” he said. “Forgot my place.” He scowled at the kestrel over his drink. “Just don’t like messengers poking their beaks where they aren’t needed, is all.”

The kestrel’s head twisted back and forth as it looked at Riad, but it didn’t rise to its own defense. As the minutes stretched on and it became clear the kestrel would say nothing else, conversation throughout the tavern resumed. 

Marta stalked behind the bar with her tray full of broken pottery and flung it on the counter. It skidded a foot, shards clinking, as she quickly bandaged her hurt finger and wrung out her ale-soaked skirt over the mop bucket to try and hide her trembling hands.

It had been years—years and years and years—since she’d heard that wretched prophecy and now here it was again, thrown back into her face like her journey had never mattered. That Rachel had never—

Cold air hit her cheeks, and she raised her head just in time to see a tall man open the front door and slip inside, his cloak drawn close about his shoulders and his hood up over his dark hair, damp with rain. Marta, recognizing him, waved him over just as the kestrel spotted him and screeched again:

“The king of Meath is dead! The chamberlain has sent messengers to every province and town!” the kestrel said, flapping its wings. “He seeks those whose face matches the other!”

From the other side of the tavern, someone called, “You said that already!” to scattered laughter.

“How long ago was this message made?” Marta asked the kestrel as the tall man came behind the bar to stand beside her.

“Three months and five days,” the kestrel said.

Marta nodded, expecting this. “And no one has been found in all that time?”

“No one,” the kestrel answered. It hopped back and forth on the bartop and looked at her expectantly.

Marta sighed and reached for a jar of birdseed on a shelf beneath the bartop. The kestrel looked down its beak at it before screeching at Marta indignantly, ruffling its feathers. 

“The last messenger we got was a pigeon,” Marta said with a shrug. “Take it or leave it.”

The kestrel gave a haughty flap of its wings, said, “Leave it,” and took off. Someone pulled the door open, and it took to the gray skies and disappeared. 

“And good riddance,” Marta muttered. She turned to the man beside her and smiled warmly. “Narl, take off your cloak and stay awhile. What can I do you for?”

Narl didn’t return her smile. “I need your help,” he said quietly. “I’ve…found someone. Two someones.”

“Two someones,” Marta repeated. She glanced behind him and, seeing no one, raised an eyebrow.

“I’ve got them squared away,” he said with a little shake of his head. “They tend to stick out, if you catch my meaning.”

Marta stilled. “In what way?” she asked. It was a struggle to keep her voice steady. 

Narl gave her a look. “You know what way.” 

Marta nodded. She did.

Instead of saying so, she turned away from Narl to grab more mugs to replace the ones she’d broken and filled them with ale from the large keg behind the bar. Carefully arranging them on her tray, and then her tray on one hand, she squeezed past Narl and said in a low voice, “Come back when everyone’s gone.”

Narl inclined his head and slipped back out the door as Marta returned to her patrons with a fixed smile on her face and a slow dread prickling like sweat down her back.

~~~

The two someones were a boy and a girl, maybe twelve, maybe thirteen, maybe younger—Marta had never been good at guessing ages. Brown hair, brown eyes. Twins, Marta could tell that for certain. She could always tell when people were twins.

The kids stood behind Narl and peered at her curiously. Narl was right, they did stick out. Their faces—dirty and hungry—could have belonged to any child with the misfortune of growing up in the Gap, but their clothes were another story and Marta stared with no small amount of wonder at their puffer coats, dyed brighter colors than any dye in the Gap, even obscured as they were underneath a layer of dirt. Then, she looked down and, oh Rat’s bones, the girl was wearing Cookie Monster pajama pants.

Marta couldn’t help but laugh in delight at the sight of them, ignoring the way her eyes stung.

But when the kids started at her laughter and reached for each other’s hands, she stifled it immediately with a dismissive wave of her hand.

“Oh, forgive me; come in, come in,” she said, smiling. “You must be starving.” 

The kids stared at her blankly. The boy narrowed his eyes and clutched at his sister’s hand and said nothing.

Marta’s eyes narrowed too, but because of the kids. She turned her ire on Narl. “They don’t understand us, do they.”

Narl pressed his lips together and slowly shook his head. “They speak English.”

Marta scowled. English. Of course. She hadn’t heard anyone speak English since—

With a shaky breath, she banished those thoughts and started over.

“My name is Marta,” she said to the kids, carefully sounding out the words. The English felt strange in her mouth—too harsh, too foreign. “What are your names?”

The kids stared at her.

“You speak English,” the boy said.

“Yes,” Marta said. “Though, please forgive me, I am a little rusty.” She paused. “Are you...hungry?”

“Yeah,” the girl said immediately. The boy frowned at her, and she frowned right back. “What? I am!”

The boy’s frown deepened as he turned to Marta. “We don’t have any money.”

“I assumed,” Marta said with a wry smile. “Narl can cover the bill, can’t you, Narl?”

Narl narrowed his eyes. “You know very well I don’t know what you said, so no.”

Marta snorted. “He said he’d be happy to,” she said to the kids.

The girl leaned against her brother. “I don’t think he said that,” she whispered. The boy nodded.

Marta laughed and gestured vaguely at the tables and upturned chairs in the dining room. “Sit, sit,” she said. “I’ll grab, uh.” Her mind blanked on the English word. “Stew? I think is the word?”

She disappeared into the kitchen before either of the kids could correct her and ladled out three bowls and arranged them on a tray beside a loaf of bread. Taking slow, deep breaths, she stepped back out into the dining room.

The kids (and Narl) had pulled down a few chairs and arranged themselves at a table in front of the hearth. The dwindling fire cast strange shadows across their faces. The boy and girl leaned against each other, whispering in low voices, while Narl wrote something in a small notebook. All three looked up when she returned and set the food down in front of them.

Narl dug into his meal immediately, humming his enjoyment, but the kids poked cautiously at the contents of their bowls, wrinkling their noses.

“It’s...a kind of soup. I’m not sure what the vegetables are called in English,” Marta told them. When the boy gave her another suspicious look, she tried again. “Just...think of it like, um...” She cast around for the right word before settling on, “Potato? Soup.”

The girl immediately brightened. “Oh, okay!” she chirped, scooping up a large spoonful. “I love potato soup.”

The boy watched her carefully as she took a bite and smiled. She nudged him. “It’s so good, dude, try it.”

The boy did, slowly at first, but after two cautious bites he devoured the rest of the bowl with relish, while the girl did the same. Marta was quick to slice up the bread and slather it with butter before handing it to them too. She didn’t need to explain this one—she’d learned early on that bread was bread no matter what universe you were in.

When the bowls were emptied and the bread reduced to crumbs, the kids leaned back in their chairs, full and happy and more than a little sleepy. But Marta couldn’t let them go yet: she had questions.

“Alright, now,” Marta said, leaning across the table. “How long have you been here?”

“Uh…two days?” the girl said. She looked to her brother for confirmation, and relaxed when he nodded. “Yeah, two days.”

Narl nodded his own confirmation when Marta’s eyes flicked to him.

“And what are your names?” she asked.

“Oh, that’s easy,” the girl said. “I’m Laura and this” – she elbowed her brother – “is Link.”

Marta blinked. “Like—like from The Legend of Zelda?”

Link slammed his palm down on the table hard enough to make the dishes rattle and pointed at her. “I knew it!” he cried. “You’re from our world!”

Laura gasped and stared at Marta. Her eyes were very, very round.

Narl leaned back in his chair fiddling with his pipe in his hands. “I take it he figured it out?” he asked mildly.

Marta glared at him. “You’re not thinking of smoking in my tavern, are you?” 

Narl rolled his eyes but put his pipe back in his pocket. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”

“How did you get here?” Link asked excitedly. “When did you get here?”

“Did you come here the same way as us?” Laura asked.

“Depends,” Marta said, folding her arms across her chest. “How did you get here?”

Link launched into their story. They’d been camping with their parents up in the mountains. Laura and Link had gotten their own tent this year, and when they’d seen the small, worn-down stone stairs in the woods (The stairs that led to nowhere, Marta mouthed along with him), well. It had been the perfect spot to pitch their tent, with the stairs as their own little front porch. They’d gone to sleep that first night, safe and full from hot dogs and s’mores…and had awoken to an entirely new forest in an entirely new world with no tent, no parents, and a very startled Narl staring at them.

After that, things were…messy. Marta remembered her own first days in Kithage—remembered the shock of waking up in another world, the language barrier, the strange food, the soldiers waving swords in her and Rachel’s faces—so. She knew a little about what these two must have gone through to get all the way from the border of Kithage to here.

“But Mister Narl was with us the whole time,” Laura said, smiling sweetly at the man in question (and Narl, who only understood his name in that sentence, smiled back). “So it wasn’t all bad.”

“What year was it when you left?” Marta asked.

“2012,” Link said, and Marta blinked in surprise. She and Rachel had left in 2023.

“Can you help us get home?” Link asked quietly.

Marta considered her answer. Laura was still smiling, but Link watched her with a wary expression, and she knew that he knew she didn’t have a good answer for him. 

She couldn’t lie to him. “I don’t know.”

Link’s shoulders slumped and Laura reached for his hand again.

“But—you’ll try?” Laura asked.

Marta looked at Narl, but his expression didn’t change. She sighed. “I…I don’t know. I—it’s been a—a long time. For me. And I never—I haven’t found—”

“It’s okay,” Laura said. “We can help you get home too.”

She reached across the table and patted Marta’s hand once.

Marta drew her hand back, startled, and barked out a short laugh. “Thank you, kiddo, but I’ve been here over twenty years,” she said. “This is my home.”

Link’s mouth fell open. “Twenty years?”

“That’s horrible!” Laura cried.

Marta stood with a loud scrape of her chair and started gathering up their dishes. “It’s very late,” she said. “We can…talk about this tomorrow. Okay?”

“But—” Laura said.

Marta looked at Narl. “Do you need a place?” she asked not in English.

“Please.”

Marta nodded once. “I’ll set up a couple rooms.” She eyed the puffer coats. “And…I’ll see what I can do about clothes.” She took a deep breath, let it out again. “Rachel’s should fit her, but him...”

“I’ll handle his clothes tomorrow,” Narl said.

Marta gave him a tight smile. “Thank you.”

She took the dishes to the kitchen. When she returned, Link and Laura sat on the edge of their seats, looking like they still had a thousand questions, and Marta had no desire to answer them yet (or at all).

“Come on,” she said. “Let’s find you two a bed.”

“We’re not tired,” Link said, yawning.

Marta smiled despite herself. “Let’s find you one anyway.”

“’Kay,” Laura said. She nudged her brother, and they stood on unsteady feet and followed Marta upstairs.

The Battered Kettle was not a well-established inn. Visitors were exceptionally rare in the Gap, and when they did visit, they rarely stayed long. But Marta had a few rooms above the dining room set aside for those rare occasions, and it was to one of these she led the kids.

She left them standing in the doorway as she busied herself with turning down the covers on the large (and somewhat dusty, but that couldn’t be helped now) bed and starting a fire in the small hearth.

“It’s too late for a bath, I’m afraid,” Marta said to fill the silence. “Too dark outside. But we can see to that in the morning—and see to some new clothes too. Help you blend in.”

“Oh. Thank you,” Laura said softly. She rubbed her eyes.

Link opened his mouth and hesitated. Marta waited, sitting back on her heels in front of a cheery fire, but he slowly closed his mouth again. Whatever he wanted to ask could apparently wait until tomorrow.

Marta stood, joints creaking. “Bathroom’s a chamber pot in the corner, I’m afraid,” she said, snorting when both kids wrinkled their noses. “I’ll leave a basin of water to wash for you outside the door in the morning. Good night.”

She heard a soft, “Good night, Miss Marta,” as she closed the door behind her.

~~~

“How’d you even get them to come with you?” Marta asked Narl later, two drinks in and the kids long asleep.

Narl shrugged, leaning back in his chair. “I remembered a few phrases you used to say.”

Marta groaned. She remembered what kind of phrases she used to say. “Narl, please tell me you didn’t swear at them.”

Narl’s cheeks tinged pink. “I…might’ve?” When Marta made a slightly strangled sound, he said defensively, “Well, it worked didn’t it? They laughed, even.”

“Oh I’m sure they did,” Marta said. She and Rachel had been very...creative when they’d first arrived and realized no one understood them. If Narl remembered even a tiny portion of the stuff she used to say…

Marta thumped her forehead on the table. Narl laughed, and she rolled her head to the side to look up at him.

“So, what’s your plan, then?” she asked. Narl sobered immediately and she continued, “Because they’re not going to be able to stay here forever. Someone will come looking.”

Narl grimaced and Marta sat up.

“Someone’s already come looking, haven’t they?”

Narl made a soft sound of confirmation in the back of his throat. He took his pipe out of his pocket and fiddled with it.

Marta nodded. She’d expected as much. “Which is it—Meath or Kithage?”

“Meath.” Narl shrugged one shoulder. “The chamberlain isn’t so anxious to crown anyone after three months of power. If I had to guess.”

“Mm,” Marta said. Narl’s guesses weren’t always far off the mark.

She hesitated before her next question. “Why did you bring them here? Be honest.”

“I want you to come with us,” Narl said simply. “To Meath. See them crowned.”

Marta bristled. “No.”

“Becs—Marta, listen. They need someone,” Narl insisted. “Someone who understands what they’re going through.”

“And that someone does not need to be me,” Marta said. “How—how can you even ask me that? After everything we went through—after Rachel?”

Narl raised his hands in supplication. “I know—I know I’m asking for a lot—”

“Try impossible—”

“But they need you,” Narl said, pointing fiercely up the stairs. “I can keep them safe, but I can’t understand them, language barrier aside.” He grunted in frustration. “I can’t be what they need.”

“And what do they need?” Marta snapped.

“A guide,” Narl said. “A—A teacher. Someone who knows—”

But Marta was already shaking her head. “No. Narl, I...I can’t be that. For them. Not after—”

She stopped. Sighed. “Those kids won’t want to rule anyway. They just want to go home.”

Narl was quiet for a long moment. “I don’t think they’re going to have a choice.”

“I did,” Marta said harshly. “Why are they any different?”

“You didn’t,” Narl said, looking down at the table. “You might think you did, but you didn’t. Your choice was made for you when Rachel died.”

Marta pushed back from the table so fast her chair crashed to the floor behind her. She ignored it. “I’m going to bed.”

She left before he could say anything to stop her.

#inklingschallenge #team lewis #genre: portal fantasy #theme: food #theme: shelter #theme: clothing #story: unfinished

[sparrowsworkshop]

"Over the Edge" by OneWingedSparrow; Prologue: Is There Anyone? Oh, it Has Begun....

Next Chapter (coming soon) >> @inklings-challenge This was written for the Inklings Challenge 2023! This is but the prologue; more is to come. (I hope it was okay to tag all the themes in my story, though this prologue only touches on a few.) Main Tags: Telteas (OC) & Léloh (OC), Original Work, Original Characters, Angst with a Happy Ending, Fairytale Style, Dark Fairytale Elements, Secondary World Fantasy DEAD DOVE DO NOT EAT: Angst, Blood, Broken Bones, Loss of Limbs (in a sense), Pain, Hurt...there's a lot of hurt. Summary: This is the tale of an illustrious creature residing in a high tower—and the secret of the broken, bloodied bones scattered about the dungeon floor. Read on AO3 Reblogs are appreciated! ~ Most people in Thereal had two wings; Prince Telteas had eight, until the day befell that he should have seven, and he dropped to the courtyard writhing and wailing amidst a pool of feathers and blood. Alarmed, his brother called the guards, who alerted the king and queen, who summoned the physicians, who ran their instruments over temple and neck, over shoulder and alula, over coverts and tertials, and still could find no damning evidence that would explain the sudden snap of the bone from his back.

“What happened?” fretted his mother, tearing at her own down.

“It is true I threw a snowball,” confessed his brother, biting his nails, “but the snow was soft, and scattered before it even hit his back. I do not understand how it could have damaged the wing.”

“Indeed,” griped his father, wings pinned together, “why was it so fragile, that it loosed like a leaf?"

Upon his bed, seven lonesome wings outspread wearily around him, the prince avoided all their worried eyes, and set his face instead towards the great bay window. The snowfall outside was slow but steady, each flake growing in diameter by the second. “I do not know,” said the prince, with a distant frown. “I scarcely felt the cold from the snowball. I remember, I was only singing. And then…I felt the pain.”

His mother shook her head, and his brother nodded; and his father sighed, and drew the drapes so that the room fell dark. “Let us pray it does not happen again.”

Such a request was in vain, for again did Prince Telteas lose a wing. This time, the dreaded event occurred in the ballroom, before a crowd of screaming guests and beside the startled musicians whose fingers froze to their instruments. From the platform Telteas toppled, choking on a chorus forever unfinished.

On prickling hands and aching knees, the prince quavered alone. The red and black carpet swirled before his vision like a devilish whirlpool, craving to suck him into oblivion. He bit his lip, and drew blood. Again came the fright. Again struck the pain. A stab bit his shoulder. A lurch gripped his side. A scream without sound, deafeningly silent, lapped against the vomit refusing to escape his throat. In this endless insanity, even while kind souls came rushing to aid, Telteas’ ears were open only to the echoing voices of bitterest disdain. “What is wrong with him?” “We always knew there was something wrong with him. No one was meant to have eight wings.” “It’s unnatural. Uncanny." “He was always odd, wasn’t he?” “The only one with such a quirk.” “Perhaps now he’ll fit in with the rest of us." He staggered then, and fell on his face, unawares.

Beside his prone form collapsed a great, white wing, barbs now bright red and askew—and the noise that it made when it hit the floor sounded not unalike to a heart’s frightened beat.

When Telteas awakened, his fate was sealed—though the wax had yet to harden from the weight of the signet. Once was unlucky, but twice was unforgivable. His family feared that he had fallen ill, and knew not what to do. Seeking the best for the kingdom, and thereby assuming the worst of his dire condition, in the end, they judged that he should recover in a secluded location, removed from the populace, until the oddities ceased and he should feel well again. After all, they knew not whether his wing dropping was contagious.

Thus, so it was that Telteas found himself watching the snowfall from a far different window, the height of which would have dwarfed the stately wintergreens, had any been left standing near enough to stretch longing branches towards his outstretched fingers. The ancient tower of Queen Ellay, rooftop dark and slanted to melt and drop any wayward drifts, speared the ground like a stern scepter thrusting its will over the quiet valley. Long ago, the tower had been a private sanctuary; now, Telteas wondered if the bygone queen would approve of his criminal trespass of her peaceful estate.

He was not alone in this place; a plucky entourage of servants, physicians, guards and others willingly subjected themselves to his temporary banishment, braving the possibility that they too might catch his unknown illness. Though the somberest part of him wished himself to be abandoned in true solitude, forgotten to the ages, the prince searched the debris of his crumbling heart and saw that he indeed was grateful for their company. In the good times, when laughter twirled around the spiraling stairwells and traipsed under the kitchen chairs, when steaming mugs of tea and cider were passed around in good cheer, when stories were dealt like cards round the fire and banter was traded for sly smirks and rolling eyes, Telteas could even muster the faintest of smiles, and pretend that everything was only as it seemed.

Yet, in the bad times, when his screams rent the air with a terrible force—when the servants leapt into flight and scrambled for rags and dustpans to mop the lost blood and sweep the stray feathers, and the physicians clapped their wings and clicked their tongues and scratched their notebooks till the pencil lead snapped for lack of answers, and the guards tensed their pinions and stood at attention for want of clearer orders and by their very presence made the locked, barred, bolted doors of the tower seem all the more impregnable, all the more eternal—

Then, in his heart torn asunder, the fantasy shattered, and Telteas wept all the harder for sight of the truth.

Despite all around him, he was alone. ~ Next Chapter >> (Coming Soon)

#thank you for reading! #team tolkien #genre: secondary world #theme: shelter #theme: clothing #theme: visiting the sick #theme: visiting the imprisoned #story: incomplete #inklings challenge #inklingschallenge #original character #salt and light #over the edge #blood #angst #multichapter fic #original work