The millennial watches the weaver as she cards and compares the physics to things they know, from nylon being pulled from a high school beaker in a long string, to the stretching of spiderwebbing at Halloween, things that seem so pointless in this place. But they inform, and information is power.
“So you just….rely on gravity and the tensile strength of the fiber to sort of pull and twist it into a thread?”
The weaver eyes them skeptically. She has no idea what they are saying, but then again it’s not so difficult to read the pattern on a face like theirs—so open, so expressive, with eyes that sparkle. Ageless, sexless. Who are they? Someone not to be trifled with.
She nods.
The millennial squats down and pokes the thread as the drop spindle falls. “And it just weaves itself. Just all by itself.”
She shakes her head. Under her breath, she mutters, “How can you have a word for the thing if you can’t do it?”
“We have machines for that. They do it all.”
She stares at them in astonishment. That’s a word she knows, at least in part. A machine to card? Clean? Roll and twist? And even to weave? Do machines even grow the sheep and sheer them? Is there nothing these people do besides knowing things and building things to work?
“What sorcery is that? Machines?”
The millennial stands and lets out a cackle. Their ringed and painted hands gesture at the work on the loom. “Same, sis! Same!”
“Are you by God or Devil made? Sent by Grace or Wickedness?”
“There’s an old saying where l’m from…‘I’m bad behavior but I do it in the best way.’ You have no idea what I’m saying, but I’m pretty sure you’ll figure it out.”
“Fae,” she accuses.
The millennial winks at her, a gesture she finds concerning, and wanders on to the next mystery to be sorted out. It’s on to the apothecary, to tell him specifically how bacteria work and which things kill them. Maybe that will cut back on how many cats are murdered, and then how many rats are allowed to roam, and how many fleas allowed to spread. Then it’s on to meet with the Lord Mayor to explain how sanitation works and why throwing sewage into the street isn’t a sound plan.
They look at their Apple Watch. How many calories today? The Lord Mayor will have brandy and lots of it. Time to take a charcoal. Good thing there was a bottle of 100 for sale at the Grocery Outlet.
“I wonder if I’m going to have to breathe fire again. My eyebrows just grew back.”
Does the Millennial have any artistic skill? Whippin out the Ukulele or drawing a friendly portrait were all par for the course when I went to college—
The Millennial has a singular, most exceptional talent, and at first, the Count did not see it quite so well. He had presumed that the Millennial was simply gifted in everything and that their knowledge was so vast, that of course they had done everything at some point or another. But as time went on, and their friendship flowered, as the Count was able to see the Millennial in more intimate moments away from others, he began to understand precisely what the talent actually was.
The Millennial was a constant flux of adaptation.
There was not a setting that seemed to make them feel flustered or out of place. Dignitaries, the King, even emissaries of the church--nothing discomfited them. There was no ritual or habit they didn't immediately observe and duplicate, and when it came to artistic endeavors or crafts, always, whenever being shown something, they would nod thoughtfully, make some comment about how the process was similar to something else, give it a try, and then immediately acquire the skill. Perhaps not perfectly, but well enough to impress everyone looking on.
It was enchanting and astounding to behold.
From playing the lute, to dance steps, to weaving, it didn't matter. The Millennial seemed to pick it up with remarkable speed. The wood workers building a new stable on his estate were plagued daily by the Millennial, whose grasp of shapes and angles was legendary. With a stick and fresh soil, the Millennial would plant strange figures and till the earth in shapes and calculations, then they'd raise their head with a smile and declare whether or not something was correct and would stand the test of time.
The Smith got daily visits too, as the Millennial looked on at each strike of the hammer with unwavering focus. Occasionally, they'd get to have a try, and even the Smith was surprised at their swiftness of comprehension.
They had a writing tool they carried with them, and the Count had learned they were never to be allowed near his salon, for they would inevitably find some book or letter and scribble strange graffiti in the margins. To preserve his papers, he had acquired a bound volume of blank pages for them, and sometimes he would see them scratching the strange tool over it, but what was in it seemed to be a secret.
Once, he had asked to see, and the Millennial, for the first time in all their acquaintance, had gone ruddy in the face.
"Uhhhh. No. No. It's butt shit. You'd go blind."
As he had stared at the inscrutable emotions on that strangely ageless face, trying to parse out the words and determine what they meant, the subject of his scrutiny turned redder still.
"Look, Count Dude, it's private, magic, gobbledygook shit. You wouldn't get it. It wouldn't make any sense. I promise."
"Dost thy calculation appear within?"
"I mean yeah I write and stuff, but no, it's just stuff you wouldn't get."
As he looked on, brow furrowed, the Millennial had dunked their face almost completely into a goblet of sack wine and not come up for air for some time.
And so his curiosity grew. Weeks upon weeks were spent, waiting for the papal encyclical regarding the Millennial. There was of course, the business of his lands and estates, but all of that paled compared to the obsession growing within him to uncover the mysteries of the Millennial. They became his constant companion. He would take them everywhere, and above all his other advisors and secretaries, he valued their sometimes cryptic and incomprehensible opinion over all others. But always, his eye would catch on that book, tucked into the Millennial's pouch, or sticking out of their pack, or in their hand, with the writing tool folded up inside. A perfect, beautiful day could be unfolding, a horse ride beside the river, the Millennial could be gathering all the plants they liked to pick, butterflies and birds abounding, and yet, always his mind would snag on that worn spine and hold.
Every time he'd tried to sneak a peak, it was as if the Millennial's senses were much agrieved and would alert them instantly. They began sitting with their back to
rocks or walls. They took to hunching over the book as if to guard its contents from all sides. Once, when they were being shown archery by one of his armsmen, the Count spotted the book lying beneath the Millennial's outer tunic, discarded to the side. Unable to resist, he'd gone over to it, and beneath the pretext of properly caring for the Millennial's items, with which they were so careless, he'd attempted to catch a glimpse. As if they were a hound being petted backward, the Millennial bristled and immediately relieved him of his burdens.
He'd tried to relieve their secrets from them via wine, good humor, wagers, even deception, and it never mattered. He could not lay hands on that book.
It began to weigh heavily on his thoughts. Of course the millennial had secrets and hidden motives. Of course they did. Some day, they'd move on from their time with him, to some new landscape, some new time perhaps, skipping over reality like a pebble on the water. To even contemplate that, hurt. Each day, the pain of that thought would grow. To think that to the Millennial, he was just a moment, when to him, the Millennial had changed his life--it awoke a strange distemper in his breast.
He did not want to break the Millennial's trust. He did not want to breech the boundaries of their companionship. He did not want to be the sort of person that the Millennial often warned against in all their lengthy lectures on the way the world had come to be constructed in the future. He did not want to be that person. And yet it was painful, to know that there were some parts of this incredible person, he was never to be allowed to see.
Every year, the Count would hunt within the woods on his estate. The hunt was always scheduled for the warm and sunny times of year, and often provided a much needed distraction from matters of state and so forth. This year, the Millennial would be along, and the entire affair would be made anew, forever changed by their delightfully meddlesome presence. The Millennial, however, didn't seem very enthused.
"So you chase a fucking deer and shoot it."
"That is the way of hunting, Do not the people of thy time do thusly?"
"No dude, we’ve got farms and shit, and we don't shoot them."
This caused him some confusion. Farms? For deer? Could it be that the Millennial had absolutely no experience with hunting? This seemed impossible. Then again, the Millennial seemed to eat hardly ever. Perhaps, in their world, food was something that wasn’t as necessary.
For days, as preparations were made, the Count found his mind spinning with imaginings he could scarcely countenance. If anyone knew his thoughts, he’d be stripped of his lands and sent to the block. Anyone but the Millennial, that was. Sometimes, of an evening, they would sit beside the fire and entertain such musings, and never once did the Millennial fail to surprise and entertain him. In fact, sometimes, they even wrote down the things he asked or invented in their book...
The book he was never allowed to read. But perhaps it was in some foreign language? Some script no man yet knew?
On the first day of the hunt, the Millennial spent most of their time at the camp. On the second day, they vanished. Disappointed to his marrow, the Count felt the spleen rising. When the party returned to the tents, and found the Millennial arranging a selection of flowers and making notations in their book, he turned on his heel and went to sulk.
It was that night when he heard the strange sound. It woke him from a sound sleep--the sound of a deer bleating. Thus far, there’d been no game, and he’d been despairing of the entire trip, but this sound renewed his hopes. Rising from his slumber, he shrugged into his clothing and grabbed a bow. Creeping through the silent camp, past his sleeping guards, and into the nearby treeline, he prayed that at last, there would be something to show for it all. Clouds swept past the moon, and in one sweep, illuminated the world, raising shadows up on all sides, and the hairs on the back of his neck.
The sound of the deer came again, from just before him, banishing his doubt. Sinking low to the ground, he secreted himself in the undergrowth and drew an arrow. Placing it to the bow, he moved aside a branch, and stared out into the clearing. The sight that met his eyes was like nothing he’d ever seen before.
The Millennial was there, and on a stump, had placed their plants. As if seated at a table, stood a fine buck, daintily tasting what was offered. The Count blinked, but the scene remained before him.
In a soft voice, the Millennial murmured to the animal, and it seemed not at all concerned. What magic...science had been used? What witchcraft of demeanor or grace of comprehension had this Millennial, to so seduce a wild creature?
“You are the best boy, yes you are. Look at you. You have fuzzy antlers, yes you do. Forbidden felt. Look at those ears...” they crooned, furiously sketching in their book. “There we go...You’re so handsome! I’ve got it all right here. Great big cinnamon roll.”
So astonished and captivated was he, that the Count forgot about the arrow and bow. He forgot about the hunt. He forgot about the world. When at last the buck had finished his repast, he gave a single bob of his head, and trotted from the clearing.
The Millennial was grinning ear to ear, and the Count could scarce believe what he had witnessed. Shaking himself free of his trance, he rose to his feet and stood open-mouthed.
As if they’d always known he was there, the Millennial ticked their head his way. “Sup, Count?”
They were so glib, so completely relaxed, and for some reason, he found it maddening. Slinging the bow over his shoulder, he stomped into the meadow and thrust his hands on his hips.
“What dost thou write?”
The Millennial’s brows rose. “You wouldn’t--”
“Be this thy grimoire? Forsooth, thou hast bewitched a wild creature. Sayest how, or for thy treachery, I shall take thee to His Grace the Bishop!”
That impish face seemed to harden, and immediately, the Count regretted his admonishment, or the passion behind it. He had questioned, and broken trust, just as he had never wished to do.
“Yeah?” the Millennial challenged, standing to their full height.
“Nay. Forgive me my distemper.” He pointed the arrow at the book clasped firmly in the decorated hand. “I do chafe at the thought that thou wouldst keep secrets from me. Do not my actions recommend me to thy favor? May I not be privy?”
At once, the face cracked into a wide grin. With a laugh and a sigh, the Millennial ran a hand through their blood red hair. “Shit bro, it’s not that deep. I’m just super embarrassed.”
The last was the only word out of which he could make any sense. When this occurred, his chosen reply was to frown. At the look on his face, the Millennial at last relented. Plucking the writing tool from the book, they split the spine. With a deep gasp of breath, they turned the book to him, and squeezed tight their eyes.
The Count could feel his features tugging and deforming into a grimace as he stared.
“It’s fugly, yeah?”
The Count swallowed and tried not to laugh, for as enchanting as the Millennial had always been to him, the revelation that they were in fact terrible at something, was somehow just as endearing.
“Thou art not an artist.”
“Don’t come for me like that, Count. I can’t take it.”
The Count poked the image with the tip of the arrow “Be that a unicorn and a pan?”
Is the concept of a ‘future’ anything to people in the medieval era? I mean. We talk about semi-recent depictions of the future, with like, how we used to think the future would be sleek, high tech, hovercars, cities in the sky—- and now we think the futures a cyberdystopia. I don’t know if your Millennial would ever try to convey their true origins, but would it be easily understood?
On a fine, moonless night, a knight found the Millennial outside the Chateaux walls. Word was brought to the Count, now the official wrangler of the Millennial by Royal decree. With a heavy sigh that was mostly for show, the Count descended the stairs and made his way. His retinue, he left on the hill above, and cut a path to the edge of the river, where the Millennial sat staring up into the vault of heaven.
It was so dark, the Count would not have found them, had it not been for the glow of the discarded scrying tool. When he came within several yards, strains of soft music floated on the cool air. He drew up in his tracks, and felt all his flesh rise in goose pimples. The mirror could speak! Not merely speak, but make beautiful...haunting music?
What blessed...charmed heaven did the Millennial occupy, and why in the name of that heaven, had they seen fit to come here? All these questions mingled with the pathos of the keening instruments, and left the Count dizzy. He sat himself upon the fallen tree beside a lounging Millennial and tipped his eyes up to God.
"Dost thou watch for signs?" he whispered, for fear of disturbing them.
The Millennial had an impossible voice. Somehow it could rise to pitches only cats could manage, and yet drop into the deepest, husky chuckles. "We don't have stars where I'm from."
Blood running impossibly cold, the Count did not try to hide his shudder. "None? Surely thy home is heaven, and that be the cause?"
When he glanced over at the silent form, it was to see that the Millennial's face was damp, and their gaze troubled. Suffering was for the mortal, caused by tangling in the endless nets of power in the battle twixt God and the Devil. If the Millennial could cry, then they could die, and if they could die, then they were mortal, and not from heaven born.
"Dost thou long for home?"
The Millennial closed their eyes. "Yes."
"Wilt thou return?"
"No," they breathed.
"Wherefore?" This alarmed him most grievously, for if they did not wish to return home, then perhaps their home was the other place. Perhaps they had first been traitor to heaven, fled to hell, and betrayed even the Devil, like Prometheus, to bring men fire. Perhaps they knew suffering in that way and their tears were for themself.
"Because it doesn't exist anymore."
Swallowing, the Count looked back to the heavens. An entire world...gone? How could that be? Would God allow such a thing? How little he knew. Not even enough to know what questions to ask this person beside him. He had not yet even built the courage to ask if the Millennial had possessed people here in this world, through the black mirror, before they ever visited.
"Hath it...been destroyed? Some Calamity?"
To his surprise, the Millennial's teeth flashed in the blue glow. "Damn right. Calamity is my middle fucking name."
Still confused, the Count's heart commenced to hammering in his breast. What was the Millennial saying? That they had destroyed their own home? If they could do that, then could they destroy this place also?
"Thy world...destroyed...by thee?"
They shook their head, colored deep wine in the darkness. "Unmade."
His mouth hung open, but no words emerged. To not only destroy, but cause a thing never to have existed in the first place? Surely such would be impossible. And why in the name of the Holy Spirit would anyone undertake such a thing? It spoke of a force and malevolence that he could never imagine of the Millennial, who worked in clever, small ways, and went into fits of ecstasy over butterflies.
"No sense can be made of this."
The Millennial was watching him, eyes glittering, unnaturally still as they had never been in all his friendship to them. It was as if they were waiting, breathless.
"Where do you think I came from?"
The Count could do nothing but shake his head. "This question vexes me greatly. On it, I hath passed many a moment of thought."
"What if I told you..." they chuckled again, as if thinking on some private joke. This often happened, and they never bothered to explain, because nothing of their ways could ever really be explained. "What if I told you that I'm from this world?"
"This? This world? My world?" The Count looked away, then back again in shock. If the Millennial was from this world, then how had they become so different? It must be by some pact, then? But with whom? An angel? A devil? Creatures of other construction which no human mind could conceive?
"This world...just not this time."
All reckoning ceased in his head then. For long moments he could occupy his mind with nothing more than breathing and blinking into the darkness. What could that mean? What sort of riddle...
"Imagine, you could travel to your childhood and say something to yourself. What would you say?"
"Return...to my youth?"
The Millennial nodded. "What would you tell you, I mean, if you could send one message back?"
"These thoughts are heresy," the Count warned in a whisper.
"I won't tell if you don't." The grin was there, crooked and dazzling. "What would you tell you, if you could say one thing?"
Many possibilities emerged as he took in all the details of their face. He could return to the day he'd been injured on the battlefield and warn himself. How self-serving! He could go back to the day his mother died and say goodbye, but even that was so small, for what was goodbye, if they were to meet again? With such a power, he could prevent the war altogether. He could go back to the time before his own birth and settle the dispute. He could go back even further, to the crucifixion perhaps, and witness Christ rise from the dead. He could go back to them and tell them who they were executing...but would they listen? Would God allow him to interfere?
The thought struck home at once, and with such force that the Count felt his very heart skip in its lasting rhythm.
From this world...but not this time. A world unmade...a tomorrow undone.
There were no words, but none were needed. As he looked at the eyes of the Millennial, he could see they were in communion, and that that bond was unbreakable.
"Any day now, there will be a moment, when I cant see what's coming." The Millennial lifted their chin and took in the sky with that quixotic, unfocused gaze. "When I've done so much, I've changed everything, and all the people who built what I know, may not ever exist."
"Wilt thou..." He cleared his throat, but even then his voice came forth sounding strained. "Wilt thou cease to exist?"
"I'm pretty old already, my dude. I told you...we all gotta go sometime."
"What be thy age?"
Their smile was huge, and their mirth could infect the room like a miasma. However confusing they were, they were a delight in every way.
"Just a number...besides...I'm older than I am."
"Wise," the Count corrected.
"Bold of you..."
The Count chewed his lip, and then decided that though he did not know the words properly, the Millennial was forgiving and found all things whimsical.
"Bold is my middle name."
For his courage, he won a cackle that echoed over the landscape, rose above the sound of the water, and broke apart in a tinkling of bells and a happy sigh.
"Fuck yeah," the Millennial declared, and put their fist out in mid-air. Feeling very much as if he had passed some arcane test, and was now a member of the inner circle, the Count put out his fist and accepted a tap of knuckles.
"Ehh...thou art mortal--"
"Yup."
"Hither from a time not yet come and now..." one look told him it was not so sensitive a subject at present, "which never shall."
The Millennial stretched languidly and gained their feet. "You got it."
"Thus, thou cannae return."
They nodded and retrieved their black mirror, which he now wondered about. Was it the thing that allowed the Millennial to travel? Was it some sort of Pandora's box of knowledge? Was it more or less? The Millennial was a storm of all that was complex lain bare, a devastation of simplicity, so whatever it was...it could not be magic.
"Be there a plan? Some scheme? Dost thou pass moment to moment buried in the hope of making mischief, oh Calamity? Or hath thee a purpose?"
"Shhhh. Don't tell my secrets."
They climbed back up to the road, and as he offered the Millennial a hand, he squeezed and dared to ask it.
"The mirror...thy many devices...the black altar...the golden liquid...the thing that doth produce a flame. Verily, these seemeth quite miraculous. Of a world far better than this. Why leave it?"
What he meant to ask, he could not say and rightly keep the confidence of his timeless friend, but one glance told him that the true message was clearly understood.
"Everything comes at a cost."
The party moved swiftly along the road making for the safety of the walls. As usual, the Millennial seemed not the least bit afraid, and this was even more surprising to him, now that the Count knew what he did.
"A cost, far higher than is merited?"
"To me, yes."
"Mayhaps...on account thou art a menace."
The Millennial let out a hiss of good humor. "Mayhaps my dude...Mayhaps."
There would be difficulty communicating the notion of traveling through time, but imagining other times, while somewhat heretical in the day and age, would be a concept of which humanity could and did conceive quite easily. Much proof of this exists, apart from my experience. I do believe, that had the Church not existed to silence such musings, science fiction would have propelled true science in ways nothing else could have. The imagination of mankind, allied to their curiosity, is a weapon that tears through all despotism, all control, all greed. That knowledge runs in the veins of children these days, and because of that, I am not the least bit worried for any of you. Put your mind to it...you will find a path, no matter how bleak the landscape.
The whole thing was something strange to look at. In school, the Millennial had always imagined royal feasts to be like big parties where sexy wenches giggled flirtatiously and everything looked and smelled like Thanksgiving. Like, maybe there was a rando in armor or something cool like a fountain of wine. They were sure they’d heard about one of the Henrys doing that. They looked askance at the king. He was definitely not the wine fountain dude. The Millennial pulled up the file on their device and scanned it. Nope. Seven Henrys off.
“Fuck me. I was looking forward to that shit.” They looked forlornly at the collapsible water jug clipped to their fanny pack in sorrow. This shit they were currently drinking tasted like someone mixed a pinot grigio with piss and then carbonated it only to let it go flat.
With a great sigh, the Millennial looked around, From the people eating with their dirty hands, to the naked pizzas on which they piled their servings, it was weird and there wasn’t a napkin in sight. Not to mention the fact that it smelled like Christmas had exploded in a taco stand of BO. The food was all weirdly sweet and mostly made out of things that had once had heads.
The millennial would have leaned back, but everyone was on a bench with no back, elbow to elbow like children at the fucking corn-eating contest at the county fair. The Millennial was close to the King, so that meant they didn’t have to fight elbows when they raised their left arm to drink, but then there was the Cup Dude.
The Cup Dude haunted their left shoulder like an anxious gremlin. He watched the goblet in the millennial’s hand as if afraid it was going to fall at any second and need rescuing. At first it was alright, and the Millennial imagined it was because he was just like a really good Applebee’s server or something, but it was starting to get out of control and trigger their anxiety.
“Cup Dude, my guy...do you work for food or some shit? I got this, ok?”
The entire room ground to a silence. In the weeks since their arrival, the Millennial had gone from making one lasting impression to another, until the entire community was convinced that even though they could not understand most of what this strangely garbed person said, they ought to listen. It didn’t hurt that one of the first impressions they’d made was that the King really ought to rethink castrating his moneyers and instead establishing some sort of gold standard. There may also have been some advice about STIs but that was all in confidence. This meant that when the Millennial spoke, the King listened. And consequently, so did everyone else.
“Leave him alone,” the King commanded. “he can keep his cup.”
Cup Dude slid back a couple of steps, easing the sense of imminent dread.
“King, Kingy, Kingsman...we need to talk about pronouns,” the Millennial muttered.
“Do you enjoy the food?”
The Millennial looked at their pizza covered in meat. There was meat with fruit, meat with cheese, candied meat, and something that looked like it oozed out of a crack in the skin covering the Thames. All smelled fine, and they had spent time in the kitchen that day, checking the temperatures to make sure nothing was undercooked, but did it look enjoyable?
The Millennial let out a long, high-pitched sound of doubt. “You guys don’t know about vegetables yet. I keep forgetting. I’d love a fucking head of Romaine right now. I dreamed of salad last night.”
The faces ticked in little rhythms of concern and confusion. The millennial tipped up the last of the piss-wine and smacked it down like pure lemon-scented nail polish remover. Like lightning Cup Dude was back and reached for the goblet, but the Millennial was ready. as the grubbies shot out, they switched hands.
“What the fuck, Dude? This is my cup!”
Cup Dude was confounded, so agonizingly concerned that he stumbled back and did a John Travolta right there in the hall.
The Millennial had been doing this long enough to know when they’d missed something. They twitched their head at him, but kept their eyes on the King. “Que paso?”
The King’s gaze swept from side to side as if looking for comprehension on every face but the Millennial’s.
“Why does he keep trying to take my cup. This is my cup. Mine.” They jabbed at their own chest helpfully. As if on cue, the king tipped back his own drink, finished it off like a drowning man coming up for air, and then practically tossed the heavy metal thing at the Cup Dude’s head. Watching like a hawk, the Millennial let out a gasp as he took the goblet to a bowl of water, dunked it, and then set it aside in a group of goblets all being filled and passed back out to the others when they called for more booze.
“Holy shit! Are you people trying to die?”
The Millennial shot up off their bench. The alarm caused some to startle, some to drop food. Two men with swords who stood behind the king almost drew, but this was the Millennial, and they did this sort of thing often. In fact, they were surprised so often, flitting around like a bird in shock and delight, that people presumed their hiss of chagrin was a word and some even greeted them with a cheerful “Fuck!”
Prophet or wizard, or whatever they were thought to be, they removed a small vial from their fanny pack and spilled the blue contents into the basin of water in which all the cups were rinsed. Immediately the water began to bubble and foam. Every empty cup was washed carefully by decorated hands with a fervor that rivaled baptismal priests.
“No wonder the average age of death is 35. Are you fucking kidding me? Jesus Christ on a cracker!” After they finished, they claimed a cup, and hissed a word of reproach at the servant. “Mine.”
The royal brow had gotten closer to god and stuck there. As the Millennial returned to their bench, they gave their food a sigh.
“You don’t like the food? This is my favorite,” The king said, showing off the horrible slickness that seemed to be petrified between two pie crusts as thick as book covers. With a doglike tongue, the king lapped at the thing and sucked it down.
In their heart, the Millennial vowed to never again eat jello.
“Seriously Highness Himbo, I dunno what that shit is, but I’m pretty sure you shouldn’t eat it.”
The king chuckled as he slurped down the last of the pie. The Millennial had gotten the hint that he loved to gross them out.
The king, for his part, loved that though he could not make hide nor hair of the Millennial, he somehow always knew what they meant to say. And their obvious concern, joy, hate, surprise was as much a treat as any feast. They had a kind of expressiveness to their face that put others to shame. It was delightful to watch them cringe or let out a string of graveled sounds he was sure were a hex.
“It’s eel. From the river. Delicious.”
At the mention of this, the Millennial’s face stretched into a grimace of horror. Up came the shiny black mirror. They stared into it as they often did, their face lit by the weirdly sylvan glow. Suddenly their forehead creased upon itself and the sparkling eyes narrowed.
“Oof.”
His subjects fell into a hush, for that one utterance had become the dread precedent of prophecy. As the millennials eyes roved the scrying tool, the King’s blood turned to ice.
“What?”
Suddenly the talisman was tucked away, and the Millennial dug through their pouch for one of the tiny sacks of strangely colored nuts they constantly ate. They held up their goblet for wine. The servant moved to take the cup, but the Millennial leveled them with a look of malice so acute as to peel the skin off their body.
“MY CUP, DUDE.”
In the stretching silence, the servant swallowed the curse and retreated to the wine jug, bringing it back to fill the goblet. The Millennial threw the nuts into their mouth and gulped liquid down as if to swallow the things whole.
“Is there some dire portent?” whispered Salisbury. “Do they see something? They only eat the pebbles when something bad is going to happen.”
They shared a foreboding look. The King cleared his throat delicately. “Eh...might we know your prophecy, Seer?”
The millennial looked up and stared at them. This wide, horrified gaze was the worst possible reply, for it meant that calamity was to ensue, and it would be the sort of calamity that they would likely not reveal.
“I dunno how to tell you this, but...those eels are gonna kill you.”
The King followed the black nail stabbed accusingly at the pie. Everyone let out a nervous laugh, for it was very true...King Henry loved his lampreys. It was the quickest way to his heart, a good eel pie.
Salisbury’s laugh echoed long after the others had ceased. “Don’t worry, Sire, I’m sure it’s merely because you eat them so often. Chew carefully.”
“Oh yeah, believe the dude who has a piece of meat named after him. Sure. I mean, I only increased the lifespan of you fuckers by what twenty years?” The Millennial downed the wine and tipped back to look up at the servant. “Cup Dude... refill, please and thank you?”
This time, Cup Dude understood, and filled the goblet carefully. When he received the Millennial’s grateful smile, he let out a sigh of relief.
“These things are heavy. God damn.” Out of curiosity and boredom, the millennial took out a small knife and unfolded it. While the party noise kicked back up to a dull roar, they scratched at the design of the mug. The metal was soft and strangely easy to dent. There was something about that. Something from chemistry class...
“Aw shiiiiiiit. Fuck!”
Again the pall of silence fell. without any ceremony, the Millennial handed off Their Goblet to the servant and buried their face in their hands, shocks of blood red hair stuck out as they whimpered.
“Does he weep?” Salisbury whispered.
Suddenly the Millennial’s visage lifted from their hands and searched the heavens in anguish. In a voice of somber woe that cared naught for any decorum, a wail carried out over their heads, “HOOOOOWWWW ARE YOU PEOPLE NOT DEAD? EVERYTHING IS MADE OF LEAD.”
Salisbury punctuated the pronouncement by tipping forward into the King’s confidence. “This is some spell. See it hath the sound of rhyme to it. He calls his minions.”
“Die mad, Steakums,” The Millennial spat and rose at once from the table.
Would being too miraculous not encourage ire? Will the Millennial really face no conflict? Or is your Millennial simply the wisest time traveler who knows exactly how to avoid that? I wouldn’t mind that but I am curious (with my first question).
The first time the Count took the Millennial to Mass, they vanished. They were found two days later, sitting on a fence, petting a large sow.
This was a bad sign.
The miracles continued, but never could any peer coax the Millennial into a chapel, cathedral, or any other shrine. Whispers began, for it was said that witches and demons fled from consecrated ground.
Then one day, the Count went to be blessed, and found the Millennial upon a ladder, inside the narthex, peering into the stained glass. Delighted that indeed the Seer could cross the threshold, the Count invited them down to partake in the rite.
The Millennial declined in their typical fashion, "Naw I'm good."
Did they mean that to imply they did not require blessing because of some permanent grace? The very idea was heretical, lest they be made of some other stuff than mortal. The knights muttered around him, and the Count became uneasy in his heart. The Millennial knew things, had powers, could work magic untold. To anger them could be devastating, but to anger the Church could also.
The third time the Count brought the Millennial into the chapel, there was an armed escort to prevent this songbird of a person from flitting away. but the Millennial was completely oblivious. They amused themself by examining every object within reach. A few times they lifted their black mirror, but the Count slapped it down in shock that they would be so bold as to bring such things into the house of God. Upon the third try, the Millennial let out a harried sigh and swept their hazel eyes skyward, but they did not press the issue.
The plan that time was an excellent one. The Confessor would come and they would shuffle the Millennial into his company, ensuring that God would have the opportunity to bless their undertakings. Provided of course, that they cooperate, but then again, that’s what the swords were for. And so it was that the Millennial was forced into the confessional to be absolved.
Six hours later, the priest stumbled forth with a bleary expression, weeping and praying aloud. The Millennial emerged with a sage look, nodding their cardinal red head. Upon seeing them eye to eye, the priest drew them into a feverish embrace and sobbed piteously. The Millennial patted their head indulgently with a bejeweled hand.
"You’re so baby. Let it out. It can be amazing to realize all those things were just coping mechanisms! Not traits! God i wish I could manufacture a good SNRI."
The priest stepped back, whimpered the Absolution, and swept away as if fleeing an invasion. The Millennial turned on them all with a grin made of perfect white teeth.
"Who's got two thumbs and is freshly shriven. Let's get rekt."
The knights looked at one another in mingled emotions, and shuffled on in the Millennial's wake. With the sign of the cross, the Count followed, for what could he do, but constantly be amazed and pray for forgiveness?
The rumors didn't cease, and soon the Bishop wanted to weigh in. He sent armed guards to the Chateaux and despite the Count's warnings, tried to restrain the Millennial. This did not end well. They found the Millennial on the roof, trying to domesticate the crows.
"I prithee, leave the roof!"
"Fuck you," the Millennial scowled.
Nervously, the Count leaned back inside. Two of the five soldiers had come around. One was nursing a bloody nose. The Inquisitor wore a mask of impenetrable concern.
"I told thee, thou cannae bind them. They’ll not obey. If thou wilt move them, it must be done by gentle hand."
"The Bishop summons...him? Her? It?"
The Count sighed and put his head back out. The Millennial was seated at the edge of the roof, legs dangling off. They did not seem the least bit perturbed by the height.
"Eh...dear friend... His Grace the Bishop desireth to meet thee. He hath heard the tales! He longeth for a parley!"
"Ain't my first Rodeo," they replied with a wave. “Tell the Bishop to kiss my ass.”
"The Bishop hath a lovely estate. Fine gardens...beehives. Thou cannae but approve of his horses."
The millennial snuck a look over their tyrian shoulder. "I know what you're doing. I'm not an idiot." But after a few moments, the eye peeped back again. "What kind of horses?"
Suddenly the Inquisitor was impatiently shoved him aside to put his own head out the window. He demanded the Millennial obey in a timely fashion. The Millennial stood up, dancing primly along the eave. When the foreboding speech ended, they shouted "Parkor" and tipped off the precipice.
The Count let out a yelp, but a few moments later, he spotted an unharmed purple streak racing along the rooftops of the eastern wing. When the Inquisitor finally returned to his horse, it was to find the Millennial standing beside it, holding the reigns.
"I call dibs!"
Angered and ignorant to the language of the Millennial, the Inquisitor snatched the reigns away. "Heretic!"
"Hey, you can't break dibs! That's law!" the Millennial said, but no one listened this time. So they stood their ground and refused to be moved until they were given their own horse. So one had to be borrowed from the Count, who gave it willingly, if only to see to it no one strapped the seer to the thing.
The Bishop saw to them in the great hall. He was seated on a large throne-like chair, and surrounded by Inquisitors. The Count had not seen so many priests since the coronation of the king. Old men, all of them, some shriveled and pebble-eyed, some young and ambitious. Unconcerned for it all, the Millennial stood in the center of the room, looking around as if they hadn't a single thought in their head. The Count had learned to see this as the chief sign of an oncoming storm.
"This...witch...demon...monster of the devil wrought..."
"You could just ask my name," the Millennial said with a snort. No one understood them, but when did they ever? Never seemed to matter much. They carried on just the same, and there was something very strong about that. Confident. The Count couldn’t help but smile. In his brief time as the Millennial’s protector, he had begun to piece together some of the language. He’d been good with Latin, and Greek, Italian, French. With the Millennial, it was mostly tone anyway.
"...Performeth magic and doth not enter the Houses of the Lord."
"That is false," said the Count, but it was not his time to speak, and at their glares, he fell silent.
"What sort be it? We must examine it. Be it man? Or Woman?"
"I identify as a problem," chuckled the Millennial.
That was a word everyone knew, and the very first time the Count fully understood them. He stared at the ground rather pointedly, trying his best not to laugh. Yes, the Millennial was unsettling, odd, fascinating, terrifying. They could be a supreme agent of evil, or perhaps some sort of Saint. But if that was so, why did they spend so much time cooing over fluffy animals or listening to the most confusing personal stories, only to nod stoically and pronounce “Valid.”* Whatever kingdom, or world, or hereafter the Millennial called home, must truly be so complex, that no horror or delight of this one held any mystery for them. And that...was indeed a problem.
“Take this person and have them stripped--”
“First person who touches me without consent is getting their eyeballs removed and shoved right up their ass. Don’t think I am kidding.” The Millennial crossed their arms, just as they had done the first time the Count had made their acquaintance and had the temerity to insult them. He cringed within to recall what had next transpired.
“Your Grace, I do attest that every threat lain is a true one. Perhaps tis best to leaveth that till the close.”
The Bishop grimaced. "Thou standest before this court of Inquisition, accused of--"
"Miserere!"
The room erupted in shocked cries and the hissing of a hundred whispers. The Count's head darted up. Did the Millennial just plead the benefit of the clergy? How can that be?
Amidst the sussurus, a bible was produced. The Millennial sighed, and yet again, their eyes went heavenward. If they looked to angels so often and could indeed read the bible, then perhaps... Turned to a random beautifully decorated page, the book lay open. Without any flourish, the Millennial leaned forward and began reading. Their voice lacked emotion or any semblance of investment in the action, but they read the Word of God perfectly. Every priest in the place was dumb-founded.
A conference was held, while the Millennial bobbed up and down on their toes. For a moment they glanced back at the Count, a smirk of self-satisfaction on their face.
"Latin for Dummies,” they whispered. “Best book I ever read."
When the Count blinked in ignorance, he received a wave of vexed dismissal.
Legally, the Bishop could not do anything, but since when did legality matter? The debate raged on, and the Count caught a few whispered omens here or there. Meanwhile, the Millennial would tap their fingers to their black mirror. It seemed as if the thing was showing another world, a beautiful world of strange square creatures, trees that looked like blocks of stone, and at night, vicious monsters would emerge and wander the landscape. The Millennial would take command of some person, through possession, and cause them to fight off the demons, passing them through to another peaceful day of toil. What terrible magic was this? And how many worlds existed to be observed? The Count steadied himself, because he had known as soon as he met the Millennial, that this would be the sort of friendship that would change his life. He simply could never have predicted how. To know there were other worlds...
“We desire demonstration be made of these miracles!” The Millennial dropped their mirror with a frown. “For if they be of God, they must be observed and put to the test.”
“Eat a giant dick! I never said I do miracles. You asshats did.”
The men looked at each other, trying to pick apart the sentence. The Count had spent enough time with the Millennial to be considered perhaps the only person qualified to translate. As a body, their gazes fell on him.
He stepped forward, into the somber task. “They say their works be done for no other purpose but good, yet they hath never called these acts miracles.”
This was an important thing to say, for it was blasphemy to claim the power of God, even when one obviously used it. The power came from the divine, not the man wielding it.
The Bishop made a face, but amended his words. “We want to see these good works.”
Suddenly, the Millennial was chuckling and digging through their stomach bag, looking for something. Strange objects came out and were set upon the table. All were either brightly colored or expertly carved. At long last a gleaming egg of vivid rose was pulled out. Having swept the objects back into the bag, the Millennial slid out from behind the table and skipping merrily around their guards, approached the Bishop. It seemed the tribunal had finally learned that it was impossible to restrain anyone who refused their authority, and so not a soul moved to stop the advance.
The Millennial halted, and with a grand flourish, squeezed the egg. It split in half with a loud and satisfying pop. Holding the shell as if making some sort of terrible custard, the Millennial released whatever was within. Before their very eyes, a golden sparkling fluid seemed to ooze forth and catch the candlelight. The Millennial captured it and discarding the shell, sculpted and flattened the beautiful yolk again and again. Never did it stick, nor refuse to be pulled free. It held finger marks, but with a jiggle, returned to its original smooth form.
“Gold?” Someone whispered in awe.
“Brought forth from bewitched egg!” said another.
“This alchemy cannot be of God!” rose above the muttering.
“God made everything right?” The Millennial replied, holding the stretchy, glittering liquid gold out before the Bishop’s eyes. The men fell silent. “Well if God made everything, then he made this to, didn’t he?”
The Bishop pulled himself from avarice for the briefest of instants to flick an eye on him. Dutifully the Count did his best to translate.
“Be it gold?” The Bishop demanded. “Quicksilver?”
“I mean it’s gold-ish, right?”
The Bishop was displeased with this reply. “Only alchemists make gold, through black magic.”
“Dude…no they don’t,” the Millennial laughed. “Gold is an element. It can’t be made.”
Confused, the Count attempted to explain, but the meanings confounded everyone. It took fully two hours for the Millennial to make clear what they meant, and by the end, the entire panel of priests were either staring into space in shock, or were blinking at each other in dismay.
“Sayeth they, that like unto these other...keystones...gold be most impossible to create. For all gold that could be made, hath been made by God in the beginning. It mayest only be found. Alchemy is deceit. Thus is is that if anyone sayeth they hath created gold, it can be known at once that they are a deceiver.” The Count said in a belabored and stilted summation. “It seemeth, Your Grace, that one can know Alchemy be of Satan at once, because of this, and no magic ever need be given conscience.”
The room was a thoughtful abyss. Retrieving the egg, the Millennial returned the dulling slime back to its home and tucked it into their pouch.
They raised their right hand as if to wave and smiled “No miracles. Promise. Everything I do is honest and I can teach it to you.”
The Millennial was dismissed for the day. Against the Count’s protestations, they took the Millennial to the dungeon. It was there that some profound confusion happened, which no man was ever able to sort out. The Millennial was put into a cell, while the guards poked, prodded and tried to fathom how to remove their clothing and belongings from their person, the Millennial somehow vanished.
They reappeared the next day, sitting in the Bishop’s personal reflection garden, making friends with the bees. Much relieved to see them unaffected, the Count relished being sent out to coax them back inside.
“Worry hath been my bedfellow last eve, for thy sake!”
The Millennial regarded him with a glittering, narrow eye. “Thanks dude. But you know me. I’m a slippery fish.”
The Count watched a caterpillar wriggling in the palm of the Millennial’s hand. “How came thee to escape with so little effort? Where dost thou go?”
“How do you think I’m the one who got tapped for this gig? I’m mothafucking Macguyer.”
Ahhhh, so it was the Macguyvering that set them apart. They were the cleverest wizard of their world, and so of course they would be sent. Wise of their leaders. Very wise.
“Wilt thou always return? Or wilt thou vanish one day, forevermore?”
This gave the Millennial pause. They stared into the air for a long while, a faraway look of bittersweet contentment on their face. “No such thing as immortality, my dude. We all vanish eventually.”
“To meet in the kingdom of heaven,” the Count reminded them helpfully.
Their smile was wistful. “Sure. Sounds like a plan.”
The Bishop’s guards appeared. The moment was broken. The Millennial stood with a long sigh. “Man, I hope I get to meet the Pope. I’ve got shit to say to him.”
First, it was simple miracles like turning water to wine. All it took was emptying two tiny bottles into the large basin of water, and not only was it intoxicating, it was sweet and delicious like no wine he had ever had. The Count retrieved the bottles, and one had a strange figure on the outside, who looked like a dancing wine jug with arms and legs.
Next came healing the sick. This, the Millennial did without a single smile and with that focus that the Count had come to appreciate—the Millennial was only serious when life was in question. When presented with an ill body, they’d unfold their black altar on a windowsill, tether their mirror to it, and begin dancing their fingers over its surface, a frown of concern on their impish features. Then would come the gathering of ingredients, the mixing of the cure, and the waiting. They didn’t save everyone, but they helped everyone who was brought, and did so without a single smirk or chuckle. Success was shared and defeat weighed heavy on them. To the Count, these were not the actions of a demon.
After this was the fortunetelling and astrology. This was the most impressive thing the Count had ever seen. When asked to read the stars, the Millennial consented, but insisted that the candles be extinguished. In the pitch darkness, the night seethed with the gasps of a hundred people, as from the palm of the Millennial’s hand, a brilliant night sky erupted and splashed beams of blue light across the buttresses. It was dazzling, and even though the Millennial spoke constantly, none of it was translated, for the Count had lost his tongue.
By week’s end, the Bishop too had fallen silent. Even if he’d wanted to burn the Millennial at the stake, it had become clear that such would be not only impossible, but completely stupid. The advantages the Millennial could offer had nothing to do with the sins of men—they couldn’t make gold, they wouldn’t make weapons, they had transcribed treatments for many illnesses, and given freely of their secrets whenever it had to do with improving life. The Bishop could find no fault, and the more he listened to the Millennial, the more he understood.
He wrote a letter to the Pope and had it at once dispatched, returning the Millennial to their protector, with an invitation to visit any time.
“Your Grace! You intend to trust he will return when called?”
He gave the priest an annoyed glance. “They came the first time. Why should they not return?”
“Eh…Your Grace…could not this be some devilry? Some plan of Satan to seduce all?”
The Bishop had considered this at length. Truly he had. Long sleepless hours, thinking and praying. He’d watched every single action the Millennial had taken, and while everything about them broke the laws of the church…everything they did was somehow unimpeachable. It was a far more complex puzzle than he could solve.
No, the Millennial and the question of their position to god was a matter for the Holy Father to decide.
To be continued…
*In both in Latin and Old English, the word “Valid” meant “strong” or “well-constructed” So you see, the Millennial is hearing all the woes of those who come to them for advice, and is declaring them “Well made”
Also please be advised i am not using “Old English” diction to indicate that this takes place in any specific time or place, merely to indicate there is a difference between how the Millennial speaks, to how they do, while still being legible to you
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