How long does it take for a hundred years –
Till a hundred years have been?
How far must I go for a hundred years?
Until then I cannot be free.
For my love is caught in a fairy mound,
In a fairy mound lies she,
And I cannot enter that fairy mound,
For the door is closed to me.
How long does it take till a hundred years,
If I travel the stars with thee?
How far till I age by a hundred years,
And my love and I can be free?
For the fairies will play and will sing to her,
Will dance her around the yew tree
And a night in that mound is a hundred years,
And so I must age as she.
How long must I go for a hundred years
To pass at home by me,
And where do we go for a hundred years
If I sail the stars with thee?
For my love will be free in a hundred years
When the fairies then let her be,
And I’ll stand at that mound in a hundred years
That my true love I may see.
So let me sail for a hundred years,
For a hundred years with thee.
From Earth to the stars and then home again,
For my love is dear to me.
I’ll mourn for my friends in a hundred years,
And I’ll mourn for my family.
But let me return in a hundred years
So that she shall not mourn for me.
We sailed away for a hundred years
Saw wonders of galaxies;
And when I returned in a hundred years
Not a year had passed for me.
And I went down to the fairy mound
To wait a while for thee
And when I saw thee – oh my precious love,
How leapt my heart in me.
How long does it take for a hundred years?
How far to sail for thee?
I’ve travelled the stars and I’m home again,
And you’re home enough for me.
written for @inklings-challenge 2025. always feels a little bit like I'm cheating when I write something other than a fully fleshed out story but technically I'm pretty sure this fits the rules and October this year is a whole problem. 4500 word essay here goes.
Team: Team Tolkien - "Time Travel"... ish. Okay, that's a little bit of a stretch. Maybe thematically.
Beatitude: "Blessed are the merciful, for they will be shown mercy."
@inklings-challenge
Title: Sunny Valley Daycare
note: I wrote this all today
“I’m great with kids,” I told the woman at the desk. “Really.”
She looked at me over her glasses, and I wasn’t sure she believed.
I wasn’t sure I believed either. My only experience with kids so far had been babysitting my bratty cousins when I was fifteen and they were nine and ten. They’d given each other haircuts with the craft scissors while I was upstairs doing homework, and I’d been banned from babysitting ever again.
“Fine,” she said. “You’re hired. You can show up tomorrow at 10am and we’ll give you a little tour of the place.” Ms. Angelica had a tired, care-worn aspect, it seemed, when I had first laid eyes on her, but now she smiled warmly, and I thought I could see a sincere grandmotherly air coming through.
“Oh, one other thing.” She eyed the phone in my hand. “We have a strict no-cellphones policy. It’s for the children.”
“Of course, ma’am.” I quickly hid the thing in my purse. “Privacy concerns, I get it.”
The next morning, when I showed up, I left my phone in a wicker basket near the door of Sunny Valley Daycare, behind Ms. A’s desk.
The building was in a poorer part of town. It was part of a concrete strip, with an empty building on the left and a tax office on the right. There were shabby apartment buildings before and behind. But over the building, in bright, inviting letters in primary colors, were some whimsically tilted letters spelling out, “Sunny Valley Daycare”. Posters of smiling children and animals and cartoon insects filled the windows.
“Here’s where we have the babies,” said Ms. A, opening a door to a room with thick mats where about twenty babies under the age of two sat or waddled about from toy to toy chewing on bottles. I noted a couple of other aides there, but none of them looked at me.
“When you work in here you’ll be doing lots of diaper changes, bottles, and so on.”
She opened the next door. “Here’s the toddlers.” There was a room full of toddlers, with bright paintings on the walls and crayons and paper strewn about some tables.
At the third door she showed me a room with several dozen 3 and 4 year olds. In this final room at the end of the hall, there were large windows, streaming plentiful golden sunlight. The walls were filled with colorful educational posters, and like before, there were craft projects in progress, with painting added to the mix. There was a bright red and blue checkered mat across the floor.
“We’ll start you here,” said Ms. A.
I was delighted to start there, and felt it would be easier. At least the kids could talk.
Every day after that I got on at 10. I dropped my phone in the basket and got straight to work. We were working on the letters and numbers right now, and the boys and girls were making good strides. It was nice. Not only could the kids talk, they were eager to do so. I found out everyone’s favorite dinosaur and favorite color and favorite food pretty quickly.
Starting at 10, I was never there for the arrival time, so I never saw any of the parents or guardians, who came by between 8am and 9. My shift was over at 2, as well, and I was pretty sure that pickup was at 3. It was a very convenient shift, so convenient for me that I didn’t dare to question it for fear it would be changed.
In the same vein, although there were dozens of children, there was never anyone in the parking lot but me. I guessed the other staff parked down the street because the lot got too full when the parents came by for pickup and dropoff, but what with my late arrival and early departure, no one ever complained about my parking.
Things continued on that way for 3 or 4 weeks.
I moved from the pre-K room to the toddler’s room, and then one day finally I was put into the babies’ room. I was all nerves about it.
“I haven’t really worked with this age group before,” I admitted. “They’re a bit more… dependent. I worry I’m going to do something wrong.”
“If anything’s wrong they’ll let you know, darling,” said Ms. A. “They do tend to be a bit fussy, but they respond well to comfort.”
Sure enough, soon after I got into the room one of the babies started wailing. I looked at her and back at Ms. A. She nodded.
I picked up the baby, with a “hoof” at her weight. She was wearing a sticker labeled “Jane”. I bounced her gingerly in my arms. Gradually Jane started to quiet down. She snuggled in closer to me, sucking her thumb and starting to close her eyes.
I blinked rapidly, looking at Ms. A for approval.
She nodded in approval.
Still feeling slightly stunned and awkward, I began to sway to rock Jane, surprised it seemed she had already fallen asleep. She had a slight smile on her lips. For a moment I felt as though she weighed almost nothing at all.
Ms. A smiled and nodded. “Good,” she said. “That’s good.” She sounded suddenly older when she said it, a rich, full accent that reminded me of my great-grandparents.
“We have to be good to them, darling. You never know if this is the only love they’re going to get.”
“I was slightly confused and disturbed by her comment, but didn’t say anything. I suppose I assumed she had misspoken in some way. It was indeed possible some of these children weren’t being loved at home, and the thought was heartbreaking. I wondered what Ms. A had seen in her time.
“Our kids come from … troubled backgrounds,” she supplemented.
I was surprised, at that, since they’d all seemed quite ordinary to me, but I wouldn’t know.
After that, when I went back to the pre-K, I hugged the kids a little tighter as I was leaving. They seemed to appreciate it, I thought. They were coming along pretty well in their letters and numbers, and I felt proud of myself.
“What’s it like where you work?” my mom asked again. “I wish you had at least one picture or something.”
“I told you about the cell phone policy,” I said.
“I know,” she said. “Well, it’s a shame that they don’t even have a functional website. If they ever take some official pictures or something, be sure to let me know.”
I nodded. “Yeah.”
As it turned out, an unexpected opportunity occurred the very next day. After work I stopped by the store to pick up some milk. I reached for my phone to check it off my list. My hand came up empty in my purse. It was just at that moment I realized I’d left it at the daycare, in the phone basket.
It would have been another 30 minutes home, and I had no choice. With the milk warming in the backseat, I turned around to get my phone.
I pulled up to Sunny Valley under a gray sky. At first I thought nothing of being the only car in the lot, but then it occurred to me that it was 3pm. Wasn’t this pickup time?
I locked my car and slipped into the building. The door squeaked as I pushed it
open. I looked around. The place appeared empty.
“Ms. Angelica?” I called out. There was no answer.
Pickup time had come and gone, it seemed. Even the other aides were gone. Sunlight still came through the far windows but it felt colder than usual on the red and blue carpet. Perhaps Ms. A was in the bathroom doing some janitorial work. It didn’t matter, I was only here to get my phone. I walked around behind the desk area and found the basket with my phone in it. There it was, sure enough.
I picked it up, then a thought occurred to me.
There were no kids around right now, so surely that meant it was okay to snap a picture of the building, at least.
I pulled up my camera and tried to get the floor, with the toys and the sunny windows and the colorful mats, in the image. Strangely, the lighting seemed really bad. I examined the picture more closely. It had come out all dark except for the spots of light at the windows. Something was really badly wrong with my exposure settings, I thought.
But no time to stick around, it would be awkward if Mrs. A came out and saw me with my phone. I had a pang of half-guilt. I went out to the car and turned on the engine, then I sat in the lot and started fiddling with the image.
It wasn’t… but this couldn’t be the image I’d taken inside the daycare. Could it? The building was empty. There was nothing on Ms. A’s desk, not even a computer. There was trash all over the floor. Trash? No, that was plaster and drywall. There was a gaping hole in the ceiling. Only the windows were there all right, but there were no toys or mats or posters.
I looked up again at the building, and my heart jumped. The posters were gone. The windows were dark, I couldn’t see inside at all. On second look, they were blacked out. Where was I?
I jumped out of the car, ran up to the building and pulled on the door I had just come out of. It was locked.
This was the right building, wasn’t it? But of course it was, I was just inside. Bewildered, I stepped back to look up at the words on the building.
At first it seemed empty. The place was a derelict. Not even the tax office was open. If I hadn’t known better, it would seem like the entire strip was abandoned, probably slated for demolition.
Then I looked a little closer. There once had been letters on this building, yes. But the only trace remaining was the place where the paint underneath was a little less sun-faded, a little less flaked, leaving a dim stencil of the writing. The words were hard to make out, but I squinted until I could read what they said all the way to the end.
SUNNY VALLEY ABORTION CLINIC
On my way home, I received a text from an unknown number.
Staring, nonplussed, at the glowing portal thrown onto the wall by an old film projector—it and his film collection were his pride and joy, and thus the only things my Dad had left me in his will—my best friend and I stood in silence for a moment. Dad had been adamant about not sharing it with me. Death must change people.
“I’ve heard of wardrobe doorways and rainbow stairs in the basement. This is a new one,” I managed to say when I regained some semblance of rational and healthy thought, continuing to stare at the blue-leafed forest visible through the prismatic edges of the gateway. Given the setup, the lowest edge of the rectangle was at my knees—although that wasn’t that impressive, since I was 4’9”.
“What did that note he left you with the projector say again?”
I looked down and read it. “Explore my film collection.” I then turned to look at the title written on the reel: The Blue Forest.
“Do you think that meant go through?” she asked, breaking me from my thoughts again.
“This is Dad we’re talking about.”
“Ah. So yes, and without any preparation.”
“Precisely.”
Gwendolyn stuck her hand through, earning a wordless but nonetheless vocal protest from me. “I’m down, Katie.”
“Nope. I’m curious, but I’m not Dad. We are taking vacation time, packing bags, and being responsible adults.”
There was peace with the woodfolk in those days. In theory, at least. But I never expected a working bloke like me would come across them on an ordinary job in the city.
The appointment was in a small, tidy townhouse. Half a dozen or so steps leading up to a decently preserved older building. Young professional couple and a flatmate, they’d said. I rapped the big brass doorknocker a couple of times, and the wife was the one who answered. She opened the door expectantly, but her face – well, I wouldn’t say it fell, but she did register some surprise.
“Miss Millicent’s Adaptive Kitchens and Joinery?” she asked tentatively.
A knife still seared through my chest whenever I heard that name.
“That’s me,” I said, pinching a smile that was professional enough.
“You don’t look like Miss Millicent,” she said in amusement.
I’d have to change the company name one day, but I couldn’t bring myself to do it yet. She’d built this business, our reputation, with her big heart and endless compassion. Wheelchair-accessible layouts, adjustable height benchtops, strategically placed grab bars, that was the specialty she’d gravitated us towards. I was just the hands and feet.
“My wife,” was all I could say in answer.
The young woman introduced herself – Amber was her name – and invited me in. She was tall and willowy, and I couldn’t quite place her ethnicity. Didn’t seem right to ask, but her long hair was bound up out of sight in an elaborate style involving scarves. Her skin was a rich colour, nowhere near ebony, not quite olive; I’d almost call it … well, yes, amber. I was almost embarrassed not to be able to think of a better word. A guy in my business has to know his colour palettes.
She walked down the short hall, moving with such fluid grace that a man could weep from the beauty of it. At least, in an earlier time, I might have thought so. But in those days, I felt nothing, and saw nothing, except the job in front of me.
It was my first job back, the first time without my Millie. I’d been hanging back in the office mostly, phoning contractors, occasionally messing around in the workshop. My sister had covered the client visits for me for a while, but she had her own life to get back to. And besides, she fussed.
I was fine. It was high time I was fine.
“My husband’s out with the dogs,” Amber was saying over her shoulder. Her voice was rich and musical. “He takes them down to the river; he’ll be gone all afternoon. But Silas should be home any minute.”
Silas, presumably, was the flatmate, the one with adaptive needs.
Amber led me to the kitchen, and I could immediately see that it needed a remodel. It reeked of the late ’90s Tuscan phase: arched raised-panel cabinet fronts in oak. I’d replaced a thousand of them. They’d been shoddily installed, too — or maybe it was just age and wear that had them hanging all wonky on their hinges.
“Right, yes, we can definitely do something here,” I said at once. “We’ll get you some nice new cabinets, for a start. MDF with thermowrap or lacquer, even acrylic-fronted, if you want a really sleek look.”
“Oh, I could never throw away something so beautiful,” said Amber, and she actually went up to the end cabinet and ran her hand down its grain. You could almost say she caressed it, as if it were a living thing, connected to her. The affection in her fingertips was surreal for me to watch — that someone could touch something like that and feel so deeply. I felt only numb detachment from everything around me.
Amber smiled at the oak with beautiful, sad eyes. “Something that has sacrificed so much should never be wasted.”
Well, to each his own. Whatever. I had a job to do. I looked over the cabinet doors, and there was nothing actually wrong with them. If she was really determined, they could be restored. We’d replace the cabinet carcases behind them, and rehang the fronts with better hinges.
The old linoleum floor was in a shocking state. I’d never seen anything like it. Not only was it peeling at the edges, it seemed to be badly scuffed all over, to the extent that there were little wedge-shaped gouges — uniform, sometimes in pairs — churning it up. “Gee, what kind of dog you got, a goat?” I asked. I could have sworn I heard a tiny giggle behind and above me, and automatically looked, but there was nothing there but a light shade on the wall. Amber looked sternly up at it.
“Could you recommend the most hard-wearing flooring option?” she asked me.
“Tile?” I suggested. Amber looked dubious. “You won’t get concrete up here,” I said, “not in an old building like this. What about a compressed bamboo planks? It’s tough as nails. Though with all that oak cabinetry, it might look … a bit much.”
“No, that sounds perfect, I love it,” she said warmly.
“Oh, although … it is another plant. Is that…?” If she was so cut up about the thought of those poor oak trees.
“Bamboo is a grass,” she said, as if that settled the matter.
I was halfway through measuring the place up before I thought to ask her anything about herself, and their lifestyle here. Millie had always done that part, got people chatting while I did the legwork. It wasn’t just pleasantries: that was how you figured out a client’s priorities, what they needed from the space.
“So … uh … where do you work?” I began.
“At the Department of Conservation,” she replied. Of course she did. I was getting the size of her. I was trying not to think the words crazy plant lady, but, well, there were a lot of plants in this place. And I don’t just mean a peace lily or two: I mean full-on potted trees, some of them, and more out in the balcony. Soothing, in a way, if you liked that sort of thing.
“Alfred’s a lawyer,” she went on.
“And Silas?” I was feeling curious about him. No one had said anything yet about what sort of adaptive needs he had.
“If the Lord wills, he’ll find a position soon,” said Amber.
Next thing to talk about was the oven. Amber was keen to exchange their all-gas model for something else — anything else. I showed her some induction ovens that I could get in for a decent price. There was a line of attractive European range-style ovens, a little more pricey, but excellent quality. Clients who were after that rusticated country look usually went nuts for them. To my surprise, she acquiesced quickly to whatever I recommended, and I hoped I hadn’t pushed it on her. She wasn’t much bothered about the efficiency or cooking experience; all she cared about was that they wouldn’t have an open flame. She seemed genuinely frightened about that.
We heard the front door open, and Amber perked up happily. “That will be Silas.”
He turned out to be an oddly-statured man with dense curly hair, who shuffled in with two walking sticks. Now we were getting to it. The reason they’d hired us.
I couldn’t immediately tell what sort of condition he had. If I’d had to guess, I would’ve said some kind of dwarfism? Maybe. Again, I didn’t want to pry. He was very short, anyway, and slight above the waist, but there was something odd about the shape of his hips. Perhaps that was the reason for his mobility issues. He looked tired, and took small steps, as though his feet were a struggle, too.
“Nice to meet you, Silas,” I said, going over to shake his hand, forgetting about his sticks. He had to transfer the right one to his left hand, and I felt like an idiot. So much for professional.
“So, what can we … do for you?” I asked awkwardly. Millie had been so good at stuff like this. How to ask the questions you Didn’t Ask, but had to. The ache of missing her gripped me again. Hers had been a noble cause, and I’d always figured, because I was doing it with her, that I had a share in her pure-hearted motive. But I was a sham. All I’d ever seen was the puzzle — how to turn the information she lovingly extracted into a solution, actionable steps.
Silas looked at Amber, and she looked back at him, as if they were both expecting the other to speak. Amber eventually did.
“It’s just the height difference, really,” she said. “My husband is tall, too. We were hoping you could help us find a way to make the kitchen work for all of us, together.”
“Oh.” Was that all? “Yeah, we can do that! Let me show you…” I pulled up some images on my tablet of built in step-stools that folded discreetly away, right into the cabinetry. Understandable that the guy wouldn’t want to have to step on plastic kiddie stools all the time. There were also platforms you could get built into the toe-kick under the lower cupboards. We sold a lot of those to families with kids, but I didn’t say that. Silas seemed doubtful they would be high enough, but, eyeing him up, it seemed okay to me. If anything, I would have been more worried that the first type, the fold-out type, might have been tricky for someone unsteady on his feet, but he and Amber just looked at each other and nodded, and said they’d go with those, thanks.
And with that, Silas excused himself and shuffled out. He’d barely said a word. Amber and I talked colour swatches and benchtops, and that was that. The light shade on the wall flickered violently at me when I walked past.
“D’you wanna think about replacing that, too?” I asked. “I used to be a lighting guy, once upon a time.”
“Oh, no,” said Amber. “It’s just a little temperamental. Wouldn’t have it any other way.” There was another little tinkling titter from somewhere. “May I ask,” she said, as we got to the front door, “will we ever get to meet Miss Millicent?”
My stomach clenched itself like a screwed-up sheet of paper. “Why d’you ask?”
“Only that the person who recommended you sang her praises.” My fist and teeth clenched to match. I was such a poor substitute. “She sounded like an incredible person to meet.”
“She was.”
The predictable look of understanding crossed Amber’s face. “I see. I’m sorry.” She looked back into the house, and turned back to me as if she wanted to say something further, but I was done. I said a curt farewell.
I enjoyed working on their little project, though. Till now, I’d been working on things only in snatches here and there; I hadn’t been able to focus on much of anything. It was satisfying to see something through from beginning to end. I worked up the design, integrating the foldaway stools seamlessly into the lower cabinetry. It took a bit of tweaking to make space for them without messing around with the oak doors that Amber was so fond of, but I made it work. Quite neatly, if I did say so myself. Each one had two steps, and I thought of Silas, and his difficult gait. I hoped he’d be okay up there.
For all that, the work absolutely knackered me. It used to be, when I got tired of too much desk work, I’d pop into the workshop and do something with my hands for a while. There, the creative process was so visceral: the whirr of the tools, the feel of dust on my hands. Now the dust was only dust.
Amber visited me once in the showroom with her husband. Alfred was a soulful looking chap, tall and slim, with a long, regal nose and cheekbones for days. Too bad he’d chosen to top off these natural features with a weird slouchy hat pulled low over his ears. Not that it was my job to care about anyone’s fashion sense, but it wasn’t even cold today. In the bright whites and crisp office greys, it struck me that they looked completely out of place, the pair of them. Too earthy, somehow. I hadn’t noticed in their own home. A perfect object lesson in colour palettes, if I’d happened to have anyone around to tell.
“I’ll send Silas next time,” said Amber, and I didn’t know why she mentioned it. “I think you two would have a lot in common.” Alfred nudged her out before she could say any more.
When the first of the stools had been made, I called them in to have a look. Amber and Silas came, and we chatted a bit. Or she and I did, mostly. Silas seemed more subdued than ever out in the world. Though I don’t know why I phrased it like that in my head. It was his world, as much as anyone’s, wasn’t it? At one point, I ducked out to get a quote I’d left in the photocopier, and when I came back I caught a snatch of Amber’s gentle voice saying, “Don’t you think Brooke would have wanted—?” before she saw me and stopped short. Silas was wearing a tortured expression. Well, that explained one mystery, at least.
We went out the back to the workshop, and as we walked, I couldn’t help stealing a glance at his small hand, clutching his stick. There was indeed an equally small ring on it. Widowers’ club it was. A first for me. I slapped the professional smile firmly in place.
They seemed pleased with the joinery. The engineering of the stool was really quite fun, the way it folded into a flat, vertical panel and hinged itself almost invisibly into the cabinetry for storage. But when I asked Silas if he wanted to give it a try, he just looked at the ground. The moment stretched out uncomfortably. Clearly, he didn’t want to be matchmade for friends any more than I did. Fine. It was just a stool.
I understood, though. Everyone always tried to help. Like my sister, bugging me to hang out with my friends more. Trouble was, it was becoming alarmingly clear to me that I didn’t particularly have any. We’d had our friends, really mostly Millie’s friends, with assorted husbands tagging along. And all they ever wanted to talk about was how much they missed her, too.
When the time came to demo the old kitchen, I came with the men first thing on Monday morning to check in with the clients. Amber seemed nervous — whether because of all the people in the house, or because they were touching her precious oak doors. She said they’d put the dogs in the bedroom, to be out from underfoot, and I could definitely hear noises of some kind coming from behind one of the doors. Alfred put his arm around Amber, and ducked his head politely at the workmen when they passed noisily by. Tall person’s habit.
Silas also seemed strangely pensive, observing the process quietly from a small wooden stool at the far end of the room, which allowed his legs to hang in what looked a strange angle, but must have been comfortable for him.
I plonked myself on a chair next to him. The men didn’t really need me. I’d wanted to come, if I was honest. “Well, this is it,” I said. “The start of the chaos.” Silas merely twitched one of his bushy brows. I didn’t know if I was terrible at small talk, or if he was terrible at returning it. Or maybe I’d never been any good, and Millie had managed it for both of us.
But I couldn’t just leave it at that, so I ploughed ahead, like wading through molasses. A big treacly puddle of awkward. “Whatcha got on for the next couple of weeks, then?”
Silas took a deep breath. “I’ve been offered a job with the city council. I start next week.”
“Oh, great,” I said. “Good for you.” Getting back into it wasn’t easy. I should know — and I didn’t have the added challenge of navigating a disability. A silence passed in which I mentally tried out half a dozen topics of conversation, each more cringe-worthy than the last. “You guys sure you don’t want to go and stay with friends?” I finally asked. “It’ll be a long couple of weeks of living off two-minute noodles.”
“Thank you, but we prefer to stay here,” said Silas. I followed his anxious gaze to Alfred and Amber, who were still standing with their arms around their respective shoulder and waist. They reminded me of characters from some movie where bailiffs or something were coming in and stripping away their stuff, and all they had in the world to cling to was each other.
“Where do you know those two from?” I asked suddenly. I was winning all the prizes for conversational tact today, but I was curious. I couldn’t quite figure them out, as a group.
“We’ve known each other since we were young,” he said. “They were kind enough to suggest I join them here in the city after … after the Good Lord took my wife.”
The very catch in his voice felt so familiar to me, and I either wanted to bolt out the door and run away from this conversation, or break down in gratitude at his feet for bringing it up. And all the while, Amber was leaning trustingly into Alfred’s shoulder, right in front of us, and the anguish and the longing welled up so forcefully inside me that I thought I was going to be sick.
“How do you stand it?” I said, eking the words out in a whisper. “Living next to that, every day? Why would you…?”
Silas folded his hands and looked down at them. “Some days, I wonder if it’s more than I can bear,” he admitted. “But they have a way of … you’d understand, if you stayed here for any length of time. I thought my sorrow would be doubled, but somehow, I feel that it has been halved.”
It was taking all my willpower to hold myself together. Could that be possible? Could a heart ever heal from such a hurt? Something about this place almost made me believe him. That was what everyone loved to tell me about grief, constantly: that it never goes away, but it does lessen, in time. Even if it was only true for someone else, I was glad. To think that the net bulk of grief in the world was being eased somewhere, for someone … that was something.
The men started heading out to the van for a tea break. I lagged behind and tried to think of some response — something professional — anything even remotely coherent … and I looked at Silas, sitting in his wise pose … Alfred, in another one of his unnecessary hats … Amber, her braids thick and brown and almost … twiggy…
And right then, I knew. I knew before my brain had even formed it into words for me. I stood and stared at the three of them, and wondered how I could have ever missed it.
At that moment, the bedroom door burst open and from inside scampered a small dragon, about the size of a corgi, shimmering silkily in forest green scales. Everyone froze. They were all looking at me, but I couldn’t have taken my eyes off that dragon if you’d paid me. I watched in stunned disbelief as the creature bounded around the room, giving my shoes a curious flicker of its tongue as it passed. Finally, it leapt lightly and playfully up onto Alfred’s shoulders, and twitched the cap off his head, uncovering his pointed ears…
I just staggered right out of there like a moron.
For a while, I drove around in shock. When I got back to the workshop, I barked everyone away from the oak panels and worked on them myself, sanding and oiling and buffing to a shine, leaning my half-asleep muscles forcefully into every stroke. Maybe I hoped that would stop my heart from thrumming in my throat as I let the truth of it sink in. They were just lucky I didn’t sand those doors away to nothing.
Dryad. The very word felt impossible. Wood-elf. Here, of all places. I’d never believed half of what they said about the woodfolk. Of course, I knew they were out there, somewhere. You didn’t need a peace treaty with people who didn’t exist. As for Silas, it was becoming painfully obvious what had made all those scuff marks in the lino…
I got through half a dozen panels that first day, start to finish, before somehow getting myself home and falling into bed with aching arms.
Next morning, I rapped sharply on the townhouse door an hour before the workmen were due. I had to know. Amber answered, looking hugely relieved to see me.
“Come in, please,” she said.
They were all there, even the dragon, Alfred’s ears drooping humbly. I paced in agitation. I still hadn’t figured out what to say.
“Why?” I said at last. “Why this charade — what’s the point? Are you … plotting something? Working against us, for some reason?”
“Of course not,” said Amber, glancing with fearful eyes at her husband.
“We’re just trying to live our lives in peace,” said Silas. He was standing with his sticks, in his humanoid feet, ready for the day’s intruders. What was it, some kind of stilts? My whole body shook when I thought of what that must be like to walk in, what it must be doing to his joints. Why would anyone live like that of their own choice?
“But … but the Pax,” I said, running an agitated hand through my hair. “We passed it, and it’s supposed to be … you’re supposed to be free!” It had all seemed so far away from me when it made the headlines. I’d read it, felt good about the human race and moved on.
“It’s not that simple,” said Alfred quietly. “Laws can’t change men’s hearts. I wish they could.”
“We’re each of us in a position to do some good for our people,” said Amber. “Can you understand?”
When they put it like that, of course I could, but I still felt worked up about it, somehow. My pacing was interrupted by the dragon weaving around my feet.
“Isolde,” chided Amber, and the beast bowed her head. They’d pretended she was a dog, but she was really more like a scaly cat, purring warmly against my leg.
“How many of these you got?”
“Just the one,” said Alfred. “And Pitcrew, but he’s a real dog.”
Passing over what on earth kind of a name that was… “I thought you were afraid of fire?” I said to Amber.
“She’s lost her spark,” she said. “I couldn’t leave her behind.”
Her gooey heart was going to get her into trouble some day. I stood there, rubbing my chin, trying to take it all in. My eyes were drawn to that bloomin’ flickering light again. “Just what is going on with that?” I demanded.
The housemates looked at each other and shrugged. “It’s all right,” Amber called to the light. “You can come out.”
Out of the shade tumbled three, four, five shining, giggling fairies. They bobbed and flitted prettily through the air. It took my breath away, I don’t mind saying.
“You – keep them all crammed in that thing?” I sputtered. “Isn’t that cruelty to … something?”
“No, they love it,” said Alfred. “It’s in their nature to glow things up, you know. They just bask in their own light in there.”
One of them flew curiously up to me, and I almost swatted her away like a moth. It was just instinct, but even the close shave was horrifying, like when you accidentally step on a butterfly. “I gotta go,” I said, backing away.
“Please,” said Amber, “don’t go. Or … would you come for dinner later, and we can talk?”
“How can I come for dinner, you haven’t got a kitchen!” I fumed. Isolde was still nosing around me. “Now get her out of here, before the men show up.” I extracted my feet from her carefully and strode to the door, sending fairies scuttling out of my way. “And, for goodness’ sake,” I said to Silas, “don’t get yourself up like that just for my benefit. Be comfortable in your own home, for crying out loud.”
Of course, he couldn’t do anything of the sort over the next fortnight. There were always two or three workmen in the house. Not that I went back any more than I could help. I knew I was proving their own point, reacting like that, and there was no excuse for it. I just poured all my energies into the oaken doors.
I had to pop in on the Thursday, to sign off on the floor install. Silas found a moment to speak to me alone, which I guess shouldn’t have surprised me. “Amber thinks you’re upset … by our duplicity.”
One of the workmen bumped the fairies’ light shade, and I winced. “Careful with that!” The guy shrugged and went about his work. “I’m not upset,” I said to Silas. “It’s just…”
“Unnerving?” he supplied. He was smiling. “I think the Lord brought you to us. I have prayed for a long time that He would send us a friend here.” He seemed really earnest about it, too, poor fool.
“I’m no good to you,” I said. “I’m not a crusader or a highfalutin lawyer. I’m just a kitchen guy.”
“I never said I prayed for someone who would do anything for us,” he said.
Back home that night, in my empty house, eating fish and chips straight out of the paper with our old wedding photos looking down on me from the walls — even I had to admit a dinner out with company wouldn’t be the worst thing.
The lower cabinetry was finished by Friday, complete with the nifty stools, and also some smoothly operating concealed drawers within the cupboards that I’d thrown into the design for good measure. Everyone had drawers these days, and there was no need to miss out just because of an attachment to the old doors. I’d transformed another cupboard into a pull-out bin. The team reported that one or other of the residents was always off with the dogs somewhere, and I was relieved to hear it.
After the weekend, it was the benchtop, then the upper cabinets, set a little lower than they had been originally so Silas could reach them. Amber would fill the extra space above with pot plants, no doubt. At last, the door fronts went back on, perfectly straight and gleaming with all that elbow grease I’d given them. And it did look a bit intense with the bamboo floor, but it suited this household. Of course it did. Finally, on Friday of the second week, we took delivery of the magnificent range.
“It’s perfect,” said Amber, at the final sign off. “Thank you. And thank you for the beautiful job you did on the doors.”
“That’s … wait, how did you know?”
“One of your workmen outed you,” said Alfred, as the last couple of men cleared out with their tools. “Guy with the ears.” He lowered his voice. “And that’s coming from me.”
I had to give him a double-take. They were both grinning. Before I knew it, we were all laughing, laughing like we hadn’t a care in the world.
“There’s, um” — I cleared my throat — “something else. Something I’ve been working on. No charge.” I looked sideways to check the men really were gone. “Could I bring it by? Maybe tomorrow?”
“Of course.”
On Saturday afternoon, I hefted an enormous box carefully up the front steps, and with difficulty hit the old knocker again. Alfred and Amber answered.
“I told you I worked in lighting once,” I said. “I had an idea for something that might just suit you.”
I let them open it up. There were five lightshades, all opalescent glass. Different shapes and sizes, I’d grabbed anything with a floral or leafy sort of shape — they weren’t hard to source, Art Nouveau was making a mini-comeback at the moment. But the real trick was that I’d got one of my old contacts, a local glassblower, to make something like a bulb to go inside each one, but open at the side, with a flat bottom that could act as a little ledge, say, if a tiny body wanted to sit in it. It had led to some funny questions, let me tell you. I ended up saying it was for an art installation. I’d hung all five at various heights from a beam — bamboo — so they made a sort of chandelier.
“It’s beautiful!” said Amber.
“Magnificent,” said Alfred.
“You have an artistic eye.”
I looked around, and saw that Silas had joined us, in full faun. He wore a little linen tunic, and stood quite steadily on his own two feet — hooves, I should say — no sticks required. He was also a good few inches shorter than I was used to. I didn’t know what to say, except that I was so happy to see him walking free and unhobbled.
“Nice to meet you at last,” I said, holding out my hand. He shook it with a grin.
I’d brought my drill, so Alfred and I hung the lights up in the kitchen right away. There was no wiring to worry about. “Just leave them to it,” he whispered to me as I looked uncertainly from my ladder to the old shade. “Let them find their own way in.”
“Now, you must stay for dinner,” said Amber, and sent me to rest easy on the sofa, where Isolde quickly pinned me in place by curling up next to me with her head on my lap. Silas trotted around getting plates and things from the cupboards, clip-clopping delicately on the hard floor. I … could honestly say I’d never had a friend who trotted before. He hopped up and down the fold-out stools nimbly and with great delight. He was right: they were the perfect height, now that I saw him as he was.
“I’m looking forward to seeing that oven get put through its paces,” I said from my comfy spot.
“Well, to be honest,” said Amber, “we don’t do a lot of cooking.”
“What?”
“We eat a lot of nuts, berries, that sort of thing,” she said, reaching for one of the potted trees, which obligingly grew an apple right into her hand.
“Then what the heck have we been doing all this for?” I asked, incensed.
Amber shrugged. “For the charade, mostly. We need to be able to entertain.”
Before I could say something truly indignant, Silas interrupted. “Don’t believe a word of it,” he said. “Alfred loves a nice piece of venison. And my people cook wonderful feasts. But usually in earth ovens: I’ve no idea how to use that contraption.”
I wasn’t sure how much I believed him, given that he was currently serving himself up from a little sack of hay. “I’ll teach you,” I said firmly. “You’re not letting a beautiful machine like that go to waste, after all the trouble I took to get it in for you.”
Amber was now pouring glasses of a rich red wine from a little oak cask Alfred had brought out. “You have a good heart.”
I muttered gruffly that I didn’t know about that.
“Of course you do. What about that?” She eyed the light fitting, where three of the fairies had been cautiously exploring their new perches while nobody was looking. Two of them had really got the idea, and were glowing away with abandon, while the third was still flickering cautiously. “You saw a need, and you met it. You didn’t have to do that.”
“Leave him alone,” said Alfred, swatting her playfully with a tea towel. I did feel a pang then for my Millie, for the simple joy of having someone to share those little moments. Silas had marked it too, I knew. Mostly, I just knew how much she would have loved these people, and I wished I could share them with her, and her with them.
Amber whistled in the direction of the bedroom. “Pitcrew! Come and meet our guest.”
The final member of the family was a dog. How can I describe this dog to you? I can never remember, when he is not in front of me, what colour he is. I swear I have pictured him in my mind every colour under the sun, at one time or another, or all at once. But of course, that’s ridiculous. He is probably just a regular old brown, but that doesn’t seem special enough for him.
He came running in, a little bell on his collar tinkling merrily. When I heard that sound — I know this sounds absurd — it seemed the first real sound I had heard in a long time. He leapt onto my lap and nosed my face eagerly while I scruffed him around the neck. I lingered on the feeling of his fur, smooth and rough, smooth and rough, as my fingers moved with and against the grain, and with every scritch and scratch of his buttery soft ears, I felt more a part of this world, the world of the living, than I’d ever thought I would again. And I thought, maybe, that I understood what Silas had meant about a sorrow being halved.
Note: Petitcrieu, or Pticru, was a fairy dog from Arthurian legend, indescribably beautiful and multicoloured, who had a golden bell around his neck that halved the sorrows of anyone who heard it.
Fiona had been called a “problem child” before. A “nuisance” by less charitable tongues; a “difficult girl” by more charitable ones. To hear her mother speak, setting Fiona on the beaches under the cliffs of Dover would be the best way to avoid invasion, as surely not even the nazis would wish to have to deal with her if they could avoid it.
But Fiona's mother, though famous in her own microcosme of London society, was not in charge of the defense politics of Great Britain in this winter of 1940, and so when it was decided the children of London were to be sent away, it was to the countryside, and not the beaches, that Fiona was sent.
She arrived by the last train of the day in Lambford, a small village that was home to a hundred farmers and their families, if one counted the hills and valleys around the village as part of it; it was also home, under the same logic, to a baronnet's family, the Boones of Lambford, who lived in Ravenhurst House, half an hour by car from the station of Lambford. Those Boones of Lambford were the ones who would keep her, her mother had said, not by virtue of having many free rooms, an argument one would surely find sensible in that situation, but by virtue of being related to her by blood. Boone was, indeed and as a matter of fact, Fiona's last name.
She arrived in Lambford, as it has been mentionned, by the last train of the day. There she stood, for a good half hour, under the pouring rain, on a deserted platform, in her burgundy coat and matching hat, with a small suitcase in her hand – it contained a spongebag, her teddy bear from when she was three, although she'd told her mother not to pack it, and a couple of changes of clothes. Her grandmother, the old Lady Boone, had told her mother that there was plenty of clothes and toys at Ravenhurst House, and the little girl needn't be loaded like a packmule.
Of course, all that was all fine and dandy, but of very little use to Fiona now that she was drenched and alone at the station.
Finally, as the sun was setting, a horse-drawn cart came into view. It was led by a pile of clothes, at the center of which probably lay a person, although that person was not visible at all beneath the fabric.
The pile of clothes grunted towards Fiona:
“'you the girl I have to bring to Ravenhurst House?”
By that point, Fiona, who was twelve, and a very impatient child, had decided she would take the first hand out of the station, whoever it belonged to, and she jumped in the cart with a resounding “yes!”, without much care to make sure the pile of clothes had actually been sent by her grandmother.
The pile of clothes deployed an umbrella, a very futile effort considering Fiona was already soaked, and clicked its tongue at the horse, making it turn around and lead them back from whence the cart had come.
“You prob'ly wonder what Ravenhurst House looks like.” the pile of clothes said.
“Not really.” Fiona said.
She didn't care a notch what the house looked like or whether she would get along with her grandmother. She hated everything and everyone at the moment, although she reserved the right to change her mind later, when she would be dry and fed.
“Well, that's the monstrous thing in the distance.” the pile of clothes went on, pointing to a dark silhouette on the horizon. “Built in the middle ages, will ya believe that?”
“I don't see how it could be hard to believe it.” Fiona shrugged.
“Aye, I guess.” the pile of clothes shrugged back.
The rest of the journey happened in complete silence, which Fiona quite liked. Then, at the door of Ravenhurst House, she was greeted by the elderly Lady Boone, her paternal grandmother, who thanked the pile of clothes (a Mr Boggis) for bringing Fiona back from the station.
“Is Mr Boggis your servant?” Fiona asked as she followed her grandmother in. “Mum said you had servants and lived the castle life.”
“How candid it sounds when it comes out of a child's mouth.” Lady Boone chuckled. “This house isn't what it used to be. There's Mr Boggis, the gardener, and Mrs Highweaver, the housekeeper and cook. I guess you could call them my servants.”
“As opposed to what?” Fiona asked.
Lady Boone had a nostalgic smile, and deployed her arms to embrace the whole of the house.
“As opposed to the fifteen servants – not counting the gardeners team – that staffed this house when I first arrived there, I suppose.”
“Was it when you married my grandfather?” Fiona asked.
“Let's get you out of these drenched clothes, and get you fed. Then we'll answer all your questions.”
Not ten minutes later, Fiona was eating chicken soup in clean pajamas, and Lady Boone, with her own bowl of soupe in front of her, explained to Fiona:
“I knew your grandfather of old. I was a child in the 1860s who came to play with him and his brother often, long before I married him in 1890.”
“So you were friends?” Fiona asked.
She'd always found it weird that people might want to fall in love and marry someone. That was a grown-up thing only, in her eyes. But finding comfort in the company of a friend certainly was a universal experience.
“I loved both the brothers dearly.” Lady Boone said. “We were the best friends in the world, with a couple of other neighbours.”
Fiona looked at the wedding portrait crowning the chimney. A man in a navy uniform and a lady in an empire-waisted dress were staring ahead, next to each other.
“Is that you and Grandfather?”
Lady Boone looked at the child, bit back a “how old exactly do you think I am?” by fear of the answer, and elected to reply:
“No, these are your grandfather's grandparents. I have a photograph of your grandfather and myself, wait a minute.”
She rummaged through a couple of drawers in that same dining room, and came back to the table, giving Fiona a black and white photograph of a much more period-appropriately dressed victorian couple in the 1880s.
“We weren't married yet.” she added. “He had just finished college and I was managing my father's estate as he was ill at the time, but he came to visit me every occasion he had.”
She put another picture next to it on the table, a watercolour drawing of five children playing in the grass, this time.
“Your great-uncle, Michael, had painted this. He was quite the artist. That's him, over there, and that's your grandfather as a teenager, and me, in the pink dress, and the blue dress is our neighbour Rachel, and the last one is George Renfield, an old friend of ours as well.”
“What happened of the group of friends?” Fiona asked.
Lady Boone sighed mournfully, and cryptically answered:
“Life happened. I believe I am the last one left alive, although I have had no news of George in fifty years, and for all I know he might be alive somewhere in the colonies.”
“Uh.” Fiona said. “Where am I sleeping tonight?”
The change of topic achieved to shake off the memories from Lady Boone's mind, and she led her granddaughter through corridors and staircases to the bedroom that had been made up for her.
*
It was about two in the morning when Fiona woke up in a startle, and, guided by some instinct she didn't know she possessed, she went down the first flight of stairs she found, and opened a door. That door revealed two kids sitting on a carpet, playing a boardgame.
One of them, a blond boy, looked in her direction, and asked:
“Who are you?”
The other boy, with brownish hair, startled, and looked towards Fiona, but didn't see her.
“You goof!” he exclaimed, punching his brother's arm. “You scared me for a second.”
“What do you mean?” the blond kid asked.
“Well, what with looking at the door and speaking as if there was some intruder!”
“You mean you don't see her?” the blond child asked.
“Shut up, Michael.” the brown-haired child retorted. “This is 1879, for God's sake. I don't believe in ghost stories anymore.”
Michael and Fiona shared a look that make it clear to both of them that the other was just as surprised as them, and then the soft glow of the candles lighting the room disappeared, as did the boys. Fiona found herself alone in a cold room, from which she barely found her way back to her own room.
*
At breakfast the next day, Lady Boone asked Fiona how her night had been. As Fiona had never been one to let politeness get in the way of a bit of complaining, she quite frankly replied:
“I got woken up at two, and then I think I saw a ghost.”
Of course, she expected her grandmother to laugh at the declaration, but instead, she came closer, and fiercely asked:
“Was it from the future, or from the past?”
“What are you talking about?” Fiona asked, bewildered by the reaction.
She had expected doubt, not that question!
“Was that ghost dressed like in past ages?” Lady Boone asked again. “Please, answer me quickly.”
“It was a child from the last century.” Fiona shrugged. “Does it really matter.”
Her grandmother let herself fall back on her chair, and sighed:
“It's no use hiding it from you anymore, but I thank God that it was the past that spoke to you.”
“Hiding what from me?” Fiona asked, curious.
“There is... some weird thing going on in our family.” Lady Boone said. “When one of us comes within a year of their own death, they will receive the visit of a visitor from the future, there to help them with some business they have. And of course, it means that from time to time, one of us will randomly find themselves going back in the past, and be that visitor of the future for someone else. I know it to be true because I once helped out a young girl from the War of the Roses, when I was about sixteen.”
“A young girl?” Fiona repeated. “So she died a year later?”
“I am afraid so.” Lady Boone said.
“And so my new friend the ghost will die in a year as well?” Fiona asked.
“A year for him. It's fifty or five hundred years ago for you. The death is inevitable; but we can give them some peace of mind or some advice, or simply be their friend for the time they have left.” Lady Boone replied.
“So what, we can see ghosts?” Fiona asked again.
“No, we really do travel back in time.” Lady Boone said. “I have taken back from my travels to the reign of Richard III a couple of objects which I can show you later if you wish. Likewise, make sure not to get too far from the house when you do travel back. The walls haven't moved in centuries here, but you might find yourself in someone else's house by travelling to the past, sitting in a field, and travelling back suddenly into a newly build neighbourhood in our time.”
“I imagine it would be rather awkward.” Fiona said.
“Quite awkward indeed.”
Fiona was not fully sure that her grandmother wasn't pulling her leg with that story, but at the same time, she knew she had met that ghostly boy, and his brother who couldn't see her, and despite the nonsensical tone to it all, it seemed to Fiona that it was the truth. All that was left to figure out was which of the boys was supposed to die, and what her role was supposed to be in it.
Okay Inklings this year is somehow even LONGER so! First part here, and the next two will be forthcoming over the next couple days. It's just gonna be WAY too long to be in one piece
@inklings-challenge
Link to playlist (not mandatory, just fun, and it's tradition at this point) and a link to part two and part three!
The sounds of life were like a special kind of music to Enver Connally. The chaotic timbre of his squad mates bickering over breakfast, the up and down drumbeat of his heart during sparring. The chirp of a bird in the woods as they patrolled the border, or the wind through leaves.
But war wasn’t music. It was a discordant, aggressive, loud cacophony, assaulting his ears as he tried to stay alive.
One would think he’d be used to it by now. He wasn’t.
A two-note crackle of rifle fire echoed past his ears, and Enver tried not to flinch, gripping his own weapon tighter. Instinctively, he looked back to make sure none of his squad members had fallen, and met only with unfamiliar faces.
He’d been the self appointed guardian of his squad. The one counting heads and lifting spirits.
But that was before the skirmish on the banks of the Aniva River. And now he didn’t know how he fit into this new squad. A mismatched note in an otherwise unhesitating song.
“Eyes up, boys.” Sergeant Kazinsky’s voice was a smooth baritone, like polished river stones pulling them away from fear, weighing them back into reality. “And Rita.” Rita Tanner gave a two fingered salute, the smirk that Enver rarely saw her face without pulling at the scars along her cheeks.
“We’ve got about two miles of ordnance to make our way through,” Kazinsky continued. “If the other team does their job, we’ll have the opposition trapped, and might get out of here before dinner.”
“All we gotta do is not get blown up. Piece of cake.” The quip came from Clifton Ives, as it always did, and Kazinsky shot him a glance that had him straightening, just a little. At his side, Nikan Galanetz was clutching his own rifle, looking like he might be sick. He was the other new member of the squad—just as out of place as Enver felt, but with only six months of experience.
Enver had been there, though it felt like a million years ago. A twinge of sympathy went through him, and he caught the kid’s eye, giving him a little nod. The barest smile crossed Nikan’s face in response. Better than nothing.
“Be ready,” Kazinsky told them. “When our scouts get back—”
There was a rattle of stones and earth, and two more soldiers slid down into the ditch where they were sheltering. Giving a quick salute, the woman in the lead, with wildly curly hair bundled back from her face, said, “Back, Sarge.”
Kazinsky nodded. “Report.”
“We’ve got the numbers,” the woman—Annaleis Esparza. Enver had worked with her as a scout in his old unit, too. She was one of the best—told him, settling into a crouch. Her hand rested on the blade at her side, and Enver tensed. There’s more.
“But,” her companion added. Sean Monahan was an exact contrast to his fellow scout—pale where she was dark, short where she was tall, and twice as superstitious. To say nothing of his pessimism. “They’ve got some top notch casters. There’s a shield up—” Rita cursed, receiving a warning glance from Kazinsky— “and there’s more magic users to spare.”
Great. One of the many downsides about being at war with a counter whose population were 85 percent magic users was, well, everything. Where Harrowdale’s strength was innovation and industry, Alcea’s magic users could match them. Especially with the latest spell, which tore their rifles to bits with ease.
Enver could see Kazinsky realizing the same thing. “Rifles away,” he ordered. “Swords at the ready. Rita, crossbow. Esparza, you’re still a good archer?”
“Better than Sean is,” Annaleis confirmed.
“Time to prove it. Find a vantage point, get some magecopper, and try to pierce that shield.”
“On it, boss.” Annaleis disappeared up the rise, and Kazinsky turned to face the rest of them.
Face grim, he said, “On me.”
“We’re still going in?” Nikan’s voice cracked halfway through his protest, and Clifton laughed, slapping him on the shoulder.
“No choice, brother. Keep moving or start dying.”
Swords slid from sheaths, shields were pulled from backs, and the squad started moving. Kazinsky took the lead, and Enver brought up the rear, one eye on his surroundings and the other on the rookie. Nikan was clutching his sword with a trembling hand, but he didn’t stop. He’s not freezing. And sun knows I froze my first time out. He’d been younger, though. Hopefully.
For a while, the only sound was pebbly dirt crunching underfoot, and the squad’s steady breathing. They were crossing what had been open farmland, before the Alceans had pushed across the border again, trying to claim it as their own. Enver hoped the inhabitants of the burned out farmhouse he saw had been evacuated.
A few more steps. And then he saw it.
Curls of magenta light, swirling up from the grove of willows shrouding the nearby pond. Spell caster.
He didn’t have enough time to recognize the shape it was taking before Clifton shouted, “DOWN!”
This time, Nikan froze, and Enver dove toward him, dropping his sword as a transparent spear of magenta flew through the air, skewering the ground around them. Enver smacked into Nikan, both of them crashing to the ground as it exploded. He felt the impact of shrapnel against his armor, but it didn’t break through, and he rolled to his feet.
And now the Alcean soldiers were appearing, swinging swords illuminated in different colors of light. Spells, imbuing their weapons with powers that Enver never wanted to discover. He found his sword and took a stance, hand tight around the stiff leather grip.
The area around him exploded into combat. Rita was taking shot after shot, crossbow bolts skating across the field. Kazinsky was at her back, fending off an approaching duo. Enver saw an arrow plunge down into the willows, and one of the clouds of light disappeared. One of their best casters down. Thank you, Annaleis.
Steel grated against steel in a discordant high note, and Enver raced to help Clifton, who was staggering back away from a massive Alcean soldier, who was bracketed in mustard yellow light. He swung his blade, and Enver saw a blast of familiar, jagged shapes flying toward him. Fire spell.
He dove under them, tucking into a somersault and leaping out of it, slashing his sword across the man’s arm. Heat flared behind him, but Enver didn’t look back, not even when the Alcean fell and Clifton gasped a quick thank you.
That was war. You kept moving.
The other team had arrived, and were in the thick of combat. Enver caught a triumphant grin from Rita, heard Clifton start to whistle as he drew a knife. This was just another day’s work, now.
And then. He saw one of the spellcasters step out of the willows, lifting a hand. Magenta light poured forth, striking the ground around them, and Enver saw half a dozen spots light up.
Oh, no. He knew this spell. They all did.
It was a simple one—a massive explosion, meant not to kill, just to disorient. And then came the second hit. Not meant to send you flying, one that would suck you in like a whirlpool. And then it would drop you out, halfway across the country, above a cliff or a jagged outcropping of rocks, or just from somewhere very, very high.
And that would kill you. Or at least take you out of the game so efficiently your team would have no chance of getting you back anytime soon.
I hate this spell.
“MOVE!” Kazinsky’s shout pushed them into action, and they did, sprinting forward at the same time as the Alceans around them. Enver saw Nikan stumble, and he lengthened his stride, just in time to push him forward. Just as the explosion hit.
The trick was to roll, to get as far out of range as possible. Then, you might have a chance.
But Enver had spent his last stride trying to get Nikan clear. So when he went flying, his head cracked against something hard, and his vision went up and down, jagged lines flaring through it. The air went out of him with a whoosh.
Dragging in a painful breath, he pushed himself upward, scanning the surrounding area. A massive circle, about three yards wide, was still glowing violent magenta. The blast radius. And he was still in it.
“Enver! Move!”
Clifton’s shout was just cutting through the air when another blast erupted. Enver barely had time to pull the knife from his belt and slam it into the ground before a whirlwind came to life around him with a roar. Even with the anchor, he felt himself slipping backward. Rita was being held back by Kazinsky, and Nikan was staring wide eyed at—
Oh. I’m not alone.
There was someone else in the blast radius.
And she was Alcean.
Enver caught the barest glimpse of her as she clung to the grass around her desperately. Dark red-brown hair braided and pinned back, her skin a warm shade of brown. Dual swords were strapped to her back, and she wore traditional Alcean armor. But none of that was what struck Enver.
She didn’t look surprised. Not scared, or shocked, or even really upset. She just looked…resigned. Like she’d known this would happen.
Over the roar of wind, he heard the grass tear, and the Alcean warrior went flying backward. She smacked directly into him, and his knife slipped. Together, they were swept up and swallowed by a whirlwind in the ground.
For a moment, everything was silent. Enver couldn’t see, couldn’t hear. Couldn’t breathe, and for a heartbeat he thought the earth would keep them prisoner forever.
And then the world came exploding back to life, and he was falling out of the sky.
A brief glance took in their surroundings. They were on the coast—miles from where they’d been fighting, depending on which coast it was. Cliffs jutted beneath them, with jagged rocks slicing the savage waves into pieces.
And they were plummeting straight toward it.
A scream caught his ear, cut off halfway. To his left, the Alcean moved, teal light coalescing around her hands. As they dropped, straight toward the rocks, she cast a hand out, and a cord made of light moved with it. Coiling like a whip, it snagged at the cliff face, burying itself in the rock.
Enver was going to have to try something a little more simple. Gripping his knife tightly, he let gravity take him down, listening to the harmony of wind and waves below. And as he drew closer, he twisted, spinning toward the cliff.
The blade slammed against the stone, letting out an earsplitting screech—and then he jerked, suddenly, to a stop that reverberated through his bones.
It had caught on a crack.
Enver barely had time to marvel at the miracle that had been dropped into his lap—again—before he heard a scream, a full one this time. A little ways above and to his left, the Alcean soldier had caught herself, but the sickening pop that rang out told a far more ominous story than his own. One of her arms fell free, and she clung to her magic desperately, eyes wide.
She won’t last. With a dislocated shoulder, she had one less hand, and the pain would break her concentration. Enver had seen it before.
In a few minutes, she’d fall.
One less Alcean. One less enemy.
That’s what Noran would have said, from his old unit. His friend had lost family to the Alceans, and had never quite gotten over it. He was still spitting curses the day they killed him on the banks of the Aniva.
Enver had loved his friend. But he wasn’t him.
The Alcean’s face flashed to the front of his vision—not even afraid. Just resigned. Not expecting to be saved.
She’s alone, too. Especially now.
Rock cracked, and he heard her cry out again, voice tight with frustration. Not for the first time, Enver wished for his sword.
Although…
With some difficulty, he slipped a hand under his jacket. Strapped to his back, he kept a few precious, personal items. Not his, but his old squad’s. Things they hadn’t been able to send to anyone else.
His hand closed around a hilt—Penny’s sword. Yanking it free, he hit the switch on the side of the hilt, and flicked his wrist. The blade burst to life, locking into place seconds later. Thank you, Maguire. The smith who’d made it was the best in the business.
Hauling back, he slammed the blade into the crack where his knife was, wedging it in place. Gripping tight, he slowly shifted the knife out and back to his belt—just in time. The teal light above him vanished, and the soldier dropped.
No, you don’t. Bracing a boot against the stone, Enver lunged, and managed to grab her arm. She let out a cry as he hauled her up. Gritting teeth as she tried to pull away, Enver managed to gasp, “Hold on!”
She went still. So still he wasn’t sure if she’d listened, or just passed out from pain. Glancing down, he caught a glimpse of brown eyes boring into his. “We need a way up,” he told her, looking back up. Ten feet up, maybe? That’ll be a nightmare to climb—
He heard the magic before he saw it. A gentle hum, like the strings of a violin, and suddenly pale teal light was surrounding them. As Enver watched, fear drumming the same beat as his heart, it built under them, growing stronger and stronger. And then it burst up, sending them flying up toward the cliff’s edge. Enver’s sword tore free from the crack with another screech, and he lashed out desperately as they shot up.
It sank into the dirt at the top, and they jerked to a stop before they could plummet again. The teal light flickered, and Enver realized it was holding them up. Just barely, securing them from another fall.
But it’s good enough. Straining every muscle in his body, he hauled himself up, getting a boot steady against the cliff and pushing. Inch by inch, second by second, he got himself up and over the edge, one hand still locked around the Alcean’s arm.
The minute he rolled over onto solid land, he turned, sprawled on his stomach, and grabbed her other arm. She let out a hiss of pain, but awkwardly caught hold of his arm. The teal light around her was fading by the second, and he could see fear in her eyes now.
“Sorry,” he told her, and pulled.
Her scream echoed off the cliffs, scaring several nearby birds, but she scrambled up and over. The magic around her disappeared just as she hit the dirt, and for a moment, neither of them moved. Just gasped for breath, clinging to the ground. And each other.
She was the first to move, hands pulling away from his, and Enver reluctantly hauled himself to his feet. Only when they were both standing did he realize he was several inches taller than her. And he was holding a sword.
As one, they stepped back, and took in their enemy. The enemy who’d just saved each other’s lives.
~~~
All good Alcean soldiers hated Harrowdale. At least, that was what the drill sergeants would have you think. The hatred would fuel you and your magic, get them one step closer to winning the war.
Inessa would have hated Harrowdale more if an Alcean hadn’t been the one who betrayed her first.
And he had been. Alvin Melith had been her wingman, her partner on the battlefield and—she thought—her friend off of it. Which was why it had come as a surprise when he handed her over to Harrowdalean renegades to be tortured for information.
(as if being the daughter of a general meant she had special information. All she’d ever gotten from General Lang was disappointed looks, brown eyes, and apparently, her stubbornness.)
But now, she’d been expecting it. Discrediting a good soldier with five years of service to her two, a soldier who’d been a top tier caster and the son of a high ranking lord to boot, had crushed her career like a grape tossed onto a floor of dancers. So when Avery Bedlam had cast the hither-bomb spell, he hadn’t cared if she was in the middle.
And Inessa couldn’t pretend to be surprised.
She’d been done trusting even her own people for a long time now.
But she’d also expected to die when the bomb pulled her in. And yet, judging by the screaming agony from her arm, she was alive.
Thanks to the Harrowdalean soldier facing her right now.
That might be about to end, though, Inessa thought. The odds were simple. He had a sword—and so did she. Two, in fact. But she only had one arm, and with the pain etching itself through her body, casting was going to be nearly impossible. It had taken all her reserves just to help get them up the cliff.
Them. Why did I help him?
Because he was holding you up, idiot. The sarcastic voice in her head sounded remarkably like Anya, her younger sister. Inessa bit her lip hard, trying not to miss her. Trying not to think about how she would never see her again.
Don’t flinch, she told herself, despite the fear already thundering to life. Knowing you would die was one thing. Knowing pain would accompany it was entirely another. She clenched a fist, trying to summon some magic, anything to prevent—
“Truce?”
Her concentration slipped, teal sparks sputtering away from her fingers as she stared at the man facing her. “What?”
“Truce,” he repeated, pressing a switch on the side of his sword. The blade retracted with a click, and he dropped the hilt to the ground deliberately. Lifting his hands in the air, he said, “We’re miles away from the border. You’re hurt, and I’m exhausted. And I don’t want to kill you.”
The words he was speaking were so foreign, so unexpected, all Inessa could do was stare. “What?”
“Did…you actually not hear me, or—”
Inessa almost snorted at his slightly nervous tone. “I heard you. But…” she paused, studying him for a minute. Dark hair cut shorter than the fashion in Alcea, but not buzzed short. Blue eyes darker than any she’d seen before, a striking contrast to the burgundy of his uniform. Harrowdale colors. Not your friend. Dark memories flickered through her mind, and the scars on her back seemed to burn.
But. She was injured and in no position to cast. And her enemy just saved her, and was currently looking at her with the most earnest, open gaze she’d ever seen in her life. Like he’d spill a vein if she asked for it.
It was disconcerting. But it would keep her alive.
“Truce,” she agreed, and some of the tension in his shoulders eased.
“Good.” Glancing around, he asked, “So…any idea where we are?”
For the first time, Inessa actually looked at their surroundings. Rich blue-green water a few shades lighter than her magic, cliffs soaring above the waves. It looked like another world, compared to the blood soaked fields and pond they’d left behind.
But it wasn’t. In fact, she was pretty sure she recognized it. “I think…we’re in Alcea,” she said slowly. “Up north, near the Venlann border.”
Her family had gone here on vacation, once. When her father wasn’t busy with the war and before her mother had retreated into her rooms and never left home again. Before they’d lost Cassio to the war.
“So we’re in your territory,” the Harrowdalean said, jolting her out of her memories. She looked back at him, and saw him watching her. “Can you lead us back to the border?”
The border. Where their people were trying to kill each other over a war older than time. Inessa swallowed, suddenly aware of the weight of the swords on her back.
She should kill this man.
It was her duty, what she’d signed up for when she joined the army. It was what tradition and honor and her king demanded of her.
And all those things demanded it of him, too.
But instead, he’d saved her life. And offered a truce, even before he knew where they were.
They were without food, water, or any real equipment. They had no allies, she was injured, and he was in a foreign country.
They needed each other.
The last person you needed, who you relied on, handed you over to be tortured, her mind whispered. If anything, you can expect that even more here.
Then at least I’m prepared.
“I can,” she told him. “But I’ll need my arm fixed first.”
He nodded. “I figured. I’m Enver, by the way. Enver Connally.”
And here it was. The part where she reciprocated and turned herself from an ally, however strange, to a piece on a chess board. But Inessa didn’t have the energy for subtlety right now. And truthfully, the less she had to wait for things to go wrong, the better.
“Inessa Lang,” she told him, searching his gaze for surprise, for the moment when he remembered there was a General Lang in the Alcea army.
There was nothing. Instead, he smiled, just enough to warm his features. “Nice to meet you, Inessa. All things considered.”
To her utter shock, a laugh bubbled up in her chest as she took the hand he offered and shook. “All things considered,” she agreed.
The smile grew. “Let’s see what we can do for that arm.”
