"12-24-40"

[Archive transcript of author/columnist Adam Ginsburg’s interview with temporal
pioneer and Nobel-winning physicist Dr. Howard Whitway, November 22, 2090]

Dr. Whitway, thank you for sitting down with me today. I know you’ve gotten a lot of interview requests, most of them with people better-known than me.

Whitway: Bah, they all want to either do puff pieces or use me as a prop for some other purpose. Though I suppose I’ll do some of ‘em eventually out of boredom, so I’d better not put them down too much.

Dr. Whitway, you are aware this interview is being recorded, correct?

Whitway: Yeah. If sayin’ something that tame puts ‘em off, oh well. If I were to really say what I thought about most of the talkin’ heads you’d never be able to play the recording in polite company, Ginsburg. Let ‘em scratch their heads on that, and I wager eight of ten will still want an interview.

Er... Okay. Dr. Whitway, I really have only one major question to ask, however short or long it takes to answer.

Whitway: One question? Is it a multi-part or somethin’?

Perhaps, but it’s pretty simple. You’ve seen a lot in your lifetime, which for us spans fifty-eight years but in your subjective time has been a good deal longer. What’s the one thing you’ve seen in all your travels, physical and temporal, that sticks out in your mind the most? I know you’ve told stories of hundreds of memorable things, but I figure for every story you’ve told to the world there are three you’ve kept to yourself.

Whitway: Most people would sit an’ think for a while on that one, Mr. Ginsburg, but I won’t. There’s really only one event like that.

Go on.

Whitway: I saw this early in my career, on the fifth or sixth trip. Same trip as where I sat and listened to Churchill’s ‘fight on the beaches’ address on a cracklin’ old nineteen-thirties transistor radio. I think it was after that, though. I was fiddling with the TSF settings, castin’ about, since I was already in London. I stopped to make another change, and I heard the sound of cello strings from nearby, so I went to check. Now, I could tell right off that I’d landed in the Blitz - the building I stabilized in front of was totally bombed out, nothin’ but two walls and a pile of burnt bricks. It was a cold and gloomy early evening, and there was dirty, crunchy snow pushed into all the corners and nooks, so I guessed February, maybe January or December at the earliest. The cello sounded like he was warmin’ up, and pretty soon there was the sound of a couple of other guys there with violins tunin’ up too. It was only a two block walk, so I got to the little street corner just as they started in earnest. And d’you know what they were playin’, Ginsburg?

What was it, Dr. Whitway? A patriotic tune, perhaps?

Whitway: Ha! No. It was the first few notes to the old carol “God Rest Ye Merry, Gentlemen.” [Whitway hums a few bars slightly off-key.] You know it?

I think I’ve heard it once or twice. You don’t hear the old carols much anymore.

Whitway: Yeah. Anyway, they get those few notes in, and the air-raid sirens start screaming, and the floodlights go up, and over the sound of the wind I start hearing the buzz of German planes. There weren’t that many people there, maybe two dozen plus the three players, and at the sound of the sirens the players falter, and the one lady with her two kids kneels down and holds on to ‘em like the world’s gonna end, ‘cause for all she knows, it might, just like it might have all those raids before. But the cellist, he got this wierd, solemn look in his eye, and he put the bow back to the strings, and louder than before played those first few notes again, and one or two of the guys in the crowd start singing along, quietly, like they’re afraid the Germans’ll hear ‘em. The first bomb hit the city right on time, just as the singers got to the “Tidings of comfort and joy” part. The violin players flinched, but I’m not sure that the cello man even noticed. When the second verse started up, the whole crowd was singin’, me included. I didn’t think I knew the words, but somehow I found ‘em, as the planes buzzed overhead, and the bomb blasts kept beat. Every time I looked around, the crowd had gained another few people.

I’d imagine that the police broke that up rather rapidly.

Whitway: Well, a group of six or seven of ‘em came around, but they got one look at the scene and took off their hats and just stood there. It was the strangest thing. One of ‘em looked like he was tryin’ real hard not to shed a tear, and to be honest I didn’t blame him. There was somethin’ just... unnatural about the whole thing, but not in a bad way. Like God ‘imself was there with us, shakin’ his fist at the German bombers.

You’re a physicist, Dr. Whitway, who believes in God?

Whitway: Up until that night in London, Ginsburg, I would’ve laughed in your face for even askin’. ‘Physics is no place for religion’, I would’ve said. But when the players started the old carol up a second time, I sung those first few words like a prayer: ‘God rest ye merry’ - in today’s English, you’d say ‘God keep you strong.’ In that moment, I was sure that there was a God, and that he had picked sides in that war. And judging by the expressions on the other faces on that street corner, I think that’s what everyone else saw too. The bombs kept droppin, and the sirens kept screamin’, and you know, I didn’t really notice ‘em. All there was was the cellist player, the two violin players, and the crowd. Even when one of the bombs hit a building across the street, lightin’ the whole crowd up like a bolt of orange lightning, no-one seems to notice, ‘cept the policemen. It was like we’re all in a bubble.

The building across the street was hit, and no-one was hurt?

Whitway: Don’t ask me to explain it, Ginsburg. But I tell it like it was. The wall on our side stayed up, and the rest of the building fell down in the other direction. But the cops all dove for cover when it happened, and I lost track of ‘em. Anyway, those players repeated “God Rest Ye” one more time, then switched carols, and did a bunch of others. The air raid sirens died down at some point, but we kept on going. It felt like hours, but I don’t recall more than six more carols, so it might’ve been more like half an hour after the sirens stopped.

That’s a... powerful story, Dr. Whitway.

Whitway: Ginsburg, if you don’t believe me, if you want to call me a loony, say it. But wait ‘till I’m through, ‘cause there’s more.

I’m sorry. Please continue.

Whitway: Anyway, after the last carol, which was “Silent Night”, the crowd begins to break up and go home, because it is gettin’ really cold. And for a second, there’s a clean path between me and the cellist, and I swear he locked eyes with me. Normally, y’know, if you’re outta your own time you’re a ghost, no-one notices you and you can’t change things. But darn it all, I swear for that one second that ol’ cellist knew who I was and where I was from. It was like... like God was telling him that there was a better future coming, and that he and everybody else in England just needed to stay strong for a little longer. Like he was gettin’ a gift for havin’ enough faith to keep playin’ when the sirens started, that he was gettin’ a look at the way the whole war would play out. After that second, the man just bent down and packed his cello into its case. When the crowd cleared, he was gone.

What happened next?

Whitway: Nothing. That’s it. I didn’t want the night to end, but time moves on no matter what we do to stop it. And I’ll never forget that night, Ginsburg. You might say I’ve spent the rest of my life looking for its equal, and I never did find it.

I can understand why. And you’ve never told anyone this?

Whitway: Not a soul. And if anyone else that was there ever told the story, I never saw evidence of it.

Lucky, then, that you found your way there.

Whitway: Ginsburg, I don’t think luck had a thing to do with it, any more than the epilogue of a novel is placed there by chance. Believe it or don’t, I’m convinced that there was purpose to my being there.

I see. Dr. Whitway, thank you for your time.

Whitway: You don’t believe a word of it, do you?

It doesn’t matter. What matters is whether my readers will. And I intend to let them decide for themselves.

Whitway: I can respect that. But may I make a suggestion?

What’s that?

Whitway: Christmas Eve, nineteen fourty. That was the date. I pulled the log data from my TSF unit after I got back. Next month’s the hundred and fiftieth annniversary of that night. If you’re gonna put this in one of your columns, it might do better if you released it before then.

I imagine you’re right, Dr. Whitway. I’ll see what I can do.

This story written for Klazzform's Short Story Competition on dndonlinegames.com.

"Firelight" (Part 3 of 3)

 Story starts in part 1, posted previously (here)

For a long time, the rider lets me reminisce in silence, respectfully waiting for me to pull my gaze from the fire before speaking. Eventually, I turn my gaze briefly toward the silhouetted figure without turning my head, trying to judge the purpose of this intrusion into my vigil.

The rider is a youth - no more than fifteen or sixteen, dressed in soot-streaked and scorched but once-fine clothes of the kind usually reserved for scions of importance. Slim and effeminate, he does not appear to represent an immediate threat to my reminiscence, so I return my gaze to the dying fire below the hill, and my mind to memories of more pleasant times.

* * * * *

My memory skips over the series of odd jobs we took as road guards, army scouts, and the like. In our time together, we were never rich, but rarely were we poor. The last contract we took before arriving in the city which now lay before me in ruin was routine, though not uneventful - the caravan over which we stood guard was ambushed three times in the span of five days on the road. We weren’t the only mercenaries hired to guard those three wagons, of course - there were about a dozen of us, all told, taking shifts sleeping on top of the boxes in each wagon and at other times riding alongside the vehicles, on the lookout for trouble.

Well, there were a dozen to start with, anyway. After the third ambush, we were down to seven, and two of the six wagon drivers were also dead. The merchant owner of the wagons had been hurt too, taking an arrow to the thigh in the second attack. We’d managed to avoid notice all through the ordeal, not boasting about how many bandits we’d killed (me through experience, you through my advice), and not using our respective talents.

At the end of the road, we were paid as promised and not a cent more, though the wounded merchant griped that the attackers hadn’t whittled down his hired help as much as expected. I did not take offense at this - he bore no ill will against us directly, after all - but you were quite put off by the man, and so I decided that we’d stay in that city for a few days before taking another job. We had the money, after all.

I found us lodging in a grimy tavern, not too different from the one you’d been working at when we’d met.

“I wonder why it’s been almost a year of living like this, and the only person I’ve met worth knowing is you, Keryk.” You started, about midway through dinner. “Everyone is just... interested in themselves.”

I nodded, putting down my mug. “I’m not immune to that self-interest, Linya, but I take your point.” Yet, even at my most selfish I couldn’t ask you the one thing I wanted to. “I expect that many people aren’t as bad at heart as they let on, but they feel expected to act that way. Self-preservation.” Even we were guilty of this.

“I suppose so.” You reached across the table to put your hand on mine, and went on. “Still, we found each other.”

“Only because you let your guard down.” I pointed out, half-jokingly, and you smiled at the light jab. “No, in all seriousness. Think of the odds.”

Your smile faded, and your look drifted from my face to the nebulous space over my shoulder. “I don’t, Keryk. I can’t believe that we are the result of long odds.”

I frowned, confused. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“I mean... It feels like we didn’t meet by chance. That we were drawn together by some greater force.” You looked so contented with this belief that I hated the facts for contradicting it.

“That sounds a lot like fate. But we both know there is no fate, no guiding power, no greater power. Such silly superstitions died centuries ago.”

You looked hurt. “I’m not talking about a higher power, but a lower one. A basic one, like a law of nature. I think that just like water flows down a slope, just like metal is drawn to a magnet, we were drawn together.” Your gaze returned to meet mine, and you smiled again, faintly.

Despite myself, I smiled back. I knew such notions were romantic, but they also smacked of the long-dead superstitions, though you tried to phrase them in other terms. I knew it would be useless to try to dissuade you, though. You were believing what you had to believe to make the world make sense.

I might have denied it earlier, but by that night I had known for some time that I loved you. What stayed my declaration to this effect was my own fear.I was afraid that you had no interest in anything more than a relationship of allies, though hindsight shows me that almost certainly that wasn’t the case. At the time, though, I was willing to live with my feelings unvoiced because it meant not risking rejection. Had I known how short our time would turn out to be, perhaps I would have made a different decision.

We did not retire to the bunkroom until late, after the rest of the inn’s population was already asleep. I don’t remember what we spent the time talking about. I suspect that the subject matter was inconsequential, but I did not think it so then - such was the effect you had over me. Soon I heard you breathing evenly in sleep in the bunk above mine, like the rest of the patrons. I, however, could not sleep that night, and it was not because of trouble from the Wilder’s fires in my heart. That I was keeping my feelings from you made me uncomfortable, and with this I spent almost an hour mentally struggling before I finally drifted off to sleep. 

* * * * *

I finally acknowledge the youth on the horse with a brief turn of my head. He is unfamiliar, but the blade at his side is immediately recognizable to me. It’s mine, or was this morning.

He takes the small movement as an opening to speak. “You’re the one who did all that.” His voice is hoarse, probably from smoke inhalation.

I don’t respond, but neither do I dispute his accusation. It is after all the truth. I’m not sure what I’ll do if the boy attacks me - there’s an even chance that I might just stand still and let him send me to oblivion.

He doesn’t, though. Dismounting slowly, he takes the blade so casually slung at his hip and plants the tip an inch or so into the gravelly dirt at his feet. “This is yours.” He steps away from the weapon, the one physical link I have left to my heritage.

    I wonder what motivations bring this youth to stand here, mere paces from the monster who probably killed everyone he ever knew. I turn to face him, fully this time, and look him over critically. From beneath singes and soot stains, his face betrays no anger, a little fear, but more respect than anything else.

“I... I was there when they shot your friend.” He begins again hesitantly.

I wince a little, but don’t speak, and he takes that as the cue to continue.

“I just don’t...” He takes a step back, and drops his gaze. “Why did she do what she did?”

I wonder precisely the same thing. My mind dives back, looking for that most painful of memories, that of today - the last day of your life.

* * * * *

We’d been in town three days when the soldiers came to arrest us this morning. They sent almost two dozen men to do it, so I knew whoever was in charge at least suspected what I am. Even that number I might have been able to fight off, save that we were intercepted in the city’s crowded marketplace, not exactly the best place for a fight. I knew if it came down to that that you would likely be hurt, Linya, and that innocent people would undoubtedly be killed.

Without betraying any reaction, I surrendered my blade and allowed us to be manacled, then marched up the hill at the city’s north end - right up to the walls of the fortress there perched. I knew then that we would not be summarily executed, or simply locked away - the fortress was the home of the Supreme King, the local dictator, and the town’s main jail was sensibly placed far from this redoubt.

You looked quite afraid when we were tossed in a very sturdy but surprisingly well-furnished holding cell, though you were trying very hard to hide it. I hated seeing you like that.

“Linya, relax.” I put my hands on your shoulders to stop your nervous pacing.

“Relax?” You shook your head. “Keryk, what are they going to do to us?” Your imagination, I suspected, was creating all manner of horrible tortures in store for us.

“If the plan was to kill us, they wouldn’t put us in a cell with feather cushions.” I bent down and picked up one of the things from the floor and tossed it to you. “The local king wants something from us, which gives us time.”

“That doesn’t scare you, Keryk?” You were a little more calm, but still worried.

I frowned grimly. “It does. But it means there’s still a way out, too.” I’d been dragged before a ruler once before on little pretense, though I never told you that. The little man had found out about me and heard a ridiculous rumor about Wilders being able to predict the future. Ridiculous, of course - if we could, why would we allow ourselves to be wiped out? - but I leveraged it into an advisory position, then faked my own death (complete with an intended suspect for my murder) the next week. I suspected this would be something similar. I was wrong, and for my error you paid with your young life.

We were in the holding room until about midday, which probably was the time that the Supreme King rose from his bed, shooed off his plentiful female company, and got himself ready to be seen in public.

The man that led the guards to retrieve us was small, pale, and very distasteful, almost ratlike in his mannerisms and appearance. “The Supreme King requests your presence in the throne room.” He hissed, and the score of armed men behind him made it clear that the word “request” was a cruel joke. I thought about breaking out then and there, as we were taken from the holding cell, but the ratlike man made sure to keep you between himself and me, and to be close enough to you to grab you if I should do something. If he didn’t precisely know what I was, he at least knew that I was dangerous.

They led us into the throne room, which was fairly standard - high ceiling, columns lining a narrow path to the elevated and ornate dais. Gold, scarlet, and black predominated, probably in an attempt to awe and intimidate those brought before the Supreme King. Beyond the columns, a throng of well-dressed courtiers watched us, and murmured amongst themselves. A multitude of wordless sneers and whispered perjoratives were directed at us as we were marched up to the base of the dais steps.

The throne itself was carved from black stone and polished, and a very impressive piece of furniture, but the man occupying it was not nearly so. He might have once been a great warrior, but his tall, wide frame had surrendered entirely to paunch and wrinkles.

What made me immediately hate the man, though, was the six lengths of chain bolted to the floor next to the throne. Each chain led to a single manacle, which was itself locked around the ankle of a young woman standing near the throne. All of them were barely clothed, unkempt, and bruised, making their purpose quite painfully clear.

Across his knees, the Supreme King had laid my blade, the blade of a warrior of the Wilder Clans. After a few seconds of staring at both of us, the man grasped the hilt of my sword and pointed its tip at me.

“Do you know what this is?” I immediately had hope. He wasn’t sure what I was, apparently.

“My blade.” I pointedly did not add any oozing honorifics when addressing him, and was gratified by stifled gasps from the onlookers. “Man I got it from said it’s Wilder make, but I can’t prove that.” I lied to him.

“It is that.” The Supreme King did not react to my omission, if he noticed it at all. “Whatever you paid for it, it wasn’t enough.”

I did my best impression of a wicked smile. “Who says I paid for it? Won it gambling, I did, though the poor fool tried to kill me afterwards.” I was making things up out of whole cloth, hoping the Supreme King would lose interest in us and let us go. He was clearly looking for a Wilder, though why wasn’t apparent.

“That so?” He leaned forward, interested. “How did you survive?”

“Well, the man was drunk, and bad with a blade.” I scowled. “It wasn’t too hard to spit him on his own sword.”

“Ah, I was hoping that the man was a Wilder. I have been searching for so long to find a real one, news of such a creature would be valuable.”

“I thought they were all dead.” I stated, trying to sound uncertain. “It’s been years.”

“Perhaps, but Wilders were always quite resilient. I’ve no doubt a few remain at large.”

I shuddered, trying to make it look realistic. “That thought don’t sit too well with me. I’d rather they were all gone.”

The man on the throne nodded vaguely, and after running his hand down the arm of one of the unfortunate girls, turned to you then, Linya, apparently losing interest in me. “Well, now. Why is one so stunning as yourself in the company of a scoundrel mercenary like this one?”

I saw for a moment you, chained to the throne of this lecher king. Squeezing my eyes shut, I forcibly banked the fires in my heart which threatened to expose my lies. If I lost control here, it would do no-one good. The Supreme King wanted to find a Wilder, and while I didn’t know why, I was certain that it would not be a pleasant reason.

You took a breath, and replied calmly. “Might as well ask why he’s with me.” You waved at me dismissively. “If you can’t tell it from letting him talk, I’m the brains of this arrangement, your majesty.” Despite the screen of armed men around you, you managed to sound reasonably confident.

The Supreme King chuckled deeply, and it made me distinctly uncomfortable to hear that sound. “Nevertheless, girl, I would have you answer the question.” A light tap from the spear of one of the guards emphasized his command.

“I have no specific reason, save that city life disgusts me, sir.” You replied evenly. “Of course, your city is better than most, which is why we stopped here to find work.” A lie, naturally - this place was the end of our last journey, and it was in fact a detestable rathole even when compared to the surrounding settlements.

“Ah, prefer the road, do you?” The old man leered. “Are you sure there’s no way you could be... persuaded to stay?”

“No, sir, I don’t believe there is.”

“A pity.” The Supreme King sighed. “One like you would be a fine addition to my court.” It was clear when he said “court” that he meant “bed”.

One of the guards behind you was fiddling with a scrap of cloth. As I watched, he unstoppered a vial and poured the contents on the ragged material, careful to keep it away from his face.

“Linya, t-” That was as far as I got before one of the guards hit me with the butt of his spear in the kidney, and I fell to my knees.

“Do not speak unless addressed,” hissed the man that’d hit me, in a tone that made me know he’d enjoyed that.

The man with the cloth crept forward, while the Supreme King himself distracted you with tales of the grandness of life in his court. Again the fires raged in me, and I lowered my gaze in case it showed. Sure, I could use my Wilder’s rage to fight the guards, but there was you to consider. The indiscriminate inferno that I would need to fight this many would also catch you, Linya, and that was a risk I could not take. Uncertain, I watched the man with what was undoubtedly a knockout serum raise his hand, preparing to cover your mouth and nose with it.

And then I saw out of the corner of my eye something that truly scared me. The Supreme King was not watching you. His eyes had strayed to me, and he was smiling.

“Linya, watch-” I was again given a breath-releasing strike from the blunt end of a spear. You got the message, though, and ducked to the side, just missing getting a face-full of knockout drug. Your escape was short-lived, though - the guards soon had you held in place.

As you struggled against the grips of four of the guards, I rose slowly to my feet, ignoring the pain from the two growing bruises on my back (and what I was certain was a broken rib). The Supreme King was turned toward you, but his eyes looked in my direction, and I knew then what was going on. “Leave her alone. You want something of me, then address me.”

By the sound, the guard raised his spear to club me again, but the Supreme King waved it off. “What I want is a Wilder. If neither of you are, then you are distractions.” He smiled again. “Though I do so love my distractions...” His hands reached out and dragged two of the chained girls onto the arms of the throne.

“Keryk, no, don’t - ” One of the guards muffled you with his hand, but the sedative wasn’t applied.

I sighed, knowing what I had to do. “Let her go. Now.” I let the fire leak into my eyes a little as I glared at the contemptible monster on the throne.

“Ah, so now we come to the truth.” The Supreme King turned to me, waving an arm dismissively at the guards holding you, who let you go and stepped back.

“She’s of no concern to you. Set her loose.”

“Why do you care what I do with her?” He leaned down toward me, giving the girls a chance to escape to the maximum distance allowed by their chains. “She’s not a Wilder too, is she?”

“No.” I responded flatly.

“Too bad, too bad. A breeding pair would be better, hmm?”

His tone disgusted me. He was treating his betters - Wilders - as livestock to be owned and bred. “She’s a mundane. No more wilder than you.”

The king pounded his fist on the expansive armrest of the throne, and the guard behind me again hit me with the spear. I staggered, but managed to keep my feet. Perhaps it’s a symptom of how long I traveled with you, Linya, but I didn’t once think of burning the soldier and his kidney-bruising stick. “I am not... ‘mundane.’” The dictator seethed. “I am the Supreme King, and you are nothing.”

I’d touched a nerve, and there was a sort of satisfaction in that, but I knew I’d get nowhere making this man angry. The term “mundane” that Wilders used to describe the rest of humanity was never intended to be insulting, only factual, but that didn’t stop the Supreme King from taking offense.

“So are my terms acceptable?” I pressed, anxious to get you out of the way in case things were to go badly. As it turned out, they were about to.

“Your little girl can go...” The dilapidated old king leveraged himself out of the chair, and after brushing his fingertips under the chin of one of the girls chained to the throne, stood to his full height, still impressive despite the stoop in his shoulders. “After I’m done with her, fool.”

    “Keryk!” you shouted. There was a scuff of feet on the ornate stone-slab floor and a few odd twanging noises from the gallery above, and I turned halfway to where it originated only to have the wind knocked out of me when you tackled me to the floor. Several black-wood crossbow bolts skipped off the stone where I’d just been standing.
    It was immediately apparent to me that whatever use that the aging potentate had for a Wilder, it did not require said unfortunate to be alive. I’d heard off and on about Wilders’ corpses being dissected after the war by mad churgeons looking for what made us different, but until that moment I hadn’t believed it. I pushed you off me and jumped to my feet, standing over you. The guards closed in, spears in front, but they seemed prudently hesitant to attack a Wilder at close range. I knew I had only seconds until the shooters in the gallery reloaded, and fought for control over my Wilder’s rage. A rampage here might claim many lives, but it would not save either of ours.
    The Supreme King laughed from his throne, atop the dais, as more guards pushed past his girls from a door behind the throne to get in between him and me. “Kill them.”
    I didn’t give you a chance to stand, scooping you up in one arm and at the same time pressing the other to the stone. As I lifted you up, I pushed my Wilder’s fire into the stone, which grew hot. Not hot enough to melt (It would take a far greater master of the Wilder’s incendiary arts to melt solid stone), but enough that the guards near me noticed their sandals begin to smoke. This was all the distraction I needed to reach out and grasp the shaft of a spear, the infectious fire travelling up it and igniting the wielder.

Almost too late, I turned my free hand backwards, firing a rather weak (but intimidating) gout of yellow fire, enough to keep the men behind me from lunging until I could use the opening the doomed man created by fleeing, draped in persistent flame.

I didn’t notice then that from your side protruded one of the black crossbow bolts that had been meant for me. As I fled the palace guard, your life was already ebbing away. Though your split-second action had saved my life, it had cost yours.

* * * * *

Perhaps it’s been some time in the present that I’ve stood silent, steady thin lines of tears streaking through the soot on my face, because the boy has tied down his horse and is seated, looking out on the fire next to me. I realize he must have been in the Supreme King’s court when we were brought in - he was probably in a position to see everything better than even I.

I must have made some sort of slight movement when I returned my attention to the present, because the teen takes notice. “What was her name?” He asks. “The woman whose life was worth the lives of a city to you?” There is no accusation in his voice, though I suspect that there should be. I want there to be. There needs to be someone left who feels anger at my atrocity.

I take a deep breath, and the soot in my lungs causes me to cough for a few seconds before I am able to speak. “Her name was Linya...” I am surprised that my voice sounds so old. “...and if it would bring her back from the abyss I would take my own life without hesitation. But she would not have wanted me to do this.” I know it would be true, if you were still alive. I wonder if you would have stood next to me all that time if you’d known I was capable of this.

The boy is silent for a long moment before he spoke again. “What are you going to do now?”

His question is my own. I can’t seem to find it in myself to resolve to do anything, though, so I don’t answer. Right now, the future extends only as far as tonight.

The boy is quiet too, perhaps because he thinks I am formulating an answer. I’m not, though. Despite the pain, I’m remembering your last moments.

* * * * *

In the palace’s enclosed hallways, the guards couldn’t really fight me, even while I was carrying you. With a few brief interruptions, I managed to make it to the roof, hoping that it had walkways across to the palace’s outer curtain wall. Barricading the stairway door, I set you down and meant to go hunting for such a walkway, or at least a way down. You stopped me, though, with a hand on my wrist, and I turned to see what was the matter.

“Keryk, I...” You were having trouble breathing. I didn’t at first realize why, until I discovered the crossbow bolt buried in your side. “I want to...”

There was pounding at the barricaded door, but I couldn’t turn away from you, Linya, because I knew in the pit of my stomach that you were mortally wounded and didn’t have much time left. The conscious part of my mind of course wanted hope, and I muttered something about you holding on, that I could get you out of there.

“Keryk, no.” You breathed, barely above a whisper. “Go.”

“I won’t.” I insisted, helpless tears of grief beginning to sting my eyes. “We’ll get through this.”

“You will. But...” You coughed weakly. “I just... just wanted you to...”

I tried to make you lie still, as renewed pounding echoed from the door, but you shook your head, fighting for consciousness and the air to speak. “No regrets, Keryk.” You reached up and put a trembling hand on my face. “No regrets.”

“Linya, no, I...” I wanted nothing more than to tell you not to leave me, and that I loved you, but I couldn’t make the words come out. I couldn’t bring myself to voice my feelings even then at the end.

You breathed your last, and your hand dropped. A heavy axe blade punctured the barred door and withdrew for another swing, and I stood, the world fading out into red and fires sprouting in my hands. Grief lowered my defenses, and the Wilder rage took over.

* * * * *

Even if I were able, I don’t want to recall anything I did after you died. The atrocities I likely committed in razing the city now a dying ember below me must have been horrifying, and I take it as a mercy that I cannot recall them. Everyone - the Supreme King, the guards, even the girls chained to the black-stone throne, they had likely all died in my fires.

Some corner of my mind recalls a question, and I look to the young man, directly at him, turning away from the fire for the first time. I notice that his face is smooth, the face of a pampered noble, and that one brow is bruised, but the bruise looks days old. The side of my face that is shadowed feels terribly cold, having gotten used to the flames’ distant caress. “Do?” I echoed rhetorically. “What did I do before I met her?” I wandered, looking in vain for more like myself, because I hadn’t learned yet that who I needed to find was someone nothing like me. “I’ll walk this world searching.” But now, I knew, I’d be looking for something that didn’t exist except in my memory.

The youth nodded, and a few strands of long hair escaped from the hood. Despite my exhaustion, I had an immediate suspicion. “Take off your hood.”

The youth nods, and slowly slides down the hood, revealing a head of disheveled and singed neck-length brown hair. Without the hood, I can see that I was wrong - the rider is not a boy of fourteen, but a woman of about nineteen dressed in a boy’s clothes. I immediately recall seeing her face before -  She was indeed in the throne room today, and I know where.

“You were chained to the throne.” I note. Not a question, for I’m fairly certain.

She nods. “When you ran, all the guards chased. I grabbed your blade and...” She looked down guiltily. “I killed him.”

I don’t answer. I do not consider the monstrous Supreme King’s death to be a tragedy, but clearly this girl had never taken a life before.

She took a breath and continues. “I got the key from his body and we all ran.” She must mean herself and the other girls. “I stole some clothes and got to the stables before the fires started.”

I don’t answer. This girl has been little more than an abused plaything of a powerful man, probably since she was a child, I know. A nightmare life, and even grief-stricken and drained I recognize that you and I, however accidentally, gave this girl her chance to escape.

She continues after a pause. “Perhaps fate sent me in this direction, but I recognized you and wanted to give back that blade.” She takes a ragged breath and nods toward my sword. “I wish I could say that I wish you and her had never come here. But I don’t.”

I nod. Did your death, Linya, buy back the lives of the Supreme King’s slave girls? Not directly. But our last adventure as a whole gave them a chance. I wonder briefly if any but this one made it out of the inferno alive.

“Keep the blade.” I finally reply. “The roads are dangerous.”

“What about you?” She asks.

In answer, I simply turn to look back at the inferno I caused today, expecting her to understand based on my reminder that a blade isn’t necessary for a Wilder to defend himself.

    “Oh, yeah.” She moves to reclaim the sword, but stops, standing beside the planted blade for a moment and staring at the reflection of the fire in the metal. I can tell she wants to say something else, or ask something else, but she doesn’t. After a few long seconds, she pulls the blade free and starts walking away from me, toward the horse.
    “Don’t trust anyone.” I say, loudly enough that she hears and stops mid-stride, turning her head halfway back. “The world is a cruel place.”
    She nods. “She trusted you, you know.”
    I wince, knowing all too well, knowing that was truer than this girl could know. “And I her, more even. But she’s gone.” I hope that this girl, so recently removed from being a slave and harem girl, will be slow to trust.
    She seems to understand my meaning, and nods, turning around and returning to me. I wonder what her purpose is, but do not react, save to track her progress with my gaze. She stops in front of me and slightly to my right, extending her right hand. Her left, holding my sword, hangs at her side, keeping the blade just above the dirt.
    “Valwen.” She says. “It’s my name.”
    I clasp her hand briefly. “Keryk.”
    “I know.” Valwen smiles thinly. “You and your friend saved me, I thought it only fair you knew my name.”
    With that, she walks to her horse, and saddles up. As I watch her ride off toward the main road, I remember what you said back in that inn, about laws of the universe drawing people to each other with magnetic force. For some reason, it doesn’t seem so irrational or far-fetched now, Linya. Was Valwen drawn to my hilltop vigil in the same way?
    For now, it seems a good idea to believe that she was. Because if I do, then I might begin to believe that the empty feeling might have a purpose, that this grief is not for nothing.
    Valwen disappears behind a spur of the hill and is gone, so I turn back to the fire, just as one wing of the cindered shell of the Supreme King’s keep crumbles in the heart of the flames.
    Linya, I can’t bring you back, but for now, I will remember our brief time together, and hope that there might be a reason things happened the way they did. If there’s any mercy left in this wicked world, I might even start believing that purpose is possible.

"The Veil of Dreams" (Part 2 of 2)

 Story starts in part 1, posted previously (here)

Katherine’s coins were more than enough for Conrad to rent a room above one of the town’s numerous bars. As soon as he was alone inside it, he emptied his pockets onto the room’s tiny table and paced. Was what he was contemplating, he wondered, the only way? Probably not. But what else did he have the resources for? The matte black device that had weighed so heavily in his pocket reflected the oil lamp’s flickering light. It was a weapon, he knew, because he recalled practicing with it, perhaps in preparation for this venture. All he needed to do was hold the button down and touch the metal studs to someone, and it would - it would what? He didn’t remember that part. Presumably, kill or disable them.

That Dr. Greene had refused to return with him voluntarily weighed heavily on Conrad’s mind, but what was he to do? Neither of them were supposed to be here. It was an accident that had brought Katherine here, and another accident that had given Conrad the insight he needed to follow her. The second accident almost seemed to balance out the first, and it would - if Conrad could return home with Katherine.

Neither of them would remember much about this place anyway, Conrad realized. Even if Katherine were to resist him, once she was returned home all would return to normal. He wouldn’t even remember that he’d had to rescue her against her will. Not even his own conscience would blame him.

Resolved, Conrad retired for the night. His plan was simple and direct. By this time tomorrow, he would be home, with Katherine in tow, and this would all just be a bad dream.

The servants in the Gardner household were instructed to bring in the meal and then depart until called, but Margred and a few of the others still heard the commotion and rushed to see what was the matter. There was a shout from Mr. Gardner and then a thud and a scream, the last in Mrs. Gardner’s voice.

By the time they burst into the room, it was all over. Oswald Gardner lay crumpled on the floor, breathing shallowly, and as for what had become of the strange guest and Mrs. Gardner, they could see no sign, save that one of the maids spotted a wire-thin needle and a small glass bottle, contents spilled out, on the floor.

Margred ran to her employer’s side, and helped him get shakily to his feet. None of the staff failed to notice the pair of red burns on the back of Oswald’s neck.

“He took Katherine.” Oswald helplessly balled his fists, looking like he didn’t know whether to be more bereaved or more furious. “He took her back there.” As soon as he was able, he staggered to the corner of the room and retrieved a gold ring, Katherine’s wedding band, from where it had fallen when Conrad had thrown it. “And I can do nothing for her now.”

Dinner by firelight. Awkward conversation - fear? Panic? Anger, even. Screams. The crumpled form of a man, lying on a hardwood floor. Pain, sharp and sudden. All fading into all-consuming numb...

Conrad, Katherine semi-conscious and supported by his hand around her waist, recognized the intersection visible out the mouth of the alleyway immediately. What was odd was that the last thing he remembered was - no, it was the needle, in the isolation chamber. It was all coming back now - the theory concerning how the serum worked, which was half-baked at best, and more importantly the reason he’d injected it into himself, the rescue of the woman now leaning woozily against him.

Katherine, too, head clearing slowly, became aware of her surroundings and straightened, though a dizzy pain in her head made her lean on an adjacent building’s wall. She was dressed in a strange fashion - was that a corset around her midsection? - not to mention an impractical one, and immediately wondered how she’d been coaxed to get into the getup in the first place. At first she wondered if she’d been tricked into playing some sort of bizarre bedroom game, but no, the outfit was far too modest for that to be the case. The skirt came down to her ankles and the neckline was above her collarbones, held in place with a large button. Besides, she was hardly seeing anyone at the moment, if memory served.

Wait, no, that wasn’t right. Katherine looked down at her hands, not sure if she should be surprised to be wearing no rings or not. Wasn’t she -

The memory slipped away as Dr. Greene grasped for it. She would have shook her head, but the pain suggested that to be a bad idea. Something in her mind expressed discomfort at the idea of self-identifying as “Katherine Greene” - but why would she identify as anything else? That was her name.

“You all right?” Conrad asked, offering Katherine a hand.

“Umm...” Katherine rubbed the source of the pain, and found a fresh lump, as if she’d been hit. “I don’t remember. I think I hit my head.” She made the logical leap. “Concussion?”

Conrad shook his head. “Nope. The memory loss is... from something different. I have my fair share. Good to have you back.”

“Where’ve I been?” Katherine suddenly realized where they were. “And where am I now?” She thought back. The last memory she had was of the rats in the lab testing room, and of needles, and - and that was it. There was nothing but static after that, but she seemed to think that the testing room was some time ago.

“You’ve been gone three years.” Conrad replied simply. “Looks like my little gambit to rescue you worked.”

“Rescue?” Katherine frowned. “Where’d I go? Was I a hostage?”

“I’m not quite sure.” Conrad gestured to the dress. “Why don’t we deal with this first?”

Katherine, confused, still managed to refuse. “I can stand to be dressed like this for a little while. Besides, if I’ve been gone three years, I don’t have an apartment to change in or clothes to put on anymore.” Katherine’s parents were dead, and she was an only child - she wondered briefly where they’d sent her belongings. Three years? Intellectually, it didn’t make sense, but the memory of the lab did have the correct distance about it. What had happened in between?

Conrad shrugged. “All right. To the lab, then. I’ll explain there.” He exited the alley to hail a cab, leaving Katherine to herself.

Katherine massaged the bump on her head, which still hurt. It seemed to be a fresh injury, and it felt as if she’d hit her head only minutes before, but she had no memory of doing so. Even so much as trying to think back to before finding herself woozily leaning against Konrad in this alley was impossible - it was like trying to recall a dream too long after waking. There was only a fuzzy nothing. Katherine was intrigued, but also a little scared - she had never before had such a large section of her memories simply wiped away. She was always so good at remembering, that this was an entirely unpleasant development.

Her last memory, barring a dreamlike hazy scene that might have been a hospital, was of working in the lab, injecting the new compound into rats to test its effects. It was a rather unremarkable memory, which simply faded into the fuzz.

No. Katherine squeezed her eyes shut. There was something else. The last rat was squirming more than the rest, and she’d slipped. The last thing that she remembered was of the needle plunging toward the back of her own hand as the rat made a last-ditch effort to escape it.

Katherine’s head hurt too much to wonder what the serum had done, and Conrad had promised to explain, so she left it at that, for the moment.

A brief taxi ride took the pair to the lab, and Conrad left Katherine with the cab while he ran inside to fetch some cash (his wallet, apparently, was not with him when they came to the alley, however they came to do that. The driver was clearly curious about Katherine’s “costume”, but was polite enough not to ask.

Conrad returned, and escorted Katherine inside. The lab was just getting ready to lock up for the night, but even those members of the staff that had already gone home were summoned to the building’s one conference room for Conrad’s explanation, which he promised would be valuable and that represented a sort of breakthrough. Katherine was greeted with awkward relief by her co-workers, who had probably decided she was dead years before. The new staff, most of whom had probably heard of the mystery of the disappearance of Dr. Greene, greeted her cordially, excitedly, only a little less awkwardly. Apparently, she’d become a bit of a minor celebrity after vanishing from the lab.

Mary Ellen, the new lab tech, even had a change of clothes that would fit Katherine in her clean room locker. With relief, Dr. Green retired to one of the restrooms to disassemble the awkward costume in which she was dressed. This was a more involved process than she thought it would be - the getup was probably designed to be removed with help (which put Katherine back to thinking it might be related to some bizarre bedroom game). Still, Katherine was able to get out of the dress and into more normal clothes: sweat pants and a tee shirt.

Folding up the pieces of the out-of-place dress, though, Katherine heard something crinkle, like paper. She quickly located a pocket inside the outer blouse, which contained a thick envelope of a beautiful cream color, the kind that she thought might be used for formal wedding invitations and the like. It was unmarked, save for a single swooping handwritten word on the back: Katherine. The letters were archaic, but she strangely was able to read them as if they were perfectly normal. It was sealed not with the usual method but with a blot of red wax.

Curious, and suspecting the envelope to be a link to the enigmatic period her memory knew only as fuzz and fog, Katherine broke the wax and opened the top.

Inside, folded in a double layer of waxy paper, was a letter, penned in the same hand as had written her name on the outside.

Katherine, my beloved wife:

I cannot assume that you remember me in reading this missive, or that anything I say here will help you to remember. That you are reading means that you have been taken from me, back to that place from which you came into my life, and I can only assume that you were taken against your will by some greater force.

You promised me once that if you had a choice, you would choose to return, that you would prefer that our marriage would be permanent despite the barrier of forgetting that lies between your world and mine. I have no power to enforce that promise, and do not want to force your return out of feelings of obligation. I would hope that some shred of me remains in your memory, that our years of marriage have not faded entirely from your mind. But even that I cannot assume.

I would wait for you forever, if it took that long for you to find your way back, but I hope and pray with every hour that you are gone that the next will see you returned to me. But if the world you find yourself in bears wonders so great or duties so pressing that what we have must wait, I will understand, and ask for no explanations when you return. For I know that there can be none.

Until next you pass through the veil of dreams and return to my waiting arms, may God watch over you and keep you well.

Yours forever,

Oswald.

Katherine, reading the note, did not have a flood of returning memories, but she knew that every word on the page was true. The name “Oswald” conjured up the image of a handsome man of about thirty-five, average height and build, with clever, dark eyes. The handwriting was as familiar to her as her own, though it was archaic - she should have had to pause to decipher some of the more difficult penmanship, were the writer truly a stranger.

That she wasn’t a hostage wherever she’d been was becoming clear, but then why had Conrad brought her back? Had she elected to return, knowing about the letter in her pocket? She rubbed the aching bruise on her head reflexively, and then stopped, realizing that it might be related. Had Conrad abducted her to bring her back here?

Katherine knew immediately that Conrad himself no longer knew. Still, she folded the letter up and stuck it in the pocket of her borrowed sweat pants, and left the bathroom, leaving the bundle of clothes. Rather than head back toward Conrad’s growing audience in the conference room, where he promised to explain how the serum that Katherine had been exposed to worked, she headed in the opposite direction, a plan in mind. Katherine could not trust Conrad, no, but neither was she entirely ready to trust Oswald, who she remembered only in small pieces, if favorably.

Conrad waited ten minutes longer than he thought reasonable for Katherine, but she did not return. Still, he did not start, having promised her an explanation. At twelve minutes, he sent Mary Ellen to check on Katherine’s progress. The rest of the room, some summoned from dinner with families, looked agitated, annoyed, but excited that what Conrad had promised them might be true. He knew he could keep them there for a little while longer, because what he was going to tell them would be worth the wait.

Mary Ellen knocked on the bathroom door gently, then harder when there was no answer. “Dr. Green, I know you’ve been through a lot, but Conad won’t start without you.” She waited to a count of five. No answer. Wondering if Dr. Green was all right, Mary Ellen pushed through the door. “Dr Green, are you - ”

The bathroom was empty, save for a few sheets of what looked like butcher’s paper rustling on the floor, and the bag which Mary Ellen’s own spare set of clothes had been kept. With a frown, the lab tech returned to the hall, looking in both directions. Dr. Green hadn’t made it to the conference room, and wasn’t here, so logically she’d gone the other way - perhaps she didn’t know her way around. After all, Mary Ellen reasoned, she hadn’t been here in over three years. With a sigh, the woman started off away from the conference room, hoping that she could find the wayward PhD before too long.

Katherine set down the armload of assorted things she’d been carrying, then turned to close and lock the door. The building’s labs had no locks, but the offices did, and Katherine had found that the security code for her old office (now reassigned to someone else) had not changed. She paused to make sure she had everything - a flash disk, a pair of fresh hypodermic needles, pen, notepad, and all of the lab’s samples of the old compound - the one Katherine had accidentally exposed herself to three years ago - and all she could find of the new one, Conrad’s return serum. Apparently, the rat trial hadn’t gone well, and it had been abandoned, until she’d briefly reappeared a few weeks ago.

Katherine began writing fervently on the notepad, writing down everything she could think of about herself that she wanted to remember. She was surprised to barely come up with three quarters of a page.

Next, she moved to the office’s computer. It accepted her credentials immediately, though it insisted that her password was expired and needed to be changed. Katherine immediately opened a connection to the data server and located Dr. Pazio’s research notes relating to the two compounds. Rather than read them, she sent a “delete” command.

The computer rejected the command, and Katherine cursed softly. Of course, research notes were meant to be permanent, and could not be deleted or altered, only appended to. She thought hard for a moment, before realizing that her account had, three years ago, had access to do a bit more than was probably safe, courtesy of shoddy IT work.

Katherine, hoping that the loophole in security hadn’t been corrected, typed in the command to reformat the server’s hard drive. It paused for a moment, then asked for confirmation, and Katherine knew she had her answer. Except that there were backups, on servers that did not have this loophole. Katherine, not being a security expert (knowing only a bit more than average about the lab computers when she had been taken from here), knew she couldn’t crack open the backups.

Katherine left the computer at the confirmation stage and sat there for a moment, wondering what to do about that rogue data in the backups, until she realized that they wouldn’t be delete-protected like the main server. A quick few commands later, they were gone, and the only thing left was the confirmation on the main server.

Katherine took the time to save the files to the flash disk she’d grabbed and then, after only a moment’s hesitation, confirmed the command, and the server in the basement began to self-destruct.

There was a flash of movement in the little window on the door, causing Katherine to look up. As she did, it returned - the new lab tech, Mary Ellen, walking swiftly around, looking for her. As she looked up, Katherine’s eyes locked with the tech’s, and Mary Ellen turned toward the office door. She seemed genuinely surprised to find it locked.

“Dr. Greene, open up!” She pounded on the glass. “Everyone’s waiting!”

Katherine didn’t answer. She wondered if the name “Dr. Greene” was even hers anymore, or if she’d taken her husband’s name, as she gathered up all of her things but one of the bottles and one needle, stuffing them in her pockets until they bulged comically.

Mary Ellen, who didn’t seem to know what Katherine was doing, continued to pound, as Katherine wrote a simple note on the next page of the notepad and tore it out. Send no-one after me this time, it read. Setting this on the desk, Katherine opened the one bottle and the needle’s packaging, and drew the same dose she’d tried to inject into a rat, in what seemed like another life.

“What are you doing?” Mary Ellen shouted in, still pounding, but Karen still ignored her. Suddenly, the woman’s face vanished, and Katherine heard her sprinting back towards the conference room.

The needle prepped, Katherine paused. She had all she needed to make a return trip and then some, of course, but this was admittedly still a huge risk. What sort of a world lay beyond the haze and static, she wondered? Was what she’d forgotten in coming here worth leaving all this behind?

Footsteps in the hall again - multiple sets. Katherine realized it was now or never, and jabbed the needle into the vein in her left arm, depressing the plunger. There was a cold feeling, and numbness, and then -

Dr. Pazio, breathless, following Mary Ellen’s frantic pace, got to the indicated door and looked in, just in time to see the last shadow of a form fade out into nothing. The owner of the office unlocked it, and the whole group crowded inside, but all they found was the note, and the computer faithfully reporting the completion of the server’s disk reformat.

Dr. Katherine Greene was never heard from again.