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kanerallels · 9 months ago

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In Saecula Saeculorum

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

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

~Time~

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

~~~

~Prepping For Rescue~

“Are you sure you want to do this?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

~~~

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

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

Except he wasn’t.

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

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

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

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

But instead, a girl had saved his life.

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

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

Two days later they found out Marian was pregnant.

~~~

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

~~~

~The Typewriter Theme~

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

~~~

“SIX MONTHS?”

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

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

“I’m fine. Let’s go again.”

~~~

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

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

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

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

The door swung open, and someone pulled him forward.

~~~

~The Hornburg~

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

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

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

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

“Let’s go again.”

“Okay.”

~~~

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

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

Stephen knew better.

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

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

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

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

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

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

~~~

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

“Yup,” she said.

“A sibling, huh?”

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

~~~

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

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

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

~~~

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

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

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

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

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

To whoever is helping me:

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

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

Stephen.

“What do we do?” Tad asked quietly

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

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

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

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

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

~~~

~FREEPORT~

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

And then three months after that, it happened again.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

4:00.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

~~~

~Afraid Of Time~

“It’s not done,” she said.

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

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

Stephen Reid. Died 10/12/83

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

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

~~~

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“And I’d be there?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You have to go,” Stephen guessed.

“I don’t want to,” she whispered.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He sent the text.

~~~

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

It hadn’t worked.

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

“Zara?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

#inklingschallenge #team tolkien #inklings challenge #genre: time travel #theme: counsel #theme: comfort #story: complete #this actually turned out so much better than i thought it would #there were. some moments #but i like the vibes #also now i'm obsessed with two of these ocs and need to feature them in more content #fun fact this could and probably does exist in the same universe as my kyvis stories #which is a HILARIOUS concept that i shall have to explore more #anyway i digress #i'd apologize for how overboard i went with the playlist BUT #a) you can just ignore it if you want to #and b) it's a masterpiece and i love it so much #it's for the VIBES GUYS #and i haven't spent this long waiting to find a character that fits how do i say goodbye only to not share when i do find one #MOVING ON #writing stories is a kind of magic too

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inklings-challenge · 1 year ago

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The Chesterton Challenge: Official Announcement

G.K. Chesterton was an extremely prolific writer and artist with a vast lifetime output of just about every kind of writing there is--novels, essays, articles, poems, biographies, short stories, etc.

His birthday is in May.

To honor both of these things, the Inklings Challenge blog is going to devote the month of May to hosting the Chesterton Challenge.

The Challenge

The Chesterton Challenge is an event that challenges Christian creatives of all kinds to create something every day of May--be it a story, drawing, poem, doodle, meal, sculpture, sentence, puppet, essay, scribble, portion of a project, whatever. If it involves making something, it counts.

Every day throughout May, there will be a post on the Inklings Challenge blog with a completely optional prompt to inspire creative works. People can then reblog that post either showing us or telling us about what they created that day.

Participants may interact with as many or as few days as they like, and are welcome to join in at any point during the month.

Any questions may be directed to the Inklings Challenge blog via ask or DM.

And that's the Chesterton Challenge! Now go forth and create!

#inklings challenge #the chesterton challenge

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inklings-sprint · 11 months ago

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Inklings Challenge Ask Game

Some pre-Inklings Challenge questions that I’ve thought about before and would be interested in seeing how others would answer these.

🖋️Which team are you hoping for?

💻Which team do you least want to end up on?

🖨️Which genre/s excites you the most?

📃Which genre/s do you feel least confident about?

📜Which genre/s do you feel most confident about?

📓Which of this year’s theme/s are you most drawn to?

🖍️Which of this year's theme/s do you find most challenging/least likely to try and incorporate?

📝 If you’ve previously participated, which team (or teams) have you ended up on?

🖊️ If you’ve previously participated, has your preferred team changed? Or would you rather always end up on the same team?

📖 If you’ve previously participated, have you ever been disappointed by which team you’ve ended up on?

📚 If you’ve previously participated, have you ever been excited by which team you’ve ended up on?

📕 Have you participated in any of the other Inklings Challenges? (Like the Christmas and/or Four Loves)

📗 If you’ve previously participated, do you have story ideas that have gone unused or waiting for the chance to use them again.

📘 If you’ve written multiple stories (finished or not) for the challenges, which is your favourite?

📙 If you’ve written multiple stories (finished or not) for the challenges, which is your least favourite?

�� Have you read any of the challenge stories that have really stuck with you? (Any stories you still think about/go back and read)

⏳ Are there any stories that you wish the author would finish writing?

💛 Have you made any friends through reading someone’s story? (In/related through the challenge)

💐💐💐💐💐

🌻🌻🌻🌻

🌼🌼🌼🌼

🌸🌸🌸🌸

I also feel like there could be more questions that fit along these lines. So if you think of them, feel free to add them in your reblogs.

🌹🌹🌹🌹

🌷🌷🌷🌷

🌺🌺🌺🌺

🪻🪻🪻🪻

@inklings-challenge

#inklings challenge #inklings sprint #inklings sprints #inklingschallenge #inklings-challenge #I know what my answers to most of these would be #I almost posted this but then thought up three more questions that I thought would be fun to ask

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secretariatess · 9 months ago

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Artificial

This is the story I am working on and conceived for the Inklings Challenge 2024. I do not know if I will even come close to completing it before the deadline, as this week is going to be very busy and attention to the story might have to be put on the back burner. I do want to complete it, though, as I've intrigued myself with the plot and I'd like to see it through.

So the themes may not come through before the end of the challenge, but the themes I aim to work with are: Instruct the ignorant, bear burdens patiently, and forgive all injuries. It's possible that the themes of admonish the sinner and comfort the sorrowful will also come up.

@inklings-challenge

Team: Chesterton Genre: Earth dystopian, intrusive fantasy Title: Artificial

Story:

* * *

The year was confidential information.

Information I was not high ranking enough to know. I was even programmed to not keep track of how many times the spokesperson of the federal office got up and said that tomorrow was the start of a new year.

I could only surveil, watching the spokesperson hyping up the people for celebrations that evening. As the people cheered, I scanned the crowd, trying to catch any suspicious activities or criminals. I was programmed with a database of criminals and all those with authorized permission to be in that district- to catch those who did not have such permission.

The latter of which is rather common. The people of New Boston would anticipate the date of the new year and move across districts to be with their family. They were determined and denials of their requests to visit served only as encouragement.

My third sweep of the crowd watching the town square television screen revealed two unfamiliar faces. I reported them, and the report went to the authorities and the nearby security androids. In only a few beats, I could see two security androids in the peripheral of my vision move to the hoppers, as our developers called them. The security androids’ neon blue hair made them stick out among the crowd, an indication that people needed to move out of their way. Quiet followed in their wake as the people they passed realized what was going on. The quiet alerted the hoppers. One took off the second he saw the blue hair, pushing people out of his way in an effort to get away. The other fell to her knees, having no chance of fleeing and instead pleading fruitlessly with security android approaching her. But there was nothing she could say or do to persuade him.

I was programmed with three emotions: Anger, happiness, sadness. The purpose of which to match the energy of certain interactions such as surveilling at a politician’s funeral.

Security androids were programmed with one: Anger.

The rare human concept of compassion was the farthest thing from their programming. That female hopper would have had better luck convincing a prison cell to open its door. The security android dragged her to her feet, her cries of pain falling on deaf ears. Not even those around her did anything in her defense.

The male hopper barely made It ten feet away from where he initially stood. No one was going to help him escape or make too much of an effort to step out of his way. It would have been futile anyways. There was another surveillance android in the direction he was headed, anticipating him, and there were plenty more security androids waiting for action.

The security android giving chase hardly needed to pick up his pace. He seized the male hopper from behind and pulled him back hard, slamming him to the ground. The hopper struggled as the security android lifted him to his feet and half-dragged, half-marched him away. The gaps left by them in the crowd were closed in in seconds.

Those hoppers would be taken to interrogation, where they would be questioned likely by other security androids. Human authorities did not bother themselves with such minor incidents. The hoppers would receive jail time.

That much I knew because I could inform citizens of the consequences. What I was not authorized to share but had learned because of developers talking with each other was that hoppers upon release would have difficulty obtaining the proper documents to return to their district and find work.

“It’s not worth it,” the developers chuckled as they mused over the people’s stupidity.

And yet they would still do it.

It wasn’t any of my business, though. I was not there to prevent human error. Just observe it and report it.

In a few moments, the incident was seemingly forgotten. the citizens began clearing out for state approved celebrations. As they filed past me, they avoided looking at me directly. Some were bolder and made a threatening expression, but they wouldn’t try anything. Not with other surveillance androids, street cameras, and security androids spitting distance from me. Other times, when they thought they could get away with it, there were those who would attack surveillance androids and leave them for scrap. Which was the case from time to time.

As it dwindled to the last few, something on a far wall caught my attention. I focused on it, the towering letters blaring out their message in bright colors in contrast to the gray walls around them, demanding people’s attention.

I was not the only one to report it. Even as I informed the authorities of the graffiti, I could register all of the reports coming in from other surveillance androids. Security androids rushed to cover it, though the letters were taller than them. We were sent messages that humans were being dispatched to clean and investigate. In the meantime, we were to watch the area for the culprit.

So I kept my eyes on the glaring yellows, oranges, and blues that spelled out the message:

THERE IS HOPE

#artificial #inklings challenge #inklings challenge 2024 #team chesterton #instruct the ignorant #bear burdens patiently #forgive all injuries #earth dystopian #intrusive fantasy

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incomingalbatross · 10 months ago

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if I go with time travel then obviously I will not equal the climax of All Clear by Connie Willis. so I will have to do something different from her instead.

#the thing is that it's lived rent-free in my head since last... november? december?#so it's the source of a good chunk of my Time Travel Thoughts #i need to take inspiration without imitation #inklings challenge

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katiethedane12 · 10 months ago

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Help I don't think I understand the concept of a "short story". Apparently most people make them only like, 4,000 words or less? Idk but that seems impossible

#my story #inklings challenge #inklings challenge 2024 #writblr #writing

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queenlucythevaliant · 1 year ago

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Tell Your Dad You Love Him

A retelling of "Meat Loves Salt"/"Cap O'Rushes" for the @inklings-challenge Four Loves event

An old king had three daughters. When his health began to fail, he summoned them, and they came.

Gordonia and Rowan were already waiting in the hallway when Coriander arrived. They were leaned up against the wall opposite the king’s office with an air of affected casualness. “I wonder what the old war horse wants today?” Rowan was saying. “More about next year’s political appointments, I shouldn’t wonder.”

“The older he gets, the more he micromanages,” Gordonia groused fondly. “A thousand dollars says this meeting could’ve been an email.”

They filed in single-file like they’d so often done as children: Gordonia first, then Rowan, and Coriander last of all. The king had placed three chairs in front of his desk all in a row. His daughters murmured their greetings, and one by one they sat down.

“I have divided everything I have in three,” the king said. “I am old now, and it’s time. Today, I will pass my kingdom on to you, my daughters.”

A short gasp came from Gordonia. None of them could have imagined that their father would give up running his kingdom while he still lived.

The king went on. “I know you will deal wisely with that which I leave in your care. But before we begin, I have one request.”

“Yes father?” said Rowan.

“Tell me how much you love me.”

An awkward silence fell. Although there was no shortage of love between the king and his daughters, theirs was not a family which spoke of such things. They were rich and blue-blooded: a soldier and the daughters of a soldier, a king and his three court-reared princesses. The royal family had always shown their affection through double meanings and hot cups of coffee.

Gordonia recovered herself first. She leaned forward over the desk and clasped her father’s hands in her own. “Father,” she said, “I love you more than I can say.” A pause. “I don’t think there’s ever been a family so happy in love as we have been. You’re a good dad.”

The old king smiled and patted her hand. “Thank you, Gordonia. We have been very happy, haven’t we? Here is your inheritance. Cherish it, as I cherish you.”

Rowan spoke next; the words came tumbling out. “Father! There’s not a thing in my life which you didn’t give me, and all the joy in the world beside. Come now, Gordonia, there’s no need to understate the matter. I love you more than—why, more than life itself!”

The king laughed, and rose to embrace his second daughter. “How you delight me, Rowan. All of this will be yours.”

Only Coriander remained. As her sisters had spoken, she’d wrung her hands in her lap, unsure of what to say. Did her father really mean for flattery to be the price of her inheritance? That just wasn’t like him. For all that he was a politician, he’d been a soldier first. He liked it when people told the truth.

When the king’s eyes came to rest on her, Coriander raised her own to meet them. “Do you really want to hear what you already know?”

“I do.”

She searched for a metaphor that could carry the weight of her love without unnecessary adornment. At last she found one, and nodded, satisfied. “Dad, you’re like—like salt in my food.”

“Like salt?”

“Well—yes.”

The king’s broad shoulders seemed to droop. For a moment, Coriander almost took back her words. Her father was the strongest man in the world, even now, at eighty. She’d watched him argue with foreign rulers and wage wars all her life. Nothing could hurt him. Could he really be upset?

But no. Coriander held her father’s gaze. She had spoken true. What harm could be in that?

“I don’t know why you’re even here, Cor,” her father said.

Now, Coriander shifted slightly in her seat, unnerved. “What? Father—”

“It would be best if—you should go,” said the old king.

“Father, you can’t really mean–”

“Leave us, Coriander.”

So she left the king’s court that very hour.

It had been a long time since she’d gone anywhere without a chauffeur to drive her, but Coriander’s thoughts were flying apart too fast for her to be afraid. She didn’t know where she would go, but she would make do, and maybe someday her father would puzzle out her metaphor and call her home to him. Coriander had to hope for that, at least. The loss of her inheritance didn’t feel real yet, but her father—how could he not know that she loved him? She’d said it every day.

She’d played in the hall outside that same office as a child. She’d told him her secrets and her fears and sent him pictures on random Tuesdays when they were in different cities just because. She had watched him triumph in conference rooms and on the battlefield and she’d wanted so badly to be like him.

If her father doubted her love, then maybe he’d never noticed any of it. Maybe the love had been an unnoticed phantasm, a shadow, a song sung to a deaf man. Maybe all that love had been nothing at all.

A storm was on the horizon, and it reached her just as she made it onto the highway. Lightning flashed and thunder rolled. Rain poured down and flooded the road. Before long, Coriander was hydroplaning. Frantically, she tried to remember what you were supposed to do when that happened. Pump the brakes? She tried. No use. Wasn’t there something different you did if the car had antilock brakes? Or was that for snow? What else, what else–

With a sickening crunch, her car hit the guardrail. No matter. Coriander’s thoughts were all frenzied and distant. She climbed out of the car and just started walking.

Coriander wandered beneath an angry sky on the great white plains of her father’s kingdom. The rain beat down hard, and within seconds she was soaked to the skin. The storm buffeted her long hair around her head. It tangled together into long, matted cords that hung limp down her back. Mud soiled her fine dress and splattered onto her face and hands. There was water in her lungs and it hurt to breathe. Oh, let me die here, Coriander thought. There’s nothing left for me, nothing at all. She kept walking.

When she opened her eyes, Coriander found herself in a dank gray loft. She was lying on a strange feather mattress.

She remained there a while, looking up at the rafters and wondering where she could be. She thought and felt, as it seemed, through a heavy and impenetrable mist; she was aware only of hunger and weakness and a dreadful chill (though she was all wrapped in blankets). She knew that a long time must have passed since she was fully aware, though she had a confused memory of wandering beside the highway in a thunderstorm, slowly going mad because—because— oh, there’d been something terrible in her dreams. Her father, shoulders drooping at his desk, and her sisters happily come into their inheritance, and she cast into exile—

She shuddered and sat up dizzily. “Oh, mercy,” she murmured. She hadn’t been dreaming.

She stumbled out of the loft down a narrow flight of stairs and came into a strange little room with a single window and a few shabby chairs. Still clinging to the rail, she heard a ruckus from nearby and then footsteps. A plump woman came running to her from the kitchen, wiping her hands on her apron and softly clucking at the state of her guest’s matted, tangled hair.

“Dear, dear,” said the woman. “Here’s my hand, if you’re still unsteady. That’s good, good. Don’t be afraid, child. I’m Katherine, and my husband is Folke. He found you collapsed by the goose-pond night before last. I’m she who dressed you—your fine gown was ruined, I’m afraid. Would you like some breakfast? There’s coffee on the counter, and we’ll have porridge in a minute if you’re patient.”

“Thank you,” Coriander rasped.

“Will you tell me your name, my dear?”

“I have no name. There’s nothing to tell.”

Katherine clicked her tongue. “That’s alright, no need to worry. Folke and I’ve been calling you Rush on account of your poor hair. I don’t know if you’ve seen yourself, but it looks a lot like river rushes. No, don’t get up. Here’s your breakfast, dear.”

There was indeed porridge, as Katherine had promised, served with cream and berries from the garden. Coriander ate hungrily and tasted very little. Then, when she was finished, the goodwife ushered her over to a sofa by the window and put a pillow beneath her head. Coriander thanked her, and promptly fell asleep.

She woke again around noon, with the pounding in her head much subsided. She woke feeling herself again, to visions of her father inches away and the sound of his voice cracking across her name.

Katherine was outside in the garden; Coriander could see her through the clouded window above her. She rose and, upon finding herself still in a borrowed nightgown, wrapped herself in a blanket to venture outside.

“Feeling better?” Katherine was kneeling in a patch of lavender, but she half rose when she heard the cottage door open.

“Much. Thank you, ma’am.

“No thanks necessary. Folke and I are ministers, of a kind. We keep this cottage for lost and wandering souls. You’re free to remain here with us for as long as you need.”

“Oh,” was all Coriander could think to say.

“You’ve been through a tempest, haven’t you? Are you well enough to tell me where you came from?”

Coriander shifted uncomfortably. “I’m from nowhere,” she said. “I have nothing.”

“You don’t owe me your story, child. I should like to hear it, but it will keep till you’re ready. Now, why don’t you put on some proper clothes and come help me with this weeding.”

Coriander remained at the cottage with Katherine and her husband Folke for a week, then a fortnight. She slept in the loft and rose with the sun to help Folke herd the geese to the pond. After, Coriander would return and see what needed doing around the cottage. She liked helping Katherine in the garden.

The grass turned gold and the geese’s thick winter down began to come in. Coriander’s river-rush hair proved itself unsalvageable. She spent hours trying to untangle it, first with a hairbrush, then with a fine-tooth comb and a bottle of conditioner, and eventually even with honey and olive oil (a home remedy that Folke said his mother used to use). So, at last, Coriander surrendered to the inevitable and gave Katherine permission to cut it off. One night, by the yellow light of the bare bulb that hung over the kitchen table, Katherine draped a towel over Coriander’s shoulders and tufts of gold went falling to the floor all round her.

“I’m here because I failed at love,” she managed to tell the couple at last, when her sorrows began to feel more distant. “I loved my father, and he knew it not.”

Folke and Katherine still called her Rush. She didn’t correct them. Coriander was the name her parents gave her. It was the name her father had called her when she was six and racing down the stairs to meet him when he came home from Europe, and at ten when she showed him the new song she’d learned to play on the harp. She’d been Cor when she brought her first boyfriend home and Cori the first time she shadowed him at court. Coriander, Coriander, when she came home from college the first time and he’d hugged her with bruising strength. Her strong, powerful father.

As she seasoned a pot of soup for supper, she wondered if he understood yet what she’d meant when she called him salt in her food.

Coriander had been living with Katherine and Folke for two years, and it was a morning just like any other. She was in the kitchen brewing a pot of coffee when Folke tossed the newspaper on the table and started rummaging in the fridge for his orange juice. “Looks like the old king’s sick again,” he commented casually. Coriander froze.

She raced to the table and seized hold of the paper. There, above the fold, big black letters said, KING ADMITTED TO HOSPITAL FOR EMERGENCY TREATMENT. There was a picture of her father, looking older than she’d ever seen him. Her knees went wobbly and then suddenly the room was sideways.

Strong arms caught her and hauled her upright. “What’s wrong, Rush?”

“What if he dies,” she choked out. “What if he dies and I never got to tell him?”

She looked up into Folke’s puzzled face, and then the whole sorry story came tumbling out.

When she was through, Katherine (who had come downstairs sometime between salt and the storm) took hold of her hand and kissed it. “Bless you, dear,” she said. “I never would have guessed. Maybe it’s best that you’ve both had some time to think things over.”

Katherine shook her head. “But don’t you think…?”

“Yes?”

“Well, don’t you think he should have known that I loved him? I shouldn’t have needed to say it. He’s my father. He’s the king.”

Katherine replied briskly, as though the answer should have been obvious. “He’s only human, child, for all that he might wear a crown; he’s not omniscient. Why didn’t you tell your father what he wanted to hear?”

“I didn’t want to flatter him,” said Coriander. “That was all. I wanted to be right in what I said.”

The goodwife clucked softly. “Oh dear. Don’t you know that sometimes, it’s more important to be kind than to be right?”

In her leave-taking, Coriander tried to tell Katherine and Folke how grateful she was to them, but they wouldn’t let her. They bought her a bus ticket and sent her on her way towards King’s City with plenty of provisions. Two days later, Coriander stood on the back steps of one of the palace outbuildings with her little carpetbag clutched in her hands.

Stuffing down the fear of being recognized, Coriander squared her shoulders and hoped they looked as strong as her father’s. She rapped on the door, and presently a maid came and opened it. The maid glanced Coriander up and down, but after a moment it was clear that her disguise held. With all her long hair shorn off, she must have looked like any other girl come in off the street.

“I’m here about a job,” said Coriander. “My name’s Rush.”

The king's chambers were half-lit when Coriander brought him his supper, dressed in her servants’ apparel. He grunted when she knocked and gestured with a cane towards his bedside table. His hair was snow-white and he was sitting in bed with his work spread across a lap-desk. His motions were very slow.

Coriander wanted to cry, seeing her father like that. Yet somehow, she managed to school her face. Like he would, she kept telling herself. Stoically, she put down the supper tray, then stepped back out into the hallway.

It was several minutes more before the king was ready to eat. Coriander heard papers being shuffled, probably filed in those same manilla folders her father had always used. In the hall, Coriander felt the seconds lengthen. She steeled herself for the moment she knew was coming, when the king would call out in irritation, “Girl! What's the matter with my food? Why hasn’t it got any taste?”

When that moment came, all would be made right. Coriander would go into the room and taste his food. “Why,” she would say, with a look of complete innocence, “It seems the kitchen forgot to salt it!” She imagined how her father’s face would change when he finally understood. My daughter always loved me, he would say.

Soon, soon. It would happen soon. Any second now.

The moment never came. Instead, the floor creaked, followed by the rough sound of a cane striking the floor. The door opened, and then the king was there, his mighty shoulders shaking. “Coriander,” he whispered.

“Dad. You know me?”

“Of course.”

“Then you understand now?”

The king’s wrinkled brow knit. “Understand about the salt? Of course, I do. It wasn't such a clever riddle. There was surely no need to ruin my supper with a demonstration.”

Coriander gaped at him. She'd expected questions, explanations, maybe apologies for sending her away. She'd never imagined this.

She wanted very badly to seize her father and demand answers, but then she looked, really looked, at the way he was leaning on his cane. The king was barely upright; his white head was bent low. Her questions would hold until she'd helped her father back into his room.

“If you knew what I meant–by saying you were like salt in my food– then why did you tell me to go?” she asked once they were situated back in the royal quarters.

Idly, the king picked at his unseasoned food. “I shouldn’t have done that. Forgive me, Coriander. My anger and hurt got the better of me, and it has brought me much grief. I never expected you to stay away for so long.”

Coriander nodded slowly. Her father's words had always carried such fierce authority. She'd never thought to question if he really meant what he’d said to her.

“As for the salt,” continued the king, "Is it so wrong that an old man should want to hear his daughters say ‘I love you' before he dies?”

Coriander rolled the words around in her head, trying to make sense of them. Then, with a sudden mewling sound from her throat, she managed to say, “That's really all you wanted?”

“That's all. I am old, Cor, and we've spoken too little of love in our house.” He took another bite of his unsalted supper. His hand shook. “That was my failing, I suppose. Perhaps if I’d said it, you girls would have thought to say it back.”

“But father!” gasped Coriander, “That’s not right. We've always known we loved one another! We've shown it a thousand ways. Why, I've spent the last year cataloging them in my head, and I've still not even scratched the surface!”

The king sighed. “Perhaps you will understand when your time comes. I knew, and yet I didn't. What can you really call a thing you’ve never named? How do you know it exists? Perhaps all the love I thought I knew was only a figment.”

“But that’s what I’ve been afraid of all this time,” Coriander bit back. “How could you doubt? If it was real at all– how could you doubt?”

The king’s weathered face grew still. His eyes fell shut and he squeezed them. “Death is close to me, child. A small measure of reassurance is not so very much to ask.”

Coriander slept in her old rooms that night. None of it had changed. When she woke the next morning, for a moment she remembered nothing of the last two years.

She breakfasted in the garden with her father, who came down the steps in a chair-lift. “Coriander,” he murmured. “I half-thought I dreamed you last night.”

“I’m here, Dad,” she replied. “I’m not going anywhere.”

Slowly, the king reached out with one withered hand and caressed Coriander's cheek. Then, his fingers drifted up to what remained of her hair. He ruffled it, then gently tugged on a tuft the way he'd used to playfully tug her long braid when she was a girl.

“I love you,” he said.

“That was always an I love you, wasn’t it?” replied Coriander. “My hair.”

The king nodded. “Yes, I think it was.”

So Coriander reached out and gently tugged the white hairs of his beard. “You too,” she whispered.

“Why salt?” The king was sitting by the fire in his rooms wrapped in two blankets. Coriander was with him, enduring the sweltering heat of the room without complaint.

She frowned. “You like honesty. We have that in common. I was trying to be honest–accurate–to avoid false flattery.”

The king tugged at the outer blanket, saying nothing. His lips thinned and his eyes dropped to his lap. Coriander wished they wouldn’t. She wished they would hold to hers, steely and ready for combat as they always used to be.

“Would it really have been false?” the king said at last. “Was there no other honest way to say it? Only salt?”

Coriander wanted to deny it, to give speech to the depth and breadth of her love, but once again words failed her. “It was my fault,” she said. “I didn’t know how to heave my heart into my throat.” She still didn’t, for all she wanted to.

When the doctor left, the king was almost too tired to talk. His words came slowly, slurred at the edges and disconnected, like drops of water from a leaky faucet.

Still, Coriander could tell that he had something to say. She waited patiently as his lips and tongue struggled to form the words. “Love you… so… much… You… and… your sisters… Don’t… worry… if you… can’t…say…how…much. I… know.”

It was all effort. The king sat back when he was finished. Something was still spasming in his throat, and Coriander wanted to cry.

“I’m glad you know,” she said. “I’m glad. But I still want to tell you.”

Love was effort. If her father wanted words, she would give him words. True words. Kind words. She would try…

“I love you like salt in my food. You're desperately important to me, and you've always been there, and I don't know what I'll do without you. I don’t want to lose you. And I love you like the soil in a garden. Like rain in the spring. Like a hero. You have the strongest shoulders of anyone I know, and all I ever wanted was to be like you…”

A warm smile spread across the old king’s face. His eyes drifted shut.

#inklingschallenge #theme: storge #story: complete #inklings challenge #leah stories #OKAY. SO #i spend so much time thinking about king lear. i think i've said before that it's my favorite shakespeare play. it is not close #and one of the hills i will die on is that cordelia was not in the right when she refused to flatter her dad #like. obviously he's definitely not in the right either. the love test was a screwed up way to make sure his kids loved him #he shouldn't have tied their inheritances into it. he DEFINITELY shouldn't have kicked cordelia out when she refused to play #but like. Cordelia. there is no good reason not to tell your elderly dad how much you love him #and okay obviously lear is my starting point but the same applies to the meat loves salt princess #your dad wants you to tell him you love him. there is no good reason to turn it into a riddle. you had other options #and honestly it kinda bothers me when people read cordelia/the princess as though she's perfectly virtuous #she's very human and definitely beats out the cruel sisters but she's definitely not aspirational. she's not to be emulated #at the end of the day both the fairytale and the play are about failures in storge #at happens when it's there and you can't tell. when it's not and you think it is. when you think you know someone's heart and you just don'#hey! that's a thing that happens all the time between parents and children. especially loving past each other and speaking different langua #so the challenge i set myself with this story was: can i retell the fairytale in such a way that the princess is unambiguously in the wrong #and in service of that the king has to get softened so his errors don't overshadow hers #anyway. thank you for coming to my TED talk #i've been thinking about this story since the challenge was announced but i wrote the whole thing last night after the super bowl #got it in under the wire! yay!#also! the whole 'modern setting that conflicts with the fairytale language' is supposed to be in the style of modern shakespeare adaptation #no idea if it worked but i had a lot of fun with it #pontifications and creations

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atlantic-riona · 10 months ago

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Just write something short for the Inklings Challenge this year, I said to myself. Something fun and easy. No need to make something unnecessarily unwieldy.

Nearly a thousand words later, I'm eyeing the beginning of the story and asking it firmly, "Are you trying to become a novel?"

"No," it says innocently, obviously lying. "Just keep writing, I'm sure the end will come soon."

Reader, it did not.

#my writing #inklings challenge #I have determined that I am physically incapable of writing anything short #best I can do is 10 thousand words #we're nowhere close to that...YET

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swinging-stars-from-satellites · 9 months ago

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so, my Inklings Challenge story kind of pivotally includes the main character falling from a tall building and um. considering what happened to that guy from One Direction earlier this week is it in poor taste to continue writing this?

#like idk how to make it work with any other inciting event though so I'd probably have to completely start from scratch #uh.... yeah help???#Lu rambles #inklings challenge #ic24

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iminlovewithpercyjackson · 7 months ago

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CHRISTMAS IN RAENOVA

for the 2024 inklings christmas challenge // part of the bellaterra series

After Holly, Seth, Naomi, and Zach are magically transported into the realm of Raenova to help the kingdom of Akelyra win a war against a witch and her kingdom, their lives have been busy. But they’re not too busy to miss home, and they’re certainly not too busy to miss Christmas on Earth. Luckily, there’s someone else who understands, and he’s going to make sure that the kids don't miss out, even if Christmas doesn't exist in Raenova.

@inklings-challenge

read on my website

It had only been a couple of weeks since Holly had crossed through that doorway in the woods back home. In those couple of weeks, though, Holly and the others ― her best friend, Seth, his sister, Naomi, and a friend of Holly’s sister’s, Zach ― had found themselves trapped in this realm, were introduced to a king and queen, told that they were going to develop special magical abilities to help them in battle, told that they had been brought here by the Maker ― God ― to help fight a war against a neighboring kingdom, and had met an older man called James, who had been brought here under similar circumstances many years ago with his own friends, including Holly’s grandmother. It had only been a couple of weeks, but a lot had happened.

Early one afternoon, fresh from a rinse off after a long morning of training followed immediately by the noon meal, Holly emerged from her bedroom, clean and with a clean dress on, and flopped onto the couch in their sitting room. A perk of their special position was that not only did they get to live in a castle, they had their own set of rooms. There were separate bedrooms with balconies, and a kitchen, sitting room, and library made up the rest of their expansive chambers, with the training area just across the hallway outside for easy access.

Her head landed in a pillow face down, and she promptly wrapped her arms around it, turning her head to face the middle of the room. Her knees landed on the couch, and then she let her stocking-covered feet land in Seth’s lap. He patted her leg absently, his focus on the book he was reading, his torso twisted toward the arm of the couch where he had the book propped.

“I miss home,” Holly said.

“Me too,” said Zach, and Holly turned to see him sitting in one of the chairs on the other end of the room. She hadn't noticed him at first.

“Yeah, so do I,” Seth said. “Our first Christmas away from our families isn't supposed to be until after college. But here we are.”

“We can't even call them,” Holly complained. “And they don't celebrate Christmas here. No presents for us.”

“None of the fun food, either,” Zach pointed out.

Naomi came out of her room, braiding her long hair. “What are we talking about?” she asked them.

“The fact that we don't have a Christmas here,” Seth said. “And that we miss home.”

Naomi nodded. “I wonder what’s going on at home. I hope some magic makes them not know that we’re gone. I wouldn't want them to be stuck panicking that we’re not there, you know? We’ve been gone for a while now.”

Holly shrugged. “I don't know. Has anyone asked James that?”

“I did,” Seth said. “He doesn't know. He never went back, remember?”

Holly groaned.

“I wonder if we could get Christmas off from training,” Zach suggested hopefully.

Naomi laughed at him. “With Ailan? Or Liria? There’s no way.”

Naomi was very likely correct about that. The king and queen were typically hard on the four of them, not out of any sort of cruelty at all but out of a need to get the kids up to speed on fighting techniques so that they were prepared for the coming war. Holly understood. All the kids did. That didn't mean that they didn't still long for their weekends spent sleeping in. Seth had even mentioned missing school, but that was a sentiment that none of the other kids shared in the slightest.

Sighing, Zach leaned back in his chair. “You're right.” He got to his feet and picked up the fire poker, nudging the logs in the fireplace with it. The flames leaped higher, and they crackled as Zach messed with it. He dropped to the ground, laying out on his back, kicking his feet out in front of him and tucking his hands under his head. After a second, he sat back up again.

Anticipating his question, Holly grabbed for the pillow squeezed between the couch back and her hip. She flung it toward Zach, and he caught it with deft hands and a quick grin, laying back on the ground with the pillow tucked under his head.

“Thanks,” he said.

She nodded sleepily, rolling back onto her side and adjusting the pillow under her own head. Then she sighed. “I just wish we could have at least gotten to go home for Christmas. This Maker can open up that doorway anytime He wants, right? Why can't we visit?”

“I'm sure he knows that at least some of us wouldn't come back,” Seth told her, patting her leg again as he flipped the page of his book with his other hand.

Holly scowled. “I’d come back. Promise.”

Of course, though, nothing happened.

But a few days later, when Holly woke up to the sun streaming in from her windows and the glass balcony doors, she heard chattering outside of her room. Chatter was usual for their little group ― she, Seth, and Naomi had all been friends already upon arrival, and though she’d had her misgivings about Zach at first, he fit in well with everyone. Chatter this early in the morning, though, was not usual. Everyone tended to move sluggishly through pulling on their clothes and fixing their hair and grabbing a bite to eat before they all headed out to the training area.

Then Holly spotted the sun in the sky outside of the windows, much higher than it normally was when she woke up for training. She frowned at it for a moment, and then her eyes flew wide open. She leapt out of bed, tearing off her nightgown. Reaching for her training clothes ― the pair of gray trousers and tightly fitted gray shirt ― she yanked them on hurriedly, then shoved her boots onto her feet. Then, pushing open her door, she headed out of her room to go and grab her sword, then paused.

Seth and Zach were both sitting on the couch, laughing. Across from them was James, the old man who had once been a Raenovan warrior from Earth as well. His wife, Laia, sat in the chair beside him.

“Holland!” James smiled at her. “Good morning, child. Come and sit.”

She did so slowly, taking her spot squished between the two boys. “Aren't we late for training?” she asked.

“James got us the day off!” Zach exclaimed. “Ailan and Liria actually let us have the day off! Can you believe it?” he added, laughing.

“Nope,” Holly replied, a grin stretching across her face. “No way. We really have the day off?”

“Yes,” James said. “Merry Christmas, Holland.”

“It’s Christmas!” Holly stared at him, blinking. Then she smiled. “Merry Christmas, James. Merry Christmas, Seth, Zach.”

“Merry Christmas!” the boys chorused.

Naomi joined them shortly thereafter, and soon the sitting room was full of happy laughter and loud conversations.

A knock at the door interrupted them, and Laia opened it to find a couple of servants carrying several large bundles. She directed them to the kitchen, and after depositing their packages, the servants disappeared again. Laia ordered them all into the kids’ spacious kitchen. Sitting on the island table in the middle was a large ham, several kinds of vegetables, and various ingredients that Holly knew were all for baking.

“This is all for our Christmas dinner,” Laia told them with a kind smile. “Come and help!”

The four teenagers and James promptly filed into the kitchen, passing recipes around until everyone had something to do. Laia took the lead on their ham, and soon that was cooking. Holly was put in charge of the dessert, some chocolatey concoction she’d never heard of before but that sounded close enough to a cake she was sure she could figure it out. Seth and Naomi, neither of them very good cooks, were set in charge of washing dishes and cutting vegetables. Zach took the vegetables and started assembling them into their respective dishes. James went to work on making rolls from the other ingredients.

Even with the six of them, it took a long time to get all of the food made and ready, but eventually, everything was done. Holly’s not-a-cake was the lone item remaining in the kitchen as they carried everything else into the kids’ dining room, placing it out onto the table that Naomi had set up earlier. Then everyone took their seats ― James and Laia at the head and foot of the table with Seth and Naomi on one side, Holly across from Seth, and Zach seated beside her ― and they began to eat.

“Did you have Christmas here with Holly’s grandma and the rest of them?” Naomi asked James.

James nodded. “We did something just like this every year we could. Sometimes we were in the middle of a battle or in another kingdom and we couldn't, but yes, we did. We would make a big Christmas dinner and have a whole feast together, just like this. Holly, your grandmother was always the one in charge of our dessert. We never trusted anyone else to make it. Sometimes our friends would come, too, and we would tell them about Christmas back home. Sometimes it was just us, and that was no less fun.”

“What did you do at your Christmases at home?” Holly asked. “What was your favorite tradition?”

“My family made ornaments together a week before Christmas,” James said. “Just little things to hang up. We would all make one that represented another person in my family, and then we would hang them up. When Christmas was over, we kept the ornament that represented us. I had quite the collection,” he said, and his smile was fond and wistful and a little sad as he thought of the family he hadn't seen in decades.

“What do you children do?” Laia asked.

“My family likes to drive around and go look at all of the lights people have put up,” Naomi said. To Laia, she explained, “People will decorate their homes for Christmas, both inside and outside, and the outside usually has these strings of lights all over. They’re really pretty. I love to see them. Sometimes we make it a competition to see which of the houses has the best lights.”

“Oh, I love doing that,” Seth said. “My favorite of our Christmas traditions is that we decorate our tree and put up our lights outside all together, always the day after Thanksgiving. My mom decorates the tree with me, and Naomi and my dad set up everything else inside. Then we all go outside and put up the lights. Dad and I put up the ones you need ladders for. Mom tells us where to move them so they look nice.”

Holly laughed at that. “So that’s why your house always looks nice!”

Seth stuck his tongue out at her.

“When I was little, my grandma always made our desserts,” Holly said. “I guess just like she did here. But as I got a little bit older, my sister and I got to help. We had a truce every year to stop fighting just that day so we could help my grandma make a whole bunch of batches of Christmas cookies, and then we would have a truce on Christmas when we helped her make our Christmas cake. After that, it was back to fighting,” she said with a little laugh, shaking away thoughts of her sister, “but not those days. We still help out with the baking now, and sometimes, my little brother helps, too. My sister said that whenever she has kids, she’s going to stick them with us so that they learn to bake.”

Seth laughed. “No one else in her family can bake,” he told everyone else. “Just Holly and her grandma. Her sister and her brother help, but they can't bake on their own.”

James laughed. “Your poor grandmother. I suppose your family members must have gotten your grandfather’s baking skills. He was hopeless in the kitchen.”

“Well, being a prince and all,” Holly said, laughing, “I suppose he never learned. And especially not with the fancy ovens we have at home.”

“No, I imagine that would be confusing,” James chuckled.

“I’m pretty hopeless in the kitchen, too,” Zach said, “at least when it comes to baking. But my mom always made a big breakfast for Christmas morning. We’d wake up smelling it, and then we would open presents really, really quickly while her cinnamon rolls finished baking. Then we’d all eat together. It was nice.”

“It was all so nice.” Seth frowned. “I do wish we could go home.”

“Me too,” Naomi said, and Holly nodded her assent.

“I wish you could as well,” James told them.

Laia brought out Holly’s not-a-cake shortly after that, and she quickly and deftly cut into it, passing pieces around to each of them. Holly was more than satisfied with the taste of it. They all ate their pieces, and then they sat around the sitting room, Naomi sprawled out on one of the couches, Holly squished between the boys on the other couch, and James and Laia in the chairs, quietly enjoying all being together in the warm room of the castle.

Finally, as the clock chimed nine, James rose. “It’s our bedtime, now, I think. Laia and I will be off. You kids should get to bed soon; you don't have a day off tomorrow.”

Holly and Zach groaned, and James laughed.

“You'll be thankful for this one day,” he told them. “Before I leave, may I pray over you all?”

Seth nodded, standing up and moving to the center of the room. Laia, standing beside her husband, reached for Seth’s hand. James extended his hand to Naomi, who reached for Zach’s hand as Seth reached for Holly’s. Then Holly and Zach joined hands, completing the circle.

Holly glanced around the circle awkwardly. She’d never liked prayer time when her grandma or her aunts or uncles insisted on it, and she had always been thankful that her own parents never prayed. Seth’s family did, though, and though Naomi wasn't big on it, either, Seth was. He’d never made her feel awkward about it or forced her to participate, but just being around it always made her feel a little bit off.

She’d never expected religion to be a thing in a world like this, and even when James had prayed over them the first time he’d met them, she’d assumed that was just something that had carried over from his childhood on earth. But she was wrong. Though churches weren't a thing here, everyone, at least in Akelyra, from the king and queen down to the peasants in the nearby town, worshipped a Maker. James had told them that this was what the Raenovans called God.

“Maker,” James said, his head lifted up, “we thank You for Your many blessings this year. We thank You for sheltering our home. We thank You for bringing these young men and women here to aid us in our time of need. We ask that You would continue to bless and shelter and protect us throughout this war.”

As James continued, Holly stood there with her eyes closed, her hands held tightly by the two boys. She wondered how she had come to be here. She wondered if the craziest part of this entire adventure was that she was in this strange, fantastical, magical world or if it was that she was standing here listening to someone pray and thinking, for the very first time, that he might possibly be right, that her grandma might be right, that Seth might be right.

After all, this magical world existed. Who was she to say that a God ― or a Maker ― might also exist? Maybe He did.

#inklings challenge #inklingschallenge #my writinggg #christmas in raenova #bellaterra story #oneshot #original

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