Flash Fiction Day 2017

I.

Once she wielded sword and bow in battle: strong, steadfast, side by side with her brothers in arms. Now she wields a quill and words of power she was not born to: direct, sufficient, alone surrounded by her peers in name.

The warrior’s weapons hang on the wall, and her spirit is with them.


--


II.

A young man dangles hundreds of feet above a stream of lava, one foot tangled in a fraying rope anchored high over the chasm ledge he swings beneath. A dark-robed figure catches his eye; it is floating in midair, a scythe balanced against the crook of its shoulder.

“Huh. I didn’t think I was that close,” the dangling one says.

“The situation was dire enough to alert me,” replies the other.

“I hardly have a scratch on me, though. Usually I’m practically on your doorstep before you show up.”

“I don’t have a doorstep.”

“Expression.”

“I don’t have those, either.”

The human thinks about it, shrugs, and holds his breath when the slight motion causes the rope to creak alarmingly.

“Really, though, this seems early for you. Do you know something I don’t?”

He starts trying to reach for the chasm wall without upsetting the rope, but it’s beyond his straining fingertips.

“I know many things you do not,” the other replies. “In regards to your lifespan, however, no. I only come when things seem…inevitable.”

“Oh.” The human stops his efforts, huffs, and thinks a little more, regarding stone and rope and ledge in turn. “Inevitable.”

“Indeed.”

“Hasn’t stopped me before.”

A pause, long and deep, as the human begins to fumble carefully through the pouches dangling upside-down on his belt.

“Indeed.”

“How many times is this now? Four? Five?”

“Eight,” says the spirit, drumming eight deliberate taps against the shaft of its weapon.

“That many already? I don’t remember…”

“You wouldn’t. Mortal memories are unreliable under duress to begin with, and two of these happened while you were still quite young.”

He has a thin metal contraption in his hands, hinges and latches and springs popping into place as he manipulates it with deft fingers. In moments it has transformed from a narrow rod to a three-pronged hook. He pulls a thin coil of rope from another pouch and ties one end to a ring at the base of the hook using a complicated knot.

The cords wrapped around his ankle groan and settle further as more strands snap under the strain.

“You could help,” he says to the other, though without much hope or expectation. “Tell me what to throw at.”

“I do not help. Neither do I harm.” The spirit’s tone suggests that the human should be grateful for this. “Your fate is not in my hands.”

“I kind of figured.”

He gives the grappling hook a quick spin, eyes fixed on the ledge above.

“There is nothing to catch,” the spirit volunteers, despite its earlier words, “your rope is too thin, and much more movement will snap the one holding you.”

“Inevitable,” the human says, almost in agreement. Then he whirls the hook, a whistle of dull metal in the hot air, and lets it fly. The spirit watches it sail through the air, watches it clatter against bare stone, watches as the final strands part and the human is suspended for an instant longer before beginning to fall, dragging the hook after him…

Watches in disbelief and something which it will later imagine is not unlike horror as the hook catches just enough on a crack in the stone to stick, as the thin rope proves strong enough to hold the human’s weight, as the human himself keeps his grip even as he shouts in pain and panic and smacks against the chasm wall.

It does not shout. It does not wail or scream or gnash its teeth. It does tighten its fingers on the shaft of its scythe for a moment, and it does think, briefly, of simply cutting the rope and letting nature take care of the rest, even if it would invite terrible retribution.

Instead, it shakes its head, loosens its grip, and blinks back to its own plane of existence, leaving the human to climb his rope to safety and knowing that it will be called back sooner or later.

It was, after all, inevitable.


--


III.

A dozen bandits in this particular group. Three escaped in the chaos, and who knew where they were by now. Two killed in the heat of battle, their bodies already wrapped and awaiting a quick burial on site. Seven still alive, bound and sullen or else groaning with injuries: shallow cuts, bruises, broken bones. One was currently having a shattered kneecap tended to by Glen, who had the most medical training out of all the town guard.

All in all, a very successful mission, and without any losses on their side either. The mayor could say what he liked; hiring a little extra mercenary support hadn’t been a bad idea.

The guard captain made sure to thank each of the three lone adventurers they’d hired before sending them back to town with signed writs for the promised silver. He wasn’t sure how far the mayor’s bad temper over his personnel decisions would run, and it was entirely possible that the man would make sure none of them got such courtesy, even if he couldn’t prevent them getting their reward. The first responded to his gratitude politely, the second with indifference, and then he reached the third.

This one beamed at him, all teeth and freckles on a stout, round little Halfling face. She’d cleaned up most of the blood on her face with a handkerchief and spit, it seemed; smears of it remained, especially beneath the hasty bandage wrapped around her forehead from a bandit’s lucky strike.

Still not lucky enough for the poor bastard, in the end. That blow had barely grazed the little one’s head, hampered by the awkward angle and his shock at the ferocity of her attack. In return, he’d be lucky if he healed enough to walk again, and even then it wouldn’t be without a heavy limp unless magic got involved somehow.

The captain gave the Halfling a writ and a hand to shake. She took both with all the friendly cheer she’d exhibited since he’d met her while recruiting for this job the previous day.

“We appreciated the help,” he told her once he’d extracted his fingers again. “This could’ve gone far harder for us all without the aid you gave.”

“No problem; I’m always happy to help out!” She waved a hand carelessly in the air. The grin never wavered. “Besides, it was fun.”

Fun. The captain paused for a moment to let his mind adjust to that concept as applied to raiding a bandit camp.

“I’m…glad?” he tried. The Halfling nodded as if this was a completely reasonable conversation to have. “Anyway, if you just take that writ back to town, someone at the Hall will make sure you get your payment for this job. We’ve still got some clean-up to do back here.”

“Do you need any more help?” she asked immediately. It seemed genuine; the captain saw no greed in her eyes - no fishing for a larger reward or an extended contract. Still, he shook his head.

“We’ve got the rest of it covered. It was only the fight that we needed you all for; these men won’t be up to much now. Besides, you probably have other things to do.”

“I suppose so. I was actually just on my way back home - going to see my family and friends again. It’s been a while.”

“You enjoy that,” the captain said, turning to head back to his guards and their prisoners. “Safe travels.”

“I will,” the Halfling said, waving as she also turned to leave. “It’ll be fun!”

The captain shook his head once she was out of sight, hammer flashing on her back. Fun.

He pitied her family and friends, though only for a moment. Then he got back to work.

Fun.


--


IV.

They’d fought the little pests before, small and meaningless and easily crushed even if some of them were occasionally swift enough, strong enough, to sting back before death. It hurt, but they healed, and the tiny morsels were nothing to them.

These should have been no different, even if the stings came faster and stronger than usual. No different at all, and yet one of their number fell, flashing light and noise tearing through his skin and skull like no arrow they had ever seen, fired from a strange weapon all white and gold in the hands of one of the tiny little insects…

And then, almost as soon as they realized this, the little thing that had killed their brother with a flash and a bang and an explosion of blood changed, growing and shifting into a form like their own, the weapon changing as well, and three giants stood on the mountain road once again.

They didn’t know what to think. Then the stranger, the mite-that-wasn’t, stepped forward in her new body and swung her new axe, a twisted mirror in white and gold.

And they fell.


--


V.

The needle flashed in and out of the fabric, pulling green across the white.

“I don’t know how you do that.”

The silver stilled for but a moment. She hadn’t expected company. Even if she had, she would not have expected her new sister-in-law, especially on such a fine day. She masked her surprise and continued her work, though she knew that the hesitation had shown.

“It’s not terribly difficult,” she said, eyes on the curls of leaf and vine taking form across the collar of the shirt. She had just finished sewing it that morning, and wanted to add something special to it; her husband loved the curling shapes of ivy in the forest.

“It was for me.”

At this, Rohesia finally looked up. Aldreda stood in the doorway, still in leather practice armor, one arm bound up in a sling. The lady knight caught the flicker of her gaze over the injury and shrugged her free arm without care.

“Just wrenched it. It’ll be fine with some rest. Do you…mind if I sit here for a while?”

It was the first sign of hesitance Rohesia had seen from the lady since her marriage to Elric, her twin brother. She caught herself hesitating again out of surprise before she nodded and invited her visitor to come and have a seat - as though this was her own solar at home, and not one she had merely claimed for its good light.

“I never had the patience for it,” Aldreda said, nodding at the half-finished embroidery in Rohesia’s hands. “And I was stubborn, too. Fought my mother at every turn whenever she tried to teach me. Eventually she just gave up.”

“I always found it relaxing,” Rohesia admitted, once the pause in speech had dragged on enough to indicate that Aldreda was waiting for her to say something in turn. “I learned alongside my sisters. We’d gather every day, even if it was only for a little while, and we’d talk and laugh as we worked.”

It went unsaid - but, Rohesia thought, clearly heard - that it was different now. Here she had no sisters to work with, and maids didn’t always speak as freely with their employers as they did with their peers. The thought seemed to echo in the room, beating to the dip and pull of the needle, and she cast about for a change in topic.

“For my part, I have no idea how you fight as you do.”

“Yes, with my wondrous self-inflicted injuries,” Aldreda said, a rueful smirk crossing her face as Rohesia glanced up. “Honestly, I’m not that great. I still lose to my brother half the time, and I’ve never managed to win a tourney.”

“Didn’t you get to the semi-finals once?” Rohesia ventured, recalling a time when Elric was bragging on his sister’s behalf. By his estimate she bested him somewhat more than half the time as well. But Aldreda shrugged again, as if this was no accomplishment at all.

Well, her husband had said that his sister was…somewhat exacting, though he’d used different words.

“Nonetheless. I never learned to shoot or ride, and I tried to lift my father’s sword once, when I was a girl, and I could barely budge it.”

“You could probably do better now that you’re not a child anymore,” Aldreda immediately said, standing as she did and fumbling her sword from her waist with one hand. “Here, give it a try.”

Rohesia protested, but dropped her embroidery on her lap to accept the hilt being offered to her. To her surprise, she did not drop the blade as well; it was heavier than Aldreda’s practiced handling implied, but lighter than her youthful memories claimed.

“All right, it’s not so bad,” she admitted. Fortunately, Aldreda took it back before the tip could do much more than droop toward the flagstones.

“It’s easier once you learn to hold it correctly, and once you practice enough to get used to it. There’s no great mystery in swords.”

She gave Rohesia’s sewing a significant look as she sat back down.

“No great mystery in this, either,” Rohesia responded, and in a burst of near-mischief continued, “it’s easy once you practice enough to get used to it.”

This startled a laugh out of the other. Encouraged, she ventured:

“I could teach you, if you like.”

“I don’t think I’d be any good at it,” Aldreda admitted, the laughter fading in her voice. “I tried once, a while ago. Just pricked my fingers several times and made a terrible mess of everything.”

“That’s normal when you’re just starting out. I’ll teach you to sew and embroider, and you…”

“I’ll teach you the sword.”

“Is there something easier? Maybe a bow?”

“Perhaps that as well, though we’ll have to work you up to a decent draw. But before that, a sword, and before that I’ll have to shake our physician and this sling.”

“I suppose that would make learning and teaching alike difficult. All right, I suppose it’s a deal. If you’d like to watch for a while, we could make a start on my part of it…”

Aldreda scooted her chair closer to better see Rohesia’s stitches, and in time the two ladies fell to talking. It wasn’t home, with her sisters and mother seated in a circle, but it was the start of something new, and she was glad to have it.