Author: bardofupton

Queer, autistic, disabled, non-binary, mixed race, demisexual, asexual/graysexual, aromantic. My pronouns are they/them. All work original to and copyright by me, except where otherwise noted.

Inkwarriors, part 6 (Fiction)

~ bardofupton

The wizard hurried up the steps towards their mentor’s rooms. They needed to resolve the situation with the inkwarrior as soon as they could, because it was making it hard to focus on the spell they were trying to create. They simply couldn’t cope with the constant barrage of attention. It was distracting, and annoying, and a complete waste of time. They would never have thought of her again, had she not constantly forced her way into their head.

They were relieved to see that the door was open, meaning that their mentor was available. They entered and nodded politely to their mentor, who was sitting by the window looking through a small telescope.

“What do you think of these devices? Easier than magic, to be sure.”

The wizard sighed. Technological advances were their mentor’s bugbear. They were both fascinated and horrified by new inventions that, as they saw it, encroached into what should be the exclusive preserve of wizards.

“I haven’t really thought about it,” the wizard admitted.

“Too busy doing magic, I suppose?”

“Trying to, but…” the wizard began.

“Ha! Mark my words, young one, they’ll replace us with things like this!” The mentor leapt up and began to pace, brandishing the telescope angrily. “First it’ll be the army using these instead of hiring wizards…”

“But no wizards want to go out with the army,” the wizard pointed out.

“Irrelevant! We need to preserve our position!”

The wizard sighed quietly, and resigned themself to waiting until their mentor had said all they had to say on this topic. They sat down on a stool in the corner, well out of the way of the wild gesticulations their mentor was making as they became more and more worked up by their own rhetoric.

***********

Meril was confused. She’d taken all her exams, and she was pretty sure she’d failed them all. Everyone else in her cohort had received their results, but she was still waiting.

Maybe they’re trying to figure out what to do with me, she thought. Maybe there’s never been an inkwarrior as terrible as me.

She tried to distract herself by thinking about her wizard, but for once the thought of them couldn’t keep her attention. Despite all her talk about not wanting to be an inkwarrior, she didn’t actually have any other real skills. Certainly not any that would support her if they threw her out.

She swallowed. Or maybe they would kill her. She’d never heard of an inkwarrior as bad as she was, perhaps that was why.

She began pacing her room, which she’d been confined to since everyone else had been given their results. Surely they would come and explain everything to her soon. Wouldn’t they?

© bardofupton 2020

Writing project, April 2020

~ bardofupton ~ 1 Comment

This month’s word is isolation, meaning “an act or instance of isolating”, “the state of being isolated” or “the complete separation from others of a person suffering from contagious or infectious disease; quarantine”.

CW: mention of suicide, mention of abuse

————–

Sometimes someone hurts you so much, so deeply, that all you can do is run.

I look at the sentence I’ve just written, and it makes me shudder with the truth of it.

I ran. It wasn’t even a thought, more of an instinct. I didn’t consider any practicalities like money, clothes, food; I just saw an opening and I bolted before it closed.

I didn’t think of the others; I couldn’t, wrapped within my own misery and pain, it was impossible to consider them, and what might happen to them. What he might do, having lost one victim, to those who remained behind.

I fled for years, across galaxies, leaving world after world behind me. Every time I started to settle down, to feel a little bit safe, I would start to worry that maybe he had also gotten on a spaceship and was chasing me across the universe. And I’d gather my things, and run.

I keep trying to believe that he’s dead. I tell myself that time dilation is on my side, that it’s been centuries for him. But I won’t believe he’s dead until I see a corpse. Oh, I checked the records, of course I did, but it was nearly two centuries by then and records can be faked. Especially old ones. They say he’s dead, but I just can’t believe it. I can’t let myself believe it, because what if it’s a lie? What if he’s tracking me across space, across time?

I never really believed he would just let me go.

********

I’ve never been able to face what happened, to think about it in terms more specific than “what he did” or “the thing that happened”. I always just wrapped it up with all the feelings I had, pain and anger and misery and even love, and squashed it down somewhere inside me. I just never think about it, but I’m thinking about it now that I have nothing but time.

I’ve come so far, in all senses of that phrase, but when I think about him now I still revert to the terrified being that I was then. I think I’m stronger these days; I want to be stronger, but sometimes I think I’m the same, that, despite everything I’ve done in the intervening years, nothing has changed.

********

It took me years, and light years, to start believing I had escaped him, that he couldn’t find me. To begin to think that I could be free.

Only to end up here. Trapped, again, but this time by physics and chemistry, down on this planet with an atmosphere that would kill me if I left my ship. If the gravity didn’t crush me first.

I’ve sent a distress call, but I don’t know if anyone received it, if anyone is coming, or if they’ll even make it in time. So I’ve been wondering what will kill me first.

The gravity? My ship is strong, but it wasn’t made for this. I can hear it creaking and groaning all the time.

The atmosphere? A tiny crack could let enough of it in to kill me, so I monitor the hull integrity obsessively.

Starvation? That’s unlikely, I’ve got supplies for years.

Myself? Maybe. Maybe. But I have tried so hard to survive, given up so much, taken so many chances, I can’t really see myself giving up now. As long as I’m alive, there’s always a chance someone will come for me. Or maybe I’ll think of something clever and escape on my own.

I never believed in hope; it always seemed like a lie designed to stop you from trying to leave. And yet, somehow, down here in this murky atmosphere, I’m starting to feel the first stirrings of it.

I kind of like it. I think I’ll sit with it, and with my memories, and trust that whatever happens will happen. Finally, I think I’m learning how to settle down.

It’s just a shame it took this to make it happen.

© bardofupton 2020