Post by Crow • ᚴᚱᚬᚴᛦ on Sept 1, 2024 3:22:39 GMT
(After the events of To Meet One’s Fate.)
Late at night in the Harbour by the Starless Sea, there is a knock on the door to The Keeper’s office.
Old Man Grim peers in, holding a horn of fragrant mead in each hand. He has exchanged his dusty, weather-beaten robes for a comfortable olive-green kyrtill from his homeland — that cold, rugged island on which his body was born.
“Forgive my bein’ presumptuous, I couldn’t pass up the chance to offer Time a drink,” he says, grinning, as Freyja the cat slips in between his feet and Memory the raven swoops above his head, fluttering to perch on a shelf.
The Keeper, who has been many things and had many names but has always Kept, raises his head at the greeting. An eyebrow slowly raises, the quill in his hand still scribbling, before it slows and stops. Gently, the feather marking the spot, he shuts the book and places it on one of the many shelves behind him.
“Ah. Please, call me Keeper. The drink is appreciated though not necessary. Though I would not pass on the company.” He stands, stiff, formal, and holds out a hand towards a chair in front of the desk.
“Take it anyway,” the man says, walking inside and offering The Keeper the honey drink. He sits down on the chair and lifts Freyja onto his warm lap. “Ahh. It’s lonely down here, isn’t it?”
The Keeper sits, his hands moving to adjust his long red robe before reaching out to take the mead. He raises it to his nose, taking a long sniff, before a tentative sip. “Thank you. And one could say that. People come and go like the tide. I simply record them, and in doing so they never quite leave.”
“But they never quite stay either. Not long enough for you to feel the warmth of their companionship.” The man stretches and sighs as he leans back in the chair, taking a draught from his horn. “Does Melody know? Dorian?”
“Melody may suspect. Dorian. That one may, too, but he is too enamoured with this place that he thought was only a story to worry much.”
The man grunts. “And what shall become of them after The End?”
“The same as all of us.” The Keeper sweeps the hand holding the horn out, gesturing at the room and its contents. “This is not my first Harbour and nor will it be my last.”
“Yet if all goes accordin’ to plan, Fate would be herself, intact and by your side, aye? What would change then? Will the next Harbour be different?”
The Keeper pauses, considering the words carefully through a sip of mead. “My role has been and continues to be a record of what has come before. When what will be becomes what is, I will be able to answer your question.”
He grunts again. “Aye, fair enough. I see that you’re not unlike my Memory.”
Up on the shelf, the raven cocks its little head to one side.
The Keeper nods to Memory, raising the horn slightly in greeting. “Yes, not unlike your companion. The Harbours below remember many things. Some helpful,” he says, nodding to Memory once more, “and others not.”
“‘Memory without Thought is hindsight without wisdom,’ so Mirabel told me,” the man says with a fond chuckle. “They will be rejoined, soon. As you and her will be. Are you…happy?”
The Keeper holds the eye of the Wanderer for a breath, the steady tick of Time and the gentle crackle of the fireplace the only sound. He looks away, out towards the middle distance.
“I have been here a long time. I have been here since before there was a here to be. And the last time I was happy, it was taken from me.”
He returns his eye to Old Grim’s own. “Each time, I think it is the last. That she will not return to me. With the doors closing I was sure she could not return even if she wished, and then I looked up and she was already here.”
The man frowns, the flickering shadows and firelight deepening the lines in his face. “O, my friend! This is not how things should be. You are so afeared of the future that you have cast your gaze backward in perpetuity. But you are what will be as equally as you are what has been and what is.”
The Keeper nods in response. “Perhaps this time will be different. I am afraid it is my role to only record the result once it has come to pass, though. It is yours, and that of your companions, to set things right.”
“You have to believe that it will. A man must meet his Fate with his back straight and eyes forward if he has any hope of changin’ it, however small. She knows that better than anyone. Have faith in her, as she has in us.”
“I have met my Fate many times, Wise One,” he replies, for a second the light in his eyes reflecting a different sort of man. It lasts only a moment, before he settles back and the spark disappears. “But you are right. I will endeavour to look a bit beyond the bounds of my desk.”
“I am glad to hear it,” says the Wanderer.
Freyja has curled up into sleep on his lap, her face filled with cosy bliss. He strokes his fingers through her long gold-and-white fur.
“I admire your bond,” he murmurs. “It’s been so long, I cannot remember what it is to love another. Not even Memory can help with that.”
The words hang in the air for a moment, The Keeper’s eyes narrowing slightly in thought. “But you remember what it is to be loved. And if my experience is anything, love finds you when you are not looking for it. You are young, and yet aged. Time will bring what it needs.”
“Hm. Víðarr does remember, and I am he. That much is true. Perhaps I should heed my own lesson and put my faith in you.”
The Keeper inclines his head. “You are welcome to. And as I say. If you need anything, all you need do is ask.”
The King of Crows tilts his head back as he empties the horn into his mouth, a single drip of mead trickling down his beard. He puts the ivory vessel away, being careful not to move too much so as not to disturb the sleeping cat, then looks at The Keeper. The hearth’s fire dances in his one dark eye and it tells many, many stories, reaching deep into The Keeper’s records — those that have been stuffed to the back of the drawer, left to gather dust or become dust themselves.
“There is one thing,” he says. “A piece of knowledge that had been lost to Time.”
The Keeper’s eyes alight in return, whispering of the roiling sea and smoke and honey and knowledge beyond knowledge. He gestures, carefully, towards the bookshelves and stacks around him. “Ask, and I shall check my records.”
The man smiles, and is silent for a while. When the Keeper blinks, Freyja is lying on the chair, still dozing away serenely.
The Keeper feels a weight on his right shoulder. Small talons digging into the fabric of his robe. A black beak brushes against the curve of his ear, and it whispers a wish.
Co-written with Alex
Once, very long ago, Time fell in love with Fate.
Late at night in the Harbour by the Starless Sea, there is a knock on the door to The Keeper’s office.
Old Man Grim peers in, holding a horn of fragrant mead in each hand. He has exchanged his dusty, weather-beaten robes for a comfortable olive-green kyrtill from his homeland — that cold, rugged island on which his body was born.
“Forgive my bein’ presumptuous, I couldn’t pass up the chance to offer Time a drink,” he says, grinning, as Freyja the cat slips in between his feet and Memory the raven swoops above his head, fluttering to perch on a shelf.
The Keeper, who has been many things and had many names but has always Kept, raises his head at the greeting. An eyebrow slowly raises, the quill in his hand still scribbling, before it slows and stops. Gently, the feather marking the spot, he shuts the book and places it on one of the many shelves behind him.
“Ah. Please, call me Keeper. The drink is appreciated though not necessary. Though I would not pass on the company.” He stands, stiff, formal, and holds out a hand towards a chair in front of the desk.
“Take it anyway,” the man says, walking inside and offering The Keeper the honey drink. He sits down on the chair and lifts Freyja onto his warm lap. “Ahh. It’s lonely down here, isn’t it?”
The Keeper sits, his hands moving to adjust his long red robe before reaching out to take the mead. He raises it to his nose, taking a long sniff, before a tentative sip. “Thank you. And one could say that. People come and go like the tide. I simply record them, and in doing so they never quite leave.”
“But they never quite stay either. Not long enough for you to feel the warmth of their companionship.” The man stretches and sighs as he leans back in the chair, taking a draught from his horn. “Does Melody know? Dorian?”
“Melody may suspect. Dorian. That one may, too, but he is too enamoured with this place that he thought was only a story to worry much.”
The man grunts. “And what shall become of them after The End?”
“The same as all of us.” The Keeper sweeps the hand holding the horn out, gesturing at the room and its contents. “This is not my first Harbour and nor will it be my last.”
“Yet if all goes accordin’ to plan, Fate would be herself, intact and by your side, aye? What would change then? Will the next Harbour be different?”
The Keeper pauses, considering the words carefully through a sip of mead. “My role has been and continues to be a record of what has come before. When what will be becomes what is, I will be able to answer your question.”
He grunts again. “Aye, fair enough. I see that you’re not unlike my Memory.”
Up on the shelf, the raven cocks its little head to one side.
The Keeper nods to Memory, raising the horn slightly in greeting. “Yes, not unlike your companion. The Harbours below remember many things. Some helpful,” he says, nodding to Memory once more, “and others not.”
“‘Memory without Thought is hindsight without wisdom,’ so Mirabel told me,” the man says with a fond chuckle. “They will be rejoined, soon. As you and her will be. Are you…happy?”
The Keeper holds the eye of the Wanderer for a breath, the steady tick of Time and the gentle crackle of the fireplace the only sound. He looks away, out towards the middle distance.
“I have been here a long time. I have been here since before there was a here to be. And the last time I was happy, it was taken from me.”
He returns his eye to Old Grim’s own. “Each time, I think it is the last. That she will not return to me. With the doors closing I was sure she could not return even if she wished, and then I looked up and she was already here.”
The man frowns, the flickering shadows and firelight deepening the lines in his face. “O, my friend! This is not how things should be. You are so afeared of the future that you have cast your gaze backward in perpetuity. But you are what will be as equally as you are what has been and what is.”
The Keeper nods in response. “Perhaps this time will be different. I am afraid it is my role to only record the result once it has come to pass, though. It is yours, and that of your companions, to set things right.”
“You have to believe that it will. A man must meet his Fate with his back straight and eyes forward if he has any hope of changin’ it, however small. She knows that better than anyone. Have faith in her, as she has in us.”
“I have met my Fate many times, Wise One,” he replies, for a second the light in his eyes reflecting a different sort of man. It lasts only a moment, before he settles back and the spark disappears. “But you are right. I will endeavour to look a bit beyond the bounds of my desk.”
“I am glad to hear it,” says the Wanderer.
Freyja has curled up into sleep on his lap, her face filled with cosy bliss. He strokes his fingers through her long gold-and-white fur.
“I admire your bond,” he murmurs. “It’s been so long, I cannot remember what it is to love another. Not even Memory can help with that.”
The words hang in the air for a moment, The Keeper’s eyes narrowing slightly in thought. “But you remember what it is to be loved. And if my experience is anything, love finds you when you are not looking for it. You are young, and yet aged. Time will bring what it needs.”
“Hm. Víðarr does remember, and I am he. That much is true. Perhaps I should heed my own lesson and put my faith in you.”
The Keeper inclines his head. “You are welcome to. And as I say. If you need anything, all you need do is ask.”
The King of Crows tilts his head back as he empties the horn into his mouth, a single drip of mead trickling down his beard. He puts the ivory vessel away, being careful not to move too much so as not to disturb the sleeping cat, then looks at The Keeper. The hearth’s fire dances in his one dark eye and it tells many, many stories, reaching deep into The Keeper’s records — those that have been stuffed to the back of the drawer, left to gather dust or become dust themselves.
“There is one thing,” he says. “A piece of knowledge that had been lost to Time.”
The Keeper’s eyes alight in return, whispering of the roiling sea and smoke and honey and knowledge beyond knowledge. He gestures, carefully, towards the bookshelves and stacks around him. “Ask, and I shall check my records.”
The man smiles, and is silent for a while. When the Keeper blinks, Freyja is lying on the chair, still dozing away serenely.
The Keeper feels a weight on his right shoulder. Small talons digging into the fabric of his robe. A black beak brushes against the curve of his ear, and it whispers a wish.
Co-written with Alex