On the seventh day of Christmas my true love gave to me...
...seven Precious Siblings
Mistake
Arthurian Mythology
Drama
FR-T
Morgana’s intuition began as a gnawing in the pit of her stomach, rather like hunger, but quickly built to a feverish panic that she could not shake. She knew at once that what she was feeling indicated some dire threat to her family. Not Elaine, she could look after herself; Morgause then, or perhaps…
“Arthur,” she whispered, suddenly certain.
After a day and a half of revels the camp was quiet in the cool of morning. The kings of Britain and their retainers had drunk themselves into a stupor, either to celebrate the finding of the new high king or to commiserate that it was not them. A few sentries remained awake, but hardly alert, and even the wariest would not have spared Morgana a glance beneath her witch’s veil. Eyes slid away from her; ears worked very hard not to hear her footsteps.
Arthur’s tent was unguarded, or rather the guard was asleep. Arthur’s foster-brother, Cai, lay hard against the tent post. Morgana crouched and lifted his eyelid.
“Drugged.” She thought about what she had seen of Cai during the tournament. He was tall and handsome, but had the marks of great wisdom and cunning about him as well. Since Arthur had pulled the sword from the stone in the churchyard, Cai had never been far from his side, his eyes burning with the witch sight; the veil would have been little use against him and if he had been drugged it would have to have been by someone he trusted. It would have to have been Arthur himself, but why…?
“Oh no,” Morgana groaned, as another thread of intuition tickled her consciousness. She pushed impatiently into the tent.
Merlin had more-or-less convinced the assembled kings that Arthur was some kind of god in mortal aspect, but here before Morgana was proof that he was naught but a man, and a luckless one at that.
“Get up!” she snapped.
Arthur raised his weary head. “What…?”
“Not you.” She held out a hand and focused the force of her will. “Sleep.” Arthur’s head slumped onto his pillow. “Now, get up.”
Morgause stretched lazily. “I don’t know what you’re so angry about,” she groused. “I was neither bride nor virgin and a widow may do as she pleases. He’s a little young, perhaps…”
“Morgause!” Morgana felt the power fill her frame and overflow. She could feel her hair brush against the canopy of the tent and her arms touch the fabric walls on either side. Morgause quailed from Morgana as her aspect swelled to fill the entire tent.
“What did I do wrong?” Morgause demanded.
“Have you forgotten?” Morgana demanded. “Have you forgotten Arthur?”
Morgause glanced at the yoth sleeping at her side.
“Our Arthur!” Morgana gripped her sister’s shoulders and hauled her to her feet. “Our brother, Morgause!”
Slowly, realisation dawned.
“This is…?”
Morgana flung Morgause her gown, fighting against her own revulsion. “Get dressed,” she said. “We don’t have long.”
“Long?” Morgause struggled into the dress.
“Merlin will come,” Morgana hissed. “He will know, as I do.”
“Know what?”
Morgana splayed her hand across her sister’s belly. “This sin shall beget the death of Merlin’s Summer Kingdom,” she hissed.
“No!”
“Yes! Merlin shall seek to destroy it.”
Morgause retreated in horror, folding her hands over her stomach. “He can’t!”
“He will if he knows; he has foreseen, as I have, that Arthur’s child shall be the end of all his hopes. He will do all in his power to end that threat, unless…”
“Yes.”
Morgana held out her hand over Arthur’s head. She closed her eyes in concentration and let her power flow out into the boy’s mind, carefully unpicking his memories of the last few hours. “I’m afraid, dear sister, that Arthur will not remember you.”
“But…”
“And you will not remember him.” Morgana held out her other hand to touch Morgause on the brow.
“No!”
“Merlin would snatch the thought from your mind in a second, Morgause; you must forget. But I will try to make sure you remember to be more mindful, in future, of the consequences of your actions.”
The K3y to Time: Part 6 - The Hall of Healing
Doctor Who
Drama
FR-T
“How can she be sick?” Barbara demanded as they lay Susan in the TARDIS infirmary.
“Susan is only partially protected by the Key,” the Doctor replied. “It is as yet incomplete and the radiation levels in the core were vast. Without protection, she would have been incinerated in seconds.”
“What do we do now?” Ian demanded. “She’s sick; she can’t pilot the TARDIS in this state. How do we find the last segment and get her back to normal?”
The Doctor shook her head. “We can’t. She needs treatment, and more even than the TARDIS can provide. Let me see… 200,200… 200,200… Yes!” Her hands began to fly across the controls. “I can not yet accurately move in time, despite the recalibration of the temporal circuits, but I should be able to plot a purely spatial course, and in 200,200 there is only one place to take a person suffering from this level of radiation exposure. Fortunately, it isn’t far.”
Susan woke in a crisp, neatly-turned hospital bed with a dry mouth and aches all over her body. Her head was fuzzy; too fogged and dazed to say anything except the obvious:
“Where am I?”
“St Trobadur’s.”
Susan turned her head to look at the speaker. A boy - a young man - sat by her bedside, dressed in a dark blue, silk dressing gown.
“Trobadur?”
“Patron Saint of the wealthy rich,” the boy explained. “This is one of the better centres in the Hopice.”
“Hospice?”
“You’re in the Medicaris Hospice. To be brought here you must be very rich. Or have a very interesting illness. That’s what I have,” he added. “No-one knows what’s wrong with me, so they’re paying a fortune for the privilege of finding out. Or trying to.”
Susan pushed herself upright and the boy leaned forward to arrange her pillows. His hand brushed hers and she felt a jolt like an electric shock run through her.
“I’m Susan,” she said.
“Gyles,” he replied.
“So… if they don’t know what’s wrong with you, how can they make you better?”
“Well… they can’t,” he replied. “Medicaris is a hospice, Susan. Aside from a few acute cases, every patient on this planet is dying. Some of them fast, some of us slowly, but this is where we stay.”
“Dying?” Susan’s face fell.
“Oh, not you,” he assured her. “I had a look at your chart; severe radiation poisoning. It’s nasty, but treatable.” He touched a drip feeding into her arm. “Should flush you clean in about a day, then…” He made a flying motion with his hand. “You’ll be out of my life again.”
“But you…?”
He shrugged. “Well, who knows? Maybe they’ll work out what’s wrong with me and I can be gone tomorrow. If not… Well, I’ve been sick for a while. I accepted death a long time ago.”
“That’s so sad.”
Gyles grinned. “I’ll live,” he promised.
Waiting for news was beginning to grate on Barbara; even Ian’s attention was wearing under this strain. She retreated to the quiet of the toilets, taking a moment to locate the correct door out of the nine available and trying not to think too hard about the unfamiliar symbols. She washed her face and stared long and hard into the mirror, until a second figure loomed up behind her.
“Are you alright?” the nurse asked.
“Fine,” Barbara replied tersely. “Or… as fine as I can be given…” She stared fixedly at the woman’s mocha skin and raven hair, and the eyes as black as polished jet. The features were different, but she was certain that she was not mistaken. “But then you know all about it, don’t you.”
“I suppose I do,” the Black Guardian agreed, “and you have no idea how tedious that can be.”
Ian, meanwhile, was hanging around the canteen, trying not to worry too much; trying to be strong for Barbara. Being time sensitive he felt, rather than saw, the White Guardian’s arrival, but did not look up until the figure of a dignified doctor of latish middle age sat down opposite him.
“You’ve changed your face,” he noted.
“Have I?” the Guardian asked. “It’s so hard for me to tell. My senses don’t really perceive the physical world in that kind of detail.”
“You take a broad view?”
“No; I am quite capable of seeing detail; just not of that kind.”
“I… Well, I don’t see, but I’ll accept that for now. So, are you here to help Susan?” Ian asked.
The White Guardian shook his head sadly. “Alas, I can not; not without the Key. Your Grandmother’s people were sworn never to interfere precisely because of the vast power they were capable of wielding; think how much more carefully a being of my capacity must judge his every action. Only with the Key can I enjoy, for a few, brief moments, the freedom to order matter as I see fit. Only then will I be able to predict every possible and probable outcome and so select the one most favourable.”
“So you are, in your own way, as limited as I am?” Ian asked. “That’s why you need my help.”
The White Guardian’s smile tightened, just a fraction. “Quite. But while I might need your help, Susan needs my help more. I am sure that you see that more clearly than ever.”
I can see that she needs help,” Ian conceded. “I’m not entirely convinced she needs your help, since it was you and your brother who did this to her in the first place.”
“We merely made the approach,” the White Guardian insisted, “and it was the Black Guardian who tricked your friend into taking the tracer unawares. The tracer was made by the Grace, as was the Key; they determined the nature of its function.”
Ian shrugged. “But you can help Susan?”
“And more to the point you will help Susan?”
“You have my word,” the Black Guardian promised. “You can trust me, Barbara; I’m a doctor.”
“You’re dressed as a nurse,” Barbara pointed out.
“Same thing; both little minds poking around at an imprecise, organic machine that they barely understand. What does a few years training matter when all is fumbling in the darkness?”
“And you’d know.”
“And I would know.”
Barbara’s next words were cut off as her communicator chimed. She glowered at the Black Guardian and then answered: “Is there news?”
“Susan is awake,” the Doctor reported.
Over the next few days, Susan’s health slowly returned. Once they were sure that she was on the mend, Barbara and Ian gave her the space and time which she so desperately wanted; space and time to be alone with Gyles. They still checked in from time to time, usually in a group so as not to take too much time from the two youngsters.
“Susan, dear girl!” the Doctor called. “I hardly dared to hope you would recover so quickly!”
Susan smiled at Gyles. “I’ve had good company,” she explained.
“I do hope she hasn’t been tiring you, Gyles.”
Gyles shook his head. “It’s been wonderful,” he grinned. “First person my age they’ve put in my ward and she’s so pretty.”
Susan blushed furiously and dragged a pillow over her head.
“Sorry,” Gyles laughed. “I guess I don’t have time for embarrassment anymore.”
Susan poked her head out again. “I wish you wouldn’t…”
“It’s alright,” Gyles promised her, but with a hint of bitterness in her voice. “You’re almost better, so you’ll be going soon. We can say goodbye and I’ll be fine still.”
“That’s not alright,” Susan whispered.
Ian coughed awkwardly. “Maybe we should…?”
Barbara nodded and the three adults shuffled uncomfortably away, leaving Susan and Gyles to a painful silence.
“I’m sorry,” Susan said at last. “I know it’s not fair, but it isn’t fair to blame me, either.”
“I know!” he snapped. “I mean, I know. It’s just so hard sometimes. I’ll really miss you.”
“And I’ll miss you,” Susan told him, “but I can’t… Oh, it’s so stupid!” she snapped. “I don’t want to go, Gyles! I don’t want to leave here, leave you, but I have to. I have to…” She broke off and leaned forward suddenly, kissing him soundly on the lips. Electricity coursed through her, like nothing she had ever felt before… except that it was like something she had felt very often.
She tried to pull away, but some force held the two of them together as their bodies began to glow.
“Oh my God,” Ian whispered.
“Oh, Susan.” Barbara ran towards her sister, but long before she reached her, Gyles had vanished, converted into a crystal segment and absorbed into Susan’s body.
“It hurts,” Susan whispered.
Ian and Barbara ran to flank Susan and take her arms as she arched her back in agony. She gave a long, agonised scream and the glow grew brighter yet.
Before the Doctor’s eyes, the Guardians appeared. Behind Ian the White Guardian blazed like a star, reflecting Susan’s light. Behind Barbara the Black Guardian was like a shadow, sucking in the radiance of the Key.
Susan cried out again and the glow drew together in her chest. One final, blinding pulse of light and the Key was there, a perfect, crystal cube. Susan held it with her hands on the top and bottom, while Ian and Barbara each held one side.
“Give me the Key!” the Black Guardian hissed.
“Give me the Key, Susan,” Barbara echoed. “You don’t have much time.”
“Give me the Key!” the White Guardian demanded.
“Give me the Key, Susan,” Ian echoed. “Please; it’s a matter of life and death.”
“Give me the Key!” the Guardians chorused.
“Susan!” Ian and Barbara chorused.
Susan looked desperately from left to right. She looked from her sister to her friend, from the consuming shadows to the obliterating light. Pain wracked her limbs and she cried out, a single word:
“Doctor!”
The Key vanished; the room grew still. The light of the White Guardian dimmed and the void of the Black Guardian lightened into mere shadow.
“What…?” Ian wondered.
“How…?” Barbara gasped.
With a soft sigh, Susan collapsed onto the pillows. Ian and Barbara bent over her.
The Guardians turned as one to face the Doctor, who held the key between her outstretched hands.
“Give me the Key, Doctor,” the White Guardian said. “I have to stop time and repair the damage to the universe.”
“No!” the Black Guardian protested. “He’ll remake the cosmos in his image; perfect order, forever and ever. No change, no uncertainty; no fun!”
“Give the Key to her and there will be nothing but chaos!” the White Guardian insisted. “Mere anarchy loosed upon the world!”
“He can’t even write his own lines!”
“She’s little more than a beast!”
“Doctor, she’s dying!” Barbara pleaded.
The Doctor closed her eyes in concentration. “We are held out of time now, Barbara,” she promised. “Susan is, to all intents and purposes, frozen, until I choose to release the universe. Now, Guardians, you will repair the universal balance and…”
“If you give me the Key, Doctor…” the White Guardian began.
The Black Guardian interrupted. “No, give me the Key and…”
“I was not asking!” the Doctor snapped. “I hold the Key to Time! I hold the ultimate power in the Universe and you will do as I say and put everything right! Starting with young Susan.”
“I…”
“We…”
“Now!”
With ill grace, the White Guardian held out his hand. With equal reluctance, the Black Guardian seized it. There was a momentary ringing, like some distant musical chord, and then silence returned.
“Good,” the Doctor said. “Now go!”
“We…”
“Go!”
With a sound like snapping leather the two Guardians winked out of existence.
“Now, just…” The Doctor frowned in concentration, her piercing brown eyes fixed on the crystal cube. For a moment, everything seemed to freeze and then…
“What happened?” Gyles asked.
“A number of things,” the Doctor replied. “You were converted into the final segment of the Key to Time; Ian and Barbara both made the wrong choices for the right reasons; Susan made the right choice for… well, for good reasons, I hope.”
“The Doctor banished the Guardians,” Ian added.
“Well, gave them enough of a spin to give us a head start,” the Doctor laughed. “I also took the liberty of tinkering with the TARDIS stealth systems and circuit calibrations while I had the power of the cosmos in my hands. Then I put the segments back where they belonged, but without the Z-neutrino build up which made the statue a focus of violence, the hawk pendant a bad-luck charm, the warp core a ticking time bomb, the weaving sword a curse on its owners, the Dalekanium core a viable weapon power source and made you sick.”
“Made me…”
“Oh, yes,” the Doctor finished. “You’re no longer ill.”
Gyles’ face fell. “Then… what do I do? My parents signed me over to the Hospice when I was four.”
Susan slipped a hand into his. “You could come with us,” she suggested.
“That sounds a very good idea,” the Doctor agreed. “At least in the short term we should all leave Medicalis. The Guardians will find their way back eventually and neither the girl who thwarted them nor a segment of the Key will be safe when that happens.” She turned to a medical cabinet behind her and unlocked the door.
“What are you doing?” Barbara asked.
“I told you,” the Doctor said impatiently, “I tinkered with the stealth systems.” She pulled the cabinet open, revealing the console room of the TARDIS beyond. “And shifted the TARDIS a little in space.”
“It’s a medicine cabinet?”
“Looks like a medicine cabinet; fully functional chameleon circuit, you see. Now, are you coming?”
“Coming where?” Gyles asked.
“Everywhere!” Barbara replied.
“Anywhen,” Ian added.
Susan squeezed his hand and of course, he said: “Yes.”
Gifted
Greek Mythology
Drama, Romance
FR-T
The jar sat and brooded. It ought not to ave been possible for a jar to brood, but this jar managed it.
Epimetheus hated the jar, not for its brooding ways, but for the black-painted figures decorating the red surface. Artistically-speaking, the jar was a thing of great beauty, but the scenes depicted showed the life of Prometheus: Prometheus creating the human race; Prometheus stealing fire from Olympus; Prometheus tricking Zeus out of the best part of the offering; Prometheus, Prometheus, Prometheus.
“Always Prometheus,” Epimetheus muttered. Everyone loved Prometheus. He had been gone for years and still cast a long shadow across his brother’s life.
“Epimetheus!”
The Titan closed his eyes in delight at just the sound of his wife’s voice. She was in every way perfect and she loved him, the way everyone else loved Prometheus. She never drew comparisons between the brothers and found Epimetheus wanting. Of course she probably would have loved Prometheus, if she had ever met him. She must have been so disappointed to find Epimetheus head of the household.
Epimetheus could almost be glad that his brother was chained to a rock with an eagle pecking out his liver in perpetuity. “Because you weren’t here, brother, and she fell in love with me.”
Pandora descended the stairs to the cellar. “Are you talking to that jar again?” she asked. When Epimetheus did not answer she put her arms around his waist and leaned against his back. Epimetheus was tall, but Pandora was almost his equal in height. Holding him thus, she was able to lay her chin comfortably on his shoulder, her soft cheek against his ear. “I’m sorry,” she whispered.
“Sorry?”
“That you lost your brother.”
“Everyone’s sorry that Prometheus is gone.”
Pandora turned her head and kissed his throat. “I mean that I am sorry for you. I know you miss him terribly.”
Epimetheus laughed bitterly. “My perfect brother. Of course I miss him. Everyone loved him more than they love me; even I did.”
“I don’t.”
He shrugged free of her embrace. “But if you’d met him…”
Pandora looked shocked. “You think I’d have fallen in love with him instead? Epimetheus, I loved you from the first. Why do you doubt me when I have given you everything I have to give?”
“Because everyone loves him,” Epimetheus repeated.
“Everyone loves you, Epimetheus. Your people look to you to guide them; they trust in you absolutely. If you had not married me, you could have had your pick of the land to wife. You still could,” she added with a dangerous gleam in her eyes.
“They trust me because I remind them of him,” he insisted, “but I disappoint them at every step. And I don’t need or want another woman, Pandora.”
Pandora put her hands on his face and kissed him. “And I neither want nor need another man.”
Yet still Prometheus preyed upon Epimetheus’ mind. He could not escape the feelings of inferiority every time he saw the fruits of human civilisation and heard the people praise Prometheus for those gifts. The certainty continued to grow in him that his own, small contributions would be forgotten and Prometheus hailed as the sole benefactor of mankind.
It was this certainty that led him, night after night, to the cellar, and the jar. The jar had been a wedding gift from Zeus. “A gift,” Zeus had claimed, “in honour of your loss. Something for all the world.” Epimetheus had willingly agreed to Pandora’s suggestion that the jar be kept in the cellar, out of sight and unopened. He had wanted to be rid of the images of Prometheus’s glories and Pandora had never trusted her own creator.
With the certainty, however, came suspicion; suspicion of a conspiracy to deny him the smallest part of glory. He began to think that the reason Pandora wanted the jar hidden was that it had not been meant for him, but for Prometheus; that his beloved wife was simply waiting for his brother to return, so that she could betray her husband and hand this great gift to the all-wise Prometheus.
And with the suspicion, came determination; determination to know what was being kept from him. And so, one night, as he stared at the jar, he stepped forward and lifted the lid.
A howling torrent of darkness broke forth from the neck of the jar. Epimetheus felt a horde of evil spirits tear at his body but, failing to find purchase in his titanic flesh, they left him, sweeping up the stairs and out into the world.
“No!” Pandora woke, screaming, from a nightmare as the cloud of spirits came spiralling from the cellar and scattered across the face of the Earth. She knew at once what had happened; that the fears her love for Epimetheus had buried had been correct after all. Zeus’s gift had been opened and it was worse than she could have possibly imagined.
She recalled Zeus’s words when he sent her forth from Olympus: “You will love the human race, and you will be the herald of its destruction. I tell you this not so that you can avert it - indeed, I lay upon you a curse of silence, that you may reveal these secrets to no other - but so that it may cause you pain.”
“But why?” she had begged. “What have I done to offend you?”
“You are human,” Zeus had replied. “You are the zenith and the acme of humanity, and even though I made you so, I can not forgive that fault.”
She had first determined to have nothing to do with humanity, but she had soon realised that Zeus and his siblings had instilled in her every art and skill and science and grace in their keeping. She knew how to sew and weave and spin; she could carve wood, shape stone and forge metal. She knew how to till the soil; to plant and harvest and mill the grain; to rear animals and butcher them; cook food and brew a thousand draughts both healing and harmful. She could write poetry and prose and music; play and sing and recite; paint and sculpt and work clay. She could reason and speak on philosophy, rhetoric and grammar.
Moreover, she was possessed of grace of movement, mind and soul. Passion and compassion, moderated by a deep wisdom, ruled her actions and for all Zeus’s threats she found that she could not leave humanity to struggle in ignorance.
It started small: She saw farmers struggle in the fieds and she taught them to yoke oxen to the plough. She saw children go cold in the winter and showed their parents how to shear and spin and weave and sew to make warm clothes to cover them. Yet all her efforts seemed to make precious little difference, and so she began to teach others what she knew.
That was how she came to the attention of the ruler of that land, and soon Epimetheus sent for the mysterious wise-woman. She went willingly, and when she saw Epimetheus she loved him for his beauty and the goodness in his kind, honest face. They were married and she thought that she might have escaped the gods’ curse, but then Zeus sent his wedding gift, the great jar, and she knew that he still plotted to use her against humanity.
And now his curse was loose, and the plagues and pestilences which rushed out from the jar would undo all of Pandora’s good work and more. Even as she stood at her window, Pandora heard the first wails of fear and anguish rising from the city streets and she fell down and wept for the horrors Zeus had unleashed through her.
In the morning, Pandora at last rose and went out into the city. The suffering that she saw there was beyond her worst imaginings, but she possessed the knowledge to help and she set to with a will. By nightfall she felt as though she had achieved nothing; by the end of the week there seemed more of the sick and desperate than ever before. That was when the first outbreak of fever struck her patients.
“It’s the water,” she realised. “The water is dirty; it’s carrying the bad humours.”
“I could dig a channel from the river.”
Pandora turned to see Epimetheus standing in the doorway. It was the first she had seen of him since he had opened the jar.
She ran and embraced him. “Are you alright?” she asked.
He nodded. “I heard what you were doing here, Pandora,” he said, “and I realised there was no use sitting and blaming myself.”
“It’s not your fault,” Pandora assured him. “Zeus… He cursed me. I can say it now,” she realised.
“But I opened the jar. I was such a fool, Pandora. Can you ever…?”
“Only if you never ask it,” she told him sternly. “Zeus is to blame.”
He nodded. “Then what should we do now?”
“It doesn’t matter!” Pandora sobbed, all the stress in her breaking loose of a sudden. “It’s over, Epimetheus! We can’t stop all of this sickness!”
“Perhaps not, but we can’t give up. Oh, Pandora, you don’t know what you’ve done already. People are coming here to help you, to learn from you; you’re giving them hope.”
“I brought them destruction!”
“Zeus brought destruction, but he made a mistake when he sent you with the jar. All these plagues can not destroy the human race, not while it has the gifts you bring; your grace and skills.”
Tears sprang into Epimetheus’ eyes. “You think…?”
“I know,” he assured her. “And I know that because of you, Zeus won’t win.” He smiled. “Prometheus would have liked you.”
She smiled back at him and then kissed him. “I keep telling you: Prometheus wouldn’t have got a look in. Now; you promised me a channel for clean water.”
Casabianca
Swallows and Amazons
Romance, Vignette
FR-T
John stood in the pool of light, his throat dry and his palms sweating. Out beyond the glare, someone coughed politely and he drew a deep breath to begin.
“The boy stood on the burning deck,
Whence all but he had fled…”
*
The blanket and sheets were scratchy; hard, cheap linen and too much starch in the ship’s laundry. It made John feel awkward; even more awkward than he would have done anyway. He tightened his embrace and sighed. “You realise this is against all regulations,” he noted.
Nancy giggled; a sound he had never heard form her before.
“What? Oh, I know; ‘good old John, always worrying about the rules.’”
Nancy turned in his arms and pressed a kiss against his mouth. “I’m sorry,” she told him. “I realise that, for you, having inappropriate relations with an ordinary rating is a serious offence. Since I am aboard a ship of His Majesty’s Royal Navy under false pretences, fraternising with an officer is the least of my worries.”
“You make a terrible sailor,” John told her.
“Hey!”
“I mean… I mean you make an unconvincing boy sailor,” John protested.
Nancy shrugged. “No one else seems to have noticed.”
John stroked her hair. “Should we… Would it have been better if we’d waited?”
“For later? John, we don’t know if there’s going to be a later for us.”
*
The forward turret went up with a thunderous roar, spewing smoke and flames across the deck.
“Aftward turret jammed, Captain!” the Chief hollered. “One and five machine guns empty; three and four destroyed.”
Captain Masterson hung his head. “We gave it all we had to give gentlemen,” he said. “Mr Collins, what control do we have?”
“Nothing to speak of, sir,” the number one reported.
“Chief; sound for abandon ship, then get the men to the boats. You too, Mr Walker.”
“Yes, sir,” John replied reluctantly.
“Torpedo bombers coming around again,” the starboard lookout reported.
“Mr Walker, Chief; get moving!” Masters barked. Mr Collins, all she has please.”
John ran out and slid down the bridge ladder to the deck. Thick, black smoke belched from the wrecked triple-A turret and blew back along the deck. He ran to the starboard lifeboats to supervise boarding, checking each before launch. Number one was six men short; number two was missing eight men… and one woman.
“Go!” he told the men aboard.
“Come aboard, sir!” the senior rating insisted.
John activated the hoists himself, swinging the boat out and down. He turned and ran back towards the depth charge station with one thought on his mind: Nancy.
*
Nancy dressed in the cramped confines of John’s cabin. He shared the space with the number one, but she had to share two bunks with two other ratings. She tied her breasts down and wore a uniform that was at least a size too big, but John still couldn’t imagine anyone mistaking her for a boy. Of course, he’d made that mistake himself, once upon a time.
“What about Peggy?” Nancy asked.
“There is nothing between us,” John assured her. “There never was, really.”
Nancy eyed him coolly. “You were engaged, John.”
“For a week,” he replied. “It was a mistake; hers as much as mine.” He hung his head. “No; it was mine more than hers. It was just… easy.”
“Because she made it easy?” Nancy asked.
John nodded. “With the dresses and the dancing… You were so much more work.” He smiled wryly. “And I was young, stupid and lazy.”
Nancy grinned; the same, devil-may-care grin she had always had. The grin that had always captivated him.
“I’m sorry if I hurt her,” he said, “but… it was always you, Nancy. Always.”
“And I thought you had an eye for Dorothea.”
“Young, stupid and lazy.”
“Is that why you punched Dick?”
“Pretty much,” John agreed. “Well; she didn’t talk to me for a year, so it worked.”
Nancy laughed softly. “You’re not exactly good with women, are you?”
“I like to live dangerously.”
*
The hatch by the launcher was blocked by a depth charge. Heedless of the risk, John shoved the heavy, barrel-shaped explosive and rolled it out of the way. He heaved the hatch open and a cloud of hot smoke boiled out into his face.
He reeled back, choking, then leaned over and yelled: “Nan…!” He shook his head. “Blackett!”
He grabbed the ladder and slid down. He pulled the top of his jacket over his mouth and nose and pressed into the smoke. “Nancy!” he called, ignoring propriety. “Nancy!”
The smoke rolled in and his head spun.
*
Nancy bent over and kissed him. “It took you a while, but I’m glad you worked out what you wanted in the end.”
John forced a smile. “This isn’t the end,” he promised.
*
John fell to the deck, choking. He looked up one last time, turning towards the hatch. Smoke burned in his throat and the light from the deck was almost blinding. His head spun and he remembered… A dry throat, the glare in his eyes; a cough…
A shadow blotted out the light and consciousness fled.
*
Cold water brought John back to life, and the choking wash of spray, but his head was foggy and he was aware of only vague impressions as he was dragged to a boat and hauled in.
“Nancy,” he moaned.
“It’s okay, sir,” the Chief promised. “You’ll get home to your girl yet.”
“No,” he murmured. “Nancy…”
“You’re alright,” the Chief repeated. As he spoke he leaned over John and another face appeared at his shoulder; a familiar face with a devil-may-care grin capped with short, dark, curls. “Blackett pulled you out of the hatch. What were you doing down there anyway?”
“I… fell,” John said, leaning back against the side of the boat. His lips moved and his voice emerged in a whisper.
“What was that, sir?”
Nancy grinned. “He said: ‘The boy stood on the burning deck, Whence all but he had fled.’” She sat down beside John as the Chief turned to the rowers and whispered: “And he was an idiot as well, John Walker.” For the briefest moment she squeezed his hand tightly. “Just don’t think I’m about to let you go so easily.”
Darkness and Light
Warhammer 40,000
Drama
FR-T
Dieter and Einhart Archaeleus were brothers, but as unalike as strangers.
Dieter was a spiritual man, called early to the life of the Frateris Clergy. He studied hard and became a great scholar. He took orders at the age of eighteen and rose to great favour in the Adeptus Ministorum.
As his brother was blessed, so Einhart was cursed. He bore the taint of the witch-sight and was borne away in the Black Ships to be sanctioned and trained by the Adeptus Astra Telepathica. He, in his way, also excelled, and served the Imperium as truly as his tainted blood allowed.
It was Dieter who betrayed the Emperor’s trust. In his studies he delved into forbidden lore and soon learned things that man ought not to know. His will and wisdom became corrupted and he turned his hand against the Imperium he had once served. He fled the sanctum with many forbidden and blasphemous tomes and preached a perverted gospel, gathering an army of heretics, witches and mutants under the banner of his obscene patrons.
Armies faltered before his forked tongue and assassins turned against their masters. In the end it was the cursed witch-breed Einhart who tracked his own brother and bearded him in his own den. Thinking that a witch was an obvious recruit to his cause, Dieter embraced his brother, and Einhart slew the traitor with his witch’s powers.
Without Dieter’s guidance his cult scattered. Many burned, some few were saved. Einhart, tainted twice over as a witch and the brother of a heresiarch, was put to the fire by the Inquisition and the taint on the Archaelius blood was expunged.
Let all good servants of the Emperor heed these lessons: Duty is thicker than blood; and suspicion is the watchword of righteousness.
The Three Brothers
Fairy Tales
Drama
FR-T
Text removed for possible publication
The Keeper
Arthurian Legend
Drama, Vignette
FR-T
Was I my brother’s keeper?
I first beheld Arthur when he was but a babe in arms and I a mere boy, yet I knew even then that he was destined for greatness. I tried to hide it as we grew, teasing him and mocking him, leading others to do the same, but it was only a matter of time before they saw the truth. When that happened, when we could no longer pretend that he was not the trueborn High King of Britain, I ceased to be his brother, and became his protector.
A fine mess I made of that. I did the best I could to shield him from those who would abuse his good nature. People have thought me harsh and judgemental, but I have had to be; he would have trusted every charlatan and assassin to enter his court. From his earliest days, Arthur loved everyone, which made it impossible for him ever to see that not everyone loved him back. I did my best, but it wasn’t enough.
I warned him that Gwenhwyfach would be trouble, but he would not expel his wife’s twin from the court. I cautioned him against the assault on Annwn, but he could be so stubborn sometimes. I knew that Morgana meant ill to the kingdom, but I held out no hope that I, a mere foster brother, could convince him to dismiss his blood sister, and I am ashamed to say that I did not even try. I, even I, was bound by the desire to keep his good will, for I loved him as much as any.
Now I stand with Gwenhwyfar and Bedwyr and my own Anwyl an Gorthyn and I watch my brother borne away upon the water; carried into the mists of another realm. I stand amid the ruin of his realm, watered by the blood of the valiant, and I wonder: What now?
Was I my brother’s keeper? And what else is there for me to be?
Author's Notes: Doctor Who is owned by the BBC; you probably know that by now. Swallows and Amazons was created by Arthur Ransome; I worry that he would probably like to have words about this sort of thing. Warhammer 40,000 is owned by Games Workshop and I'm pretty certain they wouldn't give a crap. Arthurian Legend, Greek Mythology and Fairy Tales are not only free for all, but absolutely bloody chock full of siblings.
Having written Susan and Barbara as sister, it was something of a gift that the finale of The K3y to Time landed on this day. As I say, the public domain stuff is all a doddle. Casabianca was probably the first story I came up with for this challenge, predating the prompts by several months (if nothing had fit it would have gone in the 40/40). I suspect that I may have been shipping John and Nancy since long before I knew what shipping was.
Happy New Year to you all.
Mistake
Arthurian Mythology
Drama
FR-T
Morgana’s intuition began as a gnawing in the pit of her stomach, rather like hunger, but quickly built to a feverish panic that she could not shake. She knew at once that what she was feeling indicated some dire threat to her family. Not Elaine, she could look after herself; Morgause then, or perhaps…
“Arthur,” she whispered, suddenly certain.
After a day and a half of revels the camp was quiet in the cool of morning. The kings of Britain and their retainers had drunk themselves into a stupor, either to celebrate the finding of the new high king or to commiserate that it was not them. A few sentries remained awake, but hardly alert, and even the wariest would not have spared Morgana a glance beneath her witch’s veil. Eyes slid away from her; ears worked very hard not to hear her footsteps.
Arthur’s tent was unguarded, or rather the guard was asleep. Arthur’s foster-brother, Cai, lay hard against the tent post. Morgana crouched and lifted his eyelid.
“Drugged.” She thought about what she had seen of Cai during the tournament. He was tall and handsome, but had the marks of great wisdom and cunning about him as well. Since Arthur had pulled the sword from the stone in the churchyard, Cai had never been far from his side, his eyes burning with the witch sight; the veil would have been little use against him and if he had been drugged it would have to have been by someone he trusted. It would have to have been Arthur himself, but why…?
“Oh no,” Morgana groaned, as another thread of intuition tickled her consciousness. She pushed impatiently into the tent.
Merlin had more-or-less convinced the assembled kings that Arthur was some kind of god in mortal aspect, but here before Morgana was proof that he was naught but a man, and a luckless one at that.
“Get up!” she snapped.
Arthur raised his weary head. “What…?”
“Not you.” She held out a hand and focused the force of her will. “Sleep.” Arthur’s head slumped onto his pillow. “Now, get up.”
Morgause stretched lazily. “I don’t know what you’re so angry about,” she groused. “I was neither bride nor virgin and a widow may do as she pleases. He’s a little young, perhaps…”
“Morgause!” Morgana felt the power fill her frame and overflow. She could feel her hair brush against the canopy of the tent and her arms touch the fabric walls on either side. Morgause quailed from Morgana as her aspect swelled to fill the entire tent.
“What did I do wrong?” Morgause demanded.
“Have you forgotten?” Morgana demanded. “Have you forgotten Arthur?”
Morgause glanced at the yoth sleeping at her side.
“Our Arthur!” Morgana gripped her sister’s shoulders and hauled her to her feet. “Our brother, Morgause!”
Slowly, realisation dawned.
“This is…?”
Morgana flung Morgause her gown, fighting against her own revulsion. “Get dressed,” she said. “We don’t have long.”
“Long?” Morgause struggled into the dress.
“Merlin will come,” Morgana hissed. “He will know, as I do.”
“Know what?”
Morgana splayed her hand across her sister’s belly. “This sin shall beget the death of Merlin’s Summer Kingdom,” she hissed.
“No!”
“Yes! Merlin shall seek to destroy it.”
Morgause retreated in horror, folding her hands over her stomach. “He can’t!”
“He will if he knows; he has foreseen, as I have, that Arthur’s child shall be the end of all his hopes. He will do all in his power to end that threat, unless…”
“Yes.”
Morgana held out her hand over Arthur’s head. She closed her eyes in concentration and let her power flow out into the boy’s mind, carefully unpicking his memories of the last few hours. “I’m afraid, dear sister, that Arthur will not remember you.”
“But…”
“And you will not remember him.” Morgana held out her other hand to touch Morgause on the brow.
“No!”
“Merlin would snatch the thought from your mind in a second, Morgause; you must forget. But I will try to make sure you remember to be more mindful, in future, of the consequences of your actions.”
The K3y to Time: Part 6 - The Hall of Healing
Doctor Who
Drama
FR-T
“How can she be sick?” Barbara demanded as they lay Susan in the TARDIS infirmary.
“Susan is only partially protected by the Key,” the Doctor replied. “It is as yet incomplete and the radiation levels in the core were vast. Without protection, she would have been incinerated in seconds.”
“What do we do now?” Ian demanded. “She’s sick; she can’t pilot the TARDIS in this state. How do we find the last segment and get her back to normal?”
The Doctor shook her head. “We can’t. She needs treatment, and more even than the TARDIS can provide. Let me see… 200,200… 200,200… Yes!” Her hands began to fly across the controls. “I can not yet accurately move in time, despite the recalibration of the temporal circuits, but I should be able to plot a purely spatial course, and in 200,200 there is only one place to take a person suffering from this level of radiation exposure. Fortunately, it isn’t far.”
Susan woke in a crisp, neatly-turned hospital bed with a dry mouth and aches all over her body. Her head was fuzzy; too fogged and dazed to say anything except the obvious:
“Where am I?”
“St Trobadur’s.”
Susan turned her head to look at the speaker. A boy - a young man - sat by her bedside, dressed in a dark blue, silk dressing gown.
“Trobadur?”
“Patron Saint of the wealthy rich,” the boy explained. “This is one of the better centres in the Hopice.”
“Hospice?”
“You’re in the Medicaris Hospice. To be brought here you must be very rich. Or have a very interesting illness. That’s what I have,” he added. “No-one knows what’s wrong with me, so they’re paying a fortune for the privilege of finding out. Or trying to.”
Susan pushed herself upright and the boy leaned forward to arrange her pillows. His hand brushed hers and she felt a jolt like an electric shock run through her.
“I’m Susan,” she said.
“Gyles,” he replied.
“So… if they don’t know what’s wrong with you, how can they make you better?”
“Well… they can’t,” he replied. “Medicaris is a hospice, Susan. Aside from a few acute cases, every patient on this planet is dying. Some of them fast, some of us slowly, but this is where we stay.”
“Dying?” Susan’s face fell.
“Oh, not you,” he assured her. “I had a look at your chart; severe radiation poisoning. It’s nasty, but treatable.” He touched a drip feeding into her arm. “Should flush you clean in about a day, then…” He made a flying motion with his hand. “You’ll be out of my life again.”
“But you…?”
He shrugged. “Well, who knows? Maybe they’ll work out what’s wrong with me and I can be gone tomorrow. If not… Well, I’ve been sick for a while. I accepted death a long time ago.”
“That’s so sad.”
Gyles grinned. “I’ll live,” he promised.
Waiting for news was beginning to grate on Barbara; even Ian’s attention was wearing under this strain. She retreated to the quiet of the toilets, taking a moment to locate the correct door out of the nine available and trying not to think too hard about the unfamiliar symbols. She washed her face and stared long and hard into the mirror, until a second figure loomed up behind her.
“Are you alright?” the nurse asked.
“Fine,” Barbara replied tersely. “Or… as fine as I can be given…” She stared fixedly at the woman’s mocha skin and raven hair, and the eyes as black as polished jet. The features were different, but she was certain that she was not mistaken. “But then you know all about it, don’t you.”
“I suppose I do,” the Black Guardian agreed, “and you have no idea how tedious that can be.”
Ian, meanwhile, was hanging around the canteen, trying not to worry too much; trying to be strong for Barbara. Being time sensitive he felt, rather than saw, the White Guardian’s arrival, but did not look up until the figure of a dignified doctor of latish middle age sat down opposite him.
“You’ve changed your face,” he noted.
“Have I?” the Guardian asked. “It’s so hard for me to tell. My senses don’t really perceive the physical world in that kind of detail.”
“You take a broad view?”
“No; I am quite capable of seeing detail; just not of that kind.”
“I… Well, I don’t see, but I’ll accept that for now. So, are you here to help Susan?” Ian asked.
The White Guardian shook his head sadly. “Alas, I can not; not without the Key. Your Grandmother’s people were sworn never to interfere precisely because of the vast power they were capable of wielding; think how much more carefully a being of my capacity must judge his every action. Only with the Key can I enjoy, for a few, brief moments, the freedom to order matter as I see fit. Only then will I be able to predict every possible and probable outcome and so select the one most favourable.”
“So you are, in your own way, as limited as I am?” Ian asked. “That’s why you need my help.”
The White Guardian’s smile tightened, just a fraction. “Quite. But while I might need your help, Susan needs my help more. I am sure that you see that more clearly than ever.”
I can see that she needs help,” Ian conceded. “I’m not entirely convinced she needs your help, since it was you and your brother who did this to her in the first place.”
“We merely made the approach,” the White Guardian insisted, “and it was the Black Guardian who tricked your friend into taking the tracer unawares. The tracer was made by the Grace, as was the Key; they determined the nature of its function.”
Ian shrugged. “But you can help Susan?”
“And more to the point you will help Susan?”
“You have my word,” the Black Guardian promised. “You can trust me, Barbara; I’m a doctor.”
“You’re dressed as a nurse,” Barbara pointed out.
“Same thing; both little minds poking around at an imprecise, organic machine that they barely understand. What does a few years training matter when all is fumbling in the darkness?”
“And you’d know.”
“And I would know.”
Barbara’s next words were cut off as her communicator chimed. She glowered at the Black Guardian and then answered: “Is there news?”
“Susan is awake,” the Doctor reported.
Over the next few days, Susan’s health slowly returned. Once they were sure that she was on the mend, Barbara and Ian gave her the space and time which she so desperately wanted; space and time to be alone with Gyles. They still checked in from time to time, usually in a group so as not to take too much time from the two youngsters.
“Susan, dear girl!” the Doctor called. “I hardly dared to hope you would recover so quickly!”
Susan smiled at Gyles. “I’ve had good company,” she explained.
“I do hope she hasn’t been tiring you, Gyles.”
Gyles shook his head. “It’s been wonderful,” he grinned. “First person my age they’ve put in my ward and she’s so pretty.”
Susan blushed furiously and dragged a pillow over her head.
“Sorry,” Gyles laughed. “I guess I don’t have time for embarrassment anymore.”
Susan poked her head out again. “I wish you wouldn’t…”
“It’s alright,” Gyles promised her, but with a hint of bitterness in her voice. “You’re almost better, so you’ll be going soon. We can say goodbye and I’ll be fine still.”
“That’s not alright,” Susan whispered.
Ian coughed awkwardly. “Maybe we should…?”
Barbara nodded and the three adults shuffled uncomfortably away, leaving Susan and Gyles to a painful silence.
“I’m sorry,” Susan said at last. “I know it’s not fair, but it isn’t fair to blame me, either.”
“I know!” he snapped. “I mean, I know. It’s just so hard sometimes. I’ll really miss you.”
“And I’ll miss you,” Susan told him, “but I can’t… Oh, it’s so stupid!” she snapped. “I don’t want to go, Gyles! I don’t want to leave here, leave you, but I have to. I have to…” She broke off and leaned forward suddenly, kissing him soundly on the lips. Electricity coursed through her, like nothing she had ever felt before… except that it was like something she had felt very often.
She tried to pull away, but some force held the two of them together as their bodies began to glow.
“Oh my God,” Ian whispered.
“Oh, Susan.” Barbara ran towards her sister, but long before she reached her, Gyles had vanished, converted into a crystal segment and absorbed into Susan’s body.
“It hurts,” Susan whispered.
Ian and Barbara ran to flank Susan and take her arms as she arched her back in agony. She gave a long, agonised scream and the glow grew brighter yet.
Before the Doctor’s eyes, the Guardians appeared. Behind Ian the White Guardian blazed like a star, reflecting Susan’s light. Behind Barbara the Black Guardian was like a shadow, sucking in the radiance of the Key.
Susan cried out again and the glow drew together in her chest. One final, blinding pulse of light and the Key was there, a perfect, crystal cube. Susan held it with her hands on the top and bottom, while Ian and Barbara each held one side.
“Give me the Key!” the Black Guardian hissed.
“Give me the Key, Susan,” Barbara echoed. “You don’t have much time.”
“Give me the Key!” the White Guardian demanded.
“Give me the Key, Susan,” Ian echoed. “Please; it’s a matter of life and death.”
“Give me the Key!” the Guardians chorused.
“Susan!” Ian and Barbara chorused.
Susan looked desperately from left to right. She looked from her sister to her friend, from the consuming shadows to the obliterating light. Pain wracked her limbs and she cried out, a single word:
“Doctor!”
The Key vanished; the room grew still. The light of the White Guardian dimmed and the void of the Black Guardian lightened into mere shadow.
“What…?” Ian wondered.
“How…?” Barbara gasped.
With a soft sigh, Susan collapsed onto the pillows. Ian and Barbara bent over her.
The Guardians turned as one to face the Doctor, who held the key between her outstretched hands.
“Give me the Key, Doctor,” the White Guardian said. “I have to stop time and repair the damage to the universe.”
“No!” the Black Guardian protested. “He’ll remake the cosmos in his image; perfect order, forever and ever. No change, no uncertainty; no fun!”
“Give the Key to her and there will be nothing but chaos!” the White Guardian insisted. “Mere anarchy loosed upon the world!”
“He can’t even write his own lines!”
“She’s little more than a beast!”
“Doctor, she’s dying!” Barbara pleaded.
The Doctor closed her eyes in concentration. “We are held out of time now, Barbara,” she promised. “Susan is, to all intents and purposes, frozen, until I choose to release the universe. Now, Guardians, you will repair the universal balance and…”
“If you give me the Key, Doctor…” the White Guardian began.
The Black Guardian interrupted. “No, give me the Key and…”
“I was not asking!” the Doctor snapped. “I hold the Key to Time! I hold the ultimate power in the Universe and you will do as I say and put everything right! Starting with young Susan.”
“I…”
“We…”
“Now!”
With ill grace, the White Guardian held out his hand. With equal reluctance, the Black Guardian seized it. There was a momentary ringing, like some distant musical chord, and then silence returned.
“Good,” the Doctor said. “Now go!”
“We…”
“Go!”
With a sound like snapping leather the two Guardians winked out of existence.
“Now, just…” The Doctor frowned in concentration, her piercing brown eyes fixed on the crystal cube. For a moment, everything seemed to freeze and then…
“What happened?” Gyles asked.
“A number of things,” the Doctor replied. “You were converted into the final segment of the Key to Time; Ian and Barbara both made the wrong choices for the right reasons; Susan made the right choice for… well, for good reasons, I hope.”
“The Doctor banished the Guardians,” Ian added.
“Well, gave them enough of a spin to give us a head start,” the Doctor laughed. “I also took the liberty of tinkering with the TARDIS stealth systems and circuit calibrations while I had the power of the cosmos in my hands. Then I put the segments back where they belonged, but without the Z-neutrino build up which made the statue a focus of violence, the hawk pendant a bad-luck charm, the warp core a ticking time bomb, the weaving sword a curse on its owners, the Dalekanium core a viable weapon power source and made you sick.”
“Made me…”
“Oh, yes,” the Doctor finished. “You’re no longer ill.”
Gyles’ face fell. “Then… what do I do? My parents signed me over to the Hospice when I was four.”
Susan slipped a hand into his. “You could come with us,” she suggested.
“That sounds a very good idea,” the Doctor agreed. “At least in the short term we should all leave Medicalis. The Guardians will find their way back eventually and neither the girl who thwarted them nor a segment of the Key will be safe when that happens.” She turned to a medical cabinet behind her and unlocked the door.
“What are you doing?” Barbara asked.
“I told you,” the Doctor said impatiently, “I tinkered with the stealth systems.” She pulled the cabinet open, revealing the console room of the TARDIS beyond. “And shifted the TARDIS a little in space.”
“It’s a medicine cabinet?”
“Looks like a medicine cabinet; fully functional chameleon circuit, you see. Now, are you coming?”
“Coming where?” Gyles asked.
“Everywhere!” Barbara replied.
“Anywhen,” Ian added.
Susan squeezed his hand and of course, he said: “Yes.”
Gifted
Greek Mythology
Drama, Romance
FR-T
The jar sat and brooded. It ought not to ave been possible for a jar to brood, but this jar managed it.
Epimetheus hated the jar, not for its brooding ways, but for the black-painted figures decorating the red surface. Artistically-speaking, the jar was a thing of great beauty, but the scenes depicted showed the life of Prometheus: Prometheus creating the human race; Prometheus stealing fire from Olympus; Prometheus tricking Zeus out of the best part of the offering; Prometheus, Prometheus, Prometheus.
“Always Prometheus,” Epimetheus muttered. Everyone loved Prometheus. He had been gone for years and still cast a long shadow across his brother’s life.
“Epimetheus!”
The Titan closed his eyes in delight at just the sound of his wife’s voice. She was in every way perfect and she loved him, the way everyone else loved Prometheus. She never drew comparisons between the brothers and found Epimetheus wanting. Of course she probably would have loved Prometheus, if she had ever met him. She must have been so disappointed to find Epimetheus head of the household.
Epimetheus could almost be glad that his brother was chained to a rock with an eagle pecking out his liver in perpetuity. “Because you weren’t here, brother, and she fell in love with me.”
Pandora descended the stairs to the cellar. “Are you talking to that jar again?” she asked. When Epimetheus did not answer she put her arms around his waist and leaned against his back. Epimetheus was tall, but Pandora was almost his equal in height. Holding him thus, she was able to lay her chin comfortably on his shoulder, her soft cheek against his ear. “I’m sorry,” she whispered.
“Sorry?”
“That you lost your brother.”
“Everyone’s sorry that Prometheus is gone.”
Pandora turned her head and kissed his throat. “I mean that I am sorry for you. I know you miss him terribly.”
Epimetheus laughed bitterly. “My perfect brother. Of course I miss him. Everyone loved him more than they love me; even I did.”
“I don’t.”
He shrugged free of her embrace. “But if you’d met him…”
Pandora looked shocked. “You think I’d have fallen in love with him instead? Epimetheus, I loved you from the first. Why do you doubt me when I have given you everything I have to give?”
“Because everyone loves him,” Epimetheus repeated.
“Everyone loves you, Epimetheus. Your people look to you to guide them; they trust in you absolutely. If you had not married me, you could have had your pick of the land to wife. You still could,” she added with a dangerous gleam in her eyes.
“They trust me because I remind them of him,” he insisted, “but I disappoint them at every step. And I don’t need or want another woman, Pandora.”
Pandora put her hands on his face and kissed him. “And I neither want nor need another man.”
Yet still Prometheus preyed upon Epimetheus’ mind. He could not escape the feelings of inferiority every time he saw the fruits of human civilisation and heard the people praise Prometheus for those gifts. The certainty continued to grow in him that his own, small contributions would be forgotten and Prometheus hailed as the sole benefactor of mankind.
It was this certainty that led him, night after night, to the cellar, and the jar. The jar had been a wedding gift from Zeus. “A gift,” Zeus had claimed, “in honour of your loss. Something for all the world.” Epimetheus had willingly agreed to Pandora’s suggestion that the jar be kept in the cellar, out of sight and unopened. He had wanted to be rid of the images of Prometheus’s glories and Pandora had never trusted her own creator.
With the certainty, however, came suspicion; suspicion of a conspiracy to deny him the smallest part of glory. He began to think that the reason Pandora wanted the jar hidden was that it had not been meant for him, but for Prometheus; that his beloved wife was simply waiting for his brother to return, so that she could betray her husband and hand this great gift to the all-wise Prometheus.
And with the suspicion, came determination; determination to know what was being kept from him. And so, one night, as he stared at the jar, he stepped forward and lifted the lid.
A howling torrent of darkness broke forth from the neck of the jar. Epimetheus felt a horde of evil spirits tear at his body but, failing to find purchase in his titanic flesh, they left him, sweeping up the stairs and out into the world.
“No!” Pandora woke, screaming, from a nightmare as the cloud of spirits came spiralling from the cellar and scattered across the face of the Earth. She knew at once what had happened; that the fears her love for Epimetheus had buried had been correct after all. Zeus’s gift had been opened and it was worse than she could have possibly imagined.
She recalled Zeus’s words when he sent her forth from Olympus: “You will love the human race, and you will be the herald of its destruction. I tell you this not so that you can avert it - indeed, I lay upon you a curse of silence, that you may reveal these secrets to no other - but so that it may cause you pain.”
“But why?” she had begged. “What have I done to offend you?”
“You are human,” Zeus had replied. “You are the zenith and the acme of humanity, and even though I made you so, I can not forgive that fault.”
She had first determined to have nothing to do with humanity, but she had soon realised that Zeus and his siblings had instilled in her every art and skill and science and grace in their keeping. She knew how to sew and weave and spin; she could carve wood, shape stone and forge metal. She knew how to till the soil; to plant and harvest and mill the grain; to rear animals and butcher them; cook food and brew a thousand draughts both healing and harmful. She could write poetry and prose and music; play and sing and recite; paint and sculpt and work clay. She could reason and speak on philosophy, rhetoric and grammar.
Moreover, she was possessed of grace of movement, mind and soul. Passion and compassion, moderated by a deep wisdom, ruled her actions and for all Zeus’s threats she found that she could not leave humanity to struggle in ignorance.
It started small: She saw farmers struggle in the fieds and she taught them to yoke oxen to the plough. She saw children go cold in the winter and showed their parents how to shear and spin and weave and sew to make warm clothes to cover them. Yet all her efforts seemed to make precious little difference, and so she began to teach others what she knew.
That was how she came to the attention of the ruler of that land, and soon Epimetheus sent for the mysterious wise-woman. She went willingly, and when she saw Epimetheus she loved him for his beauty and the goodness in his kind, honest face. They were married and she thought that she might have escaped the gods’ curse, but then Zeus sent his wedding gift, the great jar, and she knew that he still plotted to use her against humanity.
And now his curse was loose, and the plagues and pestilences which rushed out from the jar would undo all of Pandora’s good work and more. Even as she stood at her window, Pandora heard the first wails of fear and anguish rising from the city streets and she fell down and wept for the horrors Zeus had unleashed through her.
In the morning, Pandora at last rose and went out into the city. The suffering that she saw there was beyond her worst imaginings, but she possessed the knowledge to help and she set to with a will. By nightfall she felt as though she had achieved nothing; by the end of the week there seemed more of the sick and desperate than ever before. That was when the first outbreak of fever struck her patients.
“It’s the water,” she realised. “The water is dirty; it’s carrying the bad humours.”
“I could dig a channel from the river.”
Pandora turned to see Epimetheus standing in the doorway. It was the first she had seen of him since he had opened the jar.
She ran and embraced him. “Are you alright?” she asked.
He nodded. “I heard what you were doing here, Pandora,” he said, “and I realised there was no use sitting and blaming myself.”
“It’s not your fault,” Pandora assured him. “Zeus… He cursed me. I can say it now,” she realised.
“But I opened the jar. I was such a fool, Pandora. Can you ever…?”
“Only if you never ask it,” she told him sternly. “Zeus is to blame.”
He nodded. “Then what should we do now?”
“It doesn’t matter!” Pandora sobbed, all the stress in her breaking loose of a sudden. “It’s over, Epimetheus! We can’t stop all of this sickness!”
“Perhaps not, but we can’t give up. Oh, Pandora, you don’t know what you’ve done already. People are coming here to help you, to learn from you; you’re giving them hope.”
“I brought them destruction!”
“Zeus brought destruction, but he made a mistake when he sent you with the jar. All these plagues can not destroy the human race, not while it has the gifts you bring; your grace and skills.”
Tears sprang into Epimetheus’ eyes. “You think…?”
“I know,” he assured her. “And I know that because of you, Zeus won’t win.” He smiled. “Prometheus would have liked you.”
She smiled back at him and then kissed him. “I keep telling you: Prometheus wouldn’t have got a look in. Now; you promised me a channel for clean water.”
Casabianca
Swallows and Amazons
Romance, Vignette
FR-T
John stood in the pool of light, his throat dry and his palms sweating. Out beyond the glare, someone coughed politely and he drew a deep breath to begin.
“The boy stood on the burning deck,
Whence all but he had fled…”
*
The blanket and sheets were scratchy; hard, cheap linen and too much starch in the ship’s laundry. It made John feel awkward; even more awkward than he would have done anyway. He tightened his embrace and sighed. “You realise this is against all regulations,” he noted.
Nancy giggled; a sound he had never heard form her before.
“What? Oh, I know; ‘good old John, always worrying about the rules.’”
Nancy turned in his arms and pressed a kiss against his mouth. “I’m sorry,” she told him. “I realise that, for you, having inappropriate relations with an ordinary rating is a serious offence. Since I am aboard a ship of His Majesty’s Royal Navy under false pretences, fraternising with an officer is the least of my worries.”
“You make a terrible sailor,” John told her.
“Hey!”
“I mean… I mean you make an unconvincing boy sailor,” John protested.
Nancy shrugged. “No one else seems to have noticed.”
John stroked her hair. “Should we… Would it have been better if we’d waited?”
“For later? John, we don’t know if there’s going to be a later for us.”
*
The forward turret went up with a thunderous roar, spewing smoke and flames across the deck.
“Aftward turret jammed, Captain!” the Chief hollered. “One and five machine guns empty; three and four destroyed.”
Captain Masterson hung his head. “We gave it all we had to give gentlemen,” he said. “Mr Collins, what control do we have?”
“Nothing to speak of, sir,” the number one reported.
“Chief; sound for abandon ship, then get the men to the boats. You too, Mr Walker.”
“Yes, sir,” John replied reluctantly.
“Torpedo bombers coming around again,” the starboard lookout reported.
“Mr Walker, Chief; get moving!” Masters barked. Mr Collins, all she has please.”
John ran out and slid down the bridge ladder to the deck. Thick, black smoke belched from the wrecked triple-A turret and blew back along the deck. He ran to the starboard lifeboats to supervise boarding, checking each before launch. Number one was six men short; number two was missing eight men… and one woman.
“Go!” he told the men aboard.
“Come aboard, sir!” the senior rating insisted.
John activated the hoists himself, swinging the boat out and down. He turned and ran back towards the depth charge station with one thought on his mind: Nancy.
*
Nancy dressed in the cramped confines of John’s cabin. He shared the space with the number one, but she had to share two bunks with two other ratings. She tied her breasts down and wore a uniform that was at least a size too big, but John still couldn’t imagine anyone mistaking her for a boy. Of course, he’d made that mistake himself, once upon a time.
“What about Peggy?” Nancy asked.
“There is nothing between us,” John assured her. “There never was, really.”
Nancy eyed him coolly. “You were engaged, John.”
“For a week,” he replied. “It was a mistake; hers as much as mine.” He hung his head. “No; it was mine more than hers. It was just… easy.”
“Because she made it easy?” Nancy asked.
John nodded. “With the dresses and the dancing… You were so much more work.” He smiled wryly. “And I was young, stupid and lazy.”
Nancy grinned; the same, devil-may-care grin she had always had. The grin that had always captivated him.
“I’m sorry if I hurt her,” he said, “but… it was always you, Nancy. Always.”
“And I thought you had an eye for Dorothea.”
“Young, stupid and lazy.”
“Is that why you punched Dick?”
“Pretty much,” John agreed. “Well; she didn’t talk to me for a year, so it worked.”
Nancy laughed softly. “You’re not exactly good with women, are you?”
“I like to live dangerously.”
*
The hatch by the launcher was blocked by a depth charge. Heedless of the risk, John shoved the heavy, barrel-shaped explosive and rolled it out of the way. He heaved the hatch open and a cloud of hot smoke boiled out into his face.
He reeled back, choking, then leaned over and yelled: “Nan…!” He shook his head. “Blackett!”
He grabbed the ladder and slid down. He pulled the top of his jacket over his mouth and nose and pressed into the smoke. “Nancy!” he called, ignoring propriety. “Nancy!”
The smoke rolled in and his head spun.
*
Nancy bent over and kissed him. “It took you a while, but I’m glad you worked out what you wanted in the end.”
John forced a smile. “This isn’t the end,” he promised.
*
John fell to the deck, choking. He looked up one last time, turning towards the hatch. Smoke burned in his throat and the light from the deck was almost blinding. His head spun and he remembered… A dry throat, the glare in his eyes; a cough…
A shadow blotted out the light and consciousness fled.
*
Cold water brought John back to life, and the choking wash of spray, but his head was foggy and he was aware of only vague impressions as he was dragged to a boat and hauled in.
“Nancy,” he moaned.
“It’s okay, sir,” the Chief promised. “You’ll get home to your girl yet.”
“No,” he murmured. “Nancy…”
“You’re alright,” the Chief repeated. As he spoke he leaned over John and another face appeared at his shoulder; a familiar face with a devil-may-care grin capped with short, dark, curls. “Blackett pulled you out of the hatch. What were you doing down there anyway?”
“I… fell,” John said, leaning back against the side of the boat. His lips moved and his voice emerged in a whisper.
“What was that, sir?”
Nancy grinned. “He said: ‘The boy stood on the burning deck, Whence all but he had fled.’” She sat down beside John as the Chief turned to the rowers and whispered: “And he was an idiot as well, John Walker.” For the briefest moment she squeezed his hand tightly. “Just don’t think I’m about to let you go so easily.”
Darkness and Light
Warhammer 40,000
Drama
FR-T
Dieter and Einhart Archaeleus were brothers, but as unalike as strangers.
Dieter was a spiritual man, called early to the life of the Frateris Clergy. He studied hard and became a great scholar. He took orders at the age of eighteen and rose to great favour in the Adeptus Ministorum.
As his brother was blessed, so Einhart was cursed. He bore the taint of the witch-sight and was borne away in the Black Ships to be sanctioned and trained by the Adeptus Astra Telepathica. He, in his way, also excelled, and served the Imperium as truly as his tainted blood allowed.
It was Dieter who betrayed the Emperor’s trust. In his studies he delved into forbidden lore and soon learned things that man ought not to know. His will and wisdom became corrupted and he turned his hand against the Imperium he had once served. He fled the sanctum with many forbidden and blasphemous tomes and preached a perverted gospel, gathering an army of heretics, witches and mutants under the banner of his obscene patrons.
Armies faltered before his forked tongue and assassins turned against their masters. In the end it was the cursed witch-breed Einhart who tracked his own brother and bearded him in his own den. Thinking that a witch was an obvious recruit to his cause, Dieter embraced his brother, and Einhart slew the traitor with his witch’s powers.
Without Dieter’s guidance his cult scattered. Many burned, some few were saved. Einhart, tainted twice over as a witch and the brother of a heresiarch, was put to the fire by the Inquisition and the taint on the Archaelius blood was expunged.
Let all good servants of the Emperor heed these lessons: Duty is thicker than blood; and suspicion is the watchword of righteousness.
The Three Brothers
Fairy Tales
Drama
FR-T
Text removed for possible publication
The Keeper
Arthurian Legend
Drama, Vignette
FR-T
Was I my brother’s keeper?
I first beheld Arthur when he was but a babe in arms and I a mere boy, yet I knew even then that he was destined for greatness. I tried to hide it as we grew, teasing him and mocking him, leading others to do the same, but it was only a matter of time before they saw the truth. When that happened, when we could no longer pretend that he was not the trueborn High King of Britain, I ceased to be his brother, and became his protector.
A fine mess I made of that. I did the best I could to shield him from those who would abuse his good nature. People have thought me harsh and judgemental, but I have had to be; he would have trusted every charlatan and assassin to enter his court. From his earliest days, Arthur loved everyone, which made it impossible for him ever to see that not everyone loved him back. I did my best, but it wasn’t enough.
I warned him that Gwenhwyfach would be trouble, but he would not expel his wife’s twin from the court. I cautioned him against the assault on Annwn, but he could be so stubborn sometimes. I knew that Morgana meant ill to the kingdom, but I held out no hope that I, a mere foster brother, could convince him to dismiss his blood sister, and I am ashamed to say that I did not even try. I, even I, was bound by the desire to keep his good will, for I loved him as much as any.
Now I stand with Gwenhwyfar and Bedwyr and my own Anwyl an Gorthyn and I watch my brother borne away upon the water; carried into the mists of another realm. I stand amid the ruin of his realm, watered by the blood of the valiant, and I wonder: What now?
Was I my brother’s keeper? And what else is there for me to be?
Author's Notes: Doctor Who is owned by the BBC; you probably know that by now. Swallows and Amazons was created by Arthur Ransome; I worry that he would probably like to have words about this sort of thing. Warhammer 40,000 is owned by Games Workshop and I'm pretty certain they wouldn't give a crap. Arthurian Legend, Greek Mythology and Fairy Tales are not only free for all, but absolutely bloody chock full of siblings.
Having written Susan and Barbara as sister, it was something of a gift that the finale of The K3y to Time landed on this day. As I say, the public domain stuff is all a doddle. Casabianca was probably the first story I came up with for this challenge, predating the prompts by several months (if nothing had fit it would have gone in the 40/40). I suspect that I may have been shipping John and Nancy since long before I knew what shipping was.
Happy New Year to you all.