Chapter Text
Elliot sat up with a start, bolt upright like a sleeper agent that had just been activated. Unfortunately, this meant he smacked his head into a wooden beam.
“Shit! Ow!” He grumbled, pressing a palm against his throbbing forehead and squinting in betrayal at the beam. It creaked apologetically, but his trust in it had been lost forever.
Ducking under the beam, he realised he had no idea where he was. The room around him could generously be advertised as ‘rustic’ and ‘homey’ to a bigger fool than he, but appeared, more than anything, to be a shack in the middle of the woods.
When he opened the only door, he found himself in the middle of the woods.
“Great,” he grumbled, wrapping his arms around his chest. “Either I’ve been abducted by a crazed serial killer, or someone’s drugged me and taken me camping.”
After a brief glance out at the woods determined them to be altogether meh, Elliot closed the door. At least inside, he could pretend this was some sort of retreat for those with too much money and too little sense.
The shack was maybe ten square metres, with precious little decoration to make up for the embarrassment of nature making its way through the floorboards. An ersatz bed – the one he had woken up on – had been shoved into the corner, though with the size of the place it was taking up a decent amount of the floor. The mattress appeared to be stuffed with straw, leaving Elliot with the creeping dread that a wolf was about to arrive and huff and puff the place down. Which would, quite possibly, be an improvement.
Beside the bed were a pair of trainers that appeared to have lost a fight with a forest. Or several. Elliot shoved his feet into them and realised they were probably his when a blister on his left ankle matched up with a loose part of the heel.
A quick once-over confirmed that he was otherwise clothed, which he probably should have checked before potentially showing his tackle to every fox in the local area. The hoodie was familiar, but tighter across the shoulders than he remembered. Also, covered in blood.
He patted his chest cautiously, afraid of removing the hoodie in case it turned out to be load-bearing. When his tentative examination found no signs of injury, he stripped the hoodie and shirt beneath to check further.
Elliot’s bare skin was less pale than he’d expected, taught across something he was beginning to suspect was muscle. “Kidnapped by some sort of exercise cult” moved up his list of contingencies. However, he was uninjured. That left another, horrifying possibility.
“Oh, God,” Elliot said, “I’ve blacked out and killed someone. That’s why I don’t know where I am, that’s why I’m covered in blood, that’s why the beam is out to get me. It’s revenge!”
While his emotions set themselves on fire and started a merry Morris dance, Elliot’s rational brain turned his palms over. They were completely blood free, as were the gaps under his fingernails.
“Okay, my hands are literally clean,” he hummed, “and if I’d killed someone, I probably wouldn’t stop to Lady Macbeth my hands without getting rid of a giant, bloody piece of evidence. So maybe I didn’t kill someone. Although I am talking to myself, which can’t be a sign of anything good.”
The only other item in the shack was a leather satchel, the kind nerds wore to school. Or at least, nerds whose parents bought them leather satchels did. Elliot’s backpack was a free gift from Ladbroke’s. As he moved to touch it, Elliot paused.
“Okay,” he asked himself, “how likely is it that whatever’s happening is illegal? And how much of a possibility is it that getting my fingerprints on this bag is a bad idea?”
“Well,” replied his only option for rational dialogue, “Either that’s my bag, and I put it there, so my fingerprints are already on it, or someone else’s. If it’s someone else’s and they know I’m here, they could have put my prints on it while I slept. If they don’t know I’m here, I’ve already touched enough stuff to leave prints, regardless. So, fuck it?”
“Fuck it.”
On opening the bag, he found the embossed initials E.S. under the flap.
“Okay, so it’s mine.”
He proceeded to upend the satchel’s contents onto the floor.
The bag mostly contained books, which was a predictable delight. Alongside three tomes was a flimsy notebook with FIELD NOTES scrawled on the cover. He put that aside and examined the books.
The book titled ‘TROLL-HARPY DICTIONARY’ was bound in some sort of woven grass, its cover held shut with a loop of fabric. Tucked into the loop was a white-gold feather, which Elliot tucked behind his ear as he opened the volume. The pages were filled with dark scratchings, always a word in a script he didn’t know followed by phonetics.
“So, the Harpy for ‘nestmate’ is vul-oh-grr in Troll?” He paused. “That’s the Harpy for ‘nestmate’. I speak Harpy. Okay.”
Below this entry, his own hand had scribbled, ‘does this mean Harpy concept or is it Troll for family? Ask on next visit’. He closed the book and stared at the wall for a moment.
A leather-bound book with gilded pages, entitled ‘THE TRAVELS OF GREGORY SUNBORN’, had been signed by the author. A brief glance told Elliot it was mostly smut.
The final book was the heaviest and appeared to be some sort of explorer’s guide. A large section of it was an atlas dedicated to a land that appeared to have been made up.
“Okay,” Elliot said, returning the books to the satchel, “there appear to be two options. One, I’ve accidentally joined some sort of really immersive LARP, or two, I’m in a Narnia situation. Based on the footnotes in this atlas, I’m going to say it’s the latter. This is… well, I’m not exactly sure how to handle this, but I’m sure it’ll be fine.”
Unable to fully process whatever was happening, Elliot examined the rest of his belongings. A few pens, some mechanical pencils, matches, and a leather pouch filled with water were pushed aside to be useful later. A stale biscuit wrapped in cloth was consumed immediately, precipitating the usefulness of the water. All that remained was a crumpled letter, a Swiss army knife, and a Dictaphone.
Never one to resist the sound of his own voice, Elliot pressed play.
“Tenth of August, two PM,” said the Dictaphone. It was Elliot’s voice, but confident in a way he was unfamiliar with. “Probably fifty Ks away, so another two days. Serene keeps killing things.”
“Very few,” replied a deep, feminine voice. “Only things that could constitute threats to the mission.”
“I hate it,” Elliot’s voice grumbled. “I want that on record.”
“It is.”
“You are incredible, but unbearably violent.”
“I think you bear it magnificently,” the unknown voice soothed.
“Perhaps.”
The Dictaphone clicked.
“Twelfth of August, nine AM. We camped out early last night, so still around twenty Ks to go. Taking the mountain pass would cut time, but there’s risk of wind and I don’t trust it. Better to take the wooded route, even if it’s southern. At least we’ll have cover from the sun.” These were things that Elliot barely understood, manly outdoor things, and he dubbed the voice on the tapes Rugged Elliot. “Serene’s off hunting right now, but I made her promise not to get into any fights.”
Click.
“Twelfth of August, four twenty-three PM. About three Ks out, but Serene got a call from Swift that there’s trouble in the Eastern territories. She’s going to take care of that-”
“Not if you’re in danger,” the feminine voice replied. “I won’t leave you alone, Elliot.”
“I know,” Rugged Elliot said. “So, as I was saying, I’m not going any further until you come back. Which means I’ll be perfectly safe, and you don’t have to babysit me.”
“It could be weeks.”
“Eh, I’ll use the time to read.”
“You only have three books.” Elliot laughed. Whoever Serene was, she knew him well.
“Then I’ll write some. Don’t worry about me.”
“If I’m more than a week, I’ll tell Luke to come and find you.”
Rugged Elliot groaned. “Oh, come on, we don’t have to go running to him. He’s busy, absurdly so.”
“Elliot,” Serene said in a warning tone. “I will tell him.”
“Ugh, fine. I love you.”
“I love you,” Serene replied, soft and warm. There was a sound like a hug. Elliot bit his lip.
Click.
“Thirteenth of August, ten thirty AM. I’m about five hundred metres away, but I have to leave the Dictaphone here, so it doesn’t get broken. Paper notes only from this point.”
Elliot leaned back. “Rugged Elliot, I believe you have fucked over us both.”
After a moment’s frustrated groaning, Elliot moved to the letter. It had been sealed with wax, the crumbs of which now lay on the floor after being tipped out of the satchel.
Elliot –
Yeah, yeah, asshole.
“Ah, another fan,” Elliot mused.
I have a thesaurus, you know. And even if I didn’t, I can always tell when you’re insulting me. It’s a sixth sense at this point. I was just trying it out, anyway – there’s no need to be a dick about it. (What am I saying? It’s you we’re talking about.)
If Serene thinks it’s safe, I trust her as much as always. If you’ve lied about Serene approving to get me to agree, I trust you as much as always. Which is not at all. Do not get hurt, do not get captured, do not get married to someone else. Please, for my health.
If anything goes wrong, I’ll be at the outpost in Weatherrock until September. Come and get me. (Seriously, Elliot. Anything.) If, by some Schafer miracle, you are already hurt, captured, or married, and I am speaking to your captor/spouse: keep him. And my deepest sympathies.
Luke
Elliot sighed. It was nice to think somebody – two somebodies – knew him so well.
Finally, he opened the notebook.
He was met with pages of minute script, poor sketches and incomprehensible figures. The dates at the top told him the book had been in use for about a month, and the only names he recognised were Luke and Serene. And ‘recognised’ was something of a stretch even then. On flipping forward, he sighed bodily.
“Of course.”
The last completed page was covered in blood. Evidently, when the ghastly piñata had drenched his hoodie, the book had been open. Flipping back, he found nothing more specific on what he had been looking for or what it might have done to him.
Elliot laid in the middle of the floor and groaned. After a reasonable wallow, he reached for the atlas.
“Well, Weatherrock Outpost it is. Look out, Luke Whatever-Your-Name-Is.”