Swept Away

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Lark sits in a grassy field, far displaced from their own time. The past is quieter, usually. Less hustle and bustle. Less pressure. They could stay here forever, if only that was how it worked. They can feel how their internal clock has paused. They don’t age, in the past. They could be seventeen forever.

But they also don’t know anyone, this far back. Nor should they make an effort to change that - causality is a fickle thing, and all loops must be tied neatly or the entire structure will come crashing down.

They sit quietly, enjoying their own company, watching the stars and the clouds. Another Lark sits beside them, this one older, occupied with braiding blades of grass into a rope. They’ve draped a blanket across their younger self’s shoulders, keeping them warm against the chill wind, and stayed for a while beyond that to enjoy the peace.

But, of course, the peace doesn’t last. Time marches on, and the older Lark disappears with a familiar chime just before a screeching violin riff sounds in their mind, accompanying the blonde girl who tumbles out of nowhere to land in a heap on the grass. She’s a fair distance from Lark, but if she looked up she might notice the edge of their blanket still fluttering down, filling the suddenly vacant space beside them.

It seems the girl is preoccupied with her own fabric troubles, if the tearing sound is any indication. Lark continues to observe her from afar, because really, they were here first.

But let it not be said that they are uncaring or unkind. They pull their blanket closer around their shoulders and call to her, voice low in the hush of nighttime.

“‘Sup.” Alright, so maybe they’re also running on insufficient sleep for this. But they don’t want to startle her by just… sitting and watching her. That’s weird. “Needed a quiet place? This place has a habit of drawing in those sorts.”

Not that they’ve seen anyone else here, but they can feel it when they travel here. It’s like some kind of temporal cool spot, like a tidepool in the ocean of time. It’s one of the things they like most about it.

They must make an odd sight - an exhausted teenager bundled up in a fluffy blanket, with silver hair and tired green eyes. There’s a bit of moisture lingering in their tangled mane of hair, as though they’d been sitting there for a while. And they had. It’d been misting just before she arrived, and the grass is still similarly damp with dew.

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Lark’s expression softens into something like sympathy, when she explains what brought her here. They know a thing or two about nightmares, themself. There are reasons for everything, some simpler than most, and they have their own reasons for their sleeplessness. Ones that simply wouldn’t do to explain here, when she already has her own to worry about.

So Lark keeps a smile on their face, and if it’s a tired one, well, all of their expressions are, nowadays. “Just me.”

Technically true, though the multiplicities of that ‘me’ are debatable. They watch her put herself back together, staying where they are. They don’t seem terribly concerned with the light emanating from her hands, though they do spare it an interested glance. “You are in a field, in Pennsylvania. There are a lot of those. But a better question might be ‘when’ are you.”

They take a moment to separate the sense of their own timeline from the separate but twin sensation of the current date. To her, it might seem like a dramatic pause, but they’re much too tired to consider dramatics. “April seventh of the year 2000. Seven o’ nine pm, or nineteen o’ nine if you’re the sort to follow twenty-four-hour time.”

Tick. Tock. 7:10pm. 7:10:04… 7:10:05… They brush aside their internal clock and focus on the girl again. It wouldn’t do to get lost in something only they can hear while they’re talking to someone else.

Perhaps, on another layer of reality, there are multiple Larks sitting on the grass, or none at all. Perhaps they’re laughing in the misty evening, or crying quietly in a huddle of silver hair and too-large hoodies. Perhaps there’s a picnic of finger sandwiches or a big bottle of soda, or confetti scattered all over the grass.

Perhaps it’s best not to consider these things. In this reality, there is the present, or the past depending on your definition of time as a non-linear concept, where there is a singular Lark, and a singular girl who seems terribly lost.

“I don’t know where you’re supposed to be, but I could get you back to the when, at least, if you know what that would be.” They offer. They suppose this is the kind thing to do. They do many things because they are kind, and many others because they are fun or interesting or because with all of the limited-unlimited time at their disposal they can get terribly bored.

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Lark watches the girl cautiously. Perhaps they had been too hasty to assume she was like them; a traveler by choice rather than by twist of circumstance. They had assumed… but that’s the trouble with assumptions, isn’t it? Making an ass out of u and me.

And she… is not doing well. Even less well than they’re doing, which is quite the achievement. When she rushes at them, they pause time instinctively, flinching back before steadying themself and moving back into position, releasing their pause so that to the outside observer they simply flicker for a millisecond before she tugs at the end of their blanket.

“I…” They start, unsure where they’re going with the sentence. They don’t know how to handle this. This is so far from comforting themself in the face of an uncaring timestream. She has the whole universe - universes - to deal with, and far less experience putting that knowledge on the backburner. But they don’t balk from the challenge. “I have seen many things, some of them awful, horrible, no good, very bad. Some of them lovely, funny, beautiful, kind.”

Lark raises a hand slowly, patting at her white-knuckled grip in what could almost be reassurance. They slip the blanket from their shoulders and transfer it to hers, since she seems cold. “There is still Time to see more, even if you can never see less than you already have. Time to rest, too, or take that journey.”

They don't know who they're talking to; themself or her. They shake their head in a shower of droplets and refocus. They aren't some mystical god; they're a teenager in a damp hoodie, with tangles in their hair that they haven't bothered to brush out.

“I don’t know if this is making sense. But listen. I can get you back to when- and where- ever you need to be. Just not instantly, for the where. For us, at least. If you wanted, it could be like you were only gone for a second.” Their smile is wry but sincere, well-accustomed to taking the long way around with other people none the wiser to their efforts.

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“Yeah,” Lark says, because they don’t know what else to say. She releases them, but they continue to stand where they are. She looks down, and they look around the clearing. No other Larks here, at the moment. Would they know how better to handle this if they were older? If it wasn’t them, but some wiser version?

It’s impossible to tell. A light shimmers, and for a second they think maybe - but it’s the wrong color, and with no accompanying chime. This is another entity, one they have no connection to. They pay it little mind as they follow Annabelle, impossibly fast, kneeling beside her and holding her hair back out of her face.

After that’s taken care of, though, they pin the shimmer under their gaze, squinting at it. It doesn’t seem threatening, at least. Annabelle is still mumbling, which is concerning, but it seems like she can hear the voice, too, so they have some reassurance that they aren’t going crazier than they already are.

“Keeping track of everything is difficult,” they agree, still watching the shimmer before directing their attention back to her as she looks at them. They sit back on their heels, releasing her hair and giving her space. “Stay as long as you like. Time is… more forgiving, here. Just let me know what you decide, if you decide. Or if you don’t.”

Hmm… maybe they have… They reach into their pocket, pulling out a pack of tissues. Huh, so that’s what those were for. They hand her the package, popping up onto their feet and strolling towards the shimmer. “And who are you?”

They stick a hand forward fearlessly, waving it gently towards the shimmer to see if it’s solid or not.

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Oh, waving definitely got its attention. Lark watches the lightshow with interest, bringing their hand back to their side. So it isn’t solid, but it is here. Interesting.

“Yes, I hear you,” they assure it, looking in the general direction of where its eyes should be. Their gaze doesn’t waver from there as it - she? - explains the situation.

“There are many things that we’re better off not knowing,” they agree, a shadow passing over their expression. They look away, back towards the girl, expression somewhere between worried and understanding. Perhaps they are qualified for this, after all, although they would prefer not to be. “There’s nothing to forgive, anyways. Not like I own the clearing or anything.”

Actually, is this clearing someone’s property? They think it may be part of one of the state parks, now that they think about it. Does that make it the government’s property? Eh, isn’t everything?

A chime calls their attention to the left, as another Lark appears, handing them a small bottle of ginger ale before disappearing again. Lark accepts the cool glass bottle and doesn’t comment on the strange occurrence. They’re well accustomed to serving as their own anchor point; it’s easier to just let the timestream pull them to wherever they’ve been and then go from there, if it’s closer to where they want to be.

They turn the bottle over in their hands slowly, before crouching next to the girl again and holding it out towards her. “Here. This might help.”

Inanimate objects don’t make decisions, right? Sure, there’s their history of being made, but past that there isn’t much they can do but be carried around by other, more storied folk. And besides, it’s always nice to have something to drink.

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Lark settles more comfortably on the grass, long legs stretched out in front of them, head tilted slightly to look towards the girl and the phantom. A tired smile tips the corners of their lips up, amused.

“Oh, to be young again,” they joke, leaning back on their hands. They really don’t appear that old, but age is tricky to keep track of when you run around outside of time as often as they do. They haven’t been progressing linearly, that’s for sure, but they only look about seventeen, rendered older by weariness and a sense of depth in their eyes. “I get what you mean.”

How many times have they visited their past self and seen the easy ignorance before they knew exactly what the world held in store for them? It never gets easier, knowing more than you should. Too young to understand, indeed. But the terrible burden of knowledge is sometimes more than a person can bear.

“What is your realm? Space? If mine is time, that makes sense.” It isn’t the terminology they’d use, exactly, but it’s close enough. “They do intersect more than you’d think, sometimes.”

They look right back at the sparkling illusion, returning the observation they seem to be under. On the topic of names, they laugh. It isn’t a mean laugh, but it breaks a certain stillness in the air, a surprisingly unburdened sound. “Names can be and mean whatever you want them to be. If you can’t remember, just pick a new one.”

“I’m Lark. Have been forever, though not always. Even I didn’t want to show up at my own birth,” they wrinkle their nose, “And parents have the worst ideas, sometimes.”

They wonder how their parents are doing. Around this time, according to the chronology of the world, they’re probably off doing whatever couples do before they get married and have time-traveling kids. Lark hopes they’re happy. They deserve that much, at least.

How did they start thinking about this, again? Oh yeah, names. Similarities. Importance. They shake their head, droplets of cool rainwater flying from their hair.

“But regardless, it’s your choice. Does she have a name?” They glance at the girl again, resisting the urge to wave a hand in front of her face. That probably wouldn’t help her. Nor would handing her a can of confetti, or tying her shoelaces together, or any of the other dozen pranks itching at their fingertips. They pull at the grass to satisfy the urge to move that overtakes them.

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Probability. Lark looks at the shimmering figure, then at the girl laying in the grass. There’s a flicker of something almost jealous in their gaze, before it’s gone, buried beneath the unspoken weight they carry with them. If only…

If only things weren’t so set in stone for them. It might be nice to believe in a different future. Believe in the ability to change. They nod in acknowledgement of her words, but don’t comment. They don’t trust themself to speak with the correct amount of discretion or tact, especially considering how these powers seem to be hurting the girl.

Suffice to say, things would be very different for them if they were able to control probability as well as time, rather than being shackled to a set timeline. Perhaps they could even…

No, it’s not worth it to think of what-ifs. They’ve gone down that road before. It didn’t work.

The figure is still talking. Something about names? “Red. That’s a nice name. Fitting, too.”

They get the feeling they missed something while they were grappling with their mortality, but it’s probably fine. Green eyes watch the shimmering almost-person before them, understanding mixing with sympathy. Red speaks with such tenderness when talking about Annabelle. They know that protectiveness well.

“I’m sure you’re doing your best,” they offer, trying not to think about how sometimes someone’s best isn’t enough.

Ugh, enough introspection. They’d almost managed to stop thinking about all of that, but now here they are again. They pause time with a frustrated yank and hop to their feet, nearly slipping on the damp grass. Luckily, there is no one to see them in the paused instant. Except… they glance at Red, and see her still watching them. That’s… ok, yeah, they should have expected that. They let time go again once they’re standing, shuffling their feet.

“You don’t have to thank me, really.” Lark glances at Annabelle, and then away again, looking off into the treeline. “I’m not some hero. I was just here.”

“And when you’re there, you do what you think is best.” They shrug, tucking their hands into their hoodie pocket and hunching their shoulders. “We should probably get out of here, though. There’s going to be a bit of a commotion in a little bit.”

It’s today, right? They’re pretty sure. For a moment, they stare off into space, looking up at the stars unfolding in the night sky above them. If they remember correctly, and they usually do, they’re about to have some visitors in the otherwise quiet night. They’d better clear out before then.

Lark shuffles over to stand to the other side of Annabelle, head tilted to the side to match her angle. “You ready to walk? If not, that’s alright. We just can’t be in the when. I can take care of that.”

They bend down slightly, offering her a hand. A faint, healed scar across their knuckles shines under the moonlight. They glance at it, a fond quirk to their lips. Yeah, it was a bit of a learning curve, learning how to use their chosen weapon. They don’t begrudge their past self for the mementos they’ve left them, even if sometimes they wish everything was just a little easier.

Their voice isn’t soft, exactly, but it isn’t harsh either as they look steadily at the blonde. “We don’t always get to choose the paths we take, but right now, it’s your choice.”