***
The Gateway to the Past—A Sequel To "A Brief History Regarding the Ancient Era"
By Shelby Mett Moroyne
At the beginning of time, we didn't have a method of going back, nor did we want to go back.
The path was set, and everyone escaped Original Earth safely. The Alpine realm opened up to us, and it was all harmonic. Why would we ever want to return to that place?
Psychology. It's a funny thing. The feeling won't last forever even if you despised a place to the guts. Eventually, the homesickness would roll in, and it would be impeccable and unavoidable. One could compare it to a caged bird, or a prison inmate prepared to serve an Era of their time. A long-caged bird cannot find benefits within freedom—it grew too reliant, and comfortable while inside to find its place outside its sanctuary; a life-sentenced prisoner would be incapable of rejoining the community if pardoned, as the prison served their home for too long, it became one. Finally, after claiming the new world as our sanctuary, a million years later, we managed to find a way, a way that connected the two worlds.
The place we arrived at was the mountain range that separated South Legendaria from its northern counterpart. We decided to name it the Alps—not too fond of that one. Either way, there sat an abandoned wooden hut, and to this day, still fixated on one of the summits. A tragic backstory was set at this place. A group of travellers forsook their lives to seek homecoming. They continuously poured their magic into the wooden hut for twenty-eight days, isolated from food and water. It wasn't long until someone collapsed, and then another, until eventually, every one of them died, still channelling their magic into the space around them. It wasn't until a few years later when a hermit decided to revisit the mountain, did they witness the decaying fragments of their bones. They scattered the ashes aloft that very mountain, where it would nourish the forests for many years to come. But although the deceased travellers failed to reopen the gateway, their magical residue lasted for nearly a million years, struggling and tearing open the reality that prevented the two worlds from reconnecting. It was acknowledged as 'impossible' and 'a useless last-ditch effort' by the public, as the magic they released was rough and unrefined, which should be improbable to complete a feat achieved by the greatest magicians featured in The Great Escape. Yet, through it all, the magic refused to dissipate. On December 5th, 9999, E99, twenty-six days before the one-millionth year of Alpine, something broke apart—a tiny fraction of an atom. A small gap in reality was torn away, breaking through the fabric. This resulted in a two-month-long geomagnetic storm that finally caught people's attention. People yearned to know what made this happen, what made it such a miracle. Alas, on Christmas Eve, seven days before the new year, the hermits gathered around, once more after a thousand millennials, aloft the summit of the beginning—and chanted.
Immediately, the torn fabric expanded—to the size of an atom, two atoms… the constant flow of powerful, refined magic was plenty enough to zip through the gaps, just like before. Slowly but surely, it reached the size of a cell… a bacteria… the portal sent random blue sparks through, as more matter commuted through its passage. A speck of dust… a grain of sand… the collision force caused by particles moving through the dimensions emitted light brighter than the morning sun. A sunflower seed… a pea pod… From spectators to hermits, not one dared move an inch. They merely stood and sat still, doing what needed to be done.
A Namberry… a crepe… We realised… that what kept the magical residue fighting all this time… was the people's indomitable will. Magic shot and slithered around the borders of the crack, chains began forming around the infrastructure… it grew…
Suddenly, everything was enveloped in a blue, blinding light. And then nothing, nothing at all.
Meanwhile, back on Original Earth, a sharp crack broke the silent starry sky and echoed through the valleys and canyons. They made it back.
'Another million years,' one said sentimentally.
'Th-the-the-the dinosaurs,' stuttered another. 'Are they still here?' The idea was confirmed when a pack of pterodactyls swooshed overhead, leaving shadows on the grounds and shaking the trees and plants.
'It feels hotter now,' commented someone.
'Alas, dear Earth, it is yet not our time to return,' declared a Warlock, casually squishing insects that landed on their robe. 'Perhaps another day. But to ensure that day shall come, I may pave the way for future generations, to the best of ends.' Afterwards, they walked back into the magical veil, followed by a dozen or so people.
'Aren't we yet powerful enough?' suggested a Mage.
The Nomadrian Warlock didn't reply, instead, they simply cast a silk-like blanket over the portal, which rotated furiously.
'Well?'
'The dinosaurs won't outlive us,' the Warlock replied. 'After their species perish, another shall thrive. The new species shall become sentient, construct their unique languages, and form a society. Humans—not much different from us will roam Original Earth in twenty million years, I predict. And then—only then—should we return.' They turned around and looked at his accomplices, teary-eyed. 'We wouldn't be there to see that day, but as long as someone else does, should I rest myself back—to Nevaland.'
No one said a word at that time. But the silence conveyed it all.
***
'We forgot to bring chocolate,' stated Ellie.
'Hopefully, Sam doesn't realise,' said June quietly, picking up the blanket that slipped onto the floor.
'I don't like chocolate as much as rock candy.'
'I don't like eating sweets,' confessed June. 'They make me light-headed.'
'On a side note,' said Ellie casually. 'Can I ask why we're both awake at eighteen o'clock?'
'I drank too much coffee,' lied June.
'Perhaps. But on these occasions, I simply stare into the distance, or read a boring book.'
'Nothing of the sort,' giggled June. 'It's just… I struggle to understand the role that I'm supposed to take, and which end I shall lead. It's the mysteries unsolved that keep me up at night. I wish I could time-travel, so I can remake decisions that I'd once made—the accumulation that led me up to this point. It's just sad that some things had to go the way they did. No second chances. The combined effects of my actions form a duty that I'm forced to carry out—for one reason or another. And until those duties are done, I shall never find myself sitting by a beachside, reading a nice book. I shall never find rest.' She looked out the window—a vast, dark emptiness that was the pocket dimension, with a two-storey house sitting in the middle of nowhere.
'Unknown,' nodded Ellie. 'The path ahead is always clouded with unknown. A cobblestone path; the future; the darkness. It's only the proximity of us that can determine our judgement, but in the end, no one can truly define the end of the road until they arrive. You are already at the end, yet you still have a long way to go. It's just like the pocket dimension, actually.'
'The pocket dimension?'
'The space is infinite… or so I call it. Infinity is simply the unseen area of our perspectives. Blind areas. These areas are beyond our comprehension, even for philosophically acknowledged scholars. As for such circumstances, I should be able to complete my duty and serve some purpose in life. But I neither have the answer nor the will to do what I was born to do. There was something that I dreamed of tonight—something dreadful that I wished to never remember until I die.'
'But aren't you a hermit?' whispered June. 'You're one of the gifted ones.'
'Gifted? Gifted… Have you ever been made fun of because you have blonde hair?' asked Ellie suddenly.
'That's a strange question,' answered June. 'Many are blonde in the Nordic region. I've never thought about it.'
'Not here,' trembled Ellie. 'People despise blondes in Alpine.'
'But why?' cried June.
'There's no reason to it,' she said weakly. 'Only because it's rare. A genetic mutation. Most of Alpinos—as you know—are green. It's the same as having an extra finger or toe, seen as a source of bad omen.'
'So do people hate… you?'
'Some time ago, a century or so, a boy in my class was attacked by Zealots from the southern region,' Ellie continued. 'He was a non-hermit with blonde hair, and he was getting along just fine in school, even having friends. But one day after school, he was just… gone.' She paused and shuddered. 'No one knew where he went, and he was missing for ten days straight. When his kidnappers were finally caught, he was already dead.'
Terrified, she asked. 'Where was he?'
'In an abandoned warehouse. He was stripped of all his body hair and his clothes. The extremists had poured molten pitch onto his face, the monsters.' before long, Ellie broke down sobbing. 'The monsters. He was tortured for seven days and nights. And they cut him up—the whole time he was screaming for mercy. They mutilated him until he couldn't scream anymore, and then nailed his corpse to a shipping container.'
'Oh, that sounds painful,' said June, frowning deeply. 'Is this what you fear… might happen to you?'
'I'm not as mature and resilient as I pretend I am. But before this incident, I genuinely thought I was. Help me, sister, I'm so scared.' she curled herself into a ball. 'The false sense of security while around familiar people can be exploited, and that terrifies me.'
'We are victims of the grander scheme, traumatised by suffering and loss. Both me and you. There's simply no other option than getting stronger, strong enough to be independent of others. In short, who else can we rely on?'
'You're right. I'm sorry for being such a mess,' sniffed Ellie. 'And I am gifted. With magic, I can defend myself against danger. Oh, I just wish Akul could visit me sometime. I want to listen to his stories again, just like old times. I miss him.'
'Akul is in a better world,' said June, whose stomach churned with guilt. 'Somewhere counting stars with Maxy.'
***
(Northern Villages, 1935)
Sometime after the Sorrow Mountain incident, before the Talisman was put back to the Tower of Oblivion, a strange figure strolled into the Northern Villages, getting past the customs without their notice.
The figure wore a long white robe embedded with aquamarine gemstones around the crest, and although they were, in hindsight, extremely tall and embellished, no one seemed to bother taking a better look at their face. Their feet crunched on the snow-padded street, and shiftily, left no footprints along the ground.
They took a sharp left turn at an alleyway, walking swiftly. It was snowing heavily that today, and the streets were free of Nomadrians, who hate the cold. This alleyway had a different approach in design compared to the rest, with aquamarine blue painted all over the walls and navy blue paths forming the colour palette.
Finally, the hooded figure reached up to a door and knocked twice, whispering mysterious phrases beneath their hood, something perhaps only a cat could hear.
The door opened abruptly, by itself. It was dark inside, with ominous candles lit at the four corners of the walls. It was an obvious-looking bar that gave the impression of a failing business, hence the dim lighting and crumbling walls. They took no notice of the bartender, and the thugs who stared at them slit-eyed, with a hint of annoyance.
'I am looking for a man called Zyvers,' spoke the figure. They had a feminine voice—but it was so artificially layered that it couldn't possibly be human. 'He is quite tall, and speaks an Atlantean accent, there's a noticeable scar on his left ear. He arrived in this town two days ago, and a little bird told me that he has been here. If any of you had seen him walk by, I humbly ask for his directions.' They were interrupted by an old Nomadrian coughing violently, rocking to and fro on a wooden horse with a smoke pipe nagged in his mouth. 'More… Ale…' he demanded in a thick voice, muffled and croaky. The bartender—a middle-aged skinny Nomadrian—scuttled hurriedly to the cupboard, muttering something and jittering nervously in their wake. The figure in white did not react—not a tad bit provoked or aggravated—and instead watched patiently as the ill-looking bartender handed the bottles of ale to the geezer, the glass clinking from his shaking sweaty hands.
'I am looking for a man called Zyvers,' began the figure again.
'We heard you the first 'ime,' said one of the thugs lazily. 'Plus, I don't recognise you from around here. You a tourist?'
'A visitor,' they said simply.
'A visitor? That's interesting,' replied the thug. 'You sound like an Atlanta, that's rare to see. Don't you got to pay to price for escapin' the border?' The others laughed.
'I have special permissions.'
'"Special permissions," she says. Anyway… why don't you show your face where we can see them, Missie? I have a feeling I need to take a deep look at that hot Lollie.' he laughed.
However, the figure in white didn't say a word, still frozen in place, emotionless.
'Still refusing to talk? I don't blame ya,' the thug turned his attention back to his quintuple jugs of beer, drinking half of them in under thirty seconds. 'The least thing you must tell me right now, is your name, girl. Right now.'
'I would prefer to keep my identity a secret at this stage,' they said calmly. 'Plus, my name is irrelevant to you, just like everything you asked me so far. The only relevant answer to me has yet to be said. So I may ask you again—have you seen Zyvers? If so, where?'
'Boy, does this bitch got an attitude,' he slurred dully, face redder than a tomato from drunkenness. 'Look, this is your last chance. I'll tell you where Wyvern—or whatever this guy's name is, and you show up to my house tonight. Deal?'
'So be it,' said the figure, almost instantly, which astonished the thug's fellow companions. 'If you could just help me with this case, I will be forever grateful.'
'Maybe I will,' said the head thug, who blew at his nose and all of a sudden, all three of them burst into uncontrollable laughter. 'Listen, listen,' he started, with tears in his eyes. 'Ain't nobody here gonna be helping your determined ass. Genuinely, you should just like—go back to where you came from and never appear in front of people again. It's safer that way.' He shuffled close to them and stood twice the height of the hooded figure, who stood their ground and didn't move an inch. 'Now in hindsight, lemme tell ya a little something. You know what we doin' hangin' out in this old mouldy-ass bar? We find kinds like you, the blondies, and the illumination believers. We catch 'em, we do 'em good, and then we break an arm or leg so they are scarred permanently, their status destroyed and their life ruined. Sure we'll get charged or retained, but once we're released, we do the same thing—over and over and over. Nomadrian laws are soft on our people, and if they interrogate us, we can make something up to go with the flow. Isn't being an extremist of the society wonderful?'
'Like everything goes,' said the figure slowly. The large Nomadrian youth gave the figure a rough shove and sent them crashing into a table.
'You left me with no choice, miss,' said the thug. 'I asked for your face and you said no. Then I asked for your name and you still said no. I'm gonna have to leave you hopping on one foot in a sec.' And then, without further ado, the thug pounced at the white robe.
'Looks like I came to the wrong place after all,' the figure cleared their throat. 'Zyvers is going to be at large for yet another day.' They held up a finger—or at least that's what the thug saw, and pointed it downwards.
Suddenly, a piercing shriek came from the thug's throat, followed by a jet of blood flying from his airways. Shocked, he dropped to the ground, his four legs tangled awkwardly, and a visible red blade was sticking out of his chest.
'You touched me without my permission,' said the white hood apprehensively. 'The spell would have killed you if you'd not let go fast enough.' They turned their attention to the injured thug's friends, who looked like they were about to pee their pants.
'I want to go home, Momma,' the thug whimpered, before falling face flat on the ground, lying in his own pool of blood.
'I apologise for the inconvenience,' they muttered. 'He'll survive. It's just unfortunate I didn't get to find Zyvers.'
'Bl-blood…' said the old man, who took a moment to realise what happened. 'I—can't—s-see—blood… GET IT AWAY FROM ME,' he screamed like a banshee, wailing his arms in the air like a crazy person.
'Th-th-the man name Zyvers… I remember now… s-someone told me he arrived at this place earlier…' the terrified bartender called out.
The white hood turned around. 'Oh? Is that so? Where is he now?'
'Don't… know,' the bartender slurred dreamily. 'Must… have… come around… at some point…'
'Please,' asked the hood figure politely. 'Can you remember? Anything?'
The bartender's eyes bulged, and his mouth dribbled drool furiously. Confused, his eyes couldn't focus correctly. 'Ah… that's right…' he murmured mesmerisingly. 'It was… him.' He pointed a finger at the unconscious thug. 'He told… me…'
'He knew?' the figure asked sharply. 'He knew where he went?' and then: 'So he was lying to me.'
'Yeah… probably,' the bartender seemed to have woken up from a daydream. 'But did I say that? What did I say? The thug was saying someth-'
Suddenly, the hooded figure lashed out, and a dozen or so red shards appeared hanging around them, pointing at the thug's body like a sniper rifle.
'You lied,' the figure said. A calm fury in their voice. 'I asked you a question and you lied.' They turned to the bartender, who shrunk back at the sight of their piercing red eyes. 'Do you have a cellar in here? A place where they age wine?'
'Y-yes,' he stuttered anxiously.
'Right. I'm going to buy a few extra pints later. For your troubles.'
'N-no problem, m-miss.'
'Screw them! Screw them all!' yelled the old man maniacally. 'Those darn kids. Spilling blood everywhere. I HATE THE SIGHT OF BLOOD.'
Finally, the figure turned around to the two thugs, who sat cowered together in the corner, too terrified to speak. 'What's your friend's name?' The artificial voice asked gently. One muttered something unintelligent and inaudible, but the white hood nodded. 'Very well. Lying is a severe offence in cultural practices. I cannot tolerate that. But your friend here didn't make it through, so I will turn him into a pin cushion.' And before anyone could react, the dozen red shards shot down from their respectful positions like bullets, penetrating through the unfortunate thug, it was a quick, painless kill. Before long, he became still as dead, and no one dared say a word. Cowards.
'Have a nice day,' the figure said at last, leaving without elaborating.
***
The premise is set on a snowy foot track in the morning.Ozin, June, Ben, Sam, and Ellie are approaching the Northern Villages. Only a few miles away until they arrive there.
'Pevio Ethra, you say?' asked Ozin, piqued by Ellie and June's conversation.
'Yeah! She's been missing for two months now, and no one knows where she went.'
'"Pevio Ethra, the Coral Queen of Atlantis is missing, presumed dead by many of the authorities around Legendaria",' read June. '"'The topic had already once been discussed and is now piquing everyone's interests again,' says Prime Minister Octki. 'People shall continue to ask for her reappearance, and it's not something that I, myself look forward to.' Strangely enough, the day before Queen Coral's disappearance, she was seen talking to herself in front of a mirror, planning for the next holiday season. Investigations are constantly taking place across the countries and hopefully, there will be some answers soon. Meanwhile, on the other side of the continent, the Alpine King's court proceeds with the Talisman of Wisdom's restoration back to the Tower, addressed by Ozin Greensage and selective members of the council. Following the restoration, the corruptive magic has declined in growth significantly, and the unaffected areas have been increased by a whopping 33%, with much more to come". Who is Pevio Ethra to you?'
'She was one of my classmates in Uni,' replied Ozin. 'Not a lot of people recognise this, but those who do know know that we got along very well.'
'Her name is weird to me, you know, compared to yours.'
'I feel kind of dumb for not telling you this earlier,' confessed Ozin. 'You see, me—and many others—have the privilege of The Gifted Ones. Each race has its term for those who are magic-compatible. Alpine—Hermits; Atlantis—Mages; Nomadria—Warlocks. But the Gifted Ones we share. That's the common term for magic users of the Three Races. We have special permissions that allow us to traverse between the Realms. We watched the humans on Original Earth rise—and establish. Soon they had their own languages, culture, and society. This trend only began a few millennials back—we would take names from them, and use them to prove our authority over gatekeeping the portals. Honestly, we just use them for boasting.'
'Nice,' said June. 'I wouldn't be surprised if Ellie were a hermit as well.'
'We don't talk about that,' said Ellie quickly.
'She doesn't have the age requirement to become a gatekeeper, but she wanted a name anyway.' explained Ozin.
'Shut up. It's so embarrassing,' Ellie blushed. 'Half of the people that I meet don't even know I'm a Gifted One. Plus, I'm pretty useless anyway. I don't pay attention in class.'
Sam opened his mouth to say something, but then reluctantly shut it again.
'So how did you two become friends?' asked Ben.
'Long story,' sighed Ozin. 'It was the Curse module that we took that brought us together. Curses are… not a very researched field in Clairvology. In fact, there's so little known about them that exams take no effort to complete. We were also quite excellent at writing historical essays.' Ellie rolled her eyes.
'Is the Curse of Forklör mentioned?' asked June.
'Yeah,' he replied disappointedly. 'Unfortunately people started rioting because of it, and they had to remove it from the curriculum. There were controversies surrounding this topic, as some people refused to believe the truth. A part of history was wiped because of how dangerous the curse was.'
'Wait what?'
'A secret document, known as the Pseudependum, is hidden away from the public, buried somewhere in Atlantis. Since the curse was only discovered four Eras ago, some rumors still speaks of its contents, which once discovered, will face trial and possibly execution.'
'Good lord,' frowned June. 'I'm doomed aren't I?'
'Please don't think that. Now I realise how much information I spewed out at the perfectly wrong time. I'm so sorry.'
'Tell me about it.'
'Don't,' warned Ozin. 'I'm terrible at keeping information to myself.' He waved his hand in the hair, and large golden-red text appeared over their heads. 'Take a quick peek at my notes from University.'
There are two types of clairvoyant magical solutions. A regular solution, and alternatively, a curse. A curse is created through faulty processing of raw magic, flawed exuviation process, unsupervised decay of large magical masses, or changed by negativity through its user. Curses travel through matter like regular magic but leave behind masses that block off available paths, which can lead to magic overflow. Most curses are harmless and don't affect living things, and instead work to interfere with regular currents, making magic harder to use. Curses can be applied to potion brewing and enhance certain effects of drugs, while also being used to encrypt book contents and block magic. Most common curses can be counteracted by overwhelming them with regular magical currents via injection, but rarely, and sometimes unintentionally, a curse will mutate and gain new properties, making them more or less of a hazard. If a curse was created with a long exuviation time, it could mutate multiple times before decaying. Relating to the case of Forklör, it was speculated to have mutated at least fifty times to become supercharged, receiving mysterious properties that made it bypass the restrictions Gorowrath set on its container scroll, ultimately leading to the Atlantean king's death. It also seems to have the ability to invade living things and rest inside them for the rest of their lives. It was fostering inside the Atlanta King for four decades before his death. This information was concealed from the public, and authorities announced it as a 'complete accident' regarding the cursed scroll sent from Gorowrath, who was deemed innocent no initial proof was found concerning a murder attempt. By the time people burned the scroll into ashes, the curse had already escaped its containment and bolted elsewhere.
'I understand quite a bit more than before now,' replied June. 'Thanks Ozin. You made me feel better.'
'Reminder that parasites won't kill their host, and the Curse of Forklör should work the same,' proclaimed Ozin.
Yet, I still need to find the answer to something. She remembered. What was it again?
Some things are better left buried.
She curled her hands into fists and dug her fingernails into her skin, giving herself pain. The Curse. It wants something from me, and I must not allow it to harm others. She chewed her lower lip. This is my responsibility now—my duty.
'How long until we reach the Northern Villages region?' asked Ben. 'We've been walking for six hours.'
'It's not far away,' replied Ozin. 'We can rest though, if you want.'
'My legs are getting numb,' said Sam. 'Why couldn't they have just built a road?'
'Political reasons,' he said. 'It can't be helped.'
The breeze had gotten cooler for a while now, and they had to put on extra layers just to be warm. The Northern villages were the coldest region in Alpine by a long shot. In hindsight, people wished to have put on more clothes before going, as quick summer shorts just won't cut it for the region's eternal winter. Even in its hottest days, the temperature could only go as high as fifteen degrees, and that only lasts for a few days, before going back to snowing again. Despite hating the cold, the Nomadrian settlement was forced to adapt to its harsh temperatures, when their whole kingdom was forced to migrate into the uninhabited regions of Alpine, under their governing. A treaty was made between the two kingdoms, as compensation for the draught of the Nomadrian desert. Many estates suggested constructing a road/rail connection between the two kingdoms but were subsequently declined due to heavy expenses in the extreme weather. The Northern Villages were expanded upon Gorowrath's death, as many more refugees moved away to the south of Barrier River. The population grew from a few hundred thousand to three million in three centuries, and only a few government officials remained at the old capital to manage the remaining citizens. Our wayfinders would soon arrive at customs, where a strict security check would take place.
'Ozin!' June called out from inside the pocket dimension. 'You sure this is going to work?'
'It'll be fine,' replied Ozin confidently. 'My magic can allow me to cheat the system. Is it legal? Don't think so. But does it affect anyone besides getting the customs employees fired? Probably not.'
'You have dark humour,' said June irritatedly. 'This all could've been avoided if you'd taken the regular, legal route.'
'It'll take too long,' explained Ozin impatiently. 'The issue is going to bail out, and the Construct's only going to get more unstable. Plus, it's not like they're going to prioritise my application over some nobody's. From what I've gathered, the customs don't give a crap about the Talisman crisis, not as much as me, along with many council members. We need to get this sorted as soon as possible. No delays. I hate delays.'
'If you insist,' said June helplessly.
'What if we get caught?' asked Sam nervously.
'Then I'll overpower them,' said Ozin's inner voice, with a smug grin on his face. 'Authority isn't made for nothing. They'll have no choice but to let me through. Now let's see what we got here…' he opened up an envelope made of parchment. '"Mr. Greensage: As per your question, there is currently no hermits on active duty in the Northern Villages region. Last enlisted hermit: Zackeri Zeimburg, on June 1st, 1935." That just confirmed my suspicions. Well then, we didn't run all the way here for nothing.' He sneezed. 'Brr… It's so chilly. I can see the silhouette of the customs gate in the distance. We're here. In the dimension you go.' They quickly hid into his pocket. He grabbed a folder of Shelby's files out of his pocket dimension and shuffled them around to organise them. Then, he walked up to the checkpoint and was greeted by an agency.
'Name?' asked the chubby Nomadrian with freckles.
'Shelby Mett Moroyne, Sir,' replied Ozin. His overlaying magic hides his real face.
'Shelby… Mett… Moroyne…' repeated the customs person, his eyes flickering up and down across a stylish monitor. 'Right, I shall look at your passport, personal records, etc. If you will.' Ozin handed the files over without a tad hesitation. Act like you're the real Shelby, Ost.
'How are things going… Shelby?' asked the Nomadrian with his singsong voice, reviewing and flipping over sheets of paper.
'Erm… quite fine. It's been quite evenful, these past few years.' replied Ozin, trying to make things up as he went along.
'What did you have for breakfast this morning?'
'Breakfast? Let's see…' he pretended to think about it. Meanwhile, his innards were screaming he did NOT just ask me that question like that. How serious is this guy taking his job anyway?
'So what brings you here again?' he continued. 'Your last visit was nothing short of a few centuries ago, as a permanent resident of Nomadria.'
'Visiting an old friend,' recited Ozin. 'He was my colleague during my first work job after graduation. His family was still living in the old Nomadrian capital back then, and they moved here after I went to work for the Magic Council. The last time I saw him was before my retirement, over two thousand years ago. He's been living here ever since, and I got to have a nice, lengthy chat with him while I worked as a service coordinator of settlement here.' Perfect recitement.
'Very well,' said the agent. 'We have a few more things to go through, and then you can enjoy your stay here at Northern Villages.' he stamped the Stamp of Arrival on a blank passport page and passed the booklet back to fake Shelby. 'Do you have any good you would like to declare before we proceed?'
'No,' said Ozin quickly, realising he hadn't activated the Pocket Dimension Concealment spell. 'Absolutely none.'
'Very well,' repeated the agent. 'The last thing we require you to do is a facial ID scan. Please align yourself in front of the camera over here.' he instructed. 'Oh, and to make sure you're not bypassing the system with a false identity, we will stage clingfilm in front of you temporarily. In that sense, all sources of magic will be cut off by the curse-bound camera. It's a tedious process, but it's something we must perform with hermits for safety.'
'Interesting,' muttered Ozin. This will be a challenge to pull off, but if my theories are correct, the world will renown me.
'Take a step forward.'
Ozin did everything as he was told and locked his eyes on the camera shutter. Focus, he told himself. You know the theorems but too well. Executing it is easy. You just need to Manage. Your. Magic. During his stay at the university, he was flabbergasted by how exploitable and deeply flawed the clingfilm + curse security technique was. While the current security checks are much improved compared to previous methods, a skilled hermit with enough magic can fool the camera while keeping their disguise. Clingfilm can be used to detect changes in magical currents, and the curse-bound camera can effectively all magical filters before the light reaches its shutter. A way to avoid this is to suppress/disable the curse with an overload of magic, but the clingfilm can detect some fluctuations. So the only way to solve this is…
'3, 2, 1. And… done,' announced the customs person. 'Enjoy your stay.'
'Thanks,' said Ozin. His pounding heart dropped with relief. Meanwhile, inside his pocket dimension, sounds of celebration could be heard.
'I knew he could do it,' exclaimed Sam.
'Hmph,' scowled Ellie. 'He's on the edge of getting us all caught.
'O come on, Ellie!' called Ozin playfully. 'Why do you hate everything I attempt? Wasn't that awesome? How I penetrated the film using magic without poking it?'
'It sure is,' she replied with sarcasm.
***
The moon was hung high that night, with its magnificence illuminating the Earth for all there was to see. Not too bright, not too dark. It was in the Waning Crescent lunar phase and seems to be driven towards a new moon in a few days. Unfortunately… it was far gone in hindsight, escaping the Alpine Earth's gravitation and orbiting Xaboro'on for six months, before returning next year. This phase was deemed by the Three Races: the Super Crescent, which happens once every 66 centuries for half a year to three years. From the ground perspective, the moon could be observed to be unchanging and eternal, staying in the same phase as when it left orbit. But despite all of its astronomical and cultural significance, it would severely impact the wayfinding of the remaining Talismans. The Waning Crescent, observed by Ozin Greensage, would soon come down as the greatest catastrophe Alpine has faced since The Great Escape, and potentially far more influential. The lack of a full moon resonation would mean that tracking Talismans would become nearly impossible, and the failing Construct would eventually lead to their ultimate doom. However, this information would be held privately by Ozin for some time, as he didn't wish to cause initial panic before the council grabbed hold of this responsibility. As for the Nordic children, they were reluctant to return to Original Earth, as the unstable climate would have undoubtedly made it impossible to live safely. In the end, they agreed to stay in Alpine for longer—for the time being, and declare their identities to the public sometime in the near future. But like all thing goes, they really missed home.
In the present, they are all gathered around a warm hearth in the Nomadrian Astronomics Centre guest room, and together their faces filled with uncertainty and concern.
'Folks,' began Ozin. 'You might wonder why we're here. Well, we're to celebrate the birthday of someone special, and here they may receive something special as well, along with everyone she's together with.'
'It's not a matter of me turning twelve,' said June to her Nordic companions. 'It's a reminder of everything we went through this year, and yet we are all here, alive and well. Thank you.'
'You're so modest, sister,' said Ellie warmly.
The guest room door opened. A Nomadrian woman with a large teal coat walked in and bowed. 'We can shortly proceed to the Erthal Iris.'
They walked up some flights of stairs, up and out to a large roof platform, where the concrete floor was buried in a thick blanket of snow. Blurrily, they could see the silhouette of a giant astro-telescope positioned on a cubic stone altar.
'I'll leave the rest to you,' said the woman, before disappearing.
'Everyone, come gather around.' whispered Ozin. His voice sounded shaky in the cold, snowy air.
'Is this the Erthal Iris?' exclaimed Elloise. 'Wow, I've always wanted to see this.'
Ozin nodded. 'Let Juni look first. It's something very special to her.' He smiled at a confused June. 'Go on, and watch your awe transform into deep inspiration. I'm not going to spoil anything.'
Slowly, she approached the telescope. Large Nomadrian characters were scattered on the sides of the altar. If only she knew what they meant. As much as she wanted to return to Europe, she didn't want to leave Ozin and Ellie. They've practically become her new family. No offense, Steven. She thought guilty. But I want to stay here. A bit longer.
She allowed her eyes to gaze into the scope easily. Stars sparkled in the deep space of her vision. A white, bolstering maelstrom appeared somewhere distant, somewhere—familiar.
Somewhere in her mind, a spark of memory came to life. Of course—it was the same thing… The sky beyond the polar lights, that could be frequently spotted at night—a gash of white in the dark, united by billions of stars identical to theirs.
'Sometimes,' Ozin cleared his throat. 'On a clear, winter night, the distant galaxy can be seen amidst all the star clusters and molecular clouds. It's the galaxy where we once were. The galaxy that the Original Earth refers to as the Milky Way. It was once… all of our homes.'
'So we do live in the same world,' said June, on the verge of crying.
They didn't know how long she stood there, silently staring into the telescope. When she did eventually turn around, however, it was clear that she'd been weeping.
'This has been the best birthday present in my life,' she swallowed with emotion. 'I owe all of you.' They joined for an embrace, and despite the freezing temperatures, Juno Haven felt warm.
'I wanna have a turn!' exclaimed Sam, who sprinted to the telescope energetically.
'Calm down,' smiled Ozin. 'No need to be hasty. I booked the entire night for you.'
'In the stars… it's the Milky Way!' he shouted with excitement. 'This is the best day ever!'
'The Milky Way is two hundred lightyears away from us,' said Ellie. 'We haven't been able to discover the galaxy for well over ten million years, since The Great Escape.'
'It's truly a miracle that you found it,' said June in awe. 'I seriously didn't expect to see the Milky Way ever again.'
'I wish Maxy could… never mind,' said Sam reluctantly.
The Milky Way was out of their reach… and yet, they could see it with their very own eyes. The nostalgia would linger for a while until they forget again. It wasn't a necessity to be tried and tested for one's own strong mindset, because sometimes, it's okay to cry.
And that time was now.