T.J. Laverne

Copyright © 2018 T.J. Laverne

 

Chapter 1

Pain

 

A wispy, white old man with a long, white beard slowly made his way from one side of the sky to the other. Before he disappeared, a white raven followed him, though its wings were tattered and its tail was missing.

​

Vincent watched it float from one side of his vision to the other until there was nothing left but vast, colorless sky.

The earth hadn’t swallowed him up yet, but it was trying. An insect crawled across his arm, and another across his face. Some sort of animal brushed past his shoulder. It was probably a snake. Vincent had no desire to swat them away. He had no desire left in him.

​

A recording of his time together with Leena played on an endless loop through his head. Sometimes it was so lifelike that he could smell her, even feel her body resting in the crook of his arm, her hair in his face. He smiled in a state of delirium as tears pooled silently on the grass beneath his head.

 

Reality was slipping away from him and slowly melding into insanity. He tried to convince himself that Leena really was resting in the crook of his arm, and he began to believe it.

 

He stroked her hair with his hand and convinced himself that he could feel the soft strands beneath his fingers. He spoke aloud, telling her about his terrible dream, where he had fallen back through the portal and lost her again.

He looked down and she looked up at him, her large, brown eyes wide with tears. She told him not to worry and pulled his face toward hers, kissing him long and deep. He let himself enjoy it, convincing himself that he could really feel her lips against his.

 

Eventually, he closed his eyes and his mind finally, at long last, separated blissfully from his body. Somewhere in the abyss, Leena found him on the grassy plain. She ran up to him and leapt into his arms, wrapping her legs around his body as she kissed every inch of his face. She was happy to see him.

 

Suddenly and unexpectedly his mind was thrown back into his body with a rush of blind panic. His eyelids snapped open and he was confused when all he saw was pale, blue sky above him.

 

He couldn’t remember where he was. He couldn’t remember the last time he had seen Leena for real. All he knew was that something terrible had happened. Terror and dread flowed through his veins, poisoning his body and

cutting off his air supply.

 

Reality slowly trickled back over him. It settled over his chest, as though a mountain were pressing down upon it. Surely his body would crack under the weight of it. But it didn’t. Instead his last moments with Leena replayed in his head, over and over to torment him.

 

He remembered Leena crying because he had told her that Felix couldn’t be saved. He remembered lying to her, telling her that fate couldn’t be changed.

 

He remembered not telling her that he had painted Leonardo da Vinci’s Head of a Woman. That he did have some power to change things, even though history had already been written. That Gildi had told him they were outside of fate—were wandering stars in the night sky—that they could write their own endings.

 

This whole mess was his fault. He had lied to Leena. He had made her cry. He had been so fixated on having her all to himself that he had destroyed all her hopes of ever saving her friends. He had been selfish to think that he was the only thing that mattered to her and had tried to take away her friends, whom she loved just as much as she loved him.

 

Vincent sat up abruptly and ran his fingernails down his cheeks until he felt his skin break, hoping to draw blood. He rocked back and forth as he fought the urge to rip his skin off his body or drown himself, or do anything to end his pain and horror. He wanted insanity again. He didn’t want this version of reality. He wasn’t strong enough to survive it. Leena was the strong one, not him. Without her, he was nothing.

 

He couldn’t let Leena’s last memory of him be of him making her cry. He had to fix this. He had to give Leena back her hope. He had to save her friends for her.

 

But he had to find her first.

 

Vincent had no idea how much time had passed when he finally jumped back to his feet. He leaned over the swamp from which he had emerged God-knows-how-long ago, ready to plunge back through it.

 

Leena couldn’t have gone far. She wouldn’t be far from the portal after what had just happened. He didn’t need to investigate each place like last time, he just needed to go through the portal, see if Leena was there, then jump back in again and try the next place until he found her.

 

Without a second consideration, he dove into the murky swamp and pulled himself to the bottom, slipping through the portal into nothingness. A moment later, he pulled out of a pond onto a grassy plateau surrounded by rolling hills under a stormy sky. He looked around him in every direction and saw only swaying grass, what looked like a graveyard, and a poor-looking farm in the distance.

 

The wind was cold and unpleasant. More importantly, he didn’t see any sign of Leena. He gave the landscape a second sweeping look, then with a nod of his head, he turned and plunged back into the pond, slipping back through the portal.

 

This time he came out in a lagoon near a sandy beach on the ocean. Vaguely he wondered if it was Leena’s Jamaica. He turned around in a circle, searching the landscape, but there was only jungle, mountains, ocean, and a distant town. Leena was nowhere in sight. Without another thought, he plunged back into the lagoon and through the portal again.

 

He re-emerged on the edge of an ancient-looking temple-like structure in the middle of a jungle. Leena wasn’t there. He emerged on the edge of a sprawling vineyard, in a lake at the foot of a snow-capped mountain range, and in an oasis in the center of a sprawling desert. Leena wasn’t in those places, either.

​

He plunged through the portal again and again, each time emerging onto a different scene, and each time finding nothing. He must’ve traveled through the portal 30 times, never seeing Leena and never stopping.

​

Each time he slipped through the portal became just a little harder, not just from the frustration and panic of not finding Leena. His body seemed to be resisting each journey a little more. After his 15th trip through the portal, his insides began to ache from more than just grief. Somewhere between the 20th and 25th trip he felt a searing pain in his ribs and his hands began to tremble. After the 25th, his head felt as though it would split in two and he fought an ever-increasing urge to vomit.

 

When he emerged on the edge of a cornfield somewhere around the 30th trip, he climbed out of a pond to rest a moment on the grass. Instead, he succumbed to a violent coughing fit that lasted for several minutes. When his body stopped convulsing, he looked down at his hands to see that they were splattered with blood. It was a moment before he realized that the blood was his.

 

He collapsed onto his stomach and lay there for a while, breathing heavily and trying to ignore the stabbing pains through his chest and intestines. Though he tried to pretend that he was fine, he knew, deep down, that something was happening to him from traveling through the portal too many times. It had taken a toll on his body in some way. He wasn’t sure he wanted to know how much.

 

He couldn’t be sick. He couldn’t stop using the portal until he had found Leena. He still needed to spend his life with her.

 

He dragged his body along the grass and rolled back into the pond, pulling himself back through the portal. His body was spewed violently out the other end as though the portal were angry with him. He pulled himself out of a waterhole and crawled onto the grass, succumbing to another, more violent coughing fit. Blood splattered onto his hands and across the grass, and he collapsed upon it, panting as though he had just sprinted.

 

Knives stabbed through his entire body and he began to shake from the pain. He turned to his side and threw up at least five times, then collapsed again, utterly exhausted. He curled into himself, trying to will the pain to go away. He couldn’t give up, yet. He could still find Leena if he could just go through the portal again.

 

With great difficulty, he pried his eyelids open and looked up at his surroundings, hoping that Leena would be standing over him. There was nothing but trees. He cringed and closed his eyes again, grimacing against a new wave of pain.

 

When he opened his eyes again, he realized that the trees were familiar. He had looked upon them through his puddle in Tucson for years. He turned to his side and looked at the waterhole from which he had emerged. It wasn’t a waterhole, it was a well. Leena’s well. He was back in Langley Wood.

 

With a renewed spark of hope, he tried to lift himself from the ground and groaned. He grabbed his middle and sat up, swaying as the world spun around him.

 

He looked up, half-expecting to see Arthur riding up on a horse toward him, but then he realized that Arthur was dead. Unless, of course, he had emerged upon Langley Wood before the point in time in which he had previously emerged. In which case Arthur might still be alive, and Leena might even still be here, though it would be her past self.

 

He shook his head, overwhelmed by this new train of thought, and fought another long wave of dizziness and nausea. He looked back up, hoping to see Leena running up to the well. The woods remained empty and silent.

 

Groaning, he pushed himself up from the ground and released a pained yell as his body resisted. He stood up, shaking and sweating, fighting against the realization that his condition was serious. He had never felt so terrible in

all his life. He looked down at his trembling fingers and felt a new wave of white-hot panic.

​

How serious was it? Had he damaged his body beyond repair? Would he die?

 

He couldn’t die. Not now, when he had just discovered how wonderful life could be. He could still find Leena and they could still live out the rest of their lives together. He couldn’t give up now, after they had fought so long and hard to be together.

 

With great effort, he lifted his head and looked around to find the trail through the woods that would bring him to Arthur’s camp. At the very least, if Leena and Arthur weren’t there, perhaps he could find Myrddin, who might be able to heal him.

 

Stepping carefully, he made his way down the path and began his trek through the woods. The trees closed in overhead and plunged his path into cold, semi-darkness. He was still wearing the fur that he had worn back in the Ice Age, but he was unnaturally cold. He pulled the fur around his shoulders and shivered.

 

Every step was torture to his entire body. He remembered that the path from the well to the camp was rather long, and began to doubt whether he would make it. He prayed that someone he knew would come upon him and offer to give him a ride the rest of the way.

 

He might run into Baird or Guthrie, or even Genevieve, if the others were already dead. He didn’t dare hope that he would find Leena. The disappointment would be too severe if she wasn’t here.

 

At least an hour passed, and Vincent knew that he wouldn’t make it. He could be killing himself faster by walking so long and so far. He needed a rest.

 

This thought barely crossed his mind and he collapsed upon the ground. Immediately, he had another coughing fit. When he was finished, he curled into the fetal position, shivering and heaving, and slipped quickly into unconsciousness.

 

When he awoke, a gentle hand was stroking his hair back. A cold, wet cloth ran across his forehead and he recoiled, shivering. He felt strangely small and large at the same time, and also as though he were floating.

He managed to open his eyelids and saw strange shapes curl and float across a woven ceiling. They looked like they were swimming, but somehow that didn’t seem to make sense.

 

“You have a fever,” a female voice spoke to his right.

 

He turned toward the voice and was unsurprised to see Genevieve, taking care of him again. He shivered more violently and pulled a blanket up around his neck.

 

“Why is it so cold in here?” his teeth chattered.

 

“You have a fever,” Genevieve repeated impatiently. “I’m trying to bring your temperature back down. Take off the blanket.”

 

She pried the blanket from between his fingers and yanked it away, and he shivered still more violently, his teeth chattering so loudly and quickly that it hurt his head. Genevieve put a hand on his shoulder and made a calming, shushing noise. His shivering slowly lessened, though it didn’t stop.

 

“What happened to you?” she asked, her voice registering a tone of disbelief. “You look as though you’ve been pulled through a meat grinder.”

 

“Wh-what . . . ?” he turned to her in alarm.

 

“Your skin,” she shook her head, examining him with an odd, undecided expression, “it’s all . . . blotchy and . . . mottled.”

 

Vincent groaned, looking back up at the ceiling. What did that mean? Had the portal disfigured him?

 

“Gr-great,” he chattered.

 

“It’s nothing to worry about, I’m sure,” she said unconvincingly. “It may go away once your fever is down.”

 

Vincent sighed impatiently at her vagueness, but he didn’t have the energy to question her. She re-wet her cloth and he winced as it touched his forehead. It felt like ice. Carefully, she lifted his head and ran the cloth along the back of his neck and he yelled out in pain, though she didn’t stop.

 

She continued this over and over, re-wetting her cloth and running it along all of his exposed skin as though she were torturing him. He wanted to rip the cloth from her hands, but it was all he could do to stop his teeth from chattering. He locked his jaw and tensed his whole body against her, waiting for it to be over.

 

At least an hour later, his fever broke and he began to sweat and his mind began to clear. Genevieve still sat beside him, tending to him without pause. Vincent stared at her in amazement. She couldn’t have hated him too much to have taken up so much of her time to help him.

 

She put the back of her hand to his forehead, and then to his cheek, and allowed herself a small, reluctant smile.

“Your skin looks a little better. You’re getting your color back.”

 

Vincent took in a deep breath, allowing himself to feel a measure of relief. At least he wouldn’t be disfigured when he found Leena again.

 

He succumbed to another coughing fit and every bone in his body ached, as though he were suddenly made of glass. Genevieve put a cloth up to his mouth and Vincent was alarmed to see that it was already covered in blood. He could only assume it was his, from many such coughing fits.

 

When he was finished, he looked up at Genevieve and she quickly cleared her face from a look of alarmed concern to one of forced comfort. She smiled faintly, as if to pretend that nothing disturbing had just happened.

 

“What is your name, may I ask?”

 

Vincent scowled at her. A sinking feeling filled his stomach. “What?”

 

“You must have a name?” she said.

 

“But . . . you know my name—”

 

He stopped himself as another cobweb cleared from his mind. He blinked and stared at her with different eyes. Her hair was brown. And she wasn’t speaking to him in Leena’s language, she was using his own language. She wasn’t Genevieve, at all. That is, she was Genevieve, but not the original Genevieve. She was another reincarnated version of Genevieve.

 

Vincent swallowed down a knot as reality sunk in. He wasn’t in Langley Wood. He wouldn’t find Leena here. This wasn’t her home. He was somewhere else entirely, in another time and place. He had gotten his hopes up for nothing.

 

“Are you all right?” she asked, scowling at his odd reaction to her simple question.

 

He just closed his eyes and shook his head, hoping that he could shake the world away. He hadn’t realized how much he had wanted to be back in Langley Wood. It had been oddly comforting, as though he had returned home. But he didn’t have a home. He could never return anywhere. He would always be lost and alone. Always.

 

“I’ll just let you rest, then,” the woman-who-was-not-Genevieve said uncertainly. He felt her place something cold and metal into his hand. “Ring this bell if you need me. I’ll be just outside.”

 

Vincent kept his eyes closed, and after a while felt exhaustion carry him away into a deep, painful sleep. When he awoke, his fever had returned, and the woman-who-was-not-Genevieve returned with it. She knelt by his side with her wet cloth again and tended to him all through the night, keeping him cold and feeding him water.

 

His fever broke sometime in the morning. He was a little more lucid as she lifted the back of his head for the hundredth time, holding a metal cup to his lips and holding him upright as he drank a few mouthfuls of water.

 

He let his head fall back down and felt as though his bones would shatter with the simple movement. He coughed a couple times and his throat ached and burned. Even the effort of breathing was painful, and he couldn’t seem to get enough air into his lungs. He breathed heavy and fast, as though someone were stepping on his chest.

 

He chanced a look at Genevieve, trying not to look too desperate or afraid. She was staring at him, her forehead crinkled and her eyes calculating. He noticed for the first time that she was dressed almost in rags, and looked slightly dirty. Clearly, she was not well-to-do in this time and place, wherever and whenever it was.

 

“Why are you helping me?” he asked.

 

She cocked an eyebrow at him, looking annoyed. “Why? Should I not?”

 

“I’m a stranger. Why are you taking so much of your time to help me?”

 

The woman pursed her lips and looked away. “You would’ve died if I hadn’t.” She looked at him more seriously, and he could see the pity written all over her face. “You’re . . . not well.”

 

Vincent felt an unpleasant tingling up his spine as he struggled to absorb her words. He swallowed down a heavy lump. “Am I . . . dying?”

 

The woman released a heavy sigh, looking flustered. “I think you might be past the worst of it.”

 

Vincent noticed that she hadn’t answered his question. “So, maybe.”

 

She sighed again and turned irritably towards him. “I don’t even know what’s wrong with you. I’ve never seen it before. I can’t say anything with certainty. All I know is you’re a little better now.”

 

Vincent looked up at the ceiling and took in a deep breath, trying to calm his rapidly beating heart. He put a hand to his chest, feeling the air scrape through his throat and into his lungs, as though it were made of glass. He couldn’t ignore the gravity of his situation anymore, nor deny the very probable possibility that he could die, and soon.

 

He took in another breath, ignoring the pain and appreciating the sensation of the air entering his body, keeping him alive. He listened to his heart beat in his ears, and it accelerated as his panic heightened.

 

How much longer would it beat? What would happen to him when he died? Would he reincarnate like all the others, or would it be over for him? Gildi had told him he only had one life to live. Only one chance. Had he already blown it?

 

How could he have ever tried to take his own life? Now that he might be nearing the end, he felt only fear and panic at the prospect of missing out on all the things he could’ve done. He could’ve found Leena, told her how sorry he was for making her cry, married her in a church, bought a house with her, maybe even had children. He could’ve saved Felix and Paul.

 

He blinked, hardly noticing the hot tear that rolled down the side of his face. He had entirely forgotten that someone was still sitting next to him.

 

“I’m so sorry,” the woman-who-was-not-Genevieve said, her voice surprisingly gentle.

 

Vincent quickly wiped the tear away and cleared his throat, trying to regain a shred of his dignity.

 

“Have you seen a woman named Leena?” he asked, not wasting any more time. “She has short yellow hair and a dimple in her chin.”

 

“No,” she scowled, looking curious.

 

“She’s my wife,” Vincent cringed, holding his chest as he took in another painful breath. “I’ve lost her.”

 

“Oh,” her eyes widened in surprise. “How do you lose your own wife?”

 

“We were attacked . . . and got . . . separated.”

 

The woman stared at him as though trying to figure something out.

 

“Is that her ring you wear?” she asked.

 

“Yes.”

 

“Is she a Pict?”

 

“What?” he scowled at her.

 

“The ring looks like it might be.”

 

“What’s a Pict?”

 

“If you don’t know, then she probably isn’t,” the woman pursed her lips, sticking her nose up, slightly. Whoever Picts were, clearly she didn’t like them.

 

Vincent sighed, feeling old and tired. He felt the inevitability of getting sucked into the same drama all over again, and couldn’t do it. Even though he had vowed to try to save Felix and Paul for Leena, he couldn’t bring himself to do it again.

 

He needed to find Leena first. That was his top priority. He would find her first, and then he would save her friends. And he wouldn’t find her here. He needed to go through the portal again. As soon as he felt better, he would resume his search through the portal, and that was the end of it.

 

“I still don’t know your name,” the woman said stubbornly. She had been watching him, her expression burning with curiosity mingled with a new hint of suspicion.

 

“Vincent.”

 

Her expression relaxed, as though her suspicions had been cleared. She stood up.

 

“I’m Marian, in case you care to know,” she said sharply. “I’ll let you rest some more. Robert will be returning tomorrow and will want to speak with you.”

 

Vincent released another long sigh, knowing full well that Robert was Felix. As soon as he felt well enough to stand he would be leaving, before Robert had a chance to see him.