whimsy, amnesia and other affronting predicaments
the wind curled a little wilder under the leaves, and the birds chirped somewhat quieter. the sun still shone, still bright enough that icarus would fault it—and green remained as far as the eye can see.
but… it wasn’t home. no. home wasn’t here.
home was slightly colder, yet slightly warmer. your roommate at college once joked that the only thing great about britain was its people’s tendency to complain about anything—particularly the ever changing weather.
even if your head felt like it was only lead and the deep, uncomfortable throb of a headache, you remembered home well. you remembered the classroom well, even if you’d graduated a long time ago. you remembered… people.
yes. friends. loads of them—a brash but soft hearted girl with bright hair, three cats, another girl with kind eyes yet… why was her arm blackened?
fragments blurred past you as quick as the incoming drops of rain. you looked up. when did the sky darken?
you had a satchel, but it was empty. in front of you was a road, but you didn’t know where to go. in the puddle before you was a face, yet… whose was it? what was the name of this person, with a pinched brow and heavy hands?
you had forgotten yourself. somehow and somewhat. you knew something, but not the next thing to supplement it. you knew that the fashioned walking stick next to you was a wand—you remembered placing the amethyst’s in the eagle’s eyes yourself. a mage. you were a mage.
you sighed. was work so hectic and awful that it couldn’t be erased from your mind even when you were having the worst case of memory loss?
the wand faded into a trail of golden shimmer at your will as you decided to take a wander.
you'd be whimsical, you'd decided. to be whimsical and free of worry even when riddled with the soul crushing realisation that barely anything was familiar anymore was a challenge you had set yourself to as you took down that merry little road. otherwise, you'd spiral into a mind blackout. were you this anxious a person always? or was it your circumstances? who knows? those questions are outside the perimeter of whimsy and joy.
"how does one establish whimsy?" you asked no one particular, planting your hands on your hips. "how does one live, laugh and love in these conditions?"
and that was indeed the million pound question (not dollars, they're worth less). thankfully or not so, depending on how whimsical the one reading is feeling, a kind soul took to answering that question. what generosity!
"in what conditions?"
you turned around to meet the eyes of a very odd looking man. perhaps it's very mean of you to think that. how dare you try to pass judgement his whimsy? maybe he loved the pointed cone hat and the flowing robes. honestly, he was kind of serving. harder than you, but oh well.
"in these conditions," you reiterated, referring to yourself with a wave of your arm as if it was the most obvious thing in the world.
"in the condition of... being you?" he asked, tilting his head.
"indeed, my good sir," came your sigh. "i'm in an awful predicament. and to make myself feel a little better, i decided that i'd be whimsical and full of joy. yet, how does one establish joy whilst in a predicament?"
cone hat man with the lovely blue eyes considered your question, his brow pinching in what you could only assume was deep philosophical pondering. "i'd have to know your predicament to answer that."
"nice try. being whimsical doesn't mean being foolish. stranger danger is a thing."
"then how am i meant to answer your question?" he asked, a mildly amused smile on his lips.
"by giving me generic advise on how to establish whimsy."
"alright, then," cone hat man with the lovely blue eye agreed, tapping a fist against his palm as an idea came to him. "how about flying a kite?"
"but i don't have a kite."
"i could make you one," he offered.
you blinked. what a kind gentleman! "are you a kite-maker?"
he laughed, pleasantly shaking his head. "no, not at all. i'm a witch."
a lengthy pause settled over the conversation, after which, in a burst of cathartic relief, you grabbed his hands with nearly lachrymose eyes and surged forward right into his personal space. "oh, thank goodness! i'd never think that there'd be witches around! see, i woke up and i've absolutely not a clue as to anything. and i mean anything! not even my own name. could you kindly point me in the direction of a train station? i know for a fact that this isn't england, it's been pleasantly sunny for hours on end. but i must get back there post haste."
he looked shocked, then confused, then bewildered and slightly uncomfortable, to be honest. okay, yeah, your bad for getting all up in his lovely face like that. you jumped back like you'd been electrocuted by the touch of him (your heart certainly was at the sight of him, but that's neither here or there). "sorry! sorry... i got all excited. it's just that it's been a bit of an awful nightmare having only myself to talk to. it's gotten so bad that i'd take zaccheroni for—oh. who's that?"
"zaccheroni. who's that? i just remembered the name, he must've been an unpleasant person. he sounds like an unpleasant person. anyways! i'm so sorry, i've just been rambling on and on. who are you, kindest sir?"
the man's shoulders sagged at the grateful little morsel of silence. "i'm qifrey," he introduced with a curious tilt of his head. "it's a pleasure, [name]."
"[name]? is that my name? how do you know that?" you warily asked, taking a step back. was this pleasant looking man a rapscallion all along?! oh! and to think you'd trusted him enough to share your grief about the lack of whimsy!
he pointed to your satchel. specifically, to a golden engraving on the side of the bag. [name] [last name]. your gaze followed his finger and you blinked. had that always been there? and it certainly wasn't in your mother tongue or english, how were you even supposed to know what it said?
"you can read that?" you asked, holding up the unfamiliar squiggly lines. again, you certainly didn't have a modicum of knowledge enough to comment the intricacies of semiotics. but the script didn't look like anything that'd be used in societies that practiced magic or sorcery nowadays.
"it's common script," he replied.
"it isn't common in england, i'll tell you that. oh, you haven't answered my previous question. whereabouts is the nearest train station that could take me there?"
"i beg your pardon," he said apologetically, "but... what exactly is a train?"
now it was your turn to look at him as if he had three heads. which, AGAIN, you know was rude. maybe this was a very reclusive society! but how could a white person not know what a train is? the environmental impact of the industrial revolution couldn't be for naught!
"a train? a long arrangement of cuboids on wheels? it's a very common method of transport."
"i'm afraid i've never heard of such a thing," cone hat man with the lovely blue eye replied. "although... if you're looking to get somewhere, i could call you a pegasus carriage? to... this england place?"
see, you'd tried very hard. you'd tried so hard to ignore and be away with the red flags (which is bizarre, this man hasn't even asked you out to dinner yet and you're already acting like this!), but the fact that the very much caucasian person didn't seem to know about the worst case of colonialism known to all history on top of trains was what broke the camel's back.
it was very likely that you weren't on earth anymore. which was, in retrospect, the greatest way to establish whimsy. get out of the place that seems to siphon it out every situation possible. but speaking of the here and now, well... you were in a bit of a pickle.
"mister... qifrey. may i ask... what coven do you belong to?"
he didn't answer immediately, gaze passing over you and your... less conventional clothing. "is that what they call an atelier in... england?"
"oh, for the LOVE OF—!" you squatted down, gripping your head in your hands. not only did this man not know of trains or england, he didn't even know what a coven was! how the hell did witches in this... reality operate?
atelier. that sounded french. but if he didn't know what england was, how would he know of france? let alone french! you looked up once more, eyeing the increasingly confounded man. at least his getup was now more understandable, you'd somehow woken up in a timeline ripe enough for yersinia pestis to do its thing and wipe out a third of england's population the third time round. except england didn't exist and judging by his complexion, bacteria didn't either!
"well then, what kind of a witch are you?" you asked, taking a seat on the grass. you'd grown weary of standing and tarrying and crashing out.
"the normal kind," was his matter-of-fact reply as he just easily sat down beside you. "though i suspect, by how you're looking at me, the norm is different in england?"
"much," you agreed. at least he was sensible. and a sensible man might be the rarest thing you'd encountered today. "for one thing, our clothing is a lot different. doesn't it stand out much amongst commonfolk? though i think you're no stranger to that either way, looking like you do. ever heard of domain expansion?"
"i don't suppose it does," qifrey answered, "is it that witches must hide themselves where you come from?"
"yes. politicians do enough of screwing the world over without magic."
he laughed. goodness, was he looking for a partner? "and i've never heard of a domain expansion. is it part of your magic?"
"haha. don't even worry about that." you pursed your lips briefly. "so witches can be witches out in the open, then?"
"yes and no," he replied. "seeing a witch or enlisting the help of one is common, but becoming a witch and knowing how they do what they do... is only for witches to know."
witches in this world were going to love it when phones came around then.
"oh, what a day!" you lamented, throwing yourself into a starfish pose on the ground. "do you think i've taken to insanity, mister qifrey?"
"not at all." he shifted, facing you. "in fact, would you mind telling me more about what kind of magic you're familiar with?"
and there was this... curious glint to his visible eye. and you were weak for that, okay? you'd forgotten your name, sure, but nothing as important as your type. gawdaMN.
"do you perchance have a wife?"
[ author's note ] — the idea came to me at like 1 am, i had work at 5 am. so i left it. and now i finished it. how has no one THOUGHT of this crossover is beyond me but i shall feed u all and myself while im at it maybe there'll be a part two maybe not idk man im js a girl let me delusional without commitment.