#frederick coded

They called Friend over (verbally; there was no service out here) and presented them with their find.

“Holy smokes,” Friend blurted.

“I know!” Caretaker practically squealed.

“No, not that.” Friend shook their head, then pointed, “that.”

Against the fading twilight, a warm glow could be seen through the remains of a tower’s window.

“Someone must have gotten here first,” Friend said.

…

Friend and Caretaker made the long trek up the winding, crumbling staircase. Together, they pushed a rotted oak door open, letting light flood the stairwell.

Caretaker made their way inside, but stopped dead in their tracks once their eyes adjusted.

A young man, no older than twenty one, lay in a dusty, canopied bed. The gentle rise and fall of his chest put out any ideas that he was merely a corpse. His hair lay in curtains around his face, and a crown rested on his head. A sword lay clasped in his hands; the same way one might have buried a warrior of old. Thick, green vines wrapped snugly around nearly every inch of him.

“Uhhh…” Caretaker muttered.

Caretaker slowly approached. The vines shifted to cover more of the sleeping boy.

“Hey, knock it off!” Caretaker shouted.

They started tugging at the vines, but they wouldn’t budge. Friend came up with a lighter and brandished it like a torch. Some of the plants withered on the spot.

Caretaker tilted their head. They opened their bag and produced a rag used for washing up. They wrapped it around their walking stick and tossed the thing to Friend. Friend understood at once. They lit the makeshift torch and waved it at the offending tendrils.

The vines withered into dust. The boy sucked in a breath, and his eyes fluttered open. Miraculously, he seemed to speak a similar version of their language.

“Where is he?” he breathed.

“He who?” Friend asked.

The boy looked between them, eyes fearful but droopy with lingering sleep. He sat up with some effort; Caretaker had to help him.

“The tyrant,” he said, “I had him. I had almost ended him when…”

The boy looked around.

“What day is it?” he asked.

“Saturday,” Friend replied.

He saw the state of the tower he was in.

“Have we been sacked?”

Caretaker and Friend exchanged worried glances.

“Buddy, what year do you think it is?” Caretaker asked.

The number the boy came back with shook them to their core.

“It’s um… it’s not that year anymore,” Friend blurted.

“Pardon?”

“We’ll explain everything to you,” Caretaker said, “what’s your name?”

“Whumpee. Are you travelers?”

Caretaker blanched. They had heard that name in an old book of legends; it had even come up a couple times in their college history classes, but only in passing.

Caretaker took Whumpee’s hand before they spoke again.

“I am so sorry, your highness,” Caretaker said, “but you’ve been asleep for some time. Several centuries of time.”

Whumpee stared, his expression unreadable. He swung his legs over the side of the bed, leaving his sword on the covers. Despite Caretaker’s gentle protests, he got up and went over to the window. He looked out at the ruins below.

“Are you okay?” Friend asked, earning themselves a hard elbow in the arm from Caretaker.

“I…” Whumpee mumbled, “this isn’t an enchantment?”

He turned, his eyes searching Caretaker’s face for the answer he wanted. He didn’t find it.

“I’m sorry,” Caretaker repeated.

Whumpee nodded, looking back out the window.

“This is the future? Tell me something, what became of Tyrant Whumper?”

Caretaker recognized that name, too.

“The history books say he surrendered at Battle, but the legends usually depict him as being cursed by the Sacrifice of Somnolescence. Historians aren’t sure what that entails though.”

“It is a ritual that removes an enemy from the waking world for an unspoken price. Usually the price is more than the user is willing to pay.”

“You guys didn’t get along, did you?” Friend asked.

Whumpee nodded as the tears stung his eyes.

“What became of Kingdom after Whumper’s surrender?”

“It flourished until the British Empire came along and absorbed it,” Caretaker said, “but I mean, the British Empire did that a lot so…”

“My people were happy?” Whumpee asked.

“Very much so,” Caretaker said.

“Then there is nothing to do but accept the fate the stars have placed on me,” Whumpee said.

He went back over to the bed where their sword lay. He ran his hand along the ceremonial blade. He picked it up, examining it. It was clear what he was thinking about doing next.

“I don’t think your people would want you to do that,” Friend pointed out.

Whumpee chuckled ruefully.

“Maybe not, but I miss them. What is a prince without his people?”

“Your people are still here, Whumpee,” Caretaker said quickly, “I can show you. They may have scattered during the colonization, but I promise their descendants are out there. Let us show you.”

It was an agonizing amount of time before Whumpee lowered the sword. It fell from his hand with a clang on the stone floor. Caretaker and Friend caught him as his knees buckled and the sobs started up. They held him in a hug on the ground as a lifetime of loss tumbled from his eyes. Outside, night had fallen, and the stars were just beginning to come out, twinkling like tears on the sky’s dark face.

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