Long ways to go yet
âPeople disappear all the timeâ series - part 1
CONTENTS: 1940s!reader, husband is named, i know they wouldnât have spoke the same English but for convenience they do, the witch trials werenât as prevalent in this time but im using them anyway, outlander references, somewhat proof read (please tell me if you notice mistakes)
A/N: guys Iâve finally figured out my plot lines for this, writing will be a lot quicker in comparison to this :) // sihtric is not introduced yet but enjoy !!
People disappear all the time.
Or so your mother used to say. people leave their small hometowns wordlessly to find new opportunities, people die in war with no family to identify them.
You supposed this is your own way of disappearing, away in Winchester, Your husbandâs home town.
The town Jonathan always talked about in his scrawled letters during the war, the picture he painted of the cathedral and the tall streets made you smile even while your hands were pruned with blood and pus.
With the wind in your hair and a content smile pulling at the corners of your lips, you couldnât find enough words to thank him with.
âWell, you certainly seem pleasedâ his dulcet tones cut through the rush of wind in your ear drums.
âOh, I am, my darlingâ you smiled, reaching over to grip his free hand in yours. You could imagine him as a boy, running through the tall grass getting the tweed stained a blotchy green.
For the longest time, you had completely forgotten what fresh air smelled like, ether and decay had been your daily fragrance rather than the Femme de Rochas Jonathan had bought you for the occasion.
The hotel that came into view was not unlike the ones you had seen only a couple years ago, though they were less polished and gardened, rather blood splattered and draped with limping men clutching their sides.
As Jonathan rounded the hood to open your door for you, you finally let yourself breath.
Two years after the war and still the same stiffness rested underneath your ribs, tightening your stomach into a swirl, a feeling that had proved difficult to fully get rid of.
But as the cool early autumn air floated through your hair and tickled your neck, you felt alright, and when you took your husbandâs hand in yours, you started to believe it.
You had noted the turnips with faces carved, some morose while others were more mournful.
âI didnât realise Winchester got into the Halloween spirit as early as thisâ you remarked as you stared down at the different faces, their gleaming yellow irises staring back.
Jonathan chuckled âI know turnips not quite so remarkable as your beloved Samhain traditions, but I believe youâll love it all the sameâ
As Jonathan talked to the receptionist, you had gazed about the lobby, thinking back to your childhood, of bonfires with eye watering smoke or treacle scones that dripped onto your fingers. Halloween was always one of your favourite holidays, the magic of it all surrounding you in a fog that was downright intoxicating.
The next few days that you had spent, finally alone together, were nothing short of exhausting yet fulfilling.
Jonathan was a history buff, it was what drew you to him in the first place.
But on your fifth museum, youâre seriously starting to wonder if you should somehow find a magic pocket watch to send you back in time to warn your past self about aching feet.
The pulsing in your feet makes you only scan the words below each high renaissance painting and the swords with old English engraved in the blades.
Though one catches your eye, the amber embedded into the pommel seems to sing to you, you frown as you step closer. Inspecting the swirling patterns in the stone, and a strange sense of deja vu makes your stomach pull.
As youâve seen it before?
You chalk it down to Jonathanâs history lectures, you mustâve seen an image of it while sitting in on the end of one of his seminars, pulling your shawl further over your shoulders to ease the shiver down your spine.
You make a mental note to ask Jonathan about it later, making your way around the rest of the museum.
You meet Jonathan at the gift shop, tacky fridge magnets and themed teddies all stacked on shelves.
âFind something?â He muses, offering his arm.
You take a breath, âyes, actually, an old swordâ
you chuckle a little while saying it, remembering the strange feeling.
âA sword? An old Celtic one or a Norman one perhaps?â He hums.
âNo. It said the ninth century, have you, by chance, done a lecture on the likes of medieval weapons?â Wildflowers tickle your legs as you walk down the road, arm in arm.
âI donât believe I have, though one of the other professors, Mr Allesbrook, you met him at that dinner a few weeks back, he specialises in medieval history. Perhaps you heard him mention it?â You nod, staring at the cobblestone, that stone seemingly burned into your eyelids.
âPerhapsâ you sigh, tucking in the corner of your lip before your eyes crinkle with your smile.
âWell letâs not dwell on it, I believe we have an old stone circle to visit?â You urge, giving his arm a little jostle
âNot just any old stone circle, my darlingâ you roll your eyes fondly, never having understood his obsession with the site. Heâs talked about this circle of rock since you first met him, from tales of his childhood to his letters. You have to admit that youâre a little giddy to finally see it.
âThey say that on a day very much like this one, a group of travellers ventured up to this very stone circle, danced a ritual dance and never came back down again, when they woke, they were hundreds of years back in the past with no semblance of the life they knew.â He tells the story like some documentary presenter dragging out the details of a particularly bad snow storm.
You huff amusedly, âare we going to perform a ritual dance and go back to the battle of bannockburn?â
He chuckles âif weâre lucky, but I do believe that the Scots won that war against the English, so I fear you would have to kill meâ he feigns dramatic melancholy, a hand pressed to his chest.
Hand in hand, you press forward up the hill, the hem of your skirt a little muddy and severely out of breath but itâs not the climb that takes your breath away.
The warm feeling that echoes through your chest is similar to the one you felt in the museum, a strange mix of deja vu and familiarity.
And a strange buzzing?
You rub your ears, telling yourself itâs just another side effect from the war, tinnitus had plagued you for years, after the first wave of the blitz had destroyed the docks, you had been set up at the field hospital only a few miles away from it.
You remember that black Saturday like it was yesterday, patching up a lad, only sixteen or so, he had been brave, his lip only wobbling despite his scrunched up face as you had sawed and hacked at the bones of his knee.
You had heard the planes and you were sure he did too, trying to quell the shaking in your hands to continue wrapping the gauze around the stump, your hands slick with blood and sweat before the shaking had started, he had pushed you to ground, covering your body with his as the building crashed to the ground.
You shake the memory from your head, feeling the grooves of smooth stone beneath your fingertips as you walk around the circle.
You almost donât turn, but the buzzing in your head is making your eyes hazy, the stone wraps a golden thread around your waist, fixing your gaze on the jagged surface.
You can see Jonathanâs lips moving as he stands next to one of the stones, letters etched into the rock.
But the pull of the middle stone is so alluring you canât ignore it.
Your feet move on their own, as though itâs chanting your name, beckoning you forward.
Your hands press against the cool stone for just a moment before your vision goes black.
You remember a time, when you were very young. Your father standing with you out in the garden, throwing you so high into the air you felt as though you were flying, the air would rush past your ears as you came back down but no fear would grip your heart as you knew he would always catch you.
That same feeling is how you feel now, plummeting through the dark, wind rushing past your ears so intensely itâs as though your ears might pull clean off your head.
The pounding in your head as you wake makes the thin crack of light feel like the sun itself has lowered from the sky and is dangling infront of you.
The only thing you can bring yourself to focus on is the silence. pure, unfiltered silence.
No cars on the road only down the hill, no trains trudging along the railway, only distant sheep and silence.
You feel as though youâve been submerged in treacle as you push yourself to your feet.
You can feel the cool air on your skin and notice that somehow youâve lost your belt and your pencil skirt and leather Oxford lace ups, leaving you in your plain white dress you had worn underneath, the shoulder straps doing little against the bite of the air, your bare feet against the grass.
Thankfully, your shawl survived the strange tumble you took.
So youâve lost half your clothes, your head feels as though itâs being torn in half and thereâs no sign of JonathanâŠgreat, just fantastic.
The stone where your husband was standing not even two minutes ago is dreadfully vacant.
You call his name but no answer comes, you take the initiative to believe that surely your husband must be looking for you, perhaps you walked off in search of the flowers he had shown you in the travel guide and felt ill coming back.
Stumbling back down the hill, your heart stops as if clutched by an icy hand when you realise that the road hasnât seemingly vanished, the smooth asphalt now only a barely worn stretch of green grass.
You squint as you try to search for the points of the cathedral or the lights flashing against the darkening sky.
The civilisation you do see is faint, like a smudge of ink against grey paper, but itâs there and you canât help the small glimmer of hope as you start to stumble towards it mindlessly, maybe someone there will know the way back to your hotel, maybe Jonathan will already be there.
âExcuse me lady?!â An aged voice calls behind you and it jolts you, you whip around only to be met with a man dressed strangely and atop a wagon.
âYou look lost, these roads are perilous at night of late, the town of Wintanceaster lies ahead, I would be glad to give you a rideâ he says.
You look at him for a beat, he seems harmless enough albeit a little strange, dressed in some sort of tunic with a cloak of brown wool, an older man with round cheeks and a full beard, some kind of root poking out from the dark hair as he chews mindlessly on it.
âI- uh..yes! That would be lovelyâ you accept his hand as he pulls you up next to him and urges the horse forward.
âWhat are you doing walking around in your shift like that, thatâs just asking for troubleâ
The word makes your mind halt for a minute, shift?.
âYou mean my dress? Well I lost some of my clothing in a tumble I took down the hillâ
âTumble?â He frowns as though the word was foreign to his lips, whipping the reins again, âif you say soâ
âI had meant to ask, whatâs your name, lady?â
You know you shouldnât use your real name, you remember in one of Jonathans letters about his training as an agent for the crown, even a tissue thin barrier can blur the real image. But for some reason, you trust this man.
You tell him your name, debating whether or not to stick out your hand for him to shake, but he cuts in before either answer reigns victorious in the little battlefield of your brain.
âWulfricâ he replies in kind.
âIrish then are you? Donât sound like one to meâ he murmurs.
âNo, Iâm from Scotland, my husband is English thatâs why Iâm here, we were on our honeymoon but Iâve lost him, oh he must be worried sickâ you place your head in both your hands, fingers curling around your hair.
You miss the borderline bewildered look that the man shoots you, shaking his head as he no doubt tells himself âjust make it to the village and drop the crazy lady somewhere safeâ
As the path starts to smooth out into a well travelled line of flattened grass and dirt, you realise that your no where near the town you knew.
âI thought we were going to Winchester?â You turn to the man, who just whips the reins again.
âYouâre looking straight at itâ he nods.
The town in front of you is nothing like the cobbled streets and tall buildings you had around you not even a day ago.
A pale wooden barrier lines it, houses with thatched roofs and smoke so thick it makes your eyes water and a cough swell in your throat.
You feel as though a rock has just wedged itself directly in the canal between your stomach and your small intestine.
The thought that you so desperately wished wasnât true couldnât be denied.
You were no longer in 1947.
The only question that pulsed in your mind, the only question that could appear in your mind.
âWhere am I?â
You knew you were in Winchester, that fact remained a steady presence in your mind, but what time?
Was this 1403 with the battle of shrewsbury approaching, or maybe, 577 with the battle of dyrham?
You look around as inconspicuously as you can, eyes darting to the townsfolk going about their day, with no knowledge of the panic that was surging through you.
Medieval age.
Thatâs all you knew, you recognised the clothing from the drawings and descriptions you had read in the small library of your living room, but not enough to properly discern the exact era.
âHere we are, the innkeeper will get you some food in your belly and proper clothesâ he smiles, and you try to climb down as smoothly as you can despite your shaking hands and your knees that threaten to buckle out from under you.
âThank you, Wulfricâ you try your hardest to smile, and you hope it looks somewhat kind and human-like as he rides off.
Fuck. fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck!
The curse rings in your head repeatedly as your insides curdle.
Trudging up the mucky, worn in stairs of the downright shabby inn Infront of you, you try your hardest to appear normal, pulling your shawl even tighter around your shoulders, the familiar feel of the worn tartan fabric the only small comfort as it hugs around your shoulders and your torso, providing you a small morsel of modesty as it covers your backside, your dress was thin enough, without the fear of this times standards of women lurking in the back of your mind.
The conversation in the inn doesnât stop but you still feel as though there are millions of eyes burning into your back, like pinpricks swarming all over you.
Coming up to the counter, a plump woman with strewn black hair and ale soaked hands greets you with more cheer than you feel in the moment.
She hands you keys to a room wordlessly, having took one look at you and decided that you needed the privacy if nothing else.
The room is damp and dull, a bed of straw in the middle and a small chest but it might aswell have been a five star hotel, you flop onto the bed backwards, letting the movement jolt you as you land.
You needed to get your bearings. Firstly, what time are you in?
That you had no clue to the answer.
What do I do?
Even less of an answer.
How do I get back?
Zilch, nada, nil, nothing, naught, nowt. Every word in the fucking English language and yet none of them described the amount of nothing that you could pull from your brain.
Huffing, you turn in your side, tucking your feet up into fetal position, you want nothing more than to cry, scream, maybe dangle yourself out the window for a rush of adrenaline and pour the filthiest martini you can find down your throat.
But you settle for letting your eyes clamp shut and drift off to a world where you donât have to think about your current situation.
You woke with a start, the feel of smoke shoving itself down your throat like and biting your eyes.
Jolting up, you can only see the hungry flickering of lurid flames, swallowing and devouring the wood above and beneath you.
Oh for fucks sake
Bringing your arm over nose, the soft flesh of your forearm doesnât do much to prevent the plumes of black smoke from burning your nose.
Just brilliant, exactly what you needed
Your salty thoughts are cut short as a beam falls down Infront of you, making you yelp and jolt backwards, landing flat on your arse. the charred oak crumbles as it makes impact, sending embers flying at your face.
Managing to crawl, under the fallen posters and push open the window, though the steel burns your hands.
You take the form of a much more courageous person, like a storybook character or the soldiers you had treated, their tales of valour you suspect were exaggerated compared to the scenes of muck and trench foot you saw while treating patients closer to the trenches themselves.
Pushing up onto your elbows, you - for a second time- take the tumble out the window, landing with a wet splat into the mud, cool and soft, soaking into your dress and your shawl that stayed wrapped around your shoulders throughout your fever dreamish distress, you wouldâve taken more time to question the statistics of that if not for the shouting that took your attention.
Staggering around the corner proved to be the best mistake of your godforsaken life.
You hadnât noticed it before, but as your shock riddled brain flashed images of the flames that had been infront of your face moments before you can briefly pick up on the shouts.
The crowd is a fierce mob, akin to the drawings you had seen in Jonathanâs lectures, the people with the ever smiling faces and rosy cheeks holding pitchforks and shouting witch seemed so far away, so distant and alien.
They were alot less alien now, Very much alive and very very close.
You shouldâve turned tail and ran at the first sight of them, but one, a man with ruddy cheeks and a mop of curly black hair locks eyes with you, like a hound catching scent of a rabbit. The black pools of his eyes locking you in place like a bear trap, your stomach churns and you can feel rivulets of sweat dripping down your back, mixing with the mud drying on your skin.
âWicce!â The man shouts in a guttural voice, the force of it almost stuns you, you trip over your own clumsy feet in your haste to flee.
The mud beneath you is sticky and slick, as if the near buckling of your knees wasnât enough to thwart your downright pathetic attempt at running.
Your heart pounds in your chest, the complete and utter realisation of your situation crashes down on you, the pit in your stomach weighing you down, the raging shouts of the townspeople swarms your head, you can hear them behind you, like a pack of dogs nipping at your heels.
A spray of muck flies up your front as you skid to a halt, darting down a thin alley, if it could even be called that.
Suddenly, sharp pain pinches your nose in a firm grasp, your teeth colliding into your lip, making you stumble back and press your fingers to the warm blood spraying from your nostril.
âWatch where your bloody going!â You snap, gritting out the words that sound more like âwath where your bloothy goingâ but the wall Infront of you doesnât make any indication of amusement, much to your relief.
âAre you alright, lady?â The accent throws you a little bit, but like the picture of grace that you are, you donât make a face.
The wall in question that you had slammed into happened to be a man with fair hair and a pleasant enough face, you would go so far as to say he was the statue of David, but he might as well have been an angel sent to rescue you from your perils.
Oh you beautiful, beautiful man
You swear thereâs a somewhat creepy grin on your face as you nod.
âYes- well no actually, Iâve found myself in a bit of a..predicament, shall we sayâ
He dares a glance behind you and his lips quirk up in amusement.
âIâd sayâ the mob can no doubt be heard all around the town, he takes no time in figuring out your situation, or atleast the current one, you highly doubt that in the fifteen seconds heâs know you heâs figured out that you stepped through some stones, travelled back in time, got caught in a fire, escaped through the window, ran from angry townsmen with pitchforks and stumbled into a perfect stranger all in one day.
He shrugs a shoulder as if this is a daily occurrence, offering you an amused âhmphâ
âFollow meâ he says, turning quickly on his heel into a sprint and you donât have to be told twice, bunching up your dress in your hands and darting after him through nooks and crannies.
You nearly slip about ten times, and the indignant squawk of a chicken under your feet almost sends you hurtling, but as the view of smoke billowing into the orange hues of the sky makes its way into your field of view, the pain in your chest and the saliva pooling beside your molars from the exhaustion doesnât seem so bad.
âYou may stay with us, for as long as you likeâ the blonde man murmurs, nudging your shoulder with his.
You barely hear your own acknowledgment as you stagger beside him through the camp, your eyelids feel crusty, your feet hurt and you are so hungry you could eat the bark of the very trees that surround you and still want for more.
âWhoâs the lady then?â The Irish accent makes you buffer for a moment before you slump down onto a log, the heat of the fire warming your bare shins.
âThis is..â he looks at you expectantly, you almost forget your own name before you manage to stammer it out, phrased more like a question than an actual answer, it makes the Irishman laugh so you take it as a small win.
âThis is Finan, I am Uhtredâ Finan offers you a small wave and for the first time since you stepped through that rock, you feel safe.
The chatter around the camp and the conversation that the two men around you engage in lulls you like a lullaby, closing your eyelids feels so good, and your oh so tired.
You consider yourself a top notch judge of character and these men seems safe enough, the steel by their sides tells you that theyâre dangerous enough to not be messed with.
You tuck your shawl around yourself, cocooning as you slip down onto the dirt, leaning back against the log.
Small flecks of ash land infront of you, the crackle and pop only adding to the oddly relaxing ambience.
Slipping an arm under your head, the fire warmed wood was hard and bulky, your temples waving flags of an incoming headache if you didnât move away from it onto softer material.
It wonât be better in the morning, you know that, but itâs one step closer to finding home again.
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