Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Grian was used to his own questionable decisions. They followed him the way most unfortunate things always did.

But even by his standards, standing in Mumbo’s underground workshop at one in the morning while a machine the size of a small car hummed like an angry beehive was, bold to say the least.

The machine did not look safe in the slightest. It didn’t even look finished; pipes stuck out at odd angles and wires curled across the floor in a tangle that screamed “fire hazard.” A dented metal arch made up the doorway, welded so unevenly that it looked as if it was tilting its head in confusion at its own existence.

Mumbo paced in front of it, wringing his hands and muttering calculations to himself.

Grian was used to Mumbo’s experimental inventions by now, he was even used to testing a few of them. It seemed as if every week his friend was on the verge of some scientific breakthrough, though Grian never understood when Mumbo tried to explain exactly what he was making; far too much esoteric science jargon for him to decipher.

He was glad he had gone the architecture route and not whatever mad scientist degree his friend had chosen. Mumbo told him what it was once, but all of those super specific physics degrees blurred together in his head.

It was a miracle they were even still in contact after college, with Grian being an architect at one of the bigger companies in the U.K, and Mumbo working for a small, but surprisingly well-funded quantum physics lab. Grian was suspicious of the lab though, they always had some grand plan to make the impossible possible, yet never seemed to actually do it. He just hoped they weren't wasting Mumbo's talent.

“Okay,” Grian said, clapping his hands once. “Explain to me again why you dragged me out of bed for,” He gestured vaguely at the hideous, magnificent contraption. “that.”

Mumbo perked up, pride momentarily overriding his panic. “It’s a temporal displacement chamber!”

“A time machine?”

“Yes, but that’s a very layman’s term.”

Grian walked around it, squinting. “Mumbo, it looks like someone held a magnet against a scrapyard.”

“It’s a prototype!” Mumbo said defensively. “A very delicate, experimental, unstable prototype. Which is why I absolutely need someone here to make sure I don’t accidentally vaporize myself while working out some kinks in the H.E.L.I.O.S system.”

Grian blinked. “You think I can stop you from vaporizing yourself?”

“I think you can scream loudly enough to alert the emergency services.”

Ah, yes. That sounded more like his usual role in Mumbo’s scientific endeavors.

Mumbo crouched near a panel of exposed circuitry, inspecting something with a flashlight. “Anyway. I’m not testing it yet. It needs some sort of stabilization and calibration. A heat sink that doesn’t immediately catch fire, don’t touch that, by the way.”

Grian snatched his hand back. “I wasn’t touching anything!”

“You were thinking about touching it.”

Grian didn’t deny that. He had a tendency to press buttons, pull levers, and just overall touch things he was definitely not supposed to. Being around Mumbo’s fragile inventions just made that urge so much worse.

Mumbo added, almost offhandedly, “Even if it were ready, it’s not like anyone would be reckless enough to step inside and test it.”

And there it was.

Grian felt the challenge hit him like a punch to the gut.

“Oh?” he said innocently. “No one, huh?”

Mumbo sighed, still focused on the wiring. “Not a chance. It would be the height of stupidity to try it now.”

“So you’re scared.”

Mumbo froze. “What? No. No, Grian, I’m being practical.”

“That sounds like fear to me.”

“It isn’t fear!”

Grian grinned before responding sarcastically, “Sure it isn't.”

Mumbo wheeled around and pointed a screwdriver at him. “Fine! You know what? You wouldn’t dare step in there anyway.”

There was a beat of silence. Grian looked at the open chamber door. The crooked welded machine was still humming, beckoning him ever closer.

Then he looked back at Mumbo, a smile that the other knew all too well spread across his face.

“Bet.”

“Grian, no.”

But Grian was already marching toward it, fueled by pure stupid impulse and the unholy power of being dared.

“This is a terrible idea,” Mumbo said, scrambling after him. “You don’t even know the exit protocol! Or the safety instructions! Or—”

“What safety instructions?” Grian asked, stepping into the chamber.

Mumbo hesitated before speaking, “I haven’t written them yet.”

Grian grabbed the handles inside, bracing himself. “Well, guess we’ll figure it out!”

“Grian, please.”

But Grian had committed. And once he committed, there was no stopping him, not with logic, not with fear, and especially not with the increasingly concerning way the machine was starting to glow.

Mumbo slapped the controls, eyes wide. “Just, don’t move! I’m shutting it down!”

Of course, Grian didn’t listen. He fastened a bracelet-like object attached to the wall of the chamber onto his wrist.

The chamber started to vibrate under Grian’s feet.

“Mumbo?” Grian said, suddenly less cocky. “Mumbo, is it supposed to—”

Before he could finish his sentence, everything exploded into white. Sound warped in on itself in a paradox, both deafeningly loud and quiet at the same time. His stomach felt like it was spinning while the rest of him stayed still. He couldn’t tell which way was up, or if there was even an up anymore.

His heartbeat thundered in his ears, and then somewhere in the chaos, he thought he heard a voice or a laugh, warm and bright, like a whisk of a candle flame amid the entropy.

It flickered out before he could grasp it. The world lurched sideways, throwing him downwards.

- - - - -

Grian hit the ground hard.

Mud squelched under him and the cold air bit at his skin. A bird shrieked somewhere overhead. For a moment he just laid there, face-down, groaning into the dirt.

“I’ve made a grave mistake,” he muttered.

His head pounded against his skull as if he was in the midst of the worst hangover imaginable. He rolled onto his back, staring up at a canopy of trees thick enough to blot out the whole sky.

Then, he realized, he had not the faintest clue of where he was.

Not the lab, that was obvious at least. The ground wasn’t concrete and the artificial lights had been replaced with a bright sun hanging above him. So unless Mumbo had installed pine trees and his own personal sun while he was unconscious, this was clearly not the lab anymore.

Grian sat up, brushing leaves off his sweater. “Mumbo?” he called uncertainly.

Silence.

Maybe Mumbo was just messing with him. Yeah, just a casual, fun prank.

He waited a second.

“Mumbo?!” He called out louder.

A crow cawed back. Okay, not a prank then.

He pulled himself to his feet painfully. His legs unsteady as he stumbled toward the sound of distant, muffled voices. He tried to ignore the sharp pain in his ankle.

The trees thinned, revealing a dirt path. Then, beyond that, a cluster of wooden cottages. Smoke curled from stone chimneys. People bustled between the buildings in tunics and boots and dresses.

Not a single electrical pole in sight, nor a phone in hand.

“Oh,” Grian whispered. “Oh no.”

He had definitely not traveled across the room. He had clearly not traveled across the city. He had traveled somewhere, or rather somewhen else entirely.

A horse trotted past him, nearly clipping his shoulder.

A child pointed at his sweater. While two women whispered behind their hands.

Right. Yes. He looked terribly out of place.

He opened his mouth, trying to think of something clever to say.

And that was when he saw him.

A young man leaning against a wooden railing, sunlight catching in his hair and surrounded by a group of people. His smile was bright and open like he’d spent his whole life practicing it. He wore laced leather armor and carried himself with the kind of casual confidence of someone who not only knew everyone in this village, but was best friends with each of them.

While he had paused to let one of the other villagers he was talking to speak, he caught Grian staring out of the corner of his eye.

Before Grian could choose to run away, to avoid the unnecessary conversation with a random medieval man he hopefully wouldn’t have to spend too much time around (as long as he got back to his time soon enough,) the man had already paused his conversation. He waved at him in a greeting as he made his way over.

“Hey there, stranger!”

The voice hit Grian like déjà vu. Like the voice from the white void or something familiar he couldn’t recognize.

Grian froze.

The man walked toward him, still smiling. “You look lost. Or maybe dazed? Or both. Probably both. Need some help?”

Grian’s heart thudded once.

He didn’t know him. He had never met him. But something in his gut curled strangely, like the universe had planned this encounter.

“Uh,” Grian said ever so eloquently. “Hi.”

The man laughed softly. “Name’s Scar.”

Scar.

Scar. It meant nothing, yet it echoed in Grian’s head like he was supposed to remember it.

Grian swallowed before responding hesitantly. “I’m… Grian.”

“Nice to meet you, Grian. You’re not from around here, are you?”

Grian opened his mouth, no idea how to explain what had just happened, nor any idea of how to make it seem as if he was from this time period.

Then his ankle gave another sharp, sudden throb.

He winced, stumbling. Scar automatically reached out, steadying him with a warm hand at his elbow.

“Whoa there,” Scar said, concern flickering over his face. “Easy. Did you hurt yourself?”

“I, uh,” Grian tried to play it off, but putting weight on the foot made him hiss in pain.

Scar raised an eyebrow. “Right. Okay. Come on, you shouldn’t be wandering around like that.”

Before Grian could protest, Scar gently guided him out of the way of passing villagers, not unkindly or shamefully, but with the confident insistence of someone used to taking care of people and welcoming travelers.

“I can tell you’re trying pretty hard not to limp,” Scar said, tapping his cane lightly against the paved dirt. “Trust me, I know what that looks like, I have years of experience pulling the same thing.”

“That’s not reassuring,” Grian muttered.

“Twasn’t meant to be,” Scar said cheerfully before heading off through the bustling town streets.

Grian hesitated, but Scar had already started walking off, cane tapping a steady rhythm on the packed dirt path. He eventually followed, trying not to wobble too noticeably

People glanced at him as they passed: curious, suspicious, and confused. A few children trailed behind him for a moment like he was some sort of strange new species before scampering off. Every time someone waved at Scar, he waved back with genuine enthusiasm.

“Are you popular around here or something?” Grian asked, mostly to distract himself from the fact that his ankle felt like it was being crushed beneath him.

Scar snorted. “Oh absolutely. I am devastatingly important. The village would crumble without me.”

A nearby woman laughed as she passed. “You lost a fight with a goat last week, Scar.”

“Twas a strategic retreat!” Scar called after her. Then, aside to Grian, “See? I’m positively revered.”

Grian huffed a laugh despite himself. “Right. Of course.”

They turned a corner, and the village opened up around them; timber-framed cottages leaning with the charm of old age, smoke curled lazily from chimneys, and the smell of baking bread drifted through the crisp air. Somewhere, a blacksmith hammered rhythmically, each clang echoing through the streets. It was beautiful in an ancient, grounded way.

Now, Grian had a moment to take into mind the architecture of the place. Even to someone with no background in the topic, it was clearly medieval, with the timber support beams framing each house. The tricky part was nailing it down to the exact century. The few older houses he noticed, overgrown with ivy and crumbling at the corners, were romanesque, meaning they were from around the 11th to 13th century. However, the newest ones had pointed roofs and more visible support beams, resembling the gothic architecture of the 14th to 16th century. He landed on them being in the 14th due to the transitional style.

Scar slowed when Grian stumbled again. “Hey, easy now. You don’t have to pretend to be fine or play off any injuries with me.”

“I’m fine,” Grian lied, then immediately grimaced when his ankle disagreed loudly.

Scar raised an eyebrow. “You know what fine people don’t do? That.”

“I didn’t do anything,” Grian protested.

“That grimacing noise you just made?”

Grian tried to straighten his posture, which only made the limp worse. Scar watched him for a beat, then shook his head with half-amusement, half-concern.

“You’re a terrible liar,” Scar said lightly. “Good thing I wasn’t gonna let you wander off without help first anyways.”

“Is that your job?” Grian asked. “Village anti-wander-off-er?”

“Knight, technically,” Scar said breezily. “But that’s just the fancy title. I just do a bit of everything.”

“How versatile.”

“Thank you, I do try.”

They passed the market square, where merchants were setting up stalls. One man lifted a hand to Scar. “Morning! Friend of yours?”

Scar glanced at Grian, smile crooked. “A work in progress.”

Grian didn’t know why his heart skipped at that, but he blamed the concussion he almost certainly had.

The town slowly faded out into a dense mess of trees, similar to where Grian had originally woken up. The path they were following appeared more and more worn down the farther they traversed through the woods, until eventually, they reached a clearing with a small cottage in the center.

It was a cozy wooden structure with herbs hanging from the eaves and a gray cat sunning itself on the window ledge. Scar pushed the door open with his hip, motioning Grian inside.

The interior was warm, cluttered, and lived-in. Half-finished wood carvings sat beside neatly stacked herbs as a small fire crackled peacefully in the hearth.

“Sit,” Scar ordered, pointing to a wooden stool.

Grian obeyed, hopping up onto it without question.

Scar crouched and examined the ankle with careful fingers. “Not broken,” he murmured. “Just twisted. You’ll need to stay off it for tonight at least.”

“Tonight?” Grian echoed, heart jumping.

Scar looked up, smiling. “Yeah, unless you plan to crawl wherever you’re staying.”

Grian froze.

He didn’t have a place. Nor did he have a plan or an idea of how to get home.

Scar’s smile softened, something gentler slipping into place. “You can stay here,” he said simply. “It’s no trouble. I’ve got a spare bed and plenty of blankets. And you look like you could use somewhere safe to land, at least for tonight.”

Grian swallowed, throat tight with something he couldn’t name.

“…Thank you.”

Scar wrapped the ankle neatly. “Of course.”

As evening settled, Scar supplied him with a proper meal and chattered on about village life: little stories, harmless gossip, the kind of things that anchored a place to the map of someone’s heart. Grian listened, half-dazed, overwhelmed by everything and nothing.

He didn’t understand why he felt drawn, in a way. As if he’d stepped not into the past, but into a memory he’d long forgotten.

Later, when Scar dimmed the lantern and handed him blankets, the device on Grian’s wrist flickered faintly, just for a moment. The whole point of this was to test time travel, if Mumbo was trying to pull him back now he wouldn’t get the full experience. That was the reasoning he’d decided to go with. Though if he was being completely honest with himself, he truly just wanted to find out why he felt so inexplicably drawn to this medieval stranger. It was as if the universe was screaming at him to stay and find out, and who was he to refuse what the universe wanted.

He hid his hand under the blanket before Scar could notice the device.

Not yet, he thought. He would tell him before he left. But not now.

He laid awake long after Scar had fallen asleep, listening to the quiet crackle of the fire, the distant night sounds of an era he did not belong to.

And for the first time since the machine had swallowed him and spit him back out, he allowed himself to breathe.

Tomorrow, he could panic. Tomorrow, he could worry about getting back to his time.

Tonight, he was safe.

- - - - -

Morning came far too gently for how violently Grian expected it to arrive.

The first thing he noticed was warmth: real warmth, heavy and wool-thick and settling over him like he’d fallen asleep inside a sheep. The second thing was the quiet, a quiet so complete it felt like someone had muted the entire world while he slept. No electric hum. No flight engines. No distant traffic. No machinery ticking in Mumbo’s lab.

Just birds.

One particularly loud one, positioned directly outside the window, screeched with the conviction of a creature who believed its voice was a gift to all creation.

Grian groaned into the pillow. “Shut. Up.”

Slowly, he lifted his head from the mattress and squinted at the low wooden ceiling. The beams were darkened by smoke, smelling faintly of hearthfire and dried herbs, and his brain did the exhausting work of trying to place these sensory details into a century he wasn’t supposed to be in.

Right.

Scar’s cottage.

Scar.

Grian pushed himself upright with a wince. His ankle ached, but less than last night, and someone (Scar, obviously) had folded his ruined overcoat neatly over the single chair by the hearth. The fire had been stoked recently. A bowl was waiting on the table, steam curling up from it in hopeful little ribbons.

He blinked. Did he make breakfast?

Before he could decide if that was flattering or unnerving, the door creaked open and Scar leaned in, hair mussed from the wind, cane tucked lightly under one arm.

“Oh, you're awake!” he said, bright as the morning sun he’d clearly been out in. “I was starting to think you’d slipped into some kind of coma.”

“I wasn't out for that long?” Grian said, looking around a clock before remembering the time period.

Scar grinned, stepping inside fully. His hair hadn’t been combed down yet, still scruffy from sleep.

“It's already mid-day! I'd say that's quite sometime. Any longer and I would've convinced myself you were dead. Don't worry though, I would've come to the afterlife and brought you back, no one's escaping my care that easily.” He rambled on.

“Terrifying,” Grian muttered, but he couldn’t help smiling back.

Scar set down a small bundle of firewood, bracing his cane as he straightened. He moved easily, practiced, not self-conscious in the slightest. “How’s the ankle?”

“Still attached,” Grian said. “Which is better than I expected.”

“Well that’s good, because I’d hate to have to explain to the village healer why a stranger from absolutely nowhere arrived injured and then misplaced a limb overnight. Gossip spreads fast around here. They’d ask questions like, ‘What do you mean, Scar? How do you misplace a leg?’ and I’d have to come up with something clever, and honestly I’m just not prepared for that level of responsibility before breakfast.” He rambled on, again.

Grian let out a breathy laugh. “Are you ever prepared for responsibility?”

“Absolutely not,” Scar said. “Which is why we’re going to get you up, fed, and out into the sunshine before you can think too hard about what happened yesterday.”

Grian stiffened at that, not at Scar’s words, but at the quiet analysis in them. As if Scar knew he’d been replaying every impossible second since waking, trying to rationalize what he’d seen. What he hadn’t been able to deny.

The time machine. The malfunction. The fall through… whatever that was.

And then Scar — a medieval man in a medieval world — offering him help as though transporting strangers through centuries was an everyday hazard.

Grian swallowed. “You really don’t want to ask where I’m from?”

Scar lifted one shoulder in an easy shrug. “If you want to tell me, you will. If you don’t, you won’t. And either way, you need to eat. I made porridge. It’s terrible.”

Scar handed him the bowl with a flourish, and Grian accepted it because refusing seemed rude and because the warmth felt good against his palms. Wind fluttered through the trees outside, while Scar hummed tunelessly, gathering his scattered belongings.

It should have been peaceful.

Instead, Grian’s nerves buzzed with the uncomfortable realization that this wasn’t as temporary in the way he’d hoped. He wasn’t waking up back in Mumbo’s lab. He wasn’t dreaming.

He was stuck.

Scar turned, catching Grian’s expression mid-wince. His smile softened. “You okay?”

No.

Maybe.

Ask me after I’ve panicked for a full hour.

Grian forced a steadier breath. “Just adjusting.”

“Perfect,” Scar said cheerfully. “Let’s adjust outside. You need to see the village properly, and I need someone to validate my extremely dramatic retellings of local history.”

“You’re just dragging me around, aren’t you?”

“Oh yes,” Scar said, offering an arm with theatrical flourish. “Come on, mystery man. The world awaits thee!”

And Grian, against all good reason, took the offered arm.

The moment his fingers curled around Scar’s sleeve, something inside him lurched with a strange, hollow pull he couldn’t name.

Grian blinked it away.

Scar didn’t seem to notice at all.

Grian followed Scar down the path, doing his best not to stare at every single unfamiliar thing like a lost tourist or a semi-feral Victorian child seeing an escalator for the first time. The village bustled around them, chickens darted between boots, smoke curled from chimneys, and someone shouted about needing more turnips in a tone that suggested turnips were a matter of national security.

Grian hadn’t expected it to feel familiar. Familiar not in the sense of memory (he’d never been here before, obviously) but familiar like the hum of the vacant streets right after dawn, when everything breathed in possibility. Hearth-smoke drifted in lazy spirals. The sun, still low, dappled gold through thatched roofs. Somewhere nearby, a rooster crowed with adamant overconfidence of the time.

Scar walked beside him with that easy, rolling gait, one hand on the handle of his polished cane. He didn’t lean heavily on it, more like he spun it, tapping it lightly on stones as though it existed for flourish rather than support.

“Market days are the best days,” Scar told him, sounding suspiciously like someone narrating to an invisible audience. “Fresh bread, questionable back alley deals, unruly goats. What more could you want?”

“Fewer goats,” someone behind them muttered.

Grian turned just in time to see a blonde man wrangling the most chaotic goat he'd ever witnessed. The animal was small, spotted, and possessed the eyes of someone who’d already sold their soul to the devil. The man yanked it back with a wild expression sending him hurtling towards Grian and Scar.

The man nearly collided with Grian and froze like a startled deer. “Ah! Sorry!”

“Jimmy, my friend!” Scar greeted before Grian could respond. “I see business is booming. This is Grian.”

“It’s not business, it’s punishment.” Jimmy glared at the goat. “Lizzie said he needed exercise. I said he needed exile.”

Jimmy then shifted his gaze to Grian, “Oh! You’re the stranger! The one Lizzie said had ‘old magic vibes.’”

“I don’t have ‘vibes’,” Grian said automatically.

Jimmy looked skeptical.

The market was already buzzing. Stalls lined the main square: baskets of apples, bunches of herbs, cloth dyed in jewel tones, and rows of clay jars filled with honey so golden it almost glowed. Villagers bustled around them, greeting Scar like he was some sort of local celebrity.

Which, Grian supposed, he kind of was.

Scar gestured grandly at the stalls. “Grian, my friend, welcome to the village’s pinnacle of commerce: Big B’s bakery.”

The stall itself was impressive: a wooden display case set beneath a cream-colored awning embroidered with vines and little stylized loaves. Big B stood behind it with his usual calm-but-sharp expression, sleeves neatly rolled up, apron spotless, posture relaxed but observant. He spotted Scar first and grinned, then noticed Grian, and his smile shifted into something more curious, weighing, quietly perceptive.

“Well, well,” Big B said. “This must be the guy everyone’s whispering about. Lizzie told me you popped out of thin air. Thought she was doing her dramatic thing again.”

“Does she exaggerate often?” Grian asked.

Scar and Big B shared a look of mutual, exhausted agreement.

BigB folded his arms. “Alright, new guy. Important question. Sweet? Or savory?”

“Oh, he’s sweet,” Scar supplied unhelpfully.

Grian’s face flushed hot. Big B only laughed, warm and bright, but with an edge of teasing mischief, before grabbing a roll from the tray and placing it into Grian’s hands.

“Here,” he said. “Try this one. First sample’s on the house. Second sample costs three copper. Third sample means you’re helping me prep dough in the morning.”

The roll was beautifully made: rounded, golden, lightly dusted with what looked like spiced sugar. When Grian tore it open, steam curled upward, fragrant with cinnamon and a hint of orange.

He took a bite.

Big B’s grin widened. “There it is. That look right there. That’s a man who just decided where he’s spending his coin from now on.”

Scar leaned in conspiratorially. “Big B makes the best bread in the entire region. He’s famous.”

“It’s not fame,” Big B said modestly. “Someone put up a sign calling me ‘the greatest baker,’ but it was supposed to say ‘the greatest baker over by the mill,’ and the rest fell off.”

“Art is subjective,” Scar replied.

Then there was a girl with light pink hair, sweeping past in a flowing lavender dress and carrying a basket filled with herbs. She beamed at Scar and then at Grian, her eyes sparkling with mischievous curiosity.

“Grian! Oh good, you’re alive.”

“That seems to be a popular concern,” he replied.

“Well, you appeared out of thin air. When Joel heard about you he thought you were some sort of a fae omen.”

“Joel thinks everything is a fae omen,” Scar murmured.

“Joel isn’t wrong, he could be one!” She corrected primly. “Anyway! Good to see you up. I’m Lizzie by the way! Joel’s sorry he’s not here to greet you properly, he and Etho are out at the forest shrine today, some kind of pilgrimage thing.”

Grian nodded, though the names and titles were starting to blur together. So many people, so much life. He felt like a puzzle piece being rotated to see if he fit; not quite, but not rejected either.

Lizzie leaned closer. “If you need herbs for headaches or sleep trouble or really anything, come find me. And if you see Jimmy’s goat loose,” she added with a perfectly straight face, “just let it run, it’s fun watching him chase it around.”

Jimmy shouted indignantly from across the square.

Scar nudged Grian lightly as they walked, his shoulder brushing Grian’s arm. “You doing alright?”

Grian swallowed, trying to steady the strange tugging sensation in his chest. It wasn’t anxiety. Not quite. More like the world was still tilted from when he first arrived, just a little though, as if the horizon line had shifted while he wasn’t looking.

“Yeah,” he said. “It’s just a lot.”

Scar hummed sympathetically. “New places can be overwhelming. Believe me, I’ve traveled enough to know.”

“You travel a lot?”

“Oh yeah. Once got lost for three weeks trying to find the next village over.”

“That sounds less like traveling and more like—”

“Exploring! Can’t get lost if you're just exploring.”

Grian laughed and the tightness in his chest eased. Scar had that effect, softening edges, making the strange feel almost normal.

Almost.

Because as the mid-day sun climbed higher, Grian couldn’t shake the faint, ghostlike tug at the edges of his awareness. A pulling sensation, subtle but persistent; like a thread wrapped tight around his ribs, being drawn taut by unseen cosmic hands.

He blinked hard.

Scar noticed. Of course he did.

“You okay? You spaced out for a second.”

“Just tired,” Grian lied.

Scar didn’t press, but his gaze lingered with gentle concern.

They wandered the market a little longer, Scar buying a handful of apples, Grian attracting curious glances but no hostility. For a while, Grian allowed himself to breathe. To just exist and pretend this world was solid beneath his feet, as if he wasn’t worried about getting back home.

But the thread kept tugging, unseen and insistent.

Scar glanced back, checking that Grian hadn’t wandered into a trough or been eaten by a goat.

They were headed toward the largest building in the square: a two-story hall with timber walls and banners fluttering lazily from the roof.

“Wait here, okay? I’ll have to ask the elders if you can have one of the free cottages,” Scar paused, “But they don’t take as well to newcomers compared to the rest of the village, so it’s best if I go in alone.”

Grian nodded. He didn’t like the thought of being left alone again, but staying unhoused in an unfamiliar time seemed even worse.

Scar sat him on a nearby bench like he was some stray cat that might run away at any moment.

As Scar made his way into the building, two familiar villagers bustled past: Jimmy, carrying a crate of eggs with the intensity of a man transporting fragile explosives, and Lizzie, walking behind him and scolding at full volume, still carrying her herb basket.

“Careful! Careful! Those are my prize eggs! If you break even one, I swear I will hex your kneecaps—”

“I know how to hold things, Lizzie!”

“You dropped my last ones!”

“That was one time!”

Grian listened to them argue on while waiting for Scar. It was odd how he’d already grown fond of the dynamics of the village, as if he could get used to watching dramatic scenes play out like this every day. As if he could meander around the bustling market with no goal, no to-do list, no busy street with constant, impatient honking cars.

But he couldn't, he knew that. He didn't belong in this time and this time didn't belong to him. Who knows what he could mess up just by being here briefly.

Scar sighed fondly. “Village staples, those two.”

Grian jumped at the sudden voice. “That was quick.”

Scar smiled and nodded. “Yup! They know when I want something I won’t let up so I didn’t have to explain too much, which probably helped in your case. I even got you the west cottage! That’s the best one.”

“The best one, huh? Seems like your relentless pestering comes in handy.” Grian smiled back.

He didn’t like how attached his growing to this village, this time, Scar. He didn’t like how easily they fell into comfortable conversation and bantering.

They continued down the quieter path toward the cottages. The din of the square faded behind them, replaced by birdsong and the soft rustling of leaves. Grian’s head felt too full — new faces, new time period, new terrifying mistakes — but Scar’s presence somehow kept him anchored.

Grian hadn’t expected to spend the evening with Scar. He assumed the walk back from the square would end with Scar dropping him off at the cottage door and maybe offering a cheery wave before heading him himself; something simple, a clean goodbye.

Instead, Scar followed him up the small hill, cane tapping rhythmically against the packed dirt. The twilight washed everything in soft blues and purples.

Scar stopped beside a small wooden house with a slanted roof and overflowing flowerboxes. “This is the place. It’s pretty warm and the roof doesn’t leak too badly.”

“That sounds comforting?” Grian said, trying to look on the bright side of this shabby cottage.

Scar huffed a laugh. “You’ll be fine. Here I’ll help you get the fire going.” He pushed the door open, ducked his head, and stepped inside like he owned the place.
Grian wasn’t sure he minded.

The cottage interior was small but warm, with a single hearth, a narrow bed tucked against the far well, and a table that had clearly survived centuries before being shoved into place. Flowers hung drying from the rafters. Something like rosemary or lavender, though Grian didn’t know enough about herbs to identify it. The shelves were lined with jars of herbs whose labels consisted mostly of various floral doodles.

Scar inhaled deeply, “Yep, this is a Lizzie approved space alright. She probably cleansed it with moonwater or blessed goat milk or whatever she’s into this week.”

Grian raised a brow. “Blessed goat milk?”

“We don’t really ask her about that sorta stuff, just smile and nod.” Scar replied.

He crouched by the hearth bracing his cane for balance.

“This used to be Joel’s old place, he’s Lizzie’s husband.” Scar said while arranging the logs, “They built this together before they moved into their new house. Lizzie calls it a shack, but Joel gets weirdly sentimental about it. She still uses it to stash some herbs and stuff though.”

Grian nodded, he felt almost bad taking up their space.

The flames finally flickered upwards in the hearth, lighting up Scar’s eyes more than normal. He leaned back on his heels, triumphant. “Ta-da! Now don’t go burning the house down, make sure you snuff it out before you head to bed.”

Grian sat on the edge of the bed. The warmth seeped into his hands.

“You didn’t have to help” he said softly

“I know,” Scar replied, dusting off his hands and joining Grian at the bed’s edge. “But you seemed tired, mentally at least and sitting alone in a cold dark room is no good for someone feeling like that.”

“Not just that, everything, really.” Grian fumbled with his hands in his lap.

“Well you did just appear out of nowhere with no clue of where you were, I wasn’t just gonna leave you wandering around on your own.”

Grian snorted. “You make it sound like I did it on purpose.”

Scar shot him a sideways grin. “Did you?”

“No,” Grian said quickly, too quickly. “I really didn’t.”

Scar accepted that with a slow nod, gaze flicking toward the dancing shadows casted on the wall by the fire. He wasn’t going to push any further.

For a moment, they sat in an easy silence.

But then, the tugging sensation hit Grian again, harder this time. A pull behind his temple, sharp enough to steal his breath for a moment. The world flickered, ever so slightly.

Scar noticed immediately. “Hey, you okay? You did the face thing again.”

“What face thing?”

“The ‘oh no, an existential threat only I can perceive’ face.”

Grian rubbed his forehead. “It’s nothing, probably just fatigue.”

Scar frowned, not suspicious, just concerned. “You should lie down then, rest a bit.”

Grian huffed a laugh, but laid back on the bed anyway. Scar didn’t move from his spot, just leaned back, bracing himself on his hands.

The fire crackled. For the first time since arriving in this world, Grian let himself relax. However, the calm only lasted a moment before his mind began spinning again.

“What do you do here?” he asked suddenly, desperate for a distraction. “In the village, I mean. I know you said a bit of everything, but what exactly?”

Scar smiled lightly before responding. “Nothin’ much, just fix some things, build some things, help Impulse with woodwork, help Lizzie with herb gathering, help Jimmy when he’s being terrorized by livestock, which is always.”

“So like a village handyman?”

“More like the village jack-of-all-trades.” He tapped his cane against the floor, “Useful, versatile, good at everything but not enough to do just one thing stably.”

Grian didn’t know how to take that. Sure, being at least good at everything was good, but he could understand the downsides to not being able to master one single thing.

“What about you, Grian? What’s your thing?”

Grian stared at the ceiling beams. “I don’t know”

“Come on,” Scar coaxed. “Everyone has a thing.”

“You don’t, you just said so.” Grian said before realizing that it might seem offensive.

“Of course I do! My thing is everything, which is the best thing to have.” Scar didn’t seem offended anyway, responding as cheerfully as usual.

“Hm, then I guess I used to design buildings, not like the buildings here though, they were bigger and more complicated and I—”

The tug hit him again, sharp enough to make him inhale.

Scar looked back at him immediately. “Grian?”

“I’m fine,” Grian winced, though he wasn’t sure he believed it.

Scar watched him carefully. He wasn’t going to ask questions, wasn’t going to force explanations, but Grian could feel the worry radiating from him.

“Scar?” Grian said quietly. “Do you ever get the feeling you’re somewhere you’re not meant to be?”

Scar blinked. “Me? Oh, absolutely, all the time. Usually when I walk into a place and forget why I’m there.”

“I’m serious.” Grian threw Scar a classic side-eye.

“So am I, but,” his voice softened. “Yeah, sometimes. Doesn’t mean the place is wrong, doesn't mean you’re wrong. Sometimes the world is just bigger than it seems.”

Grian exhaled shakily. He wanted to believe that. He really wanted to believe that.

Scar stood, stretching his arms above his head. “Alright, you rest. I’ll make sure the door’s latched and the night monsters, metaphorical or otherwise, stay outside where they belong.”

Grian watched him move around the cottage, checking windows, adjusting curtains, poking at the fire like it personally offended him. Scar wasn’t fussing, he didn’t fuss. But he cared.

And that was dangerous.

The more Grian connected to this palace, the more the tugging grew. As though time itself knew he was getting too comfortable and wanted to rip him away before he sank in his roots.

Scar seemed to sense Grian’s impending spiral. “Do you want me to stay until you fall asleep?”

He really shouldn’t. He shouldn’t get attached to this world, this time. His goal was to get back to his world with his friend and his stable career and everything he’d been raised in. It’d be silly to abandon all of that over some sense of community in a random village somewhere in the 1400’s. There were far more cons about this time period than pros, he could not stay, under any circumstances.

Yet, Grian gave in anyway.

“Yes.” He said quietly, almost ashamed of it. “You don’t have to though.”

Scar’s smile was soft, gentler than any he’d offered all day. “Yeah, I do.”

Grian didn’t argue, he couldn’t. Exhaustion tugged him under in slow, warm waves. Scar’s silhouette blurred into the firelight.

He didn’t know this world.

He didn’t know how long he’d be trapped here.

He didn’t know what would happen tomorrow.

But Scar seemed like a good enough constant to rely on.

Somehow, that made the uncertainty feel survivable.

- - - - -

Grian sleeps like someone who has run full-tilt through too many centuries: heavy, exhausted, and with the stubborn determination of a man who refuses to wake up until his body is ready. But even exhaustion doesn’t spare him from dreaming.

At first, it’s only darkness, an almost serene quiet void, the sort that feels like being underwater with your eyes shut; weightless and directionless.

Then the darkness warms, thins, turns the color of ink diluted in water. He drifts through it as though pulled by a current he can’t feel on his skin.

A soft voice breaks the stillness.

“Grian?”

He doesn’t open his eyes, not in the dream, not yet. He only recognizes the voice: familiar in a way it has no right to be. Scar. That easy lilt, that thread of gentle humor woven through even the simplest syllable. But here it sounds wrong and hollow, as if echoing off stone walls instead of spoken directly beside him.

“Where did you go?” the voice asks. “I was right here, and then you were—”

Scar’s voice breaks, caught on something sharp, and Grian’s eyelids flutter open instinctively.

Except he’s not looking at Scar.

He’s standing in the middle of a large hall, a cathedral of some kind, though the architecture is nonsensical. Medieval arches rise beside Victorian stained glass, and tapestries from entirely different eras hang side by side. A pirate’s cutlass lies abandoned next to a soot-stained wrench. A velvet chaise lounge sits in the shadow of a Renaissance easel. Everything is mismatched, colliding, slipping out of their proper places. It looks like it was owned by a centuries-old hoarder who decided to make their living space an architect’s nightmare.

The hall feels incomplete, like something is missing from every corner.

Grian turns slowly.

The air smells faintly of smoke.

“Scar?” he calls.

His voice doesn’t echo. It just disappears, swallowed by the cavernous space.

He takes a step forward, the stone tiles ripple like disturbed water beneath his boot. The stained glass windows flicker as if rearranging themselves in the corner of his eye. One moment they depict a starry sky, the next, blooming roses, and the next, a golden hour sun melting into the sea.

The scenes feel familiar, though he couldn’t name why.

“You’re late,” someone murmurs.

Grian whirls.

A figure stands at the far end of the hall. He thinks it’s Scar at first, but the silhouette is wrong. It shifts through forms, tall and lanky then short and stout, limbs changing sizes disproportionate to the rest of the body. Like the dream can’t decide on a shape..

The face is obscured in shadow, but the outline of a cane glints beside him. The figure taps it once against the floor.

The sound reverberates through the entire space like the crack of a starting pistol.

“You shouldn’t be here yet,” the figure chides softly. “It disrupts things; makes knots where there should be smooth threads.”

Grian’s pulse spikes.

“Who are you?” he demands.

The figure laughs. It’s warm and aching, and it punches something in Grian’s chest.

“Oh, you know me,” the silhouette says lightly. “You always do.”

It steps forward and Grian sees the cane again, clearer this time, but when he tries to focus on the man holding it, the shape smears like wet paint. A smear that smiles at him, sad and fond.

“Come on, songbird,” the figure teases gently, Scar’s voice coming in clear on the nickname before distorting again. “You’ve always been cleverer than this.”

Something cold skitters down Grian’s spine.

“I don’t— you’re not— you’re not real.”

“Maybe not now,” the figure agrees. “But someday. And that’s enough to matter.”

The tiles beneath Grian’s feet shudder.

He realizes suddenly what the hall reminds him of: time, fractured, overlapping time. All of it folding over itself like layers of paper in a book.

The figure tilts its head.

“It catches up to you, you know,” he says. “Even if you keep running.”

Grian’s breath goes sharp.

“I’m not running,” he snaps. “I’m trying to get back.”

“Ah.” The faint smile in that half-formed voice. “Back must be such a complicated word for you then it appears.”

The stained glass behind the figure shifts, now depicting a lone man reaching for a hand he can’t quite grasp. The light it casts is a sort of bruised gold.

“You’re scaring me,” Grian says before he can stop himself.

“Good.” The figure taps the cane again, the sound cracks like thunder. “Fear keeps people alive. Your kind evolved it for that.”

The hall trembles, making dust fall from the arches. A tapestry burns from one corner even though there’s no fire to be seen.

Something is wrong, catastrophically wrong.

“Scar!” Grian shouts, a desperate, instinctive plea.

The shadowed figure’s posture softens.

“Oh, Grian,” he murmurs, Scar’s voice breaking through again. “You always call for me when it’s too late.”

The hall splits down the center like tearing fabric.

Blackness roars up around him, swallowing the windows, the relics, the figure—

Then the dark began to move, like fog shifting under starlight, but something in the haze feels wrong. Off. As though the world were a painting someone had smudged the edges of. Footsteps echo somewhere behind him, soft and dragging, and the more he tries to turn to look, the slower his body responds. The air thickens until every inhale feels like he was breathing syrup.

A spark of blue flickers across the dark, bright, then gone, and then he hears someone calling his name.

Not Scar nor anyone he recognized.

A voice stretched thin and warped, as if echoing through water.

“Grian”

The sound curled through the dark like fog tightening around his spine.

He tries to step back, but the ground gives way under him like wet sand, sliding him toward a drop he couldn’t see. His hands reach for something, anything, and someone reaches back, fingers brushing his for the briefest second.

He almost catches them.

Almost.

Then the world snaps in half; light, pain. falling—

Grian jolted awake with a violent gasp, sitting bolt upright as if someone had yanked him to the surface by the collar.

His breath came sharp and ragged.

His hands shook uncontrollably.

His chest felt tight, too tight, like the nightmare had followed him out of sleep.

The cottage was pitch-dark except for a thin slash of moonlight sliding through the shutters and the faint, ember-red glow from the hearth. Shadows stretched long across the walls, and for several frantic heartbeats he couldn’t tell what era he was in. The shapes overlapped — the cottage, Mumbo’s lab, some half-remembered alleyway — colors bleeding together in ways that made no sense.

“Not again,” he whispered, voice cracked and barely audible.

He dragged both hands down his face, trying to steady his breathing, but something cold still clawed at his ribs, pulling the air out of him before he could draw it in.

He didn’t hear Scar move at first.

Just the soft shift of fabric and the creak of a chair.

“Grian?” His voice was quiet and sleep-rough and so gently concerned it made something inside him twist painfully.

Scar pushed himself upright in the chair beside the bed, blinking heavily. His hair stuck up at odd angles, flattened on one side and feathered out on the other, and his coat had slipped halfway off his shoulder. He must have fallen asleep keeping watch.

He leaned forward as soon as he caught sight of Grian’s expression.

“Hey, hey, easy,” Scar said softly, both hands coming to rest on the edge of the mattress. “You’re breathing like someone just tried to kill you. What happened?”

Grian tried to answer but only a choked sound came out.

He shook his head, squeezing his eyes shut, the sight of Scar only made it worse.

The dream, the voice, the slipping hand, the sense of something tearing away from him; he couldn’t form words around any of it.

Scar’s voice dropped even gentler. “Nightmare?”

Grian nodded once, quick and sharp.

Scar shifted forward slowly, every movement deliberate and easy to read. When Grian didn’t recoil, Scar placed a warm hand on his shoulder. It was solid and real, a point of gravity in the trembling dark.

“Come here,” Scar murmured, applying a careful, guiding pressure without forcing anything.

Grian’s breath hitched, but he leaned into Scar’s warmth almost instinctively. Not fully, not leaning against him, but no longer holding himself stiff and alone.

“That’s it,” Scar said. “Just breathe with me.”

He inhaled slowly and exaggeratedly, as though demonstrating the rhythm.
Grian copied him, unsteady, uneven, but trying.

Inhale.

Exhale.

Scar matched him patiently, breath for breath and the shaking slowly subsided.

When Grian’s breathing had calmed enough that he wasn’t gasping, Scar reached for the blanket and pulled it snugly around his shoulders.

“There,” Scar said, in a tone soft enough to quiet storms. “You’re safe.”

Grian closed his eyes for a moment, letting the words sink in.

He didn’t feel safe, but he felt steadier, anchored, a safe ship harbored.

“I’m sorry,” he muttered eventually, throat raw. “I didn’t mean to wake you.”

Scar made a scandalized noise. “Wake me? Grian, I’ve slept through ten consecutive thunderous snorers in the inn’s common room. If I got up, it’s because you needed someone. That’s allowed.”

Grian let out a small, humorless laugh. “I’m not used to that.”

“To what?”

“Someone staying.” He stared down at his hands, still faintly trembling. “When things go wrong, people don’t usually stick around.”

Something in Scar’s face shifted, softened and deepened at once. Whatever flickered through his eyes was too full to decode.

“Well,” Scar said lightly, though his voice carried a steady seriousness beneath it, “lucky for you, I’m stubborn and I have impeccable timing.”

“You barely know me,” Grian murmured.

Scar shrugged one shoulder. “I know enough.” His lips quirked. “Plus, you make delightful startled faces. That’s quite a valuable trait in a friend.”

Grian snorted and the tension eased.

“You want to tell me about it?” he asked gently.

Grian hesitated. He could. He could unload the falling, the merging places, the cold hook in his ribs.

But the image of Scar’s face, horrifyingly warped and distorted, flashed behind his eyes, and he swallowed.

“No,” he whispered. “Not yet.”

Scar nodded immediately. Not disappointed, simply accepting.

“Then you don’t have to.” He gestured to the bed. “But you do have to lie back down, Mr. Trembly-Hands. Doctor Scar insists.”

Grian huffed a soft laugh, but lay back.

Scar fussed with the blanket again, tucking corners with exaggerated care. Grian didn’t fight it.

As Scar went to withdraw his hand, Grian’s fingers twitched, not grabbing, just reaching toward warmth.

Scar paused then he placed his hand back down on the mattress so their fingers rested close, almost touching.

A quiet promise: I’m here.

The shadows no longer looked so threatening.

Grian’s breaths deepened.

He didn’t fall asleep immediately. Exhaustion pulled at him, but the nightmare still lingered, the dark edges of it clinging to the back of his mind.

After a long moment, he whispered:

“Scar?”

Scar hummed sleepily in response.

“…Why are you doing this?”

Scar opened his eyes fully.

“For you?” he said softly. “Because you needed someone. That’s all, pretty simple.”

“That’s it?”

Scar smiled, a small, real smile that wasn’t a performance. “I don’t need a bigger reason to care.”

The words hit like a hand smoothing down the jagged edges inside him.

Grian exhaled shakily, sinking deeper into the pillow.

Scar settled back, adjusting his coat and blinking sleepily. He glanced at Grian one more time, checking, as though by instinct, before letting his eyes drift half-shut.

“Get some rest,” he murmured. “If the nightmares try anything again, I’ll scare them off.”

Grian let out a small, tired huff of laughter.

His eyes fluttered closed, exhaustion finally overcoming the fear.

Just before he drifted off, he heard Scar shift in the chair, the soft creak of wood, and felt Scar gently adjust the blanket one more time, smoothing it over Grian’s shoulder.

The nightmares didn’t come back, not while Scar kept the dark at bay.

- - - - -

Grian didn’t awake again until the sun was just past its peak in the sky. It stared down with an odd finality.

Dust motes drifted lazily in the sunbeams cutting through the small window. Grian hid his head under the light blanket he was supplied with, yearning for just a few more minutes of sleep, but gave up when he couldn’t filter out the already bustling town ambience from outside.

Scar had left sometime during the early hours of the morning. He had a job to do, Grian didn’t mind that, he would’ve been concerned if he had stayed the whole time.

Grian pulled himself out of bed as slowly as humanely possible. It was still odd, waking up without an alarm blaring in his ears and having to immediately shoot up to get ready for work. He much preferred this.

On the table in front of the fireplace (which was now put out), a pitcher of water sat beside a wooden bowl.

Scar left it, he assumed.

The thought tugged at something in him, something warm and unsettled, like a hearth fire that didn’t quite know whether to comfort or scorch.

Grian sat heavily on the bed, letting himself just take in his surroundings alone for once. The quiet pressed in; no machinery, no electricity, not even the faint hum of a fridge or the soft buzzing of lights. Just wind, birds, and people talking faintly in the distance.

He wasn’t supposed to be here.

He wasn’t supposed to be anywhere near here.

He fidgeted with the bracelet-like machine on his wrist again as his mind replayed the shimmer of the time machine, the rush of collapsing energy, the way the world had yanked itself sideways.

A knock cut through the rising panic like a beam, making Grian jump.

“Hello?” called a voice, warmer and smoother. “I, uh, heard we’ve got a newcomer?”

Grian smoothed down his mess of hair before walking (moreso limping still) to the door to find a tall man with kind eyes, dark hair tied back loosely, carrying a basket full of small tools and strips of leather. He looked like he’d been fixing something and wandered over on instinct.

“Impulse,” the man said, offering a reassuring half-smile. “Village tinker, builder, occasional voice of reason, although nobody listens.”

Grian blinked. “Grian.”

“Scar told me,” Impulse said, stepping inside without hesitation. “Said you might need some repairs. Door hinge creaks, floor’s half a death trap, and this roof? Buddy, this roof is held together with spite.”

Grian huffed a laugh. “I noticed.”

Impulse knelt to inspect a beam. “Well, I can patch it up, don’t worry. We look out for each other around here, even newcomers.”

The certainty in his voice, the community in it, made something in Grian ache. He had friends in his time of course, but never anything like the community of friends he was in now. The closest thing he had that even slightly resembled their closeness was Mumbo.

Impulse glanced up. “Scar’s a good one,” he said casually. “He finds strays.”

“Strays?”

“People who need someone.” Impulse shrugged. “He’s got a talent for it, and a soft heart, though don’t tell him I said that.”

Grian tried (and failed) to picture Scar as someone with a soft heart. All he could imagine was the lopsided grin, the cane tapping rhythmically against the ground, the theatrical flourishes.

But he guessed there could be softness there. He’d felt something like that in their conversations last night.

Impulse stood again, brushing dust off his hands. “I’ll come back later with proper tools. Just wanted to check out what I’d have to work on..”

“Thank you.” Grian said softly.

Impulse nodded once and stepped out into the sunlight, leaving the door slightly ajar. Grian closed it carefully behind him.

He stood still for a long moment then he sat again, rubbing his face with both hands.

He needed a plan. Something to anchor himself. He couldn’t just exist here. He needed to find his way back, fix the machine, replicate the accident, something. He couldn’t let himself get attached.

But the more he thought about it, the more impossible it seemed. He didn’t have tools, he didn’t have materials, and even if he did he wouldn’t know the first thing about reassembling the machine. The only remnant of it he had was the bracelet on his wrist, though if there were any buttons on it to turn it on, he couldn’t find them.

His chest tightened.

He pressed a hand to it. At least he had that, surely it could help eventually. He just had to take it one step at a time.

He stood and shuffled toward the window. Outside, the village moved in slow, peaceful rhythms: smoke rising from chimneys, villagers hauling baskets, someone shouting about stolen laundry.

Grian stayed in the cottage for most of the day, taking in his new surroundings. He wanted to go outside, sure, but he didn’t know his way around and didn’t want to risk getting lost. Medieval times were not the best time to be lost, there were way too many things that could go wrong and he was lucky enough to find himself in a village that didn’t immediately burn him at the stake for being a little off.

Before long, evening had wrapped itself around the village like a warm, well-worn cloak.

Not quite night, but that mellow golden hour where the world seemed to exhale. Lanterns flickered to life on porches, sheep bleated lazily from distant fields, and fireflies blinked between the tall grass, slow and dreamy.

Grian had finally given in and stepped outside the cottage with cautious steps, testing his ankle. It still ached, but he could walk. The air smelled like woodsmoke and fresh earth, and the sky above the treeline flared the last brilliant orange of sunset before softening to purple.

He wasn’t going to wander too far off, just in the little yard outside the cottage. As long as he could see the little house, he couldn’t get lost.

However, a silhouette caught his attention just down the hill.

Scar was waiting at the gate connecting the cottage with the rest of the town.

He leaned casually on his cane, posture loose, face brightening at the sight of Grian as if he’d been waiting forever, though knowing Scar, it was probably just been five seconds.

“There you are!” Scar chirped. “I was moments from staging a rescue operation. I figured you might’ve disappeared and went to go mysteriously appear in another town.”

“I didn’t,” Grian said, “I could never cheat on the village like that.”

Scar offered his arm — automatically, without thinking — and Grian took it before he could talk himself out of it. He kept telling himself it was just to steady his ankle.

It didn’t help that Scar felt warm, reassuring, and real.

“Let’s walk before the chickens reclaim the path,” Scar said. “They get bold at dusk.”

“Reclaim?” Grian echoed.

They walked down the winding dirt road. Villagers were still out and about, though everything was softer now; voices muted, footsteps slower, children’s laughter drifting rather than shrieking. A few waved at Scar; some waved at Grian too, though mostly with either suspicion or curiosity.

They continued down the road, the ground warming and cooling in patches beneath their feet. Birds called their last songs from the trees. A breeze tugged at Grian’s hair.

He never noticed the consistent hum of electricity in his time, but its absence now was startling. It made everything feel soft-edged and impossibly alive.

Scar squeezed his arm, just a little. “Enjoying the stroll?”

“It’s different,” Grian admitted. “Quiet.”

“Yeah.” Scar smiled up at the sky. “Best time of day, the world slows down so your brain can finally catch up.”

“I don’t know if I want mine to catch up,” Grian muttered.

Scar bumped their shoulders. “Then we’ll distract it. That’s what walks are for.”

For a few minutes they simply walked. The path narrowed as they left the last cottage behind, turning into a grassy track that cut between tall flowers glowing faintly in the dying light. Fireflies drifted through the air in lazy spirals.

Grian breathed in, feeling both grounded and unsteady at the same time.

Then it started again: the tug.

Soft at first, the same hollow pull deep in his chest like the universe was gently hooking a finger under his ribs.

He froze just for a second, dropping Scar’s arm.

Scar noticed instantly.

“You okay?” He asked, like he had every time it happened so far.

“Yeah,” Grian lied. “Just a weird step, ankle doing ankle things.”

Scar studied him, suspicious. But he nodded and slowed their pace anyway, keeping close enough that their arms brushed now and then.

The pull didn’t fade, it pulsed, a quiet warning, like some internal smoke alarm.

Scar steered them off the path toward a fallen tree. “Sit. You look like someone who’s considering a life of hermitage.”

Grian sat. He didn’t fight it. Scar perched beside him, bracing his cane against the trunk.

Fireflies clustered around the grass near their feet. The first stars freckled the deepening blue of the sky.

“You can talk,” Scar said softly. “Or not talk. But I’ve found that not talking about a problem is usually the fastest way for it to knock on your door wearing a silly hat.”

“That’s a very strange philosophy.”

“And yet deeply practical.”

Grian pressed a hand to his chest again before he caught himself. He dropped it.

Scar saw anyway.

“What’s wrong?”

Grian swallowed. Hard. “I just don’t think I’m supposed to be here.”

Scar blinked. “Meaning?”

“Meaning,”

Grian’s throat closed around the truth. He couldn’t tell Scar; the words felt like they would shatter something.

“It feels temporary like I could vanish at any moment.” He settled on that, vague but somewhat true.

Scar didn’t laugh and didn’t brush it off or make a joke to lighten the moment.

He turned fully toward Grian, an expression softer than anything he'd had seen on him yet.

“If you do vanish,” Scar said quietly, “I hope you find your way back.”

The tug inside Grian sharpened, pain threaded into the pull.

He looked away quickly. “You shouldn’t, you don’t even know me.”

“I’d like to.”

Scar said it simply. No flourish. No teasing. Just the truth.

And that was the problem.

Grian’s breath shook. “You’re too trusting.”

Scar huffed. “And you’re too convinced you’re dangerous.”

“I am,” Grian whispered.

Scar tilted his head. “And yet here we both are, miraculously un-harmed. Well other than your ankle.”

A faint smile tugged at Grian’s lips despite himself.

Scar nudged him with his knee. “Come on. Sunset doesn’t wait. And if we stay too long, the chickens will absolutely take over the path.”

He stood and extended a hand.

Grian took it.

Because some things were impossible not to reach for.

They walked back toward the village, shadows stretching ahead of them. Lamps glowed warm behind windows. The breeze hummed through the long grass.

The tug surged again, powerful enough to make Grian stumble.

Scar caught him immediately. “Whoa, hey. Grian?”

“Fine,” Grian said through teeth. “Really, just thinking.”

Scar groaned dramatically. “I told you thinking is dangerous.”

Grian tried to laugh but the pull didn’t fade.

It throbbed, the terrible familiarity of it growing, like it was foreshadowing the inevitable.

Soon, it whispered.

Night was falling; slow and blue and soft. The trees rustled and undisturbed wildlife murmured just out of sight.

“This place is” Grian struggled for the right word. “Different.”

“From where you’re from?” Scar prompted.

“Yeah.”

Scar nodded thoughtfully. “I could show you more of it, if you want. The overlook in the hills, the stream, the old orchard, or we could just sit on the porch and make up stories about the villagers.”

“Do you do that often?”

“All the time,” Scar said proudly. “It’s my second favorite hobby.”

“What’s your first?”

“Causing problems on purpose.”

Grian snorted and it broke something open. The tension, maybe, or the fear.

Scar grinned, victorious.

Grian stood, letting Scar guide him. The sky was streaked with mulberry and navy, broken up only by the faint stars blinking through the clouds.

A quiet settled between them, comfortable, for the first time.

Scar’s eyes flicked up toward him, warm and intent. “You’ll be alright, Grian.”

The certainty in his voice made Grian’s chest squeeze.

Because Scar didn’t know, he couldn't know. He couldn’t possibly guess that Grian would leave this place, leave him, without warning. That this moment, this stillness, this fragile peace wouldn’t last.

Scar opened his mouth to say something else and then Grian felt the air change.

The pull got stronger, a shudder deep in his bones, familiar and terrifying.

Not now.

Not now.

“Scar,” Grian stammered out, panic rising sharp and sudden. He steadied himself, grabbing onto Scar’s arm.

Scar straightened. “Grian? What’s wrong?”

But the world was already bending and tilting. Splintering sideways.

The forest, the path, Scar’s face, everything fractured into blinding white.

Then Grian fell.

Not to the ground. But somewhere below it and above it at the same time. It felt the same as it did when he first appeared in Scar’s time, falling through some never-ending void.

But all things had an end.