Hello again! Before you get started I'd just like to post a couple of things I think you should know.
1. This is the second story in my Traveler!Martin series. If you haven't read Traveler's Song you're probably not going to understand this one :)
2. This installment is definitely different than the last one. We're getting a look into Martin's past (which ended up a lot angst-ier than I had originally planned) so there's some history and some violence. The violence doesn't play a huge role in the sense that it's not all that graphic. It makes its appearance in chapter 6; consider yourself warned.
3. My AP World History class hardly talked about ancient civilizations. What you see in this fic is a culmination of about a week of research. Please keep in mind that this is a work of fiction, however, if you see and glaring errors, feel free to let me know.
That was a lot, I know, but I don't want anyone going in unprepared. Enjoy!
He wishes he could say he's used to this by now - used to the darkness, the void of nothingness - but he's not.
He's falling. Always, always falling.
He's suffocating: the darkness around him like an oppressing hand, pushing the air from his lungs.
He's terrified, even though he knows he shouldn't be. He knows he'll never land, at least not in the conventional sense. (Though sometimes he wishes he would).
The atramentous vacuum covers him, bit by bit. He watches it consume him as he plummets to an unknown destination.
Part of his mind is interested, as it always has been; where is he going? What is this ebony blanket meant to represent? Part of his mind is frantic, still scared (always so scared) of the destination. Where is he falling to? Will he live? Part of his mind - a very small part - is bored. He knows the drill, knows how this will end, how this was supposed to end.
The darkness slithers up his body, taking with it his abdomen, his chest, his neck. Finally, finally, it reaches his face. It smothers his mouth and nose, but that's ok: he was already suffocating. He can handle this - it's a means to an end.
It circles around his eyes and as he closes them he can sense something solid beneath him, rapidly rising to meet him.
He lands.
.
.
.
And bolts up, panting.
It's only then that he realizes he has a headache. It's not the usual kind, the kind that softly taps against his head, not asking for much attention throughout the day. Today it's blaring.
His phone's alarm screeches alive, alerting him to the fact that it's time to get out of bed and go fly. (Because of course there's a flight today, and it's an early one too.)
He glares half heartedly at the cheap piece of plastic, willing time to back up and allow him to lay in bed for a few more minutes following his panicked, restless sleep.
He sighs and reaches over, flipping open the decrepit phone to turn off the alarm.
It's 5:47 in the morning and already Martin Crieff can tell it's not going to be a good day.
He trudges into the portacabin precisely on time, as usual. He's thankful that Arthur is otherwise occupied writing...something on the whiteboard-cum-calendar across the room.
Martin sits heavily in his chair, equally thankful that the client is running late - it gives him a few moments of much needed rest.
It's been quite a while since he's had a dream, and they always left him more drained than before he'd gone to bed. Honestly, it seems patently unfair. At least when he's willingly within his plane he awakes well rested.
When he ends up there by necessity, however, it's much the same situation as when he has a dream.
It isn't often that he gets to go there willingly, though. It is, to him, a vacation of sorts. A way for him to completely relax for however many hours he wishes. He's only able to do it when he has a few days off. And even then he can only do it when he has enough extra cash to at least go to a motel where he can sleep for a few days where others wouldn't check on him.
It's completely worth the the money, though. The ability to escape to his sanctuary is one of the few things about his predicament that he loves. It's a place that's peaceful and completely painless. Within his world he can control everything - the world, the time period, the weather.
Well.
Almost everything.
He's still unsure as to how Douglas ended up within his world. He suspects it has something to do with his inherent stubbornness and natural inclination to be in the know. Frankly, he doesn't much care. It was...nice. Yes. It was nice having a friend there at that time. Usually he doesn't mind the isolation - revels in it, actually - but situations like that one are hard, even after all this time.
He loves his plane, loves being able to get away from the tragedies of the world for a bit. But when he's sent there due to disaster - more or less unwillingly - it's never been quite the same. And now that he knows someone could potentially be there waiting, now that he knows what it's like to not be so wholly alone in that situation...Well.
He's grateful for Douglas's appearance last time and he'll be happy to see him again, should a similar situation arise.
Douglas, of course, chooses that very moment to glide into the room looking like he owns the world; as if he's on time and everyone else is merely early.
Arthur jumps at the sound of the door and turns around. "Douglas," he shouts and turns to look at Martin as well, "Oh, and Skip too! I didn't even notice you there, Skip. Mum told me to be useful so I thought I'd fill in the calendar."
Douglas hangs his coat on the rack and takes a seat at his desk before he responds. "I do believe, Arthur," he begins in his usual part-contemptuous, part-amused voice, "that the calendar was filled in by your mother at the start of the month."
Arthur nods. "Well yeah, but not completely. See," he asks, pointing enthusiastically at one of his scribbles.
Martin stands to get a closer look, ignoring the vertigo incited by his headache at the sudden change in equilibrium. He steps next to Arthur and takes a moment to decipher the steward's handwriting. Arthur has added an event to each day and it takes a moment for him to realize the pattern.
"Arthur," he sighs, "the calendar is for professional matters only."
"But these are professional, Skip! It's hard to do good work when you're not happy, and these things make you happy."
By now Douglas has joined them at the calendar and is reading them as well. He chuckles and pats Arthur on the shoulder. "Well of course," he exclaims, "I never go into work on a Tuesday without-" he squints at the calendar once more, "taking a warm bath. I'm surprised Sir was unaware of such weekly protocol; for one cannot possibly hope to fly a plane on a Friday without first tossing an apple around for a bit."
"See Skip," Arthur says, beaming, "Douglas gets it. And I even made all the same events on the same days of the week so you wouldn't forget. Fridays, like today, are for apple tossing. Saturdays are for playing yellow car all day. Sundays are for whatever you want..."
Martin grimaces and nods, backing away from the calendar. With his hands raised in the air he acquiesces, "Alright, Arthur, alright. You can keep them up there but make sure you leave room for actual appointments."
"Right-o, Skip," he says as he turns back to the calendar.
Martin watches him for a moment, smiling softly, before turning towards the counter to make some tea.
A few moments later, Carolyn's door slams open, jarring the surrounding walls as well as Martin's head.
"He's late," she announces, as if it wasn't a glaringly obvious fact. "Even later than you, Douglas."
"Why, judging by your accusatory tone of voice, it's as if you expect me to change my ways. I thought ours was a relationship that transcended such meaningless conventions as punctuality."
"Oh can it, Douglas, I'd rather not listen to any meaningless drivel at such an early hour."
Martin chooses this moment to cut in, "Well did he call or email? I already submitted the schedule to Carl and if he's going to be too much later I don't thi-"
"Of course he hasn't talked to me," Carolyn responds, effectively cutting Martin off, "or else I wouldn't be out here talking about it with you lot." She sighs and looks at the clock. "Only because he's such an important customer, we'll give him another hour. Douglas, go talk to Carl and tell him what's going on. Martin, fix the paperwork whenever he arrives. And Arthur, make us some-," she pauses, finally noticing the calendar. She closes her eyes, exasperated, before continuing. "Arthur, finish making the tea, I'm sure Martin's screwed it up somehow."
"I have not!"
But Carolyn ignores him and returns to her office, leaving them to their tasks.