On Lost Stories

In April of this year, a story will become lost forever after ending. Originally releasing in 2021, Nier Reincarnation was created for mobiles, which in the gaming scene are notorious for leaving little to nothing behind them. This got me thinking about lost stories. Not just "lost media" in the modern sense of mobile games going offline and programs being removed or edited on streaming services without a physical equivalent to compare it to, or film print originals being altered (looking at you, Star Wars Original Trilogy). I have encountered some elements of this, pieces of the history of narrative that are either in danger of being lost, or have been lost.

The most obvious examples, and the ones with no recourse for recovery, are the plays and poetry of Grecians and Romans from antiquity. The lost tragic plays of Euripides, the vast number of comic plays that have been lost apart from the dozen or so surviving from Aristophanes, the Roman historical accounts and poetry that wasn't preserved for whatever reason, and most prominently the lyric poetic writings of Sappho and her contemporaries. In Sappho's case, the loss is particularly painful and tantalising as we have some fragments from her work. Despite her being highly regarded in her day and in the immediate aftermath in Classical times we have...drum roll please...a whole four debatably complete poems, and somewhere around six fragments. But oh my, those pieces are so evocative.

Those are the biggies, the ones that are the most obvious examples of lost stories. They were lost due to the passage of time, the archaic style of writing, and the already shaky ability for historical manuscripts to be preserved. It's sad, but sadly unavoidable, and not without hope. Many of the Sappho we do have was rediscovered through recent archaeological and scholarly work. Originally it was only one or two bits that we had. But there are cases where the reason for loss is...less misty and nostalgic. During the early television days, video tape was expensive and so television networks and stations had a policy of reusing video tape. Or they were broadcast live, so no recording happened in-house. Many surviving programs we have exist because of copies onto 16mm film. Many people will point to Doctor Who, but there we actually have the entire run intact as audio recordings, not something that can be said for most of the Paul Temple TV series, a lot of early Avengers, the first Quatermass serial, the original A for Andromeda, and so many others. All we have are tantalising glimpses through stills, clips, script fragments.

These were, for a long time, the most painful, but also quite understandable. There wasn't a strict policy or atmosphere of preservation for future generations. This was semi-disposable material, very understandable. But there is another type of lost media that's more insidious, and I think should be treated with the utmost caution. Following the scandals surrounding Savile and Harris, programs featuring or referencing them went through a session with a pair of scissors. That didn't just mean programs hosted by them were culled (completely understandable), but spoofs of them were also removed. I completely understand this approach, as what those men and others like them did is unforgivable. And then some pieces of media have been removed/disappeared because of offensive stereotypes. Again, understandable. But if you just remove them without leaving a suitably signposted way of finding them again for curiosity or serious research, where are you? You enter the realm of historical revisionism, which...you know...is what Stalin was doing. Being cautious and considerate is commendable, but clumsy damage control which harms media preservation and sets a precedent of sweeping away the unhelpful and unhealthy as 'it didn't happen' is...wrong.

Now we come to a very modern type of "lost story". Those who could release it have it in good quality, they have the means of releasing it...but they don't, for whatever reason. This is particularly noticeable with children's television like The Basil Brush Show, The Magician's House, The Worst Witch, and others. They might receive small releases, or be rebroadcast, but they seldom get a release in any form that allows preservation. Documentaries are also beset by this issue, but the one that stands out is the series that may have been serviceable, but doesn't get any kind of later attention because it didn't really take off. One I caught by chance just on the cusp of its age demographic was Galidor. Basically designed as a tie-in with Lego's action figure line of the same name, it had an interesting sci-fi premise, and did what it could on a smallish budget with a goal of using a combination of live actors, puppetry and CGI--not a common combination at the time it was made in the early 2000s. But both series and toy line flopped, and outside a repeat in 2004 which I happened to catch, and a cancelled game that got released through Lego Game bundles, it's only accessible through legally grey online recordings. Is it a series worth preserving? Maybe, maybe not, it's not the best thing around. But it's a unique concept, and you'd be surprised how many notable directors and writers cut their teeth on it.

I feel torn about this concept of stories, whether they be books or films or shows or games, being lost or altered. It feels, particularly when the change comes from a modern moral mandate, like a slap in the face. "You're too delicate to have this, so we're taking it away, neh-neh!" It makes cases where these elements are kept with suitable warnings more noticeable, and in many ways laudable. They release the media as is, but they still acknowledge elements that would offend or upset. But when it's a case of Sappho's poetry lost to the ages, a mobile game vanishing, physical media degrading with no digital equivalent, then it's sad. All the sadder when the only means of actively preserving them treads into a legal grey area and can have publishers and distributors coming down with the ban hammer and leaving their audience with literally nothing.

If this was rambling, I don't apologise. This is a topic that can't be covered easily in a single post. Lost media, lost stories, are something that's been with us for millennia. And when they happen in the present day, it can be anything from sad to unsettling. Because whatever people say, those are still stories. And if we're kept from experiencing them and learning from them and more specifically what to avoid in them with suitable context, then how can we learn at all?

Image credit: Nier Reincarnation Season 3 - The People and the World key art - alterations done by me to illustrate the article's theme.

Short story – The Village; Part 1

 “Your mission is to head out to Beira. It’s a fishing village on the end of the peninsular which borders Loch Cailisport in the Argyll and Brute area of Scotland. We’ve received reports that an thick unseasonal fog has settled over the area. Civilian forces have sent in teams, but none have returned. Upon investigation of the outer area, we’ve found remains that suggest foul play. We’ve kept this under wraps to avoid alarming the public. You’re to enter the fog and determine its source. You’re to withdraw immediately if anyone is attacked by anything, and we’ll take further measures.”

That was the brief we were given, and as soldiers we followed the order to the letter, as soldiers did. As the vehicle – an Army Land Rover – trundled along, I checked over my AK47 to calm my nerves as we headed along the single-track road which led to Beira. It eventually lost its appeal and I glanced around at the squad I had become a part of. Four other privates including the driver, a Corporal, and a Lieutenant, all sent out from a forward base five miles from the fog boundary. They were a wide selection, but I was still the only woman in the group. It made me feel isolated, cut off even as the fog would cut us off from the outside world.

“So you’re scared?”

I glanced up. Private Guss Ferguson was a native of Scotland with a thick Glasgow accent, and was the most charismatic among us. I smiled.

“Wouldn’t you be? You’ve read the reports.”

“Eh, it’s all bull, ain’t it. Just some freak fog.”

“We don’t know that.” Lieutenant Jack Wight spoke in his upper crust accent. “It’s been deemed a serious matter. We’ve been ordered to investigate it.”

“I don’t get it.” the black-skinned cockney-voiced Private Daniel Cook. “There’re local troops, aren’t there? Berets and things. Why can’t they take a look.”

“Because we’ve the ones they chose.” said Adah Laghari, a man who looked and spoke like many another British Indian. “Stop complaining. We’re nearly there anyway.”

“Can it, you lot.” said the Corporal, a Londoner with a biting tone. “I’ll make it an order if I have to. That goes for you too, Simmons.”

The driver, Private Simmons, nodded. I turned back to my weapon, brushing a slight fall of dust from the barrel. I again wondered what had qualified me for this mission. I was just another soldier, like any other. A mere Royal Marine Private Helen Twotrees, no-one special. The others were no different from what I could tell.

We’re just soldiers, she thought to herself. Nothing more, nothing less. Just soldiers doing a job.

“We’ll be keeping in contact with the Land Rover via radio. We’ll radio in the moment anything happens. Understood?”

“Understood!” the reply was united.

The Land Rover stopped abruptly, and the Lieutenant gave the order to move out. We did, the doors opening and allowing we six to leave, with the Lieutenant ordering Simmons to wait for us and act as a radio relay for our field reports, and to call in if we hadn’t reappeared from the fog within two hours. To be honest, I hadn’t expected the fog to be quite as bad as it was. Standing in front of it in the high noon summer sunshine, the fog was an impenetrable pale wall. Standing in front of that fog, I could feel the chill.

“Radio text. 1.2.3. Call.”

We each called a number from one to six, and all radios tested green. We readied ourselves – the Corporal and Lieutenant in front and us Privates behind – and began moving forward into the fog. After everyone else had gone in, I hung back for a second, unsure of what to do or say. But I gritted my teeth and pushed forward into the barrier of cold vapour. I muttered the words under my breath.

“We’re just soldiers. Nothing more, nothing less. Just soldiers doing a job.”

Beira sits inside a natural harbour with steep slopes bordering it, and the fog had collected in that bowl as normal fog collects inside fields to eventually spill onto paths and roads. But this fog was different – its pale surface rippled and clung to everything, and nothing was inside. Walking into it was like walking into a pond, but instead of water coming up over our faces, it was cold and damp air that clung to me as if it was trying to pull me back. Inside the fog, we could only see a couple of feet in front of us, making a potential ambush both possible and dangerously likely to succeed. I was just keeping Cook and Laghari in clear view, with everyone else having turned into dark grey shadows.

While bright sunlight had dominated above, the light was turned to a dull grey. I had a vague impression of hedges on either side, the asphalt road surface beneath my feet, the utter deadening of sound a thick fog creates. Within a few paces, I heard a voice from up ahead.

“Switch to infrared.”

We did so, and I clearly saw five forms in front of me as we made our way down the hill. We already had our guns ready at the Lieutenant’s order, and as we descended the steep road, I tried not to envisioned anything that might leap from the fog to attack us, or who might be lining up an infrared sniper scope on our skulls. We eventually reached the edges of the village, coming to see the typical Scottish fishing cottages – slate roofs and stone walls with rough weather gardens around them. The road showed the wear of the weather, and I even saw scraps of lichen and moss along its centre, denoting a lack of traffic. We expected someone to appear before us, but no-one came.

As we came to the foot of the slope, any trace of houses vanished from either side as if we had passed into an open space, then a dark shape loomed in the distance. As we approached, we saw it was a fountain in the middle of the village square. There was no water flowing, making its sea monster motif seem out of place. Grass was also growing around its edge. The Lieutenant made a signal, and we formed a perimeter round the fountain. The Corporal then set up the portable radio and began trying to raise the Land Rover and its direct feed to Command.

“Hello. Team Zeta calling Command, do you copy?” a hiss of white noise filled the air, then he tried again. “Team Zeta calling Command. We have entered red zone. Do you copy?”

There wasn’t any reply. Only a continual burst of static. The Corporal tried retuning the radio, then spoke into the mike again. Again, there was no reply. Again the radio was adjusted, and again no reply came. I switched on my own radio, then winced as white noise stabbed into my ear.

“Sir, my radio’s not working either.”

The Corporal looked up in surprise, then we all checked our radios. None of them were working, all blanketed by constant white noise. Cook looked unsettled.

“It’s this damned fog. It’s blocking our signal.”

“Rubbish.” snapped Guss. “Fog doesn’t mess with radio signals like this. The truck’s barely a mile away by my reckoning.”

“Alright, you two, knock it off.” snapped the Lieutenant. “We’ve got a job here, and we’re sticking to it. We’ve got a two hour window if we can’t send a message outside this fog. That’s plenty of time. Cook and Laghari will search the town. Ferguson and Twotrees, you go check the harbour area. I’ll stay here with Wight and keep trying to raise Command.”

We all acknowledged the order with the usual ‘Sir, yes sir’, then moved off. Walking with Guss, I didn’t know what to expect. Walking through the fog, listening to the dead silence around us, it felt like walking around a padded cell. We were using the main street, and we soon came to the harbour. The fog was just as thick here as it was at the heart of the village, and as we looked out across the natural harbour and its human embellishments, we heard the gentle lapping of waves on a cobbled shore, oddly hollow without the talk of people and call of seagulls.

“Ever been here?” I asked.

Guss shook his head. “Neh. I’ve never been here before. Never heard of Beirn before I got the mission. Doesn’t look that impressive.”

“Doesn’t indeed. Hey, what’s that?”

“What’s what?”

“That.”

I pointed further down the harbour road. There, appearing as if from nowhere, was a figure. Their dark clothing made them appear like a living shadow in the gloom, and their shifting gait suggested something inhuman. I felt a terrible tension for a moment, but then relaxed when I saw it was only an old woman in black, wearing a wide-brimmed hat complete with veil. Clearly in mourning. Guss approached.

“Excuse me, Ma’am, we’re investigating–”

“Have you seen my son?”

Guss frowned. “Your son?”

“Yes.” the woman’s voice was weedy. “My son. He’s supposed to meet me here. I’ve been waiting nearly fifteen minutes.”

“I’m sure we can help find him.” I said. “Shall we ask around?”

A long silence, then the old woman replied. “There’s no-one else in the village. It’s strange, but true. No-one else here.”

“No-one?” Guss didn’t sound convinced.

“No-one. Not these past few days. Since the fog settled.”

This made me take notice. According to our brief, the fog had been settled over the town for nearly four weeks prior to our arrival. Even the most generous contraction couldn’t bring that down to ‘a few days’ for anyone with an unfettered sense of time. Guss spoke.

“You’d best come with us. You’ll be safer.”

Guss reached out and gently took the old lady’s arm, but then a noise came from above us that made us look up in alarm. It was like the cawing of a raven, but harsher and fuller – almost as if it came from a human. Our eyes were barely away for a moment, but when we looked again the old lady had vanished. We looked around, but no dark shape could be seen going into the fog.

“Well that’s weird for a start.” said Guss. “Come on, I don’t think we should be lingering here any longer.”

The two of us went back the way we came, and found the Lieutenant and Corporal still working on the radio. It remained dead.

“Anything?” asked the Lieutenant.

We reported our findings, including the woman and the noise we heard. The Corporal wasn’t impressed, hinting that the fog had played tricks on us. When Cook and Laghari returned, they also reported hearing the sound from the harbour direction, and had also encountered someone – a little girl in a black dress skipping down the lane. Laghari had tried talking to her, but she just said she was ‘looking for Nanna’ and skipped on despite their protests. It was then that the Corporal swore and slapped the radio set.

“It’s useless. Too much white noise. Dead as Bin Laden.”

It was Cook that spoke. “So what do we do? Go back?”

The Lieutenant's voice snapped. “No, we’re staying and doing our job. We’re soldiers, and we’ve got a job to do. We’ve got to find out what’s going on in this town, and that’s what we’re gonna do.”

“Can you hear something?”

This came from me. During the Lieutenant’s impassioned reply, I’d been hearing a background noise. Like a hum, or a distant engine. The Lieutenant looked angry at first, but then he started listening too. We all listened, and the noise grew until we all identified it as an engine. Cook looked nervous.

“Where the hell’s that coming from?”

“Up the hill.” Guss pointed. “It’s coming from the road.”

Before anyone spoke, the radio suddenly exploded with noise.

“–repeat, I’m under attack! I can’t shake them off! They just appeared out of the fog! Calling Explorer Team, I’m under attack, repeat under–!”

It was Simmons, sounding panicked. The Lieutenant rushed to the radio at once.

“Hello, this is Lieutenant Wight. Can you hear–!”

“Oh God! Oh God! They’re all over me! I can’t shake them.”

“What? What’s happening? Private Simmons, report!”

“God help me!”

The radio was once more consumed in static. Everyone looked at each other, then the roar of the engine began louder, and the twin beams of powerful headlamps stabbed through the surrounding fog. As we watched, the Land Rover barrelled across the square and went at full speed towards one of the surrounding houses. I caught a glimpse of scratches in its paintwork before it became a flying blur in the fog. The Lieutenant shouted, but it was too late. The Land Rover crashed into the front of a shop, smashing the window glass and catapulting forward into the serving area. Guss, Cook and myself rushed over quickly followed by the Lieutenant, while the Corporal and Laghari stayed behind.

When we found Simmons, he was in bad shape. The air bag had deployed upon crashing, but he was still bloodied and battered, and as we got him out of the vehicle with all possible care, we feared internal injuries. The Lieutenant ordered us to administer first aid while one of us would go back on foot to warn Command and get an immediate evacuation. Cook was chosen as the one to go back, and he immediately set off at a jog towards the road. After ten anxious minutes, we had the unconscious Simmons comfortable, but he was still breathing irregularly. Out of all of us, Laghari was one with medical training, and diagnosed internal injuries that might be fatal if not treated.

We waited, waited, waited. We expected any moment for Cook to reappear out of nowhere with troops, or to be inside a convoy ready to take us out of the fog. But no sounds came, either of footfalls or vehicle engines. Finally, we heard something from behind us. I turned, listened, heard the approach of booted feet going at a jog. We all waited, and soon a dark figure appeared from the fog. It was Cook. The Lieutenant stepped forward.

“Cook, what the hell are you doing back here?”

Cook stumbled to a halt, looked round the five of us, then blanched. “Doing back here? I haven’t stopped heading out of this fog, Sir.”

“That’s impossible. You went that way, towards the slope. Now you’ve come back from the the harbour area.”

Something struck me, and I ran off. I heard the Lieutenant shouting after me as I vanished into the fog, but I didn’t falter. I ran forward with all speed, felt grass, asphalt, cobbles under my feet. I soon saw dim shadows on either side as vague structures appeared from out of the fog. After a few minutes running, I found myself back on familiar ground, and as I came out into the village square, where the others waited.

“Private Twotrees, what the hell are you up to?!” snapped the Lieutenant.

“Sorry, Sir. I wanted to test something. I tried the same thing Cook tried. I took the road out of the village, but it’s as if I was looped back into the village.”

“But that’s impossible.” said Guss. “There’s only one road down, and no turn-offs leading back to the village from it. You both should’ve come upon the slope and left the village.”

The Corporal pinched the bridge of his nose. “Looks like we’re trapped. The radio’s out, our comms are out, the Land Rover’s out, and we can’t leave. Looks grim.”

“There’s something else, sir.” said Laghari. “When we picked up Simmons on the radio, we heard him shouting about being attacked.”

“Attacked by what?” said Cook. “Monsters? Zombies? Some trashy serial killer from a slasher flick? What?”

“Let’s look at the Land Rover and see.”

So we did, with Guss and Laghari staying with Simmons. We looked at the Land Rover, and between the damage caused by the crash there were other marks. Thin scratches in the paintwork as if something had clawed at the metal trying to get inside. Several of the windows were still intact, and even they showed scuff marks and the signs of scratching on the surface of the glass. It was unsettling, but the Lieutenant passed it off as damage from the crash. It was possible, I’ll admit, but it didn’t fit in with either Simmons’ cries over the radio or the fact that we now seemed trapped here.

“What is it?”

We all started. Laghari was standing just outside. The Lieutenant frowned.

“What is it, Laghari?”

“Eh? Didn’t you call for me, sir?”

We all froze, then dashed back to the fountain. Both Guss and Simmons had vanished, and the Lieutenant laid into Laghari for this seeming dereliction of duty on their parts. Laghari’s defence was that he had heard the Lieutenant’s voice calling for him, and that Guss had agreed to remain on guard. A few seconds later, we heard someone approaching, and Guss all but stumbled out of the fog into my arms. I helped him over to the fountain edge where he sat, and I saw the slight welt on his head that showed he had been struck.

Like Laghari, he claimed to have been lured away by a voice, but this time it was the voice of a child in danger, screaming for help nearby. It seemed just a metre away, so he had gone into the fog. Within seconds, he was lost, and then felt something hard like a stick or cane strike the back of his head. The Lieutenant wasn’t impressed, but before he could reprimand Guss, we were all struck dumb by a cry from overhead. It wasn’t a human cry, but a piercing scream or croak from the sky above us that had barely anything human in it.

Everyone whirled around, uncertain which way to look. The cry seemed to come from everywhere, and I didn’t know what to do myself. Finally, a great wind rushed around us and we all turned to see some large form descending from the fog.

It was a bird, at least in terms of having a body and two wings, but otherwise unlike any bird I’d ever seen in book, on television, or in real life. Its body was covered in ragged feathers, its wings twisted out and extended to twice its body length, its tail flared like a demented peafowl, its eyes glowed like fire, and its beak split into four points as it shrieked once again. We all stumbled back, and that was when Guss saw what the creature was clutching in its taloned foot. Simmons, limp in its grasp, blood oozing from a deep wound in his back.

“Simmons!”

Guss’ yell only served to make the creature shriek at us again, then it extended its wings and took to the air with a single beat, vanishing into the fog-laden sky. Guss rushed forward to where Simmons had been left on the ground, but after a few seconds he rose to his feet, shaking his head. Simmons was dead...

Short Story - The Cage in the Castle

 She stood on the end of the bridge, facing the castle in the distance, the fur on her snout rustling in the wind as the ever-present moon shone down on her semi-naked form, competing against the waning sun in the west. In her hand, the sword felt heavy from the blood of her recently-dispatched enemies. No point sheathing it now, it would rust her sheath. She took the bridge at a run, sensing the magicks supporting it begin to crumble as unwanted feet touched it. The grapple in her arm twitched and launched towards the battlements. The head caught, and she was lifted up and away as the stones fell away beneath her towards the crashing sea.

What idiot in their right minds would build an enchanted castle on an outcrop. The thought made the hairs on her back bristle. Given another few decades, the sea would wear away at its base and cause it to fall. Either that, or whoever controlled the castle would have to expend even more power to keep it floating. Even the High Ones dared not do that, though the moon's grace granted them so many boons. Clambering up onto the balustrade and dropping down, grinding stone and metal shifted near her. The stones statues were awakening, as she had been warned. A duck and run forward as a sword swung down. These were the granite guards, animated by the castle's occupant.

She ran along the top of a wall, launched her grapple once more, pulled herself out of range of swings. Glancing down into the courtyard, she saw more of the statues come to life, one great among them. It looked like a human male, several times larger than any male should have been, and it wielded a great mace which dragged along the ground and scarred the cobblestones. This must have been their captain, animated to command as they were to destroy.

"T'nod pots gnihcraes!" The guard captain's tone was harsh, horrible like the stone from which it was carved. "Llik no thgis! Rof rou redeal!"

What odd words they had in this place. Familiar, yet odd. A few more words, and she could speak if it she so chose. Maybe she would have to. They were shouting to each other in strange grunts and growls, almost howling like animals. Maybe they had been animals once. She reached the first of many towers that formed the core of the castle, looking up from where she hung from the guttering towards the central tower. At the top, hovering in the field of magickal energy, was the owner of the castle. There was little to be seen inside the cone of light, but it was a human shape. A form that was mortal, kept alive only by the stasis of the magic which preserved this castle.

She was about to leap to the next tower when something tugged at her. No physical force, no simple compulsion, but a sudden rush of attention. The need to be seen. Her head turned, eyes focusing on one of the smaller towers on the other side of the castle's structure. It looked positively dark compared to the other towers, shrinking and inconspicuous in their shadow. Why was there such a potent energy there, and why was it not tied into the rest of what was happening here? The figure above was always known as the one that kept the castle's inhabitants asleep and timeless, locking it away from the moon's gaze.

Leave nothing unexplored which catches your scent. That was what the Elder Fang had told her. She would investigate this, regardless of its seemingly inconsequential nature. She took to the walls and ran along their edges, unseen by the soldiers lumbering below. Pale imitations of their creators in form and function. Two walls, another tower to skirt round, yet another wall that this time she had to scale with grapple and claw. Finally she was at that strange little tower. None had spotted her, nothing had halted her. The tower looked so...dead. There were windows, but all were tightly barred. The only door was...at its base. Of course.

She slid down using the grapple, listening for any sign of attack. There was none. The door was not even locked. Strange indeed. She passed inside, saw the stairway leading round towards the top of the tower. It was pitch black, no light shining down this far from the top of the tower, itself in the shadow of the other towers and walls. The sea was audible through the walls, which were damp under her pads. it was the work of minutes to scale the tower.  When she reached the top, she stepped onto a cold platform leading towards a cage suspended above the tower floor far below. Someone was in the cage.

She approached with a slow step, and the figure in the cage looked up. It was a human. Which was impossible. Aside from those who resisted in unnatural sleep in this castle, humans had gone extinct long ago in the Great Hunt, when the Moon That Never Sets had emerged from its slumber. He looked pathetic enough to be one of those survivors, a thin ragged, pathetic excuse for a man dressed in a white robe and with a deep-set face half-hidden under a long mop of shaggy blonde hair. His lips moved slowly.

"Ohw...era uoy?"

Yes, those were the words she needed. She understood this language now. Like her own, like that of her people, but slightly altered. She could speak to him.

"T'nod eb diarfa. M'i t'now truh uoy."

The man frowned. "Lliw uoy...teg em tuo fo ereh?"

She nodded. Yes, this seemed the right thing to do. This man was radiating such energy, more than any produced by that thing at the top of the castle. The cage wasn't that sturdy, but the man was so weak even these feeble locks seemed able to hold him. She reached over and yanked the door open. Reaching out, she encouraged him forward. He took a few tentative movements, tried to rise, but then slumped again.

"Os...derit..."

He was exhausted, though from what seemed uncertain. She stepped inside, picked up the slight human form, and carried him out like a tired child. Now she was impaired. She could at least get the man outside the castle, outside this gigantic cage that was in the form of a castle. The cage may have been old and fragile, but the barred windows were strong. She had to go out the way she came. She trotted down the stairs, the slight figure held in one arm. She reached the door, sensed the stone fists raised to bear down on her. She launched the grapple, shot through them and braced herself against a wall. The stone fists crashed down on where she had been a second ago. She fired the grapple again, shooting up the wall as the creatures of the castle shouted.

"Redurtni! Llik! Llik!"

The young man sighed. "Esaelp od ton evael em."

She smiled. She wouldn't abandon him now. The walls were her playground, the castle would not stop her. The final rush across the moat would be interesting with the extra weight. The man seemed to be staring at her, but not with fear or disgust or even wonder. She managed to look at his face as she rested for a moment, and saw the emotion. It was gratitude. Finally they reached the outer wall, where she had entered. The soldiers were scaling the walls, approaching them. But her grapple couldn't reach all the way across. The young man slowly held up a hand, pointed down towards where the bridge had been.

"Tel em pleh."

There was a shuddering, then the bridge began to reassemble. Or perhaps...restore? Rewind? As if time had been turned back. Her grapple carried them down and she ran across the bridge, which collapsed behind her. She was back on the mainland before she realised. The young man was holding her with his weak arms, closely as if he really were a child. Then there was a mighty shuddering behind her. She turned, still holding the man, and watched as the castle began to crumble away into nothing. What had happened? Even the light was gone...

Her answer came unexpected. She felt a sudden shift in her arms, and looked down at the man. No longer was he young and frail, he was now aged to the point of appearing like a dessicated corpse. He slowly looked up even as his skin pulled back from age and dryness. His life was fading even as he spoke his final words.

"Knaht uoy."

She smiled sadly at the dead face. "No. Thank you."

The body was already crumbling in her arms. The castle was completely gone too, right down to its foundations. So it seemed she had fulfilled her mission. To lay low this last stronghold of their ancient enemy, to destroy the remnant of humanity which resisted the moon's grace. That young man, locked away from the process of time, had preserved the final humans. Now time had caught up with them all, and taken them all down. She shook her head slowly, checking and shutting off her grapple.

"So ends the age of humans. And our age is finally able to begin under the endless moon. And, young man, I'll at least remember you. You wanted to leave that tower, didn't you? You wanted this to end. Glad I could fulfil your wish." She sighed, shrugged her shoulders. "And now, home."

Introducing Author Talks: Season 2

Hi. Well, this is written in a bit of a rush, but it's an update for everyone. In my attempt to have something other than text to help show that I and my work exist, I've been creating a to-date solo podcast called 'Author Talks'. What became the first season happened over last year, and I've started the second this year. All it consists of so far is an introductory thing, and the first episode dedicated to a short story by H.G. Wells, 'In The Abyss'. I think this is a very good if rather wordy story with a fascinating twists. I'll include the YouTube link below. If you enjoy it, maybe check out the previous episodes, and the reading I did from my novel Starborn Vendetta, which is also available on my YouTube channel among other things. Enjoy!