The Displacement – When the Box Did Open

By Eleawan Galathiel

I did tilt mine head, nibbling mine pencil. Mine fingers did glide o’er the quill-board, typing furiously the latest draught of mine article – the latest tidings of the war that doth rage across Arche Terre. Mine coffee doth steam at mine left, mine notebook doth lie open at mine right, covered in scribbles and arrows entwined.

The newsroom is silent at this hour. Naught but the distant hum of the lanterns doth keep me company. I have this heady sensation, familiar – that of the journalist who doth feel she hath finally grasp’d the right angle, the phrase that shall turn the front page. I do reread the last paragraph, frown, erase, begin anew. Mine screen doth flicker for half a breath – fatigue, mayhap.

I do reach for the coffee when…

The ground doth fall away.

Not a fall, nay. A displacement. As though one had folded the space ’round me and unfolded it elsewhere, without mine consent. Mine desk, mine screen, mine steaming coffee – all doth vanish in the blink of an eye, replaced by a blue-lit glow and a strange scent I cannot name. Mine fingers do still clutch the pencil. Mine notebook, though, hath vanished. Naught remains but the beating of mine heart, and this irrepressible thought: mine article. Mine article is not saved.

All ’round me? A great throng assembled, and in that throng, familiar faces. I do recognize certain persons of import from Elysium, from Sambrune, from Durakiss, and even from other cities whose names I shall withhold for prudence. We are in a strange place, beyond time: a floor of blue and mist, a horizon without end. But doth it begin and end anywhere? For verily, we are not in a natural place. The wind doth not blow here. The shadows do not dance. Even Erevan, I am sure, would have rais’d a perplex’d brow.

And then I do return whence I came. Well-nigh, yet not quite the same place. As though the world had kept turning and I had return’d to the former position. Not quite the same spot. Mine coffee hath gone cold. Mine screen, though, doth still show mine article – unsaved, like as not.

After some enquiry, I did meet a scientist of Durakiss – a woman whose mind is sharper than the daggers of Port Saban. According to her, if one doth consider our reality as a box, someone did take us out of that box for a time. For what reason? She doth explain that ’twas so we would not be affected by a change occurring within our box.

Did I truly understand her explanation? I know not. In any case, ‘twould seem that only our planet was affected. The rest? Untouched, or at least, so she doth affirm. « The box was shaken, but we were set aside whilst it passed », she did tell me with a smile meant to reassure. I was not reassured.

If I did tell thee that I know what thou dost hide… wouldst thou believe me? Nay? So much the better. For the truth, this time, I do not possess it. And for a chronicler accustomed to rummaging through Durakiss’ shadows, ’tis a sensation… disquieting.

When one doth open the box to take thee out, ask not why ere thou dost ask who. For Erevan doth know full well: the fairest jest is not that which thou dost suffer, but that which thou dost not yet understand.