Morning Time
A Flash Fiction Friday challenge from Scoot
The suns rose in magenta unison above the watery horizon. Freshly peel eyelids peered out towards them with some difficulty. The disqueting din of the morning commute bruised areas I had not felt in years. After last evening’s Blast Furnaces, the senses were definitely in overload.
The disseminator sparked into life. Someone was calling. Who?
“Hello?”
“Severan,” replied the voice, “where are you?”
“I’m at home,” I replied, with little knowledge of the caller’s identity or motives.
“You must immediately come to the parliament,” announced the voice frantically.
“Why?” I questioned the mystery voice. Heading out to the parliament at this point seemed like a chore far beyond my current capacity.
“Beresford and Samanthan are leading a rebellion against you!”
“Oh,” I replied, “What kind of rebellion.”
“They intend to oust you. You will no longer be Guardian of the Ancient Runes. Your access to the Runescape will be severely curtailed!”
In my current state, access being severely curtailed sounded like a godsend.
“I’ll be there presently,” I soothed the voice. Was it my assistant? I remained uncertain.
The disseminator powered down. I turned away from the sunsrise and looked at my bedsack. That appeared far more inviting than a trip to the parliament. I inserted myself deeply and reaffixed my eyelids.
The disseminator woke me. Again, the mystery voice was frantic. I, on the other hand, was less so.
“Where are you,” pleaded the voice, “proceedings have begun. You are to be removed!”
“It appears I have been,” I began, despirately searching for the correct phrasing, “asleep.”
“What? Why? What?” blurted the frantic voice (maybe it was Ferris’s assistant), “You said you’d be here. You said!”
“I,” again I searched for the appropriate phrasing, “lied. It was a long night with the ambassador and I needed to rest.”
“But you could be de-throned,” sobbed the voice, “you have been a most superior guardian. Our Runescape will suffer without your erudite mentorship.”
I thought on this for a moment. Guardian of the Runes was a most celebrated position. People toiled for years, decades even, scaling bureaucratic ladders, in order to become guardians. Working tirelessly to be noticed by those higher than them. My journey had been no different. Indeed, coming from the Fields of Antelore, it had perhaps been much harder. The pride I had felt when awarded with the Runecloak was a feeling I had never felt up to that point, or since.
“Indeed,” I responded, “but I would also point out, after the events of last evening, I can barely feel my feet. I would like to remain in my bedsack until my faculties have returned to some kind of equilibrium. It is not currently that point.”
“But you will be ousted,” said the voice (was it Mercant), “what do you need me to do. Instruct and I will obey.”
“I need you to halt your communications,” I told him (her?), “my bedsack awaits and I do not wish any further disruption. Leave me be.”
“But…”
“I said: leave me be.”
I powered down the disseminator and pulled my bedsack high over my head.
“Who was that?” asked the ambassador from his place on the floor beside the window.
“That,” I replied with confidence, “is not a question I can answer at this time.”
The cocoon of my bedsack enveloped my damaged frame. I was truely grateful.