2022-06-21 - Changing History

The Doors in Una Irving’s house are volatile. Thus far, they’ve opened into Pompeii, Auckland, and another century in the same house. The back door, the basement door, and the library — are there any doors left that are safe?

The sun is still lingering in the sky this evening when Jules’ beat-up car pulls up to the house with a red kayak strapped to the top. Her car door slams (a normal door, then, from the looks of it), and out she climbs. Her summer outfit is recognizable by now: an athletic tank-top over the wide straps of a sports bra, form-hugging workout pants with quite a lot of spandex in them, and velcroed hiking sandals. At this time of year, Jules is outdoors far more than in.

There are two doors in Ravn Abildgaard's life he has so far not managed to put a stopper in, to be on the safe side. The toilet door on his boat, not to mention the door to the below decks itself? One has gained a copy of War and Peace and the other, Anna Karenina. But the front door to Three, Oak, and inside, the door to the shower -- those are still open. The Vagabond does not have a shower, and he has to head back here once a day to wash up.

So far, he hasn't ended up somewhere bizarre while wearing nothing but a shower towel. Small mercies.

He's heading back to Oak Three for exactly this purpose when Jules drives past. A gloved hand goes up in greeting as she does. Her outfit inspires thoughts -- not of an intimate nature but of how nice it must be, really, to kayak around in weather like this. He should try it sometime.

Out on the porch of 5 Oak, Una's half-hunched over a laptop, working on something that is evidently serious enough to make her frown-- but not so serious that she can't pause to sip at her mug, or nibble at a cookie, with consideration every so often. It'll be time to head in and worry about dinner, soon, but with the days so very long, and the weather (for the moment) doing its summery thing... well, why not?

Her attention is not so wrapped up that she doesn't glance out at the street, though, watching the approach of Jules' familiar car, and the woman within it; watching, too, Ravn and his approach. Both get an acknowledging glance, but proper greetings will need to wait.

There is, after all, no reason to shout.

“Hey! Ravn! Gimme a hand?” Jules can manage the kayak by herself, but why bother when there’s another person there to enlist?

One call leads to another, as she spies Una up there on the porch. “Where should I store this? Do you have a preference?” Jules has been talking about bringing her kayaks (plural) down from Taholah, but the details, those have been left fuzzy.

And that's how Ravn finds himself one half of a kayak carrying crew. Fortunately those things are fairly light weight. And deciding where to go with it? Well, that's the easy part when you're the back half -- you go wherever the front half is going. "I'm surprised these things don't weigh more," he murmurs all the same. "Don't people usually have shelves of a kind in the carport or something? For them, I mean?"

Una gets up, abandoning her old, bulky laptop to move to the edge of the porch and consider. "I guess in the carport would work? If it isn't too open?" No one ever quite built a garage at 5 Oak, and the carport itself has definitely seen better days.

"Or there's the shed out the back? There's not much in there that couldn't be moved out of the way."

With Ravn shanghaied as her crew, Jules has an easier time unstrapping the kayak from the roof. It makes it go just a little quicker when she doesn't have to hold on. Bungees freed and popped into the rear seat, she calls back to Una, "Wherever you want." Except of course she has an opinion. "Maybe shed is better, since it's not immediately visible from the street, in case someone has a hankering for an old, used kayak."

So that's where they start to head. Jules would carry it for herself, but Ravn is being so helpful. This also lets her direct, and who doesn't love bossing someone else around as they do one's own bidding? "Yeah, you can hang them from the ceiling, too. I'll get something tomorrow. Still have to go back up and pick up my other one. That way someone can go out with me on the water without having to rent. Hey, Una? You wanna come tell us what the best spot is? I don't want to get in the way of your gardening stuff."

Ravn -- a man of no opinions on where kayaks should be stowed. He's more than happy to just tag after because while kayaking is definitely a thing in Denmark too, he never got into it. Asthma and not too great constitution does not make for a sport that requires regular immersion in chilly water.

"Think somebody might actually lift it?" He reconsiders. "Oh yeah. Tourists. Hey, free kayak, let's go drown on the Chehalis. You're probably right that out of sight is better."

"Yeah," says Una, from the edge of the porch. "But let me meet you round the back; I don't want to leave my laptop out here." Her mug can apparently stay, though: it's just the laptop that she closes and scoops up into her arms, carrying it indoors with her, the door swinging shut behind her.

Barefoot, she makes her way across the back lawn towards the shed, moving fast enough that she even beats the pair to it.

"Never underestimate what people will try to get away with," Jules answers. "I was thinking more of bored kids. Hell, I was a bored kid. I maybe didn't steal a stop sign myself, but I was there for it when it happened. And road signs aren't nearly as tempting as outdoor equipment." Or laptops, for that matter.

"Can you open it for us, Una?"

Yes: roll open the doors, and step into the dark. A warmer, humid dark. One that smells of earth and loam -- Una's gardening supplies? -- along with the far less pleasant aroma of unwashed bodies.

Ravn can't see a thing from under the kayak. His immediate reaction? "Uh. Think there's a fox that's sleeping in here sometimes or something? It smells kind of weird."

Dutifully, Una opens the door. "Mrr, it does, doesn't it? I'm going to need to clean it out. Something died, maybe."

By rights, by now, she should be more cautious about stepping through doors-- but this is the old shed. She's not thinking, just takes one step through and then another.

That kayak suddenly gets a whole lot heavier, especially when Jules, at the back, steps through. The texture changes underneath their hands, though Ravn may not be able to tell with his gloves. It's rough wood, no longer smooth plastic. Suddenly, here in the underground, they're carrying a large support beam, and this definitely needs two sets of hands.

Una may not be carrying anything, but that doesn't mean she isn't also subject to change. Fortunately, given the heat that accumulates underground where the air is still and has no place to go, one and all are dressed in lightweight tunics and trousers. To go with their leather boots -- hopefully it won't hurt as much if, say, a heavy piece of wood falls on their feet.

There are a few things in this setup that are of immediate concern. The kayak is hollow -- the beam is not. Ravn suddenly can see, and he can see that he cannot see a whole lot. This is definitely not the Irving garden shed, though, that much is obvious. He groans under the unexpected weight increase -- and then he looks down because the tunics and trousers feel decidedly different from the jeans and blazer he was wearing a moment ago.

He sighs. Here we go again. And then he keeps his mouth shut because always, watch first, find out where you are, and what's going on. Then react. A quiet little, "Toto, I think we're not in Kansas anymore," is all that he manages.

"Shit," says Una, that little exhalation getting out before she can think twice of it. There's a note of dismay in her voice, and if they could see her face? They'd see momentary panic, quickly tamped down by determination and resilience.

"Do you need a hand?"

Jules staggers some with the sudden weight, letting out a surprised "Oof!" She keeps hold of the beam, though, readjusting to set it on her shoulder for better support. "I'm okay," she says from the back. "Ravn? You got it?"

It's hard to see expressions here in the dark, though there's an oil-lit lamp flickering up ahead and illuminating what looks like a tunnel. There's also a shadowed figure rushing towards them and barking in his annoyance, "Yallah! Hurry up!"

The man is dirty from his time underground, with the turban wrapped around his head no longer a clean crisp white. His beard is close-trimmed, and given how he's passing with another lamp in hand, they're able to make out his attire. It's much the same as theirs: a dirty tunic gathered at the waist and baggy trousers tucked into leather boots that rise to the knees.

And he smells.

"I'm on my feet," the Dane murmurs. "But where the hell are we? We better keep moving."

He's historian enough to know that from the clothes people are wearing, this Dream -- or whatever it is -- is taking place somewhere in the Arabic circle of influence (which admittedly means from somewhere in mid-Russia to mid-Africa, depending on when). From the smell and the grime on their clothes -- not the high end of society. Underground -- mine workers, construction? Unless this is a very recent time period, the three of them might very well be enslaved workers.

All good arguments to not stand still and find out whether there's somebody with a whip about. Why can't a Dream drop them off in ancient Egypt where at least the pyramid builders got paid?

Una freezes uncomfortably, which is rather the opposite of hurrying up, but also-- she has no burden to bear, no task to complete. It leaves her with two empty hands and an awkward position.

"Coming, coming," she says, casting a glance back behind her at Jules and Ravn, making out what detail she can. It's not enough; unlike Ravn, she really has no idea where she is, or what's going on.

"Keep moving to wherever we're going so we can set down this thing," Jules huffs out. She can't see where she's going, so it's up to them to lead.

It isn't so much farther until the earthen tunnel opens into a slightly (but only slightly) wider excavated space buzzing with activity. Men are in the midst of some kind of operation. Several are digging, though several shovels have been left on the ground. Support beams are much in evidence, especially on the end where the activity is concentrated.

Perhaps most curious of all, they can understand the conversation around them, when clearly this isn't of a time and place where English would be spoken. Two men in the middle of the cramped quarters are busy discussing how much farther they need to dig. "This last one should be enough," one of them determines, and it's he who lays eyes on the out-of-time trio. "You! Get that in place," he orders, pointing to the end of the tunnel where the digging is underway.

Here's to hoping that whoever Ravn is supposed to be in this setup knows what he's doing, because Ravn doesn't. He can certainly keep carrying and follow in Jules' footsteps -- piece of cake. Deciding where in the tunnel the support beam needs to go, though? Yeah. No. And he's read enough about mining disasters to know that it actually does matter a whole damned lot where the thing goes.

No until-now hidden nuggets of construction worker knowledge surface in his mind. Fine. Time to play it safe, then, by playing dumb. "Where do you want it, sir?" he drawls (and tries to not be amazed that apparently he speaks Arabic or Turkish or whatever this is).

Better to be thought of as dense, than to end up under fifteen tons of rock. All of the lyrics to an old Tom Paxton tune replay in his mind -- and notably, nothing in them says how to avoid cave-ins.

And before he had the words out, he had thrown the drill aside
They come around the ore car, Reilly wearing a big grin
Guess he never knew what happened when the hanging wall caved in
Sully reached the timb'ring, his face as white as chalk
And Reilly, two yards back of him, caught fifteen tons of rock.

Men, Una notes. Men, but not women. Well, that's not really surprising, is it?

It's not that she wishes she were carrying the beam (that sounds like hard work!). It's just-- what is she doing? Mostly, it means she's trying to make sure there's nothing in the way of the footsteps of her two companions, leading the way as she does towards that end of the tunnel, though, like Ravn, she has no idea where exactly this beam ought to go beyond that.

Apparently it's not a stupid question. The second man seems to expect it, since he steps forward telling the other, "I'll show them." Placement matters. He comes alongside to walk with them, directing precisely where the beam should go: right at the end, where other miners have been digging, just so.

The first, the one with the rough bark, meanwhile addresses Una. "You. Pick up a shovel and get out, what are you waiting for?"

No one either notices or cares that two of the three accompanying this latest beam are women. They've all got a job to do, and at this particular moment, that's all that matters. Once the beam is positioned, propping up the roof of the tunnel at an angle, directions are called out for all the miners present: "Two minutes! And then we light this on fire! Yallah!" Whatever it is that they're doing, this gets everyone moving, grabbing tools and pieces of equipment and scampering back down the tunnel towards what is presumably the exit. Those still fitting the beam, along with the two men apparently in charge of this operation, will be the last to exit.

Jules is all too happy to scoop up a lantern in either hand once the support beam is gone from her shoulders. "What do you think this is?" she hisses at the others as they race out. 'Two minutes' is weirdly specific, in her mind, and she wants out.

The tunnel, for what it's worth, isn't terribly long. It emerges at the base of a giant, circular tower set into an outer wall. It's rife with motion out here, with people scurrying about on foot in similar dress. There's a pile of conical helmets just outside the entrance, left there by the miners who wanted one less thing to deal with in the stuffy passages. The ground slopes steeply away not far beyond, and in the once-green valley made muddy by platoons of troops, tents, cavalry, and foot soldiers gather below this plateau.

"I have no idea," Ravn murmurs and then grabs the nearest shovel to also make for the exit. He can't run -- but he can sure as hell walk with long strides and in a hurry because bloody hell, what's the rush, man.

And then he gets outside and realises what the damn rush is.

"Fuck."

The historian more shoves than nudges Una and Jules to move, keep on moving, let's move it, move it, move it, like lemurs on Ritalin. "That kind of construction, in sandstone? Crusader castle, Middle East or Mediterranean. Those conical helmets? Muslim troops -- Saracen, most likely. Might be Mameluk. Think Acre, think Krak de Chevaliers, think Fort St Elmo. Whichever one it is, it's about to gain a very big and nasty hole out of which are going to come people in tunics with crosses on and we look like the enemy."

Una dutifully scoops up a shovel and a lantern-- look, why not be an over-achiever?-- and hastens towards the exit, glancing back over her shoulder to make sure that Jules and Ravn are in close proximity, because like hell is she going to get separated from them. Jules' hissed question draws a shake of her head, a head that she is otherwise keeping carefully lowered: keeping heads down is a wise plan when you don't know what's what.

Unlike Ravn, she has no context for this situation. That doesn't mean she doesn't respond to that shove with a dramatic hastening of steps and a wide-eyed glance. It takes her a few moments to get her head around what he's trying to say, but when she does?

"Oh, fuck."

Everyone is getting out of the way, not just the miners coming out of the tunnel they've dug beneath the fortifications. No one wants to be in the immediate vicinity when that thing blows. Jules stoops to grab a helmet, transferring the handle of both lanterns to one hand until she can get it fixed on her head. There's a dirty, sweaty turban to take off, first, but that she leaves lying on the ground. She doesn't have any more context than Crusader castle and enemy, but that's enough to make her swear, too.

Getting those wooden beams lit isn't immediate. They have time to clear out to a suitable distance; time to watch as the smoke starts to come seeping, and then pouring, out of the tunnel. This tower has been compromised to the satisfaction of this side of the ongoing conflict. When it comes crashing down, kicking clouds of dirt and stone into the air, it meets the cheers of the watching army.

"Allahu akbar!"

"Long live Sultan Baybars!"

This is one happy crowd.

Ravn is right--almost. Except instead of crusaders rushing out, it's Muslim cavalry rushing in.

"Baybars," Ravn murmurs. "Mameluks, then. Which puts us in Syria, or what's going to become Syria. Which means -- Krak de Chevaliers. I suggest we really get the hell out of here if we can, because Mameluk cavalry or Crusader knights, menial labourers like us are just so much obstacle to be trampled in passing."

He manages a cheerful, "Long live the Sultan!" lest anyone around them gets the wrong idea -- and then tries to look around for a way away from the carnage that's about to happen. History lesson continues on the go, because it's somewhat important to immediate decision making here: "Whatever it is we're doing, it's only part of the siege. The castle doesn't actually surrender until the Grand Master of the Knights Hospitaller talks the Christian defenders into accepting some kind of 'fine but we get to leave alive' deal. I don't remember the details, the Crusades aren't my field."

"... please tell me they didn't just blow up our door back home again."

Una's deep knowledge of this era of history is minimal, and her comprehension of the intricacies of the crusades, and the region in general, is basic too. She can sidestep out of the way of the celebrating crowd with the best of them, though, and hastily set down her lantern and her shovel to empty her hands.

"Okay," she says. "So... we get out of here? Is that going to be a problem? Syria... it's not exactly hospitable, is it? And that's just the landscape, not the fact that we don't really fit in here, not with either side."

Jules is quite happy to follow Ravn's advice and high-tail it out of here. "Crusades," she breathes, wondering. "Goddamn."

A pause. "Somehow I suspect neither of you will be terribly surprised to hear me say, 'at least we're not on the side of the white European conquerors.'"

As miners and sappers, this trio (and the others who look like them, laden with shovels and covered in dirt) isn't expected to immediately join the fray. It's cavalry that truly excels in this army, with lightly armored horsemen wielding bows riding past towards the gap that the toppled tower leaves behind. They can't exactly just ride on through, yet; first, foot soldiers will have to clear a path amid the rubble. They can, however, shoot anyone in range in the outer ward -- while looking out for the arrows that will be fired in return from the inner ring of walled defenses. Peasantry from the surrounding countryside have taken refuge in this outer ring -- peasantry that perhaps is now regretting their decisions, given the imminent influx of Baybars' forces.

They should probably help clear rubble, if they're good workers. Probably. But who's going to stop them from simply slipping away in all this confusion?

Past the siege machines, the mangonels, some kind of celebration has commenced. These men look far more put together than the miners from the tunnel: engraved armor, curved swords, fine fabric. One of them has a red cloak pinned at the throat, standing out not only because he's tall for this era, but because he's speechifying.

"...shall grant us a glorious victory. It has already begun! Look, the castle of the heathens crumbles before the might of our armies. It is our destiny, from the bravest knight to the humble miner digging in the dark -- like these three, here!"

Oh yes. That's Baybars, the fourth Mamluk Sultan of Egypt, Father of Conquest, who is suddenly sweeping his ringed hand out to indicate them.

"Not really surprised at all," Ravn murmurs with faint amusement. "We're on the side of the brown North African conquerors instead, and I'm pretty certain the Syrians wishes we'd all go fight somewhere else. Unless we are Syrians in which case we likely got drafted at sword point."

He pauses and glances at Una. "We must look the part. To them, I mean. We seem to understand and speak -- Arabic, I suspect, though I'm actually not sure, the invasion force is Egyptian. No one has blinked at us turning up, not even when two of us are women. I don't know if Muslim women covered their faces in this time, but I do know that Christian married women covered their hair. We're probably three Syrian blokes from the nearest village as far as anyone here are concerned. Unfortunately, I don't feel like that comes with knowledge of how to survive in the Syrian wilderness -- even if we're not in the desert."

Ravn falls quiet as they round a corner and the siege engines; he doesn't know a whole lot about Mameluk heraldry and uniforms but it's given that whoever's giving the speech is the guy in charge.

It's every historian's dream: Face to face with one of the really influential blokes from history. Except, what historians really want is to have unlimited access to the thoughts of such a man -- not to be at his mercy.

Grifter gonna grift. The best way to stay unnoticed by important people is to look unimportant. "Allahu akbar!" he exclaims with an awestruck expression. It's not the Prophet looking at him out of all the people in the whole wide world -- but it's close enough. Right?

"Huh," says Una, casting a dubious glance down at herself. She doesn't feel any different, but it's not an unrealistic assumption: instead of looking like a scandalously dressed woman, sure, why not actually look like an appropriately dressed (and complectioned) man? The Veil has done worse to her. "Okay. So that's one thing in our--"

Favour.

What's not in their favour, of course, is what lies beyond the corner, with all that attention that now focuses on them. They'd better hope Ravn is right, and they really do look the part to everyone else, otherwise this is likely to get... messy. Quickly.

"All hail!" she agrees, floundering over her words. Ravn can be the spokesperson; this is definitely a much better plan. Her element, this is not.

"Uh." Jules is apparently the dumb miner of the group, because she just stares at the Sultan before ducking her head.

Whatever it is that the Veil has done to them, it clearly intends them to be participants in this historical drama. Getting killed as European interlopers or assaulted as women on a bloodthirsty battlefield is at cross-purposes to that. There is diversity in these forces, starting with the Sultan himself: fair-skinned and blue-eyed. The Mamluks weren't native Egyptians, after all, but a force composed of Turkic, Circassian, Georgian, and Crimean slaves who formed the backbone of the state and military in Egypt and Syria both before and after their rise to power. The men assembled around Baybars -- commanders, most likely -- speak to that diversity. There's a few with classic Arab looks or the darker skin of the Egyptians in addition to the paler complexions of the Mamluks. And they're all staring at the three so-called miners upon whom the Sultan has turned his attention. One, behind Baybars' back, even smirks a little for how the lowly have been singled out for majestic attention.

Baybars is making an example, here. "All victory comes from Allah," he intones as an acknowledgment of Ravn's exclamation. "Allahu akbar. But The Victorious wishes us to rejoice, hmm? 'Ali! The robes!"

Someone nearby scampers to heed the Sultan's call. Or rather, he would scamper if he wasn't directing two underlings to deposit a wooden chest before Baybars. It's priceless and beautiful, inlaid with mother-of-pearl and inset pieces of wood of differing colors that form mosaic designs. 'Ali lifts the lid, murmuring an appropriate honorific for the Sultan. He bends and lifts out the first of several robes, some more embroidered or of richer fabric than others. The first one, judging by those that follow, is pretty plain. This is the one that he directs 'Ali to pass on to the miners as a token bestowal of his favor.

"Your part is over," 'Ali notes in an undertone as he passes over the garment to whomever will hold out their arms first. He's completely dismissive, in the way of a court official who deigns to converse with the peasantry. "Get out of here."

One robe for three. Are they supposed to share it?

"Thank you, my lord," Ravn murmurs and holds on the robe while quickly moving away -- and motioning for his two companions to move right along.

Don't stand around waiting for the big lords to notice you. Generally, when you're a peasant or a day labourer in medieval times, the last thing you want is the attention of the big lords. Big lords have a real twisted sense of humour and entitlement.

He waits to be out of earshot and sight before trying to explain. "I don't know much -- but I've read about a custom where any man had the right to walk up to the sultan of some other Arabic-sphere country, and ask for a robe and a house, and he'd be given what the sultan felt he was worth. There is some religious significance here that I don't entirely understand, but the point is, take the damn clothing and go. It's all symbolic."

Una sucks in a delighted breath at the appearance of that chest; it really is beautiful, and as distracted and uncomfortable as she is, that's something to focus on. It's a little disappointing, therefore, that the plainest of the robes is the one that gets handed over-- but fine. (It's not as if she's racing Ravn for being the first to hold out arms either, mind: she seems faintly relieved when he does so, allowing her to escape that, and is absolutely more than willing to scarper on cue).

"A symbolic robe? That's--" Una hesitates, because she's very carefully not going to be dismissive of someone else's culture. "Okay. So... now what?"

The robe is very nice, still, dyed a rich, saturated red. It's just not embroidered and otherwise embellished to demonstrate just how much the wearer has incurred the Sultan's favor. It's definitely nicer than what they're all wearing at this particular moment.

"Go, go," Jules hisses, echoing the sentiment of, well, everyone. Interlopers and court officials alike. "I don't know, somewhere where it doesn't look like we're going to be put to work again or made to storm the castle."

Their options, in lieu of joining the surge into Krak des Chevaliers: down the steep slope towards the encampment, try to sneak around the gigantic castle and go down the back way (actually, the front way -- the point being, not the place where the action currently is), or down the slope once again, but this time strike out for the countryside.

Choose your own adventure!

"If there's a story we need to play out, then we should probably head down into the crowd with our fancy new robe," Ravn murmurs. "But if the story was getting our fancy new robe, then maybe we should just head down the hill side and look for anything that bears some resemblance to a door, and hope that it takes us back home."

From his tone, the Dane favours door number two, if you'll excuse the horrific pun.

He glances back at the other two. "The historian in me wants to go explore all of this. Wants to stick around another week or two, see when the place actually falls. But the historian in me tends to forget that he isn't invited to a bird's eye point of view and a helpful David Attenborough-clone narrating the proceedings. Sticking around in a medieval army means getting handed a weapon and expected to fight. I don't want to have to stab anyone. Or get stabbed by them."

"Chances of us being lucky enough that just getting the robe was enough?" Una's answer to her own question is audible enough: she thinks it unlikely.

"But I still vote getting the hell away from here, yes. I don't know much more about fighting than that you're supposed to stick people with the pointy bit, and I'm not even sure I can do it." Mentally; emotionally. Maybe even physically too, though it's hard to tell.

She casts a wary glance around them, shaking her head. "I just don't know enough about where we are. What we should do."

“No stabbing.” Jules is firm on this point. “I have no effing clue, except Ravn, I kinda want to see you try on that robe. But let’s stay out of their way.”

She strikes out down the steep slope, minding her footing. They’re going to have to get down one way or another—it’s that or try to gain entrance to the keep, except that that’s where the stabbing is happening. The hillside provides an excellent vantage point. There are countless tents below them, slim standards waving in the spring breeze. Beyond the encampment, crops are green, abandoned by those who were tending them, but still thriving where they haven’t been ruined by an army passing through or foraging for food.

And then there’s a tiny dot of a person, heading towards the camp. It’s not just distance that makes the figure small: that’s a child who’s about to wander into a military operation.

"... Why me?" Ravn glances at the robe. It's because he's carrying it, isn't it? Well volunteered, soldier.

He doesn't stand still to argue, though. Any second more than necessary spent standing around debating increases the risk of somebody handing him a shamshir or whatever those swords are called, and expecting him to take part in the battle for the ramparts. Never in his life has Ravn felt more pacifist.

He feels a pang at the sight of the fields, abandoned by their tenders -- possibly because the three of them likely are such tenders, herded along as labour force, leaving families behind to starve amidst plenty.

And then there's a Syrian kid wandering up towards the battle. "Bloody hell. Think we found our story? Let's grab that kid and go."

"You're the one who accepted it," points out Una, who is very pointedly not volunteering to wear the thing (or, for that matter, carry it). Mostly, though, she doesn't seem especially inclined to chatter: the foreignness of this landscape and this story, so completely disconnected from anything she has context for, has clearly shaken her a little. What little she knows of the crusades comes from the other side, and even then... it is very little indeed.

Nor is she particularly fond of clambering down the slope, especially not in unfamiliar clothes, but that's at least a little concrete. She hesitates, though, when Ravn speaks: it takes her a moment or two more to properly register where he's looking, and then her exhale is a sharp one. "Aw shit," she says. "I think you're right. We better find a good, safe place to leave him or her before our Door shows up, though."

Kittens is one thing. Stray children? That's an entirely different kettle of fish.

“Because I think it would suit you,” Jules says innocently, which means it’s anything but.

The child is either oblivious, or (more likely) curious. Fearless, too, as she romps towards the camps. Those pennants are pretty, and stuff is going on over there.

“Shit,” Jules swears as she too spots the child. “Rescue mission was not on my agenda today.”

It doesn’t look like anyone from the army is paying attention—yet. The camp isn’t fully emptied, but there are still people about, either gearing themselves to join in on the attack or fulfilling other duties. Someone’s gotta cook. It’s only a matter of time, though.

"Is it ever?" Ravn starts down the hill, towards the child. He's not a child person. In this, he is truly his father's son: Children are mysterious things that turn up at around age ten, when the nanny retires. He has no idea what makes them work in the interim between getting born and outgrowing the nursery.

He glances back at Una over his shoulder. "We can't take a Syrian kid to 2022. But we can get them off the battlefield, at least."

"I was very, very firmly of the opinion that this was not an option, yes," confirms Una, following Ravn down the hill; her tone is dry, but there's a note of tension there too. "I just don't want us to-- you know." Save a kid from one thing just to leave them in a worse position, presumably. She slips a little, slowing down to avoid tripping and falling: that would also be a worse position, albeit a different one.

"We could give the kid the robe. Maybe playing dress-up will be a good distraction?"

She's not yet close enough to shout out.

The young girl has a good head start of the the trip as the traipse down the hillside, and before they can reach the camp, she’s slipped into the rows of tents and disappeared from view. It’s a great maze for playing hide and seek, and a lot less fun when trying to find someone fast, especially someone small with a knack for getting into things.

As it turns out, the thing the girl’s getting into is the food supplies. Dark-haired, shabbily dressed, and definitely younger than ten, the girl squats beside a campfire that’s presently unattended. She’s found herself a pot of lentils, which she attacks with a big wooden ladle, eating straight out of the cooking vessel.

Ravn doesn't rush up to stop her from what may be her first meal in God only knows how long. Instead, he pauses a bit away, holding on to the robe under one arm, and tries to just kind of blend in with the rest of the hubbub of the encampment.

"I figure we should stick around and rescue the kid when some inevitable lentil owner does turn up," he murmurs, and tries to keep his voice quiet enough that only his two companions hear. "Then we can do the There you are, Suleima! routine, grab the kid and run. Or even use the robe as payment for what she ate. Maybe that's the whole point."

"Mmm," agrees Una, drawing her steps to a halt not far from Ravn, eyes fixed upon the girl. "I don't want to scare her." That means keeping her voice low, and her body mostly out of sight, though there's a sharp line to her shoulders that suggests that maybe-- just maybe-- she's aching to get closer and to engage properly. Unlike Ravn, Una's reasonably comfortable with kids.

"And she looks hungry. No wonder."

Jules doesn’t rush forward either once they’ve spotted the young girl. She puts a hand on Una’s shoulder—comfort, caution, or both. “Let her eat first,” she says quietly. “Whatever else is going to happen will happen soon enough, and at least she’ll a full belly.”

The pot is far too large for the girl to polish off completely, even as hungry as she is. She’s still clinging to the pot, though, as an older man comes into view from behind one of the tents. Spying her, his expression twists into something both offended and hard as he marches up to grab her by the arm. “Girl! You steal from me?”

She yelps, letting go of the pot but not the ladle. Ineffectively, she beats at the man with the wooden spoon until he easily snatches it away and gives her a sharp blow with it in return on her back as he yanks her to her feet.

“Who are you?” he demands. “What are you doing here? Who’s your master?”

And that's when Ravn springs into motion. It's such a small motion -- and invisible to the naked eye of anyone standing near him, too. A flex of his mind -- and that's a log from the cooking fire falling away, no doubt because this clumsy fellow kicked at it in his rush to get to the child. Watch it roll -- into the canvas of the tent behind him.

"Look out!" Ravn cries and steps forward. "Your tent!"

Una's shoulder is tense beneath Jules' hand, but she stays still: that doesn't mean it's not hard to watch, nor that she doesn't still wince as the man comes into view and-- worse!-- hits the girl with her spoon.

"No!" she she says, horrified and unable to control herself, as the burning log slides towards the canvas. Has she recognised Ravn's flex of power? It's so hard to tell.

"Let her go."

The man quickly turns when Ravn cries out, eyes widening as he sees the flames start to lick the walls of his tent. It’s this that makes him release the girl, not Una’s cry or command. He drops the spoon too, rushing to kick the log away from the fabric towards the open ground. The walls have caught, though, and the fire climbs fast, too fast for him to pull down the tent wall and try to smother it. His hands burn as he tries; the tent resists, well-grounded from each side.

“Fire!” he yelps. “Help!”

“Shit,” swears Jules, springing forward. Even though he was intent on beating the child just a moment before, a fire roaring through camp isn’t something she wants to see. She rushes to help bring down the tent from one of the other sides, the idea being to smother the flames before they can spread.

“Fire!”

The cry starts to ripple through camp, and more people begin to appear. Too little, too late; the entire panel is now ablaze, and these tents are close together.

The girl, meanwhile, stands stock-still even after her captor’s attention has been turned elsewhere. She’s too young to realize how she could turn the spreading fire to her advantage and slip away. Instead, bewildered and scared, she starts to cry, screaming in fright.

And that's why Ravn scoops up the kid. He knows that if she starts trashing about he's in trouble but he's not going to stand there and watch her get beaten -- or burn. He runs with her in his arms, just some ten, twenty, fifty meters away, whispering, "Don't be afraid, I'll save you!"

Then he stops and turns back -- to see if his companions are coming, and to see how much damage he's done. He did not mean to set the entire encampment on fire, after all -- and it's well within his power to manipulate matter and space enough to do a thing or two about spreading fires. Such as, say, move the oxygen molecules they feed on.

Una is not brave. Una is not a firefighter. Una keeps a fire extinguisher in her kitchen, because at least she knows how to use that (and because she's played enough of The Sims, in her youth, to have learned a lesson). Ravn picks up the child and runs, and Una? She abandons the man and the tent, and even her housemate, too, and legs it after them.

At least the child is safe?

As more people come to join the firefighting efforts, Jules relinquishes her task to another, glancing back to see where her friends are. They're leaving in a hurry, and Jules is not going to be left behind. She runs after them, bringing up the rear.

The child is still screaming, still sobbing, but she wraps her small arms around Ravn's neck and hangs on for dear life. "Baba, baba," she cries out between her big gulps for breath.

And behind them, the fire is still spreading. It's spring, with the rain that brings, but it's not raining now, and the tents have had time over the past several days to dry out.

Ravn grits his teeth because the little girl's fists in his clothes and his skin hurts; a sensation not unlike being tapped repeatedly with a cattle prod. He tries to focus through the distracting pain -- move the air. Create a gust of wind away from the camp. You're a 21st century man, beneath this Syrian look. You know how air molecules work. Just because you can't see them doesn't mean they're not there. Move them. Make the fire lose fuel, and if you can't do that, make it travel in a direction not full of tents. Just for a little while. Enough for others to pour water, move tents, do whatever they need to do. There has to be some kind of contingency plan down there. If there wasn't? One crusader with a flaming arrow and end of siege, bam. (Or well, whoosh).

"Here," says Una, reaching for Ravn: she'll take the child. She's maybe half aware of what he's doing (trying to do?), and maybe she should have tried reaching sooner, but now is better than never, right? A glance is cast back for Jules, too, and with relief; they're all here. They're all safe.

You know, aside from the burning, fiery death.

There is water nearby, and a number of men have begun dipping large cloths in it as they work on smothering the flames. Reserves from cisterns, then, and not an immediately available stream or river from which they can cart buckets. Others work on bringing down tents that haven't caught fire, removing further kindling from the path of the fire. It would all be easier, more controllable, if the majority of the forces weren't off assisting in the siege, but enough remain to bring the fire under control, especially with Ravn's unknown assistance.

The girl suffers the transfer readily, still crying for her father, but comforted just in the act of being held. She's not screaming anymore, though she buries her wet face in Una's neck.

"Jesus," Jules sighs. "What do we do now? What do we do with her?"

Ravn grits his teeth and focuses on what he's doing; moving things he has to imagine because he can't even see them. It's not going to be long before the 'spell' fails.

"See if you can get her to tell us who her father is. Or where he is." He glances briefly at Una and the little girl. "If she can't, I guess we go the way she came from -- and see if anyone is there. She's young enough to run off after something shiny and forget which way to go back, isn't she?"

Years of babysitting experience have given Una some frame of reference for dealing with sobbing children, though this kind of terror is-- well, a little new. At least she knows how to hold the girl, and how to murmur soothing words to her. "Hey," she says. "Hey, it's okay. You're safe now. Your belly is full, and you're not going to get hurt, and everything is fine. Where's your-- uh, baba? Can we find him? Shhh, shhh. It's fine. Everything's okay, now."

Jules lets Una handle the kid, though she steps close enough to give one reassuring pat on the back before she retreats to stand by Ravn and ask, "How're you doing?" The running, the carrying, the touching.

The girl seems to understand Una. Either the Veil is translating, or the Arabic dialects are close enough not to cause any problems. "Huneek," she says, lifting her head and twisting to point at the castle. There.

"Going to be glad to get a rest," Ravn murmurs through gritted teeth, and focuses on shifting the very wind. It's already losing traction because that's how the human mind works -- if he imagines moving every molecule, then there's nothing left to move. Oh, sure, he can tell himself that that's what wind is -- new molecules of oxygen and whatever else being sucked in to fill a vacuum. But do that, and his mind will picture things moving in the wrong direction, and -- let's just not go there. Keep going, wind. Even if you peter out shortly.

He glances back. "In the castle?"

There? In the castle? Una casts a wide-eyed glance back at Jules and Ravn. Uh, help?

"What about your mom, then? Can we find your mom? Or someone else, someone who's here and close by and not--"

Not in the freaking castle.

The girl solemnly nods. Yes, there, in the castle. As for her mother--

"Dead." She says it matter-of-factly, one hand releasing its grip to scrub away her tears.

"Aw, fuck." That's Jules.

Ravn looks at the girl on Una's arm. Is she Syrian? Is her father a Christian invader? Is there even any way to tell? The Knights Hospitaller recruit from all over Europe; the main bodies of the Order are the French and the Castilian langues -- Provencals and Spaniards from the Mediterranean side of the country. Can you even tell if the child has a father from the other end of the Mediterranean? Probably not. The irony is thick here; the invading Sultan is blue-eyed, the Christian defenders look just like the people whose country they're fighting in, and the only thing all of this proves to Ravn is that it's all bloody stupid.

Which leads to the question that really matters: If the kid's father is a Hospitaller, or one of their servants and men-at-arms, why is she out here? She's either managed to get lost somehow -- or her mother fled or was thrown out, and died in the attempt to escape the siege.

In either case, there's no guarantee anyone in there is going to want her back. And quite a lot of guarantee that three Syrian workers whom no one on the inside has seen before may end up in substantial trouble. "I really don't think we're doing her any favours taking her into the fighting," the not-Dane murmurs. "Maybe we can find some settlement away from the siege, where we can find people who may know who her mother was. Uncles, aunts, something."

Una adjusts the position of the girl in her arms just minutely, but makes a face over her head at her two companions. Dead? Dead is... not good. Dead is unhelpful. Dead is...

Dead is dead.

"I'm sorry, sweetheart," she says. "Do you have any other family around? Where are you staying? We can't take you to the castle... that's dangerous, and your baba wouldn't want you to be hurt. Is there somewhere else you can go?"

The child nods and points, this time to the northwest. The castle sits at the foothills of low, rolling mountains, surrounded by a green valley. It's rich with agriculture, which means that there's villages studded around the landscape. She names one such place. The name is Arabic, which presumably ties her to this place, these origins, instead of a more distant part of the Mediterranean world -- though what her father is doing in the castle is anyone's guess.

"'Ammi," she says: her father's brother.

Ravn sighs in relief. "Let's go find her ammi. That sounds like a far safer plan -- for her, and for us."

He's happy to start down the path too, sultan's robe under one arm. Anything that puts more distance between himself and the siege, the better. Medieval history is a hell of a lot of fun -- and more so when you're not within mangonel range.

"Your ammi? Okay. Let's go find--" She trails off, apparently realising in time that she's not entirely sure she's translating that much. Him? Her? Well, really, it doesn't matter, does it? "--them."

At least the child's not too heavy, making it relatively easy for her to trot after Ravn, albeit adjusting the child's position every so often just to be sure (dropping her would be bad, of course). "Were you with your ammi before?" she asks. "Today? Did you run away?! Looking for your baba?"

Jules still has that oh, shit, here we go again expression painted all over her face as the three -- now four -- of them start to head away from the camp in search of the child's guardians. It slides towards resignation, though the longer they walk, the more she starts to look around and take in the sights: both the siege in the distance and the green valley they walk within.

The girl nods, very serious now that she's stopped crying. Her cheeks are still wet, and her eyes are puffy, but now that the immediate danger has passed and she's with reasonably comforting adults, she seems okay. "He left and didn't come back," she tells Una. "He said he was coming back."

It's difficult to not wince as they walk. A child, abandoned by a father who didn't really think her his responsibility? It's difficult to not empathise -- and at the same time he feels like an arse because yes, it strikes a dozen of chords in himself; but Ravn never ended up alone and barefoot in a warzone. He walks in silence for a bit, feeling like the word #FirstWorldProblems ought to be tattooed on his forehead.

He tries to focus on the beauty of the valley instead. He's never actually been to this part of the world -- his trip down through Europe lead from Malta to the air and the US. He's visited Petra in Jordan, and a couple of other places on the jet set circuit -- but Krak des Chevaliers remained on the 'to do some year or other' list. He wonders if the valley looks the same today. Climate change is a thing -- and man-made climate change more so. Palestine used to be cedar forest.

"I'm sure he'll be back soon," promises Una, though there's a hesitation in her tone: she knows all too well she can't promise that, and indeed, probably already regrets the words. "And even if he's not, we're going to get you safe and sound, okay? You're as safe as you can be, with us." How safe that is... well, who can say, really.

She casts a quick glance to both companions, unable to properly shrug the way she might like to, lest she upset the poor child. The landscape is new to her; the war they've ended up in equally so. It's fascinating... but she's also deeply, deeply distracted.

This child has no doubt seen things. Who knows how much she understands, but what she knows now is this: safety. Safety with this trio, who intend to deliver her home.

The village sits behind a low rise, sheltered from view until they reach the crest. Normally, there would be sheep out grazing, but no one’s taking chances with their livestock while there’s an army in the vicinity—indeed, if there’s any livestock left. It looks half-emptied. There should be children running about, women baking in the outdoor ovens. Instead, there’s a couple men standing guard and raising their voices in alert when this small party appears.

“Hey! Who are you?”

"Countrymen," Ravn returns because he is historian enough to suspect that the local Syrians don't actually give a very large barrel of figs about who's running the show up in the fortified castle as long as they get left to tend their sheep and their farms in peace. The Hospitallers weren't known to be particularly bad masters. They weren't known to be particularly good, either. And feudal Europe, which they came from, sucked. Just as feudal Egypt where the other army is from. On the whole, everything sucks.

He glances at the child on Una's arm and then holds out his hands to show that he's unarmed. "This child says her ammi lives in this village. She was being beaten in the army camp."

Safety. Una knows what it's like, to hunt for safety. She holds on tight, murmuring quiet words to the child as often as she can, given the efforts of walking. Still-- she's not all that unfit, despite herself: cycling everywhere instead of driving will do that.

It doesn't mean she doesn't adjust the poor child yet again as they come to a halt. She'll let Ravn do the public-facing talking, though: she otherwise simply inclines her head towards them politely, and murmurs, "See? Nearly home and safe."

The men don't fully relax, times being what they are, but they offer hospitality nonetheless and beckon for the strangers to come down the hill and into the village proper. "Come, come. Who's her ammu?"

The girl has started wiggling in an attempt to get down, now that she's home. "Abu Ziad," she calls down, high voice carrying. "Abu Ziad!"

And so the cry goes out, one of the shepherd-sentinels going to find and fetch the man in question. When he appears, bushy-bearded and barrel chested, his surprise is evident. Apparently no one had noticed the girl was missing yet. "Salma!" he scolds. "Where did you go?" The story comes out: a girl in search of her father, who didn't come back from the castle; the lentils; the fire; the rescue.

In the midst of this, Abu Ziad welcomes the three to come sit and drink coffee with him, squatting outside one of the humble abodes. The invitation is offered to all three; once again, no one seems to notice that two of the strangers are women, which would likely call for a different sort of hospitable protocol. "Some of the villagers went up to the castle to see if the Franks would offer sanctuary," Abu Ziad tells them as he carefully prepares the coffee over a brazier. First the grounds, and then sugar, boiled just so. He pulls it off the coals at various moments and then returns it to boil and froth again. Coffee and cardamom fill the air. "My brother went. We argued about it. The castle has never been breached, but still, the Franks. The Sultan's army is Muslim, so surely they will not harm us." It's a toss-up, at the end of the day, one with no certain answers. All the village wants is safety, and in this moment they don't much care who controls the land as long as they're left unharmed. "He meant to scope it out, yanni, see if the Franks would allow it, then come back for his daughter. What has happened?" He looks at his visitors with clear worry, bushy brows drawn together, before carefully beginning to pour the thick, dark coffee into tiny cups.

"The Sultan's army dug in under the fortifications and set them on fire." Ravn has no particular urge to mention that these three were part of that effort. The more Abu Ziad thinks of them as just fellow Syrians? All the better. "The keep still stands -- but it will not stand much longer."

No need to mention that the digging will not be the reason that Krak des Chevaliers finally surrenders; a (very likely faked) missive from the Grand Master of the Knights Hospitaller will be, ordering them to surrender to Baybars' army.

He sips his coffee because while cardamom in coffee is not something he's accustomed to, he is finding that he likes it; the aromas mingle surprisingly well. "We do not know if Salma's father is alive. She wandered into the camp of the sultan's army, and a man wanted to beat her for eating food that did not belong to her. She is only a child, how would she understand?"

Una is a little reluctant to let her burden go, but-- Salma wants to be let down, and who is Una to deny her the opportunity, really? It's not a bad thing, really: her arms are beginning to ache. None of what is shared is particularly encouraging; her brows knit, and the line of her mouth is tight and sharp.

She presses her hands to her lap until there's coffee to grasp on to instead, and this she lifts towards her nose to smell, first, and then taste. Sugar is not something she usually takes, but this? This is good.

"He didn't much hurt her," she's quick to report. "We stopped that from happening. I hope her father is safe. I don't know-- what's going to happen."

Jules watches the child run off once her uncle has kissed her cheeks and told her to stay close, to go play with her cousins. Her eyes track them, a mixed group that quickly engages in reenactment of Salma’s adventure. How quickly fear fades, now that she’s safe, and becomes the stuff of childhood play. Jules takes her coffee cup when it’s offered and inhales deep with an appreciative sigh.

Abu Ziad’s sigh is far more labored, one of grief to come. “God only knows,” he murmurs. The set phrase speaks less of faith and more of resignation. How many conquests and battles has this village seen, by now? How many are still to come?

“Bless you for returning my brother’s daughter. Please, stay the night. You are my guests; my home is your home. And perhaps you will tell us the story of how you came by such a beautiful garment, yes? There is a story?” The robe Ravn still carries might have been the plainest of the Sultan’s gifts for his entourage, but it’s still miles above what anyone in this village wears. Abu Ziad would offer hospitality regardless, but it wouldn’t hurt if some of these strangers’ good favor rubbed off on the village.

"The robe?" Ravn looks at it. He had all but forgotten that he was carrying it. He looks at the other two, and remembers the whole thing about maybe not making too many changes to history.

"The sultan gave it to the nearest three workers," he says carefully. "That happened to be us. But we are just labourers, not meant for something this fine. Maybe this is Allah's way of providing for Salma's future if her parents cannot."

"Take it," agrees Una, firmly. Changing history? Pfft. "For Salma. You are-- kind, to offer us hospitality. We did only what, uh, Allah would wish us to. Only what any good person ought to." Allah? Mohamed? It's fair to say that Una's grasp on Islamic theology is tenuous at best.

"We wouldn't wish to impose on you in any way."

She's still got half an eye on Salma, casting glances out that way in the hopes of seeing her, every so often, lost amidst the other children. She's safe. Safe.

"I couldn't," Abu Ziad says immediately, eyes jumping from the robe itself to those who hold and present it. "It isn't meant for me." He holds his hands up as if to ward off the gift, to stall it.

Jules chimes in then, leaning forward in her urgency. "Please. Take it. We don't need it. Take it for Salma."

Abu Ziad hesitates, turning to look over his shoulder at his young niece as she plays with his own children. His orphaned niece, as he knows in his heart of hearts. The niece who has become his responsibility in a way he couldn't have foreseen. A sigh. "Ya Allah," he says, shaking his head at the same time as he accepts it.

"For Salma."

"For Salma," Ravn echoes. "This is the way. This robe was never meant for us. It is Allah's good will bestowed by the Sultan, and it should be bestowed on those who need it most."

He feels quite a bit of secret relief. Oh, sure, an authentic 12th century Egyptian robe would look lovely in Engelsholm's collection of weird loot from all over the world. It could probably be slipped right in and no one would even wonder. Or it could be turned into Una's bath robe because no questions asked. But everything they take with them back -- how do you know that you're not changing history?

A winged dick is one thing; a kitten another. But both of those are dime-a-dozen. A sultan's ritual robe -- is not.

"For Salma." Una echoes it too, satisfied by Abu Ziad's acceptance. "Raise her well. Don't let her curiosity die. If you can. I know-- I know it's hard, sometimes."

She inhales the smell of her coffee, the redolence of the cardamom comforting despite being so foreign-- not the spice itself, of course, but its inclusion. She watched that coffee being made; she may well replicate it, now. Not now: but back home. When they get there.

Of course, they have changed history. Perhaps not the history of Krak des Chevaliers, soon to become Qalaat al-Hisn in the span of ten days. But they've just secured the future for a little girl who was destined to grow up a poor orphan, given her a dowry far beyond that of an average villager.

And now there's no way that they can escape Abu Ziad's hospitality. They will stay the night. He won't have it any other way.

And when they retire, when the dark of night rolls in lit by the uncanny red-orange glow of fires at the castle and in the camp, the Door will open for them there in the empty hut they've been appointed. Salma's father's house, emptied of his presence. This world will peel away, permitting them to vanish as quietly as they came, changing the life of one little Syrian girl for good.