Like The Tides

         It is the age of Chosen Ones, Heroes, and Champions.  Villains, Archenemies, and Antagonists.  Of Allies, Warriors, Elves, Wizards, and Magical Powers.  It always had been, and it always will be.

         My name is Zara.  I was created especially for this world.  Very soon, I will die.

         

         I'm the Turncoat of my band.  They give me odd looks and keep away from me whenever possible.  Right now, early in our Quest, we're all still alive.  Unlikely Hero, Jim; the Wise Old Magician, Tordane; Richard, Missing Royalty; Ironblock, the Inhuman Assistant (dwarf, of course); Feisty Princess Jennifer; Zoomer, Streetwise Assistant; and me, Zara.  The typical questers.

         It's the first night with us all together.  We've stopped at an inn called The Dancing Duck.  Throughout the day, since no one wants to speak to me, I've been watching the others.  So far, FP Jennifer seems to prefer Jim over Richard, but that could change at any moment.  Feisty Princesses are all the same, spoiled to the core and capricious as butterflies.  Either way, she will marry one of them by the time our Quest is over. 

         Ironblock likes no one.  Tordane is the gruff, quiet sort of Magician/Mentor, and he growls, especially when I speak.  Zoomer constantly plays tricks, mostly on - naturally - me.

         Is this why Turncoats are what they are?  Perhaps if someone trusted us farther than we could be punched, we wouldn't turn on our bands.  As is, I see no reason for loyalty to them.  Jim is clueless, Tordane a cretin, Jennifer an airhead.  Richard, perhaps, can be redeemed; but he is Royalty, and therefore out of my reach.  Very far away...

         "Zara," Zoomer shouts, and I turn in time to get a bundle of dirty clothes in my face.  "Take those to be washed, will you?"

         "We're not supposed to watch them, dingbat," I mutter, but toss the clothes to the waiting innkeeper regardless.

         Tordane gets us two rooms, one for the males, one for the females.  Wonderful.  I get to share a room with Lady Ludicrous.  Richard must see my look of utter hopelessness, because he gives my hand a furtive pat.  "Good luck," he whispers, before going on with Jim, Tordane, Ironblock, and Zoomer. 

         I startle and blink after the menfolk, only to be roused by Jennifer, clearing her throat.  I turn to her and step back at the anger in her expression. 

         "Stay out of my way, Traitor," she hisses.  "I may not choose Richard, but he won't be yours, either.  I'll make sure of that."

         With that, she turns on her heel, flaxen hair flying, and stomps upstairs to our room.

         I scowl after her, then turn to the inside of the inn.  Why should I go with her right now?  This building - this city is at my disposal.

         Hmm.  Perhaps I can just... run away.  Forget Jennifer.  Forget Richard.  Forget this whole Quest.  I barely know what Jim is trying to get, anyway.  Why not just leave? 

         My death is coming.  I know.  I can feel it coming, as my anger with the fellowship mounts.  I'll have to betray them soon, and once I do, my death certificate is as good as signed.  But... if I'm not with them, then I won't have to betray them.

         Someone clears their throat behind me.  Quietly, unobtrusively, not Jennifer's harsh hacking.  I turn and see a girl in her late teens - close to my age.  Her clothes are poor and brown.  She must be the innkeeper's daughter.

         "I noticed that," she says quietly.

         I purse my lips and keep my expression vague.  "What?"

         "That little argument." The girl gestures to one of the many empty tables, one of the ones closer to the fireplace.  "Shall we talk?"

         I don't like talking, but this could be part of the Quest.  I follow the girl to the table and sit across from her, relishing the warmth of the fire on my back.

         She leans across the table and folds her hands together, studying me with piercing gray eyes.  Eyes that have seen much more than I can imagine, and suddenly I realize something.

         "You've seen it all before, haven't you?" I murmur.  "The whole thing, coming and going."

         "Like the flow of the ocean tide." She nods, tucking a stray strand of peanut-butter hair behind her ear.  "You come, and you go.  The Questers, I mean.  You're here today, promising peace and harmony and a better life once you get back.  But you never come back."

         "Some of us are dead," I say stonily.

         "Even so." She nods, a smiling playing about her lips.  "It doesn't have to be this way, you know."

         "Of course it does.  It's the way the world turns, the way we're written."

         She shakes her head now.  "I guarantee you, I have never talked to a Quester before.  Much less a Turncoat.  And I dare say I never shall again."

         "But... why--"

         "Because someone has already taken the initiative, changed things."

         I blink at her.  "Richard?"

         "If by Richard you mean the tall, red-haired young man that looks quite dashing in a black cloak."

         My cheeks warm a little.  "Yes, that's Richard."

         She smiles.  "As you said, I've seen it all before now.  I thought I had, anyway.  But now - Zara, you're different.  Perhaps no one else is, perhaps it's just you and Richard.  But that's enough to change the course of your Quest."

         One of the logs behind me collapses, sending a shower of sparks over the grate.  I pull up my legs to avoid getting burned, and snort.  "Jim's Quest, you mean."

         "No, your Quest.  Zara's Quest." The girl smiled.  "How much more Unlikely can you get?  Heroes come as a surprise to no one anymore.  Every boy raised in an orphanage is expected to slay a dragon; every girl in near-slavery is supposed to conquer a Villain.  I've heard every story, Zara, every teary explanation and quietly-spoken horror tale of birth.  Since the beginning of time, I've stayed in The Inn, listening and watching and waiting.  The place changes, perhaps the time, but the Quest and the Players are always the same." She turns to face the fire, the smile fading, replaced by an expression almost... sad.  "It's never the Turncoat, Zara," she whispers.  "It's never the serving girl.  People expect so much from the under-ordinary, the so-called under-previleged.  They never see the ordinary anymore."

         I swallow, hard.  The girl is older than I thought.  How many Heroes has she seen, never to hear from them again except as a distant rumor in a far-off citadel?

         "I'd seen it all, Zara," she murmurs, facing me again.  "Until I saw you."

         The weight of this hits my shoulders like bricks.  "Me."

         "You can change it." She leans across the table, eyes wide, suddenly frantic.  "You can make it different.  Change the story.  If not for me, for yourself."

         I remember the feeling of impending death - my own impending death.  My mind races.  Could I change it, could I really?  Would the Story hold against me, or would it bend? 

         "I'll try," I finally reply, quietly.  It's all I can say.

         She nods, mouth turning up at the corners.  Not really smiling, but close enough.  "Thank you."

         "I'm doing it for my own life," I inform her.  But it's only a half-truth, and by the look in her eyes, I think she knows that.

         "Of course, of course." She stands, brushes her hands off on her worn dress, and looks back at the hall that leads to the rooms.  Her lips twitch again.  I turn to see what she's looking at.

         Richard stands there in the door, his gaze sweeping the room.  He looks worried.  Then his eyes land on me; when he realizes I'm looking back, he ducks out of sight. 

         "You had better go to your room," the girl says.

         "I should." I stand, hoping the warmth in my cheeks is from the fire.  "Thank you... for talking with me."

         "It was my pleasure."

         I hear the complexities of centuries of emotions in her tone, and I half-turn, eyeing her from the corner of my vision.  "What... what's your name?"

         Gratitude breaks her voice.  "Morana."

         "Morana." I roll the name on my tongue.

         It's a Turncoat's name.

         "Good night, Zara," Morana says, and slips away.

         I watch her go, then start for the room.  I'm halfway there before I realize that Richard is still there.  He blushes a red that's almost as dark as his hair.  I can't help but smile.

         I swear, Morana, I'll make sure you haven't seen it all before.