The Years of Apocalypse - A Time Loop Progression Fantasy

She left her family’s apartment in a daze, heart still hammering. She knew there were things she could do, people she could ask. Hells, she could ask anyone, it was Arriroba, she knew half the town. But in that moment, she couldn’t find any words, just that thought repeating over and over: where are they? Where are they? She sat on the wooden steps leading up to her apartment and looked at the ground.

It was Grandpa Irabi who approached her. That’s what everyone called him, even though he had no children or grandchildren, but he was a kind old man who liked looking after people, and everyone in Arriroba had an affection for him that made him family. During the summer festivals, he sat at a different family table every night, and that only because there was one of him.

“Mirian,” he said in that quiet, deep voice of his. As always, his white beard was neatly braided into three rows. “No one expected to see you back. Something’s wrong, then.”

Grandpa Irabi always knew. Mirian said, “Where are they?”

“They’re fine. Their letter must not have reached you yet. Or maybe they wanted it to… they probably wanted it to be a surprise.”

“Mom knows I hate surprises,” Mirian said.

“Sometimes she remembers that. They’re on a trip with Zayd. They came into some money. A nice man with more silver than sense came through town and purchased some of your mother’s woodwork for a very fine price. They’d always wanted to take Zayd on a trip like the one they’d taken you on when you were young, and they wanted to see your graduation. So they set out.”

Mirian’s breath caught in her chest. It was good to know they were safe. But she had wanted to see them. She needed to see them. “Where did they go?” she said in a little voice.

“All around. They left a few weeks ago. I know they were to visit Alkazaria—well, no real way to get anywhere without going there first. Then they were going to go west. ‘See what’s to be seen,’ your father said. They, ah, didn’t precisely leave an itinerary.”

Of course they didn’t. And why would they? Why would they expect she would abandon the Academy and try to visit them? She stared back down at the ground.

“You want someone to listen to you, you know Grandpa Irabi always has an ear for you,” he said, and reached out to squeeze her hand.

“I know,” Mirian said.

She didn’t even need to say it. Grandpa Irabi knew. “You need some time. Go ahead. I'll have dinner ready for you when you come back. And I’ll see that your new steed behaves.”

Mirian managed a smile, and a nod, and then she was walking to the bluffs.

She was surprised to discover, as she searched inside herself, a new capacity for emptiness. It felt like her ability to feel sorrow had evaporated, like all the emotions in her had been replaced by a dark and empty shell, like if she examined her soul, she would see the flowing light replaced by shadow and stillness.

Mirian made her way up to the trail, just like she had a thousand times before, and soon enough, she was sitting on the cliffside, looking out over the south as the sun sank into the west. Out that way, the bellies of the clouds all ignited, while the rest of them turned that soft velvet purple. The sky’s blue slowly faded, and the first stars came out. Mirian watched this all, and still felt nothing. Thoughts flitted about, but they came and went too fast to notice, gnats buzzing in a cloud.

When she got back to the apartment, Grandpa Irabi had left her a warm meal, just like he said. Logically, she knew it was full of flavor, but she ate it mechanically, and then slept.

When she dreamed, the statue of the Ominian was still watching the sunset. She watched it with Them. When the night had finally settled, the statue turned to face her. In the night’s shadow, she could make out nothing, no features, only its colossal silhouette against the backdrop of stars. Somehow, though, she knew. They understand.

***

In the morning, Mirian went through the motions of taking care of herself. She headed over to the bathhouse—Arriroba still had the traditional structure, as most apartments still lacked running water—and took a much needed dip in one of the heated pools. It was a relief to change into a fresh set of clothes once she was clean. Then she fed Desert Rose a trickle of mana, then herself a light breakfast of bread left over from her journey. She didn’t bother flavoring it with anything.

She found herself going through her room. There was her medallion from winning the regional tournament. There was a pile of old drawings in her desk, with Zayd’s scribbles decorating them. There was a wooden statue of Eintocarst that she’d made in the woodshop her mother worked at, complete with its tiny wooden abacus and her sad attempt at carving a chimera. There were letters from her friends both in preparatory school and her school here in Arriroba. She ran her fingers over the paper.

In the back of her desk, she heard something metal clang. She reached back and pulled out an old ring.

At first, she had no recollection of it. It was a black band with silvery-white decorations that reminded her of wings, or maybe a rib cage. She didn’t even remember what it was made out of; the primary metal was so dark it was nearly black, and the white metal didn’t seem like anything she was used to working with. Professor Torres would be gravely disappointed in her for failing to recognize the material, she was sure. Turning it over in her hands, she found a spot where someone had carved the initials G.N. into the black metal. It was her dad’s ring, she remembered, finally, though those weren’t his initials. Had it belonged to one of his grandparents? She couldn’t remember. She had the faintest recollection of a thin silhouette handing it to her, and holding it tight in her little fist. It had seemed bigger back then. Keep it close, he’d told her, and she had, though she couldn’t remember why. Then she’d hidden it, though she couldn’t remember why either. It was important, though. She knew that. She put the ring back and closed the drawer.

For a few hours, she sat in her family’s apartment, not bothering to open the shutters on the window, not bothering to turn on any glyph lamps. Eventually, she got up and forced herself to go at least through the motions of relaxing. She went around her village, checking in on people she knew, and kept things vague about why she was back. Most of the people she’d known as a child were gone, off to other towns to make a living, but a few remained. She ate well; it was good to taste the flavors of home. It wasn’t miserable. In many ways it was nice.

But it wasn’t fulfilling.

She found herself talking to Grandpa Irabi again. He went on a walk with her through the outskirts of the village, where they passed by groves of fruit trees and vegetable fields. Arcane pumps were busy pulling water from the nearby river, and some of the spray misted onto them, which was a welcome relief from the heat. It wasn’t exactly hot; it was still winter, but she’d grown used to Torrviol’s climate.

“I needed to see them,” she told him. “It’s been almost three years.”

Irabi didn’t say anything, he just kept listening.

Mirian said, “The world ends on the 4th of Duala, and any time I die, I get sent back. It’s been happening for two years. I needed….”

“I understand,” Irabi said.

That was what Mirian loved about Grandpa Irabi. He didn’t question, or prod, or say ‘well that’s really unlikely,’ he just accepted her story, and was there to listen. She told him more about the problems she was having, and he nodded along. He wouldn’t have any solutions, she knew.

When she was done, she sighed. “I suppose I’ll keep going,” she said. “It’s what I have to do.”

“It is,” the old man said. “But for now, you will have to stay here and eat good food with good people. You will join me each night, and we will talk and laugh until the stars come out. You will play with the children, and show them your magic, and watch as they gape with wonder. Then, on the 4th of Duala, we will watch the moon fall together, from the bluffs, and drink wine. We will toast to the Gods, for they have chosen wisely.”

Mirian laughed at that, then burst into tears, then wiped them away. “It’s good to be home,” she said. “At least I have my Grandpa Irabi.”

***

She did just that. Sometimes, as she was showing off a fancy show of raw magic to a group of children, or when she was laughing over a joke at dinner, she could forget the time loop, forget her despair, and just be present. Sometimes, the feelings of joy stayed muted, and she spent an evening in silence, putting on a fake smile in the hope that it might become real.

It became her habit to watch the sunset from the bluffs. There, she could more easily see the magical eruptions as it grew dark. For an hour after the sun set below the horizon, she would count them as they grew more frequent. Soon, it was more than just the eruptions. She saw an aurora glow in the sky, curtains of light that flickered orange and violet, forming strange patterns across the dome of the sky.

Each night, the Divir moon glimmered above, like an especially large and bright star, just southeast. She watched for changes in it. Had it grown a little brighter? Why didn’t it stray from its spot in the sky, when everything everyone knew about physics said it ought to move like the Luamin moon?

She ended each night by meditating, mentally tracing the outline of her soul. It was still bright, despite what she felt.

True to his word, on the last day, Grandpa Irabi brought a bottle of wine when they met on the bluffs. “There’s a beauty to it,” he said.

By then, half of Arriroba had fled. Some north, some south—anywhere they thought they might be safe. It wasn’t just the violent geysers anymore; leylines broke through the crust of the planet, scouring everything nearby. By the end, every few minutes another would breach the surface, flickering with light so bright even the highest clouds reflected it.

The Divir moon brightened. It had started falling, then. Auroras swirling like slow-motion storms decorated the sky. Thunder rolled across the land, the sound of the eruptions coming from every corner. The southeast horizon flickered like lightning. Somewhere west, Nicolus had died in a train car. Back in Torrviol, Valen had died fighting in the Kiroscent Dome. Lily had probably died in the fields, going back for her spellbook. Respected Jei had been dead for weeks, her body never to be found. Somewhere else, little Zayd was crying with her mother and father as the world died.

“There is,” she agreed, watching it all with dry eyes. “I guess, no matter how far I run, it will always be there. And back again I go. Philosophers said you can’t recross the same river twice, but I’ll cross it again and again, the same waters rushing past me until I know every drop by heart.”

Irabi nodded. “But you can’t cross the same river twice, even if the water is the same. Because you will change, and when you stand in the river, you are as much a piece of it as the banks that confine it and the stones that part it.”

Mirian took a deep breath. The moon was much brighter now, and the sky had begun to take on an unearthly brightness.

“I’ll stop it, eventually,” she said, as the sky began to blind them.

Grandpa Irabi smiled at her. “I know you will.”

The world became incandescent, and all was fire.