There are some that say that Time is a river, flowing sedately in one direction…winding its way through the universe, steady and sedate.
There are some that say Time is a whirlwind, spinning and changing – a million directions at once. Every moment a new collision, hurling new dimensions of possibility into the ever-expanding storm.
There are some that say Time is a stone, graven and perfect — impossible to change or mar.
They may be right, or they may be wrong.
But for this now, this moment, this story — Time is a Book.
And the crew of the Lodestar fell through the pages.
They saw themselves in the throne room, the green skeleton with his fist full of golden fire. They saw the look between two friends, and then they pierce the page.
They see the room again, ten years earlier. A simple man in a brown cloak, laying his sword in the hands of the green skeleton. The page tears as they fall.
They see the boy fighting his way through dark streets full of rain and the unquiet dead.
They see the boy sneaking out of a broken down inn. They see a girl with white hair asleep in the hayloft.
They see the boy and the girl with white hair on top of a tall red tower.
The pages rip, faster and faster.
They see the boy and the girl in many places, in many days of glory and terror.
In the throne room again, the girl’s hair half-white, half-brown. The boy is in chains.
On the edge of the sea, the girl sitting over a dead knight and the boy lumbering out of the ocean dripping and battered.
The pages of Time tear, and the crew of the Lodestar fall.
The boy on one knee with his sword flat in both hands, the girl on her face in a dank swamp, a turtle, a white bridge, an inn, a giant brass screw, a canyon of rain, a forest and night, the three moons shine and the boy and the girl meet in the dusty, dry soil of a forgotten town.
The book slams shut, and they see only darkness.