The Two Jacks

Centre stage, lights beaming down on them like a god from up above. They’re shimmering like a shard in their draping costume, a crystalline violin perched on their chin. They never feel as alive as they do on the stage, in front of endless admirers and creatures of envy. There’s nothing like it.

Their eyes flash when the light catches them — once blinding, now familiar. The heat of the spotlight only makes their heart race, the slow wick of sweat a precursor of what’s to come. The antennae swaying to and fro glows in time with their heartbeat, speeding faster and faster. The wide eyed audience, silent and heavy with anticipation, do not speak a word. They do not move an inch. They do not even breathe.

Why aren’t they breathing?

Suddenly, Jack is tumbling back into an older time; their clothes bending and tightening in the name of royal proprietariness, the stiff collar closing around their neck like a noose. The crystal violin becomes a painstakingly carved handmade fiddle, whittled from the heart of a tree by the old luthier down in the village which Jack was never, ever allowed to go into unsupervised. It wasn’t right for someone like them to engage with the public in such a way. And the fiddle? Perish the thought! Such a lowly instrument, for bards and entertainers and the uncouth, uneducated masses, should never so much as grace Jack’s vision.

They turn their dainty hands over, sniffing petulantly at the lack of calluses. The before, then. And what shoddy timing — Jack never forgets a piece, of course, and they’re not the type to get rusty, but they were rather anticipating that performance. They’ll just have to find a way to get back as quickly as possible.

They’re in a hallway. It’s their old — well, Jack wouldn’t call it a home. They coax the metal adornments off the wall, forming a little alcove for the fiddle, and hope to any higher being there may or may not be that it isn’t found. The sound of rapidly tapping footsteps outside the hallway alerts them to the presence of others and, pushing the door open with a flourish, they collect themselves into that achingly familiar royal posture, upturned nose and all.

Two maids. They seem shocked to see them, but of course they are: they wouldn’t recognise them, not at this age.

“Do you not recognise a visiting lord when you see one?” they harrumph. “Or did the lady of the house fail to inform you that her cousin was visiting?”

Immediately, they’re twittering out apologies and directing Jack in the direction of the gardens, or perhaps the tearoom, or would the library please, master? Jack dismisses them all.

“I am uninterested in such activities for the moment. In fact, I am quite tired from the journey, and I should like to retire to my adequately prepared quarters.”

Which, of course, sets them off even more. There aren’t any quarters prepared for a visiting noble, precisely because they weren’t expecting a visiting noble. Even if Jack being a noble isn’t exactly a lie, the rest of it most certainly is.

“I see that my cousin’s staff are incapable of the most menial tasks,” they sigh, holding a delicate hand to their forehead with performatively subtle ire. “In that case, I shall busy myself elsewhere until all is ready. Leave me,” they say, and that last part comes out sharply enough that the maids jump and scatter with varying degrees of curtsies.

Once the hall is empty, Jack hops over to the hidden alcove with an entirely unroyal hurriedness. The fiddle has to be of some significance or it wouldn’t have appeared to begin with, and yet they cannot figure it out. No matter: they’ll retrieve the fiddle and head into town, somewhere where they can put out a letter consulting a time mage. It’s not uncommon for time mages to be Summoned — a term describing a moment when a time mage is pulled out of what is assumed to be the ordinary flow to attend to a matter elsewhere. It’s assumed Temora has something to do with it, but the truth is that few time mages have knowingly come across Temora, much as they know the fickle god is always watching them.

They have something to do here and they can’t return to where they were without finishing it. It’s very irritating that Temora doesn’t pop up with a note or instructions as to precisely what needs to be done, but Jack is no idiot, and they’ll be able to figure it out if given ample time. Time that they do not have in this skeleton of a house.

They push open the door and begin to coax the metal back from the wall once more, slivers of gold drawn to their fingers like thread. One tug, and — yes! The fiddle is in their hands once more, a beautiful thing inscribed with the form of flying birds and swirling clouds. It’s their first fiddle, one that was given to them. It’s been so many years and yet they have it still, the perfect companion for a jaunty tune to rouse a bar. It’s been restrung so many times that it’s as tuneful as ever. This looks like an earlier iteration of it, though.

“What’s that?”

Jump to attention, turn to face the aggressor. But it’s not anything Jack would have expected, but instead a little child with snow white hair and ruby red eyes.

It’s them.

“A fiddle,” they reply, cautiously taking a step backwards. Meeting yourself in time tends to have terrible ramifications if mishandled and the chance of mishandling is extremely high.

“A fiddle,” young Jack repeats, some degree of awe in their voice. “Mother tells me not to fiddle at the dining table.”

Jack can’t help it. The laughter bubbles out of them, and they watch as their younger counterpart shrinks back, ready to be berated. “I don’t think she was talking about this type of fiddle, though she wouldn’t approve of this either.” A kind smile thrown in for extra measure.

Young Jack doesn’t look that comforted, but they shuffle closer nonetheless, shutting the door behind them. They’ve always been curious. It’s good to know that some things don’t change.

“What is it for?”

Jack’s serious at that, staring deeply into young Jack’s eyes. They understand what they’re here for now, and sod Temora for putting them in this tricky position.

“This,” they proclaim with a flourish, “is for music.”

Young Jack is awed by this. Of course they are; they’ve never seen anything more than a decadent piano or a gilded harp produce music. Such a crude instrument is wholly unfamiliar to their naïve eyes.

It’s coming any second now.

“Can you show me?”

“Of course.” Lifting the bow to meet string is like meeting an old friend as Jack kicks up a foot tapping tune, beautiful in its disorganisation and loose, fluid bowing. It’s fast and it gets even faster, the melody carved into their ears and their mind.

They know this because, after they received their first fiddle, they spent months practising each and every note of this jaunt until it was completely perfect.

When it’s over, there’s a shine in Young Jack’s eyes that wasn’t there before. Their hands are clenched into fists as if they want to touch but they’re forcing themselves to hold back, a feeling that Jack is all too familiar with.

“You can touch it,” they say. Then, after a moment, they shake their head slightly and huff out a laugh. “You can have it. It’s yours.”

Young Jack looks ready to explode at that. “Something as beautiful as this? For me?” Then, they quiet with suspicion. “Why? I don’t know you.”

“But I know you,” Jack replies smoothly, holding out the fiddle.

They take it somewhat reverently, taking care not to touch the strings on the bow. A quick learner. “But… how? Who are you?”

“I’m someone very, very important,” Jack huffs, puffing up their chest. “And I’m also someone you won’t see again for a long time. Consider it a gift.”

The sound of his mother’s voice echoes down the outside corridor like a thunderclap. Both Jacks, young and old, flinch at the sound.

“I must be going now,” they say, glancing around the room. Ah! A window! That’ll do. “Until we meet again.”

Young Jack is paralysed, stuck to the spot. They outwardly gawk when Old Jack smashes the window open with an elbow and clambers onto the windowsill, squinting at the ground to measure the distance.

“Who are you?” Young Jack asks again, this time with more wonder than suspicion.

“Tell darling mother you didn’t see anything, alright? And keep the fiddle hidden.”

When Jack plunges through the air, they swear they can barely hear the tinkling sound of laughter on the winds.

“Bloody Temora,” they hiss under their breath.

In the next heartbeat, they’re back onstage, the audience enraptured by their dazzling appearance. The violin is a warm weight in their hand.

With a small, secret smile, they begin to play.