The Golden Horatio

The back door brutally deposited Flynn and Clara onto the rainforest floor, almost spitting them out of the spectrum, Clara landing on top of Flynn, her nose somewhere south of his chest. "Note to self," she said, her voice muffled by a mouthful of hair, "never do that again."

With some difficulty, Flynn untangled his hands from the satchel strap, hesitating before patting Clara's head, more to reassure himself than anything else. "Bathroom, back door, off plane," he said shakily, "I think I've figured that particular theorem out now."

"Go figure," Clara retorted as she half raised her head, blowing the hair out of her eyes.

"Thanks for having my back by the way," Flynn said, ignoring her insult. "You sure know your way around a tea-tray."

"It was just an ordinary old tray," Clara corrected him, before collapsing back down again, cushioning her head comfortably against his shoulder, "not the sort to serve tea and cucumber sandwiches upon."

"I should really thank your friend," Flynn said, tensing up slightly, Clara too close for comfort, "she did most of the dirty work."

"Too true," Clara agreed, "I'm just moonlighting as a Guardian, Eve is the real deal."

"Well, I wouldn't mind her as my guardian angel," Flynn said tiredly, making Clara tense up in turn, "she can save my sorry ass any day."

"Well, she's fully booked," Clara snapped, "and she's got a waiting list as long as her arm, so you're stuck with me, I'm afraid."

"Is she single?"

"What!?"

"C'mon, Clara," Flynn said, rolling his eyes, "it's a logical question."

"She is single actually," Clara retorted, "but that's none of your business."

"She's really single!?" Flynn said in disbelief. "But she's beautiful!"

"Obviously."

"And brave and smart and witty" -

- "Please found your fan-club somewhere else, Flynn," Clara said curtly, flicking the end of his nose, "Eve has enough admirers as it is without you joining their ranks." Dropping her hand to her side, Clara congratulated herself on that little comeback, hiding her unease in plain sight. She still hadn't forgotten Flynn's other futures, of him engaged to Eve, Clara cut out of his existence as if she'd never been. It painfully resurrected the memory of the odd interlude where Flynn and Eve had briefly been on the edge of something further than friendship, only for it to burn out just as fast, becoming another future never fulfilled.

"What, are you jealous?" Flynn said, tugging her hair gently in turn. "Worried some other woman will get her hands on my manly body?"

"Don't delude yourself," Clara retorted, even as she was all too aware that she was caught in a somewhat compromising position with Flynn, but she couldn't quite bring herself to exile her aching bones from the only soft surface for miles.

"Oh, c'mon," Flynn retorted, "you're draped over me like Caligula on a chaise longue. All you need is some grapes and you'd be all set" -

- "Stop being so obtuse," Clara said tiredly as she then reluctantly clambered off him, "or I'll throw you to the lions."

~*~

"Mile High Club, huh?" Flynn said suddenly, startling Clara as they trudged through the rainforest, both of them slapping aside insect after insect. "You don't exactly seem the type," he added, studying her, brow furrowing.

"I was joking," Clara lied, forcing herself to set aside the memories of Flynn, a private jet and too many pina coladas.

Flynn just nodded, almost absentmindedly holding back a branch for Clara, before following her through the narrow gap, letting the branch go at the last second, his backside barely escaping the bounce-back. "Who's Jenkins?" he then asked, startling Clara for the second time. "Friend of yours? Boyfriend?"

"No, he's not my boyfriend," Clara snapped, "and he's none of your business. Savvy?"

Flynn just rolled his eyes. "Horatio, Horatio," he muttered to himself, swinging his arms to and fro as he went, "the golden ratio" -

- "has proven to be the key to everything in nature that we find beautiful," Clara said smartly, startling Flynn this time. "Sorry," she said, kicking a stone aside, "I have a friend who is really into ratios."

"Maybe you should introduce us."

I already did, Clara thought bitterly, remembering the first time they'd met Cassandra, Flynn becoming distracted by some passing parrot feathers. "I suppose my face is the most exemplary example you've ever seen of that ratio," she said sarcastically, holding a branch back for Flynn, returning the favour. "Symmetry at its most... symmetrical."

"Your snub nose rather spoils the symmetry," Flynn observed, "but your eyes are rather pleasantly aligned."

"No wonder the women flock to you."

"Like pigeons."

Clara just strode ahead, rolling said eyes, Flynn rushing to catch up with her.

"Hey, that woman was going to inject me with sodium pentothal," he said pettishly, falling into step beside Clara, "so the least you can do is show me some sympathy."

"The least you could do is tell us where we are," Clara retorted, slowing to an abrupt stop, placing her hands on her hips.

Flynn's gaze flickered over her, ironically appreciating the symmetry of her stance, how it complimented Clara's voluptuous line of figure. "Well," he said, tugging on his shirt collar, clearing his throat theatrically, "if you gave me a moment to ascend this obliging tree," he continued, slapping the trunk of the tree in question, "I could tell you in two ticks where we are. A humble tree can be the compass of our fate."

"Any other pearls of wisdom you'd like to pass on?"

"If you wish to conceal something," Flynn said cryptically as he then hauled himself upwards, grabbing hold of the stoutest looking branch he could see, "be sure to ensure it is hidden in plain sight."

~*~

"Well, where are we, monkey boy?" Clara demanded as she dragged Flynn up onto her branch, a Flynn who looked like he was going to faint, sweat dripping down his ashen face. He had fallen three times during his attempt to scale the tree, thankfully only tumbling a few feet each time, his falls broken by the thick foliage below. In the end, Clara had cracked and climbed the tree herself, pushing, prodding and pulling Flynn upwards until they had finally reached the top, the heat of the unshaded sun striking them like body-blows, the sheer height making even the catlike Clara feel dizzy.

"Well," Flynn panted, pointing up at the sky with a trembling finger, "that is an extremely rare blue condor."

Clara watched the bird majestically soar through the air until it became a black dot on the far horizon, before disappearing entirely into the vast blue. "Found only within a hundred mile radius of the Amazon's Purus tributary," she said thoughtfully.

"Precisely," Flynn agreed breathlessly, "and see over there? That's Mount Pôrto Velho, the only mountain tall enough to have a snow-cap at this time of year."

"Within this radius again?"

"Precisely."

"Radius versus ratio."

"Precisely."

"Would you please stop saying precisely?"

"It's the only form of agreement I just have enough energy to expend upon right now," Flynn gasped, "nodding might just finish me off."

"Well, I surmise we are about minus 5.2 degrees latitude," Clara guessed as Flynn theatrically dabbed at his brow with his torn shirt sleeve, "and minus 64.6 degrees longitude."

"So we need to go 24.7 miles that way," Flynn puffed, pointing again, "just after I get my breath back, that is."

"Aren't you asthmatic?" Clara asked with reluctant concern, remembering the Flynn from the Loom of Fate, how he had always been brandishing an inhaler.

"No," Flynn wheezed, insulted, "I'm an athlete!"

"Olympic athletes have asthma," Clara pointed out acerbically, "it's not an indication of fitness, although I think in your case, your breathlessness is more to do with how seriously unfit you are, rather than asthma."

There was a long silence. "I... I suppose I am more aesthetic than athletic," Flynn then admitted against his will, "I spent my formative years within the hollowed sanctums of academia, not up the tops of trees, where I could have broken my boyish neck."

"Well, I spent my formative years inside and outside," Clara said tiredly, "my father wanted to bring me up well-balanced."

"What about your mother?" Flynn asked curiously.

Clara looked away, biting her lower lip, unable to answer his question outright. Her childhood had been a happy one, but it had all been a lie, her mother merely biding her time, raising Clara like a lamb for slaughter. She had killed Clara's father when he had tried to save Clara from being sacrificed on the altar for an extinct Arthurian idyll, and it had taken until now for Clara to remember the terrible truth, the illusion that had been her existence imploding from within.

"I'm sorry," Flynn said quietly, seeing she was upset, "I shouldn't have pried."

Clara glanced at him. "You weren't prying," she said awkwardly, "it's... it's just difficult to explain, that's all."

"Where are your parents now?" Flynn said uneasily, plucking a leaf from the branch, before twirling it round and round. "Are they still about?"

"My mother's gone," Clara said, exhaling sharply, "and my father... he – he died this year." She bowed her head, thinking not for the first time, if only she'd been sent back earlier along Flynn's timeline, she could have saved her father from his fate. Yet she secretly felt a twisted relief that she didn't have that choice to make, to put herself first above Flynn.

Flynn didn't say anything, only hesitating before laying his large hand over hers, giving it a timid squeeze.

"We should go," Clara said abruptly, tearing her hand out of his, making Flynn flinch back, "time waits for no-one."

These days of dust
Which we've known
Will blow away with this new sun...