The story contained within these pages is not about me.

You all know of whom I write. If not by word of mouth or by the speculation of the Chileez Times, then by the nation-wide declaration of his accomplishments and accolades. Even though there has never been a true recounting of his adventures, there has been proof: the fur of Beurn, three feathers from a Phoenix, a dragon-forged blade, a map of uncharted seas, and the Lost Pearl of Awl.

Adventurer. Map-maker. Sailor.

Myth. Legend. Hero.

His name is Lennon T. James... and he finally has someone to see if he truly is as legendary as his souvenirs indicate.

🙞

I am not a journalist.

The brown robes and bronze insignia may identify me as one, but it is not the desire of my heart or the natural inclination of my writing. I prefer my imagination to real life. Yet, there I stood, in a corner of the throne room, for the third day in a row.

Nothing noteworthy had occurred as of yet.

Nothing worth our weekly newspaper, I should clarify. The escape of the Gillian sheep, which had been a topic on the first day, and then its theft, which had been discussed on the third morning, was nothing to write a news article about.

This assignment, to cover the throne room, was one they assigned the newest, greenest member of the team. This was the safest assignment to receive as a newcomer to the writing team at Chileez Times. And that happened to me.

At twenty-one, with a published book that had garnished little interest and a degree that allowed for little else, I had nowhere to turn for work. It was no surprise that, with little experience  beneath my belt, and being young, I was fit only for the throne room.

The current speaker was begging mercy from taxes on her crops, as they had all been washed away by a flood after the midsummer rains, when the doors to the room slammed open with a bang. Heads turned, and instant silence reigned.

The guards, who had been tugged out of boredom rather suddenly, scrambled to stop the intruder, but they were too late. And the recognition that dawned warned them from interfering further.

No, no one wondered who the man striding down the length of the hall was.

His footsteps resounded in the quiet, heavy boots and a confident tread belying his self-assurance. Wide shoulders were covered in a leather jacket. There was a knife strapped to his belt, and something glinted on his finger. Dried mud peeled from parts of his face and hands, but it only added to the intimidation his battle axe and closed expression already inspired.

Lennon T. James only paused when he reached the step of the dais. When he bowed, it was a gesture so mocking, it almost seemed sincere.

"I have been informed that I am to tell you before setting out on my adventures if I am to do so in the name of king and country." His hand reached up to tip his hat back, only slightly, so as to better display his impassive stare. "So, let it be marked, I am notifying you that I will be setting out for the northern jungle in the morning."

There was a general shift in the crowd. Several people gasped: no one informs the king of anything, much less without the use of titles.

I marked it down.

My movement drew a quick glance from the king before he focussed on the adventurer. His glare started cold but, when Lennon T. James had no reaction, it became annoyed.

"You will take a biographer with you."

It was a command.

Then, not breaking eye contact, King Mollark motioned for the nearest human holding a pen and wearing a journalist's colours. It happened to be me.

Hurriedly tossing my pen and notebook into my satchel, I mentally started formulating protests. I didn't know what was happening at that moment, but I had a very strong suspicion about where this conversation was heading. And I had a very strong opinion about it as well.

When the silence drew to an uncomfortable length, the king finally looked at me. "And you are...?"

"Uh, Shae, Your Majesty." I curtsied. Poorly. "Shae Burrower."

He nodded. "Ah, the writer of..." There was a slight pause as he waved his hand in the air, looking for the answer. "The new book about a burglar? With the painting?"

"It was an artist, Your Majesty."

"Same thing." He turned back to Lennon T. James, ignoring the general outrage of the two artists in the crowd. "Lennon T. James, say hello to Shae Burrower, your new travelling companion. She will record your exploits and will have it published as the first recorded adventure."

My squeak of protest went ignored by both hero and king, even though the rest of the throne room's excitement seemed to be focused on my person.

"Is this truly necessary?" asked Lennon T. James. He still hadn't glanced my way. "I work better alone."

King Mollark's chuckle was short. "It is very necessary. In fact, I believe so strongly in this, I will help fund this adventure."

"Your Majesty—"

"Not a word of protest, Miss Shae Burrower." King Mollark leaned back against his throne. "Now, off you go. Enjoy the journey, and please, take your time."

I was about to respond, to offer explanations why I would be a horrid travelling companion, when someone firmly grabbed my elbow. Lennon T. James pulled me backwards, and I politely shrugged his hand off. Ducking my head, I avoided the stares as I followed him out of the room.

Note: Lennon T. James has long legs, with which he takes long, measured strides, in a seemingly casual manner.

I pushed my much shorter legs in short, snappy steps, my satchel swinging like a pendulum. Fingers toying with the strap, I tried to mentally plan my escape from this rather horrible situation.

There was no way I, Shae Burrower, born and raised in the city of Mortazya, would be travelling to a jungle. I could barely swim; how was I supposed to cross a river?

I mean, unless there was a bridge... I am fully capable of walking across a bridge.

Lennon T. James led me through the palace, out the main doors, and then down to the Fountain Square. There, we found our way to a small cafe. 'We' meaning him, and twenty paces behind him, me.

Colette's was renowned for its coffee. It was owned by a girl younger than I was, who had inherited it after her father passed. It was rather recent, and even though everyone knew about the coffee shop, the death of its owner hadn't been well-circulated.

By the time I entered, I spotted Lennon T. James at a table in the corner. I reached it at the same time the waitress did.

I instantly loved her hair; brown waves were tied in a loose bun, though a few strands coiled around her face.

"The usual, majne." She set down a cup of coffee, blacker than the heart of a murderer. "And what can I make you, dajne?"

"Just a red tea latte, alief." I easily added the 'please' in Fen, and she smiled in answer. Then she was gone, scurrying back to her work.

I watched the people coming in and out of the little cafe, unable to look towards the adventurer sitting across from me. Besides the fact that I was anxious about the events of the past half-hour, Lennon T. James was very, very well-known. He didn't associate with people like me.

Authors don't become wealthy or achieve a level of high status. Not only that, but I hadn't made enough to sustain the cost of living: hence becoming a journalist. They also did not achieve much in terms of money or social standing, but they were in high demand at the moment, and the pay was much more regular.

"How qualified are you as an explorer?"

"Pardon?" It took me several seconds before I realised what he'd asked. "Oh. I don't travel."

The silence dragged on until the tea latte was gently deposited on the table by the same girl as before. She didn't stay around to chat, however, and with a quiet 'enjoy,' she was scurrying off to help with the sudden increase of people in need of service.

"Have you ever ridden a horse?" Lennon T. James' voice was commanding but not severe.

I twisted the mug so its handle faced me. "Not recently."

"Can you swim?"

"No."

"Can you wield any sort of weapon?"

I'd automatically started saying 'no' so it took me a second to realise I could. "Yes. I'm an archer."

He made a non-committal sound and took a sip from his coffee. Archery was a skill taught in the army, yes, but was almost useless now that Chileez used cannons and other explosive machinery. It was seen as a sport, now, and an unpopular one at that.

There was a lapse in the conversation, once again, and I distracted myself from embarrassment by fiddling with my mug.

Note: Lennon T. James holds himself upright, with an almost arrogant tilt to his head and has an unwavering gaze that would make a Holy Man squirm.

There was a thud on the table as he set his mug down.

"Can you start a fire?"

I almost laughed. "No."

"Can you identify plants that are edible or poisonous?"

Again, I paused as I tried to think about my studies. "I should be able to. I have never done so in a field setting but I did a certificate in botany."

"Botany is different."

Lennon T. James finally managed to say something that made me meet his gaze, and I stamped down my need to defend my studies. It did not matter. I was not suitable material for a travelling companion, and even a blind woman would be able to see that.

"Have you ever climbed a tree?"

I picked up my latte. "We've already established I'm not the ideal partner for your adventure. I have no weight to leverage against a direct command from the king but if you're unhappy, please, feel free to choose someone else."

Lennon T. James assessed me quietly. I felt like I did in the early years of school when I accidentally broke my classmate's nose and the teacher interrogated me thoroughly. Sitting in the headmaster's office so many years ago suddenly came to my mind, and I shifted as I distracted myself from that humiliating memory.

Confession; admitting my shortcomings to someone who was exceptional in those areas felt worse than swallowing a worm... Let's rephrase: I felt like a worm being swallowed.

"There's not much I can do." Lennon T. James pulled a small bag from a hidden pocket. "This will cover the cost of the coffee. I intended to leave at sunrise, but we can meet then and leave an hour after."

I blinked. "Um, where are we meeting?"

"Here. Colette won't mind." He got up and set down two coins. "Wear something sensible. We'll assess tomorrow and buy supplies in Arriza."

My lagging thoughts finally caught up. Two things stood out to me: this was happening and it was happening very quickly.

"I can't go with you!" I hissed, trying to stem the hysteria that now threatened to wash away all my embarrassment. "Not only are you being hindered, but I have a job and a family! And it's unsafe, and I don't know what I'm doing, and— and I don't want to die!"

I had not gone through years of painful schooling and a failure of a novel to become the unwanted associate of an over-appreciated adventurer and die by a random tiger attack.

He sat back down. I couldn't meet his gaze, much less try to observe exactly what he was thinking at that moment. I had no use for notetaking. The First Recorded Adventure of Lennon T. James may be written but it wouldn't be written by me.

"See here, Miss Burrower—"

"Shae, please.  Burrower is a terrible name."

He made a sound in between a hum and a scoff. "Shae. You won't die if I'm around. I can promise on my mother's grave if that would make you feel better."

I shook my head. There was nothing one could say when someone mentioned a deceased relative, especially if one wasn't certain if it was sarcasm or sincerity. Based on my short hour of observation and interaction, it was most likely a sincere offer.

"That's alright." I was hoping to avoid the cemetery unless there was no other possible outcome. "Is there nothing you could say to change the king's mind?"

He was quiet for a few moments. "I can try. I will speak to him tonight. If nothing changes, I will not contact you and we will meet here tomorrow morning. If I manage to free you from this operation, I will stop by on my way home tonight."

I nodded. That sounded reasonable. If all went well, I would never see Lennon T. James again.

"You know where I live?"

"Lavender Lane. Your father is Professor Burrower." His statement made it seem as if everyone would know where he lived.

Someday I would have a conversation with the city planners and street-namers but today was not that day. My humiliation was now complete. Shae Burrower, failed author and city girl, from Lavender Lane, at your service.

Lennon T. James stood up. "Good night, Miss Burrower. Pray that you do not have to meet me tomorrow morning... and that the Untamable will preserve you if you do."

🙞

author's note

hello, lovelies.

hope you're all doing okay! any new books or tv shows you guys are discovering??

so, about this chapter...

a) was this too abrupt a beginning?

b) is this too slow?

c) any overarching things that bore you or that does not make sense?

thanks for checking it out!

<3 klara