Dawn in Auremelion/4

Deep down in the hold of the False Positive, a pile of old rugs stirred in the morning light beaming through the porthole. Inside it, a young hare was waking from a very strange dream: He had fallen straight through the sky and landed in the lap of two of the strangest creatures he had ever seen. He kicked gently at the walls of his warren in his half-asleep state. They felt softer than usual. Must have rained in the night, he thought, rolling onto his side. That would explain the odd musty scent, though he couldn’t recall the soil ever smelling so much like dusty carpet. The ground was soft too, but it didn’t feel wet. He was sure he was just imagining things, though. He opened one eye to set his mind at ease.

In the cramped galley of the False Positive, Bentley was whistling off-key as they stirred a large pot of bubbling porridge. Three bowls sat waiting on the table, beside three steaming cups of black tea. Solivane sat at the far end, their fingers tracing the handle of their teacup. A pile of letters and newspapers sat before them. It was a rare moment of quiet domesticity aboard the barge.

“Breakfast time,” said Bentley cheerfully, hauling the pot over towards the table. “I hope Ilyar likes sweet porr—“

They were cut off mid-sentence by the sudden eruption of a screaming ball of silvery-grey fur from the floor hatch. Bentley went flying backwards, followed by a torrent of hot porridge that splattered up the wall and ceiling. Solivane stared in disbelief at the scene. Bentley fell into a crumpled pile against the stove, followed by a rain of pots and pans and steel utensils falling from the jolted racks above. The kinetic furball slammed against the table, sending the bowls and teacups flying; a graceful arc of tea splattered onto Solivane’s pristine white robes. Bentley sat in stunned silence for a moment, then shot back up with a yelp of pain as the heat of the boiling porridge registered on their skin. The culprit came to a halt under a chair in the corner of the cabin, a hissing mass of spiky hair with two arrow-straight lapine ears sticking out and two wide and terrified eyes locked on Bentley, who was now groaning in agony and trying to ram their entire body under the cold water tap. The only calm thing in the room was Solivane, who slowly looked down at their stained robes and then up at the terrified creature seething under the chair.

“Good morning,” Solivane intoned matter-of-factly, “Is the porridge not to your taste?”

From the raccoon-shaped lump in the galley sink came a tremendous, frustrated moan. “Can someone please explain why there is boiling hot breakfast in my fur?”

The hyperventilating ball of rage under the chair slowly melted into the shape of Ilyar, and collapsed onto the floor. His heaving chest slowed, and his wide eyes met Solivane’s baffled stare. The memory of the previous day thumped down onto him like a brick.

“I… apologise,” he squeaked, “I thought I was…” He slid himself out from under the chair and sat up, tucking his legs under his arms. “It was not a dream.”

Bentley, struggling their way out of the sink, glared at him. “No, not a dream. I don’t get covered in porridge in dreams. Most of the time. Sol, could you…?”

Solivane glided over and pulled the raccoon from the porridge sludge, the faintest flicker of a smile appearing in the corner of their mouth. Bentley harrumphed off into their quarters, wiping the remains of breakfast off their chest.

“We are quite real, Ilyar,” Solivane said. “I am afraid there will be no porridge this morning. We do have errands to run, however.”

“The indignity, Sol! The temerity! I am scandalised!” cried Bentley.

Solivane glanced towards the next room and sighed. “Fix it, please, Bentley. The mess is disrupting my balance.”

“Your balance? My fur!” Bentley grumbled. “Fine.” A soft amber glow radiated from Bentley’s quarters, and the cabin began to right itself; the pot and the fallen utensils floated up onto the counter, the streak of solidifying porridge on the wall faded and disappeared, the tea stain on Solivane’s robes flickered and vanished, the pictures on the walls and the junk on the shelves rearranged themselves to their proper level of wonkiness, and the room began to smell and taste distinctly blue. Bentley returned through the door in a fresh shirt and waistcoat, and reached for their coat and hat. They shot a stupid grin at Ilyar, who was staring in awe at the colour-flavoured cabin that showed no sign of the carnage from a few moments prior.

“No harm done, kid. Narrative cohesion has been restored, though I think the wall will remember that for a while.” They gestured towards the hatch leading down to the hold, and it sprang open. “Maybe put some clothes on, I’ve had enough indignity for one morning without the city seeing you like this.”

Ilyar, snapping out of his fugue, nodded quickly and bolted down through the hatch, wondering just what sort of lap he had landed on.