Jack gaped, unsure whether to direct his ire at the farmer or the chubby bear.

“Why is Winnie the Pooh your village guardian?” he said, gripping his temples. “Are you trying to get us sued?”

“Actually,” said Razor, “Pooh recently found his way into the public domain.”

Like I care! And how does that even work? He doesn’t exist yet at this point in time!

“Technically you don’t exist at all, but here we are.”

His eyes widened, to the confusion of the farmer. Shut up! I’m already stuck in the past, an existential crisis is the last thing I need right now!

“Don’t you mean right then?”

No I bloody don’t!

The farmer said something, but Jack missed it in his argument. He stared at the farmer, who stared back. Pooh continued to guzzle his honey, oblivious of the two men before him—Jack sighed and gripped Razor’s hilt.

“You really want me to fight this thing?” said Jack, apprehensive. “What’s he gonna do, throw honey at me?”

The farmer nodded. “Something like that.”

Groaning, he eyed Pooh. The poor bastard didn’t seem to have any idea what was about to happen. What kind of guardian was this, anyway?

A shiver ran through his bones, interrupting his thoughts. It was cold.

“Exactly, so hurry up and draw me so you can get to the village.”

She made a good point. Getting inside was the priority, and then he could plan—maybe he could create a monument telling them where and when he was, as a beacon for rescue.

Or just find a magus and ask for help.

Then again, what was the point? His companions would be better off without him, surely, and were probably having the time of their lives with him gone. No more Jack to drag them down.

Maybe this was a blessing in disguise. He’d live and die in the distant past, unable to annoy his friends or fail them.

Why should they care? Why should he bother? It all came to the same inevitable conclusion, in the medieval era or the modern.

“I know they’re doing everything they can.” Razor’s voice was soft and warm, comforting him. That didn’t change the emptiness. The void in the pit of his stomach that would open and close with no warning, sucking in every vestige of hope.

How do you know that? He wrinkled his nose, a sour taste running down his throat.

She sighed. “Because I know them as you do, with the added bonus of not being biased by my own mind poisoning me. This depression will pass, Jack—you will get better. But the problem isn’t going away.”

Neither’s my brain.

This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

“Good thing you have me then, isn’t it? Now fight the damn bear, even I’m starting to get cold!”

Exhaling deeply, the farmer rubbed his eyes. “Look, are you going to fight or not?”

Jack nodded, chewing his lip. Razor, you have all these magic features, right?

“Yes.”

Can you blunt your edge? It’s only supposed to be a duel, and I don’t wanna destroy the dreams of children before they ever get published.

“It’s done.”

He drew her, running his finger over the edge and marvelling at the effect. Even digging in only left a dent in his skin, which quickly bounced back.

“Alright,” he said, readying himself in a stance. Pooh dug around in the bottom of his honey jar, placing it to his eye.

With an exhale, Jack raised Razor above his head. “Die, Winnie the Pooh!”

“I thought you didn’t want to kill him?!”

The bear’s gaze flicked up as Jack swung downward, aiming to take him in the shoulder. Painful, but not deadly. Even a blunt sword could kill a person, though he wasn’t sure about woodland creatures.

Effortlessly, Pooh reached a hand up and caught the blade. It stopped dead, Jack staggering forward as his jaw hung agape, the bear’s attention returning to his sustenance. He ran his hand down the length of the blade, smearing it with honey.

Razor gasped. “Why do I feel so dirty?”

“Excellent,” said the farmer. “You pass.”

Jack started. “Why?! All he did was turn my sword into a honey dipper!”

“Exactly.” He snorted. “Pooh would never give honey to a demon.”

“What kind of logic is that? Tell you that himself, yeah?”

“It is the bond between villager and—”

“Oh look.” He gestured in front of him, wiping Razor on a tree. “I seem to have stopped caring.”

“Then follow me to the village,” said the farmer.

Jack sighed in relief as the farmer led him back around the lake, toward the settlement surrounded by a wall of logs.

“You got a name?” said Jack, ignoring Razor’s chattering about being a noble weapon too good to be a honey dipper. “Gets pretty repetitive if the author has to keep referring to you as ‘the farmer’.”

Glancing back, he raised an eyebrow. “Angus. And what author? What are you talking about?”

Well, that was an interesting development.

Historians tended to argue about it, but it was widely accepted that self-awareness came with the Vikings, as Ragnar Lothbrok concluded that the ridiculous crap happening to him could be nothing but fictional.

Jack wondered if his bear-fighting experience was anything like Ragnar’s.

“Never mind,” he said as they approached the wall. It wasn’t much taller than him, and the thatched roofs of single-storey buildings peeked out over the top. Despite the night hour, he still smelled baked bread and burning smoke. A single line of it rose above the village.

“We’re here.” Angus stopped before a large gate, closed and imposing. Next to it was a smaller door, maybe big enough for two people abreast—it was this he knocked on, being answered by it swinging open.

A ruddy-faced man stood on the other side, eyes bleary as he glared at them. He wore rusty mail and had a shortsword on his belt.

“Inn’s still open, then?” he asked.

“Aye,” said the guard, waving them in. “Ronan’s still desperate to win his wife’s jewels back.”

Angus chuckled. “Shouldn’t have bet them then, should he?”

Jack sidled in after the farmer—nodding to the guard—and followed Angus along the wall toward the smoke.

Pathways interlocked in a wheel-and-spoke extending from the windmill in the centre, thirty feet tall with blades spinning lazily in the breeze. Dirt littered these, each building seeming ramshackle. Like a child had used mud to build a sandcastle. That was the difference between ancient and modern architecture, he supposed.

Angus led him to a wooden building larger than the others—this was two storeys—the glow of its lanterns spilling onto the narrow streets. It had open shutters, and a low murmur escaped from them.

They entered through a flimsy door, and Jack noted stained floorboards with five circular tables spaced evenly. A short bar adorned the back wall. It smelled boozy, of the kind of stuff that would be used as paint-thinner in the future.

Sitting at one of the tables was a middle-aged man with hair almost in dreadlocks, his face stained by coal and a forgotten mug of ale in front of him. He wore much the same as Angus.

Across from him was a humanoid creature with grey skin and a crown of horns.

Jack gawked. “Angus, mate… you can never be too careful figuring out if someone’s a demon, right?”

Narrowing his eyes, Angus said, “that’s right. Why do you ask?”

“Because you’re clearly not very good at it.”

“What do you mean?”

Jack pointed at the table, where the humanoid mocked his companion, dice held between his gnarled fingers.

“I mean you let the actual Devil into your village, you idiot!”