"Welcome, little mortal, to the Trial of Honour, a challenge as ancient as the cosmos and as revered as the virtues it seeks to unearth within you.

I, who have watched the rise and fall of civilizations and witnessed the turning of the ages and the dance of destiny, stand before you not just as your judge but as the custodian of a tradition that has tested the mettle of heroes since time immemorial."

"Dude, no one else had to put up with a massive cut-scene intro. Can't we move things along?"

Can I just point out it might be best not to antagonise the all-powerful disembodied voice?

"You, who stand on the precipice of this hallowed rite, bear more than just your hopes and dreams. You carry the legacy of those who walked this path before you, the aspirations of those who will follow, and the expectations of the very essence of Honour itself."

"I really don't. I'm just a girl standing in front of - well, nothing. There's literally nothing here, and I'm talking to thin air. But, basically, I'm just a girl, standing in front of an immortal being asking for directions to a fucking bridge. You're the one who conjured up all this Trial bullshit for us. I can't help but feel you're making more of this than it needs to be. Can we just spool on through to the bit where I improbably blag my way through whatever overelaborate game you have set up, and then we get what we need?"

"This Trial is not merely an assessment of strength . . .

"Nope, because Arthur physiced the shit out of that one."

"Or a measure of thought . . ."

"Bors' dick sorted that."

"Little mortal!" Ah, there it is. That particular tone of frustrated impatience I can bring out in the best of them. Even Enchanted Forests, apparently. "Can you please let me finish without the commentary? I do not get to deliver this speech very often, and I'd appreciate not being interrupted."

Seriously, my dear. There's a bigger picture here we need to remember.

"Sorry. That's my bad. That's on me. Please continue."

"Thank you. Now, where was I? Ah, yes. This Trial delves deeper into the very core of your being. It seeks the truth of your character, your spirit's resilience, and your heart's integrity. Only those who embody the most authentic ideals of Honour, who can rise above the baser temptations of their mortal coil, shall find glory here.

So, let your heart be steadfast, your mind clear, and your spirit unyielding. For the Trial of Honour begins now, and with it, the chance to etch your name into the annals of eternity. May your actions reflect the nobility of your purpose, and may your journey through this Trial reveal the brilliance of the Honour that lies within each of you."

There was a long silence.

"Do you not have anything to say in response, little mortal?"

"Sorry. I zoned out there for a moment. I was thinking about the end of The Shawshank Redemption. Have you seen it? No? You absolutely should. Banging movie. Right at the end, Tim Robbins secretly tunnels out of prison, and he's hid his escape hole with a poster of some long-limbed bimbo. But, when you think about it, how did he manage to reattach the poster to the outside of the escape tunnel after leaving through it? I mean, how did he do it? How?"

Sigh.

There was more than just a slight peeved tone when the disembodied voice boomed back. "The Trial of Honour starts now."

It would appear I had once again misread the mood of a social situation.

*

When I woke up, it was so dark that, looking out of bed, I could scarcely distinguish the transparent window from the opaque walls of my chamber until suddenly, the church clock tolled a deep, dull, hollow, melancholy ONE.

Royal Road is the home of this novel. Visit there to read the original and support the author.

Hang on a minute . . .

Light flashed up in the room upon the instant, and the curtains of my bed were drawn aside by a strange figure, - like a child: yet not so like a child as like an old man, viewed through some supernatural medium, which gave him the appearance of having receded from the view, and being diminished to a child's proportions. Its hair, which hung about its neck and down its back, was white as if with age, and yet the face had not a wrinkle in it, and the tenderest bloom was on the skin.

"Oh, for fuck's sake."

The little old man stared at me, as if he were paused waiting for me to say something else.

Well, he could bloody well wait.

"A Christmas Carol? Seriously? This is the best you can do? The Trial of Honour is 'A Christmas Carol?' Look, spoiler alert, but I'm perfectly happy to fork out for the Cratchitts to have a big fucking turkey without needing any further ado. Boom. Job done. Honour satisfied all round."

There was no reply.

The creepy little old child-man stayed frozen at the end of my - well, Scrooge's - bed. I was starting to regret not treating the disembodied voice with the respect he clearly felt he deserved.

If only someone could have warned you, my dear . . .

Fuck off, Merlin.

I stayed where I was for a while, but nothing else happened. Apparently, I was going to have to play this one out. Fortunately, I'd been in a God-awful am-dram version of Dickens' book a few years back. It wasn't really my scene, but, you know, I rock a corset and bustle, so it seemed rude not to. From the dark of the wings, I ended up doing a lot of prompting - and a bunch of the cast - so I had most of the words down pat.

The next line was: "Are you the Spirit, sir, whose coming was foretold to me?"

The Ghost suddenly sprang back into life. "I am!"

"Who and what are you?"

"I am the Ghost of Christmas Past."

Awesome. Such happy times.

*

From what I could tell, the Trial of Honour was about showing me things that had happened in my life and highlighting occasions where my choices were aligned with or deviated from the path of 'Honour.' Apparently, I was expected to acknowledge my past mistakes and vow to learn from them, demonstrating humility and the willingness to grow. Oh, and buy everyone a fucking big Christmas turkey at the end of it all.

The problem was, after a while, my past mistakes seemed to have seriously bummed out the Ghost of Christmas Past.

In fact, he'd got so upset we needed to have a break from popping in on a succession of moments that I freely admit were not my finest hour. We seemed to be running through things chronologically - by my reckoning, we'd only got up to the mid-nineties so far - and my next 'memory' should be me about to make a series of poor decisions in a graveyard with several people who did not have my personal wellbeing at the heart of their thinking. From what I could remember, that night was somewhere in between stealing Nan's just 'in-case' money tin and planting a bag of . . . herbs on Zizzie rather than owning up to the cops about them being mine.

That had been a busy weekend.

The Ghost, however, was currently sitting on the edge of Scrooge's bed, rocking himself backwards and forwards. "These are shadows of the things that have been," he said. "That they are what they are, do not blame me!"

"I don't blame you, mate. Sometimes, bad things happen to bad people. That's just the way it is. Some things'll never change. That's just the way it is." I may have started humming at this stage.

"Enough!"

At that booming shout, the Victorian bedroom vanished and I was back stood in the Trial Circle.

"You are making a mockery of the Trial of Honour."

"Mate, it's not my fault your Ghost has a queasy stomach. I wish my past was all dances at the Fezziwigs and choosing focusing on work rather than pursuing love, but it wasn't. Did I do my share of fucked up things? Damn straight. Probably did the share of most of my street, too. Some of it I wished I hadn't, and I'd like to think I've learned from them. But I'm not saying if you put me back there right now, I'd be Little Miss Perfect and choose the road less travelled. Life doesn't work like that. I'm me because of those fucked up things, not despite them. There. What more do you need from me?

There was a noise like the whole forest breathing in, and then a chalice appeared on the ground in front of me.

Shit. Don't go near that.

I, of course, walked forward and picked up the cup. It was filled with a deep purple liquid - looking not unlike my Qi.

"You speak of Honour as if it is a thing you can choose or deny. Well, then, let us test your commitment to that. The chalice you hold contains the purest essence of sacrifice. Drinking it will induce a vision of a significant personal sacrifice that you will need to make in the future for the good of others. It could be a foregone personal desire, a relinquishment of a cherished dream, or accepting a deep personal loss that will ultimately benefit those around you. The nature of the sacrifice required is such that it does not demand immediate action but requires a commitment to a future choice, a constant reminder of your duty and the price of Honour."

"I'm going to be honest, as slogans go, that's no 'Red Bull gives you Wings'. You could do on working on your marketing patter."

My dear, you do not need to drink this potion. By any measure, in confronting and accepting your past choices, you have passed the Trial of Honour. The quest setter cannot simply add another stage because he does not like how you achieved that.

I looked down at the purple liquid and swirled it around the cup. I guess Merlin was right. But who wouldn't want a vision of the future? It wasn't like it locked me into anything.

I knocked that drink back like Tommy just burst in the door whippin' Pam's ass worse than before.

Fuck. I really am a shitty person, aren't I?

And the vision began.