The Time Travelers Wine Shop
An exclusive Short-Short for Page Visitors Only - Enjoy
The cobblestones of the Merchant District grew damp as twilight settled,
reflecting the warm, wavering
glow of torches and the soft hum of mana lamps
emanating from the district’s most peculiar establishment.
Arthur Pendelton stood in the doorway of his shop, the heavy velvet of his
burgundy tunic catching the light. He was a man who seemed simultaneously
ancient and vibrantly youthful, possessed of a beard that suggested the wisdom
of the Elders and eyes that held the mischievous spark of a sprite.
Above him, the hand-painted sign read: TIME TRAVELERS WINE SHOP – Est.
2001 (and 2142).
The dates were a paradox. In the Kingdom of Eldoria, the current year was
only 842 of the Third Age. The numbers on the sign were nonsensical to the
locals—runes of a time they could not comprehend.
"It’s quite simple, really," Arthur was saying to the skeptical
couple standing before him. Lord Harrison, a nobleman whose skepticism was as
stiff as his iron-collared cape, eyed the bottle in Arthur's hand with open
disdain.
"Simple?" Harrison huffed, his hand resting on the pommel of his
sword. "You claim your father was a hedge wizard and your mother was High
Elven, giving you the ability to slip through the temporal fabric like a shadow
through a keyhole. And you use this grand cosmic power to... peddle
spirits?"
Arthur smiled, a gentle, knowing expression. "What better use of
eternity, Lord Harrison, than the pursuit of perfection? Kingdoms rise and
fall. Dragons wake and sleep. But the grape? The grape is constant."
He lifted the bottle he was holding. It was unlike anything in the
surrounding market. The glass was dark but translucent, and the liquid inside
pulsed with a soft, unnatural azure luminescence.
"Behold," Arthur murmured, his voice a melodic hum that seemed to
resonate with the latent magic in the air. "The Aurora Noctis,
vintage 2142. Grown in the floating void-gardens of the Shattered Isles,
centuries after the Great Sundering. The luminescence comes from the roots
tapping into the ley lines of the sky itself. It is, I assure you, a very, very
good year."
Lady Harrison leaned closer, the velvet of her dress brushing the doorframe.
"It glows, Albert," she whispered.
"Alchemy and trickery," Lord Harrison scoffed, though his eyes
lingered on the mesmerizing blue pulse. "Powdered glow-worms and illusion
magic to drive up the price of decent vinegar."
This was the dance Arthur played every evening. Half the city believed he
was a charlatan selling colored water; the other half were his devoted
clientele, nobles and mages who whispered that Arthur’s wares contained mana
unlike anything brewing in the present day.
"Come inside," Arthur invited, sweeping his arm toward the warm
interior, where oak barrels lined the walls and strange, shifting maps of the
world hung in the air. "Taste the impossible. If you believe it to be
vinegar, you shall not pay a copper. But if you taste the future..."
Hesitantly, the Harrisons crossed the threshold. The shop smelled of ancient
oak, dried herbs, and something else—the sharp, energized scent of a
thunderstorm that hasn't happened yet.
Arthur led them to a tasting table carved from a single block of petrified
wood. He unstopped the glowing 2142 vintage—it made a sound like a distant wind
chime—and poured a small measure into a goblet. The blue liquid swirled,
calming down to a deep, shimmering indigo.
Lord Harrison raised the goblet, sniffed suspiciously, and paused. He
smelled no vinegar. He smelled frost, starlight, and ozone. He took a sip.
The change was instantaneous. The nobleman's stiff posture collapsed. His
eyes widened, staring not at Arthur, but into the middle distance. He didn't
just taste wine; he tasted the history of a world he hadn't lived yet. He
tasted the sweetness of berries grown in a world where the wars had finally
ended, the metallic tang of new alloys, and the crispness of air from a time
when the skies had healed.
"By the Gods," Harrison breathed, setting the goblet down with a
trembling hand. "What is this?"
"Tomorrow," Arthur said softly, corking the glowing bottle.
"Bottled today."
An hour later, the Harrisons left, their servants carrying a crate of wine
that cost more than a warhorse. As they disappeared down the foggy street,
Arthur sighed contentedly. He polished the counter and turned the sign on the
door to 'Closed.'
He walked to the back room, filled not with stock, but with strange brass
astrolabes, humming crystals, and scrolls covering arithmancy equations his
father had taught him.
He picked up an empty leather satchel and checked his pocket watch. The
hands didn't move in hours, but in eras.
"We are low on the '92 Crimson," he muttered to himself. "And
I do believe the Crystal Spire vintage from the Age of Restoration is just
about ready for harvest."
With a subtle shift of his weight and a murmur of ancient words, the air in
the shop grew heavy. The smell of ozone spiked. The torches in the front room
flickered and died, and for a brief second, Arthur Pendelton was nowhere and
nowhen at all.
