The Emerald Hill

Posted on Sun Dec 28th, 2025 @ 14:36 by The Chronarch

Chapter: Gobsmacked
Location: An abandoned cottage
Timeline: Wouldn't you like to know?
1178 words - 2.4 OF Standard Post Measure

There are precious few places that slip the imaginations of modern wordsmiths. This hill, its slope the colour of promises kept and broken, is one of them. To call it emerald would cheapen it, as if a jeweller could socket its verdant life. The shrubs keep the exact shade of green catalogues use when they are trying to sell you a lifestyle. A myriad of trees hold two truths at once, evergreen and ancient, leaves and needles and seeds and bark living since winters before names.

A hag would sniff, cough, perhaps spit at its primness. A king or queen would find it a hovel, too small, too simple. Yet royalty dwelt here. The goblin scurrying up the track knew this. There was scarcely a path to speak of. What exists is only because feet frequent it, not because it is paved. Certainly not up to code. The small green creature, all great ears and angular features, almost tripped as it hastened for the crest.

He straightened, drew a breath, and brushed an invisible speck from his uniform. After a few moments, or perhaps minutes, he rapped upon the dark, thick wood of the door that regarded visitors the way only true oak can. The knock echoed down the valley and the creek forgot to run for the length of a heartbeat, then remembered that whatever happens in the house on the hill is none of its business.

The door swung open and a breath of fresh air met the Goblin. He took a moment to confirm he was still the one outside looking to come inside. Once certain he passed the threshold.

"Master Geargarin, you are late." The voice drew out that sentence to its full extent as it filled the room. Not that is was booming, nor loud, on the contrary. It simply took its time to fill every nook and cranny of the large den.

A grandfather clock lazily allowed the seconds to pass by with lazy grace. On the wall, another clock insisted on a different hour. The source of the voice could only be described as otherworldly. Now there are many things one can consider otherwordly, dependent fully on the world one uses as reference. Even by the standards of the more exotic places, the speaker would have been esoteric. Eyes dark as bottomless pits, reflecting a star-scattered sky. Hair like long wisps fog, cascading down shoulders. They wore dusk and dawn as if they had been tailored for them. They regarded the goblin who had just entered.

Garrick fought the urge to comment that the room’s inside dimensions did not entirely agree with the cottage outside. "I came as soon as we received your missive, Chronarch." He knew better than to comment on the fact that in this realm there was no early, and no late. "You wished to hire?"

“I wish to agree terms for a contract,” the Chronarch said, closing the mirrored watch and restoring it to their pocket. “Hiring is for people who find pleasure in surprise extensions and the occasional missed deadline.” They motioned to a nearby chair, "Please, sit. Tea?"

With a quick nod, Garrick took the offered seat. He reached into his pocket and produced a scrap of paper and a stub of pencil. “Of course, of course, would not want it any other way. There are rules and regulations to consider.”

As the Chronarch lifted the kettle from the fire, the flames seemed to pause, leaning back to make room for the hand that owned the hearth. To say the Chronarch moved slowly would be to misunderstand the intention. They were simply in no rush. Time was not wasted by those who stood outside it. “Yes. Regulations. Very good. First: you are not to harm anyone.”

“Sure, sure. Only in self-defence.”

The Chronarch stopped mid-pour. The tea had the courtesy to pause with them. “No harm shall come to any inhabitant of this realm.” Their starry eyes brightened.

“As you wish. Clear. I shall see to an amendment to the standard clause.” He licked the pencil, wrote briskly, and added, almost proudly, “Article 27-B, subsection Kindly.”

"Second," They finished pouring the tea, "you will grant me three of your stealthiest individuals, no questions asked."

Garrick paused at that request, “Two units, one without a chief. Union will write me up for that, quite apart from it being a bad idea.”

“Biscuit?” The Chronarch did not seem in the least perturbed. They nudged the plate across the table. The shortbread obliged by arriving precisely beneath Garrick’s hand.

He took one on principle. “To be clear, these three would report directly to you.”

“They will report to the contract,” the Chronarch said. “Quietly. They will leave no bruises on the night and no footprints on the hour.”

Garrick chewed, thinking. “Unauthorised specialists tend to authorise themselves. I will require an indemnity. And a tea break.”

“You will have both,” they said. Seeing the unease in the goblin, they added, “In writing.”

Garrick sighed with relief. His grey eyes brightened as he added a line to his scrap of paper. “Add Article 12-Tea. Very good.” He scribbled a moment. “Pseudonyms shall be provided, faces shall be forgettable.”

“Like lost seconds in a rush across a platform for a departing train.”

“Quite.”

“Sugar?”

“Two. For morale.”

With a gentle nudge, the sugar pot danced close enough for Garrick to reach, the spoon sticking out exactly where it needed to be.

“Third,” said the Chronarch, “you will conclude your public works upon the ringing of the bell.”

Garrick nodded, made a note, then looked up from his paper. “Excuse my ignorance, Keeper of Fleeting Moments, which bell exactly?”

“The one that inevitably rings when it must.”

“Right.” He hesitated, committed it to paper, then underlined it for good measure.

The Chronarch drew the watch from their pocket. Its mirrored face did not reflect the room but a young child at a window, looking out over the misted loch. The child watched the seconds pass with the calm attention of someone who knows they are being watched in return.

The image thinned and was gone.

“Finally, the contract will commence when day stands level with night, by the market clock, at eighteen thirty-two.”

Garrick scribbled to get the details down correctly. Equinox, two minutes past half six. “Very ceremonial. We can do ceremonial. Goblins are not much for rituals, but we can be regal if the contract calls for it.”

“Good.” Their thumb traced the pocket watch, as if to reassure it. “You may begin your preparations.”

Garrick rose. The chair did not protest. He bowed the correct amount, which is to say not very far at all, and made for the door.

When the door settled, the Chronarch opened the watch again. In its mirrored face a single moment clung to the glass like breath, almost too simple to take. Not like the wild currents loosed by her when she had yoked time to their own personal wants. “Just a few more minutes of your time,” they said.