Lady Jane & Sir Davos of the Intergalactic Fellowship

 This week's prompt was- Two people meeting on a bus who have more in common than they think.

Jane glanced at the man standing behind her at the bus stop, a sudden, jarring sense of déjà vu washing over her. Flickers of another life sparked in her mind: knights in gleaming plate armour, a jester’s frantic tumbling, and the distant melody of lutes and pipes from an age long buried. When the bus finally pulled up, she gave her head a sharp shake to clear the ghosts away. 

She found a seat near the back, but her eyes kept drifting to the man. He was already seated further up, but he repeatedly turned around to catch her eye, a knowing smile tugging at his lips. Jane felt a strange pull toward him; she was certain he recognised her, too. 

After a mile or so, the man stood up and made his way down the aisle toward her. 

“Don’t I know you?” he asked, his voice hesitant but hopeful. 

“Davos, isn’t it?” Jane replied instantly. The name felt right on her tongue, though she had no idea where it had come from. 

“Yeah.” He offered his hand, but Jane stayed still, her mind racing. 

“Where on earth do I know you from?” she asked. 

“I… I am not sure. But I can see a castle,” he said, sliding into the row in front of her.

“And crowds of people in velvet and silk. Tapestries. Large paintings, on the wall of a castle”. 

Jane felt a nervous grin spread across her face. “I remember it all now, it's coming back to me.” 

The man’s eyes widened in realisation. “Wait a minute! You’re Lady Jane—Lady Jane of Salfordia! I knew it. It’s me, Sir Davos of Eccles Town.” He patted his chest proudly. 

“How is this possible?” Jane whispered, looking out the window at the grey streets. “I can see it all so clearly: the stone walls, the flickering torches, even the scent of roasting boar in the Great Hall. Yet here I am, sitting on the number 8 to Manchester.” 

“I have no idea what’s happening,” Sir Davos said, looking just as bewildered as she felt. 

The bus rattled onward, the modern world outside the windows beginning to blur and warp. The grey rainy streets of Manchester dissolved into rolling mist, and the hum of the engine transformed into the rhythmic thud of a thousand marching feet. 

“Next stop, Castle Gate,” the driver’s voice crackled over the intercom, but it sounded deeper now, echoing as if through a stone corridor. 

The bus slowed to a halt with a hiss of air brakes that sounded suspiciously like a dragon’s breath. The doors creaked open. Jane and Davos stood together, their modern clothes feeling suddenly heavy and stiff, like ceremonial wool. 

They stepped off the bus and onto a jagged stone path. There were no more commuters, no more traffic lights. Looming above them, piercing the heavy clouds, was a colossal fortress of black granite. Its banners—azure and gold—snapped violently in the mountain wind. 

“We are no longer in Salfordia anymore,” Davos whispered, his hand instinctively dropping to his hip where a sword hilt now shimmered into existence. 

Jane looked down at her hands. Her polished nail polish was gone, replaced by fingers full of silver and gold. Her business suit had changed to a gown of silk and lace.

She looked up at the towering gates of the castle. 

“I think we’re home, Sir Davos,” Lady Jane said, her voice trembling. 

As they walked toward the drawbridge, the number 8 bus lights flickered once, turned into a trail of golden exhaust, and vanished into the mist, leaving the two travellers at the threshold of their true kingdom. 

The heavy oak drawbridge groaned as it lowered, hitting the stone battlements with a resonant thud that echoed across the mountain peaks. As Lady Jane and Sir Davos stepped across the threshold, the sudden silence of the courtyard was shattered by a collective gasp, followed by the deafening clang of steel hitting stone. 

Every guard in the courtyard dropped to one knee, their halberds clattering against the ground in a synchronous salute. 

“The Lady has returned!” a young page cried out, his voice cracking with emotion.

He dropped a bundle of firewood and sprinted toward the inner keep, his shouts ringing through the vaulted stone corridors. “Sir Davos lives!  

Jane felt the rough texture of the castle’s ancient stones beneath her boots—no longer the thin soles of her black pavers slip-ons, but sturdy, fur-lined leather. A group of handmaidens in flowing kirtles rushed toward her, their faces streaked with tears of relief. 

“My Lady,” the eldest whispered, bowing her head deeply. “The Great Hall has been cold since the moment you vanished from the garden. We feared the mists of Manchester had claimed you forever.” 

Davos stood tall at Jane’s side, his hand resting naturally on the pommel of a broadsword that glinted with enchantments. A grizzled commander of the guard stepped forward, clasping his forearm in a warrior’s grip. 

“We kept the fires burning on the battlements, Sir Davos,” the commander growled, though his eyes shone. “We have a pig cooking. Are you hungry?” 

“I am, I could eat a horse,” he answered with a broad smile. 

Jane looked up at the high, arched ceiling of the Great Hall. The smell of roasting boar and woodsmoke coming from the kitchen filled her senses, exactly as she had imagined on the bus. 

“Rise,” Jane commanded, her voice ringing with a natural authority that surprised even her. “The journey was long. Bring us wine, I need to know what has been happening since our departure.” 

The head handmaiden bowed her head, Ma 'Lady, we have had teams out every day, searching for you, but to no avail. The woods grew silent, and the birds stopped singing the moment you crossed the threshold of the Veil.” 

She beckoned to a pair of servants, who hurried forward with silver chalices and a flagon of deep, spiced wine. Davos took a cup, his fingers grasping the vessel; he took a drink, then another. 

“The King’s messengers have arrived twice,” the handmaiden continued, her voice dropping to a cautious whisper. “The King did not believe the stories; he had put a bounty on Sir Davos’ head, one hundred gold coins.  

Jane stood up, “Where is the maester? I will send a reply.” 

The Maester came, and Lady Jane spoke in private to him. When the message was written, it was fastened to a pigeon and set free.  

“Ma, Lady, will you tell us of what happened to you and Sir Davos? We have all been worried,” the head handmaiden asked. 

Jane took a slow sip of the wine. “First, let us eat.” A cheer was heard all around the great hall. Everyone tucked into a hearty meal. After a few flagons of mead had gone, some of the knights tried to get Sir Davos to let it slip, of what had happened. He kept his mouth shut and waited for the Lady of the House to start. 

The Great Hall fell into a hushed silence as Lady Jane and Sir Davos took their seats at the high table. Knights sat in the round, drinks in hand, while children crammed into any space that was free, eyes and ears wide open, ready to hear the story. All stomachs were full. 

The flickering torchlight danced off the silver chalices as the court gathered close, eager to hear of the perils they had faced in the "Land of the Manchester." 

Jane leaned forward, her voice dropping to a low tone to command the room. 

"It was in the Veil of Clifton," she began, her eyes reflecting the hearth fire. "The beast descended from a swirl of soot and smog. A dragon of flesh and bone, its eyes glowing so bright." 

"Its roar was the sound of death," Davos added, his hand tightening around his goblet. "It moved not on wings, but on feet each as big as a horse that bit into the earth. 

The court gasped. A young squire dropped his scribe in shock. 

"But the dragon was not our only adversary," Jane continued, her expression hardening. "Our ancient enemy, the Hoodies from the Moss-sideium. 

The children were in shock, they had heard of the Hoodie-wearing tribe, so they weren't just tails to keep you in line, they were true. 

"They cornered us, and we had the cliff to the left falling to the sea. To the right was Mount Pendleton, which no one has ever climbed, because the walls were like glass.

And in front of the Dragon," Davos said, it was either the hoodies or the beast. He stopped for a breath, “So we ran to the shadows. 

The silence in the hall was frightening, so deep the crackle of the logs sounded like bone snapping. Davos took a heavy swallow of wine, "We didn't charge with swords."   

Jane leaned in, her voice a harsh scrape. “No, we ran under its belly. Right into the shadows of those moving legs. The Hoodies were a heartbeat behind us. Grey masks. Eyes like slits in stone.” 

“The leader wore black fleece,” Davos said, his eyes blank. “He raised a hand and whistled. It was a sharp sound—sharp enough to kill the dragon’s roar. And just like that, the beast froze. He had lost interest in us; he was now looking down on them.” 

The squire who dropped his scribe stared at Davos, pale and wide-eyed, seeing a ghost in the flesh. 

“So, what happened?” Sir Peter of Worsley asked inquisitively. 

“It was Sir Davos who saved the day,” Lady Jane said proudly, “While the Dragon was feeding on the Hoodie tribe, Sir Davos sliced at the back of the leg. When he had cut through the rough scaly outer skin, he could see the tendon, so he hacked at it. This made the Dragon fall to one side. Luckily, it was the side of the cliff, and he fell. It must have been a thousand meters to the sea.” 

“What happened to the Hoodies?” someone shouted out.  

Lady Jane and Sir Davos looked at each other. Davos allowed the Lady to finish,

“There were only a handful left; the Dragon had either eaten or fried them, and when they saw the dragon fall and Sir Davos standing there with his broadsword in his hand, covered in Blood, they all dropped their weapons and bent a knee to him. 

The Great Hall erupted in cheers. Swords were hammered against shields, and the minstrels began a frantic, joyful tune to celebrate the escape of the Lady and her Knight. 

When everyone had gone, leaving Lady Jane and Sir Davos alone sitting in front of the fire. Sir Davos had a question. “So, what happened? How did we go from sitting on the Number eight going from Bolton to Manchester, to fighting the Hoodies and killing a Dragon?  

To the right of the fire, a portal opened, and a man in strange clothing walked out, taking off his helmet. He greeted both Lady Jane and Sir Davos in a language neither understood.        

The man in the strange clothing tapped a flashing blue disc on his wrist, and suddenly his words could be heard. 

“Apologies,” the stranger said, smoothing his suit made of fabric that shimmered in the firelight. “The translation App usually kicks in straight away. I am Chandos Aris. And you two need to come with me, you are roughly six hundred years from where you should be. 

“I don’t understand,” Lady Jane quizzed. “Firstly, how do we know each other, and what is going on?” 

Both of you are employed by the Intergalactic Fellowship, an organisation responsible for deploying operatives to locations throughout history where aid is needed. 

Sir Davos asked, “How do we know each other?” 

“You didn’t before today, look,” he pointed to a disc on their forearm, “We can give you image, thoughts, likes, dislikes, even back stories. Remember when you first got on the No 8, we planted the seed so you would talk to each other.” 

They both checked out the disc, Sir Davos tapped his, and a 3D image popped up hovering above his arm; it was a map of Salfordia.  

“We sent you both a message this morning, but somehow something happened, and you both got the wrong message. You should have got off at the library, not the Castle Gates. “Basically, you got off at the wrong stop,” Chandos said, smiling. 

Sir Davos blinked. “The wrong stop?” he repeated, as if tasting the words. “We could have been killed, fried, and eaten, because of a wrong message.” 

Lady Jane leaned back in her chair, studying the stranger. “You are saying,” she said slowly, “We should have got off at another time?” 

“Yes,” Chandos picked up a goblet and drank from it, “This is good, can I get one to go?” 

The fire popped loudly. Outside the Great Hall, the last echoes of celebration faded into silence. 

Lady Jane stood. “If we are six hundred years out of place,” she said, “Then where exactly should we be?” 

Chandos glanced down at the glowing disc on his wrist. The blue light pulsed, shifting into a map that hovered between them. Lines curled and twisted like threads pulled through time. 

“Carluke,” he said. “March 2025. Saturday afternoon. You were meant to be on the Number Eight for eleven more minutes.” 

Sir Davos laughed out loud. “All this,” he gestured at the hall, the banners, the firelight, “Because the wrong message?” 

“Actually, yes.” Chandos corrected. “It happens more often than you’d think.” 

Lady Jane exchanged a look with Sir Davos, “Well,” she said at last, reaching for her cloak, “We had best be going, then.” 

Sir Davos rose and took his sword from where it rested against the hearth. “Aye. Wouldn’t want to miss our stop again.” 

Chandos smiled, tapping the disc once more. The portal flared open, bright and humming, carrying with it the faint sound of traffic, rain, and a bus engine idling. “This way,” he said. “And do try not to kill anything on the way back.” 

Together, Lady Jane and Sir Davos stepped forward, “One thing,” She asked. 

Chandos stopped giving her a chance to speak, “What did we do here?”  

“You stopped a rift between two villages that had been going on for five hundred years, and you, Sir Davos, killed the Dragon that had plagued the land for over a thousand years. So, you see, you did well. Oh, and one last thing, when you get back on the bus, all memories of the last few days will disappear.” 

All three walked into the portal, out of the firelight, out of the Great Hall, and back toward the Number Eight bound for Manchester. 

As the Bus stopped at the library, the clothes Sir Davos and Lady Jane were wearing had changed. Davos had on jeans, a t-shirt and a gilet. Lady Jane was back in her business suit and comfortable Pavers.  

“Shall we?” David asked Jane.