A Promise Across Time [Completed]

Across Time's Divide

August 1963
Sweden

Raven heard voices as she slowly drifted back to consciousness. Her eyes fluttered open, and the first thing she saw was a pair of striking green eyes framed by a crown of red hair. The face, beautiful and calm, looked down at her with concern.

"Hej, mår du bra?" The woman spoke softly, her voice melodic and soothing. For a moment, Raven thought she might have died and gone to heaven.

"Kan du stå?" The woman offered her hand and helped Raven to her feet.

Raven's mind spun. The language sounded vaguely familiar—definitely not French, which she had studied, but something close to what her cousin Deirdre had mentioned once. Swedish, perhaps?

"Where am I?" Raven asked as she looked around, confusion clouding her mind. Everything felt strange and unfamiliar, like she'd stepped into a world she didn't recognize.

The woman frowned slightly but her expression remained soft. "Are you English?" Her voice was serene, and Raven found herself mesmerized by it, imagining she could listen to her speak forever and never tire of it.

"Yes, ma'am. I was born in London, Mayfair, actually," Raven replied with a small nod. "Where exactly am I?"

The woman hesitated, as if choosing her words carefully. She reached for Raven's hand again and led her through the door. It was only then that Raven realized they'd been standing outside a house.

"We are in Sweden," the woman said finally. "What's your name, and why were you outside my home?"

"My name is Raven Ciaran," she answered, her voice steady but perplexed. "And honestly, I don't know what I'm doing in Sweden. The last thing I remember, I was playing hide and seek with my cousins back home. I must've fallen asleep in the wardrobe..." She trailed off, the memory hazy. "May I ask your name, ma'am?"

The woman smiled, clearly amused, though Raven couldn't tell if it was at her explanation or her politeness. "My name is Anni-Frid, but you can call me Frida. 'Ma'am' makes me feel ancient."

Raven's brow furrowed. She knew that name, but from where?

Frida gestured toward the street. "Would you mind coming with me to the police station? Your parents are probably worried sick."

Raven sighed softly and nodded. "You're probably right. My birthday's tomorrow, and everyone's supposed to be at my party."

Frida's smile widened as she held out her hand once again. Together, they made their way down the street.

***

After an hour of talking to the police, calling London, and sorting through records, Raven sat on a bench, her hands folded primly in her lap. Across the room, Frida watched her, struck by how well-behaved the girl was. The way she carried herself, her clothes, and her speech all indicated that Raven came from a wealthy family, perhaps even nobility.

But there was something strange—something that didn't fit.

The officer returned with a puzzled expression. "There's no Eragon Meyers II on record, only an Eragon Meyers born two years ago," he said.

Raven blinked, stunned. "But that's impossible," she said firmly. "My grandfather is in his sixties, and my father is thirty-four."

Frida frowned, unsure of what to make of it. She had to leave for work soon and couldn't afford to miss her shift. Still, she couldn't just leave this child without answers.

"Alright," she said after a moment. "We'll figure this out later. I have to go to the studio now—would you like to come with me?"

Raven hesitated but nodded. Where else could she go? She was in a foreign country, alone, and with no idea how she had gotten there. This woman, Frida, seemed to be her only lifeline. Besides, her instincts told her she could trust her.

As they drove through the streets, Raven stared out the window, her eyes wide with amazement. Everything looked different—like she had stepped back in time. The music, the cars, the fashion... It hit her suddenly, like a rush of cold water.

"It's 1963," she whispered.

Frida glanced over at her. "Yes. Are you alright?"

Raven's eyes sparkled with excitement. "It's 1963!" she repeated, louder this time, her voice filled with awe. "This is incredible. I'm... I'm meeting you!"

Frida raised an eyebrow, clearly amused. "Meeting me?"

"You're Anni-Frid Lyngstad!" Raven exclaimed, barely able to contain her excitement. "You're going to be in ABBA!"

Frida laughed—a soft, sweet sound that filled the car. "ABBA? What on earth are you talking about, dear?"

Raven shook her head, grinning. "Oh, right, that comes much later. And you'll become a princess, too!"

Frida's amusement deepened. "A princess? Shouldn't I be calling you that?"

Raven blushed. "No, not me. But you will be, after your third marriage."

Frida chuckled again, clearly not believing a word. "You're quite the storyteller."

Raven bit her lip, suddenly aware she was saying too much. "What day is it?" she asked abruptly, hoping to change the subject.

"February 28th, 1963," Frida answered.

Raven swallowed hard. "Next year, you'll marry someone named Ragnar Fredriksson," she blurted out. "But it won't last. You'll have children, and it'll be tough balancing that with your career, but you'll manage. You'll struggle, but... you'll make it."

Frida's smile faded, and she glanced at Raven, her expression unreadable. "How could you possibly know all that?"

"I..." Raven hesitated. "Because I'm from the future. This is my past, but it's your present."

Frida didn't respond for a long moment, her mind clearly trying to process what Raven was saying. Finally, she sighed. "Well, Raven Ciaran, I think it's time we get you home. Where should I take you?"

Raven's voice was quiet, almost sad. "Mayfair. Duke Street, London."

Frida nodded slowly, recognizing the name of the affluent area. "That's quite a journey."

Raven looked out the window again. "But I can't go home," she murmured. "Not now. It's still 1963, and no one would believe me even if I told them the truth."

Frida glanced at her, her heart softening. "You're making quite the complicated case, Raven."

"I'm not lying," Raven said firmly, her gaze steady. "I just don't know how to get back."

Frida smiled, her skepticism softening. "We'll figure it out. You're in good hands, I promise."

*****