- U -

These Falling Leaves Whisper About the End

         Somehow it turned out to be a pleasant day after all.
         A generous dollop of sunlight served to boost the temperature into a milder range, almost hinting at the spring that was months away. The air was chilled but only if you stood still for too long and even then its biting numbness was a creeping cold, flexible ice gradually seeping into your skin, banished with the finest of movements. On a day like this, people in motion might forget it was even winter at all. Only the bare and skeletal trees reminded anyone of the barren and harsh season they were in the middle of. And even then, their silent branches reaching into the sky like gnarled, many-fingered hands looked more like abstract representations accidentally stumbling into a sort of stark beauty.
         Sitting in the net-like shadows of these trees was a park. In that park were benches, the wood grayed by years of exposure but otherwise sturdy and rugged. On one of those benches were two people. One was an old man, dressed in hat and heavy jacket, contentedly smoking a pipe, its dense mists forming amorphous ghosts that clung to the area, only departing reluctantly through force of wind, as if desperate to get back inside their warm hovel. Next to him was an empty bag that once held popcorn. He had brought to feed the birds, only to find that there were very few birds to be found. Honestly, he didn't care, it was just an excuse to get out. He had wound up eating most of the popcorn himself.
         His partner on the bench was a young man, staring around distractedly at the trees, hands laying limply in his lap. His jacket was unzippered and the only movements on his body was the occasionally blinking of his eyes and the gentle rustling of his hair shifted by the wind. Sometimes he didn't appear to be breathing, so shallow were his breaths. His eyes reflected the landscape around him, but it wasn't clear if he was seeing any of it.
         The old man had tried to engage his companion in conversation at several points, mostly with comments about birds or about the weather, mostly just because he wanted to hear himself talk and he figured it didn't hurt to be friendly. On those occasions the man would smile faintly and make a simple sort of answer before returning to distant contemplation, if his state could even be called that. The old man wasn't offended in the slightest by the other man's unwillingness to be lured into conversation. It was too nice a day to worry about such things and besides, not everyone was inclined to talk to strangers, no matter how well intentioned that strangers might be.
         So the old man sat and the young man sat, for different reasons, looking at the same park and seeing very different things.
         Eventually the old man started to feel the cold in his joints and the smoke in his lungs made him want to cough, if only to rid himself of a vague tightness in his chest. He decided then it was time to go. Hoisting himself with a grunt to his feet, tucking his now cold pipe into his jacket pocket and clutching the empty popcorn bag in his other hand, he prepared himself for a pleasant walk home. Looking around, he could see a jogger streaking along a path, other people resting on distant benches, and a few people casually strolling. At random, he picked a path and decided he would follow that out. Yes, that sounded like a fine idea.
         Tipping his cap to the young man on the bench, he smiled in a friendly fashion and said, "You take care, young fella."
         The young man looked up at him, returning the smile, saying, "I'll do my best."
         "Now, that's the right attitude," the old man replied. "You get out and you enjoy a day like today, because that's why God made it. For us to enjoy." Taking a few steps closer, he leaned a little toward the young man and said in a mock whisper, "Though I doubt God would protest much if you found a lovely companion to enjoy the day with. If you know what I mean."
         Blinking, as if not understanding at first, the young man finally gave an indulgent smile and said, "I'll see what I can do."
         The old man stopped just short of clapping the other man on the shoulder. "That's the spirit, my boy. Now you get out and make what you can of this day. Just because you've got it all ahead of you doesn't mean you got a right to sit here and let it go to waste. That's for fat cows like me, who've had their chance." He cackled good naturedly, while the other man merely kept smiling. "You keep that in mind, son."
         "I will," the other man told him, nodding sagely.
         "See that you do," the man said seriously, before laughing again. "Ah, see you around, fella. Remember, don't take root there."
         The man nodded again, but the old man had already turned away and was ambling cheerfully down the path. The man watched him go for a moment, shaking his head with a small smile, before returning to his silent regarding of the trees and the sky. Occasionally a cloud would brush across his face and he appeared to shrink away from something that just wasn't there. But those moments were brief and a few deep breaths would serve to reinstate that sort of bland tranquility.
         When he heard light footsteps approaching from the other directions, he didn't react. There was no need. It was probably the old man coming back to dispense a few more indispensable pearls of precious wisdom. Or to admit he had gotten lost trying to escape the park.
         The footsteps grew nearer to the bench. A small, slight shadow fell across him, seeming unnaturally dark in the bright sunlight. It hovered there a minute, waiting for an acknowledgement that wasn't exactly forthcoming.
         A foot gently tapped at his shoe, hesitantly. "Hey, you," a girl's voice said.
         Tristian looked up sharply, almost standing up in surprise, looking down, looking up again and then somehow regaining his composure, all in a matter of a second. "Lena . . . ah, hi." Almost as an afterthought, he added, "How are you doing?"
         "Oh, I'm okay, thanks," she replied brightly. Tapping the bench with her leg, she asked, "Room for one more on here?"
         "What . . ." not immediately comprehending, he fumbled for words, putting his hand on the bench as if to ask this bench here? before drawing the back swiftly and saying, "I, ah, sure. Sure, yes, have a seat, by all means. There's plenty of room. Have a seat. Please." His eyes narrowed, not totally understanding everything he had just said.
         Smiling through some private joke, Lena sat down next to Tristian. Perhaps three or four inches separated them. She crossed her legs and leaned back, folding her arms tightly across her chest. Tristian unconsciously shifted away an inch, no doubt in an attempt to give her more room, which she had plenty of, before realizing what he was doing and forcing himself to stop. For some reason he felt very nervous all of a sudden.
         He hoped that taking the conversational initiative would help. "So I guess you were tired of being cooped up, too?" Spitting in his face, his heart sped up even faster, and he braced himself for some kind of acid tongued response, not at all knowing why he would even expect such a thing. Especially from her.
         "Yeah," she sighed, shrugging. "I like the peace and quiet but sitting by myself all the time was starting to drive me nuts. I had to get out. So here I am." She stared at her knees, her gaze strangely intent. She wasn't touching him but Tristian could feel her trembling faintly. The cause he couldn't discern. It had to be the cold. Or was it?
         "Have you seen Jina at all?" he asked.
         "A little bit," Lena replied after a brief pause. "She's been in and out all day, so I don't know if that counts as seeing her." Another pause. "Why, did you need to talk to her?" Her questions were neutral, but something was quivering faintly beneath her words. She suspected something, but couldn't be sure of what.
         "No, I was . . ." Tristian stumbled through the words with ramshackle calm, "actually I had been expecting to see her here, that's all. I mentioned to her that I might be here. In case, you know, she wanted to get out. In case she wanted some company."
         "Oh," Lena said, not looking at Tristian. "No, she really hasn't been home." She bit her lip, uncrossed and recrossed her legs. "Joe's with her, I think. Joe and Brian and the others."
         "That's good." Hazarding a glance at Lena, Tristian got the impression that she was distressed, either from his words or some other, less tangible, source. He was surprised by how frustrated that uncertainty made him. "Lena, are you-"
         "Tristian," she said simultaneously, causing him to fall silent. Planting both her feet on the ground, she sat up, saying, "I . . . can we . . . do you mind if we take a walk? I'm getting a little cold." She sprang to her feet with lithe grace. Tristian found it was a motion he could watch all day. Her laugh was sharp and brief. "Sorry, I'm such a wuss when it comes to this weather."
         "No, no it's fine," he said quickly, springing to his feet so fast that Lena took an involuntary step back, blinking in surprise. He made another mental note to stop doing that to people. "That's just fine. I need to stretch my legs anyway." Tristian glanced in either direction, before turning back to Lena, eyebrows raised. "Which way?"
         "Ah, let's go this way," she decided, indicating the path leading deeper into the park. Thus chosen, the two of them strolled along, Tristian quickly matching his longer strides to Lena's shorter steps so she didn't wind up racing to keep up with him. He found with some surprise that he felt flushed and ill, his heart racing madly, his legs sporadically becoming weak. Every sideways glance he ventured at her seemed stolen. Lena was staring at the ground and up ahead, her face pensive. Otherwise she seemed relaxed though, walking near him, their elbows constantly just avoiding coming into contact. Tristian realized that this was probably the first time the two of them had been alone since the party.
         "How was the funeral?" Lena asked casually. The transition was at best awkward, and her voice seemed to indirectly acknowledge that. "Jina didn't say much about it, other than it was depressing." Shrugging, she noted, "But I guess she knew that going in."
         "It was bad for everyone," Tristian remarked, his voice hushed, as if the trees themselves might be listening. A twisted and skeletal canopy began to enclose them. Shadows wrapped around Lena's face like a cage. Tristian wondered what she saw when she looked at him. Probably everything in shadow. But maybe not. Hadn't they proved that to each other already? His thoughts were too dour. He should be thrilled that she was here. With him. Had come out to find him, it appeared. But the moments crushed him from all sides. This day needed to be restarted. This week had to be wound back. But nobody could do that. Nobody here. "Most everyone was crying at some point, it was . . . it was hard to watch . . ." that kind of emotion was always contagious. Good thing he had that insulating shell. Keeps feelings out. "Though not as hard as . . ." he trailed off.
         "As what?" Lena said, glancing up at him. Her hands were buried in her pockets but for a second he swore she was going to touch his arm. Dammit. What he wouldn't give for different circumstances. This hesitation buys you nothing. But not here. Not now.
         "The people who . . . who wanted to cry and . . . weren't letting themselves, they were, ah, they were holding it back. Holding it in, I guess. Trying to keep their composure, they looked like . . . like they were trying not to fall apart and . . . failing. Or about to fail. It's just . . ." he shrugged, lips a tight line, "it's not something I like to watch." Around her, the admission came easier. He had expected otherwise. He wasn't sure what it meant. To him, or for her.
         "I can understand that," Lena muttered, her voice a carefully crafted neutrality. Tristian had the feeling that her sympathy didn't come the same way as his, through observation. "What about . . ." she frowned, the right words escaping, "what about you? Which one were you?" That wasn't the question she had wanted to ask. The real one lay beneath her awkwardly stated concern, too fragile to rise up properly, but unable to stay buried for much longer.
         "Me?" Tristian asked, taken off guard as he tried to answer the unspoken question instead of the verbal one. He covered it with a sardonic, knowing smile. "Neither, actually. You know me."
         "Yeah, yeah, Mr Aloof," Lena replied, rolling her eyes. "Why didn't I guess?" For a brief moment her heart almost was in it. Then the strange seriousness came over her again. "You didn't know him that well, did you? The . . . the guy who died. I mean, you knew him but you didn't know him. Right?"
         "Was I friends with him? No," Tristian said. "We knew each other, knew of each other, but we were never anything remotely resembling close."
         "So it was weird, right?" Lena asked almost eagerly, like she found had just found water lying in the middle of this desert. "With everyone else all upset and you're just, like, standing off to the side and you know what it's about, but at the same time you . . . you're not there. Not part of it." She half shrugged, half shivered. "I don't know," she admitted quietly.
         This area of the park was deserted, their voices captured in the pockets of the branches where the leaves used to stay, hanging there, quivering, glistening, ghost bats sleeping until nightfall. Their footsteps tapped a steady but near inaudible rhythm. A bird broke through the trees and tore off into the sky in a flutter of beating wings and cracking twigs, but beyond a brief blur, nothing was seen.
         "Jina's been taking it hard?" Tristian asked, although that was an answer he had discovered days ago. Beyond being friends with Don, she may have also briefly dated him back then. He didn't remember too clearly, the guys and girls swapped partners on a near weekly basis in those days. Nothing was supposed to last, to be set in stone. Until it changes for the last time. Then it changes forever.
         "Not just Jina . . ." Lena told him, catching his eye again. The line of her mouth was frustrated, but it was an emotion torn out under duress. She didn't want to be this way. "Jina and Joe and Brian and . . . all of them. Even when they're not talking about it, you can tell. And . . . I don't know what to do. I want to do something but I don't know how I can help." Not looking at him, she smiled. "I think you're starting to rub off on me, Tristian. I can't stop thinking of ways to try and help them. Look what you've done." Her voice didn't make it sound like it was a terribly bad thing.
         "I'm sorry," Tristian deadpanned.
         She shot him a look, saying, "Hey, I didn't mean-"
         "I'm just kidding," he said, putting a hand lightly on her shoulder, stopping her from taking a swing at him. At least that was the excuse. The fabric of her jacket crinkled under his touch. Automatically she moved herself away, staring at his hand with a look of mild surprise, as if she hadn't thought he had it in him.
         Her eyes shifted to his, and Tristian wordlessly removed his hand. The two of them had never broken stride. Something in Lena's eyes was afraid, kept her from speaking. This wasn't the right time, a silent voice cajoled. But when would be? When would these distractions stop and he could regain the course of his own life. Feel like he was in control and not buffeted by a dozen conflicting demands.
         "I know," Lena said quickly, looking down. It wasn't clear what exactly she was referring to. Her foot absently kicked at a stray rock as they walked past it. She missed but without missing a beat Tristian scooped it up with his foot and knocked it ahead. It clattered and rolled forward, finally coming to a rest slightly ahead, still in their path.
         "I think you're doing enough on your own. You can't expect to make what they're feeling just go away. That only takes time." Almost catching up to the stone, Lena made a motion to boot it again but Tristian deftly weaved in and sent it flying forward, all while keeping it part of his normal pace. "I mean Jina says you've been patient with all her moping around lately."
         "Yeah, well I guess it's her turn now," Lena offered without elaboration. "She was patient with me long enough." She made a face and shrugged. "It just bothers me, I guess, to see her, to see all of them, like that. Upset. But there's nothing I can really do about it. It's just . . . one of those things. That passes with time." Her face was withdrawn, musing. Tristian found her knotted contemplation, the way her face creased gracefully, how her mouth tightened crookedly and thoughtfully, beautiful to watch. But all his glances were stolen, split second photographs taken and stored, to be savored later. He didn't want to stare. It was an effort not to. "I feel bad, don't get me wrong," she said suddenly, trying to explain herself needlessly. "But I can't feel the same way they do . . . I think if I did, it'd be . . . I'd be lying to myself. Trying to pretend."
         "Believe me, I know how you feel," Tristian told her sincerely.
         "Yeah, I think you do," she said almost to herself, her brow furrowing as she lined herself up to strike at the rock again. Tristian hid his smile and jockeyed forward a half step, neatly sweeping it out from between her feet. As it rolled forward he pointedly ignored her bemused glare.
         "So how have you been, Lena?" Tristian asked suddenly, partly to distract her and partly to shift the topic of conversation to a subject more to his liking. "I haven't talked to you in a while. I think I've developed this knack of always stopping over at the wrong time."
         "I know, we keep missing each other," Lena agreed and her voice was maddeningly vague. Or maybe that was just the way he chose to hear it. "But I'm sure Jina is talkative enough for three of me," she added wryly.
         "Sometimes," Tristian had to admit. Out of the corner of his eye he could see Lena glancing furtively at him while lining herself up with the stone still placidly occupying the center of the path.
         "But it has been crazy," Lena continued after a moment, though her gaze was still fixed ahead. "With my sister coming down and then the funeral . . . half the time I feel like I don't know what's going on."
         "Things will settle down soon," Tristian informed her, like his words were just the panacea to make it so. Lena scuffed her foot a little as she quickened her pace just slightly. She was hoping he wouldn't notice, not realizing that he couldn't help but notice everything about her. Every action, every fidget, every movement of hers that stirred the air seemed to pluck a string. Through no fault of his own, he found his ears innately attuned to it. It wasn't something he could ignore and all his attempts to were at best half hearted.
         "God, I hope so," Lena remarked. She stealthily slid another half step ahead of him. He let her have it. He could use the handicap. It'd be more sporting that way. "I'm just living this vicious cycle, getting frustrated, then feeling guilty for being frustrated, and then getting irritated again because I can't stop feeling guilty." Laughing self consciously, she noted, "Geez, I'm just a mess."
         "Of course you are," Tristian said patronizingly. His tone caused her to give him a piercing look, tearing her attention away for just the one second he needed.
         Timing his motion with Lena's, Tristian suddenly broke free of their pace, sliding forward the two steps necessary.
         "Oh no you don't-" Lena laughed, catching the motion at the last second, trying to counter it with a lunge forward, her leg darting toward the stone, playfully attempting to shove him aside.
         But mass was not a force easily deflected and inertia not that easily defied. The two of them collided right at the stone, Tristian seeing it coming and planting his foot to halt his motion but all he did was twist the angle as Lena slammed into him, tripping and sending them both in a totally different direction. Tristian nearly fell backwards and by reflex he grabbed Lena for both support and to keep her from falling. Their shoes scuffed and scratched at the path as they spun about, fighting to regain their balances. The world ricocheted dizzily, becoming a fishbowl ringed with gnarled wooden fingers trying to close off his view of the sky.
         Eventually they found a sort of equilibrium and skidded to a stop, both of them gasping for breath. The cold air was a welcome knife into his lungs, helping to revive him. Tristian was suddenly conscious of Lena's presence, very close to him, his hands on her shoulders, one of her hands on his forearm, the other touching his hand. Lena was taking longer to catch her breath, mostly because she was laughing at the same time. In the quiet of the park, it seemed the only sound in the world. Tristian didn't dare move, for fear of disrupting the mirage of her presence. His heart was carving out a larger hollow in his chest.
         Her breathing slowing, Lena's eyes met his as she half laughed, half coughed again, her head nearly resting on his chest. She didn't move from his arms and he made no attempt to release her. This closeness almost paralyzed him, the warmth of her body threatening to force him away. Tristian couldn't stop grinning.
         Lena weakly coughed one more time and then seemed to finally regain her breath. She leaned against him without touching him and Tristian found the hint of her weight oddly reassuring. Above, the wind gently rustled the trees, causing a wooden rattling sound. A bird's call, fading in and out as it passed overhead, seemed a sort of call to arms.
         Nobody said anything.
         Tristian was too afraid of disrupting something fragile to do anything other than marvel having reached this point. Lena looked up at him again, grinning widely, a lightness in her eyes that he hadn't seen in a long time. To think that he was the cause of it, even partially, made his legs go weak.
         "Lena . . ." he said, not sure what would follow her name. The very sound appeared to startle her out of some dream. These things, they couldn't last. Already he felt something was slipping away.
         And then, slowly, her eyes became serious again, dropping to his chest. Before his eyes it was all turning backwards. Desperately he wished for it to stop. How could he tell her? But Tristian did nothing. There was nothing to do. Forcing it would only ruin whatever this was before it had truly been born. There had to be patience. One time. One day. Any moment hidden might become revealed again. It had to.
         Lena frowned, bit her lip, seemed to be pondering something. Her hand relaxed on his, but didn't disengage. The two of them stood there, scant inches apart, Lena thoughtful and silent, Tristian waiting, his eyes expectant, his pulse fluttering wildly.
         Without looking up at him, she said softly, "I know what you did."
         Tristian's face was expressionless, frozen in patient passivity. He watched her throat bulge slightly as she swallowed thickly, felt the skin of her hand which had been flushed with warmth, begin to cool down. Through the loosely knit forest around them, Tristian could see no one.
         Without a word he let go of her, taking a half step back and tucking his hands into his pockets. The motion caused the sword to rattle against his hip. Lena probably didn't notice. But he did. Of course he did. Lena gave a sort of sigh and brushed some hair back behind her ears before folding her arms over her chest. She looked like she was waiting for an answer she didn't want to hear.
         "So . . . Joe told you?" Tristian asked, his voice sounding scratchy. The air can dry anything. Absently hopping another half step back, he added plainly, "Or did you just watch the news and guess?"
         Lena only crossed her arms tighter, scraped her shoe along the ground absently. For a second Tristian thought he saw her lips move, thought she was going to say something. But then her mouth formed a thin line and she remained silent.
         Today he had no such problems. Words were hemorrhaging from his ruptured brain and stopping the tide was about the last thing he wanted to do. Let it all come out, then, if it had to. He was through with secrets these days. "I mean, all you had to do was think, Gee which of my friends would get involved in an arson of vaguely supernatural origin." The statement came out with more of an edge than he had intended and he saw Lena wince. "And if that didn't narrow it down enough, you could have always considered how many people you knew would be boldly stupid enough to take a walk into the part of town where-"
         "All right," Lena snapped, a buzzsaw through his oddly detached anger. "Tristian, stop." He barely even blinked at the sudden force behind her words. Lena, however, appeared surprised at her own outburst. Probably didn't think she had it in her anymore. Yet her feistiness had never truly gone out, had never really been buried. All along Tristian had seen it, in tiny moments where self control hadn't mattered, when she had forgotten that she was in pain, supposed to be recovering. In those times Tristian wondered if Lena had nearly healed long ago but shied away from its completion because she was afraid of being broken again. Times like now, he very much wondered.
         Sighing roughly, Lena looked at Tristian and said evenly, "Yeah, Joe told me. But . . . he only saw the aftermath. He didn't say what happened. He didn't know." Lena's sentences were taut, almost purposely reined in, like she might go one step too far and reveal something that he shouldn't have known about.
         "And you'd like to know?" he asked calmly. It was almost absurdly rhetorical. Of course she wanted to know. All these people in his life did. But it was too much to deny them. No more secrets. More than anything Tristian wanted Lena to be part of his life, the part that he was free to share, he wanted moments like before to be the norm and not the rare exception, closely treasured but all too often longed for helplessly. But she couldn't see only a facet and try to judge or conclude. It had to be everything.
         That's why even if she didn't asked, if she hadn't asked, he would have told her. Somehow. Some time. Because he had no choice, really. Because she had to know.
         "I just . . ." her hands grasped air uselessly, trying to form what her words couldn't. "I just want . . ." frowning with frustration as her sudden aphasia, Lena looked up at Tristian, finally spitting out. "Tristian, what happened? Why?"
         "It's very simple," Tristian explained all too calmly, like she asked him why he preferred dogs over cats. "They were dealers, I think they had sold Donald stuff before his death." He said it like he was reciting the latest movie. It made it easier somehow. Her eyes were free of contempt but what was there he couldn't say for sure. Nevertheless, it was strangely comforting. Still, he had to take a deep breath before he could continue. "I went there to convince them to stop." The words rattled with a broken axle through his lips. That was the hardest part. No matter how he spun the outcome, the result was the same. He had failed.
         "Tristian . . ." Lena said, taking a step forward. For a second he thought she was going to hit him. A fond exasperation threatened to peek from her eyes. "God, Tristian what were you . . ." sighing she massaged her temples. "Nevermind. Stupid question. Never mind." A charmingly jagged smile creased her face as she sighed again. "Why couldn't you go and do macho things, like try and lift heavy boxes or tune up your car or blind me with sports statistics or . . ." Opening her eyes she said flatly, "Talk to them, you said."
         He could only shrug. It still didn't seem like such a far fetched idea, even now. "I didn't think it could hurt. I certainly wasn't about to kick in the door and beat them up."
         "Beating people up. That's another one of those macho things you never do," Lena said offhandedly, commenting on another conversation entirely. Her voice had a strange pinched quality to it. "You just hate stereotypes, don't you?"
         "And you adore me for it," Tristian ventured in a monotone fashion. His own audacity startled him. This boldness was a foreign beast to his blood. He was almost afraid to see her reaction. Perhaps she only liked him when he was restrained.
         Lena only gave a quick smile but said nothing to confirm or deny. Instead she took a step forward so she was even with him and prodded his elbow for him to keep walking. Her touch was an unexpected pressure. Wordlessly, he complied, pleased to be moving again, surprised to see her moving with him and not fleeing frantically in the other direction.
         "Going just by the . . . results," she continued matter of factly, or at least her best approximation, "talking didn't work out so well, I imagine."
         "As it turns out," Tristian answered dryly, "the fact that people might get hurt or killed from what they were doing didn't especially bother them."
         Lena stifled a laugh, covering her mouth. "Ah, Tristian I'm sorry, it's just . . . the way you say it like . . ." she shook her head, "you went in there and asked them nicely if they could stop a profitable way of life because people were getting hurt . . . Tristian, it wasn't like they were selling used cars or . . ." she halted, shaking her head again, the words just not available. Tristian couldn't tell if she was amused or disgusted. A combination of the two didn't seem all that unlikely.
         "As it turns out, it was a bit of a tactical error on my part," he replied mildly. Something about what he said caused her to laugh again, a brief explosion of hushed sound.
         "Sorry," she said again. Putting a hand on his arm, she added, "I swear I'm not laughing at you but the way you describe everything so damn calmly . . ."
         "Which became quite clear when they put a gun to my head," Tristian continued without missing a beat. It felt almost wrong doing that to her. But she had asked. These facts were nothing less than inevitable.
         It didn't stop him from feeling a twinge of guilt when he heard Lena's sharply indrawn breath and felt her hand tighten on his arm. He had forgotten the hand was there. That's how natural it felt. This day was going wrong and right at the same time. The tension might just twist him apart.
         "Oh," was all she said. Glancing at Lena, he had a glimpse of a wide eyed stare. On her face the expression looked out of place. No doubt Lena had little idea she was even doing it.
         "You . . . you're kidding," Lena said quietly. "Right?"
         "You asked, Lena," he told her gently. "I'm only telling you what you want to know."
         "Don't give me that," she shot back irritably, her nails biting into his skin even as they were blunted by his jacket. "You knew . . . that you, I . . ." she bit her lip, cutting off whatever she was going to say. Her anger stretched, simmered, hovered just out of range. "A gun," she said, dully.
         "Getting killed is very macho, isn't it?" he offered, doing what he could to lighten the mood. For him, it was easy because the events were already relegated to the past, he could look back on them knowing that they were only memories, and thus had no power. At least not over him. But for others, those events could still reach forward and exert a strange sort of influence. A touch rendered you immune, but first you had to survive the initial contact.
         "No," Lena half laughed, closing her eyes tightly, as if the effort to answer had struck her blind. "No, it's not. It really isn't, Tristian." She took a ragged breath. "God, sometimes you . . . " Lena stopped, shook her head again. "Well, you're okay obviously," she added in a calmer voice. "So that's good." A smile crinkled her face. "As okay as you're going to get, at least."
         "If my life's not normal, then what is?" Tristian remarked with a straight face.
         Lena gave him a withering look. "You'll have to let me get back to you on that." Taking her hand off his arm, she slipped it back into her pocket although she still was walking close enough that her and Tristian's shoulders were nearly touching. "So you, ah, you must have gotten out, somehow."
         "Because you're not walking with a ghost sporting a bloody hole in his head?" Tristian asked archly. He was glad the sword was on the other side of his hip. He didn't want to have her bump into him accidentally and feel it there. The membrane between the two halves of his life was quivering now, a bubble threatening to abort its surface tension and lay it all bare. One more reminder might just pop the whole affair. They said it could cut through anything. But there were some limits he simply refused to test.
         "That's not funny, Tristian," Lena answered sharply. She held back on the obvious, which he was slightly grateful for. No matter how either of them felt, it had been done. Perhaps he had been in danger, but now he wasn't. In fact, he was very much the opposite.
         "Then, it wasn't," he commented, leaving the current issue open to debate. "Then, I had to defend myself." Shadows of his past anger floated in his brain, old clouds flickering with long diffused hatred and loathing. If the ghost images weren't burned into the floor of his mind, Tristian might have assumed the emotion belonged to someone else, so distant and strange it seemed. Folding his hands together, he tapped them against his chin, murmuring, "I did what I had to do to get out, Lena. That's all. I couldn't stay there."
         "Why would you have stayed, Tristian, they were ready to-"
         He stopped her from saying it. "There was nothing they could have done, Lena, and I mean that seriously." He felt her stiffen at the crack of his words. It didn't matter. Everything. She had to know. "I mean it. When I entered that apartment I was more in control than those men will ever understand. But that wasn't the point." He closed his eyes, blew the air slowly out of his nose, opened his eyes again. "I was starting to see why Joe couldn't have gone there. As targets, they're too tempting to let go. It becomes too easy. That's why I had to leave."
         "But you didn't," Lena pointed out. Her voice still bristled from his veiled rebuke. "You went back and burned the place down . . ."
         "The apartment, yes, I did," Tristian admitted. "I'm not proud of it but . . . I did. Or actually, I gave the order. They did it under my direction. But . . . Lena, those men, they didn't care." He looked at her and somewhere buried in her brain, in a place that she wouldn't admit to existing, Lena knew. Not too long ago, it had touched her. Some stains never washed out, no matter how gruesome the solvent. "I had thought if I confronted them with it, they'd see and . . ." he trailed off, briefly unable to finish his sentence. Swallowing he continued thickly, "But it didn't matter, because they already knew. What they did was hurting people, and . . . they didn't care. It was just money to them. Money and lives. And so when words didn't work, when they refused to listen, I tried to let them know . . . I tried to tell them . . . it comes around. Everything has consequences." The words made him shiver. Did that mean he was next then? Did the cycle halt for good intentions? Or perhaps the aftershocks of the repercussions were striking him now, right where it would hurt the most. "I told them to burn everything in the apartment, and they did . . . like a genie with unlimited wishes, they went and did my bidding. Nobody hurt, nothing touched beyond their apartment, controlled arson." His words were unreal, he was reciting lines from a madman's fantastic play. God he hoped nobody was listening, or his genies might wind up working overtime this week. "Just like that. I don't even know why they agreed to it, I want to think that it was because they saw it was the right thing to do but . . . I can't be sure and . . . it's so scary, Lena." Suddenly he stopped walking, so abruptly that Lena went forward a couple more paces before she realized he had halted. She stayed where she was but pivoted to face him, her expression quiet and questioning. "At a word, I was able to cause . . . destruction, simply to prove a point."
         "And you proved your point, Tristian. Nobody was hurt." For a second it sounded like she was saying that he did the right thing. But such thoughts would have been out of place here and Tristian had a feeling that even if Lena had come right out and said it, his fine mesh of a conscience would have filtered the sentiment right out. "You stopped yourself where it counted."
         "But about next time? Will they-"
         "Tristian, listen to yourself . . ." Lena raised a hand toward him, let it drop without further motion, "you said, you don't need them. Even by yourself, you could have done so much more than you did . . . even after they mocked you and . . . threatened you, you held back." Sliding her hands into her jacket pockets, Lena stood with her heels together, almost at attention. "If you put a dozen other people who were able to . . . to do what you did . . . most people wouldn't have hesitated. Even Joe, he knew he wouldn't have been able to control himself. All you did what give those guys what they deserved." There were words lingering unsaid behind her phrases.
         "I gave them what I believed they deserved," Tristian countered. "And I was able to pull it off." His voice was sober and hoarse at the edges. "That's a scary thing, Lena. Where does it stop?"
         "Tristian," Lena said, rubbing her eyes with one hand, like something irritating was caught there, "I don't know what to tell you. We could go in circles on this all night and it wouldn't make any difference. I mean, I don't know what it's like to have to make the . . . the kinds of decisions you do, but you did and it's done and . . ." She took a deep breath, her shoulders hunched, "And in all honesty, I think you did the right thing."
         Tristian blinked. Lena wasn't meeting his eyes, just standing there bunched up against the chill, looking down at her shoes. His response felt the same way, clumped and clotted together, creeping its way to his throat with such slowness that when they did finally reach his mouth and the air, he would barely recognize the words.
         But without looking up, Lena spoke again. "Believe me, I want to keep arguing with you, Tristian." Her half hidden smile was light, the mockery gentle, "But, dammit, you're twice as stubborn as I am, and that's pretty good considering what people have told me." A little shrug rolled her words along. "I wish I could . . . I want to convince you, somehow, to see . . . what I see . . ." She glanced up at him, as if confirming he hadn't left. Her hands folded and unfolded with a vague nervousness in front of her, triangles reshaping and reforming constantly. This planet is a world in flux. Even the sky won't stay the same color. "When you were talking before I . . . Tristian, you're so worried that you're losing control, becoming . . . power-mad, I guess." Something about what she said caused the side of her mouth to twitch upward. Slowly, Lena met Tristian's eyes. She seemed so far away, though he could reach out and touch her right now, before she had a chance to speak again. But a part of him wanted more, wanted to close the distance until there was nothing left. Except all his intended actions were box steps to the wrong beat, a foxtrot in a discotheque, baby talk trying to be passed off as elite oration. "You went to that place to talk, so you didn't have to fight. When you had to fight you walked out to avoid doing something drastic. And when you had to . . . go a step further, you took everything away from those men without taking away their chance to change." She gave a lopsided smile and shrugged sheepishly, dulling the gesture's cutting edge. "I mean, if you ask me, they won't change . . . but still, you did more for them than I would have." Suddenly Lena was staring piercingly at him, so much so that it felt like his skin was tingling. It was distantly uncomfortable. "When I look at you Tristian, I see a guy who had to make a rough decision and feels terrible that it came to making that choice, but somewhere, maybe because he doesn't want his friends to think he's gone power-mad . . . somewhere he knows he did the right thing. It wasn't the easiest thing or the best thing, maybe, but it was the right thing."
         Tristian looked at her, went to say something, found that he couldn't. At some point she had moved closer to him, he wasn't clear on when. It didn't matter. Sighing raggedly, he ran his hands through his hair, felt the motion shift the object at his belt, slap it against his hip. A thin layer of numbness covered the skin on his face. The chill of this winter might try to suffocate them all.
         Slowly, he lowered his arms, stopping just short of touching her. "It shouldn't have come to that, Lena," he said quietly, his voice a low hum to his ears. "There should have been another way."
         Lena stared at him for a second, as if not comprehending his statement. Then she shook her head slightly and smiled at him before glancing at the ground again. "That's why I don't think you'll ever lose control, Tristian." A slim finger delicately tapped his chest. "Right there, that's why." Through the jacket Tristian barely felt the touch. Somehow it managed to fuse the length of his spine.
         "You sound a lot surer than I do," he admitted slowly. Even in the shrouded stillness of the park, his voice sounded hushed and muffled. If there was anyone around, it really didn't matter. Even the shivering of the branches was muted.
         "Hey," she responded lightly, without meeting his eyes, "that's what I'm here for. You need all the moral support you can get." He wasn't exactly sure how to interpret that, but somehow, her voice, her posture seemed to indicate that those simple statements had admitted far more than Lena had intended. Or maybe she had always intended to, but was never sure how to go about it.
         "But maybe," she continued suddenly as a brisk wind sent dead leaves skittering past them like madcap children, "you can explain this to me, Tristian. Because I've never understood it." Her eyes were brutally clear, almost shining. The sky could have been reflected there. "What happened with those people, I think . . . I get the feeling it was only a small part of what you've been doing in the last few days." Lena glanced warily at his silent face, as if afraid she might step too far. Her voice toed a line that didn't exist, crept along a wall when the drop simply wasn't that far. "And whatever you did, I know it was because of that guy, Don, his death, because of what his sister asked you at the wake." She blinked and frowned, her face confused. "You didn't know him that well, Tristian, you didn't even know his family. And . . . you still went and put yourself through all that, vanished for days, maybe risked your life, made a lot of people worry about you . . ." Her words began to race, to stumble over each other before she forcefully stopped herself. He wondered what Lena would have said if she had let herself continue. The moment was brief and when Lena regained her speech, something in her voice had changed. "Every time something like this happens, we watch you run yourself through the wringer. Every time." What he heard he didn't dare call admiration. That was a tone he'd never believe. "But you don't stop. You keep doing it to yourself," she added softly. It was as far from a condemnation as could be. "Why?"
         Tristian didn't have an immediate answer for her. And yet he had known forever, when he had first tried to put a name to the awkward feeling inside that wouldn't let him look away from the world, the sense that although everything he saw was broken, wheels bent and spinning, fabric torn and frayed, faces wasted and empty, it wasn't all beyond repair. Somehow or other, some of it could be fixed. All it required was the will. Will and a hope so dense that to most eyes it appeared opaque and bleak.
         Hesitating only a moment, Tristian answered plainly, "Someone has to." Those words that whispered out of his mouth weren't his. She'd never understand how much he meant them.
         Inches apart, neither of them moved for a long time. Tristian looked away from Lena, not wanting to see her face, to see her unmask his warped bravado for the arrogant foolishness it was. His heart raced so fast he swore it had stopped. Far away was heard the steady thumps of a jogger's footsteps. No one passed. Branches clattered above as squirrels chased each other through a maze that never touched the ground. The sunlight was at Lena's back, haloing her, blinding him. This afternoon will die before us like everything else. It's going down as we stand here. All of a sudden he couldn't see her. The world was washed out in blended gold and orange hues. Where did she go? It was too warm here. He couldn't feel his hands. The chill had finally taken them. He was alone here, always had been. All these things, these painted words, they were only dreams, coiled in his head, unwilling to be unraveled, unable to be tucked away. None of this had ever happened. Who says? A million shards of mirrored glass with the same image. What did he see? What was there to see? Not even himself. Just a blankness. Nothing at all. Who's there?
         Without another word, Lena reached out and hugged him tightly.