Chapter 45

45.

         On the morning of the next day the story ended. There was never any announcement when such a thing occurred, there was never any need. A story was finished when it was ended, and that was all. All the effort behind the world couldn’t shift a static moment and thus the moment only happened when it was time, and not a second too soon or a second too late. That was the way things worked and how they would always work and it didn’t matter what anyone ever thought of those ways, if anyone ever did.
         The story ended that morning. This was how it happened. The rogue was in his departed friend’s house, going through a dead man’s belongings when he received the first visitor. The day felt no different than any other, except that it was the last day. But if the rogue didn’t know that already, he didn’t think he would realize it on his own.
         The eternal man came to him and did not leave the doorway. He did not block the exit. He stared at the rogue with clear eyes and ageless elasticity, magnificent in his new flesh, the edges of his shape blurred with constant rejuvenation. Once, the rogue wanted to be like the eternal man. But such things were not possible and, in the end, he decided that he would much rather like to be what he was.
         I should take you away, said the eternal man. The others all escaped me, but you have not. I could steal you, here, and none would ever know. What is to stop me?
         But the rogue only smiled easily, with no concern in his stance. You could, said he, and there is nothing I might do to thwart you. Your forever soldiers can reach me sideways in time itself, and catch me before I can know that you are after me, before I have done the things that have caused you to come here.
         That is all true, the eternal man replied. Every single word. So, then, do you surrender? Will you come with me and experience your fate, whatever that may be.
         And the rogue only grinned more broadly. Of course I will not, he said, with a jaunty tip of his hat. I am my own man now, and I am free, as free as a man subject to the whimsy of time and fate can be.
         I know time and I know fate, the eternal man countered and no matter the angle of the sunlight, the length of his shadow never changed. They are not my friends, but I can make both your enemy, if I so desire. If you obey them, so you must obey me.
         Be that as it may, the rogue said, the fact remains blessedly simple. I am subject to them, as is any mortal man. However, I am not subject to you and I never will be.
         The eternal man never became angry, could perhaps even be called amused by the rogue’s idle protests. The rogue could see that somewhere between the eternal man’s eyes and smile lay a bit of himself, and he suspected that the ways of the rogue were no stranger to the eternal man. Part of him wished to know, but there are some questions that one does not ask, because no answer is ever truly harmless.
         You are so sure of yourself, said the eternal man, and suddenly in his hand he clasped a portion of the stars, a brightness almost impossible to stare at, its keening wailing the grinding of the Universe’s fiery consumption. Pointing the sun shard at the rogue, he said, But really, little rogue, what do you truly know?
         I know of many things, the rogue replied. For instance, I know how to use the fragment you are holding. I know this because I used to have it, until I gave it up. I gave it up to give it back to you.
         Lies, little rogue, the eternal man said, and his face was hidden by ripples of muted heat. All lies.
         Lies are but a version of the truth that one does not wish to believe, said the rogue. Casually, he pointed a hand at the shimmering weapon. Ask it, then, if you are so confident. Tell it to strike me down if I am lying and let that be that.
         And as he said this the eternal man actually smiled and the rogue knew that the fragment had already been asked and that the eternal man knew that he spoke the truth.
         You asked me what I know, the rogue continued, and I will tell you this. I know that I had the weapon you now carry. I know that I gave it back to you. He was unable to keep the smile from his face at that moment. And I know that without it, you would not have been able to save your friend, and he would be dead.
         Drawing himself to his full, short height, he said to the eternal man. I know these things and I know they are true and you cannot tell me otherwise.
         They are indeed true, said the eternal man, with some hint of resignation. You have the best of me, then, and thus we are out of balance. I owe you, then, to make things right.
         You owe me, the rogue agreed with some cheer. One thing, to balance out this life. One thing and I’ll ask no more.
         And what would you ask of me? the eternal man told him. If you are to have one thing from me, what will it be? The eternal man’s voice became stern and he warned, But I tell you, little rogue, be careful, for I will indeed give you what you ask. But what you ask may not be what you want.
         Do not worry, for my one wish is simple and easily granted, the rogue replied. In a way you know, because is the ultimate goal of any man, and a goal I believed you’ve achieved a long time ago, when you became eternal.
         I will not make you like me, the eternal man stated. That is not possible.
         And that is not what I want, the rogue told him calmly. All I wish for can be summed in one word.
         And that word is? asked the eternal man, curious.
         Escape, was all the rogue said.
         And the eternal man considered this and after a minute, a fraction of time that meant nothing to him, he finally smiled and said, Very well, little rogue. You have asked for a wise thing this day. If escape is what you wish for, then it is what you shall have.
         It is, the rogue said.
         Then there is nothing else here for me, the eternal man said. Saluting the rogue, he said, Farewell and fair journey, little rogue. I have done all I can. As friend or foe, know that you have earned what you receive.
         That has always been the way, the rogue replied, but he did not know if the eternal man heard him. For in that second, the eternal man turned sideways and shimmered and split and in a twinkling of a compressed moment, he departed this plane and was gone, without any trace of his ever having been present in that place.
         And the rogue watched him leave and saw him go and knew that he would not see the eternal man again, in this time or any other, in a form he knew or one he didn’t, but told himself that it did not matter, because he had already received what he wanted and once a man had that, what else remained to desire?

* * * * *

         The rogue received a second visitor that morning, but he did not know when that visitor arrived, so silent was his presence. Unlike the first visitor, this one did not announce himself or bend the air with his passage. This one was content to stand there, and let the world flow around him and wait until the rogue realized that he was there.
         It may have been ten minutes. It may have been five hours. It did not matter. When the rogue turned, the doorway was empty. When he happened to look over there, the visitor was there. Lean of posture, with an elegant brutality trembling at the edges of his being, the visitor and the rogue regarded each other.
         You, sir, are no eternal man, the rogue said, suspecting that he knew this man, but not remembering from where. Nor are you a ghost, returned to plague my life. You, I believe, are something else entirely.
         The visitor did not smile, did not speak. Instead, he merely held out his hand and twitched a single finger and a shaft of crimson brilliance leapt from his hand. The rogue wanted to flinch, but he did not do so. He held his ground, even as his heart beat wildly with fear.
         Do you recognize me now? the visitor said to him then and the rogue realized that indeed he did, saw that this was no simple visitor but instead the Host, and a terrible vision to behold. Images of his death rippled and refracted in the curve of his blade, mingled with the real deaths of many others, and the sight tugged at his soul and he knew that if he was weak here, if anything caused him to falter, he would be drawn into the dreaded blade and be lost forever.
         I came for the others, the Host told him and his voice was a million voices, repeated throughout the years, with a million faces beyond his imagination. How often, the rogue wondered, had this exact conversation been repeated and what had the outcome been? Time did not repeat, he knew, but certain patterns always maintained dominance. You are the only one left, the Host continued, and your fate will be the same. Do not think to escape from me, for I do not waver and I do not relent, rogue.
         The rogue knew the Host spoke truly, for he had heard the screams of his fellows as they submitted to his blade and tasted their blood upon the air as the Host laid them open. He had hoped to be free of this fate, but now that the moment was upon him, he was unsure of which action to take. The blade quivered in the air before him, singing for his blood.
         I saved you, the rogue blurted out, trying to throw up a shield of words to keep the Host away. If I didn’t make it possible for the eternal man to save you, then you would be dead now. You owe me your life, you owe me.
         But the Host only stared at him, unmoved. How little you know, said he, of my ways and the ways of the Universe. I am the Host but the Host is not me and the Host cannot be so easily destroyed as I. No matter what happens to me, the Host will persist and continue, and that is only right. The Universe will always have a Host, but it does not need me at all.
         But, the rogue answered, does your own life mean nothing at all? Do you not wish to continue living? Does that mean anything at all to you?
         I, the Host said, am dying already as I stand here before you. What are your words and your offers to me then? If I die today or I die in a month, does it truly matter, if the result is the same? The Host will continue and I will not.
         And the rogue saw that this was true and that it had indeed happened before and would occur again, because that was the nature of the Host and the ways that things were. He could not change the Universe and he could not fight it. His arguments would have no merit with this man. Now truly frightened, he knew he had nowhere to go, no place to escape.
         Have you anything left to say, then, rogue? the Host asked, and without moving he grew closer, uncomfortably close, until his presence soaked the air itself. The rogue flailed for a course of action but saw nothing immediately and assumed that he was done, that his end had finally come.
         Then he remembered, and he saw a way.
         Hold! he cried to the Host, as the room nearly became saturated in crimson. To his dismay, he saw the blade hovering inches from his soul.
         But the Host paused, and said nothing, and waited, and the rogue knew he did have much time.
         Do you remember your promise? the rogue blurted out, heedless of the blade’s distance from him, throwing his words out blindly, hoping that the Host might hear and understand. The promise that you made to me? Do you remember?
         And the Host was silent for a long time, but nor did he attack either.
         Finally the Host spoke two words.
         I remember.
         And the rogue knew he was saved.
         You made a promise to me, the rogue reminded him, with insistent glee. You promised that the next time we met, you would not harm me and you would let me go.
         You are correct, the Host said, perhaps with some reluctance.
         Does the Host not honor his word? the rogue said.
         The Host does, was the response, still hesitant. As do I. As a man, my word is all I have. I am the Host first, but also a man and I do what I vow. The blade was moved away, and darkening shadows rushed in to stuff the gap. And since I have promised such a thing, I will honor it. Otherwise, I would have no power and I would be neither man nor Host, with no one else to take my place until I die.
         Then the Host is good and the Host is wise, the rogue replied. And I thank the Host sincerely for doing what he said and not doing what he wishes to do.
         But the Host only nodded brusquely in response. One time, he said after a minute, the blade disappearing with a hiss, so he didn’t even look like himself anymore. That was the promise, I remember. I will release you just one time. The next time, I will have you, and my words will not interfere.
         He turned sideways, inclined his head politely. Until the next time, rogue, until our next meeting.
         What are the chances of that happening? the rogue asked, but the Host was already gone, and he was alone.

* * * * *

         It was the warrior who came next. Or maybe he came before all of them. Time did not move the same for these men, not the way it moves for the rest of us. It jumps, it saunters, it skips and there is no way for us to truly keep up with the dance. In a way, it is madness to even assume that we can.
         I know every face, the warrior said to the rogue. His hands were bare and there was nothing but steel in his eyes. If it were possible, his gaze would have cut the rogue down right then and there. But it is not possible and thus it did not happen.
         And whose faces are these? the rogue asked mildly, not afraid of this man at all, for the rogue knew that skill would outlast brute force on any day. And force was all a warrior had, in the end.
         The dead, said the warrior, his face unchanging. I know them all, every single person that has died and will never live again, due to this. They must be avenged, somehow.
         That may be, the rogue replied, with what does this have to do with me? The ones who have done the killing are gone and have left nothing behind that you might take your vengeance on.
         There is you, the warrior said, with some grim humor.
         There is me, the rogue admitted. But should the sins of the others be mine as well? It was their hands that ended the lives of the faces that now haunt you, and not mine. The punishment, then, is theirs and theirs alone.
         And your hands are spotless and innocent? asked the warrior.
         As always, answered the rogue easily, and of course he was lying, because he was a rogue and that was the way of rogues. But warriors knew nothing of truth and falsehoods, only of blood and battle and the glory and pain that went with it. To the warrior the rogue’s words were just words and not the weapons they were meant to be. For not all weapons drew blood, or were so easily perceived.
         This warrior, however, was more canny than most and with a glint in his eye he said to the rogue, Search your memory, rogue, for I think you do not remember properly. After all, the faces still haunt and the voices cry out and I doubt that would be the case if all the guilty were dead. Someone, it seems, must still remain.
         Perhaps, the rogue replied, but that someone is not me. You will not trick me into admitting what I did not do, fine warrior, and you should stop trying to slay me with a weapon you are unable to wield properly. If there is nothing you can attribute to me, then it is best to leave, and find suffering that can be eased in others.
         The warrior stared at him for a long time. It would not be right, said he, to go away and leave you be, untouched.
         Right or not, it is the only way, the rogue told him. For the battle is over and without a battle you have no power. There is nothing more you can do here, to me or anyone else. Begone now.
         And the warrior said nothing at first and it was clear that the warrior knew the rogue was right and that his words, even spoken by a rogue such as he, were true. The rogue only smiled, knowing he had won and knowing that any actions from the warrior were only mere bluster, for he was powerless here.
         Damn you, the warrior said finally, quietly. It was an empty, desperate gesture, but it was the only action the warrior could take and as such the rogue found it strangely touching.
         Indeed, damn me, the rogue replied pleasantly, bowing at the waist deeply and gracefully, in deference to the man whose time had passed. I’ll be damned while I live, but I believe I can live with that, kind sir.
         But by the time he stood up straight, all he could see was the retreating back of the proud warrior. The rogue knew he had won, but he had not wanted to see such a man humbled. It bothered him for reasons he could not explain, even as he knew he would do the same thing again, without hesitation.
         And so without speaking, his silence a strange kind of reverence, he watched the warrior leave, until he was out of sight and there was nothing more of him to see.

* * * * *

         It was a monster that came to him next, his shape dwarfing the doorway, his features terrible to those who were not used to such things, his very presence enough to make the rogue tremble inside, although he did not show it to the monster. Some beasts, he knew, were cunning and detected fear and fed on that and used it against a person, and that was how they defeated you. The rogue vowed to show no fear.
         The monster, for his part, only stood in the doorway and said nothing.
         Why are you here? the rogue asked the monster, who stared at him with eyes of brilliant opal, a gaze that without violence tried to crack him in two. Speak, and tell me your business here, or begone and bother me no more.
         But for all his force, his words were not enough to banish a monster, for he was no magician or holy man that might know the ways of such things. And indeed, the monster was not moved and continued to stare at him, waiting for something.
         I have nothing to say to you, the rogue protested. I have nothing for you here.
         And still the monster said no words at all.
         What do you want from me? the rogue asked, trying not to plead and thinking that maybe he had failed, for this silent monster was beginning to frighten him greatly and he could feel his composure gradually slipping away. He wanted this monster gone, whatever it took. Please, just tell me what you want, just tell me why you are here? he begged, noticing that with the monster in the doorway the room was completely dark, the only light the faint azure pulse of the monster’s eyes.
         And then the rogue remembered something. I tried to hurt you, once, he said, his voice a small, shaken thing, not like a rogue’s at all. Through another, I sought to harm you.
         The monster, true to his nature, neither acknowledged nor denied this. The rogue was disconcerted not knowing what the monster was really thinking, but all monsters were alien to him and he understood nothing about them.
         I did do it, he admitted, his eyes searching for some kind of escape, for he knew the monster was going to harm him now, for was not vengeance the way of monsters? Isn’t that what made them monsters?
         I tried, the rogue said, because I did not understand. And as he said this he still did not understand but he hoped that the monster would not understand him as much as he did not fathom it. And it was wrong, he continued, throwing all the sincerity into his voice that he could, it was wrong of me to do that. And I’m sorry. I truly am. I should not have done such a thing. I am truly sorry.
         The monster continued to stare at him. Suddenly, like a feather bourne upon the breeze brushing against his face, he felt a light touch in the center of his mind and a word was spoken that he could not hold, for it had all the wrong angles and would have not fit properly into his hands.
         He realized then with some surprise that perhaps the monster was more like him than it seemed, although he did not understand how this could be.
         And he wished to ask it but before he could the monster turned and stalked away, without another word. The sunlight streamed back into the room, returning in the monster’s absence and the rogue forgot what question he was going to ask and put the encounter out of his mind, for it was impossible to understand the ways of monsters, and he wished to waste no more time on it.

* * * * *

         The rogue thought he would have no more visitors. For some reason he kept expecting to see his dead friends appear to him, but they never came and he was rather glad, for he did not know what they would say to him or what he might say to them. Death had put a distance between them that he was unable to cross and he was not sure he wanted to.
         His next visitor was not a friend, nor was she dead.
         The Child did not come through the doorway, but instead appeared before him, sitting crosslegged in the air. Her soul was a bonfire and he had to wrench himself away almost immediately to avoid being caught up in it. He could not look her directly in the face, for her brilliance was blinding. It was quite possible that she was smiling at him but he could not tell and frankly he rather doubted it.
         Do not lie to me, the Child said to him without words, piercing the barriers of his brain like a spear. I know you are a rogue and all rogues lie because that is their way, but I tell you now, do not lie to me, for I will know and I will find the truth. And you may not like how I find it.
         Very well then, I will not, the rogue said, bowing at the waist in deference, trying not telegraph his unease in the Child’s presence. She was the same as him, but greater in every aspect, and she could kill him with a word, with less than a word. His only hope was that she did not mean him harm.
         I am going to ask you a question, the Child told him, and you are going to answer it and you will answer it honestly.
         Just one question? the rogue asked cagily.
         If I so desire, was the reply. But that is up to me, and not you. Her power was a slithering series of coils that infused the spaces between the air, it threatened to suffocate, to smother him if he was anything less than diligent.
         Unable to do anything else, he waited for her question, and prayed that she did not ask a question where the answer would anger her.
         Why did you do it? she asked, after a time that felt like no time at all. At the edges of his vision the room seemed to warp and his head felt light and distorted.
         Do what? the rogue asked, not sure if he wanted her to get more specific.
         Kill them all, the Child asked, cutting right to the heart of her question. There would be no bluster here, he knew, no false words exchanged. A misstep here might cost him his life. Your mind is open to me and I know what you did. You cast your friends aside, and let them die.
         All without laying a hand on them, the rogue replied, with some pride.
         Yes, the Child agreed and much like the monster from before, he did not know what she was really thinking. And I do not know why and I would very much like you to tell me, little rogue.
         What concern is it of yours? the rogue asked the Child, tempering his words with a fond smile. They are dead and it is done and does it truly matter what the reasons were? It will not change the deed or the outcome. It’s over.
         It will help me understand, the Child told him and he felt her hands run intangible fingers over his brain. For a second the world wavered and he thought he might pass out. And your answer, rogue, is no answer at all.
         Without a voice, he tried to answer. They were never truly my friends, he said with a gasp, thrusting his emotions to the front of his mind so that the Child might see and know that he was speaking honestly. We were companions for a time and we banded together to stay alive, but we were only joined by experience, not because we were comrades.
         The Child thought about this for a moment. And so, she asked after a time, this is why they deserved to die?
         A tilted smile came to the rogue’s face then. If not being my friend was an excuse for death, it would be an empty Universe, indeed, he quipped, aware that he was facing someone that might have moved beyond humor. More seriously, he stated, No, I had my reasons and I believe they were good reasons.
         The Child said nothing and he knew that she wanted him to elaborate, else she’d pull the reasons from his mind, bit by bit, careless of which strands of his brain she might unravel in the process.
         One became more monster than man, the rogue said, and he would have to either change or die. He could not change and so I made sure that he died. The Child was a brightness that pressed back the sunlight. He could feel it as physical warmth. He had to tell her these things. She might still kill him anyway. He knew that and kept talking. One was almost my friend but I had done something terrible to one of his true friends and so he would have wanted to kill me and of course I had to make sure he didn’t. Another had to die so that one of the others might be saved and they would be in my debt and thus not kill me.
         And the last? the Child asked, her voice indicating nothing regarding her true thoughts. What about her?
         The rogue grinned slyly. Her death was to save you, Child. She would have forced you to do terrible things to others and I did not think that was right.
         Perhaps, the Child replied, cold humor in her own voice, but I imagine you realized that one of the people I would have done such horrible things to was yourself as well. I am sure that was a factor in your reasoning.
         A small part, the rogue admitted. But I swear to you, only a small part. A fire seized within him then and he spoke more passionate than he had in a long time. It wasn’t right to see you controlled that way, Child. You were a symbol, you were a thing that we all fought for and to think that someone else had bent you to their own base purposes, it was not a thought that I could easily stand. The rogue found it difficult to breathe, so swept up in his passion was he, heedless of the Child’s reaction. These thoughts were a swirling storm in his mind and he found himself unable to keep them to himself. Nearly shouting, though he did not know why, he said to the Child, You are not a force that should be subject to the will of another, you are independent, free, more than any of us in this Universe. You could change everything, or have no effect on it at all and the choice is entirely yours. For the rest of us, it’s not up to us.
         The rogue found himself overcome by this sudden flurry of emotion and he dropped to his knees before the Child, unable to look at her anymore. We did it for you, he told her, because you needed to exist and we needed you to be real, because we could never truly be what you represented. A sad smile claimed his face and in that second he was more naked than he had ever been. But you exist and you are real and in a sense we won. For all that we lost, for all we ran away from, in the end, you came and proved us right.
         Little rogue, the Child said, strangely gentle, you know that I had to make a choice. I made it, but it was not the choice you would have wanted me to make. I do not represent you at all, but a new thing entirely. I am sorry.
         It does not matter, the rogue answered her, still on his knees. Because it is not the choice that was important, nor its outcome, but you, Child. You are everything we could have wanted in a symbol. You have surpassed our own ideals and that is a rare feat indeed.
         The Child was silent for a long time. Slowly, the rogue picked himself up off the floor and tried to face her presence again.
         Your words have touched me, the Child finally said, because they were spoken honestly, which I know is against your nature. The brightness that was her expanded and the rogue was forced to shield his eyes or else risk pain. I will admit to you, then, that I came here with your punishment in mind.
         And now? the rogue asked, still slightly afraid and certain that the Child knew it.
         There are punishments and there are punishments, the Child said, her voice already starting to fade. And all of those come from the choices that we make. I came here to make a choice, and I choose to do nothing. The room was becoming oddly cooler, a second star being leached from its midst. Take that decision to heart, little rogue, and remember it. You have been lucky today, the next time will not be in your favor.
         I understand, the rogue replied, his voice joyous. I do. Thank you for all you have done.
         But his words only met empty air, for the Child was gone and he was once again alone.
         Is that all? he asked the quiet air, standing and bracing himself for the next visitor. But no more came, of course, because he had weathered the challenges and found himself successful and so now he was free to go where he wished and do as he pleased. It was everything he had fought for and his heart was glad inside, for now he had truly escaped and he was free.
         Thank for this chance, he said to no one in particular and there might have been a tear in his eye and he was thanking the monsters and his departed companions and the others who had decided not take his life and as he thanked them his voice reached the vault of the world and went beyond, to the edges of everything where it was heard by every ear and thus the little rogue became known to all and passed into legend and everything was as it should have been and was good.
         And why not?
         Because, after all, in the end, there was only one way it could have turned out.

* * * * *

         “Rathas,” and it was the only word Ranos said.
         The small man was crouching on the balls of his feet, having yanked a drawer out of a small table and laid its contents on the floor. There was a small pile of papers in his hand that he was going through one by one, his brow furrowed in thought, even though he was discarding most of them, tossing them to the side to form an ever-growing pile.
         “Oh, hello, Ranos,” Rathas said without looking up. “I felt you poking around before, I was wondering when you were going to stop by and introduce yourself.” Flipping quickly through the rest of the stack, he finally just tossed it all on the pile. He brushed one hand over it gently and a second later there was a flash and the smell of fractured ozone in the air. The pile, of course, was gone, with only a burnt smear in its wake. “You know, Valreck like to write a lot, but he didn’t see the need to put anything useful down on paper, you know? It’s all observations, but no technique. He figured out this whole system of deciphering dreams and making them work for you and he never bothered to get any of it down.”
         “A system you would like for yourself?” Ranos asked lightly, stepping easily into the room. The fresh coolness of the dawning day was already filtering in and gave the room a spacious ambiance, a sensation aided by the giant hole punched into one wall.
         “It’d be good to have around,” Rathas answered glibly, “but to be honest it’s not exactly something I’m all that interested in. I’m more afraid someone else will find it and figure it out and do something unpleasant with it.” Shaking a finger toward Ranos he added, “Frankly, I’d just as soon give it to you and your band of merry gentlemen. I know you folks would have no use for it. There are no safer hands.”
         “Shouldn’t you ask Valreck what he thinks of all this first?” Ranos asked evenly, his hands clasped behind his back, casually pacing around the somewhat circular room. His boot idly kicked at a portion of a shattered chair that sat in a sad stack in the rough center of the room. “I’m sure he’d have some opinion.”
         Without standing up, Rathas shot the other man a long look. “Don’t be coy with me, Ranos. I know he’s dead. I felt him being extinguished not that long ago. Why else do you think I’d be going through his stuff?”
         “And have you found anything of interest?” Ranos asked, his voice not exactly betraying curiosity.
         “Not really,” the little man admitted, sighing. “Valreck wasn’t exactly a packrat and he wasn’t much in the way of keeping a lot of personal stuff.” Tilting his head to the side, he added, “Come to think of it, I don’t remember Valreck really bringing anything with him when we left. I mean, we all traveled light, but he basically came with the clothes on his back.” Standing up with a groan and a stretch, he put his hands in his pockets and pivoted slowly, glancing around the room. “I think all he did really was sleep here. There’s nothing in this place to remind anybody that he used to live here. A couple of years from now, it won’t even matter, he’ll be totally forgotten.”
         “You’ll remember him,” Ranos pointed out.
         “Mm, I guess,” Rathas said, frowning. “That’s not the best praise you can give someone though.” Shaking his head suddenly, he said, “Nah, it’s not right, Ranos. I didn’t even really know the guy that well. And people who come here will know even less than that.”
         “So you think he deserved better?”
         “Oh hell, yes, of course he did,” Rathas responded almost instantly, sounding vaguely irritated, as if he wasn’t sure why the question even existed. Walking over to the hole in the wall, he picked up a piece of debris off the floor and tossed it from one hand to the other. “But we really never get what we deserve, in the end, right?” A mad grin came over his face and he said, “After all, I’m still here, right? Is that fair?”
         Ranos only nodded, standing across the room opposite from Rathas, his expression veiled.
         “Or . . . am I still here?” Rathas asked, the grin not fading from his lips. Spinning around, he dropped the chunk of debris as he threw out both arms wide, saying, “Is that why you came, Ranos? Because if you’re here to kill me, you might as well do it now, before we go any further with this. You might as well give it your best shot now.”
         Ranos stared back at him with knife edged amusement just scraping the edge of his features. “I’m not here to kill you,” he told the other man. “I only came to say . . . goodbye.”
         “Goodbye, eh?” Rathas asked, not quite convinced. But after a minute he let loose with a short laugh and shrugged, stalking across the room as he did so, toward a small pile of belongings that were clustered in the corner. “I suppose I can believe that. I’m actually leaving myself, getting the hell out of this place. This village is too creepy, now that it’s all empty and I’ve spent too much time in depressing places lately. For my own good, it’s time to do some traveling.”
         “Where will you go?”
         “Oh, here and there, I imagine,” Rathas answered, crouching down and going through the items on the floor, examining them briefly and stuffing most of them in his various pockets. Straightening up again, he crossed back over into the center of the room, standing right at the head of Ranos’ long shadow. “I can’t teleport off this world, at least not immediately, but it’s a big planet and I think I can find enough to do to keep myself occupied.” Putting one foot forward and affecting a mocking bow, he said, “With all due respect, not all of us have your thirst for danger, Ranos. I’ll look for more sedate entertainment.”
         “Hm,” was all Ranos said in reply.
         Undaunted, Rathas moved over to the doorway, straddling the line between inside and outside. Gesturing at Ranos, he said, “Come on, at least walk out of the village with me before you leave to wherever it is you people go.”
         Ranos hesitated for a moment, then relented, again with the faint half-smile. “Very well,” he said, making it to the doorway in three long strides and then following Rathas outside.
         “Look at us,” Rathas said, jamming his hands into his pockets and strolling along jauntily, clearly enjoying being out in the fresh air. It was slowly becoming a beautiful day, and for once the stark emptiness of the village did not impose an oppressive somberness but instead a quiet sort of reflection, a sort of peace that no doubt had been unknown to the former inhabitants, right up to the moment of their collective dissolution. “It’s amazing how this life works. The College launched us in different directions and yet we keep meeting up, older and changed but . . .” he trailed off and Ranos wasn’t sure what the other man was going to say. Rathas laughed again, quietly this time. “If I were interested in debating you, Ranos, I’d say it was fate.”
         “You could, except I’m fairly sure it’s not even a factor anymore,” Ranos responded coolly, his long strides easily matching the other man’s shorter, quicker steps. Together the two of them achieved an easy speed that ate up the distance quickly and the houses gradually began to spread out.
         “I guess you would know that for certain, hm?” Rathas replied. “I’m a believer in fate myself, still, but I don’t think I’ll really be concerned with the cosmic aspect of it anymore, to be honest.” Kicking at a rock, he said, “So why did you really come here, Ranos? This was no accident and clearly not a social call, given how things turned out.”
         Ranos walked for a few steps without answering. He seemed to be weighing exactly what to say. Finally, his face and voice carefully neutral, he said, “Documents.”
         “What . . . really?” Rathas said quickly, twisting in his stride to stare up at Ranos. “The Time Patrol came here to look for papers? That’s . . . interesting.”
         “There were rumors that Mandras had hidden documents relating to his plans and how he put everything together.” Ranos’ boots kicked up short spurts of dust as he walked, and his eyes never left the ground. “It wasn’t something we wanted to be widely available.”          
         “So all this . . . you never . . . you mean . . .” Rathas looked about to spit out several other fragments of sentences before finally letting it all dissolve into a long, hiccuping laugh. “Oh, oh my . . .” he chuckled, wiping his eyes and leaning on an otherwise unmoved Ranos. “That’s . . . all that because . . . oh my . . .” Blinking rapidly he looked up at the other man, who finally bothered to meet Rathas’ gaze. “You know, Ranos, I think you were right . . . there really is no such thing as fate. There’s no way all of that could have been arranged. There’s just no way.”
         “It could be argued that it’s only the end result that’s fated. Everything else is merely . . . prelude,” Ranos noted distantly, a cold smile on his face. The clusters of houses were beginning to thin out now, although the scene remained as still as always, sterile now that all life had departed from it. The village was little more than a diorama now, a child’s project meant only to be observed from afar.
         “They’re all dead,” Rathas muttered, too softly to clearly hear. Then, emitting a quiet laugh again, he added, “It’s too strange, Ranos, sometimes this life is just too weird. We came here to escape Mandras and his nuttiness and it consumed us anyway. It brought you here and it brought us to battle and in the end . . .” he shook his head, disbelieving, “maybe the results were fated. Or maybe there was just only one way it could have turned out.” He shrugged, slowing his pace a bit, as if unwilling to truly leave the village and end the conversation. “Hard as it is to believe, Ranos, we really did come here for peaceful reasons, we were sure we’d all die if we stayed with Mandras . . .” he trailed off, not wishing to restate the past. Sunlight was draped in a wide band across his face, giving his expression a more pensive look than usual.
         “And there was only the five of you who wished to leave?” Ranos asked.
         Rathas shrugged again. “As far as I know. We knew each other, but we weren’t exactly great friends, just a bunch of folks who had discussed getting out. Valreck was the way who came up with the plan to leave, I don’t know how long he had been putting it together. There might have been more than five people, but it was a big camp and who we knew was who we knew, we weren’t interested in starting a movement. I don’t doubt there were others though, Valreck had this friend . . .” but the man trailed off again, letting his statement fade. He was staring straight ahead, perhaps looking further down the road, perhaps seeing nothing at all. Ranos watched him without speaking and whatever he saw, he did not disclose.
         “Ah, it’s all done with now, I guess,” Rathas murmured, a twitch evident at the edge of his mouth. He strode forward a half dozen steps before bringing himself to a halt. The houses were all past them now, just a few scattered lonely witnesses to see them off. The forest beckoned ahead, simple dirt road cutting through it with a ramshackle kind of ease, its surface marked with mottled dots of sunlight created by the canopy of leaves overhead. It only went down a short ways before curving to the left and from there it’s ultimate destination was impossible to see. “Are you really okay with letting me go, Ranos?”
         The other man blinked, the question taking him by apparent surprise. “I suppose . . . I must be,” he finally answered, staring down at the smaller man.
         “Even after all the things I’ve done?” Rathas asked, still looking away from the other man. “I know I haven’t been the best . . .” he stopped, swallowed and looked up at Ranos with wide eyes. “They weren’t bad people, Ranos, I want you to understand that. They weren’t evil. But I didn’t want to die, and I didn’t want to stay here.” A wistful, pleading note had entered his voice. “So I did what I had to do, I did what any other person would have done, I think. In a way, they did it to themselves, they brought this all down on their own heads, what happened, but . . .” as he laced his hands together, unlaced them and crossed his arms, looking away again and scratching idly at his neck. “But they were friends, too, in a way, as well, and I’ll have to live with what happened, for however long that is.” He drew his muted cloak tighter around himself, then jammed his hands into his pockets. The face that looked at Ranos was open, both older and younger than it seemed. “I’m not asking you to tell me I did the right thing, Ranos. I’m not going to claim that we were once close friends, because we weren’t, we happen to share some memories of a particular space in time.” He drew in a sharp breath and let it out slowly. “But I want it to be over, and I want to be able to move on. Can you let me do that?”
         Ranos peered at Rathas without comment for a short while, before slowly turning to consider the path ahead. “I told someone recently that . . . my life has not been spotless and I am in no position to truly . . . judge someone.” His thin shoulders shrugged and he seemed to sigh. “Life sometimes forces us to do . . . unpleasant things,” he said, turning to Rathas, a ghostly smile apparent only by the shadow it left, “and personally, I feel it’s more important what we do in the wake of those things than the actions themselves. That, I think, is the only thing you can truly judge a man on.”
         “And me?” Rathas asked, his voice strangely shy.
         Ranos looked down at the ground, at the tip of his boot half buried in the dirt. “As you said . . . you did what you had to do. Far be it for me . . . to ask more than that.”
         Rathas stared at him for a few seconds, not sure of what he had just heard. Then he broke into a wide smile, throwing his head back and barking out a quick laugh. “Ah . . . that’s, that’s just . . .” he bowed his head, pressed his hands against his chin. “Thank you, Ranos,” he muttered, his voice thick. “Thanks.”
         “As you wish,” Ranos replied formally, walking forward a number of steps, moving until the shadow of the forest had nearly intersected with his body. “I believe we can take our leave of each other now.”
         Rathas looked up suddenly, squinted into the sky. “Yeah, I guess we’ve done enough catching up. I’ve got a lot to do before this day is over, as I’m sure you do, too.” Meeting the other man’s impassive gaze while also walking forward, he added warmly, “But, damn, it was good seeing you again, Ranos. If you promise not to make it so many years next time, I’ll try to make the meeting circumstances more pleasant.” He was almost up to Ranos now, his shadow stretching further and further, like it had been nailed down.
         “Yes,” was all Ranos said, as he moved backwards a single step, wrapping his body completely in shadow.
         “Hey, that almost sounds like an-“ Rathas began to say, before his motion forward was abruptly halted, his face contorting oddly as it struck what seemed to be nothing at all, his entire body bouncing backwards, a small splash of blood already spreading all over his upper lip from his nose. He staggered, his arms windmilling in an attempt to stay upright, a feat he just barely managed. “What . . . what the hell . . .” he said, startled, falling back, then lunging forward, his feet dancing on the scarred dirt, finally regaining his balance.
         “Ranos . . . what . . .” Rathas said, moving cautiously closer, one hand outstretched. At a certain point his hand appeared to touch something solid and invisible. Rathas pressed his entire hand against it, then the other, and then began to move to the left first, then the right, his hands frantically probing the area, finding nothing but a barrier, even though there seemed to be nothing at all. “What have you done?” he asked, his voice shaken and hushed. “Ranos, what did you do to me?”
         “A variation,” the man said, his slim form almost blending in with the ambient foliage. “A variation on a trap. Maleth used it to keep me in her home, to prevent me from leaving. I simply applied it on a larger scale.”
         Rathas had suddenly become quite pale. “Ranos, what are . . . what are you saying . . .” he said, sound barely escaping his lips. He paced rapid steps from left to right, covering only a small distance, his eyes never leaving Ranos. “You . . . you can’t . . .”
         “I’m tired of killing, Rathas, I’ve had enough of it,” Ranos said, his tone far too calm for the situation. “But it seems I can’t escape my own nascent morality. And I thought this was a fair alternative. It was Kara’s idea, incidentally, being trapped in the house with me gave her ample time to study the weaves involved and come up with her own version.” Ranos’ words were conversational, chillingly casual. “I helped her implement it of course but it’s her mind that guided it and put it into place.” Rathas had stopped pacing and was now just staring at Ranos, his lips moving wordlessly. “I don’t imagine it will go away any time soon. She’s a quick student, what she’ll be able to accomplish with the benefit of experience, I don’t think any of us can even imagine.” He stopped talking, appeared to realize that Rathas was still there. “Oh, but we’re discussing you, aren’t we? I suppose you think this is unnecessary.”
         “Don’t do this, Ranos,” Rathas insisted, his face ashen. “Don’t.”
         “But if you even think this is undeserved,” Ranos continued, as if the other man had said nothing, “or that it is somehow unfair . . . consider this.” The smile that haunted his face now had a dangerous glint to it. “I could inform Prescotte of how you tried to kill him, of what you did to that boy. He does not know, I haven’t told him, but I could, of that and other things.” He paused only for a moment to let it sink in. “He favors a more direct form of justice. And he can easily get in, if he needs to. I imagine he’ll have some things to say to you then.”
         “You can’t do this, Ranos, I swear I’ll-“ There were angry, glistening tears in the short man’s eyes now, both his emotions and his words equally futile.
         ”I won’t do it, though,” Ranos noted, nodding to himself as if coming to the decision right then. “For now, I believe this is sufficient.” Tucking his hands into the pockets of his robe, he said, “I trust you’ll find enough to keep you occupied.” Already turning away, the shadows eating at his sharp figure, he added, “Perhaps in a few years I’ll come and check on you.”
         “Ranos!” Rathas shouted, throwing himself up against the barrier that couldn’t exist, but kept him back nevertheless. “Ranos, come back here!” he screamed, watching as the man receded into the distance, strolling down the road with no anxiety in his stance, taking it to wherever it led. “Dammit, Ranos, come back here and help me! Ranos!”
         His voice tinged with a ragged desperation, he yelled hoarsely, hurtling his words down the road, at Ranos’ retreating back. The man never looked behind, kept his gaze calmly ahead the entire time.
         “Don’t leave me here like this, Ranos! Can you hear me? Ranos!”
         The man rounded the bend, was out of sight, and gone.
         “RANOS!”
         But there was no one to hear the shredded words except for the still forest, and after a while it became part of the background, a blended fragment of the scene, no more prominent than the rustle of leaves or the creaking of limbs, and soon ceased to leave any trace at all.

* * * * *

         “If you don’t mind my saying, you look as bad as I should feel,” Brown noted to Tristian. The two men were sitting on adjacent couches, with Brown stretched across the length of his and Tristian sitting upright, allowing room for Kara to take up the rest of the space. She was curled up, her eyes tightly closed in an exhausted sort of sleep, her breathing even, her face calmly composed. Around them was the unplaceable hum of the moving vehicle, which seemed to come from nowhere and everywhere. There was no windows in the interior and the entire structure had an odd sort of design, none of the corners appeared to fit together exactly right, yet it still somehow formed a box. There was several rows of couches in the area that Tristian and Brown was sitting in, separated by a narrow row in the middle to allow access to the forward and rear portions of the craft.
         “That sounds about right,” Tristian admitted, gingerly rubbing at a series of long scratches that graced one side of his arm. His face was darkened by small smears of bruises and dried blood that he hadn’t been able to easily remove. “This didn’t turn out to exactly be a vacation.” As he spoke his eyes kept darting back to Kara, as if he were trying to make sure she didn’t vanish from right under his sight. “But even my vacations aren’t really vacations anymore,” he added with a quiet wryness, “so I guess I pretty much got what I expected.”
         “Yeah, well, it shouldn’t been necessary to put you guys through that,” Brown said with a distant anger. “When we get back I’ll have to rewrite the rules regarding when the senior officers go missing.”
         “One way would be for them not to go on missions,” Tristian pointed out.
         “Like that’ll happen,” came Brown’s offhand reply. “Someone has to lead.” Squinting, he peered at Tristian again, “God damn, look at you, Tristian, I mean . . .” he shook his head, “next time, please, just blanket the area with troops and I’ll sort out the damage control later. For my peace of mind, please.”
         “You know I don’t have the authority-“
         ”The hell with your so called lack of authority,” Brown snapped back, keeping his voice hushed so as to not wake Kara, but letting his anger bleed through anyway. “You know as well as I do that those soldiers would follow you if you asked them, whether I was the one missing or not. You put yourself at unnecessary risk, came close to getting killed, and you know what you . . .”
         Brown trailed off as Tristian just stared at him calmly, not saying a word. A strange humor fell over Brown then, and he smiled and looked down, shaking his head again.
         “. . . and you’d do the same damn thing again,” he finished quietly. With a dry laugh, he said, “I need less loyal friends, really.”
         “You’re welcome,” Tristian replied with a straight face.
         “Yeah, yeah, yeah,” Brown sighed. Resting his elbow on the top of the cough, he leaned his cheek into his palm and regarded Tristian. “So I take it waiting for those soldiers I brought with him to heal so you could bring them as backup was out of the question, too? Or do you just like making things harder because you thrive on the challenge?”
         “I didn’t know how much time we had, so me and Ranos put them in your original vehicle and triggered the recall so they’d be out of danger.” There was a dark memory lurking behind his eyes. “But they really weren’t in any shape to help much. Trust me on this.”
         “Hm, I can imagine. I’ll pay them a visit when we get back, first chance I get.” Brown’s eyes were elsewhere, preoccupied. The silence stretched for a minute or so, a period during which Tristian just watched his friend without speaking. After a moment, Brown seemed to snap himself out of it and said, “Did everyone else make out okay? I haven’t gotten a chance to talk to anyone yet, to be honest.” Pointing at the young girl sharing the couch with Tristian, Brown asked, “How is she? I know there were some rough moments there, has she . . .”
         Tristian shook his head. “Not yet. I’ve barely had a moment to talk with her and find out what happened. When we get back I’ll have to sit down with her and see if she wants to talk.” There was a soft undercurrent of anxiety in his voice, although his face remained calm.
         “Well, tell the kid that she handled herself just fine,” Brown commented. “Considering the circumstances, she did all right for herself. Not that this is something we want to make a habit of, but still . . .” a wicked grin briefly fluttered over his face, “. . . though at the rate we’re going, she and Ranos might make a better team than you and him did.”
         “I know,” Tristian said without meeting Brown’s gaze, staring at nothing at all, “that’s what I’m afraid of.” His expression was carefully guarded and he did not elaborate.
         “Don’t be so hard on yourself,” Brown said after a minute. “This situation spun out of everyone’s control. We all did what we had to do.” Trying to lighten the mood, he added, “I was surprised Ranos even came, to be honest. I thought he was allergic to altruism.”
         “So did I,” Tristian admitted, sounding a little confused. “He didn’t even offer, he just went along. Maybe it because it was me, or even Kara or . . .” giving up, he shook his head. “I don’t even know what drives him anymore.” A sardonic smile graced his lips. “But I think he could say the same about me. It’s been so long, it’s like starting all over again.”
         “Well, whatever his reason was, let him know I’m grateful, for what it’s worth to him,” Brown said with a shrug. “They put him through a lot of crap, and I haven’t heard him complain yet. As much as I hate to admit I owe him one . . . I owe him one.”
         “I’m sure he’ll think of a good moment to remind you,” Tristian said.
         “Yeah, like when we’re getting shot at. His timing is swell like that,” Brown replied, making a face. Craning his neck so he could peek over the top of the couch, he stared at the back of the craft, toward door at the other end of the room. “And speaking of debts, how did the new members of the team make out? Both of them looked pretty banged up when I saw them. What made you bring them along?”
         “To be perfectly honest, I didn’t even know they were here until after it was all over,” Tristian said with some surprise. “I’m not even sure how they got here, they followed us somehow. But Prescotte was the one who found Kara, and from what I could gather he and Tritan were the ones who wore down the guy who tried to kill you originally, among other things. It seems like they managed to keep themselves pretty busy amidst all the confusion.”
         “Apparently,” Brown remarked dryly. “I guess this means we have to finally admit that we trust them.” He grinned and laughed in disbelief. “A scholar and a soldier. Damn weird team, if you ask me.”
         “They seem to do just fine,” Tristian said with a shrug.
         “I’ve no complaints,” Brown responded. “Though I do have to thank Prescotte for helping take out that one fellow . . .” he broke off, his eyes staring into the distance, slowly running one hand through his tangled hair. Without refocusing his gaze, he said to Tristian, “Some of those people were real bastards, Tristian. In a few months they totally screwed up the minds of all those people and they would have killed us just because we threatened the little shadow kingdom they had set up there.”
         “But they did deserve to die?” Tristian asked, as Kara quietly stirred and then settled into a deeper sleep next to him.
         “I hope that’s rhetorical, because I sure as hell don’t have an answer to that.” Crossing his arms over his chest, Brown shifted his position on the couch, ducking his head and picking a different fixed point to stare at. “Some of them did,” he said after a moment. “That much I’m sure of . . . but as for the rest, the rest were just afraid.”
         “Afraid of what?”
         “Of me. Of you,” Brown answered, straightening his back out to lean against the wall and looking at Tristian again. “But not of us specifically, but what we represented. To them, we were every nightmare and rumor and scary story ever told and . . . and it was just . . . weird. I’m used to people being frightened of me, hell, we both are, but I always thought I earned it, but this . . . it was different, I could see it in their eyes every time they looked at me, it was almost unconscious.” He looked to Tristian for confirmation, but the other man was just watching him neutrally, letting him talk. “I forgot, I guess, that the stuff you do, that it sometimes takes on a life of its own and . . . you can’t always control which way the story grows. Especially if you’re not part of it.” He rubbed his hands together as if cold, stared at his bent knees. “And for them, they were terrified, I could tell, it was like dreaming about the bogeyman and then waking up and finding that he’s in your room and it’s ten times worse than you thought.” His gaze darted back to Tristian. “They thought we were going to do something terrible to them. That’s what they expected.”
         “Didn’t we?” was all Tristian asked, simply. “In the end?”
         “Maybe,” Brown said, his mouth drawn in a tight line. “But I think they expected worse.” Yawning, he arched his back and stretched, his face growing taut from weariness. “God, I need about a week of sleep. Hopefully life will get quieter for a bit now.”
         “If our past track record is any indication, probably not. We’re just killing time until the next crisis, these days,” Tristian said, not without some degree of resignation in his tone. “I could do with taking a year off, at least.”
         “To be honest, you should give it some thought,” Brown said. “If only for Kara’s sake . . . she’s a teenager now and as much as we like having her around Legoflas, it’s not the place that a kid should grow up.” With a sadistic grin, Brown added, “After all, how can you threaten her boyfriends if there’s no one her age around?”
         Tristian laughed at that. “Christ, let’s not start that, now. One thing at a time.” His humor gradually changed to a more serious expression and he said, “But I think you have a point. She needs to live somewhere more normal, somewhere that isn’t subject to a cross-dimensional assault.” His face twisted as he said those last words, as if savoring their inherent absurdity. “Where should I take her, though?”
         “I always found home a good place to start,” Brown told him.
         “Hm,” Tristian replied. “It’s something to think about.” He stretched his arms backwards, his elbows poking into the air behind him.
         “It is,” Brown agreed. “But not today. If I need a week of rest, you need at least two. You should follow your kid’s example, in my opinion.”
         Smiling down at the slumbering Kara, Tristian said, “Lately, that seems more and more like a good idea.” Rubbing one hand over his face, he added, “Maybe it’s just age catching up with me, but I’ve been getting tired more easily . . .” he stopped, catching a glance at Brown’s expression. “What?” he asked the other, when the staring made him start to feel slightly uneasy.
         “Nothing,” Brown said quickly. “I just don’t remember you getting punched in the face, that’s all.”
         “What do you . . . oh . . .” feeling something slick between his fingers, he touched his face again and looked at his hand, finding it covered in a small smear of blood. Sniffing, he ran one finger under his nose, inhaling a dried coppery stench.
         “You all right, there?” Brown asked, raising one eyebrow.
         “A nosebleed,” Tristian said calmly, brusquely. “It’s probably nothing.”
         At his side, Kara muttered something sharp and unintelligible, her body giving one violent jerk before falling back into an uneasy sleep.

* * * * *

         Kara dreams.
         It’s the finality that draws her there, to be honest. An ending is like a black hole, it sucks everything else into it. An entire life, down the drain, with no trace to speak of anymore. A thousand lives, poured into the quagmire. A thousand times a thousand, until you’ve run out of numbers.
         Kara dreams, and steps into the waking dream.
         If someone put blinders on you and that was all you knew and then suddenly they were taken away, how do you describe sight? There is no texture to color, no objective method to classifying red or black or blue or green or white or purple or pink. It’s like that now. They’re tasting the air now for the first time and finding it’s not as sour as once believed. The numbness is removed from this life. If you blink the moisture from your eyes you’d be surprised to find there’s a whole dry world out there. There it is now, waving to you. Waiting. It’s too close to touch.
         Because the room has a hole and the hole has a room. It didn’t start there and it won’t end there. She’s got vision and it’s letting her go. The currents that interrupt this dreaming life carry her along. Stains on the floor might mean blood. It’s not important now. She can’t even feel the wind. Out into the hallway she goes, down the narrow, dingy, mundane hallway, with doors on each side and a staircase to craft a bridge to the day. There’s a door on the left side. She passes it and it’s open. The hushed stench of entropy is inside, the lingering remarks of a man out of time. There’s blood on the wall to her right and it spells a name that might be hers. It doesn’t matter now. All the people who could read it are dead. There’s a scream trapped in between the wood. There’s no way to let it out now. She passes through easily enough. It’s no effort for some people.
         So go down the stairs. Oh. Oh my. Who did this? Wreckage is the word. No piece of unbroken furniture to be found, all cut by uncaring hands. There’s an afterimage here that she knows, it’s tinged with crimson and sharp enough to cut her if she reaches out. It’s even seeped into the wall, smooth claw marks that seem to sketch an exaggerated toothless grin. If there was noise, it would all crunch under her feet. But there’s no noise. And she has no feet.
         In the center of it all sits the child. She’s got a doll in her hand and is gently stroking its hair with the other. Her hair is hiding her face but her shoulders are shaking and trembling and it’s quite possible that she’s crying. There’s no sound. No sound at all. Somehow she hears you. Wide tearstained eyes look wildly around the room and finally settle on you. It feels like ruined mist. The shock causes her breathing to skip a beat. She can see you. Of course she can. It’s only a dream and anything is possible here.
         There’s desolation scarring her experience. This room is no vacuum and the blood from its slit veins will leak all over everything. And in the right air, blood is no better than acid. Once touched, it’s not a feeling you soon forget. You want to tell her that, Kara, you want to say to her that everything will be okay.
         So you reach forward to say, to encourage.
         Except you’re too far away and the only words you have come from the same unconscious pit that spawns the child’s nightmares.
         You’re only a story, girl. You’re as real as perpetual motion.
         Understandably, the child does the obvious thing and runs.
         But wait-
         Let her go, Kara.
         Who said that?
         Don’t chase her.
         Who . . . what are you-
         Over here, child, look over here-

* * * * *

         So the physician poked him and prodded him and ultimately told him that he was as well as could be expected, that he had done nothing permanent to himself and since he was young and relatively healthy he would eventually heal just fine, as long as he took it easy for a little while.
         Take it easy? Prescotte thought to himself, even as he smiled and thanked the physician and shook his hand. How? He walked to the door of the infirmary, doing his best to not look at the man suspended in the tank, the one with all his skin burned away. It looked just like he always imagined it would, but that confirmation didn’t ease his stomach any. Take it easy? he asked himself again as he stepped outside. It was already night out, with only the soft, hazy glow of the streetlights to create velvet shadows. Well, I suppose.
         Prescotte went for a walk.
         None of the streets had names and he hadn’t been in Legoflas long enough to learn any of them anyway. So he picked one and vowed to follow it until he ran out of thoughts or he ran out of street, whichever came first. Striding past quiet buildings, some run down, all crafted by a design sense that made his head hurt when he tried to really wrap his mind around it, he took a deep breath of the cool night air and winced as his sore ribs protested the action. Stopping under a streetlamp, he stared at his hands, at the cuts and bruises and burns that marked his palms, the scratched skin on the back of his hand. He rubbed his jaw, feeling the tender lump there that he swore made him talk funny, although nobody else seemed to notice. His legs felt as if someone had sewn rocks into his thighs, but that didn’t halt his motion. He had too much energy this night, he had to get out, he had to move.
         His boots clattered on the ancient stone. Someone had told him once how old this city was and he hadn’t believed it. In moments like tonight, he could almost grasp the concept of a billion years, of how impossibly long that was. It brought a shudder to his lips and he put his head down to hide the expression, just in case anyone was looking. Death had never scared him, except for those few tender moments when he realized how long you had to stay dead and how pitifully short life was in contrast. Needless death still bothered him, to this day. Some days he still believed in an afterlife, but he wasn’t sure how to fit it into his new views of the Universe, the new truths that he had never been aware of. Everything had to end, he knew. It put a sick feeling in his chest. I could have saved him, if only . . .
         Everyone was okay. They had retrieved Kara and the Commander without losing anyone. It might have been touch and go toward the end, or even in the beginning, but ultimately they had persevered. Had won, in other words. Won? Really? What had they really won? What was their reward? The boy’s eyes kept staring at him and there was no gratitude for a reward there. He had sworn that Prescotte would kill him. And Prescotte had, just as predicted. Distantly he could hear the crash of ocean waves. It fought to drown out the splintering crack of his sword entering the boy’s chest, breaking the sternum and plunging right into the soft muscle of the heart. He was making up sounds now, hearing details that hadn’t been apparent the first time around. The gurgle of blood in his throat, seeping into his lungs, as the boy fought to breath around the shard of metal jutting from his body. His coarse, slippery breathing. And always the cracking, like old twigs breaking, dry wood crumbling under his fingers. The human body didn’t make sounds like that. It shouldn’t. Prescotte couldn’t stop hearing it, the whispering slitting sound of metal parting skin effortlessly, the way a knife tore cloth.
         Walking faster, he tried to outrace his thoughts, leave them clinging to hopeless threads in his wake, unable to reach him and taunt him. It was useless, of course. And, as it turned out, he ran out of street first anyway.
         In the darkness it was hard to see the edge of the platform, but he could sense the gaping plummet nearby and so stopped walking. Distantly, like images from a half-remembered dream, he could see other platforms, some higher, some below, the narrow bridges connecting them, concrete gossamer in the night. Underneath it all was the water, the ceaseless churning of the waves. There were docks at the water level, he knew, but he had never been that far down yet, wasn’t even really sure how to get there, except for the obvious. There was a brisk wind at the edge here, gently tugging at him, ruffling his hair, his clothing, carrying with it a salty flavor that made his nostrils tingle. It didn’t feel anything like home. It was close as he was going to get these days. Somehow that was all right.
         There was something comforting about the layered darkness, the strings of lights giving illumination to the platforms. On an impulse, Prescotte sat down on the cold street, his feet inches from the edge, thinking of the city as he had first experienced it, torn, burning, frantic and screaming. But it endured. Like so much else, it continued, shambling its elegant way toward eternity. Prescotte found something peaceful about that, although he knew he could never truly achieve that state himself. Life was too short for serenity, and in the end everyone knew peace anyway, in a span that by far dwarfed their own sparse, scrambling existence.
         “And in the hundredth year we descended the platforms, the foundations built downwards, making our footprints upon the depthless ocean itself. I saw a worker fall from the heights and it took so long for him to land. He never shouted a word, in the true fashion of a warrior. When we pulled him up, his body was loose, with perhaps only liquid inside. This place may kill us all, and destroy the memories that we own. Some days I fear I have forgotten the taste of our skies. We cannot dance here, the currents will not support us. The platforms stand apart, solitary and silence. Soon we will connect them. I can see the lights now, fingers reaching for us. I do not think I will ever see the home again. We will scar an impression into forever. I will be content to die here, I think. It will be right . . .”
         It was too dark for shadows to form, but the heavy footsteps told Prescotte enough, even if he hadn’t recognized the voice. Pulling up one knee almost to his chin and tucking his other leg behind his ankle, he glanced over his shoulder and said, “Catchy. You make that up yourself?”
         “No, I’m afraid not, friend Prescotte,” Tritan replied, drawing up closer so that he was standing behind Prescotte, near his left shoulder. “It’s a fragment I remembered, our only record dating back to the construction of this city. It is the oldest artifact my race possesses and is kept in our deepest archives. I was allowed to see it just once, and have carried its words with me since then. Looking at the city tonight reminded me of it.”
         “Hm, so that’s from when this place was built?” he asked. “You think that fellow knew, you know, that however many billions of years later, that people would be reading what he wrote? I can’t even fathom it.” He shook his head, trying to dislodge the weight of too many years. “It’s amazing what survives and what doesn’t. The things that you think will last forever never do and in the end, it’s the little things, the insignificant stuff that winds up being passed down. It’s funny, people don’t last, but buildings do. Maybe it should be the other way around. You can always build more towers, if you need to.” He stared out into the darkness for another minute, before bowing his head, resting his chin on his knee, saying, “Ah, whatever. So the night’s got you wandering as well, Tritan?”
         “The movement helps me heal, keeps my limbs from stiffening and, to be honest, eases the pain somewhat.” The Slashtir’s voice was perfect for the surroundings, blending effortlessly into the darkness, making it seem like the city was speaking to him from all angles. “I have to confess that I do not think the warrior’s life is for me. I have discovered that I do not particularly like . . . being injured.” There might have been small humor in the Slashtir’s voice as he said that, but Prescotte couldn’t tell, or he was too tired to try and figure it out.
         “Don’t write yourself off so quickly,” Prescotte told him, grinning. “You’ve just learned the first rule of being a warrior, don’t get hurt. Do you think any of us like it? Why else would we try so hard to avoid it?”
         “Still, it seems an inevitable thing, nonetheless,” Tritan said simply.
         “Yeah, I suppose,” Prescotte responded quietly, shivering a little and hearing the grim splintering again. Shaking himself out of it with some effort, he added in a more cheerful tone, “So it’s back to the books for you, then? The art of combat is going to lose a genius in the making.”
         “I doubt that will be the case,” the Slashtir replied with his usual politeness. “And it seems to me that one should not try to escape one’s nature. There is much in this city to be studied, that can be marveled at.” A long arm reached out to indicate the glittering distance of the other platforms. “There is no one of my people within living memory that have seen what we witness on this night.” Tritan’s voice grew hushed, almost reverent. “To many, this place does not even exist anymore, it is merely a fantasy invented by those who wish to only look backwards. I want to remind them, somehow, I wish to tell them that memory fades, it recedes, but it never truly dies. We are gone from here, but the city is alive, it is still real. A story is merely a retelling from a single angle, a sketch . . .” Tritan stopped, muttered something Prescotte couldn’t hear. When he spoke again he was much quieter. “I am explaining it improperly, I am sorry, but the words . . .”
         “No, I get it, I think,” Prescotte said softly, the rhythm of the water a sigh far below. “We’re all fiction, to some extent. It just depends on who’s telling the story.”
         He lapsed into silence again, content to merely stare at the twinkling jewels, the sunken spires of a lost paradise just out of reach, tantalizing but ultimately unattainable. Or so it seemed.
         “You are perturbed, friend Prescotte,” Tritan said to him after a while. The quiet was so unrelenting that the sudden impression his voice made seemed to emanate from the air itself. “You should not be this way,” he added, strangely gentle.
         “No, I suppose I shouldn’t,” Prescotte admitted, shrugging, glancing over his shoulder at his friend. The Slashtir’s eyes were lucid crystals, dull and smooth in the dark. “It’s just the moment . . . all the thinking you don’t do when you’re fighting catches up to you, so I’m making up for it now.” Turning his gaze outward again, he continued, “Every time, I find myself trying to figure out, you know, why I survived . . .”
         “And others do not?” the Slashtir finished for him.
         “Yeah . . . maybe,” Prescotte replied, taking a deep breath, trying not to see fading eyes in the darkness. I told you I didn’t want to. “But it’s not like . . . it’s the definition of a battle, Tritan, someone has got to die. And sometimes good people die, and sometimes you’re the reason why.”
         “It is not fair, is it?” asked Tritan.
         “It’s not,” Prescotte agreed with a sudden burst of fervor, “and I accept that, but you know, I don’t have to like it. And right now, I don’t.”
         He fell silent again, until about a minute later he suddenly gave a quiet, hoarse laugh and ran both his hands through his hair, looking down at the ground. “Ah, I’m just brooding. It’ll pass, Tritan, it’ll . . .” he trailed off again, inhaling deeply and staring up at the sky. “It’s weird now, isn’t it, looking at the sky . . . I got so used to the stars that not seeing them . . . it looks empty now, doesn’t it?”
         “Perhaps,” Tritan said, and Prescotte had a looming sense of mass shifting. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw a dark shape crouch down. “But that is only how it seems. There might be light beyond the dark that we are not aware of, that we are unable to perceive. But that does not make it less real, or our perception less true.”
         The Slashtir shifted his position again, sitting down completely now, so that his long, bulky legs were dangling over the edge of the platform. “And even if there is nothing, if what we see is all there is . . . are we not part of the sky? It cannot be truly empty if we are here. Because if we are here then we are alive and without life there would be no things as skies and stars and stories for us to marvel and mourn.” The tiny lights were reflected as bright smears in his eyes and he stared at them, perhaps seeing his ancestors constructing the city, soul by soul, an impossibly long time ago. “So we are here because we live and we know we live because we are here. Some days, friend Prescotte, I wish it were more complicated. But it is not.”
         Prescotte shot his friend a sidelong glance. “If you say so,” he said after a moment, grinning. He shook his head, his face growing more somber, murmuring something wordless, letting himself fall silent as the two friends sat there, on the edge of the timeless city, listening to the mumbling churning of the water and regarding distant shapes and shadows of a history long past.
         Across the way, a light shimmered and blinked out. Or so it seemed. Quite possibly, it might have been something else entirely.

* * * * *

         Numb without crying, stumbling without moving, you’re watching the woman through this transparent gauze and she’s sideways wounded, her mind a ruptured scar. You see her and she’s so closed off that it hurts to watch, she doesn’t want any of her memories but she’s afraid if she lets them escape, lets them leak out then there won’t be anything of her left, there won’t be anything to replace it. And it’s a weight she carries with her, dragging furrows in the dirt. There’s no place to steer and inertia’s a foreign beast in these parts. Even as she leaves the house, abandoning the dead, abandoning things she’ll never remember, walking backwards from a life that wasn’t hers. Only one question taints her lips and that question is what now? What now? Where to go? When it’s all a lie, when do you start believing? You want to tell her but there’s no answers, there’s nothing more to really say. It’s all happening without you, without her, nothing we do affects anything. Isn’t that the way? Running through the morass, the air too thick to scream, is that it? Is that how it ends? To leave on a faltering, lingering note, the sound bent out of existence, a tortured, bleeding thing? Can you do that? Can you just leave it like that? It’s not fair, it’s not right. That’ll be the forever fixed image, her running and crying and running, always in the mind, stamped there with blood hammers, until memory fades to blankness and there’s nothing more to relay. Oh God, that can’t be good. You can’t do that. Stop her running. Make her stop. There has to be something. Oh, the view is tilting sideways now. Where is she going? We’ll never know where she goes. You have to tell her. You have to-
         Oh. Oh wait. The view expands. A destination? Maybe. It’s so far away but it looks like she’s-
         Ah. Ah. Good God, it’s so obvious now. You see where it’s going? Do you see now? It might turn out okay, after all. It just might.
         I’m so sorry. I’m sorry.
         I never should have doubted you.

* * * * *

         “You’re not going to kill Uncle Joe, are you?” Kara asked her father. She was sitting crosslegged on her bed, with blankets covering her legs. Tristian was sitting across the room in a chair, cleaned up now and in a fresh set of clothes. The sword was still dangling from his belt like a stubby divining rod.
         A quiet look of bemusement came over his face at Kara’s words. “Ah, no, I don’t think so . . . I think he’s been through quite enough for the moment without me adding anything to it.” A parental gleam came into his eye. “Besides, I can’t really blame him, can I? Especially since he was operating under a false assumption, hm?”
         Kara managed to look both contrite and defiant at the same time, a feat only a teenager could truly manage. “I told him I was sorry for lying,” she said to her father firmly. “But it would have happened anyway, right? It didn’t happen because of me. And I was able to help, a little.” But I didn’t kill him, came a stray thought that didn’t feel at all like hers.
         “You did help,” Tristian admitted, “and I’m proud of you for that, you did a lot better than other people would have done in the same situation. You handle this stuff far better than I did than the first time I got thrown into it.” He narrowed his eyes, and for a second she looked less like her father and more like one of the Agents in their less friendly moments. “But that doesn’t change the fact that you shouldn’t have been in that situation to begin with. This time, things worked out, but a lot of that was due to pure luck. That won’t always happen, and I want you to understand that, Kara. As you’ve seen, it only takes a second for things to go terribly wrong.” His voice become suddenly softer, the edges dulled, plush steel, “I don’t want you to experience that second, Kara. I’ve seen it go bad and once it goes there’s no way to bring it back. Do you understand what I’m saying? Am I making sense?”
         Sometimes Kara wished her father would simply yell and get it over with. She could read his emotions too easily and the honest concern he radiated was too pure, it blurred her vision, made it hard to think. It made her safer to know that he cared so much, but it hurt too, once in a while, to know he felt it so acutely.
         Looking down to hide her discomfort, she fidgeted with the blankets. “It was wrong, Dad, I know I shouldn’t have lied . . .” she bit her lip, trying to keep the words in, knowing that she was about to fail. “But what am I supposed to do, sitting around here all day? You and Uncle Joe and Prescotte and Tritan all have jobs to do, I mean, even Ranos at least can come and go as he wants . . . what I am supposed do around here? All I do is sit around, or wander . . .” folding her hands together, she met her father’s gaze, trying not to wince from the static wash of his feelings, feedback from a detuned radio. “I’m sorry, Dad, I did it because I was bored. I’m sorry, that’s just . . .” she trailed off, not sure what else to say, not wanting to dig herself in deeper.
         In a sudden, smooth motion, Tristian stood up, pivoted, faced the wall. For a second Kara thought she had angered him but his emotions were tight, as stable as always. He sighed then, said, “Yes, I know, Kara, I know. And we’re going to do something about that very soon, I think. Because you’re right, this isn’t the place for you, not right now . . .”
         Fear seized her chest, although she wasn’t sure why. “That’s not what I said, Dad, I don’t want to-“
         ”Don’t worry, nothing’s been decided yet,” he said to her, turning back into her direction, a half-smile on his face. “We’ll talk about it, I promise, soon, but not now.” He crossed the room then with sure strides, towering over her bed like a monolith. She was almost eye level with the sword. Sometimes her father’s thoughts were the same color as the blade. Kara was sure he had used it in the last few days. With him so close, she did her best to hide the sudden shiver that threatened to overcome her. I know I didn’t kill him. Moments like this, she knew her father was right. This was not a place for her. It wouldn’t be. Not for a long time.
         “You should get some rest, though,” he told her, slipping his arms around her in a tight hug, a gesture she returned warmly. “Okay? If you want to talk about anything, if you . . .”
         “I’m all right, Dad,” she said firmly, disengaging herself from him. “I swear, I’m fine. I really am. Really.” She didn’t know if making eye contact was that important to him. Probably not. He wouldn’t believe her either way.
         He didn’t. “Hm,” he said, stepping back. “Well,” he added, after a moment of gnarled silence, “if you want to talk about anything, just yell. I’ll be up for a while longer, if you need anything. Just let me know.”
         “Good night, Dad,” she said with a sigh, pulling the covers up to her chest and leaning back.
         Tristian smiled then. “Good night, Kara. I’ll see you in the morning.” He then backed away and quietly exited the room, leaving the pale light on for her. She could turn it off herself without getting out of bed. She would, in a little bit.
         Laying back, she crossed her arms under her head, stared at the ceiling, let the memories filter past her roving mind. Sleep would not visit her anytime soon. She couldn’t stop picturing the sky whistling manically past her vision, a voice stolen by a racing wind, torn to shreds. So what if I did? she thought, without any conviction at all. If she touched her arms, they would be unmarred. She remembered a pattern of blood on the wall that looked too much like a face. It happens. It’s happened before. It’s not the first time, I’m sure. In the last moments he might have screamed, before he was taken away. I never asked. I never asked for sure how he went. How it happened. Do I want to know? The brutal grace of the dance chilled her. It should have hurt more than it did. Why didn’t it? What did I do? What happened?
         After a few minutes, thrusting her thoughts aside, she said outloud, “If you’re going to lurk around like that all night, Ranos, you might as well just come in.”
         A flicker of the air and Ranos was there. Maybe he teleported in, she hadn’t heard the door open. She wondered how long he had been there. Turning her head, she stared at him as he regarded her silently, his hands clasped loosely behind his back. For some reason, he looked uncomfortable and somehow, very sad.
         Kara knew why he was here. She didn’t know anything. Neither of them said anything for a while.
         Then, with a deliberate lack of speed, Ranos moved over to the chair, sat himself down in it, looked around the room without seeing her. Kara waited without speaking.
         “Kara,” he said finally, and the way he said her name made her body go cold, even under the heavy blankets. His eyes darted from side to side, not resting for long on anything.
         “Kara, it seems . . .” Ranos said, when he finally gained the courage to look her in the eye, “it seems to me that I have a confession to make . . .”

* * * * *

         It’s the hole in the wall that finally stops her.
         She’s been trying to outrun the life that was never hers, the name that she doesn’t belong to, racing to try and find what she used to be. But it’s not in this place. Maybe it never was. Or if it is, she’s not sure what to look for anymore.
         The thing with running, though, is that after a while you focus less on why you’re running and more on the running itself. And after a time it’s possible to forget why you even started in the first place. It’s just a jog, a lark, a stroll at quick speeds. Nothing is a problem, everything is okay. It’s easy to convince yourself of that.
         Until she looks up and sees the hole punched in the side of a house. It forces her to halt then, just like she had been punched by whatever giant fist had done that to the house. Her feet stumble and she nearly falls into the dirt, transfixed by the jagged void overhead. It reminds her somehow. She’s unmarked but there’s no real escape. This life is plagued with inconsistencies and she can’t rectify anything anymore. It’s not possible, the muscle was torn from her mind. There’s a corpse she’s trying very hard not to think about. In odd moments it might be hers. Death is the hole she can’t ignore. She has to look away.
         The sound is what rips her gaze to another point. Startled, she sees a child sitting in front of the house, not too far from the wide open door. She’s curled into a small ball on the ground, and it’s possible to see her trembling slightly.
         The scene pulls her forward, leads her to the child. The kid’s covering her eyes with her arms, but one eye peeks out as she approaches. It’s glistening, teary.
         “Hey, are you all right . . .” she asks the child, trying to keep her voice gentle, confident, even as her inside are a churning mass of shards, threatening to break through her skin and lay her open to the bare air. “What are you doing out here? Are you okay?”
         The kid picks her head up then and her eyes and face are a pale red. How long has she been here, crying? Where is her family? For that matter, where’s the rest of the village. Didn’t anyone notice her here?
         “I . . . I ran . . .” the girl says, in a hushed, hiccuping child voice. “Someone was watching and I . . .” She sniffles, wipes her nose with her arm. “I got scared and I guess . . . I . . .” but she can’t finish. It occurs to her how meaningless words are. She was so caught up in her name, but what does it really mean? Just letters. Just sound and letters.
         “But where’s your family, where is everyone . . .”
         The girls shrugs helplessly. Of course she wouldn’t know, she’s too young to really understand how screwed up this all is. All she knows is that she’s alone. But that’s enough, right there. Well, the girl isn’t alone anymore. She has company now. They can ride this out together.
         “Ghosts, I think, I don’t know . . .” the child says. “I think they became ghosts. But I don’t know.”
         The little girl’s eyes travel to the doorway and she follows instinctively. Inside it’s a wreck, furniture tossed around like toys, everything broken, all of it destroyed. It makes her cold to stare at it. The air is so chilled now, the sky seems like a strange color, too grey, almost white, utterly unreal. It’s too quiet here. What happened here? What’s happening to them, to all of them. She hasn’t even asked this child her name? Isn’t that what you do, in the beginning? Find out the names? It seems less important now. The words are going away. Soon the rest will follow.
         “Come on,” she says to the girl, taking her by the hand, “let’s go inside, where it’s warmer.”
         And so they get up and go inside and she shuts the door. Streamers trail her vision, everything has an afterimage. She feels herself unraveling at the edges, becoming somehow free. Is this how death feels? No, she’s young, her life is just beginning. There’s so much ahead. She knows there is.
         Together they find one moderately intact piece of furniture, an old chair. The child is small and they can both fit on it with ease. The kid is calmer now, her face more composed. The windows don’t show anything outside. They must be clouded. A storm, maybe? It hardly seems to matter. Perhaps it will rain tonight. She can barely remember the last time.
         “Are you okay?” she asks the child. The kid is shivering now, trembling just a little, warmer but maybe still frightened. Her parents will be back soon, she is sure. But until then there’s this moment. A way to pass the time. That’s all they’re doing. It’s how you spend the segments that really matters. This is how she wants to go. With a stranger. In lost time.
         “I’m fine,” the kid replies, nodding slowly. She shifts her positions, curls up closer. She’s so warm. Everyone is. The words have no meaning. It’s a black jagged whimper now, strewn on white snow. Too pure. Not pure enough. What? What? “But I hope they come back soon.”
         “I hope so, too,” she mumbles, too safe, feeling herself disintegrating. What did it all mean? Nothing. Everything. She has to keep the child occupied, distract her attention. It’ll make it all go faster.
         Rousing herself from whatever is breaking her down, she puts an arm around the little girl and says, “Why don’t I tell you a story? Would you like that? Is that okay?” She has all the time in the world. She has seventeen words. That’s it. Who said that? They can’t be the only ones left.
         The kid murmurs an affirmative.
         Begin, then, in what small moments you still have. Count down. “Well . . . okay.” What to say? Fifteen. That’s it? It’s not enough. “Let me tell you a story then.” Eight. “It took place long ago.” Three. This is all? Make it count. Please. “I’ll always remember . . .”
         The scene dissolves.

THE END

         “Everybody dies frustrated and sad and that is beautiful . . .”
                   - They Might Be Giants, “Don’t Let’s Start”

MB
March-December 2003
RP