Chapter 32

32.
         It felt like a long time ago but it really wasn't. Just the way that some things felt old without feeling timeless. They wrapped and twisted themselves around you until you couldn't figure out where they ended and you began and even when you could, you found that it didn't matter anymore. Myth and legend and magic and truth, all playing jousting games, switching faces and donning masks, long enough to turn to the camera and shout boo. The slow sliding dance that crept into the peripheral vision of your awareness, the itch you could never even hope to scratch.
         A long time ago, Tristian Jacart had a dream.
         It was the same dream he always had, where he didn't have to fight any longer, where his sword was put away and every conflict could be solved if everyone just tried for once not to kill each other. Understanding wasn't even necessary, just compromise, just awareness.
         The faces and words were always different, but it was the same dream. He could feel it, even in his therenotthere state, could sense it the same way you can sense where a baseball will go when you hit it, that the answer you put down on the test is the right one. Intuition, perhaps.
         The same dream. Different faces.
         Swirling fog, strangely thick. Shapes circled him in that fog and he stood on a bare patch of ground. In the near distance a giant structure loomed, bent, broken, torn down from the heights. He didn't have a name for it but he had a feeling that once he could have named it. It didn't matter now. It was only a dream.
         And in that suddeness of dreams, a friend of his was there. Just a blink and the man was standing in front of him, no questions asked, no quarter given.
         "That was, ah, that was a hell of a fight, Tristian, wasn't it?" Johan said to him, said in that simple plain way of his. "We really weren't sure if you were going to make it."
         And Tristian didn't answer, he doesn't know what to say. The dream is happening to him, but he isn't part of it. Echoing silence falls down on them like rain. The heavy wetness of fog is apparent in his nostrils, he sucks it down into his chest like life itself.
         "But you did, I guess," Johan still says, looking out into the fog, avoiding Tristian's eyes for some reason. He runs a hand through his hair, tense, shaking. "You saved us all, I mean, ah, a lot of us died but still, I mean, we're going to live, right?" Eyes turn on Tristian with appalling intensity. Tristian takes a dream step back, feeling spongy ground under his feet, tendrils of fog curling around them.
         "Though I really, to tell the truth, I really did blame you guys for Mari's . . . for letting her die," even in the dream Johan has to choke the words out, as if they are too big for his mouth. His face is oddly sober and there was a pale cast to it. Eerie light emanates from everywhere, or so it seemes. He laces his hands in front of him, as if in confession. "She was everything to me, and when she died . . ." he gave a quiet laugh, "you know, I never thought about killing myself? Because I had this, I had this image of me coming into the afterlife and her standing there and for all eternity just having her yell at me for doing something so stupid." His laugh gets harder, a bitter cast reflects off the edges and he stoped suddenly, eyes wide, as if realizing his own pain. He closes those same eyes tightly and even here a jagged sigh escapes his lips.
         "I really miss her," is all he says, softly, sharply. Blinking quickly he stares back at Tristian, trying to smile, trying to be happy. "But everything's better now, now that you saved us, I mean, sure there's a lot of wrecked stuff but we're going to repair it and before you know it, it'll be business as usual again."
         Tristian wants to say something, to reach out to his friend but they might as well both be ghosts, for all the good it does. Transparent emotions are no easier to understand and confront, the glint of rough edged glass through a sideways mirror does not mean the view is any better.
         "I've learned a lot, I suppose," Johan says, his voice having that echo of finality. He gives a shrug, meek acceptance of an inevitability that he can't escape. "Everything falls apart sometimes but that doesn't mean it'll stay apart." He is staring at Tristian again and those eyes penetrate into reverent honesty. "We saw some terrible things, awful events and even in the worst events, something good was happening, it wasn't bad all over. There was always hope I guess. That's what everyone always says." Another half hearted shrug. "Guess they were right."
         The dream shifts and changes and shifts again, like watching scenes from the bad movie of his life. Tristian expects to see his failures rolled out before him, paraded like a freak show, beaten into him by screaming apparitions who say things that can't quite equal the things he tells himself in his darkest nightmares.
         "I hope you learned not to be so hard on yourself," comes her voice and he knows it's her. She is behind him and he turns to greet her, everything moving so slow that he expects to see a multitude of translucent afterimages flickering in his wake.
         There's a joking tone to Michelle's voice, that amused tone that he remembered, that lilt in her voice that never completely vanished, even at the depths of their despair, even when the darkness was so absolute that they forgot where to even start looking for the light. She is shimmering azure, radiant and beautiful. He wants to touch her, wants to unload the burdens that he had clamped down in his heart but there's no such thing here. It's not emotion, it's all fakery, primped and ghosted over with showy spectacle. All theatre. The world and the fog curves around him in numbness dullness and even if he was able to speak, Tristian knew his words would be warped, like he was talking underwater, the sounds bending and snarling, a string strung upon itself one too many times.
         She is standing close to him and she might as well be across a chasm. Her smile is wistful, pondering. "You really did a lot of good out there, Tristian, even if you never believe that. There are a lot of people still alive thanks to you." Her smile becomes warmer, more personal. "Including me. Not every man would jump out a castle into mid air without any hope of being saved just for the chance to rescue me." Her laugh is light and carried away all too quickly. "You know how to flatter a girl, don't you?"
         He has no idea what to say, and even if the words were to come to him in his mind, he would not know where to start saying them.
         But the moment was over and her face turned primly serious. "But seriously, I hope you stop comparing yourself to the Magents and realize that you're just as good as them, in your own way. You can't be them, though, so stop trying." The impish smile returned again. "I mean that, Tristian. You can't go through life just tormenting yourself for mistakes that everyone makes. If you don't move on and accept it, it'll just tear you apart." Naked emotion ran across her face, the first almost honest moment in the dream so far. "I don't want to see that happen, okay?"
         Then she looks down, almost awkward and steps closer to him, not even seeming to cross the intervening space. In dreams you live out your life in spurts. Impulsively, she leans over and up to gently kiss him on the cheek. It was so fast that the motion barely has time to register for Tristian. He is starting to move his hand up to touch that same expanse of cheek when she is gone.
         Her voice floats in the air, a memory given flight.
         "I hope I see you again, Tristian . . ."
         And then he blinks and closes his eyes as pain ripples through him, as the storm tossed fog thickens and churns, as he gets this feeling that he is completely and utterly alone, more alone than any other person had any right to be. Whether the feeling is true or not means nothing to him, the very fact that it is there makes it all the more real.
         Just when the feeling is too intense to even bear, there's a bright lightness streaming through his being and a voice calling out his name.
         "Tristian . . . are you there . . . Tristian!"
         The accented voice is familiar and with a wrench Tristian opened his eyes and sat up, jerking himself back into the present. The dream remains a half remembered thing, the images ghostly but fading, the emotions coherent but tattered. Still it isn't something he'll forget completely for a long, long time.
         Warm, dry air hit him in the face, waking him up further. He felt stiff, as if he had lain in the same position for a long time. Slowly gettig to his feet, he saw that he was in an arid area of land. Mild desert spread out on all sides of him with a loose collection of tents and people in the distance probably the equivilent of a town. The sun beat down on his face, and he shielded his eyes from the worst of it. The heat did feel good though, he had to admit.
         Two men who could be his twins were standing near him, their faces masked expressions of concern. They were wearing clothes much like his, which was a relief to his mind. He could finally call them by the right name.
         "Agents," he asked, facing both of them, "where are we?"
         "A random world," Agent One said a bit tersely. "You said you wanted to go off on your own, so we decided that we'd give you some place to start."
         "Oh," was all he said, startled by that, not really ready for the reality of that decision. Going off on his own, it was hard to believe. Then, sincerely, he said, "Thanks."
         Then he looked around and said, "I feel like I've been out for a week though. What happened?" He wasn't really sure what kind of answer to expect.
         "More like a month, actually," Agent One said, exchanging a glance with his brother. "Your wounds were fairly grevious and so we put you in a healing coma so that you would recover better."
         "But you're all ready to get yourself all beat up again now," Agent Two said with a grin. "Try to be more careful this time, huh?"
         Tristian did a cursory onceover of his body and it did seem that he was completely healed. Memories of those last few moments before consciousness had been seized from him were fragmentary. He remembered a fight, and getting injured and other things . . .
         Suddenly his eyes were wide open and he resisted the sudden urge to grab one of the Agents by the front of his shirt and shout at them. "Johan and Michelle? What happened to them? Are they all right-"
         "They're just fine, Tristian," Agent One said, again glancing at his brother. "The elf managed to hold off the Dark Riders at bay and when they got word that you had killed the Dark Lord, they all ran off."
         "That simple, huh?" Tristian said, running a hand through dusty hair. It seemed too easy to believe and yet, why not? "The Shadow just gave up when the Dark Lord was killed. And just pulled out?"
         "We got some help from a . . . higher authority," Agent One replied. "The LORDS thought the Shadow was overstepping his bounds and made him leave the land alone."
         "Thank God," Tristian muttered, feeling like things had gone right for the first time in a while. He blinked in a relieved fashion, staring at both Agents. "I'm glad that's over then, it was pretty touch and go for a while, wasn't it?"
         "Yeah . . . it sure was," Agent Two responded and there was something strange in his voice. Probably remembering his failure to save Mari, Tristian figured. Then he grinned. "But it's all over now and all's well that ends well."
         "Wish I could have gotten a chance to say goodbye," Tristian whispered, staring down at the cluster of tents below, seeing castles and kings and magic instead of desert.
         "You saved them, Tristian," Agent One said to him. "I think that's enough of a goodbye present for them."
         "Yeah, I guess, I just wish . . ." he shook his head. "I just feel so sorry for Johan, though. He lost his whole family and now he has to go back to . . . what? Nothing."
         "Oh, maybe not," Agent Two said and there was a certain amusement to his voice. "Seems that he and a certain mage took a fancy to each other during the month you were out."
         "What . . ." Tristian had been staring at the swirlings of sand on the ground but jerked his head up at that comment. "You mean to say that . . ."
         "A lot can happen in a month, Tristian," Agent One said and there was a ghost of a smile on his face, as well as in his voice.
         "Yeah, but . . . that's great," he said and part of him meant it as much as he could. Still there was one part that remembered fleeting moments, and wondered at what might have been. In another life, perhaps and another time. Johan deserved it more than he did anyway, they had different lots in life. Johan's was a normal life, and deserved whatever happiness he could garner. Tristian, meanwhile, wasn't quite sure of his yet, and found that happiness for him was far more elusive indeed.
         "I suppose there's no point in going back then, is there?" Tristian said with a certain forlorness. Shrugging, he said to the Agents, "I went in, did the usual job and then I'll slip out when nobody is looking. Sounds like a day's work to me."
         "Yeah, all in a day's work," Agent Two repeated, and there was that odd note in his voice again. Tristian glanced at him strangely but said nothing.
         There was a moment of silence, and then Tristian gazed down at the town briefly before turning back to the Agents. "I guess I'll take my leave here now, then." He didn't sound completely confident.
         Agent One looked around, his eyes seeming to take in everything. Tristian looked at him and could easily believe how they could be mistaken for powerful mages. It was just in the way they carried themselves. "If you want." Agent One stepped forward and gently tapped the laser sword at Tristian's hip. He hadn't even noticed the weight, so familiar was it. "We put in a teleporter, for when you want to leave here. It'll take you somewhere safe . . . relatively speaking."
         Tristian grinned at that. "No airless space for me, eh? Well that's good to know, I'll see what happens with it." He looked down again briefly and said, "Ah, this is it, I think. I'm sure you guys will keep in touch."
         "Only if you want us too," Agent One told him and he was quite serious.
         "But, Tristian, write a little once in a while, okay?" Agent Two said to Tristian, clapping him on the shoulder. "Just to keep the folks at home informed, you know."
         A smile twitched at the edge of Tristian's lips. "I'll do that." And before he could think of something else to say, anything to prolong the goodbye, he turned and walked swiftly away, not bothering to say goodbye, having said those months ago, in his slow fashion, his feet kicking up sand as he strode. His memories with the flickerings of colors and deeds that he had once thought were impossible. Really, deep down inside, he had few regrets, in this case at least. He had seen magic and knew where to find it. That was enough to satisify him, for now at least. He continued to walk down into the town and his figure was ant sized soon enough.
         Both Agents watched him go, but they didn't seem to be all there. The wind blew sand into the air and it seemed to pass right through them.
         After what seemed a long time, Agent Two spoke.
         "Think he believed all of that . . . you know, about Johan and Michelle . . ." his voice was hesistant, the note in his voice that Tristian had found so elusive now clarified. Regret.
         Agent One gave a shrug, though concern was etched behind his eyes. "I'm sure he did, and who knows, it may have very well happened . . . had there been time. But we said that we were going to show him magic, magic that didn't exist anymore. And we did."
         "Yeah," was all Agent Two said. And then he spun on his brother and swore in some alien language. "Dammit, I still think that was a crappy thing that the LORDS did. Those people didn't deserve any of that."
         "I know," Agent One said softly and now there were memories rampant on his face, memories of times long past, before the word memory even existed. "But they had a point, in a sense. The Shadow really was out for blood that time and he would have eventually suceeded. With no real guardians over that Universe, it was only a matter of time for his victory to come. Then we would have all had a problem."
         "I know, I know," Agent Two said quickly, "but still . . . all those people . . ."
         "It still bothers you, doesn't it?" Agent One asked his brother.
         Agent Two made a face. "I guess, I mean we both went through some rough stuff then, and after all that effort it was just so unfair." An unspeakably sad expression crossed his face. "Then they made us do it. It felt like putting a rabid dog to sleep."
         "It was a long time ago, though," his brother commented softly. "Even as we reckon time."
         "Not long enough . . ." he trailed off, thinking about something. Turning back to his brother, he asked, "Why do we keep doing it? You know, reliving it, making people like Tristian live through it with us?"
         "Reverance, I suppose," Agent One replied, not staring directly at his brother. He glanced down at his clenched fist and opened it suddenly. Something that seemed to be a crystal was there and glittered in his hand all too briefly before Agent One closed that same fist and opened it again. Empty air was resting on his palm. Perhaps nothing had ever been there. "Those people really did deserve better. Maybe to remind us that you can't always win, even when you try you're hardest. Some time events just conspire against you."
         "I wonder, would he have acted any different if . . . if he had known?" Agent Two asked tentatively.
         "Probably not," Agent One said and he smiled at that. "Tristian will always be like that. Telling him that he's certainly going to fail only makes him try harder. Admirable, really."
         "I always thought so," Agent Two replied, also smiling. Then his smile faded. "Tristian was right about one thing though, even if he never realized it."
         "What was that?"
         "Us, the LORDS, everyone, we all went for the easiest route instead of searching for the right one. Maybe if he had a couple more billion years experience back then we would have protested more, but . . ." he gave a shrug, "I still think he was right. Sometimes you just have to try and find a better way."
         "I like to think that the people have forgiven us, by now, wherever they are, but you're right, we erred on the side of finality instead of mercy." His eyes seemed hooded and dark, even in the bright sunlight. "I doubt we'll make that mistake again."
         Both Agents stared for a long time in the direction Tristian had gone, keeping their thoughts to themselves. Finally Agent Two sighed and said, "Shall we go?"
         "Mm, might as well."
         And if you looked away for a second you might have caught out of the corner of your eye a glimpse of something gold and flickering, shattering and slipping away, fluttering and falling. And no matter how fast you looked back, all you might see was a million golden motes of energy dancing in the air before disappearing.
         Let the scene go dark. Begin to draw the curtain.
         And in those few seconds of darkening sky, some of the last of those motes to settle to the ground might be a different color, a bright crimson. And in the last seconds one would land on the ground, burning brightly, giving its all for those few seconds of light but sputtering out and making a bow before fading completely into darkness.
         The sand lies still, the air whistles mournfully, memories scratch the collective surface unbidden, laden with promise.
         And the road goes ever on.