Price of Forever

He sat down on the bench overlooking the bustling street. An older gentleman sat at the far end of the bench, reading his newspaper silently. A young man with a dog stopped to check his phone. The stranger looked over.

“Excuse me, how long has that restaurant been there?” the stranger asked. The young man with the dog looked up.

“Huh? Oh, there? Uh... about eight years I think. Been a while since you've been in town?” the young man asked.

“A bit, yes,” the stranger confessed. The young man nodded and continued on down the sidewalk. The old man cleared his throat. The stranger looked over.

“It's been fifty years since you've been here,” the old man said.

“Pardon?” the stranger asked.

“You weren't asking about the business in the building. You were asking about the building itself,” the old man chuckled. The stranger looked over at him, puzzled.

“It was a rainy day, and the drainage was as bad then as it is now. Water was almost knee deep out in the street. A branch fell and caught the power line, tearing it down. A piece of cable slashed a young boy across the face, and you grabbed him and ran to safety before the water got electrified,” the old man cited. The stranger nodded.

“That sounds like quite a story. I must have an ancient twin,” the stranger smiled.

“No, it was you. Because you didn't get through the water before it electrified. The cable hit that water. Somehow you kept running. It should have fried you, but it didn't,” the old man said. The stranger now cleared his throat. This was becoming uncomfortable.

“It's okay. I'm not going to rat you out. I've been sitting here for some time thinking of how to say hello to you,” the old man said.

“Well, hello,” the stranger said as pleasantly as he could muster.

“And I wanted to say thank you,” the old man said. He turned and the stranger could see the jagged scar that etched down the left side of his face.

“I'm sorry I couldn't get to you before the cable struck,” the stranger confessed.

“You saved my life. I'd have been dead if not for you. And I've had a good life. Even found a good woman that looked past this mark on my face. So for all the days I've had since then, thank you,” the old man said. The stranger was quiet a moment.

“How did you know the cables struck the water? Your face was covered with blood,” the stranger said.

“Heard it. Felt it,” the old man said.

The stranger looked over curiously.

“You took the brunt of it, sure. But I felt it surge through me. My entire body clenched like one big balled fist. It hurt like hell. I couldn't for the life of me figure out how you were able to keep running. More I've learned of electricity since then, the more it's a mystery to me,” the old man said.

“There are many mysteries in this world,” the stranger replied.

“What's got you in town?” the old man asked.

“Funeral,” the stranger replied. The old man nodded.

“Older you get, the more of those you go to,” he said, then caught himself, realizing this man was likely far older than he.

“Until they grow fewer than you ever imagined,” the stranger replied. The old man felt awkward, and sorry for his comment.

“Name's Bud Tanner,” the old man said. The stranger nodded.

“Alan Southwark,” the stranger introduced now.

“Southwark? Don't think I've ever heard that last name,” Bud mused.

“There weren't many of us left. Two world wars saw to that. After tonight, the family name will be no more,” he said matter of factly. Bud could sense the edge of sadness, although Alan was clearly not the type to wallow in it. Bud nodded.

“My condolences,” Bud said.

“Thank you,” Alan answered. They were quiet for a few moments. Alan stood.

“My grand kids own a little restaurant around the corner. Bud's Burgers. Clever title eh? Anyways, you should stop on by if you're in town for a bit. Don't worry, I won't tell 'em about you. Just say that you the son of an old friend of mine,” Bud offered. Alan nodded.

“Thank you,” Alan said again and headed off down the road.

Alan headed to the clearing where the body was being buried. There were a handful of people in attendance. Alan sighed. He could recall the Southwark weddings and funerals of old, with hundreds in attendance. It seemed as though they would stand forever. Or perhaps no one was really thinking of tomorrow. Tomorrow is such an obscure idea anyway.

He approached the small gathering quietly, not wishing to draw attention to himself.

“Ashes to ashes, dust to dust,” the priest said as he sprinkled dirt over the casket. Alan found himself murmuring the words to himself. He looked up to see a familiar face he hadn't expected. Dorian Ballentine. Dorian smiled. Alan nodded. Another person in the gathering looked up and noticed Alan. A young, pale woman with dark hair and dark eyes. Alan closed his eyes for a moment and considered leaving.

No. This was Gloria, his last living descendant. He would not be chased from this place. He stood in place until the funeral was concluded. He walked forward and set thirteen red roses upon Gloria Southwark's grave. He stood looking at her headstone as though an endless chasm yawned forth before him and he fought to keep himself from falling in. Instead, a fathomless gray enveloped him. He found a kaleidoscope of faces and places cascading in his mind. So many years, so many people. Many names he could no longer recall.

“Are you Alan Southwark?”

He breathed deeply and slowly. He had stayed too long. He had been discovered. He opened his eyes slowly and looked over to see the young woman again.

“I'm sorry, I know this is a difficult time, having just lost your aunt and all, but I need to go over some legal documents with you,” she said.

Aunt? he thought to himself.

Reluctantly he followed her to her office. He followed her black Lexus through the winding roads heading well outside of town. She eventually brought him to a secluded manor. Inside was an office furnished with aged mahogany chairs and desk. She set some tea to brewing and pulled out a series of folders. She opened up a folder and handed it to him. He looked it over. There were a series of deeds, estates, stocks, bonds and bank accounts listed. He glanced over them, then back up at the woman.

“Having no other surviving heirs, sole control of her estate goes to you it seems,” the young woman said with an awkward smile.

“How do you know who I am?” Alan asked.

“All I've got is the photo she had of you. It looked old. Honestly, I was surprised when I recognized you. It must have weathered prematurely,” she offered. Alan nodded. He looked back over the files.

“How did Gloria... Aunt Gloria come about all of this?” he asked.

“She apparently spent her later years tracking down all of the lost estates and accounts of the Southwark family. There were apparently quite a few scattered across the U.S, Canada and Europe,” she said. Alan had spent centuries amassing a fortune so that the Southwark family would want for nothing. His condition often forced him to travel. Often unexpectedly. As the 20^th century loomed and the world seemed to grow smaller, he diversified his investments and even left himself foxholes and safe houses to retreat to should he need to drop one identity and draw from funds elsewhere immediately. Gloria had found them all.

“Clever girl...” he murmured to himself.

“Excuse me?” the lawyer asked.

“Nothing. Sorry. Lost in thought. Also, I beg your pardon, but I never formally introduced myself to you,” he said.

“Well, I already know you're Alan Southwark. I'm Veronica Ristani,” she said, extending a hand. He shook her hand.

“Albanian?” he asked. She nodded.

“Yes. How did you know?” she asked.

“I just read a lot,” he replied.

His eyes fell on the folder as a mist gathered at the edges of his eyes. He remembered a daydream he had had ages ago, about the end of the world. Everyone on Earth had died off, and he would wander its empty streets like a ghost forever. The thought had horrified him, yet here it was. The indomitable Southwarks, bright and brilliant and full of life, were gone. Alan was simply an echo, a whisper of what used to be.

“What will you do now?” she asked. “That's quite a fortune.”

“It is. Aunt Gloria did well for herself.”

“Most people would be ecstatic at being suddenly wealthy.”

“You're probably right.”

Before he could stop himself, the tears fell. He turned his head as his face reddened, but he couldn't stop himself. He mourned for his lost family. He mourned more for their passing that he could never be a part of. It was selfish, he knew; but sometimes we are. He heard something slide across the table. He looked up to see that Veronica had pushed a tissue box across the table. She was sitting razor straight. Alan took a tissue and nodded his thanks.

“Mr. Southwark, I'm not exactly the comforting type, but you have me at a loss. Are you going to be alright?”

“Honestly? No.”

Alan blew his nose and threw the tissue in the trash. He stared out the window into the hills and forest beyond the manor. He sighed and chuckled to himself.

“But I'm going to do something I swore I'd never do,” he said as he turned. Veronica's hand was inside her purse, her face rigid. Alan held up his hands.

“No no no! Nothing to you! Oh god! Wow, I must sound mad over here carrying on like this.”

“A bit. Yes,” Veronica replied, her hand not leaving her purse.

“I'm going to tell you who I am.”

“I know who you are. You're Alan Southwark, last surviving heir of Gloria Southwark.”

“She's my last surviving heir. And that photo isn't prematurely aged. It was taken just before the second World War.”

Veronica's face was a mask of incredulousness.

“I don't expect you to believe me, but I just buried the last of my family, and I've kept this secret for so long because I wanted them to be safe. That's... not really a concern any longer, I'm sad to say.”

Veronica shook her head.

I Need Magic

I don’t want magic to be real.

I need it to be.

The eking grey of the world around me edges in until it becomes the ink seeping into my veins.

That blood that I pour onto the page in hopes of calling forth the magic I can’t find elsewhere. I need it to come to life. I need to see the glimmer manifest before my eyes.

When I look inward, searching for that light and finding nothing, it feels like I’m dying. I think I’m crying for a moment, but my eyes have long gone dry.

It’s the suffocation I’m feeling. Unable to breath in this world that doesn’t support life. That doesn’t want me. These walls press in upon me like a closing tomb, but I’m too afraid to leave. My prison is my comfort and I am more afraid of the price of freedom than I am of what I lose by not trying to leave again.

Besides, I could fade away, vanish, and the world would be no worse off.

These were my thoughts that night as I crumpled to the floor under the weight of all my failure and insecurity. It was the night I first heard the pages whisper.

They didn’t make words. Not in any language I could ever think to translate. I was confused and terrified at first. I thought maybe I’d finally broken, finally gone insane. I thought that perhaps the icy wraiths whose skeletal fingers I would feel scrap across the inside of my lonely, aching chest had finally come to claim me for good.

With that thought I smiled for the first time in ages. It was finally over. I wouldn’t hurt anymore.

But then the eerie archaic gibberish coalesced into thoughts that I could understand. I understood that this was an ancient conversation I was being allowed to hear. It was something far greater than me, or my thoughts, or my problems. But I was being allowed to hear it at last, and once I understood this, I wept.

What I could gather, what little bit of it I can translate into words is this.

There was. This is. Creation was and is again. It is all around me and I can be its conduit if I choose. Choose to be strong. Choose to be wise. Choose to be.

I chose to be.

And the room filled with the whispers and their possibility until every molecule vibrated and pulsed against one another and the air hummed with the promise of what could be.

I awoke the next morning with my notebook clutched to my chest. Light filtered through the thin beige curtains, alive with the thousands of particles of dust floating through the beams and into the invisible aether that exists in the endless realm of what we are unable to see.

Certain that I had awoken from a surreal dream, I thumbed through the familiar poems of my recent thoughts. Tally marks of the malaise I was certain was my destiny. The familiar lyrics gave way to strange syllables and alien gatherings of letters. In them I found a cadence, a rhythm as natural as my own heartbeat. Although I did not understand their meaning, as I read them it seemed that I could feel the pulse of the Earth, of the universe itself.

I feared to speak the words aloud lest I unzip the double helix of reality and set forth something immense upon this world that could never be recalled again. I closed the book and went to work, doing something I cared nothing about the entire day. I made sure I did it well enough to keep my overseers appeased and quietly returned home to stare at these pages over a lukewarm cup of coffee.

The words made less sense than they had that morning. Instead of secret code, they just looked like the mindless scribbling of a confused child. The cadence was less familiar. The power of the message was fading. I was losing my chance.

I was terrified of what I might unleash upon the world. In the end, I think I was more afraid of facing a tomorrow as bleak as yesterday. So I sat down and began to read the words aloud.

My apartment began to shake. The air thrummed with some invisible, living force. I held out my hand and unseen pens inked the air around my forearm with swirls and unknown symbols. I pushed my hand forward and the wall erupted into fragments of plaster, wood and glass that sprayed out into the parking lot. I looked on in horror as the debris showered the cars below.

I thought about repairing the wall, seeing if the magic could undo what it had just done. But I stopped myself. The wall was gone and now I had no reason to stay here any longer.

Happily Ever After

“I always hoped I'd die first. I know it's selfish to say out loud, but, who are you going to tell at this point?” the old king said to the queen that had ruled at his side the past forty years. She chuckled before she started coughing. The king's grip on her hand tightened.

“All the enemies of the kingdom that I've battled, and I can do nothing to keep you here a little while longer,” the old man growled. She patted his hand.

“Death takes us all in time. Now is mine, and I'm not sad. I've had a good life,” she said, her voice a mere whisper.

“Defeating the evil witch. Slaying the dragon. All the strange and curious things that brought us together, that became the story that they've told about us ever since. It seems so strange to hear it sometimes, but it's just what we had to do at the time,” the king mused. The queen smiled.

“That wasn't the real magic though. Watching our own children grow and have adventures of their own. Rescue villages from trolls. Find lost tomes. Complete quests for wizards. Then to watch them marry and their own children grow,” the queen said.

“Where has all the time gone?” the king sighed.

“In good company,” the queen said, tightening her grip on his hand one last time.

“I'll be sad in my days alone. But I have no regrets. It's been a good life, and I'm so glad I got to share it with you,” the king said, mist gathering around his wrinkled eyes.

“It's funny. It sounds so silly when they read it in the story books, but it really can happen,” she whispered.

“What can?”

“Happily ever after,” she sighed. Then she went still. Her eyes stared at the ceiling, almost as if she were just lost in thought. But the king could see that her chest rose and fell no more, and so he brought his hand across her forehead and closed her eyes forever.

“It really was,” he replied, his lips trembling under his bushy gray beard and mustache. He patted her hand and stepped outside to break the news to the rest of the family. He looked down the balcony from her room at them all gathered. Their children, and grandchildren and cousins and all the people of their household that looked up to them both. Some began weeping. Others forced a smile for their father. He simply nodded in reply.

“It really was...”

Moriarty

• All of the dignitaries of London had come to mourn the fall of their great hero. Even though he attempted to live a quiet life between his myriad adventures, Holmes was beloved of many. Politicians attempted to strengthen their names by connecting themselves with this hero of the people. Many simply owed him their thanks for solving the cases no one else could and bringing some succor to these injured parties. Diplomats, foreign aristocracy, including the king of Bohemia, and so many others whom Holmes had helped over the years. All of that came to an end unexpectedly when Holmes passed from a heart attack. Complications from his use of cocaine to solve his stack of cases. “Natural causes”, Scotland Yard had ruled it, but many of us knew better. I knew better. The servants and colleagues of so many of these gathered reported directly to me, or to a proxy who reported to me. I sat and waited while the Anglican minister commended his soul to God. Inspector Lestrade stood with his underlings in a single file line, rifles over shoulders. I saw one of my own emissaries in that line who’s eyes went wide like a buffoon when he saw me in the crowd. Not all of my associates are yet versed in properly not recognizing me in public. I waited while various speeches were given, tears were shed, hands were shaken. I waited while they lay Holmes in the ground. I watched his ever faithful Watson in tears, held up by his dutiful wife. I even saw the vivacious Irene Adler whom Holmes had shared a keen friendship with. I waited, until it was Lestrade and his gathered men on duty. Then I approached. “A said thing, this,” I said. “Indeed! It’s most terrible. Not that we couldn’t do the job on our own, but Scotland Yard won’t be the same without a consultant like Holmes at our disposal,” Lestrade stammered. I fought the urge to growl. I fought the urge to smash his ignorant, smug face in with the end of my cane. I had much bigger fish to catch. “And the autopsy turned up nothing?” “Autopsy?” the idiot replied. “Yes. An autopsy. Whenever a prominent figure of English society passes, it is customary to look into what may have caused it,” I said. “It’s been ruled natural causes sir,” Lestrade said and turned away. As much as his very existence rankled me, I had to remind myself to be thankful for men like Lestrade. Without buffoons like him in positions of power, it would not be so very easy to run my underground organization right under their very noses. “I examined him myself actually,” a voice appeared from the growing fog. Watson. “And you found nothing?” “Nothing of import.” “So the bluish tint under his nails did not strike you as something noteworthy?” “Bluish tint?” “Or the fact that the left side of his face was pinched ever so slightly. You missed this as well?” “The man fell when he had his heart attack. And the symptoms you observed are common side effects of the drugs Holmes was known to use to keep his mind focused on his cases.” “So long in the presence of greatness, and yet you still fall so short of it.” “Why are you here?” Watson growled. I smiled. I couldn’t help myself. For all of my anger since learning of Holmes’ death, I would draw what small satisfaction I could today. “Are you here to gloat? That you outlasted your nemesis?” Watson pressed. “I came to test what I already knew. I wanted to see his body, and I did. I wanted to be certain that I’d been properly robbed before seeking out the bandits responsible.” Watson paused for a moment. “I beg your pardon?” “You daft man! Holmes has been murdered! The prize of all English crime fighting has been slain, and I have been robbed of my victory!” I said, turning on Watson. Something in my glare unsettled the man. Good. It would be best if he stayed far from what was to come. “I have no quarrel with you Doctor. You are not my equal, and you never will be. But Holmes was mine to claim, and mine alone. And the streets will run red with the blood of whomever stands in my way while I claim recompense for my dissatisfaction,” I said. “If you’re going after them, then let us work together. We have our differences, but we want the same thing. Justice for Holmes!” I laughed. Even well-educated men could be remarkably simple. “I have no interest in Justice my dear boy. That is not my aim. Bloody vengeance for what was taken from me shall be my succour. I shall drink deep from the vineyard of misery I am soon to visit upon those who have wronged me thus. Good day sir.”
  7:05 PM
  Matthew Smith
• 
  

Valefar 1

               Mashing her cigarette into the cheap plastic ashtray she’d stolen from Captain Jack’s pirate and punk bar, she shuttered as she exhaled, a ghost against the impassive moonlight. She leaned her head against the window, open just a crack to let the cigarette smoke out, and thought about the last few months, chuckling humorlessly about how quickly everything can go wrong.

          She stared out over the sprawling monster that was this city and imagined all the other souls wandering or sitting by themselves, feeling so alone that the ache in their souls bled into their hearts, making their chest constrict in a thousand little pinching pains that made them shudder with the detoxing spasms that is love leaving your life forever.

          She wondered where Fox was drowning his haunted memories tonight, wondering if he still blamed himself. Of course he blamed himself, that’s just who he was. He felt it was his job to keep the people around him safe, and he’d failed. He’d just never talk about it. He’d crack some joke and change the subject, or start up a game, or play a song; anything to keep the reality of his feelings from pressing in on him like a vice.

          Sera wanted to wrap her arms around him and just let him cry until all his pain washed down into the streets and traveled away on the dirty little rivulets falling down some nameless storm drain and never seen again. But he wouldn’t; she couldn’t. That wasn’t their lives, was it? They had this.

          She stood up and put her fist through the window. Fragments of moonlight and city reflections rattled through the fire escape into the street below. Sera looked at the blood running down her center knuckle, lit another cigarette, and decided she needed to go out for a drink.

          On the other side of town, and a million miles away, Fox sank the 3 ball into the corner pocket and took a sip from a vanilla porter that was getting warmer by the minute. A tall broad shouldered gentleman with a military haircut and grim eyes walked in and sat at the edge of the bar by himself. Out of the corner of his eye he could see the red cross pin on the lapel of his beige trench coat. He could also tell the man was armed. A Templar. Great.

          Fox finished his beer and decided now was as good a time as any to get a refill and greet his caller. He sat cattycorner from the Templar and waited for the bartender.

          “Fox Meridian?” the man said.

          “The Templars joining the local billiard league?” Fox asked. The man gave him a hard look, then glanced at the bar. He took a large, measured breath.

          “I’m Edward Sinclair, Templar Captain. And…” he hesitated. “I might need your help,” Edward greeted. Fox paused. He’d heard that name.

          Edward Sinclair was head of Templar field assaults on demons, vampires and lead the Special Forces training for newer Templars. If they sent him to recruit Fox, this had to be serious.

          “What do you go by normally?” Fox asked.

          “Edward,” the man said flatly. Fox waved down Gus, the manager of the bar.

          “A coffee porter and whatever my new friend here is drinking,” Fox called, then looked over.

          “Anything is fine,” Edward replied.

          “Amber. He seems like an amber man to me,” Fox said. Gus was a round, bearded man with a pleasant smile and gray hair. He took one glance at the Templar then gave Fox a stern look of ‘please don’t start trouble in my bar.’

          Gus dropped off the two beers and Fox laid a twenty on the table, took a sip and looked over at his visitor.

          “I’m not going to even ask how you found me. What I am curious about, is you don’t seem or sound like the type that asks for help often,” Fox said.

          “I don’t.”

          Fox nodded and waited.

          “Something has happened,” the big man continued.

          “I had guessed as much.”

          The big man bristled slightly. There was a glared in his eyes not directed at anyone. But Fox could read between the lines. This guy would rather slam Fox’s head against the bar and storm out than spend another moment here. He was clearly on edge and uncomfortable, but not in the manner that preceded violence. This man was clearly capable of violence, that just wasn’t his purpose tonight.

          “The Seal has been broken,” the man confided. Fox was still and silent for a moment.

          “Which seal?” he asked, cautious. The large man sighed. He leaned in and spoke softly.

          “The Seal of Solomon,” he said. Fox choked on his beer. He sputtered for a few moments, then swallowed. After a few more moments to resume his composure, he looked back at Edward.

          “You guys have had it all this time?” Fox asked. The other man was silent. Templars weren’t ones to part with their secrets.

          “Of course you were. That’s why you wanted the Temple in the first place. Let the others take the rest of Jerusalem, you bastards wanted the Seal!” Fox hissed. The big man glared at him. Fox paused for a moment. He’d fought his way out of some rough situations, but he saw the eyes of an experienced killer in the man, and as a Templar, one that was highly trained. Fox just wasn’t sure he cared anymore at this point.

          “You’ve kept your secrets. You’ve kept something dangerous, and now it’s out…” Fox said, staring at the wall, seeing nothing.

          “There was no one else to protect it,” the large man replied. Fox just stared at him, his expression blank.

          “In any case, they’re free now,” Edward confessed.

          “Seventy-two demon lords released back into the universe…” Fox muttered.

          “We’re meeting with the other organizations. We’ve spoken with the Lodge, but I understand that you’re no longer a member,” Edward said.

          “There were some disagreements,” Fox admitted.

          “Apparently. But I want to hear from you why you left,” Edward said.

          “Because I can’t… couldn’t just do nothing when I knew people were in danger,” Fox replied.

          “If you can find that person again then, he is needed. I need every capable soul to help track down these demons and seal them away,” Edward said. The jumble of bar room conversation hummed in the background along with the highlights from the latest football game.

          “So I’m assuming your coordinating the attack?” Fox asked. Edward inclined his head.

          “Who am I getting assigned?” Fox asked.

          “I wanted you to join my Gamma team-“ Edward began. Fox shook his head.

          “I’m not a Templar. I’ll reach out when I need intel, or to tell you the deed is done. But I don’t operate like you guys, and I’m not going to try. A bunch of chain-of-command bullshit is just going to get in my way,” Fox said. The big man’s fist clenched. He stared at the other end of the bar. Two other patrons looked up, saw the look on his face, and promptly looked the other way. Fox was starting to wonder if he’d finally pushed his luck. The big man put the beer to his lips and emptied it. We waved the barkeep down for another. When he’d finished that, he reached into his jacket. Fox braced himself, ready to dive and uncertain if he’d be safer running and taking his chance with the bullets or trying to rush the large, angry killing machine. Thankfully the man just produced a slip of paper.

          Fox looked unfolded it. It held a single word, a name.

          Valefar.

          “The Thief King?” Fox asked.

          “Of the most skilled occult agents, this one seemed the most up your alley,” Edward said. There was the slightest hint of a smirk.  Fox nodded and handed it back.

          “We would still need you to check in every 48 hours,” Edward began. Fox gave him a side glance.

          “I need to know if you’ve been killed in the field, and I need to send someone else to finish this. We’ve even requested this of the Hospitallers, and they of us,” Edward explained.

          “The… Hospitallers? You’re working with the Hospitallers??” Fox asked, shocked. You’d sooner see hyenas and lions snuggling on the savannah than see Templars and Hospitallers work together. Their shadow war was the stuff of legends and had marred the backdrop of history for more than 700 years.

          “I’m assuming I don’t need to tell you how bad this is,” Edward said.

          “No. Each one is a lord of demons, extremely powerful in their own right, and used to ruling over legions of other demons. If all seventy-two are out and running amuck, that could make for some slight discomfort in the near future,” Fox replied. He took a deep breath and nodded.

          “How do I get in touch with you?” Fox asked at last. Edward penned a phone number on the slip of paper.

          “Call there once every 48 hours. If you don’t, then we know we need to send another field agent to finish this,” Edward said.

          “Or if need resources?” Fox asked. Edward glared at him. Fox held up his hands.

          “I’m out of the game. I might not have all the stuff I need at the ready,” Fox admitted. Edward sighed.

          “Same number. They will attempt to give you what you need. Within reason,” Edward said. A long, tense silence hung in the air between them.

          “There’s more to this than you’re saying,” Fox said. It wasn’t a question.

          “Of course there is,” Edward replied. Fox waved to Gus.

          “Another round?” Fox said.

          “I should be going,” Edward replied. Fox nodded.

          “Look, I know you’re a shot caller within the Templars. I’ve heard your name before. And no, I’m saying from where. So I know you’d rather be anywhere than in here asking for my help. I can also tell that you’ve been hurt by this,” Fox said. Edward did not move, he did not blink. He looked Fox over for a moment.

          “If you’ve used some enchantment-” Edward growled. Fox held up a hand.

          “I just know what it looks like.”

          Gus plopped two cold beers in front of them, the street sorcerer and the Templar Captain, having drinks at a bar. Fox was sure there was a joke in here somewhere. Edward waved off the beer.

          “I must be going,” Edward said.

          “See you in the field,” Fox replied. Edward nodded and departed. He could feel the bar exhale when the man left. Gus sauntered back over.

          “What are you doing bringing guys like that in here?” Gus hissed. Fox smirked.

          “First, what sort of ‘guy’ do you think that was Gus?”

          “Hitman, right? Merc?”

          Fox shook his head. Gus sighed in relief.

          “Oh no. That guy’s much worse than any of that,” Fox waved a hand dismissively. Gus’s eyes went wide. Fox fought the laugh from his face at the ridiculous look on Gus’ petrified face.

          “Why Fox? Why? Why would you bring something like that in here?” Gus asked.

          “I didn’t. He found me here.”

          “What have you got yourself mixed up in?”

          Fox was considering how to answer when the door opened. A blonde bombshell with a smoldering glare walked in. Cut off jean shorts, torn top that revealed her chiseled stomach, red streak through her hair and gauze and tape around her left hand: Sera.

          Fox glanced at her for a moment. Her angry gaze softened when she saw him reaching for the beer that Edward had left on the bar. He held it toward her.

          “Have a beer?”

          “I…I didn’t know you were here.”

          Fox nodded, his face still.

          “It’s okay,” he said. She walked toward the bar slowly, cautious, wary; deciding between sitting down or walking out the door. She took the beer from his hand, set in on the bar and grabbed him. He braced himself, not certain what he’d been expecting, save something violent.

Instead he found himself wrapped up in a tight hug he wasn’t sure he could escape from if he tried. He put a hand on her back, wanting to move forward when she squeezed tighter. He put his arms around her and remembered. He remembered when things were simpler and they both were happier. He remembered when all of his friends and comrades could all still look each other in the eye. He remembered back before things had gone dark. He’d forgotten how much he’d missed it, how much he’d missed her.

Finally she let go and took the beer in her good hand, finishing half of it before setting it back down. The permanent smear of black mascara and eyeliner clouded around both her eyes like a drawn on mask. He looked at her for a moment, a dozen different imagined conversations with her floating through his mind as he drank his beer and collected his thoughts.

They each thought of countless different openers, of explanations and condolences. Their minds wandered the mazes of pleasantries and hurt feelings and the myriad paths that can lead to all of the wrong places between two people.

“Look-”

“It wasn’t your fault.”

And there it was. It was out. She had said it. She felt relieved, a little. But the quiet that followed was unbearable. It stretched out between them like the chasm between people on the street where nobody wants to be bothered and in a city brimming with people so many souls feel alone. He took another sip.

“I wish I could believe that. I really do. But I can’t. And I won’t let myself. Because I can’t let myself make a mistake like that again,” Fox said. Sera was silent for a moment.

“There was nothing you could have done differently.”

“Short of sacrificing myself.”

“She beat you to it. She probably knew you would have if she hadn’t. Maybe she decided that was more than she could live with.”

“So she leaves me to live with it instead?”

“She got to protect you in the end. Don’t take that away from her, okay?” Sera pleaded. Fox squeezed the scrap of paper in his hand.

“So um…”

“How have you been?”

“Good. I… um. I’ve been. Just reading old books.”

“Like usual.”

“You?”

“Training. Doing research. Found a…um… there’s some weird stuff going on.”

“Like what?”

“Just some strange stories that should be looked into. Something about some cloaked figures chasing a guy into an abandoned church in Elyria, Ohio before it burned down.”

“What’s so strange about that?” Fox asked.

“Just that more stuff like that’s been happening lately. There’s way more chatter on the boards. A lot of it from over seas. Sounds like the Sol Invictus is gearing up for something big.”

Fox nodded absently and drank some more. Sera tilted her head.

“Do you know something about all of this?”

“No. And I don’t want to.”

“Don’t lie to me. If there’s something going on, you’ve got to take me with you. I’m crawling the walls at my apartment, and I need to be out there doing something.”

Fox was silent.

“If you don’t, I’m just going to go find it on my own.”

Fox’s poker face was failing him. If she went with him, she could get killed. If she went by herself, she could get killed. His mind waded through the sea of bad decisions that lay before him, each one turning out worse than the last. Finally he looked at her.

“Why don’t we just watch a movie and split a pizza?”

“I’d like that.”

Hours later, in the still of the night, Fox sat at the edge of his bed. Sera was still asleep. The moonlight made her look like one of those sleeping angels in cemeteries, weathered by years of acid rain. How apt, Fox thought to himself. He loaded up a few books and sundry items into his leather satchel, left a note on his night stand, hoping to any god that might listen that she read it and actually listen this time, and slipped out into the night with just one word on his mind.

Valefar.

Why Hermione Granger is in Gryffindor (and not Ravenclaw)

Dumbledore and Snape stood over the dead, mangled bodies of Harry Potter and Ronald Weasley. Snape stepped over them disdainfully.

“I don't think this is working sir. Perhaps the Longbottom boy-” Snape began.

 “Nonsense. Harry IS the chosen one. Let me review the prophecies! I shall consult my pensieve,” Dumbledore replied quickly. Snape pressed his fingers together.

“Yes, about that. I've been worried about what the continual use of that contraption might be doing to your-” Snape began again.

“Come Snape. The time turner. We must go back again!” Dumbledore cried. Snape sighed heavily.

They stepped into Dumbledore's study. Snape looked at the calendar on the wall.

“Their first year. Again...” Snape noted. Dumbledore nodded happily.

“We'll figure it out soon enough my old friend,” Dumbledore said happily, popping a lemon candy in his mouth. Snape rubbed his temples.

“They've been killed by the basilisk. They've been killed by 'Fluffy'. They've been killed by Quirrel, and some random werewolf, and centaurs they pissed off. They're like stress dolls for the Fates,” Snape groaned.

“We must be overlooking something...” Dumbledore muttered, looking through a tome laying out on his desk. Snape shuffled some papers.

“What are those?” Dumbledore asked.

“Oh, nothing. I was reviewing test scores from the NEWT's of the seventh years in the future. You know, the grade that Potter and Weasley never make it to,” Snape replied in stoice cadance.

“I was just noticing that the Granger girl, the one from Ravenclaw, she scores perfect marks in nearly every category. She did the same in her OWL's in the fifth year. The other year the boys never survive to,” Snape continued in his insistently droll tone. Dumbledore looked up.

“Yes, yes. Hermione Granger. Exceptional witch. The brightest student of Hogwarts this generation,” Dumbledore murmured in reply.

“Why can't she be the 'chosen one'!” Snape hissed.

“You know Trelawney's prophecy,” Dumbledore answered sagely.

“Of course. She's so spot on the rest of the time. Let's entrust the fate of the world on her tea infused tie-dyed rantings...” Snape grumbled.

“Now now Severus. We will see this through,” Dumbledore said consolingly. Snape pressed his lips together and nodded.

“What about the Longbottom boy? He's at least staying alive til graduation,” Snape suggested.

“No no. It's definitely Potter,” Dumbledore replied, not looking up from another book in his hand. Snape nodded.

“Of course.”

The time turner dangled from it's chain, spinning on Dumbledore's desk. Snape gasped.

“The Granger girl!” he began.

“She can't be the chosen one,” Dumbledore refuted.

“No. But she can keep the other two alive. Or, Potter at least,” Snape offered.

“What are you suggesting?” Dumbledore asked.

“We have to make them friends. Make Granger an ally of theirs early on,” Snape pressed.

“How do suggest we do this Severus?” Dumbledore asked.

“We...and I know I will regret this, get her sorted into Gryffindor,” Snape suggested.

“But, manipulating the Sorting? That would have grave affects on the future of the wizarding world. That could be unethical,” Dumbledore protested.

“You have that Hat put every mouth breather that walks through the door put into Hufflepuff and you know it,” Snape accused. Dumbledore was silent a moment. He cleared his throat. He took a sip of water. He looked back at Snape.

“I suppose it couldn't hurt. You know, this one time,” Dumbledore conceded.

“Yes... this single, solitary time...” Snape answered. He stifled a smirk. Dumbledore pretended not to notice. He held out a jar to Snape.

“Lemon drop?”