Chapter 8

8.
         It was all so simple. The world was black and white. Living and dead. You just had to stay on one side of the line or risk falling off into the abyss that lay under your feet. The hole you never saw. Never any grey.
         He was sitting down. That much he knew. He had no idea if he had sat down or if someone had done it for him. He really didn't care. He didn't care about much of anything. He really didn't think about much of anything either. Because if he did, he'd think he was normal and everything was okay and when he wasn't looking this great big giant hole would start to open in his heart and it would be so big and gigantic that it would swallow him whole. And he'd never see the sun again. And he'd never smile again.
         Just go numb. It's what he told himself. A mantra. If you don't feel anything they can't hurt you. It's what his father had told him. Told him as he sat there grimancing in pain when he thought no one was looking because someone in a bar fight had run a blade through his leg and since then he could never walk right. Or stand for too long. But keep a brave face, he said. If you let them think they've hurt you, then they've won already.
         But they have, he wanted to say to his father. They've won. Because they've taken it all away.
         No. Don't think about it. Don't think about anything. Just float in aimless, grey peace. Where nothing can change. Ever. Because change hurts too. No, not all change hurts. Remember the big change in your life, the day when, when Mari told you that she, that you and she were, that the two of you were going to be
         In the distance there was a sucking sobbing sound. It came from very far away. Only when he felt hands shaking him gently did he realize that the sound originated from him.
         Voices floated and swirled around him.
         "Johan! Johan! Goddammit, he's not responding." There was evident and severe worry in the voice. "Goddamn, he's totally withdrawn. What the hell are we going to do?"
         "What can we do, Tristian," a softer, more cultured and accented voice drifted in lazily, "it's not like he doesn't have a good reason for it."
         "No, it's not that, it's just . . . argh, this is a mess. Fights I can deal with but . . . where the hell were you? Where did you go? And how'd they get past your brother. And where the hell is he? Tell me that."
         "I was elsewhere, Tristian, trying to divert the main course of the army. My brother was supposed to stay and defend things here."
         "Well obviously he didn't." The man made a sighing sound, almost like a rattle. "Damn it all, can't you at least cover her body, it's bad enough that she looks like . . . like . . . oh God. Just what did they do to her?"
         There was the sound of something rustling. He didn't want to think about the body. The body that happened to look like the person he loved. Obviously it wasn't because things like that didn't happen. You lived your life, perhaps raised a family and died and that was it. Nothing interesting, no marks on history. You never got into fights and then had to come home to see . . . to see . . . what did you see?
         "Is that better?"
         "Yeah. Yeah, much better. Thanks. Oh God." The sound of someone sitting down heavily struck his ears. "I don't know if I can handle this." The voice sounded muffled. "And . . . I can't even imagine what Johan is going through. His wife. Goddamn. And didn't he say they were expecting a child? Oh my God. What killed her? How did they get in? What happened here?"
         "I'm not sure, actually. It seems that my brother had to leave for some reason-"
         "But why didn't he keep the shields up, huh? Why didn't he? We both know that he could, I've seen you do it. I've seen you both do it."
         "I was getting to that, Tristian. Please calm down, with Johan withdrawing and you getting upset, nothing is going to get done."
         "Done? What are you talking about? More of your plans for us? How can you even think about that in a time like this."
         "Because life isn't stopping right now. Mari is dead, there's nothing we can do for her. But we might be able to save others if I can get it all together in time." The words were harsh. And they brought back the giant empty feeling again. The room was shaking. No it was just him. Just him now. By himself. All alone. Just hearing the words made him want to crawl into some small place where bad things never happened and nothing changed and just forget about everything and never come out. Never never never.
         "Nothing you can do? I thought that . . . that maybe with your . . . magic . . ."
         "I could bring her back to life? Hardly, Tristian. We're not talking about some cliched fantasy setting, there are a lot of things that I just don't have any power over. I'm sorry. She's dead."
         Make him stop. Make him stop speaking the truth. Because he didn't want to hear it. Because every word was ripping holes in him. Magic. He hated that word. He wanted no part of it. Magic ebbed and flowed around all of them and he could feel it now, twisting and tantalizing, seeking to put feelers into his brain and find a conduit. And he couldn't. An image of remembered Mari, her face highlighted by purple flares, smiling at him in the semi darkness as she polished and finished one of his craftworks. Never again. His heart leapt and fell and crashed.
         He wanted to die. He really just wanted to die.
         "All right, all right, sorry, I just . . ." a chair scraped back and there was the sound of pacing. Rapid pacing. Nervous. "I just don't know what to do. Your brother is missing, God knows where the hell he went-"
         "Taken." The word was spoken flatly.
         "What?"
         "He was taken. My brother. I know he wouldn't have left of his own accord, not without leaving something behind to protect Mari. Or taking her with him. So he must have been taken."
         "But what . . . you're one of the most powerful beings ever. You can't just be kidnapped. Who the hell could take you or your brother?"
         "Oh, we're far from the most powerful beings around, Tristian. Really. And here, all the rules are different. There's no telling how it was done."
         "Yeah, I know, figures. How the hell did we get caught up in this? Sometimes I almost think you plan these things out for me."
         "Regardless, we're here now and we have to do something. The army I managed to chase off probably won't linger around here for too long, especially if they know that I'm here. They'll head for the next town. We have to head them off."
         "And what? Fight them ourselves?"
         "If we must." The voice had no trace of irony in it at all. "Warn them preferably. But we have to leave soon."
         "Soon? Dammit, what are we going to do about Johan?"
         What are you going to do? What is anyone going to do now? Seeing her lying there on the floor, all the life having fled her, it made him want to chase after it. It made him want to do something, something to avenge her. Make her live again. It could have been a boy. Oh no.
         "Hm. Seems quite simple to me. We'll have to leave him here. Everyone he knows is in this village, they'll be sure to keep him safe."
         That voice. The one in red. The one who helped kill his wife. The one who stood there with his reassurances and his taunts and his tempers and crackling red magic and it was all for nothing. Because she still died. Left her there and he could have died with her and they'd be playing with their baby for eternity as a dead family. As something. As something other than empty.
         "What, no, we . . . we can't do that. We just can't."
         "And why not, he's only going to slow us down."
         Just hearing it stirred something him. Stirred something deep and fatal. Something that made him less empty. Blocked out the image of the dead.
         "I can't believe I'm hearing this, you can't be serious . . . or is this part of that ancient perspective that you keep telling me about? Where you don't care about anything anymore other than the big picture. The little people don't count for anything. We don't count for anything."
         "You know that's wrong, Tristian. You count for quite a bit, frankly but Johan . . . what good is he going to be to us . . ."
         Please stop. He didn't want to move ever again. Words kept prodding at his skull, making the world flash grey and red and white and black all over, making him feel again. There was something wet on his cheeks.
         ". . . after all he couldn't even save his wife . . ."
         "What are you talking-"
         And he was shaking, oh he was shaking so hard that he thought he'd fall apart and it was really hurting and he really wanted to see something dead because maybe there'd be a balance and she'd live again, maybe just maybe.
         ". . . and really they knew what they were after. I checked the wounds, the first wounds were made to her abdomen . . ."
         "Good Lord . . ."
         Just stop talking. Please.
         ". . . after that it was just a matter of time. After she realized what they did to her, I'm sure that the fight went out of her quickly. If not, the bleeding would have finished her off quickly enough." The voice was absurdly clinical.
         "I can't believe you-"
         And then he was moving, shaking and moving and moving and shaking and the world swam back into eerie focus. His hand was at his sword, the sword was in his hand and there was a man wearing red right in front of him, saying cold and horrible things about him and his wife and the red was the same color as the blood, there was blood all over the floor and
         "Johan!" someone yelled but not the man in red who just stood there as Johan, screaming words that were incoherent enough to just make sense, felt his sword growing suddenly lighter as he raised arm to swing it.
         The first thrust struck the red man right in the face. As did the second. The third was aimed at the chest, the fourth and fifth were wild and he was so blinded by something wet and filmy in his eyes that he couldn't really see. It was all just one big red blur and he was just swinging at it, hitting it again and again, trying to make it take the words back, trying to make it make his wife live again, just trying to set one little piece of his world right again.
         And then the red man spoke a word. Just one word.
         But that word was backed by an arm of impossible strength that caught his collar, snaking through his frantic and insane weaving of blades, lifting him bodily off the ground like he was made of air and slamming him firmly into his wall.
         "Enough," the man said softly. The force of that word could command the sky.
         Johan swung at him again but he caught the blade with his other hand, bending his arm at an impossible angle and snatching it right out.
         "Continuing to hit me would just break your sword. It's too valuable a tool to let that happen."
         "You . . . you killed . . ." and he couldn't make the words come any longer. There was a great big block stuck in his throat.
         "I've killed a lot of people," the Agent admitted softly. "But I didn't kill your wife. Neither did my brother. Through our inaction, though, your wife did die and that's something we can never repay you for." Something was reflected in his eyes. "I do feel sad, Johan, I know you don't believe me but the only way I could make you believe would tear you apart."
         He let him down gently. "I know what you're going through, Johan. Perhaps even better than you do. And I can't make it right and I can't fix it, but maybe you can help stop someone else's wife from dying. Spare someone else the pain that you're feeling right now."
         Agent One crossed his arms and turned away, leaning against the window. The hue of his robe seemed dim somewhat. "And I know that you could tell me that you don't care about other people and that only your pain is important to you and that everyone else can go hang . . ." he gave a brief smile, "but I know you'd be lying. I know things like that. It's a little thing, mind you, but sometimes little things can make the biggest difference." He turned to Johan, his expressions seeming almost human for the first time in a while. "Come with us and you won't get her back, but you might find a reason to keep going."
         Johan blinked, nodding, tried not to stare down at the floor. It was all too much. He just wanted everything to stop, for time to freeze so he would have time to think. But he knew what he had to do. Like it had been set out before him, tiny baby steps leading his life along by a narrow leash.
         "I . . ." he started and then realized that his throat couldn't handle prolonged speech and settled with a concise, "yes."
         Agent One nodded curtly. "Very well, good to have you aboard again. We'll leave soon, then, time is, if I might steal a phrase, of the essence." He clapped his hands together and then his face became serious again. "But one thing first. Tristian, could you leave us alone for a bit?"
         Tristian, who had been quiet the entire time, also trying to assimilate things, started in surprise and then seemed to realize what the Agent was talking about. Without another word he nodded and stepped outside. His shattered shadow was reflected in the window.
         Agent One looked around and took a deep breath. Johan looked down to see that someone had covered his wife with one of their old blankets. Arranged that way she just seemed to be a lump, someone's old clothes. He never wanted to think of her that way and mentally imagined her hitting him for thinking that. It didn't comfort him anymore.
         Agent One sighed and waved his arms slowly. Red light appeared around him and gathered in the air. "You know as well as I do that as acute as the loss you feel right now is, it'll fade eventually." The lights spun some more and then flattened out, casting a pale glow over everything. They started to float down, settling on the blanket and the body underneath.
         "And you won't want that feeling to fade because in your head you'll think that you're doing a disservice to your wife, that you owe it to her to feel that way for the rest of your life." The lights were all settled over Mari now, and Agent One brought his arms down sharply and then slowly up again. The blanket, with the body still under it, started to lift off the ground.
         "You don't, of course and you'll know in time that I'm right. But for the moment, use the loss to sustain yourself. Make everything you do, for her, for the life of the child that might have been yours." The floating body, lights radiating and rotating around it in glistening orbits, began to float toward the table. Agent One, his arms raised and his entire body glowing as well, followed it slowly. One step at a time.
         The body came to a rest, floating slightly above the table. Agent One lowered his arms and the body started to lower with it, eventually hovering barely an inch above the finished wood.
         "Dreams turn to ashes too quickly, I know. I've seen a lot in my years, Johan, more than you can ever fathom. I've seen the deepest holes humanity can sink to and the highest heights. And you can still surprise me. You can take this pain and let it twist you and torment you, or you can take the hurt and keep others from feeling it as well."
         "Mari . . ." was all Johan said, his voice almost robotic.
         Agent One glanced at him sadly. "I know, Johan," his voice soft, comforting. "And I know what happens when we die, and where we go. And I can't tell you that but I can tell you that they're always around." The body was sparkling red, almost blindingly so. Johan kept watching, even as his eyes started to hurt. He wanted to see every last second.
         "Because matter is matter until it stops being matter. And then it becomes . . ." and in one swift motion he threw his hands out. Mari's body shimmered for a second and then dispersed into a million gittering crimson motes, all of which glistened and then faded into nothing.
         But while they floated around, Agent One said, "it becomes energy. And energy is what powers everything. What everything comes from. Nothing ever goes away, Johan."
         He let his arms drop slowly to his sides. The glow faded, like it was never there. "And maybe, eventually, it all comes back."
         Johan and the Agent stared at each other for a long time. No words were exchanged at the onset, but the Agent softly broke the quiet and said, "I'll wait for you outside."
         Johan didn't say anything, didn't even watch the Agent drift silently out. Instead he walked over to the table, the memories of conversations lost forever wavering ghostlike in his head. He knew he would forget about them someday, like everyone did. No memory lasts forever. And he wanted to grab them and tie them up and make sure he could always have them. But they were slipping away already.
         He stood at the table, staring at his near, warped reflection in it. Too numb to cry, he just stood there, accepting his life, accepting the changes and wanting as much as humanly possible to go back.
         But he couldn't. You never could.
         And a small mote, red and flickering floated down right between his eyes, falling toward the table, fading as it did. It blinked out before it reached the surface but he watched go down the entire time just the same.
         After it was gone, he closed his eyes briefly, tightly. Keep it all back. Back.
         Bowing his head slightly, he whispered, "I love you."
         And then there was nothing more to say.
         Heavily, he turned and went back toward the door, toward the daylight outside.