Prologue

His bones creaked and his heart ached. He had seen the Elders a final time and had said his goodbyes for he was old now. He was so old and had been this way for so long that he barely remembered what it was to be young. His footsteps echoed as he made his slow way from the council chambers, the steps of his feet and the clunk of his staff making for a bastardised waltz that not even he could dance to. He had not told the Elders of his plan. Had the council been aware, they would have tried to stop him, for he had been their guide for longer than the memory of the living could possibly stretch. He had been there to assist wherever he could, had given advise, had seen them through the early days. This old man had seen their society built, had ensured their safety and conducted their every move. Yet for all that, he was an outsider. Always apart, always alone, none of them had ever really known who he was. There had been rumours, of course, for none could ever have existed for as long as he had. But rumours they remained.

Had he told them of his plan, they would have stopped him. Had he told himself, he might have tried to stop it, too. He was old now, and so tired. He was so alone, and fed up with waiting.

It had just been another little emergency, another pointless thing with which they needed guidance, and because he was kind, because he had always cared deeply for the foolish ones he had helped sustain for so many years, he had come to their aid once more.

There were rumblings below. The Elders were right to be worried, to be fearful, but the old man was tired. His back stooped with the weight of centuries of responsibility, of waiting until he felt near mad with it, and he sought release. Finally, it had become too much for him. The day he waited upon would never come, and surely, he had taught the Elders all he could. He had surely answered their every whim for long enough that they might survive alone. This threat, this looming presence in the darkness that had been making them uneasy for some years now, they ought to be able to handle it on their own, without him. Not that it mattered whether they could or not, for the old man with his creaking bones and wheezing, rattling breath would not be around to watch them if they fell.

He had given them some final advice before he left them. He had urged them to look to one another, had told them that magic may not always be the answer. And he had told a small lie, that he would see them at their next gathering.

The old warlock stood in the middle of the road, blinking blearily up at the bright lights of a city that would never know who he was or where he had come from. Nor would they care. Those that passed him by as he walked did not see him. Not because of some spell, no, it was not down to the work of magic, but rather to their own ignorance. He was no one. He did not matter to anyone. To the Elders, he was a commodity, something to be used and looked to when they needed help. To the mortals, he was invisible, for old men simply did not matter to them. He was sick of it. He was through with being ignored, with not truly mattering, with being unseen, of being a person of no consequence to the world at large. Of course, he could have revealed his true self to the Elders, but he knew with the wisdom of age that it would only secure his status as a commodity.

The disjointed waltz began once more as he made his way down one of the more poorly lit streets. There would be panic, he knew, when he did not arrive at the council chambers as he had promised he would. They would panic, but there would be nothing they could do about it for he had always ensured that they would never be able to summon him. He required some peace, after all, and now, he hoped to make that peace permanent. Weeks would pass, he knew, and they would come to terms with the reality that the old man who had seen that they were well looked after for so long was gone. They would accept it as truth, and, he hoped, would move on. It was his hope that they would follow his advice one last time, that they would seek the answers within their own community, that they would realise that they had not needed him for a long time. With luck, they would never know what had happened to the old man. And eventually, he would be but the word of legend once more.

A young man passed him on his way, and for the first time in many years, the old man was surprised.

"Are you alright?" came the unexpected question from one man to another, the yawning chasm of generations be damned.

The old man licked his lips, his grip on his staff whitening for brief moments as he tried to straighten himself some. It was a thankless task, for the young man's concerned expression only worsened. He took a breath that got caught up on its way in and rather than speak and offer any further need for worry, he inclined his head as an answer. He did not want to cry for help. He did not want help. It was his dearest wish that he succeed in his quest, and he would not be stopped now.

He had expected the young man to nod and be on his way. His expectations were disappointed when, rather than leaving him to his own devices, he instead produced a crumpled packet of tissues and offered one to the warlock.

Perhaps the old man had looked confused, for an explanation soon followed.

"You're crying," said the young man, still proffering the tissue expectantly.

"Am I?" the warlock questioned. It was not that he was surprised by his own tears. He had nerve endings, and he was aware that his emotions were ragged and that his mood was low tonight. Of course he had known that he had been crying. What he had not known was that it might matter to anyone but himself.

"…can I get anything for you? Can I call anyone?" asked the young man when the tissue he'd offered remained untaken and unused. The old man watched as his outstretched hand faltered and dropped back to his side.

"There is nothing you can do for me," he told him. He wasn't sure that he would have been able to accept any assistance had he wanted it, it had been so long since he had been seen as human and flawed enough to require it.

"Are you sure?"

Long moments passed as the old man looked intently into the unexpectedly kind face before him.

"Good evening," said the old warlock finally, rather than respond in the way that might have been anticipated. He cleared his throat and bowed his head once more, and the young man, assuming that he had been dismissed, let him be. He was unused to random acts of kindness, was far more familiar with being overlooked.

But this young man with the dark hair and sharp blue eyes had seen him. He had seen him without looking straight through him. He had seen him as a person who mattered enough that he had offered help with no ulterior motive in sight. The warlock had long forgotten what it meant to be seen as human. He had been so caught in the memories of what had been that he had ceased to live.

As he looked on, the young man crossed the road without looking to first check that it was safe. The young were foolish, but lucky, in this instance. At this time of night, the quiet street just outside of the city was bereft of moving vehicles. Well, almost. A police car drove past as the warlock's brief companion arrived at his front door and cast one final look back at him.

It only served to cement his decision, he thought, as he watched the young man disappear into what could only be his home, the lights within flickering on as he passed from room to room.

This empty existence had gone on for far too long now. It was time to be selfish. Time that he thought of himself and of no one else, that he did as he pleased for a change. It was time he drop his responsibility and allow himself to rest, to experience peace and to sleep without dreams. It was time he left the memories behind that made sure he always woke to a gaping void inside. It was time he left the guilt that had made him devote his long life to others, too. Time he stopped waiting. His situation would never change. He knew that now. In truth, he had known it for some time, but he was as foolish as he was ancient. It was time that he stop hoping. That he stop longing for things to change, for while he was invisible, while he did not matter, that did not mean that he did not still feel. That he did not still wish and hope, but perhaps that had been his downfall. Perhaps he ought have done this sooner, but it had only been of late that he had decided he could not carry on.

The warlock did not know how much time passed as he stood in the street, watching the home of the only mortal to have truly seen him in many years. With his advanced age, hours could pass in what seemed only a few breaths, and when the dark outside remained dark and there was no other sign of the passage of time to be had, he could only really guess.

Eventually, when near all the lights in the house had gone out, he saw the twitch of a curtain from upstairs, saw a pair of blue eyes looking down on him.

His time was finally over.