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Special Delivery

It wasn't all that often that a package would actually get through to one of the Titans at the Tower. There were too many security levels in place and unless someone knew to write the special code on the front of the thing, it would probably end up in the incinerator after being x-rayed.

But somehow this one got through. Maybe it was because it was from Atlantis, but whatever the reason, there it was in Garth's in-box. The package was maybe the size of a shirt box, wrapped in some kind of weird (Atlantean) paper and with his name on the front. It also said 'personal'.

Coming in from a late swim in the East River, Garth picked up his mail and took the box with him down to his own quarters. He wasn't all that interested in it, truth be known. He got lots of things in the mail; all the Titans did, even with the screening procedures. Cookies and brownies (all destroyed and never eaten), clothing, flowers, keepsakes, cards, letters, video and audio offerings—they all seemed to find their way here and often lay ignored for weeks.

He changed his clothes, got himself some dinner and was about to settle in with a book when he saw the box sitting on the edge of the bureau. Well, whatever. It was probably nothing but since it was from home it could be something he was supposed to deal with. He figured that he should at least find out what it was.

He used a knife to cut the string and slit the tape then carefully unwrapped the paper. Taking the lid off, he lifted out the contents, wrapped in tissue-like paper to protect whatever was inside. It felt like a frame of some kind, a picture or a photograph, perhaps.

Removing the tissue he sat, slightly stunned and with growing anger studied the certificate in his hands.

According to the date in the bottom left hand corner, it was just over twenty years old; a very official looking proclamation decorated with several ornate seals and more than a dozen flourished signatures.

It was the official death order of the Infant King Garth by the unanimous acclaim of the high priests of Shayeris, signed and legal. It even looked like the original or maybe one of the few council copies.

He was holding the instrument of his intended murder. His hands tightened, though he—barely—restrained himself from simply crushing the thing with his bare hands.

Lips tightly pressed together and forcing his breathing back to a semblance of calm. Checking the packaging, he saw the return address; his own nominal palace, the place he'd likely been conceived, where his father was himself murdered. Though there was no name, he'd seen the handwriting before. His mother had sent this to him.

Shaking his head in awe and disbelief at the audacity of the woman he started to toss the thing into the garbage but then stopped himself and, instead, carefully propped it on his bureau where he could see it, let it stand as a reminder.

Better, much better never to forget.

10/12/08