This is another of those stories that it just feels right to post. I actually missed my deadline by about an hour, which may tell you what day I was intending this for, if you haven't figured it out by the time you finish this. On the other hand, it still apparently works out, since the date of that particular holiday tends to slide around a bit and it has been observed on the 17th as well (though the last time that occurred was back in 2011).

Loud popping sounds. A cry; his name.

A body at his feet. A face.

Red.

An ache in his chest.

Red.

Falling…

Blackness…

Caleb jerked upright with a gasp, one hand instinctively going to his heart, the scar above it—and its counterpart on the right—seeming, briefly, to burn. Ears flat, eyes wide, pulse pounding a mile a minute, he stared into the darkness. I…I'm okay. I'm okay. It was a dream. Only a dream…

Now, only a dream. A nightmare. But once, it had been real.

He sat quietly for a few minutes, forcibly bringing his heartrate and breathing back under control, reminding himself that he was alive, that the scars he bore were all that remained of the wounds that had nearly ended him. That his wife and his Companion were still alive; Kitlin still sleeping peacefully by his side, Frost in a nest of pillows and blankets in a corner of the living room with her mate. They were still with him. And little Kira and Anthony in their cots, with old Grandmother Ninetales keeping watch…

A faint whiff of an acrid scent made him glance back, and he hastily smothered a rapidly charring spot on his pillow. He hadn't realized his grip on his flame had slipped—more than that, he didn't want to wake Kitt up. This second pregnancy had been hard on her so far; he guiltily wondered if it was his mixed genes that were to blame. She'd spent much of the day feeling unwell—he didn't need to add any more trouble to that.

Caleb felt strangely restless; slipping quietly out of bed, he lifted his locket from its place on the bedside table and left the room, fastening it around his neck out of habit. Walking silently through the house, he peeked into each room, checking on their occupants: his children in their—for now—shared room, deep in dreams of their own, Grandmother Ninetales tucked between their cots; in the guest room, his sister-in-law and her son, curled up together under the blankets; in the living room, Frost and Dusk in their corner, and Melor sprawled across the couch for reasons known only to him.

Everything was just as it should have been, and yet, Caleb couldn't return to bed. Something kept him still on edge; lingering fear of the nightmare returning, who could say? Softly, he unlatched the patio door, slid it open, and stepped into the cool night air.

There was a low brick wall along the patio that separated it from the rest of the backyard, and Caleb rested his forearms on it as he gazed out into the night. Moonlight glinted on the leaves of the trees and the plants in the garden; yet the night, too, was quiet and still. Looking up, Caleb could trace the constellations, though they were not as bright here as they had been in those lonely places he had once visited in his exile.

Someone had once told him—though he could not quite remember who—that the souls of those who had come before watched those still on Earth from among the stars. He had often wondered if it were true, though he had never found out the answer. Perhaps it was—and if it was, he wondered, was there, among the stars, another man who had fought for what was right? That same man, who he held up as an inspiration and role model, did he look down upon him?

He had seen, of course, the videos of that speech, had watched them from beginning to end with David and the others, though he had gotten a very strange feeling watching his own death. Sometimes, he still went back to those videos, to listen to those words, to reaffirm that this was his purpose. Yet he never went back, after that first time, to the moments after the speech's end; in fact, he always stopped before the last few sentences. It was too unnerving, to eerie, to see himself fall, to see his locket suddenly blaze like a falling star. There was something inherently wrong about it, to see himself die, to watch as his wife and his Companion nearly followed him into the void. To hear Frost's cry, to see the terrible knowing on his own face, even as the cameras fell to the ground when their holders realized what was happening.

Sometimes, he looked through the comments, for the videos—even if they were the news clips detailing the incident, or providing updates on his condition, and who would have thought those would have come into existence? That people would care about him so much?—had been viewed thousands of times. They were a mixed bag, of course: Everything from inspirational and hopeful messages to death threats against himself and everyone he cared for. It was to be expected, he knew—and one of the reasons he suspected Melor brought his family over so often. Yes, Kira, Anthony, and Loranth would grow up having spent many an hour together, but this way, Melor would be there to stand by his younger brother's side to protect his family should anything happen.

It was a touching gesture, of course, but would it really help? Caleb rubbed absently at the worn surface of his locket—how strange it was for it to be so cold after so long. He had become used to the warmth from Ho-Oh's flame, had forgotten what it felt like for the locket to be empty of it. So strange, that—for too long it had borne the weight of his sorrow, then, freed of that, only to so soon carry a lighter burden…

But the flame was gone—consumed. Were he to die again, it could not bring him back.

Would he have to die? Someday, all things did, but would he have to give his life in the name of the cause he fought for? He had done so once already—twice, if you counted his death during exile. But he had been revived both times. The other, the man he admired—he too had undertaken such a cause, and died for it, but he hadn't had the chance at a miracle.

Why was that? Caleb wondered. What fluke had gifted him with another chance, while his predecessor hadn't had that opportunity? His predecessor, too, changed the world…but he had died for his cause. Was that, in some way, the entire reason he had been born? So that his death might continue the work he had begun in life? But if so, then why had he himself not perished for the same reason? Was it, because of chance, he saved the life of a Legend, and was in turn saved? Had it been intentional—was there still some purpose he had yet to serve?

Or was it, in truth, a fluke itself? That one bullet should kill while another should not, just because of circumstance? That he had, inadvertently, had on him the means to save his life, while his predecessor had not? That there were those gathered to hear him speak who had the abilities needed to keep him and those he held most dear alive long enough for them to be saved—and that his predecessor had not? Were he to go back, back to that day…What would he learn about the events that had transpired? That he might learn about how the future might have shifted had they played out a little differently—had his predecessor survived? Or was it a fixed point, and nothing could alter the flow of the river Time?

And was his own speech, echoing one from not that long ago; was that, too, a fixed point? But what would that mean for the future—or even the past? The web of his life had been so tangled, and yet Caleb suspected that it would continue to be for the rest of however long it might last. What, if any, fruits of his labor might he come to see? Or would his efforts be in vain?

No, he thought, they couldn't be. He had the proof—the letters, the comments, even gifts sent to him, though these were always screened so carefully now that there were young ones who could be harmed. After all, he was not the only one that could learn from one who came before; the wheels of Time and of society were ever turning; ever coming back to their starting place. And yet, Caleb thought, didn't that mean there was hope? For once, another man would have stood and gazed at the stars, and wondered if his life, his dreams, could become reality.

And he would have wondered if it was futile, if he was fighting the inevitable tide—and even in his darkest moments, he would have fought for the light of hope, fought for the belief that he could make a difference…Even if he would have to give up everything….Even if he had to die.

Had he feared his end, or had he accepted it? Caleb knew he had feared, but for his family, not for himself. Was that the same fear his predecessor had felt? The fear that he had failed the ones he had promised to save? Every man felt fear as his life came to an end—but who did he fear for?

And what of the others he had touched—of those that his legacy was passed to? His predecessor had left behind so much that had improved the world—could his own actions lead to such someday? He could hope, but to hope was one thing—to know was another, and he knew that such a future, if it came to pass, would be something he would only be shown in his dying days. Much as his grandfather had been brought forwards so that Caleb might speak to him one last time before his death—so that old Zachariah might know that Caleb would be all right, and that the younger Greene might know the truth—such would be the only way he might know if he had accomplished his goals, and only if it was allowed. And yet…had something similar happened to his predecessor? So that, when the time came, he was not afraid?

Caleb sighed, still gazing up at the sky overhead. There was no way to know…And that was the way of things. No way to know if his life was dedicated to the right cause; no way to know if his life would make a difference. No way to know if he might live up to the legacy of his predecessor. Not that he cared, of course—his only desire was to see the world a better place for those who as of now were shunned for their differences—but a part of him could not help but wonder if he would be remembered for his work, or if his name and cause would be forgotten in the dusty pages of history.

"How could you stand it?" He wondered aloud. "Your fears, and doubts, and the cruel world pressing in? I walk the same path now…but if you were alive, what advice could you give me? Am I doing the right thing? If you were to step into my shoes for a day, would you understand why I fight?"

A sigh, his gaze falling to the brick wall, ears low. "Did you watch the stars as I do, trying to understand the road ahead? Did you hide your fears even in your darkest hours, to give hope to those who could not? How much of your strength was real, and how much was a mask, to hide the tears of worry? We've both walked a long ways down a difficult path, but how much further would you have gone? How much further must I go? I wish I knew…"

The leaves seemed to rustle in a slight breeze—the faintest flicker of movement, no more. And yet Caleb thought suddenly he could feel a presence behind him—a man who rested his knowing hand on his shoulder, passing on encouragement and a silent strength. The sensation lasted for barely an instant, and yet Caleb knew it was real—more than that, he knew who it had been.

"Thank you," he whispered, his eyes once more finding the stars, which seemed to glow a little brighter than before. He found himself suddenly at peace, having found the answer he had sought, and turned to head back inside. However, he stopped on the threshold, glancing back, tracing the constellations one last time. Perhaps…

Perhaps there truly were spirits among the stars.