The ballad of two
Part eleven - finale
Coda.

/ / /

Mother Earth and Father Sky,
Join us as we learn to fly.
Scorching sun and moon chilled nights,
Compass points to set my sights
Upon the golden beacon far
Which I now know as Shining Star.

Wisdom is the truth I seek,
Not found on any mountain peak.
But deep within the sacred heart
I tread the dance and find the part
That pillars up and branches out,
Leaving love in place of doubt.

And that's the answer, clear to me,
As clearest lake or shining sea.
We set the circuit, start to place
The sparks which lock all in its place.
I'm starting now, no more to roam,
At last, at last, I'm Going Home.

~Author unknown~

/ / /

"Sorry," Mike Silver stuttered, his brain not quite believing what he was sure that his ears had heard. "You said what?"

"I know how it sounds Captain," the shaman stated earnestly, "believe me I do. The fact of the matter is, however, that the person that you know as Ember is nothing more than my grandson being worn like a puppet."

"By your other grandson," Silver interjected in a tone of bemusement, "your dead grandson?"

"Yes, that is correct." The Shaman sat quietly, looking earnestly into the face of the senior policman in front of him. He was well aware, of course, of the incredulous looks shared by David Johnston and Paul Jenkins who stood on his periphery; he even took in the circular motion Jenkins made with one finger towards his forehead. He knew that they no doubt thought that he was crazy. Their thoughts, however, idn't matter. Only the facts did. Only the truth.

"Look, you are asking us to believe a lot already," Silver stated, trying to remain cordial. "You have basically told us that your grandson, Jay Phoenix, not only hasn't been murdered but also hasn't really been a 'missing person' for the last two years because he has been in plain sight as the man known as Ember …"

The Shaman started to interrupt but Mike held up one hand and pointedly continued with what he was saying.

"Let me finish, please," he said, bluntly, his temper beginning to fray, "as ludicrous as someone living under a mask without detection sounds to me, you are now asking us to believe that your grandson had some sort of parasitic twin that he 'killed' in the womb and then absorbed his DNA …"

"Well, that is not quite technically correct …" Paul Jenkins, one of the seniro criminlogists in the crim lab, a specialist in DNA and genetics, interrupted as Mike threw a baleful glare his way, concluding with a sheepish shrug of his shoulders "Close enough, I suppose."

"… and now," Silver bit off through clenched teeth, "you expect me to believe that your grandson's body has been … what … taken over, possessed, by the spirit of that twin brother?"

"Do you really expect me to believe any of that crap?" Slamming both hands on the table Mike Silver glared at the Shaman who, though much smaller than the Captain and seemingly frail, kept his gaze locked on the man. "How the Hell do you expect me to believe in ghosts, in possessions, in spirits coming back from the dead?"

The shaman picked up the photograph that he had left lying on the desk in front of him, the photograph of his grandson when he was only seven years old, and gazed it at as his eyes lost focus and his mind travelled back into his own memories in subconscious response to Mike's barked questions.

/ / /

A single small fire illuminated the domed building. Shadows played over the thatched roof, the breeze blowing through gaps in the log walls fanning the flames and sending the darkness spiralling around the confines of the room in some weird parody of the dance macabre.

A huddled figure, small and silhouetted by the flames in front of him, sat behind the fire, a leather bound book held in one hand. His features were indistinct, all that could be seen of him was long flowing hair that moved as if with a life of its own thanks to the heat from the flames and the wind from between the gaps in the wood. Low, rumbling chanting came from this figure, atonal yet vibrant. As he, for the voice was high pitched yet obviously masculine, continued with his chanting he placed his hand over the edge of the fire and a stream of powder fell from it. A single word, more a sound than anything discernible, thrummed out from the figure.

"u-yv-tlv"

Over and over the one phrase was repeated and the flames turned gradually blue, dancing slower and almost seeming to stop at moments. As the figure continued to chant his breath was visible, as if the temperature in the lodge had dropped dramatically. His hand fell to his side, and with a pause as breath was gathered he changed the tone, and the word itself.

"ka-lv-gv"

Once more the phrase was repeated though this time as the figure's hand allowed powder to fall into the flames they rose up redder and warmer than before and a haze of heat filled the air in front of the youth. Without stopping for a breath this time he changed the tone again.

"u-ga-no-wa"

The chaotic weaving of the flame slowed, not quite stopping but becoming calmer as they almost seemed to drain of colour until they were mostly white. Lifting up more powder another deep breath was taken in and then expelled in a low, guttural chant. It sounded like nails on a chalkboard, but the youth held it.

"wu-de-li-gv"

Already small, the insides of the lodge become darker and more oppressive as if the shadows themselves were reaching out to enclose everything that they could grasp. The youth paused in his movement, his voice beginning to waver uncertainly, and then he allowed the powder to finally fall into the flames. Instantly they became dark, still writhing but this time almost with a life of their own, malignant and menacing. The chanting choked off as the youth crept back from the flames, his face hidden in the shadows that the dark fire gave off, fear evident from his body language. His back hit the wall and he could go no further, as the flames almost seemed to bend towards him, reaching out, struggling to grab him …

"Great Spirits end this now!"

Light filled the room as a door burst open and a voice, strong and confident, rang out with a power of command. The flames instantly died down, returning to a dim orange and red, nearly burnt out and nothing but embers. A hand reached across them and pulled the figure to his feet. Long auburn hair framed a tanned face as a young man, no more than a boy, stared out with forlorn eyes of piercing green.

"I am sorry grandfat…" he started to say but was cut off as the strong voice interrupted.

"What have you done Hakan," he was asked, the tone of shock unmistakeable, "what have you done?" An older man, long white hair tied back in a neat braid, towered over the youth, pulling him closer with strong and powerful hands, unheeding of the look of pain that shot over the boy's face as his fingers dug into the muscles in his shoulder.

"You were meant to be studying" the older man stated through clenched teeth, "I trusted you and you betrayed that trust!"

"The names of the herbs were boring, grandfather" the youth started to explain, "and besides I didn't think that anything would happen!" The slap that hit him across the face was not powerful; in fact it hardly impacted at all. The fact that he had been struck, the fact that the man who loved and protected him had raised his hand at all, suddenly made him aware of just how much he had transgressed.

"Nothing would happen?" the older man asked incredulously, "nothing?" He forced the boy to turn around and stare across the dying flames to a dark section of the room, that moments before had been empty, still shadowed. A small figure … seeming both insubstanital and yet somewhoe real at the same time … could be seen there, huddled in the darkness, staring back out at them with eyes the colour of milk through a curtain of long pale-blonde hair.

"Something happened my child," the man whispered, his voice fading and suddenly sounding both old and weary, "something that you are going to have to deal with the consequences of."

The figure in the shadows didn't move, didn't seem to breathe, but from its mouth came one word, hesitant but unmistakeable.

"G … Gg … Gr … Grandfather?"

/ / /

"I never said that he came back from the dead, Captain," the Shaman reiterated after a few seconds, his memories safely locked back inside. "All I said was that the creature that you know as Ember but who we called … or would have called, had he lived … Kutnahin, had taken possession of my grandson's physical form. The fact that he had never actually 'lived' – as he was dead before he was born – means that his spirit never became mortal."

David Johnston and Paul Jenkins shared a knowing look and the Shaman glanced over his shoulder, glaring at them both and startling the out of their silent mockery.

"I know that you think me a senile old man," he stated simply, no trace of self-consciousness evident in his tone, "but just because you do not know something, or do not believe something, does not make it any less real!"

"… but this, though," interjected Mike Silver, "this is going beyond the realms of reality into something right out of a Stephen King novel!"

"No, my child," the Shaman sighed, "this is not a horror story from the minds of man; it is a true tale of horror. My grandson, Jay, made a terrible mistake when he was a child you see. I had begun teaching him the Medicine of our People, the ways of the Spirit and the Totem. I suppose, actually, the mistake was mine. He was still grieving for his parent's, he was still so young, but I thought that by starting him on the path that I had walked it would help him heal. Instead it pushed him into trying something that is forbidden – he tried to summon the spirits of his family back to himself. He failed, of course, as his parents had passed over but he succeeded, in a fashion, because his brother had never done so."

The soft tone of the Shaman's voice was almost hypnotic and none of the other three men in the room interrupted him, though each – inside their own thoughts – thought his tale too outlandish to actually listen to. Listen, though, they did. Intently.

"Jay brought his brother's spirit back to the mortal land, out of the Spirit realm," the Shaman continued softly, "and he became Earthbound. Stuck between here and there. Not alive but not dead. Non-born and yet existing. As he had never actually be born, had never lived or learned simply by living, however, he was wild like the wind, untamed. He was different. … ammoral."

The Shaman looked up and smiled, sadly, at Mike Silver who sat quietly watching him, lips pursed and white.

"He was something else as well," the Shaman admitted with a trace of sorrow, "he was hungry. Hungry for that which he didn't have … couldn't have. Life. Real life."

"I am sorry, Mr Red-Eagle," Mike stated, "but I simply can't believe any of this."

"Are you a man of faith, Captain?" he Shaman suddenly asked as he looked up from the photograph to stared directly into Mike Silver's eyes. "Are you a man of God, perhaps?"

"I … I …" stuttered the Captain, completely caught of guard by the question. Without conscious thought his hand reached up to his chest and, through the material of his fine cotton shirt, he felt the outline of the crucifix that constantly rested there. It had been a present from his wife, many years ago, when he had survived his first gun-shot wound. She had told him, when he awoke, that the doctors had told her that he may not make it but that she had prayed all night for God to save him; for God to leave him with her. She had clutched the crucifix in her hands so hard as to leave an imprint of it that was visible when she placed both hands on his cheeks and kissed him through her tears. From that moment on he had never removed the crucifix; had never lost the faith that his wife had gifted him with.

"Yes, yes I am," he finally admitted, sure of his words. "I don't see what that has to do with anything though …"

"You believe in an all-powerful deity that created everything and sits in judgement above us all," the Shaman interrupted with a small smile, his tone soft, as he purposely stressed the key word, "you believe in an immaculate concpetion and a virgin birth, you believe in a child born to be both Man and God, and you believe that this man not only performed miracles but also died and then rose again; do you not?"

Again the question seemed to catch Mike off-guard and for a few seconds he let the old man's words sink into his mind. He almost seemed to forget that there was anyone else in the room – ignoring Johnston and Jenkins completely – and that a few moments before he had been ready to throw the old man … the senile old man, as he thought … out of his office but now, for some reason, he found that he couldn't.

"Yes," he finally said, quietly, "I do believe that but it is different, it is …" Mike Silver's voice trailed off as he struggled to finish the sentence; as he struggled to find, in his own mind, the argument that would prove the difference. The Shaman, seemingly, did it for him.

"Real?" The Shaman offerred, "proved by the Bible and the Church?"

"Yes," Mike nodded in relief, "exactly."

"So, for you to believe in something," the Shaman asked, one eyebrow arched, "you simply need two thousand years worth of Dogma and a book?" He sat back into his chari, folding his arms and staring pointedly at the Captain who said nothing, lost in his own thoughts.

"Well," the Shaman prompted, "is that what it takes for you to believe?"

"No …" Mike started, then stuttered to a stop, changing his mind, "I mean yes …"

"Would it make any difference if I told you that my People's history and beliefs go back longer than your 'Good Book'," the Shaman stated, a hard edge to his tone, "would it make any difference if I told you that our 'religion' has been passed down from generation to generation since before your leaders first thought about stealing other people's beliefs and making them their own?"

The Shaman placed both hands flat on the desk in front of him, leaning forward again so that he was closer to Mike Silver.

"Or are you so brainwashed by your own teachings," he questioned, using his words as a barb, "that the things that you don't understand about my faith, about the Spirits that surround us, are called 'ludicrous', 'magic', or 'unbelievable' while the same things in your own are called miracles, angels or 'faith'?"

The silence in the room was deafening as Mike Silver tried to digest the Shaman's words and reconcile them with a lifetime of teaching. He wasn't able to and as his head started pounding with the early signs of an imminent migraine he stood up and laid a hand on the Shaman's shoulder.

"I don't know what to believe," he admitted with a short sigh, "and that is the honest truth. What I know though is that it doesn't really matter as it is not relevent to the case at all, so while I appreciate you coming forward with this information, I don't think that it will help us find your grandson."

"Oh, I didn't actually come here to tell you all of this," the Shaman pointed out quickly, "or to find my grandson; I know exactly where he is." A stunned silence greeted this statement and the shock in the room only increased further as the Shaman smiled and looked pointedly at the Captain.

"I came here to ask a favour."

/ / /

"I don't believe it."

Rick James's breath misted the tinnted window that formed one side of the two-way mirror that looked into the darkened room in which the body of his best friend lay, strapped to a bed and almost unconscious from a cocktail of drugs. Looking through his own reflection, ignoring the red-rimmed eyes and the tracks of recent tears on his face, he stared at the form that lay shrouded underneath a single white sheet – thankful for it as it hid not only the leather straps that kept him restrained but also the bullet wound in his abdomen. A wound that he himself had caused.

"Would you like me to go through it again, my child?" The Shaman asked as he rested a gentle hand on Rick's shoulder, feeling the barely controlled shivers running through the man that he had known since he was a boy as he fought to hold back a flood of tears.

"No," Rick said softly, another cloud of breath misting the window again, "I heard you the first time. I just don't … can't … believe it." Only a few hours previously Rick had been sitting inside the County Jail, wondering how many times the police were going to keep asking him the same questions. Over and over again he told them that he had heard Ember admit to killing Jay Phoenix and over and over again the police told him that they had no proof of that. He even told them that Ember had said that he was Jay's brother but it didn't seem to matter to them that the truth was that Jay didn't have a brother at all. What they were interested in was finding out why he had shot Ember; why he had tried his best to kill Ember. The frustration that Rick felt in not having the policemen belive him when he truthfully told them his reasons was immense.

When his cell door had been opened he had assumed he was in for another lengthy period of questioning and it took him a couple of moments to realise that he was being told that he had been released on bail. When he had picked up his belongings and been escorted to the escort he had almost collpased when he saw who it was that had rescued him, literally. The Shaman had greeted his tears with a tight hug, holding him close for many seconds and letting him babble into his ear. Time after time Rick told the Shaman that he knew what had happened to Jay, that he knew who had killed him, and time after time the Shaman simply patted his back and told him not to worry, that everything was ok.

The drive to the hospital, while the Shaman had calmly explained the truth of the matter – the truth of the duality of Ember and Jay Phoenix – had been a nightmare. It was simply too unbelievable, too bizarre, for Rick's brain to comprehend. Jay hadn't been missing; Ember hadn't killed him?

Jay was Ember?

It simply couldn't be. It couldn't.

He had been telling himself that right up until the moment that he had been shown into the monitoring area of the room where Ember … Jay … rested. The content of Rick's stomach were impossible to contain as he glanced through the mirror and saw his best friend there. He barely made it to a small waste basket in the corner before his meagre breakfast came back. He wasn't sure if it was the shock of seeing his friend lying there alive, thankfully alive, after thinking that he was dead that affected him the most or realising tow facts. Two horrible facts.

For the last two years Jay had been living someone else's life; if the Shaman was to be believed … and Rick had no reason to doubt him, and being brought up on the reservation for most of his life had seen enough of the shamanistic medicine to know that it was defintely possible … Jay actually hadn't even been living his life. He had been 'taken over', for want of a better word, by a malevolent – an evil – spirit. By the spirit of his own twin.

… but more than that, worse than that, Rick himself had very nearly killed him himself!

Resting his head on the mirror, cherishing the coolness against his skin, he felt the tears flow freely again but didn't try to stop them.

"How did you find him?" Rick asked quietly. For two years, since Jay had first 'disappeared', they had spent a lot of time and resources in trying to find out what had happened to him. Whatever it was they weren't even able to find a trace, a hint, of where he had gone. Until now.

"That would have been thanks to me."

Rick saw two forms reflected in the window in front of him as the voice spoke, and he turned slowly around to come fact to face with a man that he recognised as Ember's laywer and someone that he had never seen before but knew to be a doctor simply by his garb.

"What the Hell is he doing here?" Rick growled through clenched teeth as he made a move towards the laywer, fists closing. The Shaman stepped between the two men and held up a calming hand to Rick.

"It is thanks to him, Rick," the Shaman acknowledged, "that we have found Jay. He called me."

"… but he is the one that stopped the police from questioning Ember," Rick countered in confusion, "I mean Jay. If it wasn't for him we could have had Jay back weeks or months ago!"

"True," the laywer, John Sinclair, admitted with a small smile, "but if it wasn't for me you wouldn't have him back at all, old bean." The Shaman had to physically hold Rick back as he tried to grab hold of the laywer but after a few seconds of struggling he visibly wilted, turning back to the mirror and staring through it into the room beyond.

"The past is gone," the Shaman stated simply, "and no matter what this man did in the past he has brought us together again."

"I was just following my client's instructions, you know," Sinclair pointed out.

"You mean that you knew who Ember actually was all along?" Rick asked quietly without turning around.

"I knew who he was, yes," the English man admitted, "but I wasn't being paid to question why he wanted to wear a mask and call himself by a silly name."

"What were you being paid for, Mr Sinclair?" the Shaman asked, coldly.

"Oh that is simple," Sinclair beamed, "to protect his interests of course. To protect him, I suppose you could say."

"Protect him," the Shaman asked in confusion, "protect him from who?"

"Anybody … everybody," Sinclair stated simply, "but most especially you actually."

"Me?" The Shaman said in shock, as Rick turned around to gape at the two men. "Why on Earth would my grandson need protecting from me?"

"Simple, old man, he said that you were going to kill him."

/ / /

"I am sorry to interrupt this scintillating conversation," the doctor suddenly interjected, breaking the strained silence, "but if you don't mind I have my patient to see to." Moving across the room the doctor started to open a door that led into the next room, as seen through the mirror, but was stopped by Rick's question.

"Is he going to be ok, doctor?" Leaving the door partially open the doctor turned to look at the ashen-faced man.

"Sorry, are you family?" he asked, business-like.

"Not exactly …" Rick started to admit but was cut off by the doctor's reply.

"Well then," he said tersely, "then I don't 'exactly' have to tell you anything." He turned back to the door and pulled it open but was stopped yet again.

"I, however," the Shaman said in a cold voice, "am family. I am his grandfather so you can tell me how my grandson is!" With a sigh the doctor closed the door over and faced the three men in the room, pointing to each of them in turn.

"You I know, you are this man's lawyer," he said as he indicated Sinclair, "you however have already admitted that you are not family and you," he said, finally nodding towards the Shaman after bypassing Rick, "are claiming to be his grandfather. This is already one of the weirdest cases I have had to deal with and I am really not in the mood for any more insanity!"

"I am not claiming to be his grandfather," the Shaman pointed out, "I am his grandfather." Taking his wallet out he first showed the doctor his driving licence and then a couple of photos. The first showed Jay Phoenix as a child, the second – much more recent – as a recognisable adult.

"Well the fact that you are his grandfather lets me know two things," the doctor acknowledged with a nod, "the first being that I can let you know that your grandson is actually in pretty good condition. Physically at least. While he was crazy enough to attempt to stitch a bullet wound himself – with the bullet still inside no less – and then enter some ludicrous wrestling match with copious blood loss and a nasty infection in the wound he was lucky. Very lucky. We managed to remove the bullet, clean up the wound, and stem the blood loss and infection. So, like I said, physically he is doing pretty good."

"…but?" Rick asked quietly.

"Yes, there is a but," the doctor admitted, deigning to answer Rick's question, "while his physical state is good the same cannot be said for his mental state. The medical term for what your grandson is suffering from is a 'psychotic break' … though considering the intensity of his delusions and psychosis I think that it is not such much a break as a complete and utter fracture. His mind is shattered."

"Oh my God," Rick whispered, barely audible, "how did it happen?"

"Or," the doctor continued, pointedly ignoring Rick's anguish, "to quote your lawyer friend here, 'he is completely crazy!' As for how it happened I can't tell you that with one hundred percent certainty but an MRI that we took showed signs of a small area of damage on the right frontal lobe – possibly from blunt impact in the last few years. It could be that or it could be psychological stress that his mind simply couldn't cope with … you guys would know better than me if he went through anything before this 'episode' that could have been too much for him to handle. So it could be physical damage, it could be psychological trauma, or it could be both. Either way his mind is broken."

Rick slumped down into one of the chairs and held his face in his hands as soft, dry sobs racked his body. He knew that Phoenix had suffered headshots during his career, even serious concussions. He also remembered, clearly, the last night that he had seen him; the night before the match that should have taken place against Dave Hurst. A mirrored sign had fallen from a restaurant and hit Jay in the head, knocking him out cold. When he had come too he had acted a little strange, but Rick had passed it off as nothing serious.

… what, though, if he was wrong? What, though, if something as small, as simple, as stupid as a mirror hitting him on the head and been the first step to this problem? The Shaman, however, faced up to the doctor and stared at him, balefully.

"… and just what," he demanded, "do you base this diagnosis on?"

"Apart from many years experience, over two weeks of treating your grandson and a battery of tests you mean?" the doctor replied, sarcastically.

"Have you considered that there could be another reasons for his behaviour?" The Shaman questioned.

"Another reason?" the doctor mused, then shrugged his shoulder, "I can't say that I have. Do you have something you want to tell me?"

"My grandson isn't suffering from brain damage," the Shaman stated with confidence, "and he isn't suffering from a mental breakdown either. He has been possessed by a malevolent spirit and …"

"… and now I see that his problem runs in the family," the doctor interrupted with a sneer. "Now if you and your little ghost stories could excuse me I have work to do. In a couple of hours you will be able to thank me and forget all about this ludicrous 'spirit' stuff!" Walking into Jay's room the doctor picked a syringe up off a silver tray that rested on the table beside the bed. He took a vial of clear liquid out of his pocket and measured out a dose, pushing the air out through the needle before tapping the prone man's arm a few times to raise a vein.

"What are you doing?" the Shaman asked from just behind him. The doctor turned around with a small smile as he held up the syringe.

"This, my friend," he stated, "is pretty much a miracle waiting to happen. It has proved very useful in cases like this in trials recently and I think that it can break your grandson right out of his delusion."

"What does it do?" The Shaman asked, a note of concern creeping into his voice as the word 'trials' filtered into his head.

"Oh, that is simple," the doctor stated, "it affects the receptors of the brain and blocks the parts that cause the delusions and psychosis; it stops the other personas basically. Or, to put it simply, it 'kills' the 'spirits' that are haunting your grandson." The doctor laughed at his own joke and started to turn back to his patient. The Shaman, with a quick grasp of his arm, stopped him dead.

"How does this drug know," the old man asked insistently, "which persona to destroy."

"Again, that is simple," the doctor said as he pressed a buzzer beside the bed, "it works on the bodies DNA and the principle that the prime personality is the right one. Anything else is subsumed."

Two orderlies arrived at the door, summoned by the buzzer, and the doctor indicated that they should take the Shaman out of the room. Taking him be each arm they dragged him out of the room and stood between him and the open doorway as all he could do was stare in horror as the doctor pressed the syringe into Jay's arm and pumped the clear liquid deep into his vein.

/ / /

"We don't have long, every passing second could be one too many!"

The Shaman stood in front of Rick James and stared deeply into the young man's eyes, the natural light from the moon illuminating the grounds of the hospital where they had run to. A few minutes ago they had watched in horror as a doctor had pumped an experimental drug into Jay Phoenix's arm – a drug that was designed to work based on DNA to stop trauma-induced psychosis in a patient. They both knew, though, that due to Jay's unique genetic heritage, and the fact that he was actually possessed by a Native American spirit … that of his own non-born twin brother … that the drug would, in all likelihood, kill Phoenix. Not physically, but something even worse. They both feared that the drug would leave the personality they knew as Ember in charge of the body; Phoenix would be gone. Forever.

"Are you sure that you want to do this?" the Shaman asked, concern evident in his voice.

"I don't even know what I am going to be doing," Rick admitted, "but I trust you and if you say this will help Jay then I will do it."

"It is dangerous, Rick, "the Shaman pointed out, "if anything goes wrong you could be lost in there forever. You would, for all intents and purposes, be dead."

As soon as the Shaman had seen the drug administered to his grandson he had grabbed Rick and with a quick whisper to John Sinclair, Ember's former lawyer, he had pulled him outside the building. Panting as they ran he explained to Rick that there was still a chance to help Jay; to save Jay. Most of what the Shaman said didn't make sense to Rick. He had been brought up on the reservation but he was till a white man, still an outsider. What the Shaman suggested ventured deep into the realm of spirituality; into the realm of magic. Rick wasn't sure if he totally believed in it but he knew two things. The Shaman and Jay did and if it had a chance – no matter how small – of helping his friend he would do it.

"I don't care, grandfather," Rick said softly, using the honorific for the old man that Jay had always used, "it is worth the chance for Jay." The Shaman held Rick by both shoulders, staring into his eyes as tears misted them over. He saw the love shining there, deep, pure and true, and knew that Rick would indeed do anything for Jay. With a quick movement he slammed his fist into Rick's forehead and as the night sky was replaced with bright shining stars, and then complete darkness, Rick James slumped into unconsciousness.

"Forgive me my child," the Shaman whispered as he knelt over the prone form and started to chant and hum under his breath as he held one palm above Rick's face, "but it was the quickest way to get you into the Dreaming."

/ / /

"Shaman?"

Rick James looked around the grey landscape, turning full circle as he tried to figure out what had just happened. He remembered talking to Jay's grandfather, promising to do whatever it took to help … to save … Jay's life and then there was a moment of dazzling white followed by jet blackness, and then …

… this.

Everywhere he looked there was nothing. Literally. Dull grey dust seemed to coat the ground below his feet and a grey sky was filled with grey, lacklustre, clouds. The horizon was bare and empty and deep within himself Rick felt empty. He felt lost. He felt despair.

The Shaman's words, as they ran out of the hospital into the grounds, came back to him.

"I can send you into the Dreaming, Rick, I can send you into Jay's dream itself. You will be inside his mind, you will see what he sees, and you will feel what he feels."

Looking around him, seeing and feeling the utter desolation, Rick felt hot tears sting his eyes as he realised that it had worked. He was inside his best friend's mind.

… and it was filled with nothing but loss, pain and despair.

"Well, well, well, fancy meeting you here!"

Rick spun around and came face to face with the black mask of Ember. He took a step backwards in uncontrolled shock and then paused, forcing himself to stand still despite the shaking … the fear … that had overtaken his body. For, tightly grasped in Ember's hand, like nothing more than a rag doll, hung a limp and naked Jay Phoenix. Rick knew that it wasn't completely real, that Ember was nothing more than a spirit that didn't know enough to stay dead but he also knew that it wasn't completely a dream either.

"Being in the Dreaming is not like having a dream, Rick," The Shaman had warned him, "if you get hurt there – if you get killed there – it can be fatal."

"Let him go, Kuthanin," Rick pleaded, trying to keep his voice strong – and failing, "please, give him back to me."

"Give him back to you," Kuthanin … the man known as Ember … mocked, "You sound like a love-lorn girl, Ricky!" Rick's face flushed in embarrassment but he squared his shoulders and refused to step back.

"Oh my," laughed Ember, "that is it isn't it? All these years watching from a distance and I never noticed and I know that my dear 'brother' here didn't either! You love him, don't you? Not like a brother, not like a friend … you actually love him, don't you?!"

Ember shook the lifeless form of Phoenix, which elicited a whimper from both him and Rick at the same time.

"Well as sweet as that is, you sick faggot," Ember growled, "it doesn't matter anymore anyway. I don't know what is going on out there but I can feel myself getting stronger and Jay here getting even weaker than he always was. It looks like I win … I finally win!"

With a shriek of despair Rick threw himself at Ember, hoping to catch him by surprise, hoping to knock him off his feet and force him to drop Phoenix perhaps. Whatever it was that he hoped he failed. With barely any effort Ember simple grabbed him, single handed, out of the air and held him aloft by his throat. Rick's eyes started to bulge, his tongue protruding, as Ember slowly started to squeeze his throat and stop the air from flowing.

"Two birds with one stone," Ember laughed, "not only do I get to watch my brother die just as he watched me die all those years ago but I get to take his little 'love' out at the same time! That is precious … that is simply …"

"… NOT GOING TO HAPPEN!"

Ember's eyes gaped as a naked arm suddenly reached up and enfolded his own hand within its grasp. Looking down he saw a barely conscious Jay Phoenix trying to stand up on his own, barely having enough strength to do so, but – somehow – having enough strength to force Ember's hand away from Rick's throat. Inch by inch, moment by moment, the battle between them waged but Rick found first that he was able to catch a breath, and then was able to move. With a burst of effort he broke free from Ember's clutches and crumpled in the sand as he watched Ember suddenly bring both hands up to choke Phoenix; Jay's hands, at the same time, closed around Ember's own throat.

Catching his breath Rick could do nothing but watch in despair as Jay's knees started to buckle, as his arms started to waver. Ember crowed in delight and pushed the advantage, forcing Jay down to the grey dust.

"Jay," whimpered Rick, almost inaudibly, "don't leave me, please"

Even though he couldn't have heard Rick's whisper Jay suddenly glanced his way, his piercing green eyes moist with tears and with a shriek of effort he suddenly forced himself back to his feet, bending Ember backwards and then finally into the dust himself. His naked body glistened with sweat, every muscle corded with tension, as he strained with every fibre of his being to defeat the man … the thing … that had stolen his life for two years. Before Rick's eyes he saw Ember's form waver, becoming more and more insubstantial, until finally Jay collapsed to the ground, his hands clasped around nothing more than a thin layer of latex.

Ember's mask.

Rick rushed to his side, pulling him up into his arms and crushing him against his chest.

"Jay," he almost screamed, "you did it, you won!!" Tears filled Rick's eyes and Jay's body blurred in front of him. With a frantic cry Rick realised that Jay's breathing was becoming shallow, was becoming laboured, and he crushed his body against his own as if he could hold onto him.

"Rick," Jay whispered, his voice little more than a breath, "I'm sorry … I lov …" Rick suddenly realised that he was holding nothing, that he was alone in the fields of grey and he cried out in despair …

/ / /

… and woke up lying on the grass outside the hopsital. Ignoring the Shaman's outstrectched hand he pushed himself to his feet and ran to the side of the hospital, banging on the emeergency exit and pushing past it as John Sinclair opened it from the inside.

The two orderlies were big, they were well trained, and they were no match for him. Knocking them out of the way, not watching as they collided against the wall on either side of the door into Jay's room but instead fuly foccussed on the form that lay there and the line on the monitor.

A line that scrolled across the screen, completely flat.

Pushing the stunned doctor out of the way Rick grabbed Phoenix's still body, ignoring the immobility of his chest as he pushed his lips against Jay's own. With every ounce of his being he breathed into his friend's mouth … his love's mouth … and prayed to anyone that would listen to not take him away. Again he pressed his lips onto the still mouth and breathed deep into his body, trying to use his own spirit, his own soul, to keep the other one with him. He heard the panicked voices behind him and knew that he doctor and the orderlies were only seconds away from interferring and so with a quick intake of breath he pressed his lips against Jay's and breathed out.

… and realised that his breath was being returned. For a split second he stopped moving, his lips still pressed against Jay's own, and then opened his eyes. He had been too afraid to look, as he tried to breath life back into the lifeless, in case the last thing that he saw was Jay's face in death but now that he did he saw Jay's own eyes staring back at him.

As the orderlies pulled him away he was left with the image of a pair of bright green eyes looking at him, and the emotion that filled him as he realised that the kiss of life had – at the last moment – turned into something else.

Something more.

/ / /

Two days later

"I still don't really understand what happened you know." David Johnston said as he looked out of the window and watched Jay Phoenix, Rick James and the Shaman getting into a car on the street below.

"Don't sweat it kid," Joey Russo said simply, "if even half of what Mikey told me is the truth then we will never figure it out."

"… and that is it then," David queried, "that is it over?"

"Well it seems that Ember's …erm I mean Phoenix's I suppose … Lawyer is even better than his reputation. There will be no charges against Phoenix for anything and Rick James will serve a suspended sentence." Joey said, a small growl in his tone.

"… and don't forget, you get your badge back" David pointed out. It had been part of the bargain, Joey knew, that Mike and the lawyer had come up with. The case would be closed, everyone would walk away happy, and Joey came off suspension. Neat and simple. Joey hated it completely but knew that he couldn't do a thing about it.

"That is about that only thing that I do belive in all of this, kid."

"…and what about those two?" he asked indicating down at Rick James and Phoenix as they stood staring at each other bseid the car, neither one looking comfortable. Joey Russo smiled, slightly, and then slapped David on the shoulder.

"It is like watching and old Country and Western love song come to life; the only problem is that while it is meant to be a ballad of two only one of them is singing along."

/ / /

Fin~

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Notes:

1. The poem, 'Going Home' has no known author so I can't credit him or her.

2. Flashback scene from GTT5.

3. Thank you to everyone that took the time to read … and judge in some cases … this whole tale, it has been a long time coming (over two years in the making). I hope that you enjoyed reading it even a fraction of the enjoyment (and headache GRIN) I got writing it!