Author's note: This is one of two endings for "Return to the Shadows." Please read both and let me know which one you believe is canon.
The epilogue is the same regardless of ending.
Ending 1- Second Chances
Later, after it was all over, James would never be entirely sure how much time they spent in that windowless room. They could have left at any time; the monster with the pyramid head never came back, leaving them unmolested. In fact, he tried to get Harry to leave multiple times, practically begged him to take his chances, to try and get out while he still had some semblance of himself. Harry, in a blaze of either nobility or stupidity, refused to leave his side.
No. No, it was more than either stupidity or nobility. Harry was losing himself, pieces of his mind, of his memories, drifting further away every day, every moment, and somehow, when he was touching James, being sheltered in his arms... it slowed. It never stopped-the drift was insidious, constantly tugging at him and dragging at his mind-but at least it slowed, became a wave instead of a riptide, and even a few moments of coherence, of lucidity, were worth it to him.
So they stayed, Harry clinging to him, keeping himself pressed against James like they were a pair of magnets with opposite polarities... and James held him and watched him drift.
It wasn't so bad at first; Harry was just spacey, distant, but a few words from James would call him back into himself, help him focus on the here and now. They spent the time curled around each other, Harry with one hand always on James's face, talking quietly about their time together, remembering everything they had gone through together, everything they had experienced.
As time passed, James found himself doing more and more of the talking as Harry's memories began to fade, as the holes in his memories became wider, their edges more tattered. As James spoke, Harry stared up at him, studying him like he was trying to memorize every line, every crevasse, every color and shape and texture of his face; he listened intently, focusing all his attention on James's words, trying to hold memories in his mind while they slipped through like water through his fingers.
Eventually, his throat dry and his voice a husky rasp, James ran out of stories to tell. He paused, and Harry looked up at him expectantly, his hand gently caressing the side of James's face in encouragement. James swallowed, forcing down scant saliva past the desert that had sprung up in the back of his mouth.
"And then what happened?" Harry asked, his voice faint and whispering, his hand cold on James's cheek.
James had told him everything, right up until the night Harry had died; there weren't any other stories to tell, nothing that didn't involve this place they found themselves in. But Harry was waiting, watching him with wide, slightly vacant eyes, and if telling him stories kept him here a little longer, even for a few extra moments... then James would tell him stories.
"I came home from my class," James murmured. "You were waiting for me. You were reading in front of the TV when I got home, and we had dinner together and went to bed."
"And?"
"And then the next day..."
And James told him stories, weaving together the history that he and Harry should have had together, the years they should have enjoyed, the time that had been stolen from them. Harry listened quietly, drinking in the stories like they were water to a man left wasting in the desert, asking questions when James wasn't specific enough, encouraging him when he faltered; once or twice, he even offered suggestions when James got stuck on what happened next. Together, they created the rest of their lives, made a tapestry of shared experiences and time spent growing old.
"Then what happened?" Harry asked him one evening, his eyes distant and unfocused, his skin pale and waxy, his voice distorted until it sounded like a breeze rustling through fallen autumn leaves. As much as he wished he could keep lying to himself, James knew that Harry was getting worse, that they didn't have much time left.
"We got up early," he started, his voice cracking. "It was a beautiful spring morning; the flowers Heather planted were starting to sprout on the lawn. Pink and purple and white crocuses, poking up through the snow."
"There was snow?"
"It was almost gone," James reassured him, surprised yet again by what Harry remembered, by what random memories had been left intact. "The sun was shining, winter was almost over. We had breakfast together, and then you read in the living room while I put together a model plane on the kitchen table."
"Who was the model plane for?"
"Heather's son. She and her husband brought their children up the weekend before, remember? We took them to the park and pushed them on the swings."
Harry smiled, his mouth jerking in a strange, awkward way, his eyes reflecting the memories of grandchildren yet to be, and waited for James to continue.
"After lunch, we took a long walk around the meadow behind the house. We saw some deer, and a fox, and more flowers. Everything was starting to come back to life."
"Springtime is beautiful," Harry told him, stroking his face gently.
"Yes, it is. After our walk... we were both tired, so we went upstairs to take a nap. You... you put your head on my shoulder, and I had my arms around you, and..." God, why was this so hard?
"And?" Harry encouraged.
"And..." James's voice broke, "and I told you I loved you, and you said you loved me, and..."
"And we fell asleep," Harry finished.
James nodded fervently, his throat completely closed up on him, his eyes burning with the tears he couldn't shed.
Harry thought about this for a moment, then leaned forward so his forehead, cool and clammy, was resting on James's. He ran his thumb lightly over James's trembling lower lip, and put his other hand on James's chest, right over his pounding heart.
"I'm sorry," Harry whispered.
"Sorry?" James asked, surprised. "Sorry about what?"
"I'm sorry... that it can't really be like that."
James's entire body hitched once in an enormous, dry sob. "I'm sorry, too."
Harry smiled at him, his expression wistful and empty and loving all at once. "I wish I could make this easier for you..."
"Don't you say that," James ordered, suddenly frantic and on the edge of panic. He cupped Harry's face in his hands, almost being rough in his haste, and looked deep into Harry's eyes, trying to find the man he loved, trying to find his life-preserver, trying to find his savior. Harry gazed back at him, preternaturally calm, unafraid, almost... accepting.
Maybe Harry could accept what was happening, but James couldn't. "Don't you worry about me," he insisted, nearly babbling. "Don't you do that, don't think about me, just worry about yourself, focus on staying here, staying with me... don't leave me, Harry, don't leave me here alone..."
Harry took hold of one of James's hands and shifted it closer to his lips. He brushed a kiss across James's palm, and the feel of his icy lips silenced James as effectively as if he'd been slapped. "I'll stay as long as I can," Harry promised quietly, his mouth still hidden under James's hand.
"How long?" James asked, hating himself for asking but needing to know, needing to know with a hunger that went all the way down to his bones.
"Not much longer," Harry said softly.
James swam up out of sleep slowly, the currents and tides of unconsciousness retreating with ease to a distant shore. He awoke cold and shivering, as he'd been doing for days (weeks? months?) now; Harry was frigid in his arms, radiating cold like a block of ice, but being able to hold him was worth never feeling warm. If he meant Harry would stay with him, James would happily never feel warm again.
He opened his eyes and looked down at Harry; he'd fallen asleep coiled around him, half-lying on top on him, with his head on his shoulder and his face tucked into the side of his neck. Harry was still sleeping, his body motionless, deep inside himself.
James studied him for a moment, drinking in his features, trying to memorize everything about him, trying to fix him in his mind, permanent and unchanging. As he slowly woke up further, he started to realize that something wasn't right, but his sleepy mind couldn't get a bead on it. He shivered, still cold, and tugged the sheet they were laying under up around his shoulders, his fingers slipping over the checkered fabric.
His eyes suddenly widened in horror. The checkered fabric... neat little squares and rectangles, composed in white and tan... he could see the checks on the bottom sheet through Harry. Sometime during the night, Harry had faded, his body turning translucent, pale and shimmering, and James could see straight through him to the sheet below.
"Oh, no," he whispered, his words sounding like a sob. "Oh, no..." and he was clutching Harry up against him, pressing his slack, unresponsive body close to his own, ignoring the cold, "no, Harry, don't leave me, don't go away, I need you, I love you, please, please don't leave me..."
He got up into a sitting position, pulling Harry with him, and Harry was too light, he couldn't have weighed more than a child, and he was fading, getting fainter and fainter, his body changing from icy cold to simple, dispassionate cool. James cradled him in his arms, the other man's body sprawled across his lap, and held Harry's face in one hand, directing it up towards his own. Harry's skin had a slick, smooth texture under his fingers.
"Don't leave me," he repeated softly, his voice breaking apart and sounding like a child's. "Don't leave me, Harry, don't leave me, not like this, not here, not this way, don't leave me, come back, come back... come back..."
Harry's eyelids flickered, and the area around them became a little more solid, a little more opaque. He slowly, ever so slowly, opened his eyes, and they were as dark and empty as Maria's had been, the last time he'd seen her.
James started at the memory; he'd been shying away from it, deliberately keeping it at arm's length, but now it seemed startlingly real, unusually bright and insistent in his mind's eye. He remembered Maria's eyes, so dark, like a piece of the night sky had been ripped away and trapped in them, and he remembered what she'd said to him.
"You've been given a second chance, James," she'd told him. "You can do it right this time. You can let go."
Harry shuddered, distracting him from his thoughts, and as he watched the blackness in Harry's eyes receded, blue and white bleeding back in, and Harry's skin rippled across his bones and became solid once more, and he got heavier in his arms, and James clasped him to his chest and buried his face in the side of Harry's neck, breathing in the faint, almost forgotten scent of him.
James felt a hesitant, weak hand on his cheek, and he leaned back. Harry was gazing up at him, and his eyes were full of sadness, of regret, of the pain of keeping himself where he didn't belong anymore. Harry's throat worked, but he seemed unable to speak, and he squinted his eyes closed in frustration. When he opened them, one single, crystalline tear spilled down his pale cheek.
James walked the streets of Silent Hill, his arms burdened and his ankle constantly threatening to collapse underneath him. The joint wasn't healed, probably would never heal correctly, especially with this final outrage perpetrated against it, but James found that he didn't care. If he had to cut off his foot himself, he'd do it, to accomplish what needed to be done today.
The fog rippled and curled around and ahead of him, but it never seemed to get close enough to touch, always maintaining a certain distance from his body. That was strange, but he found that he didn't care about that either. Silent Hill could be as weird as it wanted to, it wouldn't make any difference to him. Not right now.
He was downtown again, making his slow, plodding way through, when he heard the scraping sound, the blade across pavement noise that heralded the red pyramid creature, the master of this place, the god amongst the damned. For the first time, that sound didn't send immediate terror and panic spiking through his chest; his heart was too heavy, too weighted, to have room for fear. He stopped walking, standing where he was, and waited.
The sound got closer, and Harry trembled in his arms, cinching his arms tighter around James's neck-some piece of him remembered the sound and what it meant, and his body reacted when his mind no longer could. James murmured quietly to him, nonsense words and syllables, and Harry relaxed, becoming still and complacent in his arms once more.
Finally, after what seemed like a long time but probably wasn't, the monster lurched into view. It stood in front of them, its chest heaving with deep, slow breaths, its knife trailing behind it. The fog wafted away from it, allowing the dim light to shine across its red helmet, to glint off its enormous knife, to create dark shadows under its huge, heavy muscles. It stood there, watching them with its eyeless face, and James looked back at it impassively. It suddenly lifted its arm that wasn't holding the knife and pointed at them, and James wasn't surprised when he saw his green jacket dangling from its gloved hand.
He stared at it a few seconds longer, then said quietly, his voice carrying through the near-silent atmosphere, "Go away. We don't belong to you anymore."
Time stopped, doubled in on itself, telescoping, and James saw the thing's knife arm twitch, the muscles bunching in anticipation. In slow motion, it shifted its weight, leaning forward, its massive head teetering on the edge of balance. James waited; whatever else happened, he was finished running.
The thing kept its forward posture for a second longer, then rocked back onto its heels. Its arm dropped, James's jacket fluttering from its fingers, and the thing just stood there, its hand opening and closing, its shoulders rolling in agitation, acting almost... confused. Uncertain.
'It's not used to being challenged,' James thought, and when once his heart would have leapt with excitement at the discovery, now it could barely manage a few quickened, sluggish beats. His heart and mind were too consumed with thoughts of Harry to care about the monster any longer.
The deposed god shuffled its feet back and forth a few times, stirring the long apron that hung across its knees and making little puffs of fog swirl between its legs. It gestured towards him a few times more, the gestures half-hearted, with no real menace, and then, amazingly, it turned and walked away, dragging its knife behind it.
James listened until the scraping sound was far in the distance-he wanted to wait until it was gone completely, but his throbbing ankle and Harry's low, shallow breathing made that impossible-and then started moving again, his head lowered, pushing on with grim determination. He might have only been in Silent Hill two times, but he knew exactly where he was going.
He heard the lake before he saw it; the waves lapped quietly at the shoreline, moving in and out with a low murmuring that almost sounded like voices, if you listened closely and long enough. He kept away from the beach area, and instead followed the shoreline, moving parallel to the lake until he arrived at the marina, where the small boats and pleasure crafts drifted lazily in the water.
The water felt cool around his ankles, and the pier's wood was rough under his fingertips. He kept one hand on the pier, the other arm supporting Harry, and waded out until the water flowed around his thighs. Shifting Harry carefully, holding him in front of him, James slowly sank into the lake.
The water came up to his collarbone when he was sitting on the sandy lake bed, and he could feel the current swirling and pulling at his clothing with softly tugging fingers. He leaned against a post holding up the pier, and arranged Harry in front of him, settling him between his legs, holding his body against his own. Harry's head flopped limply on his neck, and James gently pulled it back so it was resting against his shoulder, facing the cloud-covered sky. He stroked Harry's hair, imitating the motion that had always calmed him down when he was in the grip of a nightmare, and waited.
Harry's breathing deepened, and he opened his eyes for the first time since they'd left the room. He stared up at the sky for a moment, then picked his head up and looked around him. James kept his hand close, in case Harry didn't have the strength to hold the position.
"James," Harry exclaimed, his voice raspy but so recognizable, so familiar, "this is where we first met!"
"Yeah," James agreed, smoothing Harry's hair back as his neck muscles failed him and his head fell backwards onto his shoulder, "in the lake."
Harry sighed, and lifted one hand to lay it across James's arm, where it crossed his chest. "I... I don't know how long I can stay," he said quietly.
James nodded, closing his eyes. "I know."
Harry didn't say anything else, but leaned into James, resting his forehead along James's jaw. James sighed himself, deep and shuddering, and held Harry a little closer. "Does... does it hurt?" he asked, his voice cracking.
"No," Harry answered immediately, and he sounded coherent enough that James opened his eyes and looked down at him. Harry was staring at a spot off in the distance, his eyes dreamy. "It doesn't hurt," he explained, speaking slowly. "It feels... it feels like when you're almost asleep, but not quite... and you try to stay awake, but keep getting pulled down... towards sleep again."
"Is it dark?" James asked, his voice tight with fear; he couldn't stand the thought of sending Harry anywhere dark.
Harry shook his head. "Not dark..." he breathed, his voice beginning to sound far away again. "The sun... the sun is shining... wherever it is..."
James choked a little, and suddenly all the tears, all the crying he'd wanted to do but couldn't, welled up within him, and he was weeping, long, desperate sobs, the kind that felt like they would never end. He pulled Harry in against him, their bodies fitting together like two halves of the same whole, holding on to him like he could hold him in place with the strength of his arms alone. His body shook, wracked with the crying, and it felt like his chest would rip itself apart from the force of it.
Then, with fingers already gone as cool and silky as the lake water, Harry reached up and brushed the tears off his cheeks. "Don't cry, James," he said quietly, "this isn't forever."
James held him as close as he could, and struggled to get control of himself. Harry kept wiping at his face, waiting patiently, until James felt like he could speak again.
"I love you," he blurted out, his voice raw.
"Love you too," Harry breathed.
James, his eyes closed, still leaking tears, gently pulled Harry's head in towards his own, until their heads rested together and he could feel Harry's breath on the side of his neck. He breathed in Harry's scent, felt Harry in his arms, and then whispered, "It's okay... you can go now."
"Not forever," Harry repeated, and James nodded frantically, wanting to believe that more than anything he'd ever dreamed of believing in. He kept his arms around Harry, holding him tightly, and listened to Harry's breathing, which slowed... and slowed... and then was gone.
Harry was gone.
James relaxed his arms, letting go of the lake water he held in them, and leaned his head back against the pier. He felt the tears spilling out of his eyes, trickling down his cheeks and into the lake, and maybe they joined with whatever Harry had become, and that was comforting... that somehow, in some way, they were still together.
James opened his eyes, staring up at the sky the way Harry had, and watched as the clouds and the fog broke apart, and sunshine streamed down onto the rippling surface of Toluca Lake.
Epilogue
I don't know how long I beat on that bathroom wall, screamed at it, pleaded with it, scratched at it in desperation until my fingernails were broken and my hands were bloody. Whatever I did, it remained resolutely closed to me, the runes and the hole refusing to reappear, refusing to take me back to Silent Hill. Back to my dads… or whatever was left of them.
I must have eventually worn myself down and passed out in exhaustion, because I was startled back into consciousness by something clattering off the tile floor. It sounded like a machine gun going off in the enclosed space, and my instincts kicked in before I could remember where I was. I scrambled to my feet, one hand out defensively, the other one grabbing out in the air for a weapon that should have been there. My eyes were spinning, both from fatigue and stress, and all I saw was a tall figure standing in the doorway, looming threateningly before me.
"Uh… I'm not going to hurt you," an unfamiliar voice said.
For some reason, that started to calm me down. The monsters in Silent Hill wouldn't bother lying to get close, they'd just go for my face. I stopped feeling for a weapon (the best I'd found anyway was a half-empty bottle of shampoo), and blinked rapidly, trying to clear my eyes and ignore the blood thundering in my ears.
There was a young guy standing in the bathroom's doorway, his hands raised, palms towards me. The clattering sound had been a box of bathroom stuff that he'd obviously dropped, exploding and scattering across the floor.
"Did this used to be your apartment?" he asked as I studied him.
"Where are we?" I asked him, stalling for time. He didn't look like a psycho, he actually looked almost painfully average. Tallish, pale, wearing jeans and a white shirt… the only thing that stood out about him was his hair, mussed and carefully crafted into that 'I just stumbled out of bed' look that screams 'douche.' He hadn't shaved either, probably on purpose. Or maybe because I was in his bathtub.
"Ashfield, Maine," he told me. "United States," he added helpfully after a moment's thought.
I tried to climb out of the tub and nearly fell; my legs and back were stiff and aching with pain after spending one night asleep on a barstool and another in a bathtub. He started to try and catch me, but hesitated at the last minute, like his instincts had taken over for a second before his brain could warn him that crazy might be catching.
"What's your name?" he asked, backing up as I started staggering towards the door.
"Heather," I told him shortly, blundering through the apartment. I knew where Ashfield was; Silent Hill was only about ten miles up the road. My wallet and car keys swung heavily in my pant's pocket. I could be there in under an hour if I hurried.
"I'm Henry," he told me, trailing after me, probably wanting to make sure I didn't take any of his stuff. Not that I'd be interested in it; looked like he'd just moved in, everything was still in boxes, and there wasn't a lot of it. He didn't have anything I wanted—all I wanted was to get back to Silent Hill and find out what the hell had happened.
My chest clenched up on me, and I nearly toppled over from the unexpected pain. We'd been so close, Dad and I, so close to getting out of there, and he'd gone back. I shouldn't have been surprised; deep down, I knew that he would never leave J.D. behind, and mixed in with all the sadness that swirled inside me, there was also some shame…. I'd been so quick to dismiss him, to try and get the hell out of there with Dad. Even though Dad was… was… not really Dad anymore, but goddammit, that didn't matter!
"You okay?" Henry asked, sliding up beside me. "You look like you're going to pass out."
"No," I managed, shoving the word out through my tight throat. "I… I'm not… I need to get to Silent Hill." Suddenly, there wasn't anything more urgent in my life.
He looked at me doubtfully. "There's a bus line in front of the complex that heads out that way."
"Thanks." I stumbled towards the door, then thought better of it. I turned around to face Henry, and he stared back at me solemnly. He might have stupid hair, but he hadn't called the cops on me, so he had that in his favor. Actually, he was taking this whole situation remarkably well. "Has anything… weird been happening around here?" I asked him.
He cracked a smile at me. "You mean besides you showing up in my tub?"
"Besides that."
"No, nothing out of the ordinary." He shrugged. "I haven't been here long, though."
I furrowed my brow in thought. "Do you have a pen and paper?"
Surprisingly, he didn't question my bizarre request, and wordlessly dug around in a box for a minute before handing me a scrap of paper and a pencil nub. I scrawled my name on it, along with both my cell phone number and the number at the house.
"Here." I gave it to him. "If anything… strange starts happening here, you call me immediately, okay?" He nodded, and that simple gesture brought tears to my eyes. He was just so damn normal, so ordinary, like we'd been a few weeks ago. "Especially if you see… if you see… a tall blonde guy and a shorter, dark-haired guy hanging around, okay?" Then I was lost, sobbing again, and I turned and ran out the door, slamming it behind me.
Henry watched from the window as the strange young girl staggered out onto the lawn. She made her way to the bus stop okay, and waited there, her arms wrapped around herself. He watched until she got on the bus; at the last moment, she turned around and looked back towards the complex, and even though he knew she couldn't see him, he waved half-heartedly anyway.
As the bus pulled away, he glanced down at the piece of paper she'd given him. He looked at it for a moment before crumpling it in his palm and tossing it out the window with a snort.
Why were the pretty ones always insane?
Author's Note: So that's it! Thank you so much for reading! I have a question-and-answer post over at deviantArt right now, where you can ask any questions you like about the story or whatever else. My user name over there is MissAzrael.