Redeemed From Time
By: Gramarye and Sweeney Agonistes

Part Three

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And as your fantasies are broken in two
Did you really think this bloody road would pave the way for you?
You'd better turn around and blow a kiss hello to life eternal.

- Jeff Buckley

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The next few weeks were busy ones for him, as the end of term approached, and as the
work piled up there was little time for him to think on the information he had gathered thus
far. He worked some more on his Buckinghamshire history book, though he stuck to earlier
chapters and avoided the Victorian era altogether. He marked papers, held tutorials, wrote
letters of recommendation, worked on the odd book review for a mediaeval history journal.
He kept busy.

During the last weeks of the term, he opened his post and came across a letter from a fellow,
an American, whom he had met briefly at an academic conference two summers before.
The man was the primary administrator of a foreign exchange programme at the University
of Milan, and his letter invited Will to participate in a series of lectures on ecclesiastical
history given by visiting professors from Europe and America.

The letter included a number of names of other professors who had agreed to participate.
All were well respected in their specific fields, but to Will the entire letter read more like a
laundry list. With a slight sigh he folded it and returned it to its envelope, but just as he was
about to set it aside to reply to later, he paused.

This, said a little voice in the back of its mind, is an opportunity presenting itself to you.

He read over the letter again, more carefully this time. The lecture dates in Milan were
set for the last weekend of July. The dates reminded him of another conference that he
had heard mentioned in the Senior Combination Room earlier in the week, one that was
supposed to take place at the University of Berne in Switzerland. The conference in
Switzerland was on the socio-political affairs of the Holy Roman Empire - not Will's
area of interest, but that wasn't important.

What was important was the fact that the date for the Berne conference was the second to
last weekend in July.

Berne and Milan were not far apart by train or by car. In fact, if he attended both, he would
be left with an entire week free for sightseeing. And that meant -

Quickly, he pocketed the letter from the American and went into his study. He took the
Scrapbook down from the shelf and opened it to the two articles about Merriman. He
scanned the second article, the one from the student newsletter, until he came to the part
about Merriman and the yeti.

This time, he didn't smile. He was thinking about Sherlock Holmes and Professor Moriarty
at the Reichenbach Falls.

Which, he knew, was in the canton of Berne.

Opportunity. The little voice was not quite so little anymore.

'Opportunity.' This time, he said it aloud.

Will walked to the grate and stood in front of it. As he had done once a very long time ago
on a forgotten road called Oldway Lane, he said quietly,

The fire leapt into existence like an acquaintance waving in greeting.

I don't know when I'll get another chance like this, said Will. He began to pace. It
would be stupid not to take this opportunity. My only concern is that it doesn't leave very
much time to plan everything out. People don't just disappear these days.

The fire crackled. He paused in his pacing.

All right, fine. They do. Will resumed wearing a hole in the rug. It's reappearing that's
going to be the problem. People need documents and credentials these days, not to mention
identification cards. This is going to mean I'm going to appear somewhere as a thirty-five-
year-old with no education or training in anything but being a scholar. And - a scholar.
There's not another job in which credentials are more necessary if you want credibility.
That, and I've left a paper trail eighteen miles wide.

Sparks flew up unsympathetically.

Will sat on the ottoman, staring at the flames. I don't know what to do. I know there are
people who can forge papers and things, but - how would I begin to know who they are
and where to find them? And somehow, that's just not right. It's

The fire was silent.

That will have to be a last resort, Will said. Which would make more sense - planning
how I'm going to get out of Switzerland first, or deciding where I'm going to go and what
I'm going to do?

Flames dipped forward briefly.

It would be a good idea to know where I'm going first, I think. But - no, then it would be
easier to find me, and I can't be found.

He stood again and, digging under a pile of books, pulled out the folder where he kept all
his information about Merriman. Will examined all the papers, then tossed the folder aside
and faced the fire, voice rising in intensity and desperation. I know what he became.
I know where he was. I just don't know how he got there. I don't know how he did it,
and that's what I need to know, and it's not like I can just ring him and say, 'Oh, hello,
Merriman, and how are things outside Time? Lovely. Just lovely. Listen - I need to leave
my entire life behind and I have no idea how to do it, and I found you in a few places in
history to see how you did it, but you didn't do me a damn bit of good.'

A log cracked in two and dispersed into bright coals.

A tight knot had formed in Will's stomach, and another was starting to twist its way into his
chest. He sat down, but within seconds he was up and pacing again, striding back and forth
and all the while feeling the knots tighten and pulse, tighten and pulse.

'All the time in the world, literally, and now I'm left with maybe a week, two at the most,
to set all this up. I have to send confirmations, book plane tickets and train fares and hotel
rooms and set up a whole bloody travelling itinerary, not to mention the fact that I'll have
to write up an actual lecture to give, because this has to be authentic.' His pace quickened
still further. 'The whole thing has to be authentic. It can't have the faintest hint of anything
suspicious about it, because I'll be damned if my article in the Times says anything about
my being a possible suici-'

He would have kept going, but in mid-turn his foot slid on the rug and he skidded --
and there was a sharp thunk as his right leg ran smack into the ottoman.

Will bent over, cursing under his breath. He shot a glance at the fire, and saw that the
flames had risen higher and thinner.

'You're not helping,' he snapped, rubbing his bruised shin.

There was an ironic-sounding crackle, almost like a very dry cough, from the coals.

Grumbling, he limped over to the chair and sank into it, folding his arms across his chest.

'All right, I know it's do-able,' he said sullenly. 'But it's the details that are going to be the
difficulty. I mean, I can't just show up thirty years from now with a list of credentials that
go back well over a century, and somehow expect to make everyone believe that I -'

He stopped again, and this time the sudden intake of breath wasn't due to pain.

He could make everyone believe. And it would be just that simple.

The fire flickered, silently consuming the logs.

'So that's it, then.' All of the sullenness and anger had gone from Will's voice, leaving it
subdued, almost breathless. 'I'll have to...fade out. And then...fade back in again, I suppose,
when the time is right. And in between....'

He glanced around the room, and his eye fell on the stack of notes he had made for the
Buckinghamshire history book. The book that would never be finished, though he would
still have to bring it with him on the -- journey.

Staring moodily at his pile of notes, a small thought crept into his mind. In Helen
Marchmont's day, a young man of good family and breeding who had run across
misfortune -- an unsuitable romance, a bad habit of overspending -- would often be
shipped off to some far-away place, Ceylon or Burma or Manitoba or New South
Wales, to make good. And even though the Colonies were no longer coloured red
on the maps of the world, they hadn't exactly dropped off those maps, either.

'So what do you think?' Will said thoughtfully, addressing the fire. 'A sheep farmer in
South Australia? A schoolteacher in the Yukon? A rogue anthropologist, studying the
lost tribes of Papua New Guinea? Or something else entirely?'

The fire shivered slightly, then gave a merry crackle.

Will sighed. 'Thanks. You know how I value your opinion on these things.'

Perhaps it would be better to be away from people for a while. One could tell things to
sheep without the worry that they would try to pack you off to a mental institution.

He shook his head. One thing at a time. It was most important to set up his disappearance
first. Then he could worry about what would come next.

They'll check my computer to see where I went, Will said to the fire. So no making
plans for after the conference from home. That will have to be done elsewhere.

The flames crackled their agreement.

But I can make travel plans from here. Set it all up from here. An interesting thought
occurred to him, and he grinned. I might even need a Swiss bank account.

Sparks flew up into the chimney.

Oh, don't be like that. Let me have some fun with this.

The fire was silent.

Will extinguished it and went to his computer.

* * *

He sent letters of confirmation to Berne and Milan. He arranged travel plans. He
researched sheep farming in Australia, teaching in the Yukon, and dangerous places
to hike alone in the Alps that were also not very far from points of civilisation -- being
very careful to use a public computer, of course. The evenings were spent putting together
a lecture.

And every night before he fell into bed, exhausted, he stared at the carved wooden box that
he'd had for years, the one with the dragon on it, the one filled with letters from Stephen
and other special things he'd kept, and he wondered how he was just going to leave it
all behind. He couldn't leave the box behind, of course - the letters from Stephen were
evidence. That would have to go with him, as would the Scrapbook.

Will sat up in bed suddenly. The Scrapbook was incomplete. If he had the opportunity...he
might look for that last obituary.

Just to make things complete, he said softly to himself. It's got to be rounded out.

He settled again, drew the blanket close around him, and sent himself to sleep before he
could think about it much more.

The morning found Will somewhat excited. His very last tutorial was to take place shortly,
and it was admittedly with a vague feeling of alacrity that he sat in his office, waiting for
Carpenter to arrive. Shortly, there would be no more undergraduates for him to deal with.
Ever.

Will grinned as he went over a printed draft of his lecture in a rather slapdash fashion.
Despite all the trouble it had been to set everything up in such a short space of time, the
thought of no more bad essays to read pleased him greatly.

He glanced up briefly at the knock on the inner door, then checked his watch. Five minutes
late, as usual. He returned to looking over the lecture. 'Enter.'

The door opened and Carpenter stepped into the room.

'I'm terribly sorry to be so late, professor,' he said, in a voice that was meant to sound
apologetic. 'You know how it is, getting here from halfway across town.'

'Quite all right, Mr Carpenter,' Will said calmly, without looking up. 'It's only a tutorial.
Wouldn't want to disrupt you in the middle of a smoke, after all.'

Carpenter let out a strangled little cough, and though Will hadn't yet looked up from his
lecture he was certain that the young man had paled considerably.

'Sit down, sit down.' He set the paper to one side and leaned back in his chair as Carpenter
set his bookbag next to one of the two chairs opposite. 'A word of advice, though--in
future, the next time you're late for an appointment, you might do well to ensure that you
don't have your preliminary cigarette in a doorway that can be seen from the room in
which your appointment is being held.'

Carpenter's eyes flickered to the window of Will's office, and he swallowed nervously.
'Er...yes. Thank you, professor. Sorry.' He sat, perched on the edge of the chair.

Will nodded absently, shuffling through the papers on his desk. 'Well, then. Last tutorial
of the year, and I believe you were going to tell me your plans for summer study? You
mentioned that you'd signed on for an eight-week language immersion programme in
Paris.' He leaned back again, tugging at the cuffs of his shirt. 'Is that still on?'

Carpenter blinked, visibly relaxing at the prospect of being on safe ground once more.
'Yes, yes, it is,' he said. 'It's a little scary, but everyone I know who's done it says that it's
a really great programme. And I've always wanted to learn French--real French, you know,
not the stuff you get in school.'

'You've done all right with the Latin you had in school,' Will pointed out. 'Well enough
for unseen translation, at any rate.'

'But French is a lot more useful,' said Carpenter flatly, running a hand through his artfully
messy fair hair. 'People still speak French.'

'De mortuis nihil nisi bonum,' Will murmured. 'Speak kindly of the dead languages, Mr
Carpenter. Though you're right in the sense that French will be useful to you next term.'

'It's going to be a lot of fun,' Carpenter said, undaunted. 'The info packet that came a few
days ago talks about how the programme takes care of everything--meals, dorms, even
trips outside Paris. And we're not allowed to speak a word of English or whatever our
original language is. My best friend went on the programme last summer, and he met kids
from all over the place. Even from America.'

Will fought back the urge to ask innocently 'And what language do they speak over there?',
and merely smiled. 'Well, I'm certain you'll enjoy it. Better than spending eight weeks in a
classroom with a grammar book and a tape player, I'm sure.'

'I'll say.' Carpenter beamed. 'Oh, I meant to ask you--how's your research coming? I told
my granddad the other day that you were working on a book about Bucks, and he wants to
know when it'll be out. He grew up there.'

'Well enough,' Will said, setting the question aside as neatly as he had set aside the paper
with his lecture on it. 'Speaking of research, I believe you have the redraft of that last essay
for me? I hope you were able to find those articles on the Borgia family.'

I managed to find them. Carpenter withdrew a few stray papers from his bookbag,
straightened them, and then handed them to Will. He also wanted to know if you found
anything interesting about the village of Huntercombe. That's where he lived when he was
a kid.

His hand shook; he dropped Carpenter's essay on his desk in an attempt to cover it up.
A few things, yes. Will spread out the pages of Carpenter's essay on his desk and
picked up his pen. Let's see what you've done here.

He settled into his routine, forcing himself to read closely, to ask the sharp, pointed
questions at the appropriate times, to belabour the points that needed belabouring.
The essay had improved, and Will told Carpenter so - in a very backhanded fashion,
admittedly, but Will did not feel like being overly generous with compliments. Just to
get through this very last tutorial - that would be enough.

Eventually, Will sat back in his chair. All things, Mr Carpenter, whether good or
bad, must come to an end. He did not choose to add that the session, in his mind, rather
leaned toward the latter.

Carpenter nodded, and took his essay from Will, looking somewhat exhausted.

My best wishes for you in Paris. Will watched as the boy rose, picked up his bookbag,
and headed for the door.

Thanks, professor. Carpenter moved to close the door behind him, but then paused and
stuck his head back in. Oh - I almost forgot - Granddad told me to ask you if you'd found
anything about a family named Stanton.

Will raised an eyebrow.

Carpenter said slowly, Hey - that's funny. Maybe we're related, professor.

Anything is possible, Mr Carpenter -

Unless it's clearly impossible, I know, I know. Carpenter grinned at him. Will kept his
face blank. His name is Mark Stanton - grew up in the village. His dad was in the Navy
for years - married a woman from Manchester. And then after his dad died - I think it was
a hit-and-run in London or something - they left Bucks and went back up to Manchester.
A bit of a difference, that must have been. From all that countryside to - well, Manchester.
Carpenter assumed a look that was no doubt supposed to convey distaste. Any of this
sounding familiar, professor?

said Will to Stephen's great-grandson, his voice trembling slightly. Stephen, who
had died when Will was twenty-nine. Stephen, whose wife and thirteen-year-old son had
been so pale and quiet at his funeral. Will said again, his voice stronger.

Carpenter peered at him. You do rather look like a picture of Granddad when he was
your age. He was an only child, though.

As was I. Will said the words quickly, before he could think about the betrayal he was
making.

If you don't mind my asking, sir, what were your parents' names?

There was a flash of horrible blind panic, as ghastly and grating as the squeal of brakes
on a skidding car.

'Simon and Jane.' They were the first two names that had come into Will's head, and
though he wasn't entirely conscious of what he had said, he kept going. 'I'm afraid that
I don't carry my birth records with me, but then again I don't recall that you've ever shown
an interest in detailed primary source research.'

The cold vehemence of his own remark took his breath away, and suddenly he realised that
he was now standing with both hands planted firmly on his desk, and the young man in the
doorway was staring at him, mouth open and eyes wide.

'I...I didn't m-mean to....' Carpenter stammered, and he likely would have continued to
stammer out an excuse or apology of some kind had Will had not held up a hand to cut him
off mid-sentence.

'No, don't apologise. That remark was uncalled for on my part, and I hope you will pardon
me for it.' Taking a calming breath, he added, 'Even professors start to feel the pressure,
come exam time. The students aren't the only ones who look forward to the long vacation.'
It was a poor excuse, and he knew it, but he also knew that it was the only excuse the young
man would understand.

'I-It's all right,' Carpenter said with a little laugh, a nervous ghost of a smile on his
face. 'To tell you the truth, I can't wait to go home myself. It's...this place gets to you,
sometimes.'

Will was certain that it was mostly the nervousness talking, but the young man's remark
interested him. 'How so?'

'Just....' Carpenter's bookbag slipped off his shoulder and hung, dangling awkwardly,
from the crook of his arm. He tugged it back into place. 'All this,' he said, glancing
around Will's office. 'I like history, I do, but-it's just too much sometimes.'

'Daunting, you mean.'

Carpenter nodded. 'Sort of.'

'Ah. Well, you've the makings of a historian, so far as I can see. And I'll tell you this much,
Mr Carpenter.' He stepped out from behind his desk, and wandered over to one of his
bookshelves. 'History will always be daunting, even when you've studied it for as long as
I have. You'll think you've learnt about as much as you can on a certain subject, and then
there will come a day when you will turn around and realise that you haven't even touched
the surface of it.'

He ran a hand across a few titles, and finally selected a slim white hardbound book from
the upper part of a nearby shelf. 'I had this book when I first started learning French,
sometime back in the Dark Ages.' He forced a smile. 'It's a children's story, yes, but
those are often the best kinds of books to start with when you're learning a foreign
language.'

He held the book out to Carpenter, who took it from his hands and turned it over.

'Le Petit Prince?' A pleased sort of realisation slowly dawned on his face. 'Oh, is this
The Little Prince? Neat - my mum used to read that to me when I was little. In English,
though.'

Will regarded him for a long moment, and then said:

'Take it with you.'

Carpenter had been flipping through the pages with a nostalgic, almost loving fondness,
but at Will's words his head snapped up. 'Oh, no...I couldn't take this.' He held out the
book, trying to give it back to Will. 'Look at it - it's so old! It's practically an antique!
I couldn't take it, Professor.'

Will huffed inwardly. Practically an antique, indeed - that book had been almost new
when he'd received it. 'You'll have more need of it than I will, this summer. Besides,
it'll give you something to read when things get boring.'

'If you're sure....' At Will's nod, the young man gazed down at the book, then clutched it
to his chest as if he was afraid that Will would change his mind. 'Thank you, professor.'

You're welcome, Mr Carpenter. Have a good time - and do see that you learn something.
Will allowed himself a quiet smile, which Carpenter returned.

Have a good holiday, the young man said, and then he was gone. The door shut behind
him with a loud, final click.

Will braced himself on his desk, head down. When the rubbery feeling left his legs, he
made it to his chair and sat, lost.

It's fitting, he said tremulously, after ten minutes. It was the only thing he could think
to say. Stephen had given him the book, after all - a birthday present. Stephen had never
combined birthday and Christmas again, after Will's eleventh birthday.

If he'd only known who Carpenter was before -

If I'd known, said Will acidly, then I'd have treated him differently. And that would
have been suspicious. He calmed. It would have been suspicious. A pause. It's better
this way.

Will sat for a few minutes, letting the words sink in. Softly, he repeated, It's better this
way, and he finally believed it.

There wasn't time to think like a regular person any more. He knew he could let go of the
thought of what might have been - mostly because he knew he didn't have time to savour it.

All the same -

A few brief words flickered through his mind - 'without my dreams, I should have gone
mad long ago
' - who had said that?

He did not have time to lose himself in dreams.

Perhaps once I'm off with the sheep, Will said to himself, and organised his briefcase.
He would enter his office again once or twice before he left for the last time, and then he
would go through and decide what he could take without it looking suspicious.

Will cast a half-appraising eye around his office, turned out the light, and left.

* * *

A few necessary stops and final purchases were made - a new suitcase, hiking boots, a
stout staff. When James Leonard asked him what his plans were for the summer, he made
sure that there were several people around when he answered. I've got a conference one
weekend, and I'm lecturing in Milan the next - thought I'd do a bit of hiking in the Alps in
between.

Leonard said mildly, topping off his cup of coffee, Are you going to have someone with
you?

Oh, I don't think so, Will said, cultivating a suitably dry tone. More of a 'destiny
traveller' sort of thing. Ambling around, communing with nature. Being at one with my
surroundings.

Leonard laughed, and then said, I'd consider finding someone to go with you, though, just
in case you run into some trouble up there.

Will shook his head. It'll be fine. I've done lots of distance hiking. And you've got to tell
people where you're going - there are several lodges around to spend the night, and you
leave your name and destination with the first one, and then they check up on you the rest
of the way.

Certainly sounds like you know what you're doing, Leonard said cheerfully, and took
a sip of coffee. Good lord! What do they put in this stuff? Petrol?

Will said nothing.

All told, he was quite satisfied with the way everything was shaping up. He had written a
very sharp letter to his bank - and left the drafts lying round his rooms, naturally - making
up some reason for withdrawing his money. He'd keep it on him until he reached Berne, at
which point he'd open an account with Union Bank of Switzerland. Then it would be on to
the conference, which he thoroughly intended to enjoy, and then

The wild world awaits, he said softly to himself two nights before his departure, sitting in
front of the fire.

One of the smaller logs broke, letting out a soft hiss.

'It'll be a nice change,' he added lightly, picking up his teacup. 'No credit cards. No
telephone messages. No worrying about where the grant money is coming from, or what
to say on a recommendation letter. None of that for a good long while.' He sipped at the
tea, setting the cup back on the saucer. 'I am going to miss this place, though.'

The fire was silent, slowly licking its way around an untouched bit of wood.

Will placed his cup and saucer down on the table at his side, and turned to pick up the
carved wooden box that held his few treasures. He opened it, reverently, and began to
lift out the objects inside it and set them in his lap.

First, Stephen's letters, all in their original envelopes, bound neatly with a thin white
ribbon. The edges had yellowed slightly and the lettering had begun to fade, but they were
still as legible as when the postman had delivered them. There were other letters as well,
from other family members - one or two from his uncle Bill, a few from his parents, the
odd letter from his brothers and sisters. There were several sealed envelopes that held
important papers, birth certificates and Will's diplomas, any official document with a
possibly incriminating date on it. Another worn envelope held a number of family photos,
names and dates printed on the back in his mother's careful handwriting. Gingerly, he
picked up a delicate gold locket, and swallowed the lump that rose in his throat when he
opened it and saw his mother and father smiling bright, youthful smiles up at him.

'They look so happy,' he murmured, running his fingertips over the scrollwork engraving
on the back of the locket. 'They always looked happy, but this....' He fell silent, not
knowing what else to say.

After a long moment, there was a rough crackle from the fire, and Will took that as a
sign that it was time to close the locket and return it to the box.

Not all of his treasures were letters or photographs. There was the hunting horn from
Greythorne Manor, of course, though he didn't keep that in the box with the other treasures.
(Keeping a thing of the Old Ones in the same box as family snapshots and Stephen's letters
felt vaguely wrong in a way that he couldn't quite define.) There was the perfectly flat
black rock that he had found on a school outing to the seaside, a skipping stone that was far
too good to skip. There was a small velvety bag half-filled with seashells. There was a
slightly dulled silver sixpence, long out of circulation, and two shillings and a half-crown
that had been minted in the year he was born. There was the cork from the first bottle of
wine he had bought, and a champagne cork from a long-past New Year's Eve celebration.
And then came the best treasure of all.

The gold had not darkened with the passage of time. It caught the firelight and sparkled as
Will held it up, turning it this way and that. A salt cellar, not very big, cast in the shape of a
sturdy-looking castle.

When his father had died and Max had come into the jewellery shop, Will had followed
his older brother to the shop one day and offered to buy it. Max had given him an odd look,
then unlocked the glass-fronted cabinet and removed the salt-cellar - and handed it to Will.

'He told me I was daft, asking to buy it off of him,' Will said to the fire. 'He said that if
I'd asked Dad for it, Dad would have given it to me without a second thought.'

The fire popped once, then twice, and curled round the edges of the larger log.

Will carefully replaced all the things in the box and closed it. Placing his hand flat on the
lid, he whispered the words of a protection spell, sealing the box's contents away from the
world.

'There,' he said when the last whispering echoes of magic had faded. He would have to
undo the magic before the box could be opened again.

It was nearly done. In less than a few weeks' time, he would turn out the lights, close
and lock the door, and walk away from his old life. It would be safe in the box that would
always be with him, something to be turned over and looked at, something to be cherished
for always.

As he stood, still holding the box, his eye fell on the Scrapbook. Like the pariah it was,
it sat a ways apart from the other books and papers on his desk.

Will looked at the Scrapbook, and then put down his life-box and moved to his desk. This
was one way, perhaps, in which Merriman could offer him guidance without knowing it.
Merriman had made the same mistake over and over throughout the ages - growing too
close to mortals. He was an Old One. They were Old Ones. They were fundamentally
different from mortals; for them, it was the job to be done, without recognition or thanks.

Looking at the Scrapbook now, Will could see very clearly in his mind's eye Merriman
standing before him, looking cross. Of course Merriman would be cross. To keep reminders
of those mortals he had known, reminders of history, was not a thing that any Old One
should do. He was a tool. He was not supposed to have feelings, or sensibilities to be
mollified, or any of the other things which constituted the core of humanity. It hurt to
open the book and look at its contents, running his fingers over each and every clipping
as though his actions could somehow bring it all back to life. It was an indulgence. It was
a weakness.

More than that, thought Will, it's evidence. Something else that would have to be dealt
with. He couldn't leave it here - it would raise questions. He would have to take it with
him.

The same little voice which had shown him his opportunity spoke up again, saying,
No. No, you don't.

The Scrapbook would be equally inexplicable wherever he was going, should someone run
across it and decide to have a look. He could protect it in much the same way as the box,
but what would be the point? The box was more than history. The Scrapbook was a mere
tying-up of loose ends.

Except for one, whispered the voice. In the grate behind him, a log snapped in two.

It was a silly, childish hope - like that of a scared child who hopes that by covering his eyes,
what he cannot see will not see him - but some silly, childish part of Will had to believe in
it. For all his power and knowledge and plain common sense, there was a part of him that
would not let go of the belief that Bran was out there somewhere, unchanged by all the years.

As long as he did not have the scrap of newsprint that was the physical evidence of Bran's
death, Bran Davies would never be dead.

A pretty piece of self-deception, Old One. He could hear Merriman's voice as clearly as if
the man were standing next to him.

So what?' He gripped the book tightly, protectively. That's the worst part about all the
funerals, looking down into the open casket and you'll never be able to remember that
person the same way ever again, there'll always be that image, that cold, dead image, and
it'll go back and colour every memory you ever had of them in life. You look at them one
last time and you don't even stop to think that that last time will be the last time, the last
memory you'll ever have of them - the memory of death.'

He tipped his head back, as if staring up at the blankness of the ceiling could keep the
burning in his eyes from spilling over. I don't want him to live forever...but does he have
to die in my memory, too?'

The fire was silent.

The little voice in his mind was silent.

Most mercifully, Merriman's voice in his mind was silent.

Slowly, Will let out a long breath. He relaxed his grip on the Scrapbook, and ruefully ran
his thumb along the edges where his gripping fingers had made indentations in the rather
flimsy cover.

He couldn't keep it, any more than the Ancient Mariner could have kept the body of the
albatross once it had been cut from around his neck. But he couldn't simply throw it out,
either, and unbodying it with his magic would have had that same indefinable feeling of
wrong - somewhere to the left of inappropriate', approaching sacrilegious'.

His gaze travelled over the top of the blank cover of the book, and lighted on the fire.

The flames gave an expectant crackle, like an audible question mark.

Will you?' he asked in the Old Speech. A small matter of formality, but a necessary one.

The fire leapt in a riot of dancing oranges and bright golds, long tongues of flame reaching
high like a child's uplifted, welcoming arms.

Will walked forward until his toes touched the raised brick of the hearth. He ran a hand
over the worn cover, a final lingering brush of fingertips, and then he let the Scrapbook
slide through his fingers and into the grate.

The flames caught the book as it fell, wrapping around it when it landed atop the coals. The
edges blackened quickly, and within seconds the old, dry newspaper clippings within were
alight. Will watched, silently, as the fire consumed the last remnants of his old life. By the
time the flames had died down and returned to normal, there was nothing left of the book
except a good handful of feathery ashes blanketing the coals and a faint odour of burnt
paper.

Rather anti-climactic,' Will said, after a moment.

The fire let out a sharp hiss and a spray of sparks.

He took his eyes from the fire and looked at the room, blinking. The flames had left their
tangled imprint on his vision, and he had to clear it before he could look back.

He took in the sights: the bookshelves, the desk, his chair with the blanket thrown over the
arm, the table with the cup and saucer resting on it, the window looking out on his world.
He saw it all, and he nodded his head in acknowledgement.

Then he turned back to the fire, knelt, and stared into orange and gold.

Thank you, Will said.

The fire let out a soft crackle, and the flames bowed to him as they had done once, long ago.

Will allowed himself the very ghost of a loving smile, and then whispered, Go out, fire."

The room was dark.

He rose unsteadily. The day's light was waning, and he could just barely make out the
delicate curves of cup and saucer on his table.

Will picked them up and went into the kitchen.

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