Chapter II

Cuttin' through the darkest night
In my two headlights
I'm trying to keep it clear
But I'm losing it here
To the twilight

There's a dead end to my left
There's a burning bush
To my right

-From Standing Still, by Jewel

Root sighed and called on the bartender for another drink. Maybe he could drown his guilt in alcohol and forget about it all. It had been two months since the mindwipes -- two months since he had had to make the decision. He had agonized about making the choice for an eternity before finally admitting what he'd known all along: Fowl and his bodyguards had to go. From a strictly business point of view, it was the perfectly logical course of action. They were a danger to the fairies; if you didn't you could have lost your job, not to mention endanger the People, he reminded himself.

Endanger the People. The phrase reminded him of someone. Someone he'd trusted; considered a friend for about six centuries. Briar Cudgeon. Who had decided his own career was worth betraying a friend for.

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How could it have been Cudgeon? I thought friendship meant a little more to him than this. And even if it didn't, why did I never see it coming? Everyone told me he'd betray me for the sake of his own career, and I just laughed it off. I always knew- or I thought I did- that he did everything with good intentions. Or maybe I just couldn't accept the fact that a friend would betray me. Does anyone ever want to accept that? Is denying bitter truth better than accepting it?

How could he have done this to me? How could I have shut my eyes so stubbornly to the truth?

How? How? How?

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This is how Fowl and the Butlers had felt, Root's conscience reminded him, deliberately placing emphasis on the words "had felt". As if you were a cold, heartless being, only concerned about careers and not people. He shivered with guilt. All the memories, the second thoughts...it was horrible. Perhaps, in a way, he was able to understand what drove Cudgeon to betray a friend, now that he knew what it felt like to make a hard decision like this. Maybe the part of Cudgeon that had started out with good intentions had never planned to betray him...

A slight cough startled him out of the memories. Root looked up and saw the bartender with the drink he'd asked for. The bartender put down the glass. "Commander Root, sir. Problem?" Root merely grunted and turned away, past caring about being rude. Yeah, there's a problem; I've become the same monster I hated my "friend" for becoming.

Over the next few hours, Root went through more than just a few drinks, trying to block everything out. He wanted desperately to ignore reality, to not have to think about anything at all. He had lost count of the number of drinks he'd had when he stopped himself. He couldn't do this. He had responsibilities; he had to fulfil his duty as a law enforcer, and he was certainly not going to achieve that by getting dead drunk.

It was late, almost night. He had better get home to sleep off the alcohol. Good thing he'd taken a few days off work; he'd have time to recover. Root got up with a tremendous effort, his vision careening. He blearily staggered out of the bar. He could almost see the killer headache destined for him. Great. He mumbled something to himself. His speech was so slurred and his mind so bewildered he couldn't even tell what he was saying.

Root stumbled onwards. He didn't realize he had no clue where he was, even though he knew Haven very well, having lived there for all 652 years of his life. In fact, he didn't realize anything until he walked into something solid but invisible. He tried to turn around, and found he couldn't move his feet. "What?" he thought dimly, trying in vain to force his mouth to make the sound.

Julius, a voice answered, without really talking. It was as if it were creating images in his head that translated themselves into words. But he didn't question the fact that he was talking to an invisible voice in his head who knew his name, in the middle of a place he didn't know.

Instead, he automatically said the first thing that came to mind: "That's Commander to you." Or that's what he tried to say, anyway. It came out as more of a distorted mumble. The voice just laughed at him. Julius Root did not like being laughed at. Who was this guy, anyway? Irritation and confusion sobered him up a little, and he was able to articulate a sentence clearly. The sentence was, "What the hell?"

You feel guilty, pronounced the voice, matter-of-factly. It seemed to be talking more for its own benefit than his.

"Who are you?" Root demanded, ignoring the truth. His centuries of law enforcement kicked in then, despite the alcohol in his system. He could feel the familiar thrill of adrenaline rushing through his body. He tensed himself for an attack. Automatically, his hand drifted towards where his gun would have been, if he'd been wearing one. He only realized he'd moved his hand when he felt it frozen in mid-air, unable to move. He tried moving his arm, and instantly felt a flash of pain run through his entire body. The alcohol in his system numbed it a little.

Now, now; there's no need for being violent, the voice said mockingly. Root hated its patronizing tone. You can't hurt me, anyway. That self-satisfied statement roused him further.

"Wanna bet?" he snarled. "If you don't tell me what's going on-"

I'm here to offer you something, the voice interrupted calmly.

"And what would that be?" he asked, suspicious. "If you're trying to sell me something-"

No. I'm giving you a choice, the voice explained patiently.

"A choice?" Root scoffed in disbelief. He was tired, it was late, all he wanted to do was to go home and sleep, and now this weird voice was trying to offer him something? "I'll give you a choice: You either let me go or else I-"

You regret mindwiping them, don't you. It wasn't a question; it was a statement.

"What's it to you?" he retorted. He didn't even bother denying it.

I can let you go back and make the decision again, the voice intoned solemnly. Root was silent for a few seconds. Think about it, the voice continued. Do you feel no remorse at all? Is your conscience not killing you?

Yes, he answered silently. He clamped down on that thought. "And why should you care if I do?" he retorted out loud.

It's my duty. If a mistake has been made, I help resolve it.

"So it was a mistake then," he whispered to himself.

That's for you to decide. You have exactly three days. If you choose to go back in time to undo your decision to perform the mindwipes, you must visit Stonehenge at this time three days from now. Stonehenge? This voice that supposedly had the power to allow him to go back in time or something wanted him to visit a former pizza parlour? A lousy pizza parlour, no less?

He mentally pushed the thought away and concentrated on something more important. "So what's the catch?" he asked suspiciously.

Whatever you choose will be final. If you don't choose to accept my offer, you'll never get the chance to change your decision. If you choose to accept it but you screw it up, you'll have to live with the results of whatever happens.

Screw it up? Root thought. How hard could it be just to say no?

You know that if Fowl and his bodyguards aren't mindwiped, you could be endangering the People. Not to mention you could lose your job. Then someone like Briar Cudgeon could come along and seize control. Is that what you want? the voice urged pressingly.

"I- I don't know," he muttered honestly, distracted by the mention of Cudgeon, whose desperate mindset he could now almost understand.

Choose well, the voice said, and faded. He could physically feel it leaving him. He was able to move now. Root felt annoyed. "Choose well," that was it? He could have used a lot more details on this. Anything could happen, and hundreds of things could go wrong.

Suddenly, Root felt his wall of adrenaline collapse, releasing a huge amount of exhaustion, though his mind was surprisingly clear. Then he remembered something. "At this time three days from now," the voice had said. What time was it now? He looked up at the sun strips that imitated the sky in the world above.

It was that time of day, not still day, but not yet night. Or, as the Mud People called it, twilight.