Part Four: Things Past Redress

Chapter Two

"That's Chris," Phoebe told Piper. "He's from the future."

"Yeah, but just like twenty years or so," Chris assured her. As if that made it normal or acceptable.

"Uh huh." Rather deliberately not looking at him, Piper asked her sister, "Friend or foe?"

"Not so sure yet…"

And now they had left him in the attic. His parents — no, Piper and Leo — had scurried downstairs with Phoebe to check out the noise that Chris guessed would be the hordes of magical creatures seeking safe haven at the Manor. And so, except for the stone statue of Paige, he was alone, and could take stock of his first encounter with these strangers, his family.

All things considered, it hadn't gone that badly. He had heard his own childish affront as he protested their admittedly understandable suspicion, but at least he had refrained from the emotional crack-up he feared upon seeing Piper alive after almost eight years.

The sight of her and of his aunts, talking to them when they had so long been dead to him, younger in this time than he had ever remembered them — it was all so dreamlike that playing the role of a stranger came more easily than he expected. He had rehearsed his story about the future, the lies he would tell them, over and over in his mind, and the conversation that had just ended had felt no more real than the imagined ones.

Chris had felt his mask slip a little when Leo had shown up at his wife's call. Whereas the sisters seemed strange and new to him, he had only seen his father just a week or so before this time-traveling journey, and Leo looked and acted exactly the same.

They had not parted on good terms.

With Wyatt and all the chaos he caused occupying their dad's attention, when Leo could be bothered with his younger son, he urged conciliation far past the point when Chris had given up on talking or reasoning with his brother. Whatever Leo had done to stop Wyatt's rise to power, Chris firmly believed that it was not enough. While Chris moved to open defiance, collecting a band of like-minded resisters with him, his father hid behind playing the Whitelighter, hunkering down with his other charges and staying out of the fray.

But then Leo had sent his younger son a letter: He wanted to help. At first, Chris wondered if Leo had been shocked into action by the recent slaughter of the Gypsy community; they had been close allies in the fight against Wyatt. But soon after, new intelligence clarified the motivation behind the letter: Chris learned that several Elders had been killed. Among them … Wyatt had finally made good on his threats against Gideon. So Dad's own mentor was dead, and it was likely that the complacent Elders had been driven to take a stand at last, thinking that sending Leo to his "good" son to offer the support for the resistance was the best move. But Chris wasn't having it.

"Too little, too late," he seethed.

Bianca, his fiancée, stood behind him. "How long has he let Wyatt go without doing a damn thing? He can't be trusted."

In his heart, Chris knew that there was no way that his father actually supported Wyatt's reign of terror, however futile his methods to bring him back from evil were. And so Chris grudgingly recognized Vincenta was right when she argued for accepting Leo's overture.

"Chris, you're working with demons now, for god's sake — anyone who'll fight against Wyatt. And now you're going to stand on principle and not let your dad join? He could be a big help, especially if you're right and this means the Elders finally might do more than stand by and let the world go to hell."

What Chris didn't tell his old friend — what he had told no one but Bianca — was of his daring idea that could make this all moot. A way to change the entire situation, the entire world. A way to change Wyatt. Go back to the past, back to the beginning, and change the path before it veered off into darkness.

But even as he and Bianca worked out the details of that plan — the how's, the when's — Chris knew better than to invest all his hopes in it, neglecting the reality that faced them all today. So he reluctantly agreed to meet his father.

If there was anything worse than Leo's inattention, it was his sincere and awkward attempts to make up for it, usually in the form of those damn letters, but occasionally in person, as on that day. Dad was all care and concern; Chris was obstinate and surly. Then it became clear that, yes, the Elders were offering their support. Chris found himself shaking with barely suppressed rage.

What did I expect? he scoffed at himself later. That this was about me?

But he merely said to Leo, "I'll tell the others. Someone will let you know."

"If there's anything you need, Chris, anything at all …"

"Yeah, I got it."

His father's voice broke a little as he said, "Please take care, stay safe …"

Chris had orbed out before he heard any more of the empty sentiment.

Now here they were, together in the safe past, Titan threat notwithstanding — but Chris expected that would work out fine, just as it had the first time around. He just needed to make it look like that was a result of his help. And, he hoped, maneuver it so that Leo was out of the way for a while, clearing the field for Chris to take care of his mission to save Wyatt.

But until then, here Leo was, clueless, by the side of the woman who, had she lived, would not have allowed her younger son to be abandoned. His aunts had tried to be there, but they had their own concerns and had not lived all that long, just for a few years after Piper's death. In the end, it had been Grandpa Victor upon whom Chris had thrown his reliance. His non-magical grandfather, of all people, turned out to be the strongest support he had.

Phoebe — before she had been killed by a demon in an unnecessary battle that Wyatt had incited — used to try to convince Chris that his dad's grief had overwhelmed him, made it difficult for him to be a father for a while, blinded him to Wyatt's disintegration. "But he loves you, Chris, he does. And you know that I know it."

As far as Chris was concerned, what Phoebe hadn't understood was how Leo's absence during Chris's teen years merely compounded his childhood of playing a distant second place to Wyatt. It just became more noticeable after Chris lost his mother, when he lost his only champion. Now that she was gone, he could see clearly how things had been with Leo all along, and Mom's death was no excuse for that.

Chris suddenly noticed that, lost in his memories, he had been staring blankly at a toy left behind in a corner, its primary colors glaring amid the attic's muted shades. Wyatt. He felt a jolt of nerves. When would he see his brother?

With a sigh, he shook it off as best he could and moved to the Book of Shadows. As he had heard the story, Paige was eventually revived from being turned to stone by the efforts of some of the magical houseguests. But he might as well make it look like he was trying to help with that. Any little bit to gain the sisters' trust.

Soon, if all went as before, one of the surviving Elders would give the Charmed Ones the power to defeat the Titans, turning them — temporarily — into goddesses. Chris allowed a small smile to cross his face. It was a good time to come here, to see that happen. To see Mom — Piper get to be a goddess. She deserved it.

He had just begun to flip though the book when she stormed in again, freshly annoyed by the crowd downstairs, ready to direct her frustration at the stranger in her attic who dared touch the family's precious legacy.

"What are you doing?"

Piper, he told himself. Call her Piper.

And he carried on the charade.

This was what he wanted. A world in upheaval, the Elders' neat, orderly universe in ruins, out of their hands.

Himself, free.

Not quite.

If he was honest with himself — and sometimes he was — he remembered his hope that when all fell into place, he would hold that position that Merlin had had centuries ago, the source of the wizard's fame. Advisor to the Excalibur's master, in some ways more renowned than the one who wielded the sword. The very cliché of the power behind the throne, whether that reputation was deserved or not.

This time, that will be me, he had hoped. In his hearts of hearts, believed. Dreamed of how it would be.

He had shared with Wyatt a carefully censored version of his life as Alaric, and Wyatt took to calling him by that name. He accepted that, and even fully re-adopted the name himself — it was all too appropriate, hearkening back to those days, with Merlin, with Aldith. History, though, was not repeating itself. Not at all.

Wyatt craved the power for himself alone and repudiated all advisors. Anyone beneath him — everyone, in effect — was a mere servant. Alaric had been a useful servant for a while, but it was only a matter of time before the skills he offered, Wyatt learned to acquire himself. Indeed, Wyatt had made sure that Alaric's services could not be extended to anyone else, destroying the magical device that only Alaric could work. Now his aid was unneeded, and he was left on the sidelines to watch the destruction. And while he took satisfaction in watching the Elders scatter and panic, utterly ineffectual, after time he felt himself floundering.

He considered, from time to time, joining the resistance. They received no help from the Elders, who were true to form, distrusting what they could not control. This ragtag band — an unlikely alliance of witches light and dark, various magical creatures and disgruntled demons — had had little success, but they had a purpose, a fierce determination that drove Wyatt to a fury. Of course it would, when the younger Halliwell brother was its de facto leader.

And that was where Alaric hesitated. Working for Wyatt — or mostly not working for him, but just waiting for rare orders — was bad enough. He balked at working for Chris. The resistance movement's chain of command was not that formalized, he realized that, but he still could not do it.

In any case, it was too late now. Chris had disappeared, gone for months now. Wyatt had captured Bianca, Chris's partner in the fight, and appeared to have brought her back under his thumb. Chris was probably dead, and it was a matter of time before the resistance was dead as well.

Nothing for Alaric to do but watch it all happen.

But today, he had been summoned. The order was immediate; there would be no waiting.

Alaric recognized one of the two flunkies who delivered the message. Not all witches were fighting against Wyatt: This one was a Firestarter — but not by birth — and one with an instinct to follow the winning side. They were all on the same team, and Alaric had known Joe Lasota for years, and heartily disliked him.

"I hope you're not busy," Joe said in a tone that indicated he could care less how Alaric was occupying his time. "The command is to bring you to him right now."

The other minion sent to fetch him was a demon, there to provide the instantaneous transportation of shimmering. Alaric shrugged him off irritably. "I don't need a ride." He jerked his head toward Joe. "You can carry him along."

So he found himself outside headquarters; Joe and the demon thug escorted him in on foot. Not into the Halliwell Manor — that had been turned into some kind of museum that Alaric had never bothered to visit — but a posh office complex that had been commandeered.

Wyatt was waiting in a shadowy, echoing hall. "I want to show you something," he said as Joe and the demon took Alaric to the center of the room, where stood a sheet-covered slab: There was clearly a body underneath. "You're dismissed, Lasota," Wyatt said, and after Joe made his rapid retreat, Wyatt gave a nod to the demon escort, who moved forward and pulled the sheet off the slab.

Alaric reeled. He heard himself ask, "What happened to him?" He supposed it was a "him." He hoped so.

"What do you think?" Wyatt asked evenly.

Exactly. Wyatt had happened to the creature.

"What did he do?" Usually you had to do something, however small. Not always, but usually. And for this degree of attention, it was not likely a small offense.

Wyatt said, "I believe you know him."

"I … I don't think so." It was difficult to tell.

"He was the recipient of your services, back in the day."

As if stitching together the pieces of the creature's ruined face, Alaric could now recognize the whole. He could feel himself begin to shake, from the core of his being, and steeled himself to stop it from reaching the surface. The effort made him feel nauseated.

Wyatt was watching. Then he answered Alaric's question: "He killed my mother."

"I thought that was the Fortalice. You said …"

"Yes, I saw it with my own eyes, but you can't always trust what you see." Wyatt lifted one of the corpse's hands; it was strangely unmarred. He dropped it and continued: "This one did the actual killing. But he was working for someone else."

Alaric was entranced by that perfect hand. The rest of the body was too bloody to see, but the right hand was turning blue. Dead and blue.

He could try to protest, to deny everything, but what would be the use? He could try to escape, but beyond doubt Wyatt would have shielded this place from magical entrances and exits. There was nothing else to do. He raised his head, and met Wyatt's eyes. Dead and blue eyes.

Wyatt nodded slightly, as though he had attained a victory barely worth marking.

"One thing I regret is that my brother isn't here for this. For once, we would have found common ground." He gestured to his thug. "Take this away."

The demon laid a hand on the body and shimmered out, leaving behind an empty, stained slab. A deathbed waiting for the next to die.

"Before we start," Wyatt said, "I want to get an explanation. No — you don't need to speak. I've recently acquired the means to find out for myself." He laid his heavy hand on Alaric's forehead.

It was not a gentle sensation. It seemed as though every brain cell were being sucked dry. This would be his death right now — if he were lucky.

But Wyatt removed his hand and Alaric's pain ceased. He was still standing, still alive.

Astonishment had brought life to Wyatt's eyes, and he breathed, "Chris…" But he quickly recovered. "I've got to say, Alaric, you've surprised me, and that's hard to do. My brother … that never, never crossed my mind. Not that it makes any difference now. When I find Chris, when I bring him back, I may have to kill him. But if it comes to that, I'll do it quickly — put him out of his eternal misery as painlessly as I can. You, on the other hand, don't deserve that consideration. Your death will be neither quick nor painless."

Alaric already felt as though he were floating outside his body. Then Wyatt began.

It's not what I came here to change. Chris told himself that relentlessly; he had to focus on Wyatt. It would do no good — and likely do a great deal of harm — to change that day so that Excalibur ended in the hands of the demon who killed Piper. Chris fought the creeping doubt that weakened his resolve: Could the Fortalice have been any worse than Wyatt?

Yes, she could have. The sword in the hands of a good Wyatt, that was what needed to happen.

But he had blown it today. Grandpa Victor had drawn it out of him, the painful admission: "She doesn't exist in my future…"

And then Grandpa had almost immediately let that slip to Piper. He was usually better at secrets than that. Maybe he hadn't had enough practice yet.

"Chris?" said Piper. "Is that what you've been living with, knowing that something happens to me?"

Chris was silent, but he knew his expression gave his unwilling answer.

"I see," she said. "Well, does it happen soon?"

"I can't tell you that. It could change the future in even worse ways."

"Right. But isn't that why you came here in the first place, to make the future better? How do you know you haven't already changed mine?"

"She's got a point," Grandpa said.

No, she doesn't. And Chris had said too much to his grandfather, who in turn had said too much to Piper, adding one more burden on her shoulders …

Of course she looked thrown, but she said briskly, "Well, whatever it is, it obviously doesn't happen until you're born, so save it. Got it?"

The words just came out, a long-suppressed response: "I got it, Mom."

He hadn't uttered those words in so many, many years.

"Huh?" The surprised smile that filled her face broke something open in him. The aching distance between them, the distance he had forced upon himself from the moment he arrived, from her words — Friend or foe? — it dissolved, and for a few brief, precious seconds, so had the time without her.

Earlier, Grandpa had insisted, "Maybe that's all the more reason to get close to her."

Chris couldn't change her future. He had to focus on Wyatt. She didn't have a point, but it was possible that Grandpa did. And it was possible, if he had her back, if she was on his side again, the work of his could be done.

End of Part Four

Author's Notes: This chapter contains dialogue from the Charmed episodes "Oh My Goddess, Part I" and "Hyde School Reunion."

My one-shot "The Move" (found on this site) is kind of supplementary to this chapter, if you want more. I wrote it while I was planning out this big long epic. Of course, it's not necessary at all to read the one-shot to understand this chapter, but it's a little more of the story if you want it.

Thanks as ever for reading and reviewing!