Four - Ethan

I'm having another nightmare. This one is a repeat of one I had a couple of nights ago, but it doesn't make me any less tense as I take off into the woods after a retreating Rochelle. Please, I think to myself as I hurdle over fallen tree branches and roots, even if it's not real, please let me save her this time.

I finally arrive in the clearing where the real Rochelle died, but this time dream-Rochelle is stood in the centre, happy and mercifully alive. She smiles at me and opens her arms wide, spinning once on the spot. Sunlight warms her face and makes her eyes look like stars shining out at me, and for a few sweet moments I forget what comes next.

Dream-Rochelle reaches one hand out towards me and pulls me in close. I swear I can smell her, honey and vanilla invading my senses. The world spins - no, we're both spinning in place now, locked in a tight embrace with dream-Rochelle smiling up at me. Was she really this short? I only ever got close enough to her once to really assess her height, but I swear she wasn't this small. Now she's around Isabel's diminutive height. Then suddenly she's even shorter, shrinking away from my embrace. She keeps smiling all the way to the ground, until she's almost the size of my thumb and I can't make out her facial features anymore. I reach down to scoop her up but too fast she disappears and my hand grabs at empty air.

I suck a deep breath in and draw myself upright again, already keenly aware of the other-Rochelle standing behind me. She wheezes, her stiff fingertips brushing at the back of my neck. I swallow hard and turn to face her.

This version of Rochelle is a shambling corpse, reaching out with rotten arms trying to grab at me. She wheezes again, foul, stale air forced out between blackened lips. Her eyes, moments ago shining and joyful, are now cloudy and the dirty yellowish white of sour milk. Other-Rochelle croaks now as her hands grip my upper arms tightly and she leans closer to me.

"You… didn't… save… me…"

"I tried," I whisper. "Please believe me. I tried so fucking hard. I'd do anything to have you back."

Other-Rochelle doesn't answer me, she just moves her hands up to the side of my neck and awkwardly strokes me there, moving her arms up and down mechanically. I screw my eyes shut tight as the pressure increases, this time totally prepared when she starts to choke the life out of me.

"Stay… with… me…" she croaks.

I try to choke back that I can't, that I have to go on living like the real Rochelle wanted, but her grip is too tight. Instead I flail weakly, trying to push her hands away from me but other-Rochelle is too strong.

"E...than…"

I'm fighting a losing battle. My head starts to spin.

"Ethan…"

Her voice is clearer now, as strong as her grip, and more… masculine?

"Ethan!"

I awake with a start, relieved to be pulled out of my nightmare. Through bleary eyes I see my dad's outline haloed against the dim light creeping in through my bedroom curtains. Slowly, he comes into focus, expression grim as ever and a deep frown marring his forehead.

"You were having another nightmare," he says flatly as he stands up straight.

"Yeah. I know," I reply, not bothering to sit upright. Today is not a good day for getting up, I decide. Tomorrow doesn't look too good either.

"Do you want to tell me about it?"

"No thank you."

Dad sighs and runs a hand through his hair. "Ethan…"

"Dad."

My monotone and lack of eye contact clearly pisses him off, because he scoffs and marches over to my window, violently throwing the curtains open and letting the harsh daylight spill into the room. I groan and scramble to pull my sheets over my head, desperately seeking out what little shelter they can offer me. Of course, my dad is quicker, darting across the room faster than the human eye can follow and yanking the sheets off of me with a flourish. I grab my pillow to cover my face but that's suddenly gone too, and my head falls briefly through an extra two inches of air and bounces against the mattress.

"I don't like you having your powers back," I groan, screwing up my eyes and holding my hand up in front of my face as a sun shield. "I'm going to ask Arkarian to take them away again. He owes me a favour or three."

"I wish you would," Dad replies, folding my duvet under his arm. "You seeing Arkarian would mean you were finally out of the house. You can't stay in here forever, Ethan, you need to get outside and get some fresh air."

I mutter something darkly under my breath about the pot calling the kettle black, but Dad hears and this time he really loses his temper.

"Goddammit Ethan!" he half-yells, probably more for the benefit of the neighbours than for me. "That is exactly why I want you to get out of the house!"

"My smart mouth?" I ask, finally pulling myself upright and attempting to reclaim my duvet. Before I can even make it to the end of my bed, my dad is already back over by the window, my bed linen still safely stowed out of my grasp under his arm.

"Okay, that's one of the reasons," he replies, visibly relaxing. I'm sat at the end of the bed now, bare toes scrunching up into the carpet. If I can get just a little closer without him noticing...

My dad sighs and perches on my windowsill, using his free hand to open the window itself and let some much-needed fresh air flow in.

"Look, I'm not saying not to grieve. I'm saying that you're never going to feel any better if you stay cooped up in here all the time. Believe me, I know all about unhealthy coping mechanisms." His voice is gentler now, and I'm having a hard time meeting his gaze.

He's talking about my sister Sera, and how awfully he handled her death, going into a depressive slump that lasted a little over a decade. Looking at my dad now, no matter how angry or tired he looks, he looks a million times better now than he did on even his best days during those long years. All of this devastation between us at the hands of just one person.

Just under two years ago, Marduke decided to draw my dad out of hiding by targeting me and the people around me. Dad rejoined the Guard with his position and powers reinstated after twelve years of grieving, and fought with us in the final battle, just like the Prophecy said he would. And also just like the Prophecy said, I lost my heart to death, at the hands of the same man who killed my sister. Even in the face of the Order's defeat, Marduke still managed to destroy the lives of two generations of our family. He won't be hurting anyone now though - thanks to a protective curse placed on Rochelle, he's now a very ugly statue decorating the deepest, darkest vaults of the Guard headquarters in ancient Athens. Still, it doesn't feel like much of a victory.

I grip the edge of my mattress tightly, searching for the right thing to say. I'm finally able to meet my dad's gaze, and find myself staring into stormy blue eyes that would be identical to my own if they didn't have faint crows feet crinkling the outer corners. I wonder just how much I really take after my dad. When his depression was at its worst I used to swear that I would never end up like that - that I would never abandon the people I love to wallow in my own misery - but here I am locking myself away in my room just like he did. Matt actually had to break in here a few days ago just to check I was still alive. I started wandering downstairs and eating what little I could stomach at the table after that, trying to ignore my mom's gently probing questions.

A whole bunch of people from Angel Falls were declared missing after the final battle, fallen soldiers on both sides, and Rochelle was reported missing almost immediately by her stepmother when she didn't arrive home that evening. The official line is that a terrible storm hit suddenly over the national park, catching hikers and picnickers in it's fall-out. Bodies of the deceased have apparently been spread throughout the park for search and rescue teams to find, staged to look like tragic accidents. Rochelle won't be found though, her body is being retained by the Guard for the new temple that Matt is building on the ruins of the Citadel, and she'll be interred next to the two immortals. The highest honour, apparently. Rochelle would hate it. The police came to question Matt, Isabel, and me the day after, as we were apparently the last people Rochelle was sighted with before we met to collect our new weapons for the battle. Mom and Dad had sat with me during questioning as I lied about leaving Rochelle on the mountain as she set off for a short hike, mom gripping my hand tightly the whole time. I think she recognises the signs of grief in me, and is just as scared as I am that I'll end up like my Dad.

"Dad…" I begin, but Dad holds his hand up to stop me before I can say anything else.

"I think about Sera every day, Ethan. I imagine you will think about Rochelle every day too, probably for the rest of your life. But please, don't make the same mistake I did - don't forget about the very much alive people who love and miss you. Your mom can't lose you like that. I can't lose you like that."

His words hang heavy between us, pinning me to my seat. I cast my eyes downwards and stare at my lap, trying to think of something to say.

"I just… need more time," I blurt out finally.

Dad shakes his head with a small, sad smile. "No you don't. There will never be enough time in the world to come to terms with losing Rochelle. Now put some clothes on, I want to show you something at the shop."

"Tomorrow. Tomorrow, I promise," I say.

"No, today. If we say tomorrow now we'll be saying tomorrow tomorrow too. Mick has the day off today and I don't want to close for an hour for lunch."

"Dad…"

"This isn't up for debate," Dad cuts in. "You're not going back to bed. You're getting dressed and working at the shop."

"No, I'm not," I snap back, anger bubbling up through my chest. Why can't everyone just leave me alone? Why doesn't anyone understand?

"Ethan, look, I know how you feel-"

"NO YOU DON'T!" I finally explode, springing up from the bed. "WHEN SERA DIED YOU STILL HAD MOM! YOU STILL HAD ANOTHER KID! THERE WILL NEVER BE ANOTHER ROCHELLE! YOU DON'T GET A SECOND SOULMATE!"

My eyes sting and vision blurs as tears stream down my face. Dad stands stock-still and stony-faced, the only indication that he even noticed my outburst is his tight grip on my bed linen now looks even tighter, his knuckles whitening. We stare at each other for a long time, both making a concerted effort to ignore that I'm still crying like a little baby.

"Get dressed," Dad says finally in a low, quiet voice. "You're coming to the shop."

"No." With that, I lunge forward in an attempt to seize my pillow. I'm still too slow however, and Dad spins in place and unceremoniously throws my pillow and sheets out of the window and into our backyard.

"That wasn't a request, Ethan," Dad says, walking calmly past me and out through my bedroom door, leaving it wide open as he goes.

I wipe away the tears steadily trickling down my face, and grab a fresh t-shirt from my wardrobe and a pair of jeans from my chest of drawers. I shouldn't be fighting with my dad. He's just trying to help and none of this is his fault. My emotions over the past few weeks have been all over the place, and don't show any sign of improvement. One minute I'm sobbing into my pillow, the next I'm so angry I'm breaking everything that I can get my hands on - my bedroom bin is overflowing with broken pieces of alarm clock and torn-up pieces of school notebooks. Begrudgingly, I pull on my clothes and head downstairs to rescue my defenestrated bed linen.

Dad is in the kitchen when I get downstairs, but he ignores me and continues pouring his morning coffee as I high-tail it through the back door into the backyard. My pillow has managed to land slap-bang in the middle of a flower bed near the pond, so it's covered in soil and one fat green caterpillar is already making its way across the corner when I retrieve it. I gently pluck the caterpillar from its place and let it wiggle across my hand whilst I try and shake the pillow clean with my free hand.

My sheets have luckily landed on the patio, so they aren't nearly as dirty as my poor pillow, but they're still going to need a wash. I fold them awkwardly before resting them on the garden table, then try and find a suitable home for my plump green friend who is currently eagerly making his way up my forearm. In the far corner of the garden, a particularly juicy looking fan palm sways gently in the breeze, an inviting new home for the caterpillar.

"Here you go," I say quietly, plucking the bug from my arm and gently placing him on a long, narrow leaf. "Much tastier than a dry old pillowcase."

The caterpillar wiggles his way across the leaf, and I like to believe for a second that he's trying to do a funny little dance of thanks.

"You're welcome," I tell him, and give him a small wave goodbye as I head back over to my bed linen and the back door.

When I get inside, I quickly duck into the utility room and load up the washing machine with my bed linen, leaving the pillow resting on top for me to fetch later. As I leave the room and head back into the kitchen, my Dad is placing two slices of french toast on the table for me.

"Eat your brekkie," he says, turning back to the frying pan to make his own. I sit down at the table obediently, sensing that his words weren't a request. My appetite has been pretty much non-existent lately, and I can only force down food when absolutely necessary, like under my mom's pleading gaze.

I take small, reluctant bites of my toast whilst Dad potters around finishing his own breakfast. He doesn't look at me when he sits down opposite me, instead focusing on the news he's reading on his phone and shovelling forkfuls of eggy bread into his mouth as quickly as he can. We're late, I realise. We spent too much time arguing upstairs. Just as I wonder if he's going to talk to me for the rest of the day he flicks his gaze up at me.

"Do you still have your overalls?" he asks.

"Uhh… yeah, I think so. They should be under the stairs?"

"Good. Remember to grab them before we go." With that, he stands up and sets his plate and now-empty mug in the sink.

Well at least he's speaking to me, I think to myself as I go and fetch the navy blue overalls that serve as a uniform for dad's workshop. Even if it's not much beyond bossing me around.

Dad reappears in the hallway just as I'm putting my shoes on. He wordlessly grabs his car keys and heads outside, leaving the front door open behind him for me. I grab my own keys and wallet and go to leave before I remember my phone is still upstairs. I hesitate, one foot out of the door, one foot in. There's not much point in getting it, I guess. It's been set to silent for three weeks and I have around 80 unread texts, 50 of them from Isabel alone. I don't think I'm ready to start looking through them. I don't even really feel ready to leave the house.

I sigh and close the door, locking it behind me, and climb into dad's car which already has the engine running. The radio is blaring with the local rock station, which reminds me of being really little when dad used to drive mom, Sera and me up to Coopracambra for camping. One of my earliest memories is of Sera trying to teach me 'I Spy' before I even knew the alphabet properly. That was in an old car, a big silver one with lots of seats in it. I never really thought about it but I guess mom and dad were maybe planning on having another kid or two to fill up those two empty seats at the back. In the end, they got rid of the big silver car only six months after Sera died and I became an only child.

"Seatbelt," dad says as he buckles his own.

"Dad?"

"Yeah?"

"I'm sorry."

Dad turns to look at me, a small, sad smile on his face. "I know, son. It's ok."

We both remain silent for the next ten minutes, but now it feels markedly less tense than before. An annoying radio host blathers away whilst we drive, talking about some festival that has been cancelled because of the weird weather as if it's the worst tragedy in the world. The way he whines makes me seriously think that if he knew about the demons running rampant across the country causing all the weird stuff, he wouldn't care and would still want the festival to go ahead. Finally, the host stops complaining and starts the music back up again.

"Hey," dad says, smiling again. "Do you recognise this song?"

"Yeah, of course," I scoff. "It's 'Bohemian Rhapsody'. Everybody knows this song - and that's not an exaggeration."

"It was Sera's favourite."

"Oh. I don't remember that," I reply quietly.

"Really? You don't remember when you were about three and the two of you used to shout 'Galileo' at the top of your lungs back and forth?"

I shake my head dumbly. I wish I had better memories of Sera but they're all pretty hazy. I don't remember anything about Bohemian Rhapsody.

"Well I remember it like it was yesterday," dad continues, eyes still firmly fixed on the road. "My hearing has never been quite the same since."

Despite myself I laugh, probably for the first time since Rochelle died. The idea of Sera and I screaming our heads off about a 17th century philosopher whilst dad tries to focus on anything but our yelling is too funny.

"Maybe she heard us arguing and this is her way of telling us to cut it out," I say, turning the volume up a notch.

"I hope not, if she's been watching us that means she knows I tripped over the bedroom rug this morning with my jeans around my knees," dad replies, with a poker-straight face.

I laugh again. Privately, I agree with dad, I really hope Sera isn't watching us. She deserves a rest. More so, I hope she's with Rochelle. I hope they get along.

We pull up at dad's workshop ten minutes late, and find a very sunburnt man with an ill-fitting dress shirt already waiting outside, fanning himself with a newspaper. Dad curses under his breath when he catches sight of him, then puts on his best customer service smile and waves cheerily through the windscreen. The man's tomato red face splits into a grin and he gives an enthusiastic wave back, making a beeline straight for the car.

"Mr Gardener!" dad exclaims as he parks up. "So sorry about the delay in opening this morning, had some issues getting my son out of bed! You know how teenagers can be!"

I'm about to argue when I remember where I've heard Mr Gardener's name before. He's one of my dad's most regular customers, some wealthy businessman whose bored, much younger, housewife is constantly remodelling his home. Mr Gardener is a jolly yes-man but his wife is apparently spoiled and bratty, and prone to calling my dad's shop to yell at him when there's even the slightest delay on their orders. One of the pitfalls of being the best carpenter in the area is attracting the most demanding clientele. To save my dad a nasty phone call later, I decide to keep my mouth shut and play up the moody teenager angle.

"No worries, Shaun, no worries at all!" Mr Gardener says cheerfully. His phone starts ringing in his front shirt pocket, and the illuminated screen shines through the thin fabric, showing a picture of a peroxide blonde woman with wonky lip injections holding up a pomeranian and pouting. "Sorry, that'll be the Mrs," Mr Gardener says, already fishing his phone out of his pocket. "You don't mind if I-?"

"No, not at all," Dad replies with a wave of his hand. "It'll give me a chance to unlock the door and grab your chairs."

We climb out of the car together and I stand awkwardly by Dad as he fiddles with the lock to the workshop. Mr Gardener stands uncomfortably close to me whilst chatting amiably to his wife, who I can hear shouting through the other end of the phone, reassuring her that yes, Shaun is here now, and no, he hasn't seen the chairs yet, but yes, he is sure that Shaun's done a great job, he always does. Suddenly my irate glare becomes a lot easier to fake - Mrs Gardener sounds like a real harpy.

Dad's workshop is bright and airy, and smells strongly of furniture polish. When I was younger I used to be confined to the front of the shop where dad showcases all of his 'off-the-shelf' artisanal pieces, far away from the dangerous power tools he keeps at the back. I survey the workshop with satisfaction and a surprising sense of pride. There are several beautiful hand-carved end tables near the front door with intricate designs etched into the legs - I forgot how talented Dad was. He's pretty well known in the local area as the best carpenter you could hire for a project, but if he wanted he could really expand his business several times over. I know he's been scoped out by a couple of trendy celebrities for custom pieces, and had articles written about his work in a couple of industry magazines, but I think he's largely shied away from the attention, preferring to just continue to work independently. He has Mick managing the business side of things and watching the shop whilst he works, but everything you can see in his workshop is made solely by him.

"Here we are," Dad announces as he strides past me and towards the low walls that separate the workshop from the shop. In a neat row at the back are six mahogany dining chairs with a soft looking emerald green fabric for the upholstery. The legs are all carved in Dad's distinctive style, with eerily realistic looking vines winding their way up to the seats.

"Wow-ee! You've done it again, Shaun!"

"Thank you. Ethan will ring you up," Dad says, clapping me on the shoulder. "I'll bubble wrap these and put them in your van?"

"It should be already open, but take these just in case," Mr Gardener replies, tossing my dad a set of car keys. I'm surprised, I figured a guy like this would be driving some middle-age crisis type of car, not a regular van.

I wander over to the till, skirting around various cabinets, chairs and tables as I go, with Mr Gardener trotting obediently behind me talking non-stop about how lucky I am to have such a talented father, and how lovely the weather is after those weird storms last month, and asking if I've heard anything about the school re-opening. That's the other thing I remember Dad saying about Mr Gardener - once he's in the shop, it takes forever to get him out.

Mr Gardener doesn't even bat an eyelid when I tell him the outstanding amount on his chairs, a whopping £500 a chair even with the 50% deposit already paid. He just smiles, slides his card over to me, and then comments on how nice the workshop smells.

"Uh… yeah," I say, not really sure how to reply.

"Gosh I haven't seen you since you were barely a teenager," Mr Gardener says. "You've gotten so tall!"

"Yeah?"

"You must be in your final year of school, I'm guessing?"

"Yeah."

"So sad about what happened."

"Yeah."

"You said you don't know what they're doing about reopening yet?"

"Yeah - uh, I mean, no."

"Well I hope they get you sorted for your final exams!"

"Yeah."

"Still, must be nice to be off and enjoying the sunshine."
"Strapping lad like you, dare I say you have a pretty lady to enjoy the weather with?"

At his words, time freezes and it feels like all of the air has been sucked out of the room. I stare straight into Mr Gardener's cherry-red face, fixating on the peeling skin around his nose as he laughs, pleased to have caught me off-guard and crowing about how embarrassed I look. He doesn't realise the nerve he's just struck - how could he? - but he's sent me reeling. I feel physically sick and I grip the edge of the counter as anxiety washes over me in waves.

"Mr Gardener!" I follow the direction of my dad's voice, relieved to hear him coming to my rescue. Dad is stood in the doorway, his face a mask of joviality, but he shoots me a look that tells me that he heard everything. "Everything is all loaded," he continues. "Are we all settled up?"

"We certainly are, Shaun! We certainly are! Just having a chat with young Ethan here!" He gives me a conspiratorial wink at the word 'chat' and I have to resist the urge to bolt.

"Excellent! Well, sorry to kick you out but I've got a custom piece to work on so I'm going to have to lock up for a little while," Dad says, standing to the side whilst holding the door open, a clear signal to Mr Gardener that he should leave.

"Oh-ho-ho! How exciting!" Mr Gardener enthuses as he turns to face him, mercifully seeming to have forgotten all about me. Dad comes over and claps his hand on Mr Gardener's shoulder as he patiently guides him outside, shooting a sympathetic look back at me as he goes.

"Goodbye Ethan!" Mr Gardener calls back. "Nice speaking with you!"

Finally left alone in the shop, I feel my legs buckle underneath me. All I can think of is that if Rochelle was here, we could be out enjoying a blissful day together right now. Where would we be? What would we be doing? Would it be just the two of us, or would we be with our friends? What is everyone else even doing right now? Do they even miss me?

"Ethan? Are you ok?" It's my dad, back in the room and now stood over me as I'm bent double over the counter in an attempt to support myself whilst my legs feel like jelly.

"Yeah," I croak out. "I'm fine."

"No, you're not. But it's okay, take a seat," Dad replies, pulling a stool out from underneath the counter. I take the stool gratefully and perch on it, trying to steady myself. "You're having a panic attack. It will pass."

"I don't get panic attacks," I say as I hunch back over, trying to ignore my heart, which has begun slamming itself against my ribcage.

"Well I do, and I look an awful lot like you when they hit me."

I squeeze my eyes shut and gulp in a few desperate deep breaths. Slowly, things begin to return to normal - my heart rate slows, I stop feeling like I'm spinning in place, and my mouth feels less like it's stuffed with cotton balls. When I open my eyes again, Dad has put a bottle of water in front of my folded arms.

"I don't get panic attacks," I repeat lamely as I unscrew the bottle.

"Ethan, you've been through a literal war, suffered two major - and horribly violent - losses in your life, you grew up in an unstable living environment, and now you've been confined to the house for the last three weeks. Frankly, I'm amazed you've held it together this long."

"It was Meridian."

"Meridian?"

"He gave me the gift of sanity when I was initiated into the Guard. Maybe now he's dead, the gift has gone too."

"I don't think it works like that, Ethan," Dad replies, resting his hand on my back. It's comforting, and reminds me of when I was little and Arkarian used to do the same when I was crying. "Truth be told you're still doing surprisingly well."

"I don't feel like I am," I confess. "I'm worried that I'm going to end up-"

"Like me?" Dad cuts in.

"I wasn't going to say that," I mutter. I really wasn't. I was going to say 'end up losing it'.

"You didn't have to. For what it's worth, I won't let that happen to you."

"Thanks."

"Are you ok to stand?"

I nod and push myself up from the counter. Dad motions to the workspace at the back of the room and doubles back to unlock and reopen the front door. As he walks into the room to join me, he elbows a switch on the wall and the extractor fans lining the walls roar to life. He then grabs two pairs of protective goggles and gloves from the end of the nearest workbench and tosses me one of each.

"So, what are we doing?" I ask as I secure my google in place.

"I am going to get started on a few more chair legs, and you are going to lacquer them. I've got a few already ready to go." He gestures over my shoulder to the pots of various paints, lacquers, and varnishes stacked on sturdy shelves to the left of the room, with paint brushes spilling from every conceivable crevice. On top of the shelving unit lie two already finished chair legs.

The chair legs are undeniably beautiful, potentially the most intricate carvings I've ever seen Dad make. They're fashioned to look like rainforest trees, with animals stalking near the base and exotic vines and flowers winding their way upwards towards where the seat will be.

"Uh… are you sure about this?" I ask as I delicately pick one of the legs up and examine it closely.

"I'm sure," Dad nods. "Just take your time, there's no rush. Loud noise coming up by the way, and you might wanna grab a mask as well."

The minute I have a mask in place, the jigsaw on one of the benches starts whirring as Dad sets about cutting up what looks like oak into equal sized pieces. I pull out a few paintbrushes and grab the pot of lacquer nearest to the chair legs, holding it up for my dad's nod of approval. Lacquering is fiddly work at the best of times, with every layer having to be applied thinly and evenly with either a motorized spray or a very steadily-held paintbrush. The legs are so intricate that I'm going to have to use a brush, which is going to take forever. Luckily for my dad's client, whoever they are, I've been helping out in the shop for years whenever Dad was short on staff as a way to earn pocket money, so I'm at least competent enough to be able to do a proper job. Although really he should ask someone like Neriah to do this, she's amazing at art and I've even seen her paint a jungle scene just like this before.

I dip my brush delicately into the lacquer and set to work, beginning with the 'tree trunk' that makes up the bulk of the leg. I use a vice to steady the wood as I work, keeping my back to Dad and his saw to try and block any potential bits of sawdust that might try and fly over and get stuck in the lacquer. The detailing is infinitely more difficult, and I have to bend so close to the wood that I'm in serious danger of getting lacquer on my mask if I waiver even slightly. I've just finished my second layer on the jaguar, narrowly avoiding an unsightly pool of lacquer in the tiny etched spots along it's back, when my dad appears at my side and mouths something at me.

"What?" I ask, then realise I have ear protectors still clamped over my head. I yank them off and try to ignore the sudden heat on my face. "Sorry - what did you say?"

"I said: 'lunchtime'."

"Already?"

"It's one o'clock, Ethan."

I glance up at the clock in surprise, and sure enough it's only a couple of minutes to the hour. I've been hunched over my work for over four hours without even realising it, which explains the shooting pain that runs down my spine as I stand up straight. I wince, and Dad notices.

"You should sit down when you're doing that, or you'll really mess up your back. I'm going to go to Jenny's and get us some food, what do you want?"

I give my dad an order for a burger and some chips drizzled with my favourite burger sauce from Jenny's - an added bonus of working in the shop. Once I'm alone I hop back over to the other half of the workshop and slowly wander round, taking it all in. I get why Dad bought me here now. When you're so wrapped up in a task it's difficult to wallow. One of the reasons I spent so much time in here growing up is that Dad was pretty much always at work, and as time went on his work became even finer and more detailed, meaning even more time had to be put into it. Throwing himself into work must be how Dad stayed sane. I don't think I'm built to be a carpenter full time, but maybe I'll find my own course to set out on in time, and I won't hurt so much.

I wander up and down aisles of cabinets and end tables, appreciating the fine craftsmanship that has gone into every piece. I spot a wardrobe almost identical to one I had when I was little, with farmyard animals smiling out at me from the gently whitewashed wood. Come to think of it, I think my childhood wardrobe was second-hand, it was Sera's first. It seems obvious now, but I'd never really thought that Dad must have made it by hand. He's making them for other people's children now.

"Hello?"

I jump at the man's voice coming from the shop doorway, not realising how lost in my own thoughts I was. I step out from behind the couple of wardrobes concealing me from view and go to greet the new customer.

"Jimmy?" I ask, dumbfounded.

Jimmy is stood at the shop entrance in a neat grey suit and clutching a heavy-looking lever-arch file in his hands. I know he's a relatively successful property developer, so I guess maybe he gets Dad to build some of the show-home furniture. He gives me a cheery smile and crosses over to the counter, dropping his file on top with a satisfying thunk.

"Sorry, Dad's gone out to get lunch."

"Yeah I know, I text him just before I left. He's bringing me a burger and hopefully a tank full of Jenny's special burger sauce." Jimmy leans leisurely across the counter and looks around approvingly.

"I would buy that sauce by the gallon if I could," I agree. "So what's up, Jimmy? Anything I can get started with?"

Jimmy grimaces uncharacteristically. "It's actually a social call, today. Well, I actually do have a small order, but I wanted to come down here and-"

"Fuck," I say, banging my head down on the folder.

"That is categorically not what I'm here to do," Jimmy replies. "You're a little young for me, Ethan."

I let out a small huff of laughter and look up at Jimmy. He's smiling down at me kindly and actually looks just as awkward as I feel. I always liked Jimmy, he's the personification of just an all-round great guy - he's looked after Matt and Isabel for years as a long-term friend of their mom's, and then eventually her boyfriend, and he's been pretty good friends with my dad for at least a decade that I can remember, friends with Arkarian for even longer.

"I've been debating whether or not to speak to you for a little while," Jimmy says, pulling up a nearby chair. The chair is comically lower than the counter, so when he sits down on it Jimmy can only just rest his chin on the top.

"Would you like a stool instead?" I offer.

"Ah, yeah, that would probably be a better idea."

Jimmy switches seats quickly, and when he's at more of an equal height he rests his forearms on the desk and sighs. He looks sad and tired in a way I've never seen him look before.

"Jimmy, I'm going to be ok, really. It's just going to be a long process."

"I know you're going to be ok, kid. That's not what this chat is about."

"Then what is it?"

"Ethan, what I'm about to tell you, I'd appreciate it if you didn't mention it to anyone else." The tone of his voice makes me sit up and pay attention - its heavy and filled with a sorrow that I've recently heard in my own voice.

"Yeah, o-o-of course."

"Your dad knows, and so does Arkarian. They were around when it happened, so…" he trails off, staring over my shoulder at nothing in particular. Finally, he shakes his head with another small smile tugging at his lips. "Of course, I imagine Matt knows now, too. Ethan, you're going to have a lot of people offering you their sympathy. They mean well, but they don't understand."

I stare at Jimmy for longer than is polite, but I can't look away. Is he saying what I think he's saying?

"I understand, though," he continues, looking me dead in the eye. "Better than anyone."

"Who was she?" I ask in a tight voice.

"Her name was Hannah. She was my wife." A single tear has already started to roll it's way down Jimmy's cheek. He catches it on a tissue he apparently had ready to go and glances away, embarrassed. "Sorry. It's been fourteen years and it's still difficult for me to talk about."

"You don't have to-"

"No, but I want to. It will be good for me, and hopefully for you too. I met Hannah through Arkarian actually, she was his apprentice and he had trained my Trainer before her, so we all knew each other pretty well." He pauses for a moment and opens his wallet, then pulls out a photograph of a pretty woman with dark hair piled on top of her head and slides it across the counter for me to look at. The woman is looking into the camera and laughing, like whoever was taking the photo was telling a funny joke. "She was beautiful, and so serious - she always had to have the last word in an argument and her focus was unshakeable. I was smitten from the moment we met, and to my great surprise, she was too."

Jimmy stares longingly at the photograph before tucking it back into his wallet. "We married young. Both of us were only nineteen but we couldn't imagine even looking at anyone else for the rest of our lives. And we were really happy. Then it all went wrong in a single night."

"What happened?"

"There was a mission - both of us, together. We didn't do them very often, the Guard likes to keep couples apart if possible, too easy to get distracted. But Hannah and I, we were a team, a great one, and it was a very difficult mission. But the Order knew that too, so they did something they didn't do very often."

"What?"

"They sent back up. A third soldier who we weren't looking for, dropped right in the middle with no thought as to trying to make him blend in. It was an all-out assault. And he got her." Jimmy sucks in a deep breath and holds my gaze again. "He stabbed her three times, and she crumpled to the ground like a rag doll."

"Jesus."

"I got him, for what little it's worth. Technically, the mission was a quote-unquote success and the Order failed. But I lost everything. I took her body to Arkarian, and we tried to save her but…"

"She'd crossed the bridge already," I finish for him.

For a moment, Jimmy looks shocked at my reply and I curse myself for saying anything. As far as I know, none of the other Named know that Isabel once died on a mission and I went to the middle realm in a bid to save her. Luckily Arkarian was watching us and realised he was Isabel's soulmate in the nick of time, otherwise Isabel would never have come back. From the look in Jimmy's eyes when he talks about Hannah, I can already tell that that wouldn't have been the problem for him. Hannah was his soulmate, just like Rochelle was mine.

"Yeah, she was already gone. I failed her. I wasted too much time taking out the last Order soldier.," Jimmy says, regaining his composure.

"Jimmy I'm sure that's not true. Some people just find the bridge quickly, and there's nothing anyone can do about it."

"Well anyway, the worst part was when I woke up."

My gut twists. When someone dies in the past, their body doesn't shut down right away after their soul moves on. They lie there looking to all the world like someone in a deep sleep who is just incapable of waking up, whilst their body slowly shuts down in response to its emptiness.

"She was in the hospital for four days before her heart gave out," Jimmy says bitterly. "For four days, I sat with her family at her bedside, answered their questions and pretended to hope for a miracle when I already knew she wasn't coming back."

"I'm so sorry, Jimmy."

"Me too, kid. She was too young, too full of life to be cut down like that. And so was Rochelle. The war raged for centuries, and neither of us are the first to lose people like that, even though it feels like no one else could possibly understand what it's like to have your heart torn in two."

"So how did you move on?"

"I didn't," he says simply, with a small shake of his head. "I don't want to, either. Moving on implies forgetting, and I don't ever want to forget Hannah. That would be a disservice to her memory, and the unforgettable kind of person that she was. What I learnt to do instead was honour her with my life. Every time I smile, I smile for her. Every joke is in the hope that she's sat watching me somewhere and laughing."

"But what about Coral?"

"I love Coral, make no mistake. She's a heck of a woman. But there's someone else out there waiting for her and in time she will be with her soulmate too, and I will be delighted to see one of my favourite people truly happy. When that time comes, well, I'll probably be of an age where I won't have to wait too long to see Hannah again. You will find love again, Ethan. It might not be eternal and epic, or the stuff of legend, but it will make you happy, and you'll live a good, long life surrounded by people who care about you." Jimmy offers me a clean tissue as he says this, and I realise that I'm crying now too. "In the meantime, kid, if you ever need any advice, or to talk to someone who has been right where you are…"

"Thanks, Jimmy."

"And now for the second item on my agenda…" Jimmy says, wiping his own eyes one more time and giving me a wink. "How do you feel about a mission?"