Chapter Twenty-Three: Trapped in Purgatory
David was irritated.
He stared at the private investigator sitting across from him, and tried to convince himself that, if their positions were reversed, he would be behaving in a similar fashion. This was his problem, after all, and it was unfair to expect the private investigator to care. Particularly given how bizarre and unreal it all sounded. The private investigator was well within his rights to refuse David's request, and David would likely be doing the same if the situation was reversed.
But at the very least, David would not be this dismissive.
"So… just so that I understand this, Mr. … Smith," the private investigator said with a stiffly polite smile, "you have complete amnesia. You have no idea who you are or where you are from, and you have no money. And you would like me to help you locate your family?"
David forced himself to smile as he replied confidently, "I am sure that my family would be more than willing to pay you, Mr. Wright."
"Are you?"
William Wright wore an expensive, well-tailored suit with a fancy silk tie. His cuff-links were hand-crafted white-gold; his shoes were imported from Italy.
David was wearing jeans and a well-worn coat that he'd purchased at a cheap thrift shop.
Wright tapped his fingers against his desk in a manner that conveyed just how bored he was. His gaze slanted downwards quickly, checking the time on his watch. "Mr. Smith," he said in a tone of fake sincerity, "I understand your predicament; I do. And I have the utmost sympathy for you, and for your family. But this office does not do pro bono work, and you can't, in all fairness, promise me that your family will be able to pay."
"They will," David said stubbornly, even though, of course, he had no idea if that was true. But when it became clear that Wright was still too doubting to listen, David said, "Can we create some form of contract? I can pay in increments. I just don't have all the money right now, but I do have a job."
Wright looked very much as though he wanted to question the validity of that statement, but chose to say instead, "Even if that was possible, there just isn't much to go on here, Mr. Smith. You have no clues for me, and you don't know if the search can be narrowed to Los Angeles, or even to California."
"I have a name," David said desperately. "Halliwell. Chris Halliwell."
"Ah. Yes. The name you… dreamt?" Wright said, a slight inflection of skepticism in his words. He leaned back in his leather seat and regarded David carefully. "And yet when you searched for this name, you found nothing helpful." He smiled without any warmth. "Don't you think if this person was… real… he would have shown up somewhere online? The white pages, a business or university directory, a news article? An email address, a website?"
"I, well… maybe?" David muttered, discouraged. He knew it was strange that this name – this one and only clue that was left to him – had yielded nothing.
Wright nodded, as though that settled the matter of the mysterious name. "You said the social worker who helped you offered to place an ad in the Los Angeles Times. Has she done that yet?"
David shook his head. "She's still going through the paperwork," he explained. He didn't say what else he thought – that there was an absurd amount of paperwork to be done, and how did any social work agency survive under the crushing bureaucracy?
"I see," Wright said noncommittally.
David smiled tightly and thought to himself that Wright clearly didn't see, and didn't care.
"Perhaps it would be best to wait until your social worker can finish the paperwork and post the ad? Give it some time, see if anything shows up?" Wright suggested.
David nodded glumly. It wasn't bad advice, he supposed, but he didn't know how long that would take or if anyone from his past would read the missing persons ad and recognize him. "I just… I hate this. I hate feeling helpless, like I'm stuck, waiting for someone else to start my life for me," he confided, frustration filling his voice. "I can't move forward with a new life here because I might have to leave it all, but I can't go back to my past because I don't remember it."
"I am so sorry," Wright said. "I do wish I could help."
But his tone was not sympathetic, not compassionate or supportive. It was impatient. He wanted David to walk out of his office so that he could move on to the next client – one who could actually pay his fees.
"Oh, please," David snapped, rising to his feet. "You don't care at all, so stop pretending."
As soon as the words were out of his mouth, he wished he could take them back. He was under no delusions – nothing he said or didn't say would change Wright's decision. But although some of his irritation was due to the man's uncaring attitude, most of it was really more a reflection of the entire situation, and he shouldn't take his anger out on the private investigator.
But he couldn't take the words back, and he had a feeling that apologizing for them would only make the situation worse.
So instead, he said stiffly, "Thank you for your time," and showed himself out of the office.
Alone in the hallway, he closed his eyes and let out a long breath.
It wasn't fair to blame Wright for not taking on his case. It did seem rather hopeless, after all, and it was true that he didn't have the money right now. But did he have to be so casually dismissive, did he have to act so indifferent?
David shook his head and walked towards the elevators. He could continue this hunt, he supposed – continue looking for a private investigator who would help him, continue wandering around Los Angeles in the hopes that something would jog his memory, continue searching online for anything related to the name that had popped up in his mind. What other choice did he have?
And yet – would it ever get him anywhere? Or would he spend the rest of his life trapped in this in-between, not knowing who he was, unable to become someone new?
David ordered the cheapest beer on the menu and took a seat at the bar. It was just slightly above seedy, clean enough but not quite respectable. The other patrons were a mix of college students and blue-collar workers, with the occasional well-dressed person looking very out of place.
The bartender smiled gamely at David. "Rough day, mate?" he asked, wiping down the bar will a damp rag.
"Something like that," David replied. "Are you… Australian?" he asked, trying to place the accent.
"New Zealand." The bartender wrinkled his nose in mock horror. "You think I sound Australian?"
"Uh… sorry?" David offered.
The bartender laughed. "You seem nice enough, so I'll let it pass. Just this once."
David nodded and sipped his beer. It wasn't particularly good, but that didn't matter much to him at the moment.
He squinted through the dim light to make out the bartender's name-tag. "So, Nate," he said casually, "how long have you worked here?"
"In the bar? Four-and-a-half years. In the good old US of A? Nearly eight." Nate leaned his elbow on the bar, grinning. He had an easy smile. "Came here for college, met a girl, decided to stay."
David noticed the glint of silver – the man's wedding ring. He looked down at his own bare fingers. Had there been a wedding ring there once? Had he lost it when he lost his memories, or had he never been married? He rubbed at the finger with his thumb, trying to figure out whether or not the absence of the ring made it feel naked.
A part of him still clung to the hope that someday he would just know the answer to that question. That perhaps he would look down at his bare ring finger and it would seem wrong, and he would then know that there was someone out there, waiting for him to come home. Or perhaps the opposite – it would suddenly seem perfectly right that he didn't have a wedding ring, and he'd know that he'd never found the right woman.
He sighed. Right now, when he looked at his own hand, he felt nothing.
"What about you?" Nate asked, noting David's brooding. "What's your story?"
David smiled wistfully. "I wish I knew," he murmured before lapsing into silence. He took a gulp of beer. Nate gave him a quizzical look, but opted not to press the issue, and slowly drifted away to his more talkative customers.
David drummed his fingers on the counter, and continued to drink his beer.
The emptiness in his chest was growing, gnawing away at his insides. It was strange, trying to think about the situation intellectually. He was completely alone – no family, no friends, no past – but he shouldn't be able to miss any of those things because he didn't remember having them in the first place. How could he miss what he didn't remember?
Or was he missing what he thought he should have, not what he actually did have?
A young woman slid onto the bar stool next to him. She had dark red hair died with vivid purple streaks, and a tiny green stone set in silver for a nose ring. She couldn't have been much older than twenty-one, and she tapped her ID against the car in a nervous, skittish manner. She gave David a quick, appraising look, decided he wasn't a threat and would probably leave her alone, and relaxed slightly.
She chewed her lip.
Nate returned to take her order, and checked her ID with a skeptical look. But he must have determined that she was old enough to be at the bar, because he returned a moment later with her beer and a plate of fries. She munched on the fries, twisting in her seat so that she could shoot quick glances towards the door.
Unable to stop himself, David asked, "Is everything alright, miss?"
The girl gave him a startled, wide-eyed look, and then nodded. "Everything's fine," she said firmly, ending the conversation there.
David struggled, wanting to say more, wanting to push. Everything obviously wasn't alright, as evidenced by her tense gaze and jumpy demeanor. And David had to fight back the need to reach out and comfort her, to tell her that everything would be alright. But she was staring at him with an edge to her gaze, as though daring him to contradict her, and he swallowed back his response and nodded.
But he so wanted to help.
She turned away from him, and he went back to his own beer and his troubled thoughts.
He wasn't happy - and it wasn't just because he didn't know who he was.
There was something else missing. It had slipped into his subconscious without him noticing it. In the hospital bathroom talking to the terrified pregnant teenager, in his apartment overlooking the murdered woman at the edge of the parking lot, in the library talking to the young mother who felt like she was disappearing under the weight of everything. And now here, at the bar.
It wasn't something that he had been willing to admit before, but the urge to speak to the red-and-purple haired girl had been too strong to ignore and the truth of the situation could not be disregarded.
He was unhappy because he wanted to be helping people. It felt like a calling, a purpose - something he needed to do.
He didn't like having to rely on other people – the social worker, the temp agency – but it wasn't a pride issue. Or, at least, it wasn't just about pride. He didn't want to accept the help of others because he was the one who was supposed to be doing the helping.
Lost in his own thoughts, he didn't notice that anything was wrong until the girl beside him suddenly jumped from her seat, tossed a handful of crumpled bills onto the bar, and darted towards the door. David stared after her, surprised and bewildered, and then glanced down at her now empty stool.
She'd left her wallet behind.
He picked it up automatically and started for the door himself, waving to Nate to show that he was just returning the wallet and would be back to pay his bill shortly. The trusting bartender nodded his understanding and let David leave without stopping him, and a moment later he'd stepped out onto the street.
The bar was situated near the entrance to an alley, and David caught a glimpse of red-and-purple hair disappearing around the corner of the building.
"Hey, wait," he called out, and hurried after her.
When he turned the building, he saw the girl sprawled on the ground, two men looming over her. They turned to stare at him in unison, yellow eyes burning from beneath unruly black hair.
Yellow eyes?
"What the...?" David started.
The girl took advantage of her attackers' momentary distraction and rolled to her hands and knees. She stumbled backwards as fast as she could, crawling over the ground until her back was against a wall. Her breathing was shallow and labored, and David saw the bruises starting to form on the skin underneath her torn shirt. Her face was sheet-white, and her eyes were filled with fear.
One of the men drew a knife out of his overcoat. It was a strange silver dagger with an oddly ornamental hilt. As he took a threatening step towards David, the girl summoned what little strength she had and screamed, "No!"
Only it was unlike any scream David had ever heard. It slammed into him, a physical force that knocked him back several steps and crushed in on his lungs. He gasped for breath, the blood pounding in his ears. His vision went black, and tiny shards of glass and brick rained down on him as everything around him seemed to shatter.
He fell to his knees.
He was deaf and blind - an expanse of dark silence stretching out in all directions. He could taste blood in his mouth, could feel his heart pounding so frantically he thought it might actually burst out of his chest.
It felt like forever, though it might have only been a second.
Then he felt fingers brushing along his shoulder, and heard jumbled words calling to him in a panic. He couldn't make out the words at first - they sounded distant and indistinct.
Then, finally, "Oh, God... are you dead?"
He blinked, and the world around him started to realign itself.
The red-and-purple haired girl was standing over him, shaking him gently. The ground was littered with broken glass and brick, and large cracks had appeared in the cement, originating from where the girl had been sitting and spreading out like a spiderweb. In the distance, he could hear the sound of sirens, and several people were now milling about on the sidewalk behind them.
In front of him, in the middle of the destruction, the two men lay face down on the ground, still and silent.
David gasped for breath.
The girl drew back, surprised. "You're... unharmed?" she asked, surprised. Her gaze flicked over him, bewildered. "But how?"
David stared at her mutely, uncomprehending.
"Talia said any mortal would be seriously injured, maybe even killed," the girl continued, muttering the words under her breath, "and that's why I wasn't supposed to..." She shook her head, too scared and confused to be coherent, and continued mumbling, "I wasn't supposed to - I didn't even mean to use it, but then I thought they were going to kill you and I panicked and it just... happened."
None of that made any sense to David, but the ringing in his ears had finally stopped, so he climbed unsteadily to his feet and asked the first question that came to mind. "Who's Talia?"
"My white-lighter," the girl answered automatically. She paused then, tears filling her eyes. "Or she was. I kept calling for her after they showed up," she glanced down at the two unconscious - dead? - men and wiped at her eyes. "She didn't answer. She never ignores me. She never doesn't answer." She looked back at David, and then looked past him, at the crowd of spectators, and her eyes grew, if possible, even wider.
The sirens were getting closer.
"I have to go," she said frantically, pulling away from David. "Before the police come, or worse..." Again, she looked down at her would-be attackers. "Before more of them come." She turned and started down the alley, half-limping on a clearly injured ankle.
And David, for reasons he couldn't explain, followed her.
Chris leaned over the map, a frown marring his features. None of this made sense – there was no logic in Wyatt's most recent movements, no pattern that could explain his goal. It looked like a series of random attacks of no strategic importance.
But Wyatt would not do something that.
"You are grasping at straws, Christopher."
Chris tensed. Although the Resistance had been created as a safe haven for anyone who wanted to escape the terror of Wyatt's regime, and although Chris knew they couldn't very well refuse sanctuary to someone simply because he didn't like them… well, it didn't mean he wanted Darius here.
The Elder was a recent addition to the Resistance, and the power and knowledge at his disposal had proved invaluable over the past few weeks. But his view of the world was too harsh, too unemotional, for Chris' comfort. It was as though he truly did not see the value in caring about individual people – only the Greater Good mattered.
"I know you want to believe that your brother is rational," Darius continued, stepping into the room. He walked around to the opposite side of the table and stared down at the map. "But there is no pattern here."
"Whatever you think of Wyatt," Chris said coolly, "he is not a demon – he doesn't kill for fun."
Darius glanced at him with pity. "He doesn't kill – period. He has his demons do it for him, and this," Darius gestured towards the haphazard markings on the map, "this is what happens when he lets demons wander free."
Chris shook his head. "You're wrong," he snapped. "There's something here – I know it. And I'm going to find it."
"No, you won't," Darius scoffed. "All you will do is waste time." He leaned forward, resting his hands on the table. "Open your eyes, Christopher. Face the truth."
"The truth?" Chris echoed, folding his arms over his chest and glaring at Darius with barely concealed contempt. He was too young for this – too young to have lost his mother, to be estranged from his father, to have to fight against his power-hungry brother. He was too young and too inexperienced and too tired to spend every day with the weight of the world crushing down on his shoulders. And yet he was doing it because he didn't have a choice.
And Darius really thought he could walk in here and start lecturing Chris on all the things he was doing wrong?
"The truth is that people are dying. My brother is letting them die," Chris said through clenched teeth. His voice shook with pain and anger. "There has to be a reason."
Darius stared at him with unreadable eyes. "You so desperately want to believe that your brother is allowing all these deaths because they help him somehow – because they serve a purpose." He shook his head slowly. "You don't want to face the fact that he is letting innocents die because he simply doesn't care."
"Ignoring your second deal with Lucifer for the moment," Darius said, "we need to focus on the first."
Chris bit back the urge to respond with something unpleasant. Darius often spoke like that – condescending, peremptory – or, at least, he did in the future, and it never failed to annoy Chris. He'd always seemed to believe he should have command of every room he entered, that the knowledge he'd gained over the centuries and the natural authority that came with being an Elder made him more qualified than anyone else in any situation ever.
Chris had dealt with it in the future; Darius' help had always been vital, and it wasn't as though there had really been an alternative. But it still made him tense.
So now, facing that arrogance once again, he found himself replying caustically, "Yes, let's focus on that, because it is not as though the Elders did anything wrong."
Darius interlaced his fingers and gazed at Chris dispassionately.
They were sitting in the backroom at P3, and Chris was a little surprised that the club itself had been left alone in all the recent turmoil. Everyone – Elders and demons – knew of its connection to the Charmed Ones, making it a logical place for an attack. But it appeared as untouched now as it had been the last time he'd been here – when he had vanquished Lola.
Chris frowned, and glanced around quickly. Was Lucifer listening in on their conversation? It was entirely possible, and there really wasn't anywhere he could go to be safe from the devil's eavesdropping. A fact that Darius must have known as well, though he did not mention it.
Why dwell on something that couldn't be changed?
Finally, Darius said, "We can focus on whatever you would like, Christopher, but if your plan is to stop the devil, then does it not make sense to start at the beginning?" He paused, regarding Chris thoughtfully. "Or am I wrong? Did your family interact with Lucifer even earlier than that first deal?"
Chris shook his head. "They hadn't met Lucifer before, and neither had I. It wasn't until Lola…"
"The sorceress?" Darius interjected.
"Yes. Her. It wasn't until Lola started seeking me out with messages from Lucifer that I even… considered it…" And again there was that question that haunted him, taunted him, hiding in the recesses of his mind. Why had he made the deal with Lucifer? How could he have done something that monumentally stupid? He'd known better, and yet he'd deceived himself into believing that this wouldn't spiral out of his control, that he wouldn't end up regretting it.
He'd just been so desperate.
Darius gave Chris a long, searching look. "So why did he choose them? Why did he choose you? Why was he so sure you could start this war for him?" He leaned back in his chair and stared up towards the ceiling with a heavy frown. He was obviously pondering something, some long ago memory.
It was strange, Chris reflected, to see an Elder sitting in a folding chair. He was too big, and his robes – even blood-stained – were too elegant in contrast to the cheapness of the chair. He was entirely out of place in this bizarre tableau.
Chris had seen Darius do many unconventional things in the future, but somehow this… this was weird.
Chris looked away. Darius' question bothered him. He couldn't argue with the logic; he had been the one to invite Lucifer into all their lives. Still, it seemed as though Darius was blaming him for all this destruction, and he wasn't going to let the Elder put all the blame on his shoulders.
After all, if Gideon hadn't been hell-bent on murdering a child, Chris wouldn't have been forced back in time in the first place.
Defensively, Chris said, "Something like this – this war… Lucifer had to have been planning it for a while. Longer than I've been back here. He couldn't have known I was coming."
Darius clicked his tongue against his teeth impatiently. "Why do you insist on understanding Lucifer's actions?" he questioned irritably. "Stop being such a fool."
"I'm not a fool," Chris retorted heatedly, biting off each word. "Don't patronize me; we both know that starting this civil war was not something Lucifer decided to do on a whim."
"Do we?" Darius countered disdainfully. "Or are you just desperately trying to convince yourself of that because you don't want to take any responsibility for what you've done."
"What I've done?"? Chris demanded, surging out of his seat on the sofa and taking a few furious steps towards Darius. He checked himself just in time, but there was a fury burning in his chest that made him want to lash out, to strike the Elder.
He turned away, ran a hand through his hair, and took a long, shaky breath.
All he had ever done was take responsibility. For his own mistakes, and for things that were in no way his fault and never should have been forced onto him. Mistakes other people made that had ruined his life.
"What about all the things that the Elders did?" he said, forcing himself to speak calmly. "What about Gideon?"
"Don't blame me for Gideon," Darius replied disinterestedly, as though the very thought of Gideon's actions was beneath him. "As I've already told you, I had nothing to do with his misguided choices."
Chris turned slowly to face Darius. "His misguided choices destroyed my childhood," he said softly, dangerously. "They tore apart everything I cared about, everything I loved."
"Well, your misguided choices rather disastrously affected my life," Darius answered flatly. "You never should have made that first deal with Lucifer."
Chris shook his head. He'd been trying to save his brother, protect the world, and he didn't need Darius dumping more blame on him. The guilt he currently felt was already threatening to drown him.
"I was trying to save the future," Chris hissed through clenched teeth.
"So was Gideon," Darius answered. "Either way, people suffered."
"I'm not Gideon!"
Darius shook his head in clear frustration at Chris' response, but then sighed and said softly, "No. No, you're not." That admission calmed Chris somewhat, though he still had to take several deep breaths in order to think rationally again.
They had gotten far off track, although that wasn't a surprise. There was too much bitter resentment on Chris' side for this conversation not to be tainted by his memories of Darius from the future. And no matter how hard he tried, he couldn't put it aside. He couldn't look at this man and not see the future version – the cold, uncaring, unfeeling Elder who had never once bothered to feel sympathy for Chris' plight.
He would always think the worst of Darius now, because Darius had always thought the worst of him in the future.
Chris sank back onto the sofa and rubbed his eyes. "This is getting us nowhere," he muttered. "Like every conversation we ever had in the future."
"We didn't get along? Oh – how shocking," Darius deadpanned, and his response was just enough out of character that Chris started, surprised. Then the Elder continued sourly, "Were you always this insufferable? Because I can understand my not caring for someone who won't listen to others."
"I won't listen…?" Chris spluttered. "I'm the one who came to you, asked for your opinion. And you immediately blamed me for everything and refused to listen to my counterarguments!"
Darius rolled his eyes. "Open your eyes," he said tersely, "and admit to the truth. Accept that Lucifer was able to pull this off because of you and your family. You all gave him something he couldn't get otherwise, and he used that. He used you."
Chris averted his gaze for a moment, thinking. He didn't want to listen to Darius' self-serving comments, but that angry statement – open your eyes, admit to the truth – struck too close to home for him to completely ignore. He could still remember it; the map spread out on the table, the harsh words the two of them had uttered, Wyatt's actions lingering between them. Chris had so desperately needed to believe that Wyatt would only allow innocents to die if it served a strategic purpose, if it got him what he wanted, while Darius had repeatedly insisted that Wyatt had allowed his demons to kill all those innocents because he didn't care enough to stop them.
Darius had always believed the worst of Wyatt, saw him as nothing more than a villain that needed to be stopped, an evil that needed to be vanquished. He'd had no sympathy for Chris' inability to let go of the ties that bound him to Wyatt, of the childhood they had shared, of the boy the Twice Blessed had once been.
And Darius had been wrong before. He did often misunderstand Wyatt's actions, focusing on the madman rather than the traumatized child underneath. But that time, studying that map and arguing over Wyatt's motives…
That time Darius had been right.
Chris swallowed. He'd worked with all types of evil in his past, making deals with anyone and anything that could potentially help him save Wyatt. He'd been able to swallow his pride and his anger to get the job done; to protect innocents, to save the world.
The Darius in the future had gotten under Chris' skin through his disparaging remarks about Wyatt, and Chris had still managed to work with him, and to eventually accept and acknowledge the times Darius turned out to be right.
There was no reason he couldn't do the same thing now.
Lucifer was a far greater threat than Wyatt had ever been, but facing him did give Chris one advantage – he didn't care about Lucifer. He didn't have to constantly fight off the traitorous little voice that would remind him that he was plotting against his own family, against someone he loved more than anything.
"I agree; he needed the Charmed Ones and myself for something," Chris said at last.
His admission took Darius by surprise, and there was a moment of apprehensive silence. Then Darius cleared his throat and said, "Lucifer swore revenge after the last civil war." He was not looking at Chris, but rather gazing at the floor, once more lost in his own memories. "Against all of us, and against Michael in particular. He'd underestimated Michael during the war… we all did, actually."
Chris accepted that bit of information with some curiosity. Michael must have been the one to stop the civil war last time, or else why would Lucifer have been so intent on his destruction?
But Michael was dead – so there would be no answers from him.
Darius heaved a sigh. "Lucifer doesn't like to lose."
Chris thought of the gypsies and nodded. "So Lucifer must have been planning revenge since the moment he lost the first war," he said thoughtfully. He leaned forward. "He needed the right set of circumstances."
Darius considered this, then said, "I believe he had already found the weaknesses in our community, had already determined how to best exploit them to his advantage. But every fire needs that first spark, and that is what you provided for him." He gave Chris a quick, unreadable look. "What I still don't understand is why he chose you."
Chris gave a bitter smile and replied sarcastically, "Besides he thinks I'm special?"
Darius raised an eyebrow.
Chris felt a bit foolish for bringing it up, and said casually, dismissively, "He told me that he admires me. He thinks destroying me would be a challenge – it surprised him, actually."
"Did he really say that?" Darius asked, leaning forward with sudden interest. "That is quite a compliment."
Chris stared at him blankly. "Seriously? The devil wants to destroy me because he likes a challenge, and I'm supposed to take it as a compliment? I mean, I get why Lucifer thinks he's being generous telling me this, but why do you think this is a good thing?"
But Darius didn't answer the question, his mind already moving on to the next concern. "If it surprised him that you were hard to destroy, he obviously expected it to be easier. Not easy, perhaps, but not quite as hard." He gave Chris a piercing look. "His sorceress approached you?"
Chris stood up and started pacing, trying to bring the memory back. He felt both incredibly exhausted and filled with nervous energy. "She brought him up several times, and I kept refusing. But then…"
"Then you agreed to meet with him," Darius said bluntly, "and fell prey to his silver tongue." He shook his head. "So it always goes." His tone wasn't exactly accusatory, but it was very clear that he thought Chris a fool for not knowing better. Chris bristled, but before he had a chance to defend himself – and, really, he had no idea what he would say because he had been a fool to listen to the devil – Darius said, "But why did he approach you?"
Chris rubbed at his eyes, and said with some reluctance, "Well… I was desperate."
Darius gave him a blank stare, then laughed outright. "Sometimes I forget how ridiculously self-centered you Halliwells are," he stated flatly. Again, Chris bristled, but Darius pressed on, "Do you honestly believe you are the only one who has ever been that desperate? That your problems are somehow so much bigger than everyone else's?"
"I was trying to save the world," Chris protested.
Darius huffed impatiently. "The world is always in danger, Christopher, and it always needs to be saved. Your family quite frequently believes that they alone are leading the charge against evil. And I will not deny that they have done many remarkable things – including vanquishing the Source and destroying the Titans. But they are not the only ones in this fight…" He gave Chris a bemused, patronizing look, "or did you think that evil exists primarily in San Francisco?"
Chris fumbled for an appropriate response. Though there were no geographical limits in the Underworld – and travel to and from the Underworld had to be done by magical means anyway – it was true that the Charmed Ones had focused mostly on the innocents under attack in San Francisco. And it was just as true that demons didn't limit their attacks to only those in California.
But Chris still knew enough about the magical world to be able to point out, "But there are no other bloodlines as strong as the Warren line – not anymore. And there certainly isn't anyone else like Wyatt."
Darius inclined his head. "Agreed. But Lucifer does not need their power."
Chris closed his eyes, painful memories rushing back. After his mother had been killed, Wyatt had started taking his anger out on the Underworld. By the time Chris had finally faced just how much his brother had changed, accepted that this was not simply a phase, not a perfectly natural step in the grieving process, Wyatt had already vanquished an untold number of demons.
But it was the ones with influence, not power, that he had targeted, wiping them out and taking their place.
Influence is power, little brother. You think about power as merely what you can do, but it is so much more than that. It's what other people are willing to do for you.
"The leprechauns like Paige," Chris said finally, sitting back on the sofa. "Piper befriended the Valkyries. And the fairies. All three of them helped the muses and the gypsies. And everyone knows what Leo did for the white-lighters and Elders when the Titans attacked. Lucifer knew that the sisters could – and would – ask for help, and that other magical beings would give it to them because of what they had done in the past."
"Their influence made them important?"
Chris nodded, and then said, "It's more than that, though." His thoughts were only partially formed, but he was sure that he was on to something, positive that he was starting to understand why Lucifer had targeted his family. "They rebelled."
"Rebelled?"
"Leo dated Piper against the Elders' wishes. They tried to get married without the Elders' permission. Phoebe fell in love with a demon, and let him go despite the Elders wish to have Balthazar vanquished. Paige exists solely because Patty and her white-lighter broke the Elders' rules." He looked at Darius. "How many times have the Charmed Ones ignored your instructions in favor of their own judgment?" He paused, just long enough for Darius to give a reluctant nod of agreement, then added, "Has anyone else done that?"
"Not like that," Darius admitted. He frowned thoughtfully. "None of those magical beings who sided with the Charmed Ones in this war would have even thought of fighting against the Elders if it was anyone other than your charges who had asked."
"Because the Charmed Ones have proven that the Elders are fallible, that it is possible to disagree with them and be right," Chris said.
More than their power, more than their heritage, that was what made the Charmed Ones different, unique – they'd rebelled against the strict order imposed by the Elders, and they'd won.
That was something Wyatt had made sure was in the history books.
"He knew they could start a civil war that no one else could," Darius murmured, nodding in agreement. "So he has been watching them, waiting for the right moment… But he didn't go after them. He went after you." He eyed Chris. "You gave him a weakness, a way of getting to your family, of manipulating them, that he wouldn't have had before. What was it?"
There wasn't an obvious answer to that, at least not one Chris could see. Part of him was inclined to believe that Lucifer had simply seen an opportunity with him and taken it, and that he could have done the same with Leo or Piper, or even Phoebe or Paige. But…
Something this important, Lucifer wouldn't have left to chance.
So why him?
He got up and started pacing again.
"Can't you sit still for even a few minutes?" Darius muttered, rolling his eyes.
But Chris couldn't. He was far too full of nervous energy, and he needed to pace to clear his mind.
It had not been uncommon for him to stay up all night in the future, pacing around the Resistance, puzzling over some bit of gathered intelligence, trying to make sense of his brother's actions. Sometimes Grandpa or Aunt Paige would track him down to offer advice and input, or to try to coax him into eating a little and getting some rest. More often Bianca would shove food at him and ask to hear his thoughts.
He'd rather be talking to any of them right now, but he wasn't. All he had was Darius, a rather unsuitable substitute. But he had to make do with what he had.
"My deal brought Lucifer into the family, but the sisters didn't really turn against you until after you took Leo," Chris said finally.
"Leo's behavior was… unexpected," Darius mused. At Chris' incredulous look, he explained, "Leo has been reckless in the past, particularly for those he loves – that is true. But there was a level of anger present that… well, it was surprising. I would not have ever assumed that he would attack the Council."
Chris chewed his lip, surprised that Leo had attacked the Council, and even more surprised that he was about to defend the man who would be his father. "Lucifer did that." Chris had little good to say about his father, but Leo had never been violent. The amount of anger that radiated from him after his brief tenure in Lucifer's care had been entirely unexpected, and no doubt something Lucifer had wanted. Perhaps if Leo had been calmer, had been more able to face the Elders with equanimity, things would have turned out differently.
Except, of course, that it wasn't all Lucifer. Gideon had done his own share of damage, and his betrayal had left scars.
"Interesting," Darius said, musing aloud. "If Lucifer was counting on Leo's rage to prevent him from being a voice of reason, it makes sense he would have gone after him. But he went after you first. Why?"
"Because Leo never would have made the first deal," Chris replied immediately. "He never would have believed that there wasn't another choice, another option." After Chris had revealed the truth about Wyatt's future, Piper had overreacted, wanting to keep Wyatt from anything that could potentially feed negative emotions – such as the color red. But Leo hadn't. Despite everything, Leo had clung to the belief that Wyatt could and would be saved, that they would avert the future Chris had described.
He wouldn't have traded his soul for Wyatt because he would have believed that there was another way.
But he'd traded his soul for Chris because Lucifer already had Chris' soul at that point – and that meant that there wasn't another way.
And Gideon's betrayal had left scars deep enough to cloud his judgment.
"Everyone in your family seems quite unworried with the idea of sacrifice," Darius said. "You traded your soul for your brother, Leo traded his soul for you, and then you made some other trade in order to get Leo back." He held up a hand to forestall Chris' protest, "I won't ask about that deal – I know you won't tell me, and it seems counterproductive to the matter at hand. But it is interesting how impossible any of you find it to let go. And Lucifer targeted you, because it was the easiest way in."
"Because I'm a fool, you mean," Chris snapped.
Darius shrugged. "Aren't you?"
"Well, I think this Darius sounds like an idiot," Paige proclaimed as she slumped down on the sofa. "Don't listen to him, Chris."
Her clothes were stained with blood, but she'd survived the battle Up There mostly intact. Neither Piper nor Phoebe had been as lucky, and they were currently wrapped in bandages and resting in their respective bedrooms. Piper had not liked returning to the Manor – it was too open, too exposed – but they'd had little choice. They were too injured to run about the Underworld at the moment.
And, anyway, with the Elders in such disarray, it seemed unlikely they'd be coming after the Charmed Ones now.
Chris was pacing. He looked frustrated, and Paige thought she saw in his expression a reflection of her own annoyance at being so helpless. It galled her. She was half white-lighter and her sisters needed healing powers right now – why didn't she have them?
Sunlight streamed in through the window. Paige glared at the clear blue sky, irrationally angry that it should look so cheerful outside.
"He's not an idiot," Chris said after a moment of silence. "He's an arrogant ass, but he's not an idiot."
Paige gave him a weary smile. "And he's on our side?"
"On our side? No, I wouldn't go quite that far," Chris replied. "But he wants this war to end."
Paige frowned. She was certain that everyone on the side of Good wanted the war to end, but it was the difference in opinion on who exactly was at fault that concerned her.
She looked towards the stairs leading to the second floor. Chris hadn't arrived until after both Piper and Phoebe had fallen asleep – whether by chance or design, she was not sure. So it was just the two of them, alone. She knew Piper would want to be woken up and informed of Chris' return... but she had no desire to rouse her sisters as Chris seemed able to talk to her more freely than he would have with Piper present.
"What happened?" Chris asked, changing the subject.
Despite her reluctance to talk about any of it, Paige did not pretend to understand. "It was horrible," she confided in a low, strained voice. "I can't even…"
She closed her eyes, and the images flashed vividly through her mind. Blood staining white marble, smoke stinging her eyes, the cacophony of screams. Most of the Elders had tried to flee, very few equipped to fight back against the onslaught of Evil. She'd known that they were pacifists by nature, but she'd also known how powerful they were, and she'd never expected to see them slaughtered like helpless innocents.
Some had fought back – bought time for their brethren to escape. And they'd paid for it with their lives.
If the Elders had been at all surprised to find the Charmed Ones helping them, they hadn't shown it. Paige wasn't even sure that they'd recognized the witches at their side; nothing had been clear through the haze of the battle, and mostly she'd been confronted with blank faces and dazed expressions.
She would be having nightmares for a long while.
She opened her eyes and looked at Chris, feeling suddenly so very young and inexperienced. "What was it like in the future? Was it… I mean… were the battles like… like that?"
Chris didn't answer immediately. She knew he hadn't been Up There, hadn't witnessed the destruction and so could not make the comparison, but he must still have some idea of what an all out battle was like.
Then Chris let out a long, slow breath, and said in a nearly inaudible voice, "Some of them." He turned away from Paige, forced the subject away from the future. "Darius said some of the Elders were able to escape."
"Yes," Paige answered, trying in vain to feel pleasure in that. "We were able to help some, and I think several got out before we arrived." That should count for something, but she couldn't work up the energy to be relieved. They'd lost so many, and, with an anxious glance at Chris' back, she wondered, "Will they be safe down here, though?"
Chris turned to face her, an unreadable expression in his eyes. "I don't know," he said finally. "Leo was the one who protected them from the Titans. Hopefully they'll be smart enough to get some fairy dust or something… assuming any of the fairies are willing to help them."
Paige pursed her lips. "Do you really think they would refuse?"
Chris shrugged. "Maybe. A lot of beings are… unhappy… with the Elders right now." He started pacing again. "We shouldn't have run. We never should have let them chase us into the Underworld."
"What should we have done, then?" Paige demanded defensively. She didn't like the idea of hiding, either, but it wasn't as though they'd been given much of a choice. Besides, what difference would it have made? They had long since passed the point when they could have changed the outcome.
Chris shook his head, didn't answer for a moment. Then he said, "If I'd just told the Elders about the deal with Lucifer…"
"Don't be stupid," Paige snapped.
Chris spun to face her, an eyebrow raised. "Oh, so Darius is wrong when he calls me a fool, but you think I'm stupid?" he said, sounding far more irate the Paige thought reasonable. He looked tired, worn, and sounded defeated, "Wyatt would be good, and Leo would still be here, and…"
"And you'd be gone," Paige interjected softly.
"We are talking about one person against the entire magical community," Chris muttered, glaring at her. "What is my life compared to all of that?"
Paige studied Chris for a moment. She knew what he thought she would say in reply, just as she knew how both Piper and Phoebe would have responded. And she couldn't deny that she was concerned by his insistence on this – it fed into a martyr complex that was starting to seriously worry her.
But she knew that those replies would fall on deaf ears, so she instead went with the logical argument, "Would it have made a difference?"
Chris stared at her.
She shifted on the sofa, wincing in pain. She'd escaped any serious injuries, but her torso was still covered in bruises, and everything hurt. "If you and your Elder friend are correct, and Lucifer has been waiting for this opportunity for so long, do you really think it would have mattered if you had told the Elders? Wouldn't he have just found a way around that obstacle?"
Chris hissed out a breath, clearly not wanting to agree with her statement; but he had no arguments, so he lapsed into silence.
"What we should have done is irrelevant," Paige added in resignation. "We're here, now, and we just have to deal with it."