Author's note: Updated Version. Yes, Trowa is my favorite character. Like Duo, he works well as a whole and individually with the rest of the Gundam pilots. Plus, he's pretty snarky. I did some minor corrections and hope to continue this story. I'm already up to 80,000 words and hoped to do more.

Prologue

Space colonies were not known for their sunsets or dawns. In fact, to see one would be a deep oddity for those living in space. At Lagrange two, in the Stanford-Island Colony C205, when the clock reached 1700, the light would slightly dim to a pale yellow, a fake contrast to the emotional pull of an evening on Earth that would stir emotions and pull at heartstrings. The pale-yellow sky moved no one, and most denizens of the colony treated it as a mere accompaniment with the change of time.

A simple change in the sky was as natural as waking up, as subtle as the dimming of lights in a theater. It signaled a transition, changing the mood and atmosphere. Most colony denizens had never seen sunsets on Earth, except on television shows and movies where they were left wondering if the sky really shone a spectrum wall of colors or was computer-generated imagery. Distance had separated the emotional connection of those living in space to their world of origin.

To the sixteen-year-old Trowa Barton, who had been living in the colonies for over five years, he had grown accustomed to it, to a point where, sometimes, he did not register the time or change in the sky. Even the warmness of June, which was artificial in its presentation and temperature, did not move him like those of his age. He had become like the many colony denizens who only moved with time – for living in space was not like living on Earth – that everything had an artificial time period, and he was simply to exist in it.

Nothing could compare to the naturalness of Earth – but Trowa did not worry about that. He was always busy with something, whether night or day, inside or outside; his hands and mind were always in a state of assiduousness that never exceeded overexertion or needless waste. He treated it as another day while he worked. A sobering day that did not preclude certain death from the monstrosities of tyrants and their greed for power, plots to overthrow and revolutionize the world, or the giants of mobile suits and their lethality to render life obsolete.

Those things, as of now, were far away, almost in another place, in another life.

You see Trowa Barton had been a soldier, one of five chosen Gundam pilots, sympathetic to the plight of the oppressed colonies in their fight to avenge their assassinated hero and peace advocate, Heero Yuy, in a rebellion against the tyrannous Earth faction, the United Earth Sphere Alliance and their private military and war manufacturer, the Order of the Zodiac (OZ) and their eminence gris, the Romefeller Foundation.

Trowa had wielded the extraordinary power of a Gundam called Heavyarms to combat and decimate OZ. Colony rebels and scientists had created the machine to terrorize enemies and to conquer and annihilate bases. Like a tool, Trowa had used Heavyarms to rebel – destroying bases, gunning down mobile suits, killing. It was a bloody and brutal ten-month war that had left its physical and invisible scars all over him. The war had reached a cataclysmic and decisive end on Christmas Eve between the Gundam faction, the White Fang, and the Earth's Sphere Unified Nations.

Trowa had been called a hero in a war to end all wars, back then. Although, he was reluctant to see himself as one: heroes were righteous vindicators vanquishing the wicked evils of men bent to rule through oppression. Heroes were champions of the people, noble in their intentions, almost to a level of absurdity, and steadfast in their courage to right the wrongs of evil. They were the sacrificial martyr to inspire hope in darkness and birth rebellion and redemption. Although some of those characteristics would describe him, it would be a lie to say he had served with the noblest intentions.

Trowa may have diverted Operation Meteor's true objective, to drop a colony on Earth to trigger a global catastrophe and use the Gundams to conquer what was left of the planet, but that did not mean he did not truly participate in its objective. He had gone through with it, after all, but on his own terms: killing billions of people – innocents – was unforgivable in his eyes. He would kill, but it would be on his own terms.

"Those who laid eyes on a Gundam shall not live to tell about it," were words spoken to him at the upmost level of his organization, words that carried a death sentence. Any person seeing a Gundam would be killed, no matter their surrender or retreat. The pleas of the dying were ignored for their total annihilation. Trowa had made sure to live up to those words. He hardened his heart to glacial, unfeeling ice and used that ice to become the blizzard of destruction, eradicating all in his path.

The war was over now. Where he had bloodied his hands in crimson and burnt all to ash in the old, war-torn world, it was replaced with a world of peace he and his comrades had created from the fires of their war. Fields of life were flourishing where battles had left them previously barren and scarred.

Trowa was now enjoying life in his new career as a permanent employee of a travelling circus from Earth (he had hid himself there during the war to avoid detection from the Alliance and OZ), so he always, in some way, kept busy – packing and unpacking, unfurling large mats and tents, practicing with his sister Catherine and other staff members, honing his acrobatic skills, coming up with new routines, or feeding and keeping the animals entertained and healthy.

The life of a travelling performer seldomly stagnated in creativity or dullness, and he always had a job to complete. (Tedium had never bothered Trowa in the slightest.)

He played the role of a stoic clown, mute in expression but phenomenal in action and performance. It was a role he found he could identify with, a duality that married charisma with cold impassiveness, a confluence of warm and cold melding together in a harmonious circle. There was a fluidity Trowa enjoyed in transitioning in and out of routines while entertaining crowds. It was poetry – and he found it insatiable.

Right now, in the fairground parking lot of the colony where the circus had settled, Trowa hefted one last brown crate into the truck's trailer. The colony climate technicians had set a yellow dusk before the lights were completely off, and night took hold. It was a simple dimming of the lights until a pitch-blackness came like flipping a night switch, fended off by the dawning of the city's twinkling night lights.

It was a far cry from practicing new routines, but it came with the job. Trowa pushed the crate forward until, screeching from the friction, the crate lined up with others, forming the last of a third column. Its short wail finally ended with a small thud. He then pushed himself up onto the trailer and fastened a strap across it that was attached to the sides. Trowa found the buckle and pulled the loose ends through, tightening as he pulled further. It needed to be as tight as titanium.

Finally, when all crates were strapped, he egressed from the trailer by hopping down the trailer bed and appraised his work. Forest green eyes worked from one strap to the next, volleying from left to right, eyeing for any form of insecurity. A lax mistake could spell future disaster. Disasters were not uncommon. It happened pretty often in space.

Satisfied with his work, Trowa exhaled softly through his nose. The crates looked secured and sturdy as the straps flattened like zebra stripes against the crates' surfaces. He had made sure to tighten the straps harder than usual. Well, harder than he was on Earth.

Trowa was nothing short of careful. He was sure nothing would disengage or shift in the space transport. It would be a large, time-wasting mess if the circus troupe had to re-organize their contents, especially in zero gravity. Trowa imagined, with slight exasperation, the tedium of cleaning it all up.

Space had a way of making things messier when mishaps and the unexpected happened. Floating objects were especially difficult to grab in zero gravity when velocity was added to the equation. It was like a long, drawn-out game of cat and mouse, and the cat had to be increasingly faster than the scurrying rodent who could bolt in three-hundred-and-sixty-degree directions at a moment's notice. It would be an increasingly frustrating and time-consuming task to order it.

Nevertheless, this was the last of the trailers of the four trucks lined on the side of the road. He usually had help on this, but his colleagues were in a meeting with the manager, having something to do with planning the next set for the next colony stop. It didn't much matter what they came up with as he would be long gone, parting ways at another spaceport of his own for another adventure.

Trowa had a shuttle to catch for the Earth. It had been a while since he had returned to the blue planet, not since June, during the war of yesteryear. If he remembered right, he was in southern Europe, along the coasts of the Mediterranean in Italy, on his friend's, Heero's, penitence tour to the loved ones of the United Earth Sphere Alliance's assassinated Field Marshall Noventa and other peace leaders. Trowa still remembered how the setting summer sun transformed the sea golden, how the shadows of Italian buildings loomed over them, looking like they could kiss the sky as their shadows spread below to cast the world into darkness.

It was hard to forget when one wanted to disappear.

There was also danger there on the Italian peninsula. Lurking on worn cobblestones and streets were conspicuous black Sedans that prowled like predatory creatures, stalking and scouting streets like slow anticipatory menaces. They camouflaged with the night, becoming inseparable with the dark, hiding from where the light could not touch. They disguised themselves in the day, blending in so casually with other facsimile cars that they became indistinguishable, while cramming and parking themselves at streets, waiting for the sight of two boys walking down crowded markets. They were creatures of OZ, scouring the peninsula, on the hunt.

Danger also lurked at every sharp corner and open space, in people's closed expressions and restrained, if not cautious, behavior. Trowa did not approach them if he had to, never knowing where a drop of simple trust, a small, banal conversation, could have drastic consequences. A simple conversation could spell death.

Often, people could not be trusted. A betrayal could come with a simple, innocuous conversation, something that oftentimes deceived the gullible and the honest. Trowa did not blame them; he blamed himself for reaching out.

Yet, through it all, Trowa and Heero were free, stateless, autonomous individuals finding comfort in their despair and sorrow.

They were young men on the run from a monstrous empire that wanted to upturn the world and repaint it in their grandiose, grotesque image. There was a sense of freedom and danger permeating in the air, then, away from the spying eyes of OZ and others shadowing their footfalls like the fall of dusk transitioning to night: notable but silent. Where they traveled, others that would do them harm followed, nipping at their tired heels. It was inexorable.

Apparently, and this was by letter, Heero had been in correspondence with Noventa's wife, Julia. Heero didn't go much into detail – he was a frank person, only giving need-to-know information – and revealed through private email Julia would like to chat with the two of them. She invited them to stay at her large estate in Sicily. She wanted to continue their unfinish conversation that had ended prematurely, where there were words still left unsaid, from her, from Heero.

Trowa had readily agreed to her invitation after reading through it a second time, emailing Heero soon after. How could he not come when he felt there was a lot left unsaid. Their encounter with her had not gone so well. Julia had been inconsolable the first day after Heero had confessed he was the one who assassinated her husband, obliterating him and other pacifist diplomats, in what he thought were escaping OZ top officials, in a scheme devised by the head of OZ, Treize Khushrenada.

Despite the heartbreaking news, Trowa felt it would have been better had Heero not then placed his handgun on her table and offered her his life in exchange for his crimes. It was tactless, considering the emotional turmoil hovering over them like darkened clouds ready to rain down despair and tears. Even Trowa had found that disconcerting: to place your life in the hands of the loved ones of the murdered was not a burden one could take lightly. Taking a life was never a simple thing to do.

To hold revenge and fire it into the heart of your loved one's murderer required a heavy decision. The act was cruel but calculated, a course of action that could only be found in two options: to accept what had happened and do nothing or pull the trigger and end it all.

It was one of the bravest things Trowa had seen a person do. Trowa himself would never go that far. It never factored in his mind to present his life to his victims. That needed a soul whose empathy and compassion were beyond human standards. It was for people who could feel the pain they have etched in the lives they had slain.

The room had grown uncomfortably claustrophobic and the despair, that had gripped the room from their initial arrival, had grown tenfold, invoking terror on Julia's face. Her expression hung in his mind, etched like a terrible portrait, forever. It still gripped him, made his insides roll uncomfortably. Trowa could not ignore the fact that their revolution caused pain beyond their targets. It was clearly written in the sorrowful eyes and gaunt face of Julia.

Trowa could never forget how Julia's eyes widened like saucers, her pupils dilating into large black discs, how her hands shook; her voice barely coming out in a scratchy, throaty, whisper, and the unshed tears that glistened in her blue eyes… When the moment finally broke and all the restrained emotions flooded through the pressured restraints, did Julia breakdown. She had put a gloved hand over her mouth to control a throaty sob. She had then excused herself, her servants ushering her to her room as they waited in the parlor for other servants to excuse them to their own rooms.

The next day had been tense but not without dialogue. It came with a suicidal remorse from Heero and a tearful opening and vulnerability from Julia. They had walked across her garden making small talk, feeling each other out against the backdrop of contorted marble statues and thinning trees. Most of the time, it had seemed the two were consumed by their thoughts as they walked along side each other in companionable silence.

Julia not knowing how she could articulate her sorrow and Heero, patient and remorseful, waiting for her decision. They had soon left on uncertain but amiable terms, the Gundam pilots realizing staying in one place for too long was not tactically sound for fugitives, less implicating her guilty by association if OZ had tracked them. OZ would have accused her of colluding with enemies.

Trowa felt a small smile edge at the corner of his lips. He wondered how she had been doing since the end of the war. He had hoped she was taking care of herself. She had looked extremely lonely and frail despite her frequent guests and help. Her cheeks had sunken, like flesh had been removed, and her eyes bloodshot and puffy. The price of loss had been devastating to her health.

Another strange feeling Trowa knew to be guilt welled in him. It roiled his belly and Trowa did nothing but feel it. He would've squashed it a long time ago or hid it away, trapped it with his buried humanity, but since the war, he had become more human. Feelings and emotions were not irrelevant anymore; they were not fickle things to be cast aside, rejected, or dammed. They were felt and lived.

Life had become a treasure to live.

Human. Indeed, that was the feeling. It was beyond description for it could be anything and everything that sparked emotion. Trowa had slowly come to cherish it, resisting the void of apathy that would have tossed his emotions into the ether. It had been a long time since he simply felt.

The guilt stemmed from his crimes, and they were numerous. How many families had he left in sorrow, broken, in his operation to rebel against the Alliance and OZ? How many people did he kill or leave irrevocably disabled or broken?

"Innumerable," Trowa surmised quietly in the silence of the parking lot. "My crimes are just as terrible and heinous than my deeds and virtues."

The cost of cruelty always had a way of exacting its price. Its price came from its demand on the human soul and its implementation of terror it invoked on others. His formative years were the least heroic things he had ever done, and the crimes committed afterwards, waging war in one hand and liberation in the other, before the consequential Eve's War, were steeped in blood.

Revolutions and rebellions always required sacrifice.

Whenever the price of the ticket came, he would surely pay his dues. He had promised on that night before he set off for the colonies, in that green quiet forest blanketed by a nighttime sky writhing with endless, judgmental stars, he would.

Looking back to the cargo, Trowa pushed his thoughts to the side, and checked it once more. This would be the last of the cargo loaded before the circus troupe would depart C205 for the L3 sector. This was part of their colony tour and they hoped to finish in L1 by the following year. It was a tough schedule, and travel was costly with their large company, but they found it manageable, even for the shipping price of the animals and their feed.

Feeling sweat fall from his brow, he bowed his head to the ground and removed it, lightly gliding his hand through his long, sideswept, auburn fringe that dangled over his eyes and fell to his chin. When he lifted his head up, he heard footsteps approaching him. Sidling along him, walking in a jaunty gait, crimson robe billowing in tow and brown eyes flitting from him to the straps, was Mauricio, or as his stage name, Mauricio the Magician. He was the circus's only magician and had been traveling with them before Trowa had showed up in AC 195.

Trowa thought the dark-skinned man affable if not a bit eccentric. But who was he to judge character when he had some quirks that were dark in nature? He did enjoy some dark and dry humor, at the expense of others and himself. Sometimes, reflecting on the world's ills, in irony, brought some amusement to him that others would find downright creepy and unpleasant.

Mauricio stopped a step from him, looking at the truck and humming what seemed to be his approval.

"Nice work, Trowa," Mauricio commended, nodding at that the straps. "Everything looks to be in fine place and order. It's amazing you did this all by yourself! Then, again, you were always one to take initiative."

"Most of it was packed before I started," said Trowa. He looked between the circus tent and Mauricio.

"Is the meeting over?" Trowa asked, watching Mauricio and crossing his arms.

Mauricio shook his head and chuckled, eyes brightening. The dusk light over his features seemed to make cheerier. "Not for a while. That Arthur. He's trying to come up with something new now, since you'll be indisposed to Sicily. He wants something big! Wonderfully grandiose and downright exhausting, I'd say! We're excited and a bit nervous of what might come, though, now that our favorite clown is gone, it's all a bit of mystery. Humph! Arthur probably wants something explosive, considering your flare with pyrotechnics, I wouldn't be surprised if he started buying more black powder in bulk. We're going to have another burning tent again."

Mauricio chuckled again and threw up his arms, exaggerating an explosion. He then looked up at the sky and said "Boom!" Trowa inwardly grimaced, feeling a slight embarrassment hover, briefly, over him like a cloud. He knew Mauricio's reference, and it did not quell how moronic he had been back in Europe. Grateful, yes, but in Catherine's words, moronic and selfish. Utterly selfish.

"Yep," Mauricio continued with a big sigh, eyes still locked on the sky. "He's gonna work us all to our early graves just because you might miss a few shows. You've only been around us for a few months and yet you're an instant hitmaker with the crowd. What a pain in the ass for you to leave us at a time like this again."

Trowa felt the dig was aimed at him rather than the director, but he easily brushed it off. He nodded and gave a small smile. He knew he didn't give the manager much time to prepare. Trowa suspected he left him in a tight spot. He almost felt bad but that almost disappeared when he knew they were more than capable without him. Always had been and always would be.

"Is there anything you want in particular?" Trowa questioned coolly. Time was not something he had to spare, including small talk. Heero was not one for waiting. The mission was always first.

Mauricio shifted his feet. Trowa blinked slowly in response. So, that's what he wants.

Either Mauricio knew he wasn't getting a bigger portion, gotten bored, or found something more worthwhile for his time. Trowa suspected the latter, but all three had the potential to be true.

Mauricio turned his eyes down to him, winking, and exclaimed, opening and closing his hands like an automated door, "Magic, of course!"

Trowa shook his head and should have realized this had been the choice of late for conversation with him.

"I'm not interested," he dismissed casually.

Lately, since the end of the war, Mauricio had taken the onus of trying to get Trowa into magic. Truthfully, Trowa wasn't interested in learning about magic despite Mauricio's talent. His talents lied in the physical realm. Catherine had disagreed with him, taking on a lecturing tone that made him want to leave the room more times than not, saying it would make him a more rounded performer, which further spurred Mauricio on, like an insistent shark to blood.

It was not to say Trowa found what Mauricio did impressive. Like all talented magicians, Mauricio did the usual: made things vanish and reappear, levitated the impossible, vanished with a crack in the air and reappeared like a ghost, and transformed people into animals. When asked about it, he would shrug and say it's magic and optical illusions despite the "realness" of these tricks. No one seemed to question him, and they readily took what he said at face value.

Trowa had been trying to avoid him as of late. Mauricio had become more persistent recently, a pestering little thing that found more confidence in his refusal, more boldness in his inaction, like an annoying fly attracted by a delicious scent. Cornering Trowa after shows, stopping him after meeting breaks, all in the pursuit of learning magic. It was something Trowa truly didn't care for.

"Magic is real, Trowa!" he said with such earnest that Trowa had to look at him directly in his eyes. There was a serious look on his face, one of import, and his eyes did not hide his forthrightness. "It's in everything we do, including you."

He pointed at Trowa, and Trowa felt slightly uncomfortable. He slowly blinked and then imperceptibly scrunched his brow. Magic within me? Trowa thought skeptically and humorously. The only magic he had was not dying on his own terms and surviving unbelievable situations where death was an assurance. Magic, simply, was survival, pure chance.

"Is that so?"

Trowa didn't believe in magic – the magic Mauricio delved into. Most magic was optical illusions influenced by subtle motions or technology. There was nothing magical about tricks for children. However, sometimes he wondered how Mauricio did his work. It all flowed too seamlessly, each transition moved without flaw or fault that Trowa really thought, for a second, magic was real. It was a foolish thought and he tried not to bother with it.

Mauricio pulled out his magic wand from his hip holster. It was a thin wooden thing, about fourteen inches in length. It looked brittle and worn, its handle the length of his index finger. He could probably snap it in two like a twig with one hand.

"This is my wand," said Mauricio as he held it out in front of him, looking pleased. "Please hold it."

Trowa blinked and then eyed the stick. He wasn't serious, was he? Looking into Mauricio's eyes, Trowa only found encouragement and an earnest if not hopeful reassurance from the older man. Trowa reluctantly grabbed it. As his fingers touched and curled around its length, an unnerving feeling came from the stick, vibrating from the tips of his fingers to his palm. So shocked, he almost dropped it.

The wand… held emotion? It felt hostile, like it was angry at him for touching it, and the more he held it, the more it seemed to snarl at him. Snarl? Could wands snarl? This wasn't real, was it?

Trowa gave Mauricio a confused look. "I don't know what electronics you have stored inside it, but it doesn't seem to like me very much. Get it checked out."

Mauricio laughed loudly and clapped his hands. "No electronics, boy. None at all. The feeling is perfectly natural for you because you don't have ownership of it. And… my wand is temperamental with other wielders, quite snarky that one is."

"Ownership?" Trowa said aloud, looking at the stick lightly vibrating in his hand. It seemed to want to rid him from it.

Trowa wondered how did one gain ownership. Did a person have to surrender their control? Did he have to take it? It was all bizarre. He twirled the wand in his fingers, feeling its annoyance vibrate against his skin at each touch, like it wanted to bite him if it could. Too bad this piece of wood did not have teeth.

Twirling the wand one more time, Trowa handed it to Mauricio, who seemed more than happy to take it back. Mauricio's grin stretched as he held it in his hand, looking it up and down. "If you're able to feel its emotion, then you are magical," Mauricio said plainly.

"I can show you some more if you'd like?" and Mauricio seemed more eager now that Trowa was paying rapt attention than he thought he would.

There was an intensity, an attraction, to that invitation that was so inviting, so enticing. It hung in the air and raised the fine hair on his arms like a pulse of electricity. The temptation called to him like a silent whisper to sink deeper into the depths of magic. What laid in store for him if he agreed?

However, the sudden moment was fleeting, and clarity pulled Trowa back to the present. Something had echoed in Trowa's mind, a reminder of his previous obligation. Trowa lifted his sleeve to his watch and narrowed his eyes at the time. He was late.

"I… next time," Trowa said apologetically. "I'm late for my flight."

"No problem. Next time it is then," Mauricio conceded politely, holding out a hand.

As Trowa went to shake it, his eyes caught a golden glint on his chest. It had come out of Mauricio's robe and swung across his chest. The glint became a large golden necklace with a large hourglass pendant with two inner circles. Inside the hourglass, at its bottom, lied blue, glittering sand. As Trowa stared at it, something seemed to call to him, a pull that felt like a tug of a rope connected his navel.

Suddenly, the hourglass let out a brief pulse. Latin words filled his ears. They chorused in whispers. It sounded like hundreds of voices at once, over speaking and drowning each other out. They flowed in and out of his ears in repetition.

In a way, it was funny. He had read in Latin before, when it was available, but never heard it spoken besides the words from his mouth. The words were familiar like a long-lost friend returning. The language had been dead for ages, though, had only gained popularity among the Earth elite.

The whispers almost felt like real people conversing next to him and inside his head until one came out clearly, a feminine voice supplanting the rest into timid quietness.

What is this here? A heart touched by tragedy. A soul carrying a sorrowful but heroic melody. Oh, a child of the Earth, a soul of time, and a hero fallen from the stars. Yes, you will do. I see your heart, young one. I see the many paths your future opens to you.

Despite your stubbornness, you still have more stories to tell. Your future has not been permanently solidified in stone. Time will need its heroes, as it always does, when the Shadows rise again. Listen to me, child from the stars:

When the stars open before you, when the shooting star falls, time will begin.

I would take heed for this journey is an arduous one. You will need your wits about you, your senses keen, and your eyes open.

Suddenly, the voice became silent, and the world returned to Trowa's ears.

"When the stars open before you, when the shooting star falls, time will begin," Trowa muttered to himself as he stared at the pendant. It sounded like a meteor, but how did falling stars relate to time? Was it literal or metaphorical? It was a puzzle, and Trowa always enjoyed good puzzles to construct and deconstruct.

Mauricio seemed to notice as he followed Trowa's eyes. He took off the pendant and held it in his hand. He gave it an inscrutable look, his gaze searching and questioning. "What in the…? It's never done that before. Strange. Very strange. What in the world is going on here?"

"Did you hear her words?" Trowa chanced a question to him.

"Words?" Mauricio sharply turned his attention to Trowa. He scrunched his brow as his eyes drilled into the teen. "What words? All I saw was the golden pulse of this thing."

Trowa hesitated, unsure of whether to answer. Was he the only one who heard her and the whispers in Latin?

"It must be the magic or something," Trowa concluded, doubting himself, feeling suddenly unsure.

"Magic it may be, but hearing whispers from a magical device is really uncommon. Some would consider it dangerous, as this is not just any magic," Mauricio uttered, his voice lowering, his tone permeating suspense.

Mauricio's eyes became large. There was an intensity that changed his countenance, silently energizing him. He almost looked spellbound. "Rare magic. Time magic," he drawled slowly.

Trowa drew his eyes on the necklace. "You're not saying…"

"It's exactly that!" Mauricio exclaimed; his eyes brightened like a supernova. "This magic allows one to go back in time. It's called a Time-Turner. You see these two nobs. One of them controls hours and the right one minutes. But this useless trinket never seemed to work for me. It's been passed down my family for years as a memento, since it's defunct. Always thought it was broken. Tried a Reparo spell but it proved useless.

"Perhaps…" he whispered the last, his eyes wide and mouth open, frozen in thought.

Then, Mauricio smiled a strange smile, and it gave Trowa pause as it seemed hungry, even dangerous. There was something in that smile Trowa did not like. He looked Trowa up and down, and something in his eyes seemed to grow more emboldened. "Perhaps… Yes, it should… I wonder if it'll work for you?"

Mauricio took off the necklace and tossed it to him. Trowa caught it in one hand and looked at him expectantly. The gold felt cool on his skin, and what had happened previously, did not seem to work as it looked rather innocuous. It looked like gaudy jewelry sold in an antique shop on display.

"What am I supposed to do with this?" Trowa asked, holding up the necklace. It gleamed golden in the dusk light and gently swayed like a pendulum.

Mauricio laughed. "It's time. It's starts one way and then finishes in another. Time always has ways of meeting its ends. I'll get it back, eventually. You can bet on that. You better go. Otherwise, you'll be late for your flight."

Before Trowa could get a word out, Mauricio cracked out of existence. Trowa nearly took a step back, watching the now empty space. This time Mauricio's departure felt more real than usual. That was magic, he thought cautiously. Real, inconceivable magic.

Trowa was left alone in contemplative silence as he looked at the Time-Turner. The strangeness it had emitted earlier was gone, and now it looked ordinary in the palm of his hand. So ordinary that one could have confused it for an ugly, gaudy pendant. Sighing, Trowa pocketed it and left for the spaceport, hoping to the high heavens nothing else as strange would happen. It already gave him a plate to think about.

"Magic," he whispered exasperatedly, almost incredulously.