Epilogue
A little boy, huddled up on his bed and hoping his father was too drunk to notice the black eye he'd gotten at school. Not because his father would be mad that he'd gotten into a fight. Oh, no, he'd be mad that he hadn't won the fight. That'd he'd tried to do what Mother said to do and walk away.
A single tear slipped down, out of his good eye, and he prayed, desperately, that his father would never find out the fight had started because he'd tried to make friends with the bully.
Archer found him in the tiny hotel room's bathroom, huddled up next to the bathtub with a picture of Rosalie in his hands. The detective sighed, sitting down on the bathtub's outer edge, saying nothing about how he'd been yelling the young cop's name for the past five minutes and never gotten a response.
"How long did you have her?"
A twitch. "Found her at the shelter when I moved away from home."
The worn, jaded detective nodded, leaning in to see the picture better. The beagle leaned into her master, tongue lolling out and her muzzle wide in a doggy grin – the picture was still, but he could tell the beagle was in the middle of a glorious scratching session courtesy of her joyous human.
"Why her?"
Another twitch that might've been a smile. "She was the only one not barking up a storm and jumping at the fence. Just sat there and waited for me to come to her."
"Smart dog."
A huff. "Only when it came to food, sir." Then he crumpled, folding in on himself as he grieved for the only friend he'd had. Archer rested a hand on his shoulder, waiting for the rookie constable to cry himself out.
"Lionel."
He'd been looking for hours, frantic to make sure Castor hadn't taken Lionel, too. John was dead and that was bad enough – he didn't think he could stand it if he lost both of them.
The heavy glass slammed down on the bar and he flinched, fighting back a flash of his father.
"Go away."
"Lionel, what's wrong?"
The curly-haired man laughed, a harsh, grating laugh. "What's wrong? What's wrong?" He whirled on his bar stool, pure fury boring into him – fury, from his one remaining friend.
"Lionel?" Confusion and plea, woven together.
"What's wrong, Saint Parker, is you got my friend killed!" A blunt finger jabbed into his chest. "If you weren't so goodie-two shoes, he'd be alive!"
He backed up, guilt flashing. "Lionel, I didn't know," he cried.
Please… Please don't leave me all alone…
Lionel shoved him. "No, you didn't," he spat. "But he's still dead!" And it's all your fault.
He stared as Lionel turned around, signaling the bartender for another drink. Totally and completely ignoring him. As if he didn't even exist anymore…
He waited for Ed to leave. For the inevitable to happen and for him to walk away, into the sunset, taking another piece of his soul with him. When he found out Ed had another friend, a best friend, he pulled back, quietly swallowing down hurt. But he knew. Friends…they just weren't in the cards for him. Oh, he wanted friends – wanted them with every ounce of his heart and tattered soul, but… It just wasn't to be.
Besides, Ed's other friend was probably a much better friend than he'd ever be, anyways…
"Some reason you keep skipping Saturday basketball?"
He blinked, looking up from his locker, gun belt in hand. He scrabbled for an answer, something that would make sense. That would remind the other man that he wasn't his best friend. "I thought you had something going on with Kevin."
"Greg, that was three Saturdays ago. Just for one game." Exasperation and annoyance – he ducked his head, avoiding piercing blue eyes.
A hand thwacked his chest, forcing him to look up. "Greg. This Saturday. Usual spot. Be there."
Everything was broken. Shattered into a million, billon pieces. And he sat in the middle of it all, clutching his head. Wishing he was dead – living hurt too much. Memory, knowledge, skills, talents – his soul; it was all torn apart, as if he'd been savaged by a cerberus. Or a chimera.
A soft moan escaped as he rocked back and forth – everything he was, it was gone, leaving behind a shell of a man. A ghost, a Shade…
Something touched his shoulder and he scrambled away, crying out as shards of thought sliced through his palms. Logic and emotion cutting into arms and legs. He ended up in a corner of the destroyed room, wary, feral hazel locked on a pitch black twin of himself. Sinister yellow met his gaze and he somehow knew the figure was…sad.
The figure let out a low, inviting rumble and he cocked his head at the sound, but shrank back, unwilling to trust.
A scattered dream that's like a far off memory.
He didn't…didn't understand…but something…something rang true within him.
A far off memory that's like a scattered dream.
The figure eased closer, extending a hand, and he bared his teeth, growling lowly.
I want to line the pieces up, yours and mine.
There was a moment as they stared at each other, one with hand still extended, the other doing his best to hide in the wreckage of his very soul.
Then the black figure moved.
And he screech-keened.
It hurt. Like being torn apart and put back together. Getting struck by lightning, yet grounding safely. Being remade, from the inside out, weak, frail, and helpless as a newborn gryphlet.
The broken, shattered, useless shards around him – they swirled, rising from the ash of his mind's destruction. Two tiny, jagged pieces slid back together and he screamed from the pain of it. From the memory they held – a sharp backhand into the wall when his father had come home drunk, but not so drunk that he couldn't vent his frustration on the nearest available target.
A third jagged piece landed between the first two, all three merging together; a howl of agony broke free as memory flared again – he and Catherine sharing bites from their first piece of wedding cake, beaming at each other and so excited for what came next. On his other side, a cluster of shards swirled together, linking together so fast that his entire body quaked under the force of each blow – the day his son was born, coming home to find them gone, the pounding on his door at 3 AM. Finding Lancelot injured and unconscious in that ragged, filthy apartment complex. A phone call, right as he'd been convinced that no one would take a recovering drunk like him – 'Congratulations, Detective Parker, you made the cut. Welcome to the Strategic Response Unit.'
Bit by bit, memory by memory, the framework of his mind rebuilt itself, sinking deep into the foundations of his soul. Rudimentary knowledge bolstered the framework, each piece another nail and screw and board – he gasped as his tongue unstuck from the roof of his mouth and letters appeared around him. Each of them forming an alphabet – three of them, unique and separate, but part of his very core. Countless words layered on top of each other, forming the plaster of the walls around him. Skills flared into being, each a sturdy piece of furniture, crafted of expensive, high-class materials. The very best that money could buy – and each so perfectly suited to his mind that he felt a thrill of fear dance up his spine.
Who was he that the Builder would go to so much trouble?
The first talent nearly made him weep, it was so beautiful. So unique, so exquisite, so perfectly matched to his soul. As if it had been made for him and him alone – the mold broken afterwards so no one else could ever have that talent. And it wasn't alone – more formed around him, each one a perfect match for him and unique from each other in a way he understood, but couldn't describe. It just was.
The pain continued, but it was muted. Distant – drowned out by the joy and awe at what was being rebuilt inside of him. Each layer of destruction gently wiped away and knit together anew by a power that came from deep, deep within, but wasn't his. Not by a long shot.
And when, at last, it was done, he found himself inside a wonderfully crafted home, built exactly to his needs and desires. Even the worst of his past had settled into place, forming a whole that was ever more perfect for the pain of those memories.
He pushed himself up, gazing up and around at the palace around him – and shame erupted. He was so very, very unworthy. Clad in rags, with the morals of an animal. Imperfect, flawed – so selfish that his inner longing for a friend had chained six unwilling souls to his own. Forcing them to stay, twisting them until they believed he was their friend – what folly.
"Be at peace, Son of Adam."
He jerked, head coming up and eyes going wide at the sight of the Lion. Without thought, he threw himself down, unwilling to stand before the One who knew him best. Inside, outside, and right down to the darkest urges he'd buried so deeply even he didn't know what they were.
A paw rested on his back, but, to his shock, the claws didn't extend. Didn't ravage him as he deserved. Instead the Lion bent His great head, breathing out – he felt the clothing around him flutter and gasped as it reformed, covering far more of his body than it had before.
"Rise, Son of Adam."
He pushed himself up on shaking arms and trembling knees, keeping his head down and eyes averted. But the Lion's paw gently pushed his chin up, forcing him to meet that deep, fathomless amber gaze.
"Son of Adam, there is nothing that your magic has done which I have not permitted," Aslan rumbled. The Lion's muzzle lowered, allowing Him to meet the human's hazel even more directly. "You have fought honorably and well this night."
"I have?" he asked, only to wince as his most recent memories surfaced. Involuntarily, his hands rose, clutching at his head – and the Lion breathed on him again, sending pain fleeing.
"Walk with Me, Son of Adam," the Lion rumbled; as He turned, the palace around them vanished, turning into the familiar grassy plains of Narnia.
Greg scrambled to keep up with Aslan, though he couldn't muster the will to ask any more questions.
"You recall, I am sure, your imprisonment in the Netherworld."
Hazel widened in horror. "This is something Tolay did to me?"
The Lion shook His head. "No, it is not. My Enemy, Tash, laid many traps for you in the months leading up to your imprisonment. One such trap was the destruction of your mind, Son of Adam, caused by the damage to your magical core and the links which your magic forged in desperation."
Greg shivered. "But…that was years ago."
The great muzzle inclined in agreement. "The goblins of Gringotts did their task well, Son of Adam. They rebuilt your mindscape, crafting it as best they could on the ruins Tash left for them." Grave amber turned towards him. "But it has always been fragile, Son of Adam, and easily disrupted. It has been by My Grace that their construction lasted as long as it did."
The stocky man frowned, trying to understand the chain of events. "Something happened when I got hurt in the riot?"
Another grave nod. "The blow to your head damaged your ability to control your magic, Son of Adam. Each time you attempted to reach for your power, you demanded more of the goblins' construct than it could provide. With each attempt, more of the mindscape broke apart, causing great pain."
He shivered again. "Until I destroyed it all."
"That is so, Son of Adam," Aslan affirmed.
The Lion halted, waiting for Greg to stop as well. The fields around them faded away, replaced by the stone architecture of Cair Paravel, the castle on Narnia's Eastern Sea.
"I have rebuilt your mindscape, Son of Adam. The Enemy may never again destroy what I have redeemed."
"But…?" Greg ventured.
"Your magic is not lost to you, Son of Adam. It is My Father's Gift to you and can never be destroyed by anything save death." The Lion stooped and Greg froze in place as the Lion's forehead touched his, in a manner akin to what his gryphon form preferred. "But until you learn to wield it once more, it will act of its own accord."
Greg swallowed hard, afraid to ask, but he had to. "Does that mean I'm gonna be stuck in my partial form?"
The Lion rumbled a laugh, but shook His head. "I will not permit it to rebel as once it did," He promised. Softening, He gazed down at the human in His Paws. "Courage, dear heart."
Greg jerked in surprise, then looked down at his chest. Pain – slicing into his mind. Wasn't this what Aslan had just fixed?
A paw came to rest on top of his hand; he nearly choked at how large it was; and the pain faded away, though there was a lurch somewhere deep inside and a sense of something changing. Permanently and irrevocably.
He looked up again, startled at how close the Lion was.
"Know this, Son of Adam. You are Mine and you will never walk alone, for I AM with you."
The Truth of those words slammed into him, hard as a sledgehammer, yet soft, like being wrapped in the warmest blanket he could ever imagine. He flung himself at the Lion, burying his face in Aslan's fur and let the grief of a child, a boy, a man flow down his cheeks.
And if the Lion sank down, curling around him with a rumbling purr, well… It was exactly what his lonely, sorrowing spirit needed most.
And it meant only the Lion saw the moment when hazel shifted, gaining the keen sight of a gryphon and the sparkle of the Man's native scarlet magic.
He rumbled approval. The Healing had Begun.
~Fin
Author Note: And fade to black... *cues Flashpoint ending music*
As ever, I hope everyone enjoyed the wild ride we've been on with Greg and company! It's certainly been one of my longer stories with lots of cameos and moving parts. = )
I do appreciate and respond to all signed reviews, so please read and review!
In a swift Real Life update - The Light of Arunzi (formerly, Small Beginnings) is ready to roll. Lord Willing, by the end of today, I will have sent out my first couple query letters. Many prayers going up as I enter the treacherous, monotonous, query letter trenches. Much 'hurry up and wait' awaits me, yet I shall not be deterred! And May the Lord Guide me to His choice for my literary agent.
Moving on, I have a confession to make. I had planned to post a oneshot related to this story, but in examining the calendar for this year, I discovered Halloween 2025 is on a Friday. And not just any Friday, but a Friday that falls into our biweekly posting schedule. D'oh!
As a result, the story that I'd carefully lined up to conclude right before Halloween 2025, well... It isn't going to do that unless I drop the oneshot. In fact, with the loss of a Friday posting, my pre-Halloween story may end up running past Halloween (rats!). So, sadly, for logistical reasons, I need to drop the oneshot. I'll see if I can poke around and find space for the oneshot elsewhere. No promises, though. I mean, it will eventually get posted, but I cannot promise that it'll get posted this year.
So... In lieu of the oneshot, our next story, "Would You Save A Soul?" will be kicking off on Friday, April 4th 2025, right here in the main Flashpoint archive.
See You on the Battlefield!