Though he did not wish to accept the truth, the old man was continually bombarded by the lack of fire that had resulted from recent events. No longer was his spirit tempered and uplifted by dreams of ambition or beauty, and great occurrences were now passing cares; he had seen all, and experienced the best and bitterest of what had come in his long, ageless life. As he traced the white columns, circulating in unbridled, flawless splendor, he could only wish to be absorbed in the elements, and become careless, breezing through a light wind over some sunny sky. But ‘twas not so. No, not even superior knowledge and his omniscience could grant him such a repose, for though he knew the intellects of many men, and had committed nobler acts than the finest retainers of ancient kingdoms could boast of, nothing remained to stoke the silent embers of his heart. The evanescence itself of this flame could no longer strike audience with his attention, which now only served to gaze beyond distance – beyond time – and beyond life, into realms far and close in mind. He did not weep, for his tears were dead inside; the spiritual well in which sorrow dips to bring forth moonlit drops of subtle pain was dry; yea, his passion had betrayed him and left entirely. His heart was not ice, nor was it fire; it simply was relegated to muffled tremors in a chest whose prime had passed long since. Much like place in which its owner resided, it could only press on in existence, never failing or giving start, but constant; unwavering and dully animated.
What is love, to a man and place such as this? Was it attachment? For relation to anything here only meant that one had passed the space of a time in companionship or residence; nothing more could be extracted from such a bond. Was it passion? For though he could observe each cavalier of poesy and the rose languish in romance, he had none, nor want of emotion. Was it life? For neither the living nor dead could discern their status in a place as this, devoid of all save the vaporous mists of aeons, and a vantage to their passing. Love was merely a word at the End of Time, relegated to a cold term and denotation, and never symbolizing its truth thereof; though it had existed once, that point was fixed in time – a small point in the infinite span of eternity, veiled by the temporal journey away from it. Ere this beset of woe, he had fain hoped to return to that point, and though he may have succeeded in a small regard, he had not the will to continue. Happy times were naught when mixed in with those spent in regret and affliction, as a fount shall only remain clean until dirt enters its stream, and then be forever mixed until quieted evermore.
He thus had one, last wish; not a product of the escaped feelings he once had harbored, but a product of their absence – to depart hence, and subject his body to the caprice of time, and its blue-crested, impartial waves. Though he had conquered it, no more could be stand to be unnaturally out of its flow, and removed from the cycle that claims every and respects no one. O, woe betided him. Those shimmering bursts of azure-adorned light, in accordance with their presider, had lost their capacity for any use, and now would be fully sealed. The architecture that once supported the carriers of a magnanimous dream would also be reduced to zero, leaving only those mists that unrelentingly pervaded the environs. It would cease here…
“Spekkio, have you prepared? Is your chamber vacant?” the old man coughed, with a strained voice.
“Yes…it is.”
“Very well. I pray, lend me a boost; I must close up the Gates.”
“Master, leave them. They no longer function.”
“Nay. We must reduce this place to the nothingness it was when we sprung upon it. Come.”
“Very, very well.”
The odd creature closed its soulful eyes and clasped its fist, which radiated with a subtle power. The old sage began to chant a song that, unlike the hundreds of incantations employed by his peers of a dozen millennia before Guardia’s founding, had been used only once before in the spectacular and spanning history of the world. One could not tell the grinding of hours that had taken toll on his spirit, yet the few words muttered were flawless in his execution. With each syllable uttered into the swirling air, the circled beacons dimmed in their array of gleaming sparkles, eventually shrinking in height until they seemed to retreat into the ground, being absorbed in singularities. The bronze-gold gate surrounding the platform on which the columns once emanated from seemed to heave and sigh upon losing the luminous reflection provided by said pillars; their dissipating also removed further the restrained sparkle in the guru’s eye. Logically, the Gates were useless, as the starter of the dream upon the mission’s realization had closed them; however, perhaps attachment played a role here, causing deep, almost undetectable pains in the man’s heart. Notwithstanding, he continued, until only the uppermost column remained untouched. It flickered in a fickle manner, shedding only some light on the darkened corners around it. Not a word was spoken.
“…Dear Gaspar, what is to be come of you?”
“Do not worry, Spekkio. Long have I sat atop this origin of time; however, a mere human such as I is not meant for such a stay. Believe me, Spekkio, it is high time for me to leave.”
“To where will you travel?”
“Oh, don’t concern yourself. I’ll have myself a nice time.”
“What of the anomalies?”
“I suspect that…whoever pops in here may take up residence as I did. It is not my concern. My purpose is fulfilled; it is gone from me.”
“Such words, from you…Gaspar, I will miss you.”
He could only gaze down at the floor of his platform, which now began to fade, and took on a transparent quality due to the nature of the magic now working to dissipate the structure. Its entire history vanished; the well that served to enrich the health of the heroes of time fell into nothingness, while the Gate bucket brought about by his own hand fragmented into the basic elements of Light, Water, and Fire – evident in the triangle pieces that fell away. The bridge, once utilized as a dock to the winged chariot of time, also became vapors in the mist; Spekkio’s door at once opened and disappeared, revealing nothing. Forever zero; the pedestal of the guru was ageless, yet was reduced in little time. Gaspar approached the solitary column remaining. He stood near, and helpless to enter, turned at once to Spekkio, who was engaged in watching the destruction of his former home in awe. Perhaps the sage’s heart was startled –
“I have resolved to do this, and I shall, Spekkio.”
“Thy will be done, master. And your will alone.”
“Time has been saved,” he continued, probably justifying his decision. “Power of my caliber is no longer required, and can only have a negative influence on the timeline.”
“Oh, that’s readily apparent. We can’t have any Time Egg blacksmiths around.”
“My work here is done. It is not my responsibility to gaze into time periods for oddities, or into the privacy of the workings of time.”
“Yes; I know that these things no longer excite you, as science once did.”
“Spekkio…no. I am too tired.”
“Then let us depart. Master, it was a wonder knowing you.”
“Please, do not pierce with those words…”
“Go on. Step in the light. This place will be left to the whim of a chancing traveler.”
“…I…have to.”
His blood quickened; though Spekkio’s ruminations and pointed comments did stir his spiritual well somewhat, he remained resolved to go through with the act of eliminating his home at the End of Time and inserting himself into another timeline to die naturally.
“Then go. If you believe it is the right, do so. I shall see you, somewhere, Gaspar. It was a pleasure…old friend.”
Spekkio turned away, and an intense whirlwind around him formed. His texture illuminated with the colors of the visible spectrum and those beyond in either wavelength direction; he at last condensed into a singularity, demonstrating an ability that few had possessed in the entire history of the planet. Gaspar watched, with the full knowledge that he probably would not set eyes upon the God of War again in his lifetime, even if he were to remain immortal at the End of Time. Fortunately, his intellect was not allowed to perceive the rashness of his actions, as he continued to feel restricted and cold internally. He began to proceed toward the light…a voice –
“I’m not going to give you the chance, old man.”
“What? Spekkio? Who is there?”
Out of a dark corner of the remaining architecture of the End of Time, a shrouded figure approached, stepping into the reach of the last Gate’s radiance. A blue hood covered the person’s eyes, though did not fully restrict wavy hair, which appeared as waves atop the sea. Though they were covered, one could not escape the feeling of being watched by intense, piercing eyes. The face tapered towards the chin in a way suggesting slyness, or a particularly dangerous intellect. The man’s form stood tall and commanding, striking intimidation in even the elements that supported his weight; no wind blew, yet his figure seemed animated as his hood slightly moved in the mist. Gaspar strained to see him, and at once, the cloak effortlessly blew off through a dash of magic, revealing a strikingly handsome but awe-inspiring countenance; the eyes indeed saw through the old sage, past his core and to realms far beyond. His hair, now released, shone blue with magnificence paralleled only by the sapphire gem, and though his lips were drawn to a stern position, a curt tension at one side indicated quick wit. He might instantly strike fear and wonderment alike in those with the chance of gazing upon his full beauty and terrible presence. Truly, beyond all poetic devices, none could match him in these regards.
“About to depart, are we?”
“Janus! It is you! I—“
“Hmm?”
“I thought you had perished! I could not see you from this point—“
“Don’t concern yourself with my whereabouts. Now, old man…”
“Don’t come closer! What is it you want?”
Magus stared into the infinite swirl of mist above, and then replied.
“Your assistance, dear guru.”
“You’re unusually talkative! Magus, I play no role in the fortunes of time.”
“Oh?”
“I am leaving here forever.”
“As I said, that matter is up to me.”
“You!!”
“Gaspar, I need you to help me with something.”
“I…!”
Magus waved his hand, instantly silencing Gaspar with a spell.
“Gaspar, have you observed the actions of Serge?”
The old sage’s eyes instantly relaxed, and drifted upwards, recounting the vision of several events seen in 1020 A.D. He recalled his peer, Belthasar, and his intricate designs; the poor boy Serge, who was destined to undertake a quest to patch up negative effects of the very quest he himself had furthered, though without knowledge that the recreation of the Ocean Palace disaster would lead to such a disastrous side-effect. He did recall the dimensions, and experiments undertaken to test their relation to timelines. As the guru had been sinking into depression at this point, these events did strike him with no more than a passing relevance.
“Good. Come with me.”
His vocal cords relaxed, prompting him to gasp for air.
“How did you get here?”
“How does anyone?”
“Janus…using the closed Gates forcefully stresses…the space time continuum!”
“I’ve more important fish to fry, at the moment, than worry about this. In addition, my name is Magus. Let us depart hence.”
“You fool! I’ll not come along your…whims!”
Magus did not speak a word, but gripped Gaspar and placed him on the last column. Uttering low words on how dreary the End of Time was, Magus stepped into the light himself, and quickly manipulated the Shadow element to force the closed Gate open, allowing it to engulf the two travelers. Accompanying them were the usual azure-lidded orbs that circle in Entity-produced Gates, complete with white sparkles that dotted what has been named the ‘plane of time,’ or a flat span produced by the visual effects of using such a Gate. The excursion to 600 A.D. was mundane for Magus, who had the tainted pleasure of enduring the largest time disruption recorded – that of the summoning of Lavos, responsible for the forwarding of the planet’s dream and the fall of the Mystics. However, as the aura increased in intensity, these thoughts faded to reveries and sweet nothingness, lacking purpose.
What is purpose? Is it that which binds man to life, providing a light for one to seek and work towards attaining? Or is purpose simply existing – the search for one’s destiny? Though many of the world have believed that destiny is chosen prior to birth, and that a fate is god over their actions, a few, such as Magus, rebel against the vaporous chains of this entity, striving to break free of its supposed cycle. Those who undertake this task often fall short, discouraged; however, one can only truly break free and choose one’s own destiny if one never gives up in life – even in death. The Guru Gaspar was guilty of this in some part; though his attempts to trace the dimensional tracks of his love were laborious and excruciating, he grew tired as time’s sands shifted downward, eventually relinquishing the mission and abandoning his own vantage point atop the hourglass. Magus of the shadows, however, had pressed on in his personal mission, which likewise contained the ultimate objective of finding love – though, a different kind of the affection. Even in the face of the greatest and most formidable threat, the sole being who surpassed him in magical ability, Magus did not cower, but thrust forward with courage and lack of regret. The ‘mission’ here is lost – for freemen define their own purpose, and seek it vigorously, instead of casting their fate to wherever the wind may take them.
Indeed, some events may be purposeful warnings – but speculation as this was absent, along with any other thought, in the minds of Gaspar and Magus, for the Gate traveling had rendered them unconscious in peaceful slumber; the guru’s old age might be blamed for his blackout, while the formidable Magus simply may not have been prepared for the onset of soporific temporal effects. Were such things natural? Surely, these afflictions did not plague the heroes of time in their quest, and could now only be reasonably the byproduct of disruptions in the space-time continuum. Nay, these worries could not conflict with the relaxed intellects of the pair. In short time, a Gate materialized in a forest clearing, marked with a wooden post on one edge. Falling out of a dream, the two were heaped upon the ground, retaining their own vagaries as they quietly lay on the meadow under the oscillating Gate. Several hours would pass, and the sun would approach its retirement for the day, before the odd couple would stretch and breathe the sylvan growth’s fresh air. Dumbfounded and groggy, Magus pulled his eyelids upward, and rolled to a sitting position. Gaspar also coughed, and peered at the mage, whose hair contrasted the orange sky. He of the shadows lifted his right arm and pointed a finger at the sage of time.
“Damn you, old man,” he muttered.
“No, damn you, Janus!” the guru replied. “Where are we? This is not Truce Canyon, nor are we in the Middle Ages!”
“Shut up, and come with me.”
“My, my! Is this?”
Gaspar’s eyes wandered to the marker, barely readable in the sunset’s pale gleam.
“This is the modern era! You did not force the Gate, did you?”
Gaspar was met with silence, and rapped Magus on the shoulder.
“I do what I must!”
“You strain the continuum! What time did you send us to?”
The approximate answer was unneeded, for high above the forest’s reach stood a castle – albeit blackened by fire damage not repaired – that was missing some of its towers, and whose capstone was a banner displaying a proud Gryphon. Straining his eyes, Gaspar could make out several dots along the highest watchtower, and a long barrel jutting from the main keep. The vision of Magus was perfect, however – he knew those dots were equipped with rifles and scopes, and that the shaft was in reality a piece of artillery. Fortunately, the pair would be safe among the shadows of the approaching night; this fact did nothing to calm Gaspar, however – though his tone of voice became serious and deep; it resonated with sobriety, perhaps bestowed by the fear of those commanding the castle, or a return of purpose.
“I know that flag well, Janus. I ask you again: where are we?”
“My magic is not advanced enough to control precise Gate mechanics. We’re as close as I may take us.”
“To what?”
“To a key.”
“I see. We’re on a deceptive journey. Do you think me a tool, Janus?”
“You are…I require you.”
“I see how it—“
Magus quickly hushed the guru’s mouth, and ducked with the sage in his arms into a hedge. What had eluded Gaspar’s auditory cortex was readily ringing in the ears of the shadowed one – the clang of boots, guns, and military equipment. Unable to maintain his composure, Gaspar coughed, prompting one of the soldiers to break formation and check the hedge; the other guards forged on. With a wave of the hand, Magus caused every muscle in the trooper’s body to relax; he crumpled on the ground.
“Power as that should not exist,” Gaspar said aloud.
The alert duo eventually left the glades, alternating between crawling and walking as patrols passed by. At the exit of the forest, Magus instructed Gaspar to accompany him east; on the horizon rose smoke trails, barely visible in the last rays of the fading orb. The journey to their source was straightforward; once in the city’s limits, the guru and mage paused at a small eatery. Wine was served – at high cost, even though it had been brewed freshly in 1023 AD – along with several pieces of dark bread. Gaspar saw an opportunity for dialogue.
“Now that we are settled, tell me your true intent, Janus.”
Magus paused, and looked up.
“I seek something in time. You are most knowledgeable on the subject; it is thus reasonable for you to assist me.”
“I thought you were dead until recently. I could not see you from the End of Time.”
“Do not ever look for me,” Magus began. “If meetings are to be, I will find you.”
“Never fear; I haven’t forgotten your reputation as a brooding, fickle child.”
Magus exhaled under his breath, perhaps uttering an indiscernible curse at the Guru. Several drunkards, who had recently stumbled in from the tavern across the street, now populated the restaurant they sat in. Spraying foul curses and cheery merriments into the air, they proceeded to clear a table and encourage onlookers to behold their dancing abilities. Glass broke on the floor; the shattering sound complemented a slurred ditty of years past –
Hail to thee, dear Guardia!
A’ knights and squires true;
For runs crimson kingly blood
In our veins of red and blue;
Through times a’gone,
And nearer still today,
Our battles shall be greatly won!
Our enemies shall be flayed—
At this point in the song, the drunken man was pulled down from the table by a few, sober men of stout build. Forthwith, the restaurant entrance was brutishly opened by a patrol of Porre troops; the squad proceeded to beat the sprawling man until he fell silent with bloody unconsciousness. At this length, the headman of the crew stood upright and raised his arm—
“Let this be a warning! Any mention of Guardia shall be punished severely! Charge of treason shall be given, fulfilled by death!”
The commander kicked the drunken man once more, causing a spit of blood. Quickly, a member of the team repositioned the table that had been displaced, while the rest dragged the Guardian supporter out of the restaurant in chains. Once their departure was complete, several patrons of the eatery left the building to the owner’s objections; a faithful servant approached Gaspar and Magus.
“We’re sorry—“
“It is fine, dear girl,” Gaspar corrected.
“Well then – what shall your main course be?”
“Oh, I’ll have a simple stew. Janus, for you?”
Magus stared blankly.
“A cherry.”
“Uh – okay, one second,” and off the waitress went.
“It is deplorable, isn’t it? That history had to turn this way? I did not foresee the rise of the nation of Porre as a byproduct of the planet’s dream; though unfortunately, it is now ingrained into the tablet of time. Better that a few suffer in three centuries’ blink, than an entire population perish in hell fire. Ah…were it not so,” Gaspar lamented.
“It can be changed.” Magus’ reply was simple, but meaningful.
“No! Perish the thought. You cannot save these people.”
“…As if I would care.”
“I didn’t think you did. It is better that one stays out of temporal affairs for now; Lavos and the Time Devourer are both eradicated. The plan of Belthasar put unbelievable stress on this timeline; I believe its effects are still being manifested in some form, and may have been responsible for my displacement in another dimension.”
Magus lifted a brow.
“Oh, long…long story. Anyway – now that the timeline has been repaired, although somewhat patchworkedly, the future is mostly save. Nonetheless, it could have disastrous effects, if one were to travel in time.”
“Belthasar…Project Kid?”
“That is correct. Janus, where on the planet have you been?”
“…”
“Need a refresher? Know you of Serge?”
“…Yes.”
“Then you remember that Schala—“
“Schala!”
“Uhh—yes; she was freed, but unfortunately soon disappeared; from my observation, it seemed her only remaining objective was to find Serge – a ludicrous task, considering everyone in El Nido and outside of time knows where he resides.”
Magus’ fist tightened.
“If you don’t know the specifics,” Gaspar continued, “when the dimensions were unified, and the Time Devourer was eliminated, the historical devices by which Project Kid was accomplished were no longer necessary. Chronopolis now stands as a ruined, empty building. The resulting dimension – precisely the one in which we are now – was simply a rewinding of natural time to 1010 A.D., with Serge implanted moments after his passing out in 1020 A.D. during a talk with a friend.”
“What of Kid?”
“Well, she may not exist…I…haven’t checked what occurs after the dimensional unification, actually…”
“No matter. She isn’t of concern.”
“I continually forget that only those who partook of Serge’s quest or were outside of the normal time stream at the hour of his dimensional unification retain any memory of the event. I know not how you have memory, but Janus, I know you are worried about your sister; is she the reason you’ve taken me?”
Silence ensued the abrupt question. While he restrained from speaking, Magus noticed that his cherry had been placed in front of him on a silver platter. Delicately lifting it by its stalk, he gently placed it in his mouth and bit it off. One crushing move with his mandible, and he was instantly spirited away to realms over and beyond the imagination; yea, that paragon of beauty and enlightenment, having once sailed the skies before meeting a tumultuous death. In those times, he had regularly enjoyed such a treat; only in the gardens of Zeal did fruit dare to grow, and the plumpest of the product was selected for the palate of the royal family. At times, the lure of this Elysium would provoke him to consider retirement there; surely, a temporal way could be found to paradise. Though his intellect had long-since surpassed the finest works of the laboratories of Kajar, and albeit he took no solace in dreams, Enhasa and the other goldenly arrayed cities of the magic kingdom always awaited him on the other side of a Gate. Though the quick eras surrounding her life were problematic and troublesome, she could be found there too…
“Well, I certainly understand that as meddlers in the affairs of time, we should look after our changing actions,” Gaspar began, observing Magus relax his eyelids to the taste of cherry.
“Meddlers…” he whispered, ere finishing the fruit. “We are…the scourge of time, and reality. Our existence only hampers the normal flow of all. If it were the world’s fate to perish in the spires of Lavos, so be it. Each to their own time era, yet we have no residency in the flow; we are outsiders. The End of Time is merely a rotting repose. Nothing…can come of…”
“Interfering? Drifting? And this is all fine, I suppose, as long as you have your Schala?”
Gaspar’s scientific and analytical mind, only recently having a taste of love and sorrow, could not yet fully comprehend the poignancy of his comment. Magus, at this point, had become very mildly mentally unstable; his clenched fist, merely by its tightness and the actions of its muscles, began to extract the basic fire element from the air surrounding it. A subtle ring of fire circulated around his hand; the surface below the tabletop began to blacken with faint smoke. Suddenly, his gaze relaxed; he now glanced upward at the ceiling with a barely-opened mouth. The burning dissipated, and a flash of unrelenting, total determination swept over his eyes. Foolish is the man who doubts the wizard’s resolve.
“There is one that I seek in particular. We leave tonight for El Nido.”
“Surely; however, I cannot float with magic.”
“A ferry shall suffice.”
“That is, if the politics of 1023 AD haven’t prohibited the luxury,” Gaspar corrected.
The two stood up from the table, leaving a few gold coins as a generous tip. The open night air had begun to drift into the restaurant; outside, it proliferated with a certain cool humidity. In the distance, a number of torches marked the dock of Truce, which was bustling with fresh shipments from Medina – packages of food and assorted magical trinkets that were distributed to antique collectors. In a neglected corner of the olden group of piers rested a ferryboat whose paint was peeling and whose body was blotched by smudges of smoke, barely visible in the evening. Traversing on the battered wooden platforms of the dock evoked a certain air of sadness; even the armed soldiers watching and checking the flow of traffic could feel weightiness in their hearts. The duo of time travelers were very familiar with this emotion, and regarded it as a passing care; they sauntered to the front office and paid thirty pieces of gold to secure a voyage to the archipelago in which Project Kid transpired. Offered scantly adorned bunks in the hold of the vessel, Gaspar and Magus accepted and prepared to sleep.
Magus was first to enter the land of Nod – however, prior to succumbing to rest, he pulled a small, worn notebook out of his pocket, and began to flip through the pages. Arriving at one whose corner was turned and folded, his eyes focused to accommodate the curved text written upon it.
March 18th, 2334 A.D.
The final designs are in order; the simulation, accounting for a variety of possible variables, reported a successful scenario twenty-three times out of twenty-five. I believe I have attained an adequate level of control to ensure the project is carried out; the major factors are in order, including the research on the Entity – I believe I have its favor. My troop of scientists has precisely pinpointed geometrically the opposite of Chronopolis in relation to location if El Nido were considered a circle. I later appropriately accommodated for the introduction of the tower. All stands ready. Looking back, it is a wonder that I have come this far; I shall not lose sight of the objective now. The most advanced medical science of this era has prolonged my lifespan considerably – perhaps if I stayed few years, I could conceivably become an immortal, though there are bad connotations with that word. Only once in history has the human race come close to achieving that end, and the effects of its failure have caused the scourge I am working to eliminate now.
Ah, it seems the time has come; the robotic mechanics have left a message stating that the antiparticle shells are in place and finely-tuned. No temporal disruptions threaten my voyage now. It is time to bid farewell; if Project Kid fails, the T.D. fusion shall leave just enough time for another run – though this time, one may have to intervene directly and empower the young Arbiter, for the T.D. would be inexplicably stronger. … I wonder if Melchior is alive. I shall find out in due time –
The entry abruptly ceased on this line; the dark wizard might have turned and read other pages, but his eyes had become glazed for lack of sleep. As he closed his eyes, his breathing pattern became elongated and inaudible – he was oft in danger of being mistaken for dead, if anyone dared to come across him. Across from him lay Gaspar, turning and heaving on his bare bed and attempting to quiet his raving mind. Nightmares constantly bothered him, beginning after the trip to the empty dimension. Tonight would be no exception; a shaky repose set in as his eyes closed to the dim moonlight filtering in from cracks above. After a couple hours, his sleep cycle descended at last; his brain’s delta waves phased out, and R.E.M. sleep ensued. At once, the visage of Fiona became visible…
There she stood, laughing with him upon a grassy hill in a verduous pasture in 1999 A.D. Almost suddenly, a falling sensation passed over the guru’s body; he felt as if he were plummeting to a deep abyss. His love became concerned, though her distraught look perished instantaneously as the sky flashed crimson. Producing a convulsing effect, huge earthquakes began tearing open the land as spires rained, causing fiery explosions. Feeling utterly helpless, Gaspar strove to claw his way to his lover’s side; unfortunately, she grew in fright, and gazed beyond. The guru immediately turned around to face Lavos itself – its eerie eye seemed agitated and angry, and glared sharply. Numerous Gates began appearing at random, while energy streaks gathered at the eye’s pupil; slowly, a beam emitted, blinding Gaspar until all became white – yet Gaspar remained powerless! The vagary did not cease; the profound nature of the vision caused Gaspar’s body to undergo that dreaded sensation of being pulled apart, arising in temporal disruptions. There would be no struggle, for as soon as these tremors were recognized, a scream emanated from all directions – Fiona’s.
