Yu Yu Hakusho Fan Fiction / Fan Fiction ❯ In Omnia Paratus ❯ It Shouldn't Have Happened ( Chapter 14 )

Anonymous/Mediaminer Reviewer(s):

 

kahuffstix: Yeah, it made me sad too. Like really sad. `Specially since I didn't actually see that part coming…

 

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AN: I might have forgotten to put in the summary that there's one song in this story. This chapter is the songfic-ish one. The music belongs to Simple Plan (I think) and incidentally this one song is what brought around the entire fic. It's a really good song, and I think it goes really well here, so read the lyrics, if you would!

 

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I open my eyes.

I try to see but I'm blinded by the white light.

I can't remember how.

I can't remember why

I'm lying here tonight.

 

Dean closed his eyes, opened them slowly, closed them again. Hoped against hope that it was an illusion, that he wasn't standing in this place, with a sympathetic doctor who couldn't really know telling him that his brother wouldn't ever come back to him.

 

Brain dead…it sounded so…scientific. So medical. Which was absolutely absurd, considering how they had ended up here in the first place. Brain dead…he had to be dreaming.

 

But when he opened his eyes again, he didn't find another crappy motel room with Sam over in the next bed, or even the guest bedroom at the Summers house. What he did find was a blinding white, cold waiting room, and a sad, tired-looking doctor who had been talking for the past few minutes without being heard at all.

 

“I'm sorry for your loss,” was the next thing that registered with Dean.

 

Dean saw red, and the next thing he knew he had the doctor pinned against a wall, and the desire to snap that scrawny little neck was nearly overwhelming.

 

“No. You don't get to say that. You don't even know us. You…you don't know him.”

 

“Sir, I know how you feel, but…”

 

Dean's grip tightened, and his arm came up to rest against the doctor's neck, pinning the man to the wall. “No, you don't. You have no idea how I feel.”

 

I don't know how I feel…

 

“Dean…”

 

A careful hand rested on his arm, and he very nearly broke it on sheer principle. But that impulse faded almost instantly, unlike the urge to kill this stupid little doctor-man.

 

“Dean, you need to calm down,” the person continued, and Dean recognized Angel's voice. “This isn't the way to handle it.” He tugged on Dean's arm, and Dean reluctantly let the doctor go.

 

The hand left his arm, and for no apparent reason, Dean swayed.

 

This wasn't how it was supposed to go down.

 

And I can't stand the pain.

And I can't make it go away.

No I can't stand the pain.

 

“Is he okay?”

 

“I think so.”

 

“It's probably just the shock of it all.”

 

“You mean the shock of his brother going evil and then brain dead?”

 

“Could we pretend you don't have such a way with words, Anya?”

 

“She's right, though. And I don't think the exhaustion is helping either.”

 

Dean wanted nothing more than for the voices to stop. They did unimaginable things to his already aching head. He also wanted to know what they were talking about.

 

“What the hell…?”

 

“Oh, hi, Dean.”

 

Dean winced as Anya's still overly-cheerful voice grated on him. He opened his eyes, and it occurred to him that he was lying down. Thank God…it was a dream after all… And then he looked around, and his heart dropped another little bit in his chest. He was actually lying across a row of the surprisingly comfortable chairs of the waiting room. The others were all crowded around him, and the doctor was still there, and not looking too angry about nearly being strangled.

 

“I passed out?”

 

“Yeah, but only for a few seconds. Less than a minute, anyway. That doctor you tried to kill gave you a once-over and said you'd be fine. How do you feel?” Cordelia asked.

 

Dean looked at her incredulously, and he wasn't the only one.

 

“Right. Stupid question. I've come up with a lot of them, but that one took the cake.”

 

Dean should have felt the anger again, but he didn't. He stood up, and instead of looking at any of his…friends? Were they friends?…he turned to face the doctor, still feeling no remorse about what he'd done.

 

“Take me to him.”

 

How could this happen to me?

I've made my mistakes.

Got nowhere to run.

The night goes on

As I'm fading away.

I'm sick of this life.

I just wanna scream.

How could this happen to me?

 

Watching as the doctor led Dean away, Cordelia felt a sudden rush of sadness. It had been preying on her since she had first seen Sam fall, but only now was it hitting full-force. Not just sadness for Dean—though that was in no short supply—but also for herself, in a way.

 

Someone like me…someone alive…

 

It had been so long since she'd talked to someone who knew what the visions felt like. There was no one who really understood…not since…

 

“The police are gonna be here soon,” Willow commented softly, getting carefully to her feet. “The station was over-the-top busy—no surprise, considering what's been going on—but that won't last for long. We should have something to tell them.”

 

“Well, we left the weapons in the graveyard, so at least we don't have to get all explain-y about those,” Buffy said. “But…I'm no good at cover stories.”

 

“Same here. The only thing I can suggest is that we not let them in on the fact that we caused the hundreds of corpses in the graveyard,” Tara said.

 

Kurama was still sitting, utterly exhausted, with Hiei stretched out across three seats next to him. The battle had taken the most out of the two of them, and now neither of them seemed willing to move unless strictly necessary. They had been so silent that everyone jumped when Kurama spoke. “They'll want to talk to Dean.”

 

Angel shook his head. “No. We'll find a way to keep them off his back. He's unstable right now. He'd either kill them or himself. It's a toss-up at this point.”

 

“Well, you know I'm in. Lying to cops…my idea of fun,” Xander said without a trace of a smile.

 

Giles sighed. “Yes, well, you two have fun with that. I, for one, could use some sleep.”

 

“Oh, me, too,” Anya said. “So…um…why are we here again?”

 

“Um…because we're needed, sweetie, remember?” Xander reminded her, with that infinite patience he seemed to possess toward his girlfriend.

 

“But we can't do anything here…”

 

“Anya, it's not about doing something. We just need to be here for each other. Be available. That's what humans do.”

 

Anya groaned. “I will never get used to all this human stuff.”

 

“Hey, Angel?” Cordelia said softly. Angel turned to her, and she wasn't surprised to see understanding in his eyes. She hardly ever had to explain herself to him, after all.

 

“Go on. We'll wait for the cops. Sticking around and talking to them will be a new experience for me.”

 

Cordelia smiled at him and headed in the direction of Sam's room.

 

Everybody's screaming.

I try to make a sound but no one hears me.

I'm slipping off the edge.

I'm hanging by a thread.

I wanna start this over again.

 

Sam didn't look broken, lying there in a clean white hospital room in a clean white hospital bed. In fact, he looked healthier than he had in days. His skin had almost lost that paleness and had a colored tint to it, and he looked…peaceful. The ventilator he was on even gave the illusion of breathing.

 

Dean wasn't fooled. He wished he was—it would make him feel so much better to be fooled—but he knew his brother better than anyone, even when his brother was clinically dead. Sam wasn't in this room.

 

He didn't think the words, of course. He wasn't ready to admit them, even to himself. Not yet.

 

Sighing, he pulled up a chair close to Sam's bed, and sat down. He leaned his head in his hands for a moment, trying to piece his strength back together. Because that was what he needed most right now—not wisdom, not love, not friendship—he needed that inherent strength that was in his blood.

 

Right now, though, it seemed buried. Buried so deep inside that he couldn't get at it. No matter how hard he tried, he couldn't make himself feel strong again. He just felt like another pathetic mass of humanity, incapable of doing anything but sitting around wallowing in his own problems.

 

Is this what it is to be alone?

 

So I try to hold onto a time when nothing mattered,

And I can't explain what happened

And I can't erase the things that I've done.

No, I can't.

 

When Dean finally mustered up the guts to reach out and slip his hand into Sam's, his grip wasn't returned. Dean had expected that. It didn't keep him from nearly crushing Sam's hand with his grip. It didn't stop him from wishing things were different.

 

This wasn't how it was supposed to go down.

 

He had no idea how many times the thought had run through his head in the last hours, but each time it rang truer than the last. Of all the ways for a Winchester to go…

 

Footsteps invaded his senses before he finished the thought. He didn't move or turn around, because it didn't really matter to him if it was one of the Scooby gang, Kurama, Hiei or an unknown demonic killer bent on destruction.

 

“Hi, Dean.”

 

Okay, so not a hellbeastie.

 

Cordelia didn't say anything else—just went over to the only other chair in the room, pulled it over, and sat down. Dean didn't look at her or speak to her or actually do anything at all.

 

Please, don't say you're sorry…

 

But Cordelia didn't even try to talk to him. She made no attempt at conversation. In fact, she sat so still and for so long that it began to creep Dean out a little. But then he glanced at her, and saw that she wasn't even watching him. Her eyes were on Sam, and suddenly it made sense.

 

A psychic…who came all the way here just to meet my brother…what the hell is there to say? For either of us?

 

“You know, I didn't even want a brother.”

 

Cordelia jumped, and looked at him in surprise. He could tell she wanted very badly to say You're talking to me. Why? We've never really spoken to each other before… But what she actually says was, “Really?”

 

“Not in the beginning. I liked being the only child—didn't have to share the attention. I would kiss him goodnight when I was little, because my mom wanted me to, but…I never played with him, or paid much attention to him. Hell, I don't even know if I…” He trailed off then.

 

“How did things change?” Cordelia asked, as if she still wondered where this was going.

 

“The night my house caught fire…do you know about that?”

 

“Enough.”

 

“Well, that night, when I went into Sam's nursery, my dad handed him to me, and told me to run. So I did, without questioning it. Well, obviously, Sam was howling up a storm by then. No one likes fire, even babies who don't realize how dead it can make them. Anyway, I got him outside, and he was still crying, so I said, `It's okay, Sammy.' Out of instinct more than because I thought it was true.” Dean felt a small smile touch his face, though the last thing he felt was happiness. “And he stopped crying. Right away. I looked down, and he was just staring up at me with those big brown eyes…I swear, those eyes saw everything, even then—it was freaky. Still is. And…that was it. He had me.” Dean's voice dropped a notch. “Forever and always.”

 

Cordelia didn't seem to know what to say to that, but that was all right. Dean was fine without her commenting on how pathetic he'd just made himself sound.

 

Dean looked back at Sam again, and noted that his position hadn't changed at all. He didn't know why he took stock of that fact—it just seemed important to note.

 

Am I supposed to feel better now? Dean wondered as he automatically moved to take Sam's hand again, before realizing he wasn't alone and jerking his hand back. They say talking is supposed to help, but…I think I actually feel worse now.

 

Of course, it was difficult to tell. Dean felt so muddled, so turned around. He couldn't begin to name his emotions right now. So how could he really say for certain if he felt better or worse after telling an almost complete stranger a story he'd never even told his own family?

 

I'm so confused.

 

Dean had no idea how long he and Cordelia sat there. Probably well over an hour. And in all that time, the room was completely silent except for the hum of the machines creating the illusion of life, and the rattle of carts outside the room. Dean spent the entire time trying to figure out his feelings, but he came to naught.

 

“Dean?” a voice whispered, interrupting his thoughts.

 

He didn't turn. “Giles.”

 

“I know this is a bad time, but I wanted to know if there was anyone…anyone you wanted to call.”

 

Dean didn't answer that.

 

“Um…if you don't feel up to it, you could give me a number and I could call.”

 

“My father won't answer.”

 

Giles looked taken aback. “What do you mean?”

 

“He hasn't answered his phone in over six months.”

 

“Oh. Well, I'm sure if we left a message…”

 

“Doesn't mean he would come.”

 

“What? Of course he would. He…”

 

“Don't. You have no idea what it's been like. He didn't come when I was dying and he won't come now.”

 

Giles and Cordelia must have sensed that now was not the time to inquire about that last bit, because they didn't touch upon the subject.

 

“All right. If that's what you think is best.”

 

“It is. Now was there something else?”

 

“Only that we talked to the police. We had a decent cover story—”

 

“I don't care.”

 

Giles fell abruptly silent at the quiet, matter-of-fact statement.

 

“Is that it?”

 

Giles couldn't seem to figure out what to say.

 

Dean jumped when a hand touched his shoulder, and he turned to face Cordelia. “Dean, I know you're angry…”

 

“I'm not.”

 

Cordelia's hand dropped from his shoulder. “You're not what?”

 

“Angry. I'm not angry. I'm not…anything.”

 

“I…I don't understand.”

 

And suddenly words were tumbling out of Dean's mouth faster than he could stop them. “I don't know. I get the feeling that I should be angry. And sad. And I'm not. I can't seem to feel. At all. It's like…when I nearly beat the crap out of that doctor…I reached the end of all my emotions. It sounds so movie-of-the-week, but…it's the truth.”

 

“Dean…” Giles began, but Dean shook his head.

 

“No. Please, I don't want to hear any more apologies.”

 

“I was just going to say that it's not movie-of-the-week. It's surprisingly normal for people who have—”

 

“I'm not normal. I should feel,” Dean said quietly, still watching Sam.

 

This wasn't how it was supposed to go down.

 

“What?” Cordelia asked.

 

“What `what'?” Dean asked, confused.

 

“What did you just say? I didn't catch it.”

 

Dean realized only then that he must have spoken his thoughts aloud. “Nothing. Never mind.”

 

“No, nuh-uh. You've been wanting to say something all night. You just let slip. What's wrong?”

 

“I just…it shouldn't have happened this way,” Dean said quietly. He didn't know why he told her, or what had put him in such an expansive mood, but once again the words were streaming out beyond his control. “He was alone, and probably afraid. He wasn't even under his own control. It shouldn't have happened that way.”

 

Understanding flooded Cordelia's and Giles' faces at the same time.

 

“We Winchesters…we always say we're going to go out fighting. But Sam…he wasn't even in his own body when this happened. It shouldn't…he should be…it's all wrong. When did it all go so wrong?” The last part came out as a sort of half-shout half-wail, and he dropped back into his chair—when had he stood up, anyway?—and dropped his head into his hands. “Damnit…”

 

“Dean, listen to me,” Giles said. “You're wrong. Your brother was possessed, true. But at the end…he came back.”

 

Dean jerked in surprise. “He what?”

 

“He broke the power the demon had over his body. The only thing I can figure out is that he somehow felt what was happening to us and fought harder. And at the end…” Giles drew in a deep breath. “Your brother was a conduit so that one of the most powerful known demons could reach into the world. The forces inside him would have torn him apart. To break free, hold back that tide, and force the demon to do his bidding—it must have taken all of his untapped strength. That, combined with the damage already done to his body, must have been what caused…this.”

 

“Why are you telling me this?”

 

“Don't you see, Dean?” Cordelia said. “Sam wasn't defenseless or useless. That power would have destroyed all of us. Sam saved all of our lives by giving his. He's a true, honest-to-God, old-fashioned, storybook hero.”

 

“It shouldn't have happened.” And with those four words…suddenly “it” was real. Sam lying in this room, only kept “alive” by machines, his spirit and mind so far away as to be out of reach of the closest person in the world to him—it wasn't a terrible nightmare, or some figment of an exhausted imagination. It was true.

 

Dean's baby brother…the only person who was constantly at his side, even when they were separated by an entire continent…the only person left who mattered…was gone. Forever.

 

And still he didn't cry. He would cry later, sure. Later, it was likely that he would drain his body of moisture through his eyes. But right now…his eyes were dry. Empty.

 

But Dean no longer was. He wasn't an emotionless shell any longer. Now he was filled, with all the sadness and pain that Sam himself must have felt all those weeks ago when it was Dean in the hospital facing death.

 

The feelings tore at Dean, consumed him from the inside, crushing, killing, and still it was better than the empty shell he had been since it happened.

 

Slowly, Dean stood up. “Tell the doctors…tell them to shut off the machines.”

 

He was almost at the door when a voice rang out behind him. “Oh, now, come on, don't tell me you give up that easily.”

 

A split second later, Cordelia spoke, urgently, her voice tempered by shock.

 

“Giles, get Angel. Now.”

 

How could this happen to me?

I made my mistakes.

Got nowhere to run.

The night goes on

As I'm fading away.

I'm sick of this life.

I just wanna scream.

How could this happen to me?

 

“Oh, my God,” Cordelia breathed as she stared at the small, brown-haired man standing on the other side of Sam's bed. “This is unbelievable.” She seemed rooted to the floor, and the expression on her face was the very definition of a Polaroid opportunity.

 

“Wha—who are you?” Dean asked.

 

“Don't worry, I'm not here to hurt anyone,” the guy said, but he sounded distracted, and he didn't take his eyes off Cordelia.

 

“That's not what I asked.” Good to know, though. “Who are you?”

 

“Doyle…” a voice said from the doorway.

 

“Thank you,” Dean said, turning to face Angel, who was standing in the doorway, looking a whole lot less intimidating than usual due to disbelief and being perilously close to tears. I didn't know vampires could cry… “Now can anyone explain how you know him or how he got in here? Or what he wants? I'd accept any of them.”

 

“What are you…how…?” Angel spluttered, ignoring him.

 

“I gotta say, I expected a much better reunion. Y'know, banners, cake, the works,” Doyle said, looking oblivious to all the grief around him.

 

“Are you…I mean, can we…?” Cordelia seemed to be having just as much trouble as Angel in getting her words out, and Dean had the impression that getting any actual, solid information out of any of these three was going to take a while.

 

“I'm not alive or solid or anything, if that's what you're trying to ask,” Doyle said frankly. “And I can't stay that—”

 

“Hey, guys,” Xander said as he came up behind Angel.

 

“What's up?” Tara asked as she joined them.

 

“Giles seemed sort of…confused,” Buffy added.

 

“Who's that tiny man?” Anya threw in her question.

 

“And how;d he get in?” Willow asked.

 

“Is he dangerous?” Giles asked.

 

“It seems we've missed something,” Kurama observed, looking from shocked Angel to shocked Cordelia to completely at ease Doyle as he and Hiei walked into the room.

 

“Guys!” Angel said, a little too loudly. Everyone's eyes flicked to him, but he was still staring at Doyle, who was watching Cordelia, who didn't seem to be noticing any of this. “Could you…leave us alone for a little while?”

 

For some reason, him saying that caused a thought to strike Dean. “Yeah, you guys should go. You know, back home. Thanks for staying, really, but…there's nothing you can do here.”

 

They all looked rather inclined to argue—explosively—but the air was tense enough already. Willow was first to agree. “Yeah. Let's go, guys. We all need some sleep anyway. But we want details tomorrow,” she added. “Big details.” Then, to Dean's enormous shock, she came over and gave him a one-armed hug. “You'll come see us before you leave, right?”

 

“You have my stuff,” he reminded her, and he almost succeeded in sounding casual.

 

“Right. Um…bye, then.”

 

Once they were all gone, Dean turned back to Cordelia, Angel and Doyle. None of them had moved.

 

“Okay, so is anyone going to…”

 

“I missed you guys,” Doyle said, interrupting him.

 

“We missed you, too. You have no idea how much,” Cordelia said.

Dean sighed and sat down, resigning himself to a wait.

 

“How've you guys been?” Doyle asked.

 

“Oh, y'know, world-saving, visions, migraines,” Cordelia replied. “I could kill you for that, by the way, if you weren't already…you know…”

 

“Yeah. I'm really sorry about that. I just didn't have a lot of time to think, and…”

 

“Doyle, relax. I was kidding. Seriously, it's not…so bad.”

 

“I gotta say, though, I really wish you still had them,” Angel added.

 

“Me, too. Mostly `cause it would mean I was alive.”

 

Okay, I really want to ask some questions now… Dean thought.

 

“So…what are you doing here?” Angel asked.

 

Doyle smiled. “You should know. I'm a messenger.”

 

“So…you have a message for us?” Cordelia asked, puzzled. “That's why you beamed down? Must be seriously Armageddon-y…”

 

“Actually, it's not for you. You guys being here is just a fringe benefit. The message is for you, Dean.”

 

Dean's first instinct was to ask how the hell Doyle knew his name, but that was overpowered by other important questions. “A message. From who? And you used to have visions? And…you're dead? A spirit? So why aren't you attacking us?” I…am confused.

 

“Yes. I died about two years ago. Maybe a little less. I passed my visions onto Cordy here when I did. I'm not killing you because I don't kill. And as for what I am…that's why I'm here.”

 

Doyle motioned for Angel and Cordelia to make themselves comfortable, and he himself sat down on the edge of Sam's bed. Dean wanted, very badly, to yell at the weirdo to get away from his brother, but…the guy did say he didn't want to hurt them. Besides, without salt or guns or anything I'm useless.

 

“First of all, I think you should know that I'm from…a higher plane,” Doyle began.

 

“You mean like Heaven?” Dean asked skeptically, and Doyle chuckled.

 

“Not exactly. It's just one of the non-Hell dimensions. Not exactly paradise but not a place of eternal torture. It's not that bad, actually. Just…boring, when I'm not working.”

 

“You work? Are you serious?”

 

“Yep. Basically the same way I did when I was alive, only now I answer directly to the PTB instead of just waiting for the visions to hit.”

 

“The PTB? What the hell kind of organization is that?” Dean asked.

 

“That's what Cordy here calls the Powers That Be,” Doyle explained. “Or sometimes the Problems That Be, depending on her mood.”

 

“The Powers That Be?! Okay, now you're kidding.”

 

“I assure you, I'm not. They mostly just watch this plane without interfering, unless something real important is going on, but they're as real as you are.”

 

“You mean…there was some higher power watching us this whole time…and they just let my brother get possessed and then killed?” Dean asked, his voice suddenly quietly lethal.

 

“Not strictly true, actually. That's why they sent me. I was Sam's…well, `guide' is sort of a loose term, but…the PTB sent me here when they caught wind of this possibility,” Doyle said, his cheerful demeanor not affected one iota by Dean's anger.

 

“You mean the possibility of my brother's body being taken over by an evil psycho. Well, you did a great job preventing that. Really, they should promote you and give you a new office in the Slacker Corporation,” Dean snapped.

 

“See, that's what I keep telling them—without the Slacker Co. thing. But does anyone listen to the little guy? Nope. Anyways, I actually did exactly what I was supposed to do—which, by the way, didn't involve stopping this from happening.”

 

“You'd better explain what you're talking about before I find a way to kill a ghost,” Dean growled.

 

Doyle smiled. “Y'know, that rage is pretty useful on the battlefield, but in civilized conversations it's actually considered polite not to show it. But hey, I give you serious points for being so protective of your family.”

 

“Doyle,” Angel said, “please keep in mind that Dean has only known you for a few minutes, and he hasn't had time to get used to your ways yet. He probably won't be so positively affected by your never-ending ability to make jokes at the worst possible times.”

 

“You're right, I didn't think of that,” Doyle said, and he sounded sincere. “Sorry, Dean. Fine, I'll cut the jokes and get right to the point. Your brother being possessed…we wanted that to happen. Well, let me rephrase—we needed it to happen, because it was the only way to take care of that demon, which has been on the PTB's radar for a long time now. You know, since like the beginning of man.”

 

“So you were…happy about an innocent person being possessed by evil, then?”

 

“Not exactly. I can't speak for them, of course, but I, for one, was actually mega-unhappy about it. That's why I asked for the job of watching over the kid, see—ever since that first dream he had, sending you two to Japan. That was what alerted us. Anyway, I've been appearing in your brother's dreams since then.”

 

“…Why?” Dean asked. “I mean, if you couldn't stop it, then what was the point?”

 

Doyle shrugged. “I had to steer him toward the demon. Put him on the right track.”

 

“So you not only allowed this to happen, but you helped cause it?” Dean asked loudly, jumping out of his chair.

 

“Look, I don't like it any more than you do. I like your brother, I really do, and I wish it didn't have to turn out this way. But we didn't choose him, specifically—it could have been anyone.”

 

“Not really making me feel better, little Irish man.”

 

Doyle sighed. “Jeez, is there any way to win with you?”

 

“Not at the moment, no.”

 

“Well, anyway, we had no choice in the matter. This thing had to be killed and we couldn't do it ourselves so we waited until it found someone to possess again and luckily it was someone who had people that already knew about demons to back him up. And you guys know the rest—you came, you conquered, no more demon. Congrats. And that's pretty much the story. I came to watch your brother, I did my job, and I'm here to finish it up. The good kind of finish, too, so stop glaring at me!”

 

“There is no `good' in this,” Dean said softly, looking back at his brother as he sat back down.

 

“Oh, is that what you think? Well, would you change your mind if I told you I could bring your brother back?”

 

The silence was loud enough to make Dean's ears. Then Dean said, so quietly he could barely be heard, “I swear to God and the PTB and whoever else is out there…if you're messing with me, man, there's gonna be Hell to pay.”

 

Doyle shook his head. “I said I was cutting the jokes, remember?” When Dean didn't smile, he sighed. “Look, seriously, no games here. I have permission to bring your brother back to life.”

 

“There's a catch, isn't there?” Cordelia asked.

 

And now Doyle's good cheer faded, and he looked just sad. “Yeah. Yeah, there is.”

 

“Of course. There's always a catch.”

 

“Tell me,” Dean said firmly.

 

“Well…y'see, your brother has already gone to the higher plane. Getting him back will have…complications,” Doyle said. “They sort of involve Sam coming back without a single memory of you, your family, your friends, or anything you two have done in his entire life.”

 

I made my mistakes.

I've got nowhere to run.

The night goes on

As I'm fading away.

I'm sick of this life.

I just wanna scream.

How could this happen to me?

 

- - - - - - - - - -

 

AN: Well, that's it. One chapter left. Now, I know what some of you are probably thinking: Finally, she's done dragging it out! And yet again, I swear I didn't mean for it to go this long! I kinda got carried away, I guess…but you'll forgive that—and how evil I am with the end of this chapter--and read the last of it, right? Please?

 

Oh, and also, I'm changing my username. Actually, as most of you read this, it's probably already changed. Just wanted to let you know so you won't have to be wondering who this random new person is who stole my story.

 

- - - - - - - - - -

 

“He proffered, with good grace, his bare neck to the blade, and feigned a cheerful face: he scorned to seem afraid.” -Gawain and the Green Knight

 

“Man is harder than iron, stronger than stone, and more fragile than a rose.” -Turkish proverb

 

“Return this man to Huma's breast.
Beyond the wild, impartial skies.
Grant to him a warrior's rest
And set the last spark of his eyes
Free from the smothering clouds of wars,
Upon the torches of the stars.
Let the last surge of his breath
Take refuge in the cradling air
Above the dreams of ravens, where
Only the hawk remembers death.
Then let his shade to Huma rise
Beyond the wild, impartial skies.”

-Solmanic Prayer to the Dead, Dragonlance Saga