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Athan Cole hadn’t expected death to feel so gentle. When Olivia’s knife had sliced hot-cold through his neck and he’d begun to choke on his own blood, Athan had shut his eyes to spare himself the displeasure of his killer’s insufferable smirk being the last thing he ever saw. Instead of feeling like drowning, the world had simply floated away behind his eyes, replaced with a gentle warmth not unlike one of Eliza’s embraces.
And that feeling was the most perplexing thing of all. I shouldn’t be able to feel anything. I just got my damn throat cleaved open. As his somehow-still-concious mind warred against what he knew to be an impossibility, Athan tried to open his eyes. When they would not obey him, panic spiked in his stomach and clawed up into his throat, choking him anew. His hands followed, fingers pressing on whole, mended flesh and driving his brain further towards the yawning abyss of madness. This is impossible.
“Relax, Mr. Cole. You have nothing to be afraid of.”
A hand on his shoulder, grip firm but comforting, grounded Athan once more in the moment. He took a long breath, feeling the air — is this air? — fill his lungs. Sensation began at the tips of his fingers, traveling up to his shoulders and down to his toes. The hand left his shoulder, and in its absence Athan’s eyelids felt lighter. He opened them, only mildly surprised to find himself in a perfect recreation of his room in London, host to his greatest happiness and most painful heartbreak.
“Ah.” Athan sat down in his favorite chair, leaned back, propped his feet up on the large coffee table and resolved to simply enjoy the rest of the show. “I see. This is my brain firing on overdrive and stretching my last moments out while I die on the floor. At least it picked somewhere pleasant.”
A man Athan didn’t recognize appeared in the chair across from him. Utterly unremarkable and nondescript in every way, his face gave him the appearance of being on the brink between youth and middle age. He wore a suit and fedora that would’ve fit right in at a gala in the 1920’s, the sort of temporal disconnect that had defined Athan’s entire life.
“Not exactly, Mr. Cole.” The man leaned back in his own chair, offering Athan a smile. “You are quite dead indeed. Have been for some time, in fact, depending on your frame of reference. But that is always the trick with time, is it not? Reference frames.”
The cryptic words put Athan on edge, and he sat up straight. Staring intently at the man across from him, Athan saw no obvious hints of malice or ill-will, but that hardly proved anything. Magdalena taught me that lesson well. “Who are you?” he asked.
“I am Time,” the man answered, without pretense of any sort and the deep conviction only lunacy could provide.
Then again, if this is all in my head, which of us is the real lunatic? “Time?”
“Yes,” the man repeated. “If it helps, consider me just another representation of the voices in your head. Metaphysical forces are allowed a degree of elasticity in our appearance, Mr. Cole.”
Athan gave it a few moments, but the man refused to vanish and the room refused to suddenly turn into Hell, Heaven or whatever form of afterlife he ought to be in right now. Putting doubt to rest and choosing to embrace the absurdity of the present in front of him, Athan turned to the next most obvious question, a refrain that had defined most all of his life, apart from those treasured moments he had spent with Eliza: “What do you want from me?”
The man’s smile turned melancholy. “Those days are done, Mr. Cole,” he said, “and I am sorry you were forced to live through them for so long. No, I want nothing from you. I brought you here, in part, to attempt to right the wrong that was done to you. I want to offer you a second chance.”
Athan knew better than to expect good faith from the force of nature that had plagued his mind with hallucinations since childhood. “Why? Where’s the catch?”
The man sighed. “There is none. You were a prisoner in childhood, a pawn in your youth, and warped by grief in adulthood. Your mind and heart were never truly your own. You had every reason, every right to resent me just as much as Ms. Kirschner. And yet, when given the opportunity to do such a thing, you sacrificed yourself. You chose a path that allowed your parents to fix that which had warped within me. I simply wish to return the favor, now that I am in a position to do so. Nothing more, nothing less.”
The mention of his parents made Athan’s heart ache, the part of him that had always been their son roaring to life as the memories of his few moments with them flowed back into his mind.
“How?” Athan couldn’t keep the hitch out of his voice, the hope that this might actually be real. “Isn’t my existence itself a contradiction to you? Born outside of time, and so on?”
“So was your father, Mr. Cole. I bent the rules for him, to repay a debt. This is just me being fair.”
Athan took a long moment, letting the storm of emotions settle inside him. This was far from the first time he’d been on the cusp of a momentous decision, and his track record with them was less than stellar so far. On the other hand, as far as he knew, he was dead. Had died, at some indeterminate point in the past. And either this was all in his head and the show would end as soon as he made his decision, or it was real, and there were no apparent strings attached. Perhaps that is, itself, the test here? Well played.
“No, thank you.” Athan said. “I’m fine with the life I lived.”
The man claiming to be Time itself chuckled. “You inherited your parents’ skill at lying, Mr. Cole. If you need to hear me say it again, there is no trick, and no catch. Or, perhaps seeing will be believing?”
Between them, the surface of the coffee table shifted and dissolved into a pitch-black circle rippling like water. Then it pulsed with light, before resolving into an image that made Athan’s breath catch in his throat: Eliza, laboring to tend to a patient with a rather grisly knife wound. As determined and beautiful and stubborn as ever, it took all of Athan’s willpower to not try to throw himself into the image like some sort of perilous well that would surely drown him.
Then the image changed, before he could speak: Sebastian, his guardian and true friend, sat in the dusty workshop where they had wiled away so much of their time during Athan’s youthful lessons, working on carving a set of exquisite chess pieces. Magdalena and the other of Athan’s so-called caretakers were nowhere to be seen. Sebastian paused after finishing a bishop and looked up, an expression of satisfaction on his face undercut by the loneliness in his eyes.
And then again, the image pulsed and warped, settling at last on an image of three people sitting on a carpeted floor near a Christmas tree. The room and two of the people were immediately, painfully familiar to Athan: it was his parents, albeit looking older than when he’d known them, and the room was the same one where the three of them had made their last stand against the forces of both Dr. Jones and Olivia. Their house of cedar and pine. The third figure was entirely unknown to Athan, however: a young woman likely in her early twenties, almost a dead ringer for Cassandra save for her eyes, which felt to Athan like staring into a mirror. That can’t be me, can it? He looked up at the man across from him and arched an eyebrow.
“I cannot control everything, nor do I wish to,” the man said. “The choice is yours, Mr. Cole. Of course, if you would rather carve a path from a completely clean slate, that is also possible. A year and a place will suffice.”
Athan thought back to Eliza, and the surface obliged with a change of scenery. She sat in a chair by an empty patient cot, taking advantage of a rare pause in her work to leaf through a book of poetry. A pocket watch rested in her other hand, one Athan knew as intimately as his own reflection. But as much as a corner of his heart longed for the memory of what they had once shared, Athan also knew that he could never forget what had been. She deserves better than to live her life under the shadow of a tree she had no hand in helping to grow. The one who did is long gone.
Athan shook Eliza from his mind, and the image shifted accordingly. Sebastian had finished working for the day, and had made his way down to the local tavern. A group of fellows hoisting mugs paused in their drinking song to cheer and wave him over to the lone empty seat. As he sat, a nearby waitress was quick to put a full mug in front of him. Sebastian thanked her with his usual reservedness, and as she left the table the man on his right elbowed Sebastian in his ribs. Athan saw the waitress look back over her shoulder toward the table and then immediately face front as Sebastian turned in her direction, and Athan smiled. Something tells me he won’t be alone for too much longer. Find that courage of yours, my friend. I know you still have it.
The image moved back to that familiar room, and Athan felt yearning so strong it was almost painful. And yet… I owe them more than to just impose myself on their lives again. I’ll open the door, but whether they want to walk through it is their choice. They deserve one just as much as I do. “Here, I should think,” he said. “But… not there, precisely. There’s someone else I would like to visit first. Your old favorite.” If I’m making a new life for myself, without the ability to travel through time at will and no stockpile of wealth, I’ll need a job. And working for her would certainly be interesting.
The man smiled wide. “Of course. She will be glad to see you.”
Athan closed his eyes again, and the world fell out from under him.
/~/~/~/~/
Athan was glad that he’d been wearing fashionable clothing — if still slightly avant garde by the standards of this time period — when he’d died. It made entrance into the Markridge building possible without drawing too many odd looks, and decades of being worshiped had taught him how to act like someone who knew they were important. That was enough to get past the guards in the atrium and the first front desk attendant with no trouble, and a quick examination of the directory showed that Jennifer Goines’ office was on the top floor. On the way up, a glance at a fellow passenger’s cell phone told Athan it was 2035, eight years before the fateful year that had set time ablaze. There was no trace of a plague to be seen anywhere, and every tree he’d seen outside the building had been green-leafed. Guess they really did fix everything, in the end. Well done.
As the elevator approached the top floor, only Athan and one other man remained in the elevator. Clad in a leather jacket and a functional red scarf, he carried himself with the confident, coiled air of a professional fighter, and likely killer. The man looked at Cole intently, a narrow face with sharp eyes topped by short, slightly spiky dark hair that was just starting to turn gray in spots.
“Here to see the boss lady?”
It was a question phrased like a challenge, but Athan wasn’t about to back down. “I am.”
The man grunted. “Got an appointment?”
“She’s expecting me.”
“Is she, now.” The man smiled, all teeth and very little humor. The elevator dinged, and the doors slid open. “Guess we’ll see. After you.”
Athan left the elevator, walking out into a second atrium separating any arrivals from Jennifer Goines’ office. Light spilled in through a wall of windows, illuminating a desk at the far end of the space occupied by the same young woman Athan had seen in the vision of his parents’ house and the Christmas tree. She looked up as Athan approached, confusion on her face. It quickly switched to delight, however, when she caught sight of Athan’s unplanned chaperone.
“Uncle Teddy!” she called out. “What’re you doing here?”
The man softened before Athan’s eyes, turning from a hardened predator into a doting parental figure in an instant. “Hey, Ari,” he said, stopping next to Athan and putting a hand on his shoulder. “Just keeping an eye on this fella here. Says he wants to see the boss.”
The young woman turned back to Athan, schooling her expression into an exact, uncanny replica of his mother’s intense stare, with a ponytail completing the picture. “Do you have an appointment, Mr…?”
His last name almost came tumbling out, but Athan trapped it behind his teeth. That would just make things even more awkward; no doubt they would assume I was playing an angle. “Athan. No, I’m afraid to say I do not. While I am sure Ms. Goines is a busy woman, if you could please tell her I’d like to speak with her, I’m certain she’ll make the time.”
The young woman stared at him eyes narrowing, and so did the short-haired man with the scarf. Neither of them said anything, however, and the woman shook her head before pressing a button on the intercom next to her. “Ms. Goines, someone is here to see you. Says his name is…” she hesitated, peering intently at Athan’s face yet again, as if searching for something. Does she suspect? “Athan. Oh, and Mr. Deacon is here, too.”
Five seconds later, the door to Jennifer Goines’ office burst open. She stood there, intense as ever, looking a couple decades older than when Athan had known her but having lost none of her brilliance. Gasping at the sight of him, Jennifer raced towards him and nearly tackled Athan off his feet with the force of her hug.
“It’s you,” she whispered into his ear, voice thick with emotion. “It’s really you.”
“I certainly hope so, yes,” Athan said, allowing himself a laugh as he returned the embrace. “It’s wonderful to see you again.”
A few moments later, Deacon cleared his throat. “Uh, not that I mean to interrupt… whatever this is, but mind introducing us, Jenny?”
Jennifer let Athan go, stepping back and moving to face the other two. “Deacon, Ariadne,” she said, looking from the scarf-wearing man to the young woman behind the desk, “this is Athan Cole. He’s an old, dear friend of mine.”
The young woman — Ariadne — gasped. Deacon opted for words instead, but the sentiment was similar.
“No fucking way. That can’t be him.”
“Oh, it most definitely is, dear,” Jennifer said, grinning at Deacon. “Call Cassie and Otter-Eyes for me, yeah? They should be here.”
Old fear settled over Athan. How would they react? Who am I supposed to be in this timeline, to be looked at like a ghost? Would they even want me, already having a child of their own in this time? “I don’t think that’s really necessary, Jennifer,” he said. “Not yet, at least.”
“Like hell it’s not,” Jennifer said, rounding back on Athan. “I’m done keeping secrets from them, junior. Can you imagine how pissed your mom would be if she found out I knew about you and didn’t tell her? I’m not poking that bear, no way, no thank you. Deacon, call ‘em. Now.”
“Yes, ma’am.” Deacon fished a cellphone out of his pants pocket and punched in a call, eyes never leaving Athan.
Meanwhile, Ariadne had come around from her desk and was now approaching Athan, eyes wide. She stopped within arm’s length of him, an unreadable expression on her face.
“Athan was supposed to be my brother’s name,” she said, voice quiet and strained. “My older brother. My mom… miscarried, she told me. Lost him. Then my parents… they tried again and had me. But you, you look like you could be him. How?”
“That’s a real long story, sweetheart,” Jennifer said, putting a comforting hand on Ariadne’s shoulder. “But I promise you, this is him. This is Athan. And if I had to guess, he’s here for the same reason your dad is.”
“If it’s any consolation, Ariadne,” Athan said, “I’m just as surprised as you are.”
In the silence that settled between them, Athan could overhear Deacon talking on the phone nearby.
“No, Cass, I’m not shitting you. Why would I lie about this? He’s here, right now. Jen made me call you.” Deacon was quiet as Cassandra presumably replied, and then he gave Athan a put-upon look as he held out the phone. “She wants to talk to you.”
“Certainly.” Athan took it, raising it to his ear with only a slight tremble. “Hello, mother.”
At first, a sob was his only reply. “It’s really you,” Cassandra’s voice said over the connection, words heavy with decades of grief and hesitant hope. “Don’t go anywhere, you hear me?”
“I’m done running. I promise.”
The call ended, and Athan gave the phone back to Deacon.
“My guess is they’ll be here in about five minutes, and rack up at least ten speeding tickets in the process,” Deacon said. “In the meantime, mind telling me what the hell I’m looking at, Jenny?”
Jennifer beamed a grin. “Someone who got a second chance, Deacon. Just like the rest of us.”
Deacon’s estimate, it turned out, wasn’t off by much at all. Eight minutes later, during which time Jennifer gave Ariadne the abbreviated version of what had happened to the version of her brother that was miraculously alive, the elevator on the far side of the room dinged yet again. Cassandra and James bolted into the room, both seeing Athan at the same moment. Athan met his mother’s eyes and she rushed to him, closing him in a wordless embrace with a tenderness that spoke volumes. She only parted from him to give Athan’s father a chance to do the same, the hairs of James’s beard just starting to go gray.
“I said I wished I could’ve known you better, on Titan,” his father said as they parted, his hands still on Athan’s shoulders. “In another life, you told me.”
“I did,” Athan said. “And I still mean it, if you do.”
James Cole smiled and shook his head. “Don’t be ridiculous, kid. Of course I do. You’re my son.”
Athan felt a weight roll off him, and looked over to meet his mother’s tear-streaked grin with a smile of his own.
“Gonna be a fun Thanksgiving this year, I tell you what,” Jennifer crowed. “Can’t wait to see the look on Jonesy’s face. Or Hannah’s.” She cackled, rubbing her hands together. “It’s gonna be awesome.”
“You’re telling me,” Deacon said, before turning his attention to Athan. “But you said earlier that you wanted to talk to Jennifer. What about?”
Athan stepped away from his father, turning reluctantly from his parents to face Jennifer again. “Ah, yes. I was hoping to get a job, actually.”
“Done and done,” Jennifer said, snapping her fingers. “Want to help me bring back the Dodo?”
Athan hesitated for a moment, then wondered why he’d expected a more normal question in the first place. “It would be my pleasure.”