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A lone figure walked through the silent classroom, gazing distastefully at the rows of desks for a moment before slumping down at the teacher’s desk at the front of the room. It was late, and he was certain that he was the only one still working at the small Connecticut campus; it wasn’t as if he had anything better to do with his time anymore. He turned to look toward the words on the board, scratched there himself this morning before the first students had begun to file into what was certain to be the hardest class of their entire college career.
Advanced Creative Writing. Professor Dane LeSaint.
Even now, he stared at the strange perversion of his name with a mixture of anger and distaste. Dane LeSaint. What could possibly have caused the powerful Saint Dane to allow himself this demotion of power, this humanization of a once terrific force?
Of course, he knew exactly what the cause was. It was a single person, and everyone that had come in contact with him. It was all because of Bobby Pendragon. If there were one person in all of Halla that he never wanted to see again, it was that Pendragon boy and his saccharine sweet friends. So of course, the merciful forces of Solara had only deemed it appropriate to assign the now twenty-year-old English major right into the ex-demon’s class.
He couldn’t have a moment of peace , could he?
Dane sighed, sinking down into his chair and directing his attention instead to the pile of papers in front of him. The first-day assignment had been simple enough--in order to gauge the incompetency of his class, they were to write a short story on a topic of their choosing. So far, the ones that he had read ranged from awful to pretentious; the students understood the basic tactics of writing, but none of them seemed to grasp how to properly construct a story without rendering it dull and formulaic. The frustration had gotten so intense that Dane had had to take a break and walk around the small campus to clear his head, in order to grade the papers without simply crossing out entire pages in red.
But he couldn’t stall the rest forever. He picked up the first paper on the stack--two pages filled front and back with text and stapled together--and scowled as he read the name at the top: Robert Pendragon.
No amount of patience would give that boy a passing grade in this class.
But still, he had to at least attempt to be impartial. After all, the Travelers had been gifted with the wonderful trait of amnesia; it wasn’t as though Bobby even remembered the war at all, though Dane had caught the younger man sneaking sideways glances when he thought no one was looking, and the suspicion that he remembered was lingering.
The short story that Bobby had written was entitled “Memory”. The ex-demon smirked; fitting enough for an amnesiac. The smirk quickly faded into a scowl as he realized the entire thing was in first person--a trait he had begun to associate with the more pretentious writings in the class. He read the first few lines, then stopped and read them again. Then he read them a third time, just to make sure that he hadn't imagined it.
I had these dreams through high school; but they never really felt like dreams. Instead, it was like I was remembering something from an alternate timeline, like I was doing two things at once. I was Bobby--fun, friendly, top of the basketball team--but I was also Bobby--Lead Traveler in a war for the universe.
It had to be a coincidence. He didn't remember the war. To the Travelers, it had never happened. Dane read on, then reread the paper again. Then he stood, paced for a moment, and reread the paper again.
This wasn't a story. This was a letter… to him .
In all these dream-memories, there was always this man. He looked different, sometimes he was even disguised, but he was always there. In the memories, I hated him. But as I became more obsessed with these recurring dreams, as I tried to glean some sort of explanation of what they meant, I began to almost grow fond of the man.
Every time I slept, I learned more about him. And I began theorizing about what would happen, why I thought this man was so important to me. Then, one day, I dreamed that he had died.
And more than that, it was my fault. I had killed him.
I didn't dream much after that. I went to bed, and woke up eight hours later, exhausted. When I started college, I had one final dream. The man wasn't in it; instead, I was talking to my uncle. We were in a field, with nothing around for miles. I told him how I was feeling, and what had been going on; he told me not to worry about it too much. That everything would be answered soon.
Nothing was answered. I went through two and a half years of college in a dreamless stupor, wondering what the dreams had meant, and how I could get back to normal. Then, all at once, everything was answered.
I walked into class, and there was the man. I stared at those blue eyes that had fascinated me for years, and I could finally remember everything. I remembered the man’s name: Dane. I remembered how you had pleaded with me to save you.
I remembered talking to Uncle Press, back in the fields of Solara, asking if there was some way I could do that. I wanted you to live.
I’m still not really sure why. I can remember all the terrible things you did, all the death and destruction, all the worlds you brought to their knees. I can remember the way we fought, every single way you tricked me. I remember Ibara. I remember Ravinia. I remember Nevva.
But more than any of that, I remember how I felt when you disappeared. I remember watching you flicker out of existence right in front of me, as I muttered about “the way it was meant to be”, more like I was convincing myself than responding to your cries for help. I remembered staring at the empty space where moments before you had been standing, and I remember feeling… guilty.
After we beat you on Third Earth, you were broken. You were completely defeated. I’d seen you enough to know that this wasn’t some trick, and even knowing that, I didn’t lift a finger to try to save you. And even as Uncle Press started resetting the world, undoing everything that you had done, all I could see was those bright blue eyes, filled with tears, turning to me because I was the only thing you had left to turn to. I could still hear your words in my head, and every time I closed my eyes it was the same scene all over again.
That single, solitary “please” was slowly killing me.
Uncle Press told me that I could forget. And I wanted to. I wanted to go back to being normal, back to how I was before the war, before all the death and struggle. Before I’d met you. But I knew that even if I didn’t remember who you were, I’d always hold onto that guilt. I wanted to fix what I had done. Uncle Press told me he would see what he could do.
And when I woke up, I was four years younger without a single memory of the war. Then the dreams started, and I thought they were just that--dreams. I went on with my life, as best as I could once the dreamless nights started, and I never told anyone.
Until today. Until I saw you again.
I’m not sure what I want to say here. What do you say to someone who’s death you’re personally responsible for? I don’t even know if you remember--this may just seem like the strangest short story this side of the mess of half-hearted symbolism the guy next to me is trying to write. But just in case it’s not, I wanted to say…
I’m sorry. I never wanted to have blood on my hands. I never wanted anyone to die.
It’s weird, I’m almost happy; I’m just so glad that when everyone’s mistakes were fixed, it meant everyone’s mistakes. Yours, and mine.
Dane placed the paper on his desk, the words repeating in his head like a damaged record. He tapped his pen on the wooden surface, deep in thought, and after a moment wrote a single sentence at the top of the page before moving on to the other papers as if nothing had happened.
The following day, the students filed into the classroom and immediately frowned as they saw the stern, disappointed look of their professor. He held the stack of papers in his hand, and they had all been in college long enough to know that the results were not good. An expression like that meant terrible grades and extreme repercussions.
Once they had settled into their seats, he paced back and forth in front of the desks, speaking in a calm, ominously low voice.
“These,” he muttered, “Are atrocious. Every single one of these is an embarrassment to the English language. This is an advanced class, and you all write as if you began yesterday. This is not something you can coast through with slapdash symbolism and a thesaurus. I don’t have time to list all of the errors I have marked on these papers. Your assignment is to rewrite these, and this time, attempt to write something that wouldn’t be at home in an online forum. You are English majors. Act like it.”
The room was silent as he began to pass out the papers, all with visible red pen on every page; sentences were underlined or circled, there were notes written in the margins, and some had short paragraphs scrawled in red after the final words. Bobby took his with shaking apprehension, not meeting Dane’s eyes as he took the pages. If the rest of the class had received this much criticism for their fiction, what would the ex-demon have to say about what the former Traveller had written?
Steeling his nerves for whatever he might see, Bobby looked down at the paper in his hands, and grew pale. It was mostly unmarked, save for a single sentence written calmly across the top margin of the first page.
I suppose we should talk about this--see me after class.
After Dane had finished passing out the papers, he turned to face the class and crossed his arms behind his back like a general commanding his troops. “You have until tomorrow to create something passable, or at the very least palatable. If not, this is going to be a very long semester. I can’t very well go on with my lesson plan with you all turning in material like this, so that’s all for today. I expect better in the future. Class dismissed.”
The students filed out quickly, mumbling among themselves about their less-than-stellar results. Bobby lingered by his desk, resisting the urge to slip out with the crowd and pretend the incident had never even happened. But Dane was watching him intently, and after a moment staring back at the lightning blue eyes Bobby had to look away, instead focusing on very slowly gathering his belongings.
The others were more than eager to leave the intimidating classroom, and in moments the two were alone, separated only by a few rows of desks. Bobby swallowed nervously and looked up, forcing his hands to stop shaking as he met Dane’s gaze.
“Tell me,” the ex-demon said calmly, “Is there a reason you didn’t do the assignment?”
The younger man blanked. Of all of the things he had expected the silver-haired man to say, he certainly wasn’t expecting a lecture on his classroom ethic. “I, uh… what?”
“Your assignment,” Dane repeated. “You were supposed to write a short work of fiction, were you not? While I appreciate your willingness to admit your own faults, our personal history shouldn’t get in the way of you finishing your classwork.”
Bobby was speechless. He had never imagined that the Saint Dane of all people would be chiding him about doing his classwork properly. There seemed to be a thousand things that he deemed more important than a short story assignment at present--most importantly the fact that the last time they had run into each other had been during a literal war , on opposing sides--but Dane was focusing on the most trivial aspect of the situation.
Noting the younger man’s surprise, Dane sighed slightly in irritation and shook his head. “I suppose you wanted me to say something about what happened on Third Earth.”
Bobby nodded, still speechless.
“Very well.” The blue-eyed man walked in between the desks until they were standing face to face, his expression unreadable. “I cannot begin to atone for what you would consider my ‘wrongdoings’. There are certain situations for which an apology doesn’t quite fit, and the entirety of the war fits very neatly into this category. But I suppose I am grateful that I still exist, and for whatever reason this new existence involves being your teacher. As such, it is the least I can do to educate you and encourage you to do your work when it is assigned. And perhaps, eventually, we may be allies of some sort, but personal involvement has no place in a classroom. You have until tomorrow, the same as the rest of the class; if you need my feedback I’ll probably be in here for the next few hours. To keep this brief--” He paused for a moment, smirking down slightly at the shorter man. “--Thank you for saving my life, but if you must write love letters, do so on your own time.”
At the final statement, Bobby blushed furiously and stammered out, “I wasn’t--that wasn’t a--”
“Of course it wasn’t,” Dane replied with a smirk. He turned and walked back toward his desk, stopping only briefly to quip, “Don’t you have something you should be doing right now, Robert ?”
Bobby quickly gathered his things and left the classroom, avoiding the smirking ex-demon’s gaze and only looking back once he was in the hallway. Dane was simply sitting at his desk, arranging papers as if nothing had happened. The younger man opened his mouth to speak, then thought better of it and instead retreated down the hallway, his books shaking slightly in his nervous, trembling hands.
It was going to be a long semester.