Moses followed Mischa through the grounds of the King home.

As they approached the small building, the double doors swung open to greet them.

They entered a single room. Bare except for a row of wooden chairs along either side, and a larger chair at the end. Behind that, although Moses barely noticed it, was a ragged tapestry, showing the insignia of the King family. It had been stolen during the Hollow Years. Jesse had recovered it on one of his adventures.

There were two people in the room. One sat in the large chair, which was a throne of sorts. The other sat in the first wooden chair to the left of the throne.

Two thoughts occurred to Moses in quick succession.

The Council of Kings has grown small, and there is noone seated at the Right Hand.

These two ideas were extremely important in the books. The second much more than the first.

An old woman sat in the left-hand chair, watching them enter with rheumy white eyes. She said nothing.

Sitting in the throne was Joshua King. At least, that’s what Moses thought. The man had his head buried between his hands. He was gaunt and haggard, like a stick-figure. Skin and bones.

They waited before this man. Mischa said nothing, but there were tears in her eyes as she looked at the son of Jesse, and then at Moses.

“I’m sorry,” Mischa White whispered to him, then grabbed his arms. “Do not forget the Three, Prophet. Whatever comes, remember them.”

The man on the throne looked up.

“Hello Mother.”

Moses had not written this, but it had been on his mind. Joshua King had more of Mischa than Jesse in his face, and more again of Mischa’s father.

Daerin Sarvant.

As if thought could create reality, Moses heard the voice of evil behind him.

“Greeting Prophet. I am glad you have finally arrived.”

Daerin Sarvant walked to the throne, and took his seat at the Right Hand.

“Prophet,” His voice was everything Moses had imagined it to be. Smooth. Silky. Strong. The voice of the Serpent. “You are here in the flesh at last. Now, indeed, can my plans become truth. Your death will be long and hard. The more pain you go through, the better it will be. You are the Prophet, and within your lifeblood the greatest of power can be found. True magic.”

Moses turned as he heard footsteps behind him. Clothed in black, the assassin stood there. One of the Sarvant Hounds.

My hearing must be getting better.

With incredible speed, the assassin reached up and squeezed his shoulder, and all went dark.

Moses stood looking at Mischa White. Her eyes were the same, and her voice. But just yesterday he had seen this woman in vibrant strength and beauty. The figure before him was grey-haired, and handsome instead of stunning.

“This is not a request Prophet, you will come now.”

She grabbed his wrist with strength, still iron regardless of apparent age. Moses looked up at the sky. The world spun, turned to grey, and then there was blackness.

Mischa’s voice spoke.

“Rest easy Prophet. You are travelling between the worlds. This place is peace. But even it is passing.”

Moses looked about. There were cracks appearing in the fabric of whatever reality they were passing across. Glaring red light broke through, and he could see it eating away at the darkness. Although it wasn’t darkness. His eyes were adjusting, and it was not dark. There was light, but it was fading.

“Careful now, we pass the boundary.”

There was a flash and Moses felt his body gain weight. His legs were unprepared, and he stumbled to the ground. Mischa’s hand was still grasping his wrist. He pulled his arm slowly away. Where their flesh had touched was pink, like newborn skin. It tingled, and for an instant Moses thought he saw blue flash across it.

“We have arrived.”

It was the land in his mind, but more .. And less.

“How long has it been since you came to me the first time?”

Mischa looked at him, speaking with some regret. “Three score and ten. The power of the Three ..”

Moses cut her off. “I know, I wrote this remember?” He grinned, in spite of the growing fear within him. The song was sweeter here, if possible. Resounding in his head. It should have hampered his thoughts, but he found himself thinking very, very quickly.

“Why did you call me Prophet?”

Mischa looked away. “I cannot tell you. It was the only name I was given.”

Moses could see her tiredness.

But he needed time to think. If this was his world, then it should abide by his rules. The ones he had created. However, seventy years is a long time. A lot could happen, if the world was alive and breathing.

This place certainly looked alive. They had arrived on a slight hilltop, lush short-cropped grass was under their feet. A line of stone made a circle around them, deep blue color moving through the stone. This signified it’s power. Moses had been fascinated by the mythos that was Stonehenge. The Druids, their magic, their respect for nature. It was here.

Still. First things first. He needed to find the Three. That was important. They, from the beginning of the tales of Jesse King, were the key to everything. They were the cords that held creation in place.

A three-fold cord is not swiftly broken.

Mischa turned away and began walking south. “Follow me Prophet. The King wants to see you immediately.”

The King? Is that Jesse?

Moses had put within the story the similarities between Jesse King and a ruling king. But Jesse King had so far abandoned and refused all attempts to make him leader. His was a single journey, a lone wolf, like the Phantom. Although not dressed in purple tights.

If seventy years has passed, who knows what is different. King could have died. If the world grew on as I wanted  it to, anything could have happened.

He followed Mischa White along the road, through the woods. Sounds of life echoed across the ground. Birds, animals. Fish danced through the water of a creek they walked over.

Ulrik’s Stream. And the standing stone .. Jesse’s Door.

Coming out of the woods, they reached another road. A car was driving around the bend, it’s motor noisy. Mischa kept to the side of the road. Moses followed. He had a pretty good idea where they were going.

Jesse King had owned a mansion. It was large, sprawling, and very debonair. Lavish parties were held there, the beautiful and famous congregating to socialise at the home of one of the richest men in the land. Of course, to Jesse it was a game. His riches had come in the first books, after rescuing various people, and investing in some good projects. Henderson was the brains behind Jesse King’s money. Jacob Henderson. A man with the golden touch.

As they came to the edges of the city, Jericho, the Jericho of this world, Moses was struck by how real everything was. Moving. Alive.

This is real, as real as anything can be. I can touch the ground, feel the air. I can walk, run. I can probably be killed.

Jericho had been a magnificent city. Afterwards it became a broken place, retaining some vestiges of the haunting beauty that brought the greatest of kings and presidents to visit.

They would gaze upon it’s beauty and be lost for words.

Jericho had sung with magic. It’s fall was terrible, and the magic broken.

But the city before him had taken on a look of new life. It sparkled.

The magic is here again.

Jesse King’s mansion had been on the outskirts of Jericho, and as they crested a hill, it’s towers came into view. Almost. They shimmered, as though a mirage. Moses looked hard at the buildings, and saw them fall away. There was nothing but a lonely house there. Single and desolate.

“What happened here?”

Mischa did not look back.

“Madness came upon the King. Daerin Sarvant returned from the dead and befriended the King. Nothing is as it was.”

Moses stopped. “Wait a minute. We are talking about Jesse King right?”

At that Mischa also stopped, and turned to face him. There were tears in her eyes. “Jesse King has been dead almost seventy years. Not long after I first visited you.”

Though vigor still remained in her body, and her mind was sharp, Moses saw the pain that rested in Mischa White.

Mischa had been experimented on as a child, and this probably accounted for her long life. Her other talents, her mutations had come about during and after the experimentation.

“Prophet. You should have come back with me.”

Moses’ anger flared. “How could I have known? You were my imagination! None of this is real!”

That doesn’t ..

“.. Make me any less alive.” Mischa had anger in her too. “Come. We must go. The King, Joshua King, son of Jesse, awaits us.” In a lower tone, she added. “As does the Sarvant.”

Moses Lawd woke to the sound of his grandmother’s voice. Except joined with it were the voices of yesterday. They had dissipated slowly the night before, as he lay in bed, waiting for sleep to come.

The anticipation was there also, excitement in his veins as he pushed himself out of bed.

“Tell old old Pharoah, To Let My people go.”

He was now thirty-three years old. He looked out at the sun rising over the hills. Yesterday’s strangeness had begun with the dawn.

As if to welcome the sight, that bright orb in the sky, the song in his head rose in exultation.

Moses turned away, and thought about eggs for breakfast. The phone rang, putting an end to that. It would be a long time before he ate food cooked in his kitchen. But Moses didn’t know that yet.

“Moses, it’s Ted.”

Moses waited, as per usual, but there was a different tone in Ted’s voice. Strained.

“They have Sue and the kids. They’re going to kill them if I don’t get you to come.”

Ted never joked about his family. This was serious.

“Ted, who has them?”

There was shaking on the phone, noises in the background. A muffled thump, bam, crash. Then another voice came on the phone. “Mr Lawd. You would be wise to stay at your home until my people arrive for you. Do not leave, we will find you. If you do leave, this man’s family is dead. As it is, they are nearing death. Perhaps it would be merciful to kill them.”

Moses heard Ted shouting, “Noooo! Moses, I don’t want them to die!”

This is crazy. What is happening?

“Stay where you are Mr Lawd. All will be well .. For them at least. Possibly for you, but time will tell us the answers.”

Another saying from his world, “Time will tell us the answers.” Allan James was fond of that. A father figure to Jesse, he died early in the stories. Giving his life for Jesse, who had betrayed the old man in the end. It had brought Jesse back from the darkness.

“Listen, what do you want? I’m just a writer, and Ted is just my editor. What’s the problem? Money? Is that what you want?”

The laughter at the other end of the phone-line was deep and abrasive.

“Fool.” Click.

The phone went dead. Moses wondered whether he should call the police.

And tell them what? But if I do nothing ..

He was dialing the number for the local police station when the doorbell rang.

Moses froze, hand halfway up from the phone. He waited, listening.

“.. Police Station, how can I help you?”

Moses put the handset down, cutting off the call. He crept along to the stairs. He looked down through the windows. There were no cars in sight, and a single old woman stood at the door. Something made him look across the fields that lay between him and the main road. Coming into view was a line of black station wagons.

What was that movie? Twister. Ha.

But he had the lady to deal with, and pushed the entourage of black out of his mind.

Coming to the front door, he brushed his hair back before opening it. Reaching for the handle, the song within him burst forth anew.

“Hello Prophet.”

It was Mischa. At least, a very old Mischa. Seventy years if a day.

“I have returned for you,” She looked back over her shoulder. “And you must come now. They are approaching.”

Movies, Books, People, Games.

Braveheart, Harry Potter, Lord of the Rings, X-Men, U2, the Bible, Beethoven, Brotherhood of the Wolf, Jim Carrey .. The list is long. Stephen King’s Dark Tower series. George RR Martin’s A Song Of Ice And Fire series. Robert Jordan’s super-epic Wheel of Time. The original Deus Ex game from Ion Storm, and the classic Planescape: Torment.

At this moment however, none of that was on Moses’ mind. He sat in the coffee shop, a startled look on his face. A woman had just walked through the main doors, and was coming over to him.

Mischa White.

She who Jesse King loved.

Surely this was imagination. Moses closed his eyes, rubbed them with his hands, then opened them. Before him stood Mischa. He’d gotten her name from an old teen soap.

D.C.? No, that’s the comics. Fruit, why fruit?

His thoughts were broken when Mischa spoke.

“Prophet.”

Moses looked at her eyes. They were the purest blue he had ever seen.

“Prophet.”

She was talking to him, calling him prophet. What did that mean?

“I’m not a prophet.” He said to her, and couldn’t look away. She was beautiful beyond his imagining. And indeed, it was his imagination that had created her.

Mischa smiled. “You are, and denial will not change the truth.” She glanced down. “You let your body waste away. This should not be.”

Forthright. Just as I wrote her.

“That is true Mischa,” The name came out different. “But you cannot exist. You are a character out of my mind.”

Moses shook his head, closing his eyes again.

She is still there. I can hear her breathing.

The excitement within him, the feeling of joy, or something, was reaching boiling point. There was a song, jubilant singing, in his ears. It reminded him of his grandmother.

“I am here Prophet. That is enough. I don’t know this place, or these people, but I am here nonetheless.”

“Go down, Moses. Way down to Egypt-land.”

Deep sonorous tones rang through him. A song sung on the cotton fields, and many other places besides. His grandmother had sung it to him as he fell asleep. Other songs too.

But this one I always remembered. It was about me.

“Prophet, you must come to Jesse’s land. Travel with me, for I have been sent to pull you to us.”

What is she talking about? None of this exists. Perhaps Jasmine put hallucinogens in the eggs.

He stood up, wanting to try and ignore this apparition and walk outside, run, escape his own mind. But she grabbed his wrist.

Real enough to stop me. And strong. Like I wrote her.

Mischa had many secrets, but probably the greatest was her parentage. Her father did not know he had a daughter. Her mother was dead.

At least, that’s the way it is in my head.

“I must leave now, the power of the Three is waning. But I will return again, and you must be ready. Ready to come. It may be tomorrow, or not. But be ready. Watch and ..”

Moses, who wrote the language she spoke, finished the saying for her. “.. And stay on guard for the dark.” He laughed. “This is too much. Whoever put you up to this is having a big joke. You’re a very good actor.”

But her words stuck in his head. Noone else knew about the Three. It was something that he had been developing in his imagination for some time now, and only vaguely hinted at in the last few books.

The stunning figure, the presence, the beautiful face of Mischa White departed from San’s Coffee House. Although they were unaware of it, people looked up, as though they were missing something.

She is as I wrote. When leaving the room, Mischa White takes part of her surroundings with her.

Moses put his hands up to cover his ears. The song now rose in volume. Not like a rock and roll band, but like a choir. Crystal clarity. It hurt his mind. But he found he didn’t care.

His own creation, a work of fantasy, was alive before his eyes. Like some kind of Stephen King tale, but more.

Because it’s me. Everything is changing.

A couple was in deep discussion as Moses sat with his crushed ice and coffee drink.

“We’re two sensible adults, and I realise it probably meant nothing to you. I just want you to acknowledge that you stopped calling me because of that other woman you left the party last night with.”

“Were you at the party?”

“No. Tabby told me.”

“Listen, Susan, I stopped calling you for a completely different reason.”

“Yes?”

The man grew a little flustered. “Listen, why the third degree? I thought we had something, I mean, I really like you.”

“The feeling is definitely mutual.”

The conversation continued.

What lives we lead.

It was amazing to see a girl, who had been hurt by a guy she might have fallen in love with, listening to the waffle coming out of the man’s mouth, taking it in. Perhaps she knew the lies and didn’t care.

“It’s up to you to decide who I’m going to end up with.”

This from Susan, the woman. Moses realised that there were two playing the game. Both hardened criminals in the prison that was love.

This is why I cast it aside. There is too much hurt involved. Pain and heartbreak. Better by far to write.

Moses had checked for the garishka when he left the Hendant building, but it had gone.

Or it was never there.

That was possible.

Moses probably would have filed it away after a few days, except that, as we know, this was the day that everything changed. And not just in the thread that was Moses Lawd’s life.

A third individual came and joined the couple, who seemed to have reached an agreed stalemate. There would probably be no clear winner. Which meant two losers. After a bit of chatter, they got up and left.

Moses sat and cleared his mind. The energy that was within him this day could not be denied.

I’m going to get fit. Lose weight.

Moses had never been one to kid himself, at least not for long. As mentioned, his honesty with himself was his greatest strength. But this felt right. He would get fit.

In the end, it wasn’t just a drive within him that caused fitness and weight loss. It was environment and events.

But it did happen. And much more on top of that.

Moses shook their hands in turn. Thomas Rein was tall and fit. His grip was strong. Evan Coolin was similar, although of darker complexion.

“Moses,” It was Thomas that spoke. “You have been writing Jesse King for some time.”

Moses nodded, not saying anything. It hadn’t been a question anyway.

“I’m not sure if Ted told you, but we want to ask you something.” Thomas looked at Evan, who nodded imperceptibly. “Have you thought of killing Jesse King?”

The question was phrased different than that given by Ted yesterday.

Moses didn’t really like the situation he was in. There was something happening here that bugged him, and he also felt a stab of fear.

The anticipation and excitement hadn’t faded though. In fact, it continued strong and stronger than before.

“I do not discuss that sort of thing, even with Ted.”

Ted nodded as if in agreement, but Thomas paid no attention. Evan shifted a little in his seat.

“I think it would be in your best interests to dwell on the matter. There are greater threads in movement than yours.”

What did that mean?

Moses looked the man in the eye.

“Thankyou for your .. Concern, but nothing doing.”

Thomas laughed. Evan gripped his hands together, arm and shoulder muscles straining underneath his shirt.

“I was told you were nothing like your protagonist Moses Lawd. It seems you do have some character traits in common.”

Moses didn’t think so. He wrote Jesse King the way he wanted to be, not the way he was.

The two men looked at each other and then stood up.

“We are very happy to have met you Moses Lawd. If you ever do decide to think on the question, ..”

Evan cut Thomas off quickly. Speaking for the first time, his voice soft but steady.

“You must do this Moses Lawd, for it cannot happen any other way. There are greater threads than yours.”

And with that, they left.

As the door was closing, Moses turned to Ted.

“Who were they?” The anger crept into his voice.

“Some powerful people who wanted to meet with you.”

It wasn’t much of an answer, but Moses was done. He needed to get out and find someplace alone.

Moses began to get up, reaching for his watch. It was while doing this that he remembered.

The day of my birth. How sad.

But strangely enough, Moses didn’t feel sad. He felt a little bit excited. He felt anticipation, although he couldn’t work out why. He stopped his hand from getting the watch. He got up and walked toward the doors that led out onto a balcony.

The sun was now visible above the hills. There was a refreshing chill in the air. Moses stood back and sucked it through his nostrils.

Ahhh. What has changed?

It was his birthday of course. But more than this, it was the day that things did change.

As he walked into the kitchen, Moses thought he’d try something different. There was nothing but wheatbix in the way of cereal .. He always ate wheatbix. Always. But not today.

He opened the fridge and saw the eggs that Jasmine had dropped off yesterday. She loved him, that much was sure. Better than his own mother, that too was sure. Jasmine had looked after his house for the past nine years, and had taken to this shy skinny (although pot-bellied) writer man.

She was selfless in her efforts to take care of Moses. Once a week cleaning the house, but always keeping an eye on him, making sure the man still lived, still breathed. She had even invited him to Christmas dinner once, with her numerous family members, but that is another story.

Moses took the carton and went to the stove. Cooking eggs had once been a joy for him, like a lot of things. He found out that it still was, and had a wonderful breakfast of eggs, toast and some lettuce and tomatoes.

An hour later Moses was driving into the city, towards the offices of Hendent Publishing.

What is happening to me?

The feeling of excitement and anticipation had not dimmed since waking. In fact, it had grown, and was continuing to do so. His vision was fresh. The clarity of his senses was different.

Something has changed. Or is changing.

Perhaps that was it.

Maybe it is the present. I’m not sure, but it seems that way.

Moses parked as he always did, on the rooftop parking. It was further to walk, but he’d always tried to convince himself that it would do him good. More than that, today, he wanted to look out over the city.

Standing against the railing, Moses looked out across the expanse that was Jericho City. It hadn’t changed, except that it had. His eyes saw more, ears heard more, his mind took more in. It was alive like never before. Or perhaps,

Maybe it is me that is alive. What is happening?

As he turned away, for the briefest of moments, Moses caught a glimpse of gigantic walls surrounding the city. He stopped and looked back. They weren’t there. And all of this was very strange.

Travelling down to the bottom floor in the well-oiled lift, Moses wondered what it was Ted wanted him for. And why the question about killing off Jesse King? There wasn’t anything Moses could see, unless Ted was getting pressure from his superiors. Ted didn’t have many superiors, and why would he get pressure anyway? Moses Lawd’s books were selling more than ever. Time Magazine credited him with bringing back the love of reading into the population. People now read more than ever. And it had begun with him, or so they said. And other authors had written and called and visited, all with words of thanks.

The first event was close. Not so much an event, but a shaking of fabric. A rippled that foreshadowed something far greater. As Moses stepped outside, through the doors of the parking garage foyer, he looked upwards. Hendant Publishing was across the busy street. It was a few minutes wait at the lights. But Moses wasn’t thinking about that. He looked up, and saw the garishka. Straight out of Jesse King’s world.

The garishka were part of an ever-growing presence of evil in the world that Jesse King inhabited. They looked something like a gigantic bat, but also had been affected by Peter Jackson’s vision of the Nazgul.

In my mind, I see them .. But here, it cannot be.

It was. As Moses watched the garishka hover above the Hendant tower, it’s long sinewy neck moved around, and Moses knew it’s eyes were on him.

Moses had written the garishka as hunters, malevolent beasts that were driven by their need to feed. All the time. There wasn’t any downtime for these beasts, once a kill was finished, they went to the next. But the trick was that they wouldn’t attack people that didn’t run, or who weren’t afraid. What they truly fed off was the chase, the fear. And so, like the Ravenous Bugblatter Beast of Traal in Douglas Adams’ book, if you pretended they weren’t there, they would generally not even know you were there.

But this one knew. Moses’ only chance was to show no fear, and continue on his way. The garishka could cover the distance between the top of the tower and the street in moments. Propelled by gravity and magic.

What if the magic doesn’t work the same way here?

Moses waited at the lights for the green man. The Green Man. Another creature out of his books. Jesse King had met the Green Man on a couple of occasions. The symbol at the pedestrian crossing had nothing to do with this being, but it brought the remembrance nonetheless.

I mustn’t look up. I am no Jesse King.

Jesse King had looked into the eyes of a garishka and survived. He had taken the beast and beaten it down, forcing submission. The most recently published book had ended with the garishka at Jesse’s side, as he stood amidst the wreckage of burning cars and buildings, after the battle with Daerin Sarvant.

Daerin Sarvant.

The nemesis of Jesse King, Daerin first made small appearances in the books, but it soon became apparent to the reader that Jesse truly had an equal in Daerin Sarvant. He was a complex character, marked by his experiences as a child and a young man, and driven by his calculating need to become King. Not Jesse King, but King in word and deed. Ruler, Lord (not Lawd), and most probably to ursurp the place of God Himself.

The last book concluded with the general agreement that Daerin Sarvant was dead. Killed in the battle. But alas, his body could not be found, apparently burned to a crisp. It wasn’t the truth of course. Daerin Sarvant could only die properly when Moses was ready to finish the stories of Jesse King.

“Are you ever going to kill off King?”

All things were possible with storytelling, but this could not happen. Too many of Moses’ dreams had gone into the creation of Jesse King, creation and evolution into the character he was now.

I cannot kill off King any more than I can change who I am.

This may have been true, but Moses Lawd was soon to experience great change in his life. And so, anything was possible.

Moses was a loner. His breath was mostly terrible, and his physique was appalling. He ate a lot of fried chicken. Well, he ate the skin, the chicken was up for grabs.

His parents had never wanted him, and although their recent attempts at love touched him, it wasn’t enough to change his mind.

He was alone. Alone and lonely. Except for Jesse. Jesse was his companion, his comfort.

Jesse King could do anything, and Moses made it so. His avatar was famous. Since his first King novel, the letters had poured in, and they continued to do so, years later. Jesse King spoke to people. He was a rogue, but loveable. He battled against demons that people faced themselves, and he came out victorious, mostly because of his own strength.

It was funny how many letters were actually addressed to Jesse. It was as though people wanted to believe so much, they would suspend reality to continue that belief.

Our story, or at least, the story that is documented here, began the day before Moses’ thirty-third birthday. It was stark, this beginning. White and pointed. It stuck in the memory, and not just because of the blood and death. There was more. It was prophetic. Part of a greater story.

Moses knew he was getting old. His belly was a rubber tire of fat. He had no friends to celebrate birthdays with, not that he wanted to.

His house was tidy enough, just enough to be normal. Nothing out of the ordinary. An aerofit sat in one corner, in another some weights were scattered next to a bench. A television, old and battered, sat against the wall. A saggy couch lay in front of it, and there Moses was now. It was the kind of couch that was impossible to gracefully exit from.

The phone rang.

Moses looked up. The only people who rang him were his editor (Ted) and some other executives connected with publishing. Ted liked Moses the way he was. Reliable. Moses had nothing else to distract him, and so was the best and biggest seller that Hendant Publishing had in their books (so to speak). Moses understood this, and didn’t really mind. Ted was nice enough, and usually didn’t try small talk.

“Moses, it’s Ted.”

Moses waited, letting the machine catch whatever it was Ted wanted.

“I know you’re there. Pick up.”

He hauled himself out of the couch, and crossed to the phone.

“Come on Moses, pick ..”

Click. “I’m here.”

“Ahh, that is good.” Ted stopped a moment, then continued. “Moses, I need you to come and see me tomorrow.”

Moses stood still. “Why? I’ve got the new book almost done.”

“Yes I know.” He paused again. “Tell me, are you ever going to kill off King?”

Ted always called Jesse King by his last name. Never the first, always the last.

“Perhaps.”

“Moses. Think about it before you come tomorrow.”

In his heart Moses knew he would never kill off Jesse King.

“You might see me tomorrow Ted.” And he hung up the phone.

The death of King was something that Moses had thought about. He’d planned a number of different ways it could happen. And planned ways he could return again alive and hale. In his head, there were a multitude of scenarios, but they lay unused.

The truth was that Jesse King gave Moses purpose, and comfort.

I know this is true.

And he did. Moses was good at being honest with himself. He knew he was fat. He knew he lacked social graces. Without a doubt Jesse King was all that was good in his life.

Moses didn’t have the courage to kill Jesse King off, because there would be nothing more for him. King was his creation. His lifeblood. King was part of him, and part of his own. Over the years, his character had developed into something Moses saw as amazingly unique. Unique and special. Not boring, but special.

Why would I take that out of my life? Why remove the only thing that is joy to me?

Moses Lawd was lonely. But loneliness can be a precursor to something far more powerful. The greatest of us are marked by our nadir points, those events and times that are our lowest. What happens at those times define us. For Moses Lawd, his nadir was coming, although he wouldn’t have thought it.

His nadir was coming and the night would fall.

Casar’s father had taught her that. He had lived with a hate so bright it became his all, lifeblood to one wishing nothing but death.

To forgive the living means to betray the dead, the memory of the dead.

Casar’s mother had died in a fire that left their house in ruins. Casar’s father had run towards the front door, but was beaten back by the flames, face and limbs burnt and bloody. They could all see Casar’s mother upstairs, yelling through the window, holding their newborn child. The crowd watched as the two went up in flames, and watched as the house collapsed.

The culprits were found. Cris and Lauri, two young boys from poorer families in the village. They had crept into the house, thinking it was empty. Casar’s mother surprised them, and in fright, Cris had spun with his wooden sword, catching her across the forehead, knocking her down. They fled the house in horror, tripping over a lamp, which flooded the room with fire in minutes.

Something had snapped within Casar’s father. His eyes deadened, and he did not rest until he found them. Before any around could stop him, Casar’s father had torn out Lauri’s throat. Cris bolted, running through the crowd, never to be seen again in Lithan.

To forgive is to betray.

They had travelled many years, searching for Cris, for a sign that he was still alive. Casar’s father would not rest, so consuming was his hatred. Her father became a madman, beating her when she refused to listen to him, when she told him he was wrong.

‘Forgive,’ Casar had told him. ‘This is harder than not. Believe me, I have had to forgive you many years of wrong.’

He had turned then, looking deep into her eyes. Flickering faint, she thought that in their hardness a small fire could be seen. An ever-so tiny light, struggling in the darkness that pressed ever close. Without saying anything, Casar’s father had gone to his bedrolls, and lain down. Later, when the night had stilled, she could hear him weeping.

Casar longed to go to him, but could not. Could not bear to see her father as he was. She too cried, softly, so that none but the stars heard. Cried for the dead that could not be laid to rest, for the living that could not be forgiven.

In the morning, Casar’s father was gone. She checked all around camp, stretching her search wider each circuit. On returning, voices were heard.

‘He was drunk Matan, he was weaving around like a top.’

The other voice answered. ‘No boy, not drunk, but bearing the weight of much wrong on his shoulders. This is Bradley Gerod, the Bradley Gerod. The Hater, the Hunter.’

The first said slowly, with great sorrow. ‘I know.’

Casar could not go near the wagon. She watched from the trees as the two soldiers took away her father’s belongings, her belongings. She watched the two of them talk over her bedroll, the younger looking around, the older shaking his head, picking up the bedding, and walking back to their horses. She watched as they left. She followed them to the village. Watched as they came to the other side of town, where a small yard of graves was kept.

Tears rolled down her cheeks, as she watched the older soldier place her father’s sword at his side, a crown of bay leaves on his head. A raven squawked as Casar watched the hole fill with dirt, stamped down so no predators could get at it. Watched the stones being placed across the top, marking the head stone with a red slash, for those dead by another’s hand. Watched Maten, the older man, placing his hand on the other’s shoulder. A younger man, he leant down and stuck a wooden sword in between the rocks on the grave.

To forgive is to betray. Casar heard these words. Yet to hate is to die.

It is harder to forgive than to forget. To forgive is not to betray,

To forgive is to live.

To forgive is to love.