The Sorrow of Legends - Chapter Six

It doesn't matter what happens to my body, I will heal. It is the deep wounds inside that won't go away. It doesn't matter what I do- that pain will never, ever go away. You can shoot me, and I will be fine in minutes. That is why I support private medicare.

I wandered for years, maybe decades, alone in the cold. I was the top of the food chain. Nothin' has changed- except what I kill, and why I do it.

God, I don't even know how old I am. Fuck, I don't even know my whole name. I'm like Madonna or Sting.

The rage is still there. The blood lust and the rise I get when I lose control. Only two things stop the rage - booze and blood. When the rage takes over, there hasn't been a man alive I haven't been able to kill. Made a pretty good livin' doing it for a while.

I have been told that I was a weapon, created by the government to be an unstoppable agent. It sounds corny, but its true. I was leased out to foreign governments by the "nice" government. I would do the work that normal assasins couldn't do. Wimps.

I didn't like takin' orders so I left. I think. I remember my last assignment- and I didn't think it was the right thing to do, no matter what the boss man said. I didn't want to kill her, no matter what they said she did. I guess I just didn't see the bigger picture. I was a lousy soldier anyway.

Really, all these years later, the biggest problem I have is going through airport security. That and the fact that I have a few enemies whose powers make me pretty much useless. When he ripped out my bones, he did it out of spite. He thought he was making me pure of their meddling. He was just making my power more painful. Healing bones sucks.

And getting it back really hurt. A lot. Asshole.

The rush of killin' has faded considerably, but the satisfaction of a rightful execution still takes over from time to time. I don't care what Chuck says- I haven't killed anyone who didn't have it comin'

It's too bad I fucked it all up, because I need him. He was the only one who could clean up what is lost forever in this jumbled mess inside my head. When he isn't around, I just turn to beers and messin' with people who think they know better. I never really hurt 'em all that bad, just enough to make 'em think twice about being drunken oafs again. Made a fair livin' doing that too.

God damn that crazy bird. Women always make men do stupid things. But, I wasn't the only one who was an idiot. If only Scott could have let it go - he left us with no choice, really. She made her choice, and man, she didn't like having that decision challenged. He had his chance, and even though he was the perfect gentlemen, she chose me. Girls love the bad boy.

Of course, I didn't expect I would have to kill him. I figured he was just a pansy with a broken heart. Turns out he wasn't such a pussy after all - if he had shown that confidence before, maybe she wouldn't have left him. I have to admit, it was tough fighting a guy who was hittin' me just by lookin' at me. Must have been tough to be in love when you couldn't even look into her eyes. I should write those cheezy cards that boys buy for girls who like to get crap.

Of course, Scott wouldn't have been able to kill her when the chips were down. Yeah, that's right, I had to kill her too. Sure, I probably saved the universe, but what a waste of such a great piece of ass. Chuck couldn't control her; she couldn't control her. Nobody else had the stones to do it. I abused the trust we had - told her it would be alright. I told her that I could make her pain and torment go away. Killin' someone you love is even harder when you know that you have to do it. When I killed her I knew my life was over, but would never end. How fucked up is that?

The deepest cuts never heal. That one is never going away. Some power- trapped in my an ageless body with a thousand souls on mine. Will someone give me a beer?

The Passion of People - Addiction

The pulsing strobe and repetitive beats stayed in his head even after he had left the club.. The bass resonated in his chest- thumping with an echo. He didn’t know what time it was, and frankly he didn’t care. The music drove him. The alcohol fueled him. The feeling consumed him. All night long. Each new song turned over the people around him – they sang along to words he couldn’t make out or understand – their shrieks of happiness where just another cacophonous howl at the moon. The acrid taste of lime cut against the whiskey. It was the whiskey that made him whole.

By the time he left, he was in a trance-like state – walking through the densely packed hall with no mission in mind.

When he became aware of his surroundings, he was nestled under the awning of his apartment building, which faced out into the harbour, watching the rain come down. He had been out with friends, and then, once they left, he stayed out alone. The music made it seem like he was with others- because he couldn’t talk to anyone. He drank until his state became transfixed on the light above the floor.

He was an addict. He wasn’t sure what he was addicted to, but it seemed that there was nothing that he could do in moderation. He would spend hundreds in a single sitting at the Casino. He would smoke cigarettes one after another. He would drink until he passed out. It was truly odd, he never smoked or gambled unless he was drinking, and when he was sober he was a perfect gentleman. His drinking, though totally under control day-by-day, exposed his other vices, if not create them, as he drank. For every drink he took he became more of a showman, more of a card player, more of a hustler. Alcohol was a muse, of sorts.

He limped out onto the docks in search of a matchbook he saw earlier in the day, because though he had instructed his cab driver to stop at the local 24 hour store for cigarettes, he did not have the presence of mind to get a lighter or a matchbook. The first cigarette was attached to his lip by dried saliva, but was soaked through, making it useless to anyone who would ever want to light it even if he found a spark. He cast it aside, and bundled the rest of the twenty-pack into a warm and dry spot in his coat to protect them from the driving wind and the torrential shower. He was oblivious to everything but his addictions.

He lost his balance twice while he was searching for the matchbook, and but for the staggered steps off the main deck, he would have been cast into the ocean. The last time he woke up with a mouthful of weeds and a small crab scuttling about his head. It was not his best evening, but he was oblivious to the fact that he had been lucky to survive it. If he had hit his head against any solid rock or part of the pier, he would have drowned for sure.

He had not had a cigarette for months leading up to tonight. He had gone out with friends for a drink and he got to that threshold. The threshold that most alcoholics have, but are never allowed to attain because of their credo. They swear that each day they won’t have a drink that day. While one drink will never push a man back off the wagon, the credo even prevents that from ever happening because if they don’t have one drink, they can’t have ten. He didn’t go to meetings. He didn’t think he had a problem because his life was working out fine.

He just drank bad. There is no other way of describing it. He drank until he was on the verge of losing consciousness, and then he would continue until he was an unintelligible derelict. As he drank, he would become more forceful, more agitated, more confrontation, more amorous- his various senses and desires would be simultaneously exaggerated or muted, depending on which one. He has lost more friends then he could count because he doesn’t know how to control himself. He can share a laugh, but when the laughter ends, he doesn’t always know why. Often, it was something he said or did that put an abrupt end to the party. The few friends he kept teeter-totter back and forth about the causes and rationales behind his behaviour. Several have attempted interventions- only to have their pleas fall on deaf ears. It got to the point where he just kept his friends apart so that he could drink every night- each time with a different group that wouldn’t judge him for specific instances- unbeknownst to them that the sum of their parts were blotting out all light.

He walked to the end of the pier and retraced his afternoon steps carefully. Nothing. Either the wind had knocked the book of matches off the dock and into the sea, or they were never there in the first place.

A feigned desperation set in as he returned to the covered entrance to his apartment. He sat there, endlessly waiting for the right passer-by to ask for a light. Finally, after what seemed like seconds, but was in reality over an hour, a young man on his way to the morning shift obliged him with a light. He sucked on the filter, and drew the smoke into his mouth, and down to his lungs before he exhaled the lot up into the settling fog. The rain had finally stopped He nodded his thanks to the boy who gave him the flame, and paced mechanically up and down the walk in front of his apartment building, thinking about what he would have to do the next day.

It was at that point that a nagging element of sobriety pulled him back into reality and his mind started to tick back into control. David put out the cigarette, shook his head rapidly to wake himself out of the groggy state he was in, and pulled himself into the elevator. His mind was now working faster than his body and he was ordering it to get out of the elevator well before it arrived at his floor. It was like an old buggy driver who knew exactly how his machine would perform, as David’s body leaned out the elevator doors just as the doors slid open, a full breath or two after he had asked it to move. In its current state, his body was like a sluggish computer running a program it did not have enough power to run properly. He fumbled for his keys well up the hallway from his apartment, and as he reached the door, he slid the key into the lock and turned it. He then realized that he had just locked the door, rather than open it. He cranked the lock back, and pushed his way through the door, and flat out onto the couch. Here he could crash for the few hours of the regenerative sleep his body needed and get up and resume his life like nothing had happened the night before.

How many more times could he put his body through this, he wondered to himself, before it caught up with him and ruined what was left of his life? He then made the same oath he made countless times before to control his excesses, and not to drink more then three drinks. Why stop altogether? When I’m so obviously still in control?

The Sorrow of Legends - Chapter Five

My mind is a prison.


I have been trapped inside of it since I was a boy.

When I was younger, people thought I was the most creative person they ever met. None of the ideas where mine - I took them from the thoughts of other people. I excelled in school, but didn't know why. It was because I could read their minds.

I knew what people wanted before they would say. I knew their hopes and dreams. I knew what would make them happy.

I also took their nightmares. And when I would wake up screaming, I was living their darkest fears. And even though I was awake, their nightmares wouldn't stop. I was alone in the nightmares of another, and I couldn't turn it off. I couldn't stop the living terror. What is difficult for an adult was devastating for a child. And I knew, I felt, their deepest darkest fears. I was welcome, in their nightmares.

Eventually, I learned to help them through it- out of a sense of self-preservation.

As I grew, I honed my ability to look into the thoughts of others. I would catch glimpses of their hopes and fears. Before I matured, I would use it against them. I manipulated others for my own benefit.

Then I learned I could control them.

What I believed was the power of suggestion was actually the ability to make other people my puppets. I could make them submit themselves to my will. At first, I did it for my amusement, my own venial pleasure. I did it when I saw something wrong. I did it when I could fix a broken heart. I did it when I wanted the heart for myself. I did it because someone was rude to another. I did it because I could. If I wanted to, I could have ruled the world. With a thought I could stop a man's heart through his mind.

I robbed people of their experiences because I believed that it was right. I healed them, without knowing that because of me, it would always hurt like the first time. I kept people from the pain that made them stronger. There was nothing anyone could do to stop me.

Until I slept and the terror would take over again. It was fitting that I would bend people to my will during the day, and have their subconscious minds attack me at night. Once, in defending myself from the carnage, I killed a woman I knew. Was it really self defence? Or was I provoking her by stealing glances into her soul?

It was when I realised that I was living the most depraved and evil existence that I decided that had to stop myself. Manipulating others to do my bidding, increasing my wealth at their peril, lusting after them with the knowledge I gleamed from their thoughts. I couldn't stop myself. It was an addiction. I became so preoccupied with the thoughts of others that I forgot to live my own life.

The temptation to manipulate was so great- it drove me insane. Every waking thought was dedicated to resisting the temptation of looking into another man's mind. I did it because I could - I had the access, and they had no way to stop me. The only solution was isolation - though I remained connected to every person I had looked in on before. I had to concentrate so hard on staying out of other's minds that I lost control of my own body. Concentrating so hard on keeping my own mind in check, in control, that I lost control of my legs. I am now trapped in this chair because of my inability to keep myself focused. I dream of a mental block - but know that none is forthcoming - but understanding that I could remove one that you have.

Today, I have grown so strong that by concentrating I could end the life of a tyrant on the other side of the globe. I could end wars with my thoughts. I could end international disputes. I could affect the outcome of every election. I could become the king of all men. And my rule would be no less tyrannical than any other democracy- they would still believe they had choice. But I can't do it. Humanity has to make their own mistakes- and they can't live free under a different tyrant. In many ways, I am a god.

From time to time I will use my power to stop the most heinous of acts. It is a constant struggle to know where the bright line is in field of murky black and white. It is okay to stop a murder, but not to stop a?? I cannot become the world's policeman, but at times, I have no choice knowing that not stopping any given atrocity will keep it on my conscience- the only one in the world I can't control.

I met Magnus, who was my best friend and my enemy. He had great power, but lacked responsibility. He only saw his ends. His means where, in his words, evolution. Enslaved for what he was, he saw no humanity in them. He saw only fear and devastation - he saw his power as a tool for revenge, for domination. He wouldn't listen to my experiences. Our battles are the second hardest ones to face. My greatest battle was with myself.

I remain trapped in my mind. Unable to look outside of it for fear that I will be tempted again to control others for my own ends. Every second the temptation to look strikes again. To help, to pry, to understand- I can't trust myself to listen to the words that are spoken to me. I have to find out if it is true.

No one can understand just how alone I am. I can talk to anyone at anytime, but not without invading their privacy. Not without violating their rights. Not without being tempted to take the conversation farther. I can't get close to someone without the desire to look deeper - to see how they really feel. Asking seems so...stupid. I will never love because I will never trust - why bother when I can find out the truth for sure?

I am so alone because I have no self control.

Perfection

The wind chimes reminded me of her house. When she died two years ago, I lost my last remaining connection to my family's past. The reminder was sweet.

The fire burned brightly, long into the night. The logs of crisped birch snapped repeatedly when it melted into ash as the flames shot high into the night sky. The constant crackling of the logs evolved into a rhythm - a constantly evolving beat, with surprising crescendos of destruction reverberating over us when each log changed its shape under the intense heat of the fire. The aroma of the musky wood, billowing every which way, filled our lungs with a warmth in stark contrast to the strong and pungent aroma we took in throughout the night. The altered state of bliss created was a release. For so long, I was afraid to release myself this way for fear it would take me back to when it controlled me. The aroma freed us from our senses - but in reality, it freed our senses from us. No longer prisoners to our perspective - our problems and worries - the open air rejuvenated our spirit. We have never been so free.

Overlooking a chasm of wood, we could see over the water and beyond the natural contrast of the land meeting up with it on the other side. Despite the darkness, we could see the reflection of natural light on the still pool. We looked up, following the embers that rose gently into the night sky, it felt like we were drifting up with them - letting the wind and the air currents pull them in every which direction before they burnt themselves out. As they extinguished, the stars just beyond them spun into a celestial maelstrom - pulling their light into an eye - at the centre - which was the spindle around which the light turned. The dizzying affect of the stars wrapping themselves into a whirlpool of light made it seem like we were looking at the face of G-d, and all of Her creations. They are all so beautiful. The light pulled us closer to her. The light - amidst the darkness here on earth.

The incessant laughter of friends broke the silence, but as the echoes faded, the silence returned. Every loon call was clear. Each breath of wind would make the chimes sing - and remind me of her again. Her chimes were so simple - and yet brought her so much joy. Their song was so sweet - the perfect balance of faint unnatural ringing imposed against the natural backdrop of the wild. It was so unnatural that it fit right in.

I waited to exhale. Drawing breath through my nose, the rich crispness of the deep forest gave me life. I could smell the evergreens, I could smell the dew, and I could see the temperature when I couldn't hold my breath in any longer. The surroundings changed our perspective. The surroundings set us free.

The Sorrow of Legends - Chapter Four

I have been an alcoholic for as long as I can remember. Every night, I would put on a tuxedo, and I would live the lavish lifestyle that was expected of an international playboy. I lived a hard, unfulfilled, lonely life. Men would dream to be me, just for a day. If they only knew.

I became a playboy because I didn't know what else to do with myself. I would work all day, and I would party all night. I've spent my life with with princesses, models, other industrialists- we live above the fray. From an early age I was never without anything I craved. Except actual guenuine human contact.

And then, at a comparatively young age, I had a heart attack. My doctors, the best in the world, told me that I would never be able to live a normal life again. I would be attached to a machine forever in order to survive. I would not be able to drink again- my heart was that weak. The same organ that was incapable of love was now incapable of life. How ironic.

I took it upon myself to use my mind to prove them wrong. I invented better equipment then they had at their hospital. It wasn't my drive to live that forced my scientific mind to use technology to solve my problem. It was my addiction to alcohol. I am not going to pretend the patents that came with it were not going to make me rich again. Throw it on the pile.

I wanted to live so I could continue to drink. If it wasn't for the drink, I wouldn't even be in this mess. If it wasn't for my addiction, I would still be the charming and affable playboy I have been for as long as I can remember. Except, I wouldn't be the same, now would I.

Now, years later, I am a slave to technology. I cannot survive without my chest plate the only thing that keeps my heart beating. The trade off is that with enough raw power, I can do anything. I can level mountains, I can destroy buildings. I can fly at the speed of sound. I am a walking war machine. I rely on my armour to survive, but I have used it to become so much more than everyone else around me.

But, every night, I come home and drink alone. I crave my next sip from the second I put the glass down. I have no close friends- only employees, clients and the empty socialites a billionaire is expected to be involved with in polite society. I make weapons of destruction and sell them. I am a purveyor of death by proxy. How many lives have been lost at the end of the barrels I have created? Polite society indeed.

It just drives me back to the bottle. A stark reminder of the evil that men do - I profit from it.

And every so often, someone points one of my guns at me. I disarm them, destroy the weapon, and know that tomorrow, they will order some more.

Some Hero. When I am not saving the world, I am helping them destroy each other.

When I am not saving the world, I am destroying myself. The same armour that I use to save the world, is also saving me.

The Sorrow of Legends - Chapter Three

I don't even remember when I started to see what he was doing.

When it started, I would awake in tattered clothes with a pounding headache, with no clue where I was. I would be placed in the impossible position of trying to explain whomever came across me that I was not a threat, and that I didn't have the power to control him.

At the very beginning I had no clue what was even going on, feeling that I was just a horrible sleep walker, and told others that they were imagining his existence. I was hounded by the military to help them stop him, and at first, I didn't even know what "him" was.

Now, I can see every thing that he does. Trapped inside, there is nothing I can do but pray that he stops. Uncontrollable rage, wanton destruction, mindless carnage- and I have no choice but to watch. I can't even close our eyes.

For some time I have been trying to will him to stop. With every lunge, I have pulled with all my might the other way. I have screamed from inside, but the only sound I can hear are his fists smashing against whatever happens to be in their way.

The army is only doing their job- they stand in his way to try to stop him. It is fruitless, and only enrages him further. I still have nightmares about the first one I saw him kill. The soldier was firing his weapon right at our eyes, I could see the bullets bouncing off of us. He strode towards the boy, he was so young, and the behemoth effortlessly snapped his spine. He tossed his lifeless body aside, glaring at the other soldiers - warning them that their fate would be the same. Their bravery was admirable, if not stupid, in the face of an unstoppable juggernaut.

There have been so many since that I have lost count. I am trapped inside the embodiment of death, with no choice but to watch. My sanity has been lost to the unimaginable body count. It is in the thousands.

It is my fault. I was responsible for the explosion that transformed us. I was a fool to dabble in such maniacal pursuits. I was a greater fool to let the army exploit me. And my reward? A life repeatedly witnessing unspeakable horrors from the best seat in the house.

Knowing what I know now, I have to assume responsibility for his actions. I am no longer willfully blind to everything that he does. I am the only one who bears the remorse for his actions- he feels nothing but rage, and the angrier he gets, the more he destroys. And I know it is going to happen again. I have a responsibility to his next victim.

I have tried to hide in the desert. I have tried to keep him away from anything of value to destroy. He lives on adrenaline, and when it exhausts him, or when he needs fuel, I take over again. Eating in the desert is a challenge, but the sacrifice is worth it - there is much death here, but none cause by our hands. Until they find us again. The so called heroes that think they can help me, us. He casts them aside. Those who have tried to use his strength to satiate their desperate greed for power have been thwarted. Everyone who comes into contact with him is hurt - or their loved ones are when they find out what happened.

I have tried to surrender. You can imagine how well that worked out. By surrendering, I only created more victims.

I tried to have myself sedated. That worked until the nightmares took over.

I have worked to find a cure, and for a brief time, I was in control. I could harness his strength and use it for, well, good. I used science to control the reaction that transformed us. I failed when the same science couldn't undo my madness, and when I lost control, he came back stronger and more resilient to run amok. It will never stop- unless I stop him now.

When I am gone, he will die with me. It is my soul trapped deep down inside of him. Without me, he will cease to exist. Many have thought that I have been lost inside forever- and they are right. I have lost all of the people close to me - either through his rage, or by electing to protect them. If I stay away, he can't hurt them, or destroy what is left of my legacy.

There is only one solution - my death. But how can I kill myself without him emerging? When I am threatened, he takes over. When I am injured, he takes over. When I get mad, I lose control, and he returns.

I am trapped, and powerless to do anything but watch. I grieve for the loss of life that I have caused. Betty, I'm so sorry.

Sorrow of Legends - Chapter 2

I have worn a mask for sixty years.

I have brandished the flag of freedom for as long as I can remember.

But today I plan to draw the line at what I have seen my country become and step out from behind this mask and truly lead my people.

When I was 18, I volunteered for a special assignment. By chemical process, I was transformed from a weakling into a robust symbol of freedom and democracy. With my new body, I led my friends into the breach to their deaths against a horrible enemy who threatened our way of life. They would have followed me into hell if I asked them to. They stood behind me and my shield.

After defeating the greatest evil the world has ever known, I stood up to defend freedom on America's shores. I have led a group of heroes and I have worked alone - but I have always been a symbol of what we believe in. Freedom, liberty and helping to spread that to the four corners of the globe. I have defeated fascists, communists, terrorists in the name of American Freedom.

When the President ordered me to lead my men into this war on terror, I didn't hesitate. Over time, our mission changed, and as each day passes, the international support we had at the outset is turning away. With what we know now, we used a horrific attack against our way of life to justify a ridiculous invasion for interests that were disparate from our national vision. What began as spreading freedom and democracy has turned into to avenging a failed invasion years ago with the lives of men and women who were barely old enough to do much more than look up to me at the time. As a direct result of our actions in the wake of the greatest tragedy our people have endured, we are less safe in our own homes today.

Today, its time to take off my mask, and let everyone who believes in me actually know what they are believing in. When they see me remove my mask, the people will know that I am more than just the symbol behind our ideals- but I am a man who can help to forge our vision of those ideals and refocus our people - galvanizing it, and returning it to the great society it was always meant to be.

My name is Steve Rogers, and I am running for President. I want you to take the trust you, your parents, and our nation has had in me as a symbol and invest it as me as a man. I think my dedication to our nation speaks for itself.

The Passion of People - When Harry got dumped by Sally

If this wasn't so sad, it would be hilarious. The Waiter only adds to it.

This isn't a story about Harry and Sally, who were in love where the operative word is "were." This is a story about circumstances. It is true.

Harry has been in love before, and one would assume that Sally had been to. Harry only knew that he still loved Sally. Sally has moved on. Sally still loves Harry, but not in the same way. Harry loves Sally as a close friend, but is still trying to hold on to the love they once shared- though they shared it at different intensity levels at different times.

There is a lot of history that is important to this story, but will really drag it down. The bottom line is that the relationship ended as a result of miscommunication. Repeated, serious, miscommunication. When Sally was fighting for Harry, Harry forgot Paris. When Harry was fighting for Sally, she had signed into AOL and had mail. Neither of them were Sleepless in Seattle at the same time.

They have since spent their time apart fighting over what went wrong. It wasn't any one's fault - it was circumstance.

Sally told Harry that she would have married him. Harry told sally if only he had been told how special he was she would have gotten the invitation. They passed each other in time- the only thing we can give to someone which can't be taken back, and the only thing we can't find more of.

Months after their love affair ended, they spent a day together, and as they had experienced for months, they had another difficult conversation. It seemed that every conversation got more and more difficult. Unintentionally, they hurt each other repeatedly. Unintentionally, these conversations led to the shedding of tears. Sometimes because they didn't understand - sometimes because Harry refused to. They still wanted to spend time with each other, though their purposes were, frankly, disparate. Neither could say that over meant forever. Both of them knew, deep down, that it would be.

Harry and Sally weren't perfect, but what fun was "perfect" anyway? Both of them were trying hard to be a friend to the other. It wasn't easy, but they were trying. It hurt, Harry said, for a reason because the people you love the most are the ones who are hurt the most. They are also the ones who are the happiest for you.

After a long day when smiles were had and tears were shed, Harry and Sally had dinner. They went to a new restaurant and tried to enjoy each other's company. This was despite mere moments earlier, they were holding each other in a pained frustration at how time had unravelled their passion - driving them apart. As you can imagine, when something is on the mind, it doesn't always go away so easily. Eventually, the facts came up again.

Earlier in the day, Harry had told Sally that had things been clearer things would have been different and that she would have been given his family ring. He had given it to someone else in the past, but got it back when it it didn't work out. Sally told Harry that had he asked, she would have been his forever. What does time really mean anyway?

For the same reason that songs make us weepy, there was something about the very direct way it was articulated to Harry that pinched a nerve. His eyes erupted in tears, streaming down his cheeks uncontrollably, at times slipping into his wine. Sally didn't understand what she had said - wasn't it something she had said before?

Losing his ability to hold his grief in, he got up, looking for somewhere to hide. We wasn't in his city, he wasn't sure of where he was going, he just had to get up and get away. Tears streaming down his face, he just had to gain some composure.

And, like a bad Tom Hanks/Billy Crystal/Meg Ryan movie he turned right into the last person who had worn his family ring. Prophetic doesn't even begin to describe it. It had been years since they had last seen each other, years since she had left him for another. They met in an awkward embrace reserved only for Life Insurance commercials and truly chance meetings where your instincts take over before you have time to realize "Holy fucking shit, what the fuck did I do to deserve this second dagger?"

"How are you," she asked.

"MPHM, UMBABLE" was the best Harry could muster under the circumstances. When you bump into your old flames, you worry about your hair, your dress, your breath. You don't tend to have to worry about the waterworks streaming down from your face.

"It is great to see you! What is new?" she asks, seemingly oblivious to the uncomfortable nature of the situation. She never was all that sharp.

Like any child who is trying to talk while stifling back tears, the words come out jumbled and remarkably slowly.

"ah, ah, ah-I am fiiiiiiiiiine," was the best Harry could do. His head spun, uncontrollably. The entire restaurant was like a ship adrift with a hole in its ballast.

"So, what are you up to?" she asked, obviously referring to Harry's career - which was difficult to explain at the best of times to someone who didn't know anything about what he did. Pulling himself together quickly, straightening his pants, wiping the tears away, and having a pleasant, yet strained conversation for a few minutes. He politely said hello to her new boyfriend and his parents, and then slowly moved back to his table where Sally patiently sat- interested, but not trying to pry.

Harry volunteered the information he could. He sat across from the woman he loved, and explained to her that mere moments after reminding him that she would have worn his ring proudly, mere metres away stood the last woman who had ever worn it. Now, neither of them wanted it.

If it wasn't so sad, it would be hilarious. The rush of emotions that swirled within Harry were not directed at either Sally or his former fiancee. They just came out - and where pointed at Sally because she happened to be there.

Sorrow of Legends - Chapter One

I was sent away for my protection, and I became their protector.

They can be a great people. I was sent to them to protect them from their own. I can walk among them as an equal, hiding as one of them- watching over their mundane existence like a Sheppard. They do not always know where I am, but they know that I am there.

I am celebrated for the ordinary feats that my strength allows me to do. They are only ordinary to me, in many cases, extra-ordinary. My greatest accomplishments go unheralded, though I am not interested in their praise. I am, in most respects, just a man with the same insecurities that many of them have about their daily lives. They just take on different forms. I desire love. I desire companionship. I desire to be human, and I now understand that being human is not just about being part of a species. I do not believe they are weak or feeble. I understand that the very things that make them vulnerable have nothing to do with their strength – and I am just as susceptible to them.

I stand over the bed of the only person left who knows my secret. She is dying a slow and painful death. A death I cannot stop, but a death which I have caused. She is dying of cancer.

For other reasons, I am, and always will be, dangerous to those around me, but she is dying because she cared for me. The cancer that grows inside of her is a result of being close to me. I have saved her life before, I have saved the planet before, and yet I am powerless to help her. Her physician wondered what could have caused this in an otherwise healthy woman- but lamented to us that cancer is unlike any other disease on earth. Sometimes, the cell growth just happens. Different people react differently to their environments – some people stave off otherwise carcinogenic variables. Environmental or genetic- there isn’t always an explanation, is what he said to my dying friend.

I know better. I am made strong by the very sun which gives their planet life. My body absorbs its radiation and increases my strength. I have known this for as long as I have been aware of my strength. The power coursing through me does not stay inside me. Like the source of my power, my body radiates that energy outwardly – and that energy does not have the same effect on others as it has on me. Prolonged exposure to any significant power source, unprotected, will lead to the inevitable result.

The very power that drew her close to me will be the cause of her death. My body is bursting with the sun’s radiation. My desire to spend time with her is what is killing her. My need to be close to her, her need to be held by me, our short time together has hastened our eternity apart.

This is the last time I will let myself grow close to anyone of them. The sorrow I have for her impending death is matched only by the knowledge that I will never grow old with them. While loving her, I have watched her gracefully blossom from a young flashy reporter to a middle aged woman. My appearance has not changed in years. I am trapped in a temporal immorality. I do not age. Anyone else I will ever draw close to will eventually die, leaving me alone. Her death will be premature, but was inevitable. My sorrow only arrived ahead of schedule – because of me.

For this to change, only I can elect to change the course of my history. Only I can make the decision to escape the trap of mortality. I can do so by leaving. I can escape the sun that gives me my strength. I can journey away, a cowardly act to avoid an endless loneliness on this earth. A selfish act to ease my pain.

I can’t leave them yet. I am their protector, and it is protecting me.