Heartland

I was to be his Witness. He was God, and I was to play the part of his Shadow, making real his world by agreeing to his interpretation.

I tilted the Cup and poured the water out.

'What are you doing?' Husserl demanded.

'It's not my future,' I said.

'But it is,' he said. 'You can't change it.'

'I can refuse to participate,' I said.

He laughed. 'What will that prove? That you want to be martyred?' He pointed at the Cup. 'We're at the nexus of life, you idiot. You can't empty it.'

He was right. The Cup was still full. I poured it out a second time and when I righted it, the chalice was still full.

'Give it to me,' he said. 'Witness me, and I will grant you whatever is in my power to do so. Defy me, and I will have any one of the men outside kill you and take your place.' He smiled. 'I am sure I can find a few volunteers.'

He had a point there. I looked at the swirling waters of the Grail. What was my choice? Be party to his future, or be removed from it. Life, or death. What other terms are there ever with any choice, really?

Every moment, in every day, we make that choice, don't we? Do we continue to live, or do we give up? Do we take this next breath, look toward the next second of our lives, or do we shut our eyes and let it slip away? We no longer care to See; we don't want to Know; we are no longer willing to participate in this mystery. Our eyes will not record existence.

Hildegard's vision swam into my head-the one Vivienne had shown me, the one I had thrown into the Cup where it had dissolved. The angel atop the mountain of iron filled with windows and souls. The man who was nothing but eyes, staring in every direction, and the child who had been raised to Heaven where he was allowed to See of the Divine.

I had thought it represented the Ascension Event in Portland. I had thought I had been the man filled with eyes-the voices of the Chorus. But it was all a matter of interpretation, wasn't it? Why couldn't it be a vision of this moment? Why couldn't Husserl, with his scrying glasses, be the man filled with eyes. Why couldn't I be the one who had been raised up. The man who had been made into a child again.

Rede, mi fili.

Go back, my son.

I had been given another chance. I had to find my way home. I had to earn the right to be raised up again.

I was the child.

Husserl was the specter filled with eyes, looking in too many directions at once. Too many echoes. Too many reflections. Too many choices. I am sure I can find a few volunteers.

That was either an empty threat or he truly didn't need me. If so, then why bother with me at all?

Because it came down to a choice. To a matter of belief. Was the future his or mine? Or none of ours? Was it fixed because he had Seen it, or could there be an alternative? One based on a different interpretation.

He had Seen the future, but he needed me to believe in his vision of it. He needed me to accept it as the truth. Otherwise, it was just a dream, a mad vision born from his brain, a vision without anchor, without another soul to give it meaning. That was the crux of Hildegard's pain, wasn't it? She needed someone to acknowledge her visions, to hear her story, and to tell her that it could be true. Someone needed to believe.

I raised the Grail and flung the contents in Husserl's face. The fire in his glasses went out, snuffed out by sheets of falling rain, and his face went pale. 'What are you-' he started, and then he shook his head. 'No,' he said. 'No. No. No.'

There was water on the inside of his glasses too. Water that disturbed his vision, that broke up the purity of his scrying mirror. He was seeing in too many directions now. Too many futures. Too many choices.

He ripped the glasses off his face. 'No,' he shouted. 'I have Seen-'

I picked up the Spear and drove it into his throat, splitting his voice box. He gargled and squirmed around the point, his glasses falling from numb fingers. The light stayed fierce in his eyes for a moment, fighting to keep his vision alive. Until I leaned against the Spear and shoved it further in. Back, and up, into his brain.

The Land trembled as he collapsed, and the calm surrounding the altar vanished. The weight of the Crown-so very near his own head-came down on mine instead. Gasping at the immense weight, I let go of the Spear and reached for the Grail.

Marielle woke up first. Her eyelids fluttered a few times, and I watched as she came back to herself. Pain crossed her face, leaving lines in her forehead and at the corners of her eyes. I recalled staring at her face in bed that morning long ago when we had met at the dawn of the new aeon. I could have stared at it the whole day, and now, I felt time slow to a crawl as I watched her wake once again. She was a beautiful woman, and for a little while, I had been happy with her. For a little while, I had dreamed that I would be the one to stay with her.

Antoine groaned, and his hand feebly crawled toward his throat. The cut was there, but covered in a heavy scab that threatened to crack open again if he moved too much.

They were alive because I had wanted them to be, but they weren't healed. Not yet.

The Cup sat between my feet, and I waited for them to be aware of both me and the Grail, and the heavy weight of the Land, unrequited. The Coronation, unfinished.

'Now, the way I understand this ceremony is that someone needs to recognize the one who takes the oath. Is that right? Which means I only need one of you to be my Witness.'

I watched their reactions: Marielle didn't look away; Antoine lowered his eyes.

'It may seem a bit brutal of me to heal you enough that you could attend to my choice, doesn't it? I mean, you were both busy dying here, and I could have just let one of you go, and skipped this drama. Right? That would have been kind of me.' I leaned forward. 'But, really? Do you think you deserve such kindness from me right now?'

'No.' Antoine's voice was a gravely rasp.

'You really hate me, don't you?' I asked him.

His gaze flickered up toward me for an instant, and then slid away. 'I'm not going to give you that satisfaction,' he murmured. 'Just end it, and be done.'

'That would imply that what I want is to break your spirit and take away everything you ever wanted,' I replied. 'But, Antoine, my friend, I am not you. Even though we have been told-time and again-that we are the same.' I heard Marielle's breath hiss in her throat.

'I know what you tried to do at Batofar,' I said to her. 'I know what you tried to take. And I know what you did to Vivienne. Here-nunc-I Know you, little sister.'

I took a step back, taking a moment to let go of the steam building in my voice. 'Frankly, I'm not all that happy with either of you being my Witness. I would have had Husserl do it, but he couldn't let go of his own vision. What about you two?' I watched them carefully as I crouched down and picked up the Grail. 'Still scheming to take it from me?'

I had already drunk my fill and had my body restored, and they both watched-Antoine more greedily than Marielle-as I used my right hand to lift the Cup to my lips. The magick of the Land, flowing through the Grail, had made me almost whole again. I had been purified to be a ready vessel for the spirit of the Land. The Hierarch had to be whole. My right hand was still gone, but the gauntlet had become solidly fused to my wrist now. Once I took the oath, the Land would complete my transformation, filling the gauntlet with bone and flesh.

'Do you remember what you said to me when we were in Portland?' I asked Antoine as I set the Grail down. 'We were standing beside the Willamette River, before I went back to face Bernard. You pointed out that I wasn't supposed to be there. I was-what did you say?' When he didn't leap to answer, I filled it in for him. 'I was the 'dead man lost to us all.' Do you remember?'

His tongue wet his lips, and he nodded.

'It's true,' I said. 'And I should have listened to you then.'

'Michael-' Marielle started, but I stopped her voice with a flick of the Chorus.

'There needs to be a Witness,' I said. 'And there is nothing you can say to me that can change my mind.' I stood, and waved a hand toward the back of the church. 'I could go out there and ask for a volunteer, but this