I crawled forward towards the edge and I could see him lying there.  Rain slammed against my face, but I thought I saw him move.

There was no way down to the spot where Michael lay, aside from Michael's path. 

I had not saved Paul.  Did I still have time to save Michael?  I scrambled back from the edge and ran out of the cave.

I ran.  Then I saw the door Michael had told me led to the outside.  I yanked it open and ran through. 

I found myself in a wild spot and I fought my way through the vegetation of the overgrown path in the direction of the cliffs.  There was no way down from there, so I followed along until I could get down safely.

I slipped and stumbled over the rocks until I got to where Michael lay.

He was on the rocks and he looked surprisingly whole, except for his neck which was oddly twisted.  He must have broken it.  I wondered if his spinal cord was harmed.  His eyes were closed.

"Michael!" I said loudly.  I grabbed his wrist to see if he had a pulse.  It was faint and his skin was cold.  He was soaked from the rain and the pounding surf.

He opened his eyes.  They looked distant.  "I can't feel anything,"

"You're going to be okay," I assured him, wondering if the thought would actually make him unhappy. 

Could he be okay?  I was no doctor, because I had taken a different path.

"Sarah?  Little girl?"

"Michael?" I replied.

My mind raced.  A normal human would probably already be dead.  He was gasping more than breathing.  I did not know what to do.

"I am sorry for everything."

"I forgive you.  Just don't die," I pleaded. 

It was perverse, but I did not want him to leave me even though I had so recently contemplated whether I could find it in me to kill him myself.

"Dylan."  His let his eyes close.

"Michael?" I said, and shook him. 

"Michael!  Wake up!  You idiot!  You jerk!  Old geezer, are you abandoning me again!?" I shouted.

I thumped on his chest; I tried to hit him back into life.  He was still.

How ironic he should die as Sarah should have died.  She had only survived because of the infection and blood.

I had no time to get a blood donor for Michael.  It was too far and the cliff too steep.  He needed immediate care.

I could hear the pounding of the surf and the torrent of the rain and the howling wind, as if nature was mourning or rejoicing at Michael's passing. 

Over the sound of nature's raging I could hear my breath coming out in ragged gasps and the blood pounding in my ears.

Blood.  My blood.  My veins were pumping full of healthy blood from my last transfusion.  I fumbled around, looking for a sharp stone. 

I found one and I unceremoniously gashed my hand across it.  Blood welled up in the cut and I tilted Michael's head and opened his mouth and let it drip between his lips.  I waited.

"Michael, wake up!" I demanded, letting the mixture of my blood and rain drip into his mouth.

Nothing happened.  He was not swallowing.  His mouth filled and the liquid began to escape the sides of his mouth and rolled down his cheeks, further diluted by the rain.

He was gone. 

As if the world was not already drowning in the storm, the ocean began to leak from my eyes.

"Damn it, Michael!  I didn't want to cry for you again, you jerk!  How could you do this to me?" I raged, even though I knew deep in my heart that he could not hear me. 

I jerked on his arm and felt for his pulse again.  All was still and he was growing ever colder.  "How could you do this to me?"

I sat there on a rock for a long moment, or maybe just a second, or maybe an entire day.  The surf sprayed me, and the rain soaked me, and the wind dragged my body heat away.  At some point through my numbness I realized I was terribly cold and I stood up woodenly, images of Paul and Michael flooding through my mind.

How ironic that after such long lives they both would die so close together in time.  Michael had been granted only scant months longer than Paul and for lives as long as theirs it was little better than a moment.

How ironic that I would be the precipitating factor in both deaths.  Perhaps I had unknowingly traded in my jester's hat for the halo of the angel of death.

I should have known what was coming.  I, more than anyone, understood why Michael had been acting strangely. 

Why had I pushed him?  Had Paul's last words driven me to it?  Had I simply been fed up with Michael's cruelty?

Michael had been set in his mode, lost in his patterns.  Paul had been his axis; Paul had been Michael's rival and nemesis and ultimately the heart of his sole purpose for living all these long years.  Perhaps with Paul dead this was the only way it could have ended up.

Michael's own actions had stripped away his reason to go on.

Had Michael ever truly wished for Paul to die?  Once they had been as brothers and the best of friends.  Michael's desire for revenge had been tangled in his attachment to Paul. Was that why Michael had played his game?

Michael ended along with his game.  He lost along with his purpose.

Or perhaps Sarah, who had chosen to die rather than further hurt the innocent, had been the third unseen player.  Perhaps Sarah through me had won Michael's game in the end.

Sarah and her memory were finally at peace.

What was my purpose for living?  Now that they were both gone, I was no longer a pawn.  What was I to do now?  The question terrified me, because I did not know if there was an answer.

I climbed up at the same place where I had climbed down, but I could not find my way through the overgrowth back to the door to the subterranean halls.  I gave up and walked along and followed the rocky shore to the best of my ability.

If this had been Paul's island, he probably would have taken pity on me and given me a map of the island in during my first week.  Paul was dead. 

Michael had sat back and enjoyed watching a girl who looked so like the sister he missed struggle.  Michael was dead.

How many times had he tormented me about my clumsiness and my lack of direction?  Perhaps if I went back and told Michael I was lost again, or if I tripped into an uncoordinated pile, he would wake up just to laugh at me and annoy me some more.

I shook my head, hoping to dismiss my foolishness and for a few minutes I could hear the word with each step I took.  Fool, fool, fool, fool.

I should not feel such loss over someone who had lied to me so much.  Fool!

I should not be crying over my abuser.  Fool! 

I should not be hurting like this over a murderer.  Fool!

I must have the most pathetic and irrevocable case of Stockholm syndrome.  Fool!

I had not been able to save either one.  I was a fool.  Fool, fool, fool, fool, fool.

Only the fear of the tide changing and pulling Michael's body out to sea kept me moving forward.  Perhaps saving him from that final fate was the only thing that this fool could do for him. 

I pushed and wove through the wet foliage with the sound of the waves to my right.

Finally I broke through the foliage onto a road and I broke into a run. 

I did not stop in the town and no one tried to stop me.  I continued on until I reached the cluster of buildings where I had lived. 

I ran straight past to the office and pulled the door so fiercely it strained on its hinges.  I ran down the short hall to Elizabeth's office.

"Elizabeth!  Michael!  He!" I gasped, unable to get the words out through my gasping breaths.

Elizabeth was standing at a book shelf along one wall and eyeing the water dripping from my clothes onto her carpet with distaste, but her expression quickly became serious.  "Slow down, at once.  What are you saying!?"

"He—he—Michael!"

"Did you find him?" she gasped.  "Here, come sit down," she said, dragging me over to a chair in the warmest gesture I had ever received from her.

That pathetic gesture made me cry.  Pathetic jerking sobs racked my body.

"Calm down, Dylan!" she commanded.  "What happened?"

"Michael fell—"

"Where!?"

"The cliffs—on the far side."

"What the devil was he doing there?" she asked briskly.

"There's a cave."

Elizabeth looked disgusted.  "At the end of the tunnels?  What was he doing there?  I didn't know he went there.  Stay right here!" 

She swept out the door at top speed.  I stayed there, looking vaguely across at the wall for an indeterminate time.

When Elizabeth returned, I did not bother looking up.  "What happened?" she asked again.

"He fell."  For some reason I did not want to tell her what had happened; it felt like a secret.  There was no one left alive who could be hurt by the truth or by a lie.

Elizabeth nodded.  "Perhaps it's best that way."

I wondered how much she understood.

"Let me see your hand," Elizabeth said, but it sounded more like an order than anything.  I did, because I had no will of my own.

"Other hand," she snapped.

"Oh," I said and switched hands.  Elizabeth put something on my hand and wrapped it up.  The bandage was much like her, neat, perfectly put together and severe.

Someone came in and talked to her and I slipped quietly out.  I do not think anyone noticed.

I ran to my room and locked myself in.

I stayed in my room for the rest of the day, sleeping and thinking until I cried myself back to sleep and then repeating the whole process over again.

I had no desire to do much of anything.  Even books did not help, because I could not focus on them long enough to distract myself.

I wished I had thought of my blood earlier.  If I had clued in earlier, perhaps I could have saved Paul from his mortal wounds.

Perhaps Michael would have been saved if I had realized sooner.

If I had not pressed him, perhaps he would still be here on his island.  Yet I had to.  I could not have left him running around hurting more people to hurt Paul in his delusions.

Though I had only done what was necessary, in a way his death had been my fault as much as if I had physically shoved him.

I wished I had done what my father had wanted me to do.  If I were a doctor, I probably could have saved them both.  If I had done what he had wanted I would have been obliviously far away away from this.

Finally I reached a conclusion of sorts and I clung to it with the desperation of a drowning man to a life preserver. 

It was the island.  There was no point for me to remain on the island any longer, if there ever had been a reason for me to be here in the first place. 

I would leave.

I would go some place far from Michael's island, far from Europe or even North America or anywhere that prodded my memories.  I would start anew somewhere that no one would find me and bother me; somewhere wild where no one would notice my lack of aging.  Somewhere where my memories could be forgotten as they were obscured in the snow of my mind.

Unfortunately the only person who could help me get off the island was Elizabeth.  Fortunately she would be pleased to get rid of me.  To her I was little better than a rampant plague on the island.  I was thankful for her antagonism because she would not want to stop me.

Still wearing my filthy clothing, I made my way back to the office. 

The clouds were gone and the tempest had melted into another characteristically sunny day on Michael's island.  It hurt my head and eyes.

Everything looked much the same as ever when I entered the building and I made my way straight to Elizabeth's office. 

I found her sitting at her desk.  The lines on her forehead were etched in her concentration.  She was writing something on a stack of papers.

"Elizabeth," I said, trying to force her to acknowledge my presence.

"Yes?" she said, not looking up.

"Please arrange for passage off the island for me?" I asked.

"No." 

I thought I heard her wrong.

I tried again.  Maybe she had not heard me correctly.  "I want to leave.  I won't bother you again."

"I said, no," she repeated with a frown.  She was clearly displeased by my request.  I was surprised by her reaction.

"Why not?" I asked testily.

"I am too busy to worry about what you want right now, Dylan.  Furthermore, all the available planes will be busy bringing people here for the funeral," she said and jotted something on the paper with unnecessary force.

"Well, they should not be full on the way back," I pointed out reasonably.  "Anywhere is fine."

"You're running away?" she asked, sounding angry.

"No," I said defensively although I felt a twinge of doubt at her words.  Was I running away?

She looked up at me, sternly.  "It is unseemly to leave before the funeral."

I was about to tell her where she could stick her unseemly behavior, when I noticed that behind her wide rimmed glasses her eyes were all red and puffy.

All my snarky responses fled and I could not think of anything to say.

She somehow managed to look down her long, British nose at me from a sitting position and added, "You are also to be present at the reading of the will."

"Why?  I don't want anything."  Except to leave, I added silently.

"That hardly matters.  We will operate according to the solicitor's instructions."

"Fine," I said, feeling irritated and sad.  I went back to my room and locked myself in again.

Over the next few days, people knocked at my door and I tried to ignore them.  Did I want something to eat?  No.  Did I need a transfusion?  No.  Did I want my laundry done, my garbage removed, my confused emotions to be dissected and analyzed?  No, no, no. 

Not one person bothered to ask me if I wanted to be left alone.

A loud banging came upon my door.  I did not answer.

"Dylan!" a familiar voice said loudly.

"Go away, Tara," I muttered.

"Dylan!  I've heard that you aren't eating!" Tara's voice was loud and insistent and intrusive.

I spoke louder so I knew she could hear.  "So?"

"You need to eat!  And shower, because I know you probably haven't been doing that either!"

I ignored her.

"I will stand here and talk through the door all day if I have to!" she threatened.

She was entirely capable of carrying through on that threat.  I dragged myself out of bed and opened the door.  I scowled.

"You look awful," she told me as I returned and dropped myself back onto the bed.

"Thanks," I said sarcastically.

"The funeral is this afternoon," she informed me.

I glanced at the clock.  It was an hour to lunch. 

She fussed around me. "Let me get you something to eat and help you get ready.  Pierre has been worried you aren't eating much."

I glared at her.  "Fine, I'll eat."

"Good, I'll go get you something."

I was tempted to lock the door behind her, but I did not feel like getting up.  Plus she would just badger me until I relented and opened it again.

When Tara came back, I pushed the food around on my plate.  She harassed me if I did not take another bite after each swallow.  Once my plate was empty enough to please her she practically shoved me into the shower.

When I was finished, she made me get dressed.  Then she did my hair and nails.  She even changed my dirty bandage.  It was far more haphazard than Elizabeth's handiwork.

I wondered how it had gotten dirty because I had not done much of anything since it had been put on my hand.

I wondered without caring if there would be a scar.  Could I even get scars?  Probably not, both Michael and Paul had looked perfect even after their long troubled years.

"He wouldn't want you to be like this," she told me before she left.  I wondered about that.

Tara returned when it was time for the funeral and I followed her without question.  She talked about a lot of things, all the items that had been ordered through her shop, all the speculation about the death of Michael, and about the funeral arrangements and the cremation of Michael's body.

She was also careful to assure me nobody thought that it was my fault, that everyone was convinced it was an accident.  There was, apparently according to everybody "No way that girl could have managed to kill someone like Michael."

There was pretty much a consensus Michael was a great man and his death would be a great loss.  I did not know if I agreed and I felt no desire to correct them all if I did not.  Let them think what they would.

Tara led me to a vehicle and I got inside.  We were driven to the meeting hall, where the funeral was being held below ground in the large hall, the same location as the yearly New Year's parties.

There were more chairs than I could count in the hall and Tara brought me up to the front even though I would have preferred to slip into a chair at the very back. 

There were a bunch of reserved seats and I ended up sitting beside Tara behind one of those.  At least we were not in the front row.

In the middle of the front of the room there was a table that held an urn and a picture of Michael looking healthy and charming surrounded by massive amounts of flowers.  I wondered how they managed to get so many fresh flowers on the island.

The hall filled up and I waited for everything to begin so it could end; I willed time to move faster.

The room was fairly quiet, but the sounds of life could still be readily heard, a cough, a sniffle, a rustle, a shuffle, all present under the mummer of whispered conversations.

Finally an old man I did not recognize went up to a podium at the front.  He started talking, but nothing he said seemed of import to me.

After thanking everyone for coming, he babbled on and on about Michael's great accomplishments and what a great man Michael was in an ever expanding and seemingly endless loop, as if I were listening to a dreary song on repeat.

Eventually I stopped listening.  Clearly none of these people really knew anything about him.

The man's droning eulogy continued, but eventually I found it almost relaxing, like the background hum of an engine.

My mind was drifting somewhere beyond the room when there was a sudden commotion that slammed me back to earth.

A wailing shriek drew my attention to the front and I saw a blond woman with her arms wrapped around the vessel of Michael's remains. 

"No!" she shrieked in her high, girlish voice.  I felt my stomach clench in sympathy and embarrassment.

"No, no, no!  He can't be dead!  It's Michael!  Michael can't just die!" she wailed.

As suddenly as she had first screamed, she went deathly still.  I watched Terrence hurry her out of the room with his arms firmly around her shaking shoulders.

At the moment they passed, I could not meet Alicia's eyes.  I studied the floor, filled with mortification for the real Alicia.  I hoped she would never know about this moment.  I even somehow hurt for the childish doll and wondered how she would cope now.

The murmurs that had spread through the crowd subsided and the man at the front shakily completed his speech.

After the first man another unknown man went up and then an unknown woman.  I could not stop thinking about Alicia while they spoke. 

I wondered if she understood that I was the catalyst in this reaction.

Finally Elizabeth took the podium.  She did not allow even a hint of her emotion to show.  She thanked everyone, talked some more about Michael and then talked about future arrangements.

When she finished, people began to file out of the building.

Tara jabbed me in the ribs.  Apparently she had been talking to me.  "Dylan," she hissed.  She sounded somewhat exasperated.

"What?" I wondered, looking over at her.  Her eyes were red.  She had clearly been crying through the ceremony.

"I think you can leave now if you want, at least until the will reading this evening."

"Huh?"

"Weren't you listening?"

"Yeah," I said.  Sort of.

"Missus Eggleston said the will reading is at seven tonight, in the office."

I looked at her blankly.  "How did you know that I have to go?"  I doubted Elizabeth would have mentioned I should attend up there.

Tara sighed and replied, "Because I listen to the people around me, Dylan."

I pondered her pointed her pointed criticism and wondered again when she had time to do that.

"You seem out of it, Dylan.  Are you okay?"

"I'm fine," I said carefully.

The look on Tara's face told me quite clearly she did not believe me, but thankfully she did not argue.  She clearly thought my reaction was odd, but what was I supposed to do?  Changed the way I felt?  I could not help it I was the way that I was.

I got out of my seat and walked up the stairs quickly, slipping between the guests.  I lost Tara at some point in the crowds. 

I pushed out through the door and saw that there were tables and chairs set up outside, with plates of food.  A few people walked right past the tables but a much larger number began taking seats.  Servers moved around through the crowds.

I was impressed, in a very vague and detached way that Elizabeth had managed to organize everything so quickly.  It could not have been easy.  It was certainly expensive.

Michael had valued her competency and this seemed a fitting tribute from the severe woman.

I did not stop at the tables, but I did look at the people as I passed.  There was an interesting mixture of people I walked by.  Some of them seemed genuinely sad, some worried, others merely bored, others curious, and even a few who looked amused, although I could not imagine why.  I noticed a few familiar faces in the crowd, but I was careful not to meet their eyes.

I was glad when I walked past the tables.  Once I was out of sight I ran home as fast as I could.  I locked myself in my room.