(Art by Hannahbanana2604)

WINTER 1993

Percy Pleasure had a front-row ticket to his own death.

It started in 1990, when his arms and shoulders started twitching at random times. Things started slipping from his hands, and it took more effort to write a simple letter.

Percy was frustrated, but largely unconcerned. But he was married to a doctor — and Eleanor knew that something must be wrong. She took him to the hospital where she was working in Baker City, Oregon, and set up appointments with her colleagues to find out what was happening and if it was worrisome.

They quickly ruled out a tumor. Good, Percy thought — then nothing was wrong. He was simply getting old. He was only forty-seven years old — he hadn't expected to think of himself as "old" until he was at least sixty — but his body was already showing the signs of age.

Ellie didn't buy this explanation. She was adamant that the doctors keep looking. A tumor was only one possibility, she said, and Percy was still struggling — his speech sometimes got a slur to it when he wasn't paying attention, and he was losing his grip on things with more frequency. So, for the rest of the year, doctors worked to discover what was going on. And, at the beginning of 1991, they had a diagnosis.

Percy had amyotrophic lateral sclerosis. Lou Gehrig's disease. His body would run down; his muscles would degenerate and become useless; eventually, he wouldn't even have the strength to breathe.

How much longer did he have to live? was Percy's first question. The doctors weren't sure. Perhaps three years, perhaps five, perhaps fifteen. ALS was largely unpredictable, and there was nothing they could do to stop it. They gave him medication that would slow it down — but the medication had its own unpleasant side effects, and it didn't seem to slow anything down. Percy soon found it hard to speak without tripping over his words, and his gait became that of a shambling old man. He couldn't run the Order in this state — not when it exhausted him just to walk down the entrance stairs. He had to pass on the torch and choose a new leader of the Order.

Traditionally, the office would pass to his son, Patrick. But Lord Cipher would have none of that: Patrick was weak, he said — and, as much as it hurt him to do so, Percy couldn't help but agree. So who could he appoint instead? Eleanor?

No, said Cipher. Lincoln.

At first, Percy wasn't sure; but the more he thought about it, the more sense it made. Lincoln was highly loyal to Cipher, and installing him as the leader of the Order would only increase that loyalty. His amnesia made him a good candidate, as Cipher was one of the first people he'd met after losing his memory. Finally, if Cipher could have one of his own Symbols on his side — even leading his cult — then he would bypass any potential problems from the Cipher Wheel.

So, with shambling step and slurred voice, Percy called his final meeting as the Order leader. He officially appointed Lincoln as his replacement. This was at the end of 1991, less than a year after Percy's diagnosis.

Patrick was angry. Percy didn't have the energy to deal with him. Eleanor stepped between them and tried to mollify her son, though she was also angry — not at Percy for appointing Lincoln, but at Patrick for being unworthy to step into his father's shoes. This anger, combined with the stress of caring for Percy in his weakened state, took a toll on Ellie. Yet she stayed faithful, and Percy couldn't ask for a better companion.

It wasn't long before Percy could no longer get down the stairs to visit Lincoln. Then he couldn't walk at all. The year of 1992 was a downward spiral in which Percy watched his own body refuse to respond to his mental commands.

His body became a prison, and Percy was trapped inside.

Before he lost the ability to speak entirely, he firmly told Ellie and the doctors not to revive him when he stopped breathing. He didn't want to be brought back to life, and he didn't want any machines to breathe for him. He would rather suffocate than live on borrowed time. Two years of a slow death had exhausted Percy's fear of it, and he felt as if he were simply waiting to slip from his body into the world of spirits.

It wasn't long before Ellie could no longer care for Percy on her own. She checked him into a hospice in Baker City, and the staff there helped Percy live in relative comfort for the final days of his life. It was supremely boring: He couldn't do much more than move his eyes, and he couldn't speak to Lord Cipher in his dreams. He was outside of Bill's prison; there would be no more contact between them.

Before Percy left Gravity Rises, Bill had appeared one last time to say goodbye and to thank Percy for his devoted service as Order leader. Other Order members had visited and paid Percy their final respects.

Lincoln could not leave the Order headquarters. He hadn't visited.

By the beginning of 1993, Percy was completely paralyzed. Ellie and Patrick came to visit him often in hospice, and they would tell him about the outside world. Sometimes, Ellie simply sat there and silently held her husband's hand. He wished he could console her: He would tell her how he planned to find his way back home once he was a dead spirit and contact her from beyond the grave. The veil between living and dead was thin in Gravity Rises, and Ellie wasn't going to lose him entirely.

But, of course, he couldn't say any of that.

As time went on, it got harder and harder to breathe. Percy felt like he had run a marathon, even when he hadn't moved an inch. No matter what he tried, he couldn't get enough air.

It came as a relief when, on February 20th, 1993, he stopped breathing altogether.

~~~~~

Percy was dead, and Lincoln was angry.

It was a constant anger, directed at everyone and everything. He was angry at Percy for leaving him. Angry at Bill for failing to stop Percy's disease. Angry at the universe for taking Percy's life.

Lincoln had heard about Percy's death two days ago, and he hadn't been calm since. Activity in the Order had halted (much as it had for Gabriel's death, six years ago), and Lincoln was left alone to stew in his anger and frustration. He tried to alleviate his energy: He went running on the Northwest grounds; he threw his meager possessions around his room; sometimes, he punched the rock walls of the Order and tore up the skin on his knuckles. All of this helped, but the anger never truly left.

Last night, Lord Cipher had appeared in Lincoln's dreams and offered to help him overcome his anger. But Lincoln was too upset to even consider this offer. The anger gave him a sort of emotional high that kept him crashing down into his grief, and he refused to let go of that.

Currently, Lincoln sat at the desk in Percy's office, looking at the blood on his hands from punching the walls. He knew that he should go get the first aid kit from the broom closet and clean the blood away; but the pain helped him bear his ever-present anger, if just for a moment. He wondered if he should ask someone to bring him a punching bag and some boxing gloves, so that he could let out his anger without hurting his hands. He'd have to ask Percy about it next time he saw him.

Wait.

Lincoln moaned and put his head in his hands. No, he couldn't ask Percy. Percy was gone. Why would he think that? His anger resurfaced, and he wanted to jump to his feet and shove the polished wooden desk to the floor. But he didn't; he simply closed his eyes and curled his fingers through his hair.

"Blind Lincoln?" asked a nervous voice.

Lincoln looked up. Patrick Pleasure — or Bud, as he liked to be called — stood in the doorway.

Immediately, Lincoln's mind leapt into action: Here's someone. Here's someone we don't like. We can stand up and run over and push him to the floor and punch him right in the face. He would be a much better punching bag than the wall.

Lincoln ignored the thoughts and slowly lowered his hands from his head. "What is it?" he asked Bud. He knew that Bud hated him, ever since Lincoln had become the leader of the Order. But Bud had just addressed Lincoln by his formal title — the one given to him by Percy. Maybe that was a good sign.

"I have, um, a message for you," Bud said. "From my mom."

"Is she okay?" Lincoln hadn't seen Ellie for almost a week. It was a Northwest servant that told Lincoln about Percy's death. Had something happened to Ellie, now, too?

Bud flinched a little at Lincoln's question. "She's okay as she can be after her husband died," he said. His tone was biting.

"You know that's not what I meant," Lincoln said impatiently. "I mean, is she safe? Why did she send you instead of coming herself?"

"She doesn't have to bend over backwards for you," Bud said. "She sent me because she's busy planning Dad's funeral." Lincoln opened his mouth, but Bud put up his hands to forestall him. "Look. She just wanted me to tell you that she's sorry she hasn't stopped by yet, and that if you need her you can ask the Northwests to call her. That's it."

Lincoln blinked. "That's nice of her."

"Yeah," said Bud, his tone resentful. "She's still thinking of you even when she's mourning."

Lincoln hardly noticed the resentful tone; he was focused on something else. "You said she was planning the funeral," he said. "Do you know what the plans are for that? Will it be here, or in the Northwest Manor?"

Bud frowned. "Why would it be in the Northwest Manor?"

"Well, they have nicer rooms," Lincoln said. "It'd be easier to set everything up there."

Bud blinked slowly; he looked confused. "The funeral is going to be in Baker City," he said. "There's a funeral home where we'll hold a service, and then we'll bury Dad here in Gravity Rises."

"What?" Surely Lincoln misheard.

"The funeral will be in Baker City," Bud repeated. "What's wrong?"

"I can't go to Baker City," Lincoln said. "You can't hold the funeral without me."

Bud's eyes widened as he realized the dilemma. Without special permission from Lord Cipher, Lincoln was only allowed in the Order headquarters and in the Northwest Manor. If the funeral was anywhere else — and if people other than Order members were invited — then Lincoln couldn't attend.

The Pleasures had to hold a funeral that Lincoln could attend. If he couldn't say a final goodbye to Percy. . . he'd never get closure.

"I'm sorry, but we can't hold the funeral here," Bud said. "We're inviting our extended family, and Dad's business partners, and Mom's coworkers. It has to be in a public place."

"What about Order members?" Fresh, hot anger surged through Lincoln's veins, and he stood up. "Are you inviting everybody but me?"

Bud stared at him. The hesitancy in his face drained into a hard, angry look. "Yes," he said. "You've already had enough time with my dad. It's time for other people to get a chance."

"What's that supposed to mean?" Lincoln demanded. "None of us got enough time with him! He's dead, Patrick!"

Bud flinched. "Do you think I don't know that? He's my dad! You stole his time away from me while he was alive, and now nobody gets to be with him!"

"Stole his time?" Lincoln repeated incredulously. "He chose to spend time with me. He chose me as the new Order leader, too. I didn't steal anything."

Bud's face darkened. "It's been a year, and you're still gloating over taking my inheritance?"

Hurt him, urged a voice in Lincoln's head. He has no right to speak to you that way. Hurt him. Make him feel pain.

That voice was getting harder to ignore. "No," Lincoln said tightly. "I'm just reminding you that it was Percy's choice, not mine."

"Sure," Bud said in a tone that conveyed the opposite. "Well, now he's gone, so it's easy to say you're just doing what he wanted."

"I am doing what he wanted," Lincoln said. He rubbed at the bloodstains on his knuckles. "Look. There's an easy solution to all this. Just hold two funerals: one for the Order, and one for everyone else. Problem solved."

"It's hard enough to plan one funeral," Bud shot back. "We're not going to hold an entirely different one just for you. Funerals are for family and friends."

"And what am I?" Lincoln demanded.

"I don't know, but you're not family," Bud retorted. "No matter how much Dad wanted you as his son instead of me, the fact is that I'm his son. You can steal my inheritance, but you can't steal my place in our family."

"I'm not stealing anything!" The anger pounded in Lincoln's head. "You can't exclude me from Percy's funeral!"

Bud's face twisted into an expression of grim triumph. "Look," he said, "if Cipher says you can go, then you'll be welcome to come."

"You know he won't!" Lincoln stepped stridently around the desk. "You know I'm stuck down here!"

"Is that my fault? I'm sorry you're so special that you can't leave the Order, but that's not my problem."

"It's your problem when you plan the funeral deliberately to leave me out!" Lincoln moved closer to Bud; with each step, his mind cried out for him to grab Bud and shake him and slam him against the wall. "I have to be there, Patrick! Percy was the closest thing to family that I had!"

"Well, he wasn't family," Bud said, "because you don't have one. And you can't have mine!"

With that, Lincoln's anger could no longer be contained. He let out a scream of rage and rushed at Bud.

He grabbed the younger man by the shoulders and shoved him against the wall. "Take it back," he growled. "Take it back."

"No." Bud looked terrified, but he stared Lincoln resolutely in the face. "I can't take back the truth."

Hurt him, screamed Lincoln's anger. Hurt him!

Lincoln drew back a fist to do just that, but Bud ducked out of the way. He kicked at Lincoln and pushed him off balance; Lincoln stumbled back, and Bud — the coward — was halfway out the door by the time Lincoln steadied himself. "You trying to run?" Lincoln called after him. "You don't have the guts to face me?"

Bud didn't answer, and Lincoln rushed at him again. He pushed Bud out of the office and shoved him to the ground. Bud tried to roll away, but Lincoln knelt over him and pinned him down.

"Help!" Bud yelled. "Help me!"

But no one was around to hear him.

Lincoln's anger pulsed through his arms and head, consuming all rational thought in its wake. All Lincoln could think about was how much he wanted Bud to feel pain. Bud twisted beneath his grip, but it was no use.

"Are you going to beg for mercy?" Lincoln pushed Bud against the floor. "Are you going to apologize?"

"For what?" Bud demanded. "For stopping you from stealing my family?"

"I'm not a thief!" Lincoln raised his arm—

—and punched Bud squarely in the nose.

There was a sickening snap, and Bud's head rolled back on his neck. Lincoln reveled in the sound, reveled in the blood that spurted from Bud's nose. The rage was joined by elation as Lincoln got to his feet and smiled triumphantly down at Bud's unconscious body.

Then the anger drained away, leaving cold horror in its wake.

"Oh no," Lincoln breathed. What had he done?

He dropped to his knees and fumbled for a pulse, a breath, anything. He quickly discovered that Bud was still alive — oh, thank Cipher — but his nose was twisted and misshapen and covered in blood. Lincoln rolled Bud onto his side, hoping to let the blood drain, then jumped to his feet again. He had no idea what to do in a situation like this — he needed help.

Leaving Bud in the hall, Lincoln hurried away. He ran through the passage to the Northwest Manor and burst through the tapestry. "Help! I need help!"

He ran through the manor, repeating his call, until a few servants ran up to him. "What's going on?" a man asked.

"Patrick is hurt. He's outside my office. He needs help."

"What happened?"

"I think his nose is broken." It wasn't a real answer to the question, but it got the servants moving. Lincoln followed them back to the Order; he was relieved that someone would be able to help. The anger that had coursed so warmly through his veins just minutes earlier had been replaced by cold guilt and fear. Had he maimed Bud? Was the younger man in danger of dying?

They soon reached Bud, who was still lying prone on the stone floor. "Go get some ice," one servant was saying to another. Then, "Lincoln, go get the first-aid kit."

It took Lincoln a moment to respond, but then he ran off to do as he was told. He rushed to the broom closet, grabbed the first-aid kit from the shelf, and ran back to the servants. The other servant had come back with the ice; there were, in total, three servants gathered around Bud.

"He needs to get to the hospital," said one of the servants as she turned to leave. "I'll go get more people to help you carry him, and I'll call Eleanor and tell her what's going on."

Guilt burst through Lincoln's bloodstream. Eleanor — what would she think? Her husband was dead, and now Lincoln had almost killed her son.

A new voice appeared in Lincoln's mind. You're dangerous, Lincoln, it said. It sounded like Percy's voice.

Lincoln put his bloody hands up to his head. Oh, no. Percy was right. Percy had warned Lincoln, for years, that Lincoln was dangerous, and what did he do? He attacked Percy's son.

"Lincoln?" One of the servants stood up and put a hand on Lincoln's back. "He's going to be okay. Don't worry. Did you two have a fight?"

Lincoln nodded numbly. He stared at Bud's limp body and felt sick with guilt. He had to get away.

Before long, three more servants came to join the other two. Carefully, they lifted Bud into their arms and carried him down the hall. Lincoln felt like he should help, but he had no idea how. The servants took the first-aid kit and the ice with them, leaving only the bloodstains on the floor behind.

Lincoln was alone with the remnants of his violence.

The darkened stone floor shone with red, and Lincoln couldn't stand the sight of it. He ran away, but he didn't know where he was going. Dangerous, his mind whispered. You're dangerous. You hurt Percy's son. He would hate you if he knew. You're too dangerous.

Where could he go? What could he do to escape this guilt?

Lincoln passed by a door, then stopped and backtracked. This room. . . A vague memory stirred in his mind. He opened the door and peered into the darkness. Through the open door, the weak firelight from the hallway glinted off a small cabinet in the back of the small room.

And suddenly, Lincoln knew what he had to do.

He took the nearest lamp from its hook and entered the room. The lamp went up on a different hook, and Lincoln moved to the cabinet. In the top drawer were pieces of chalk, ten candles, a box of matches, and a piece of parchment with instructions. Lincoln carefully lifted the parchment out of the drawer and held it up. On the page were instructions on how to summon Bill Cipher. Lincoln had never officially summoned Bill before; but he recognized the room, the cabinet, and the parchment from what Percy had shown him before he abdicated his position as leader of the Order.

This was the solution.

Lord Cipher had offered to help Lincoln control his anger. Lincoln, in his emotional high, had foolishly refused the demon's help. Now he — and Bud — had paid the price of that foolishness. He couldn't afford to let something like this happen ever again.

Lincoln picked up the chalk and drew the Cipher Wheel on the ground. It was hardly a work of art — the circle was squished, and the symbols were barely recognizable — but it would have to do. Lincoln finished the drawing, then set the candles around the Wheel and lit them. He looked at the parchment for the next step and frowned at it. He needed some kind of object to set in the middle of the Wheel — some kind of sacrifice, preferably something that had to do with the current situation. What could he use?

He glanced down at his bloody hands. The slick red liquid was starting to dry, and Lincoln couldn't tell how much of it was Bud's and how much was from his own torn knuckles. He held his hand over the center of the Cipher Wheel and shook it a bit. Drops of blood fell from his hands and muddied the chalk.

Hopefully that would work.

With a deep breath — why couldn't he get enough air? — Lincoln held out the parchment and started to read the incantation out loud. The words were hard to pronounce, and he wondered if they were nonsense words — but he read them aloud all the same. It wasn't long before he was lost in the magic of the spell. He fell to his knees as his mouth moved of its own volition. The candle flame wobbled, and Lincoln heard himself shouting more nonsense.

Then the sound died away. Lincoln's vision filled with white.

The whiteness soon bled away into shades of grey, and Lincoln found himself in the mindscape. Bill Cipher floated in front of him. "You could have killed him," the demon said.

Lincoln got to his feet, his guilt forming a stone in his stomach. "I know," he said. "I. . . I was so angry. . ."

"I can help you," Bill assured him. Yellow light emanated from most of the demon's triangular form, save the few remaining patches of grey. "I can take your anger away."

Yes, Lincoln's mind begged. Yes, take it away. It's controlling me — I can't let it control me.

"It doesn't have to control you," said Bill, responding to Lincoln's thoughts. "I can suppress your anger the way I suppressed your desire to get your memory back. You'll be able to control yourself."

"And I won't be dangerous anymore?" Lincoln asked in a whisper.

"No," Bill answered.

Relief swept through Lincoln's mind. He wouldn't be dangerous anymore. Bill would take his anger away, and Lincoln wouldn't hurt anyone. His anger wouldn't get the best of him again. He would no longer be a slave to his own emotions.

"Take it," Lincoln said decisively. "You can take it. What do you want me to do in return?"

Bill shrugged. "Let me possess you again."

Lincoln hesitated. He hadn't enjoyed being possessed the first time. . . but. . . surely it'd be worth a one-time favor to have Bill help him control himself. "When?" he asked.

"Whenever I need." Bill held out his hand, and the telltale blue flame appeared in a flash. "I will suppress your anger, and you will give me the ability to possess you whenever I want."

Now Lincoln really hesitated. His eyes flicked from the blue fire to Bill's eye to the grey patches on the demon's body.

"Don't worry," Bill assured him. "It won't be often. It's just such a hassle to have to bargain with someone every time I need a physical form. This way, I'll be able to interact with the physical world more easily. And you, Blind Eye, will be able to serve me in a way that no one else can."

"By. . . by losing my body?"

"By letting me borrow your body," Bill corrected. "You'll get it back, of course. I'm just going to borrow it on occasion. You'll still be a soul most of the time."

"What if. . ." Lincoln had a hard time wrapping his mind around Bill's proposition; all he knew was that it didn't sound good. "What if I refuse?"

"Then you'll still be a slave to your anger," Bill said. "You won't be very effective as the Order leader, because you'll be too busy feeling angry about Percy, about Bud, about any small issue that arises. You've been a decent leader in the year since you were instated, but how often were you distracted by anger?"

Lincoln thought back. He had been often distracted by anger. Especially when he thought about what Percy was going through, or about the fact that Percy could no longer visit him, or recently about Percy's death. That wasn't the only thing that made him angry, but it was the biggest thing. There had been days, even before Percy's death, when Lincoln could hardly focus because of his emotions.

"You'll help me control myself," he found himself saying. "You'll help me focus."

"Yes," Bill said. "Shake my hand, and you'll no longer be so angry at the world."

It sounded so appealing. Lincoln's mind cried out for relief from his anger. But, "Won't that just make me depressed?" said Lincoln. "Won't I just be distracted by. . . by grief?"

"True," Bill conceded, "but I've spent centuries around humans. I've found that your species works through grief more easily when you cycle through your emotions. But you, Lincoln, are currently stuck in your anger."

Stuck. That was a good way to describe it. Lincoln felt stuck, which left him frustrated, and he had taken out his frustration on Bud. That was unacceptable. He couldn't be stuck anymore. Not if he wanted to be a good leader of the Order.

"Shake my hand," Bill urged. The blue flames danced around his hand. "Shake my hand and find relief."

Lincoln so desperately wanted that relief that he could hardly think about anything else. The other end of the deal — that Bill would be able to possess him at will — set warning bells off in his brain, but they were faint and smothered by his desperation and guilt.

He had to do this. He had to overcome his anger, and Bill was the only one who could help him with that. Before his screaming mind could protest any further, Lincoln took Bill's hand.

"Deal," he said decisively.

The blue fire spread across his hand. Its touch was cold, and Lincoln welcomed the feeling. It was a beautiful contrast to the hot anger that had consumed him as he fought with Bud.

The fire then moved to surround Bill, and the final grey patches fell away from his triangular body. His yellow glow shone all the brighter for having nothing left to impede its light. Bill closed his eye in delight as the fire burned around him. "Oh," he said, "oh, finally. I'm back."

"Back?" said Lincoln. "From what?" He tried to take his hand away.

But he couldn't let go.

"Bill? What's going on?" He tugged away, but Bill's grasp was too firm. Lincoln couldn't escape the blue fire.

"There's one more step," Bill said. "Brace yourself."

Before Lincoln could ask what that meant, a new sensation overcame him. It was as if a phantom hand reached into his chest and tore at his ribcage. Lincoln screamed and fell to his knees. His hand fell from Bill's grip as the pain — unlike any physical pain that Lincoln had ever known — swept through him.

"What was that?" he gasped when it subsided.

"I loosened the connection between your body and your spirit," Bill said. "Now it's possible for me to push you out of your body whenever I so choose."

Lincoln mustered the strength to lift his head. "What?"

"That's our deal," Bill reminded him. "Don't worry, it's just a one-time pain."

It was hard to pay attention to what Bill was saying. Something in Lincoln felt wrong, and his mind scrambled to figure out what it was.

"It may take some time to get used to this," Bill said. "Your soul is still connected, but it's an easier connection for me to break."

Lincoln didn't understand what Bill was saying, and he didn't understand what he himself was feeling. It wasn't a physical or emotional sensation. It was a deeper, spiritual sensation that Lincoln hadn't known existed. And it felt broken.

"You're not broken," Bill assured him. "In fact, you should be better than ever, now that your anger is out of the way. You feel unsettled now, but that will pass."

Lincoln was quiet as he tried to recover his wits. Bill continued, "By the way, you'll be happy to know that Bud was wrong about Percy's funeral. Eleanor started planning a second funeral once she sent Bud to check up on you. She's still working out the details, but she'll hold a funeral or viewing service in the Northwest Manor. You'll be able to attend."

"Really?" The unsettling sensation subsided as Lincoln got back to his feet. "I — I'll be able to go?"

"Yes," Bill said. "Ellie's plans are that there will be the one funeral service in Baker City for friends and family, and a second one here for the Order. I can't currently see Ellie — she's out of town taking Bud to the hospital — but I'm sure she'll come back to talk to you later."

Lincoln felt a sweet relief, even as he worried about Bud going to the hospital. "I. . . I'll be able to say goodbye to Percy," he whispered. A weight — the fear that he wouldn't get to say goodbye — lifted from his mind. "And is Bud going to be okay?" he added.

"I can't see him right now either, but I think he will be," Bill replied. "Ellie has good connections in Baker City."

This was also relieving, although Lincoln knew he would feel at least a little guilty for his actions until he got to apologize to Bud face to face.

"Well, I think my work here is done," Bill said. "I'll leave you now. It'll be a bit of an adjustment to find your anger suddenly gone, but try not to sink into your grief. Go up to the Northwest Manor and spend some time with Grace to help you feel better."

Lincoln smiled at the thought of Grace Northwest. The small four-year-old girl was playful and happy, and Lincoln liked spending time with her. "I will," he told Bill. "Thank you, Lord Cipher." He bowed deeply to the demon.

"You're welcome." Bill started to glow brighter — brighter than Lincoln had ever seen. Lincoln shielded his eyes as the glow overwhelmed him. Then the light faded, taking Bill with it.

Lincoln found himself back in the physical world, with no light but from the single lantern. He gathered up and put away the candles, matches, chalk pieces, and parchment, then scuffed at the chalk Cipher Wheel on the ground with his foot. Returning the lantern to its hook in the hall, Lincoln closed the door to the summoning room.

He didn't feel any anger. His emotions were many, but anger was not one of them. Guilt over hurting Bud, grief for Percy — those feelings were strong, but they were muddied by relief over Percy's funeral and gratitude for Bill's help.

Beneath it all was that uncomfortable feeling. The pain from Bill's tampering with Lincoln's soul had faded, but it left behind a nagging itch that was too deep to scratch.

That itch never really faded. Over the years, Lincoln got used to it, but it was always there, somewhere in his subconscious mind, reminding him.

Reminding him of the power that Bill had over his soul.

END OF EPISODE TWO