Criston felt weary as he stood on what he thought to be the beaches of Corinthian. Julia was nowhere in sight. The lovely beach house lay in its original construction spot. Only now, in complete ruin. Not knowing that it was his guilt that brought him here was a huge disadvantage. But he'd figure that out soon enough.

Instantaneously, the scenery around him changed, morphing into something he couldn't make out. Not at least until he turned his head from the wallpapered walls, wallpaper seemed so familiar, to see Corinth cowering underneath his sheets. Almost looking as if he'd poke his head out, but didn't just yet. What scared him so was the hooded man ominously hovering at the end of his twin size bed.

The lighthearted decor of broken skateboards scattered across the floor and race-car bed sheets that covered Corinth, couldn't disguise the tension in the room. Criston leapt at the man that struck fear in the heart of his son, only to pa.s.s through him like a hologram. Or some type of illusion. And in that moment, the mysterious man removed his hood.

And it all came flooding back. The wave of regret washed over him, filling him up with grief and sorrow. He recalled his son's fearful tale of the hooded man who stole him away in the night. The man who helped bring him into this world, who swore to protect him with his life. Criston, was that man. The hooded man who brought all this trouble to his own family.

The dynamic scene continued reshuffling itself, revealing new and heartbreakingly sad material for Criston to tear his soul apart over. He now saw himself as a teenager again, standing on the Olympus Grounds at Aurora Boreal school. He held up signs, and screamed at the top of his lungs. Encouraging others to do the same. He thought to himself, while swept up in this realistic illusion, that this wasn't a very regretful moment in his life. He was actually proud of standing up for the Deaves geek squad.

In real time, he never noticed his mother standing at a window in the Watchtower looking down upon his forceful protest. However, recalling the whole scene from an outsider's perspective cast an entirely new light on the circ.u.mstances. She had yet to become the Grand Ministrant, but she was a powerful ministrant nonetheless when she pet.i.tioned the school committee to have her own son expelled.

If he hadn't before realized why this event was a part of his montage of sorrow, he did now. He had suppressed this memory so deep that it forced his heart-rate to climb exponentially just recalling a few of the words exchanged. After the failed protest to save Deaves, the committee hearing, and his consequent expulsion, his mother pulled him aside sternly. Then in graphic detail, she laid out to him all the reasons why she was ashamed of him as her son.

Nothing hurt more than to know that she didn't support him, but she also vehemently worked against him. To no end did she pursued his exile. It seemed like she intended on it all along. With how satisfied she appeared once Deaves was discontinued, and he was no longer at the school, he couldn't help but think she orchestrated it. The tears couldn't be stopped. They had to come out or else he'd explode with rage.

The scene continued to alternate into new psychologically traumatizing settings. He saw a younger version of himself. Even younger than the age he was kicked out of Aurora Boreal. He was a boy, about Corinth's age. He was standing in the middle of the local Levanta.r.s.e field in his hometown Graysonville, Draconia. He was honing his skills for the next semester at school. He taught Evan to play, but only as his personal practice dummy. He didn't teach him much, but enough to use him when he came home from school. Evan soaked up more of his knowledge of Levanta.r.s.e strategy from his adopted father, Conrad Gambit.

Cris' father gave Evan the skills to be able to challenge him when he came home from school. Since they couldn't afford to send Evan as well, he figured it was only fair. Conrad gave the smaller boy some kind of fighting chance for when he was playing at the playground with kids who learned from world cla.s.s coaches.

He actually smiled when he saw Evan traversing the gra.s.s field Draconian track ahead of him. But then the scene carried on into more sad visionary works. He saw his mom cleaning up after his beloved pouch, Spark. He was a dog lover like no other, but his mother wasn't. She told him that the dog was his responsibility, and there would be consequences if he didn't own up to them. He saw the same type of scene happen, seemingly, a thousand times before she actually punished him for not performing his duties. But once she did, it was too much for him to handle.

Criston watched as his mother, a younger Sena. Hendrix, yelled and screamed about that dog Spark. He named her that because her red long fur reminded him of a bright flame. He hadn't walked her in some time, so she had to treat the house carpet like her bathroom. His mother said; no more Levanta.r.s.e until you can prove that you're devoted to this dog. The dog he so desperately begged for two summers prior.

But that sport was his life. He couldn't live without it. He thought he'd play professional one day, and Spark was standing in the way of that now. The very next day, he took her to a far away park in another Draconian town called, Carter. He let her loose there, and threw rocks at her to scare her off. The Staunch breed are known for their loyalty, but once he hit her dead in the nose with a rock, she trotted off in absolute despair.

When he returned home, he told Sena. Hendrix that she had gotten off her leash and just ran away. She could see the lie in his eyes, but couldn't bring herself to challenge him. She saw her son, her little boy, as a new man that day. Never to be the same again. He'd put that sport ahead of something he claimed to love. She believed he truly did love Spark, that's why his decision frightened her so much. She realized how misguided he was in that moment. She vowed then that she'd never let him go so far astray. So far, that he could no longer separate reality from dreams.

Dreams that he now realized had never come true. He sat in the hologram version of his childhood home feeling like a helpless kid again. He ventured into policing, not sports after he received his degree from a local Draconian school instead of Aurora Boreal. The living room that he had fond memories of as a kid dissipated as quickly as all the other scenes had. Though he was still stuck there in memory, thinking about how he betrayed Spark and countless others over the years.

He probably would have helplessly wallowed in that deep despair, if the scenery hadn't continued to change. Though this time around was very different. He sat on the ground of a white void. Nothing but white all around him. Then he heard some static. He placed his hand on the ground behind him, and twisted his body so that he could see. On the floor behind him lay a small television. A very old television that Cris recognized. It was his father's.

Conrad took that portable thing everywhere with him. He lived through and fought in a war. A war that Draconia waged and won. Not as many deaths as the wars of old, but it was the fear that gripped people during those times. A lot of Draconian men awaited the day that the other seven Worlds would join forces and converge on their doorsteps. The poor leadership in Draconia at the time made everyone a bit cagey. Conrad wanted to be able to get breaking news wherever, and whenever. The technology had changed drastically since then, but it got the job done in that era.

And breaking news it was that the little TV reported. Heartbreaking for Criston. He saw the Pavilion burning, while local Hyperborean helicopters flew over it with tons of water, trying to extinguish the inescapable flames. He started to panic. He slammed his fate forging hand down on the ground and opened a portal so large that an elephant could fall right through with room to spare.

"I wouldn't do that just yet, if I were you," said a shadowy voice.

Cris shot up onto his feet and spun around quickly. "Who's there?" He saw nothing but endless white. The TV was now gone. Just the endless white halls as he looked out in each direction.

"Well, of course, it is-I. The Keeper of the Halls of Sorrow," the gloomy voice said, with a strangely jovial tone.

"The Keeper," Cris whimpered. "Gavin's the Keeper!"

"Of the Watchtower, yes. Are you and abject idiot? There are several Keepers, of several objects. I've informed you that I too am a Keeper. The one who keeps the halls that you currently parade around, like a p.u.s.s.y-cat being chased by," he paused for a grand sense of emphasis, "by... dare I say, a fluffy red dog named; Spark!" the man shouted, while simultaneously snapping his unseen fingers.

Suddenly, the s.p.a.ce around Criston was changing once again. Out of nowhere, a dull gold podium sprung up from the floor. An old looking book lay on top of it. A man started to take shape out of thin air behind it. Cris watched without fear as the man came to be. For a second, Criston thought it was indeed Gavin, but the man wore an all white cloak and looked to be much older than his old friend from the ivory tower. Still, this guy did appear more human like than Gavin. Two eyes and everything!

While all this was happening, he spoke reverently to Criston through the blowing wind. "That news report is old to say the least. The Pavilion is nearly restored at these current times. Your son is alive, as well your mother and adopted brother. They are at the school. Yes, shaken up, but alive nonetheless. Sena. Hendrix is known for her strength, allow her to handle this charade. Please do not leave so hastily." By the time he was done talking, hehad fully formed. "There- I think I've covered everything concerning that matter." Criston didn't like his tone, but he needed information, so he waited to strike back.

What was left of this particular Keeper's white hair was combed back. His balding head shined against the light of the golden sun directly overhead of them both. Cris realized that things were beginning to look more like the real world again. Excepting the fact that he appeared to be standing on a cloud as he looked down at the endless skies beneath him.

"If I start free falling again," he looked this new Keeper dead in the eye as he spoke firmly, "I'm taking you with me!"

"Ooh-la-la! You're quite aggressive," he leaned forward over the gold podium,"I'll have you know I like a strong man, but," he pulled back, now with less enthusiasm,"free-falling... that's not so good for my hair. I just got new plugs, you know!"

He ran his translucent fingers through what was left of the white, comb-over-mess he tried to pa.s.s off as a hairdo. His face was old and cracked. His white skin looked red on more than half his visible body. The white cloak he wore didn't cover his neck, head, lower arms, or lower legs. Cris noticed that in all those exact areas, the Keeper wore gold bangles that were actually rather beautiful. His gold sandals didn't look like they had ever been walked in. Though they were currently on his feet as he lowly hovered behind the open bottom podium, with his judging eyes on Criston.

"So, how are you enjoying revisiting your past?" Cris a.s.sumed it was a rhetorical question, but the Keeper didn't budge. His face seemingly said, you can answer at any time.

Cris figured if it would move things along, he'd just answer the stupid question. "It is what it is," he firmly stated. "One ma.s.sive guilt trip."

"You are exactly right, my friend!" He glided from behind the podium, closer to Criston, moving almost identical to Gavin of the tower. "This place is termed the Halls of Sorrow for that reason. To have people face their past deeds, so that they aren't bound here in eternity with the weight of that guilt forever leaning on their shoulders. That would be quite a burden! If not for this place here, of course." He motioned his loose skin hands all around the white cloud city. "This place alleviates all that for even the most horrid of human beings." He looked down to the endless sky beneath the clouds. "That's, of course, if they can truly accept and forgive themselves for all their misdeeds." He looked back up to Criston, who stood in front of him with a perplexed stare. "Can you accept that these visions you've seen, and the deeds you've done our yours to own? And yours alone, to forgive?"

"How can I forgive myself for things I haven't done wrong? Or worse, things I couldn't control?" Criston put his hand to his chest as his emotional level soared. The Keeper floated back over to his podium, like he had seen this sort of thing before.

"Denial," he said solemnly. "Denial-is not the only thing you're feeling. Confusion is a huge part of what's going on here. So," he said in an upbeat tone, looking down at his book -on the podium, -"the doggie then?" He extended his hand and tilted it to the side, asking whether they were on the fence with that one. -"Are we?"

Cris got it, and responded promptly. "Yeah," he said shaking his head. "I get that one. I was just a kid, but it was still a terrible thing to do to a defenseless animal."

After Criston said those words, the Keeper picked up the quill laying in the crevice of the book on the podium. He took down a note or two. Cris inched up toward the podium to see what all the fuss was about.

"Uh-uh," he scolded,"no peeking, or else I'll have to put in a call to security. Ha-ha!" He laughed playfully at Criston, but Cris' face said, no dice. The Keeper quickly closed his mouth from hanging wide open in laughter. "I'm sorry," he said in an honest tone. "If it makes you feel any better ... I've actually got no security whatsoever." He nervously grind his teeth together, thinking he shouldn't have let that curious cat out of the sack.

"So, you're vulnerable?" Cris asked as he took an intentionally wide step forward.

"Yes, some might say so," the Keeper admitted, while looking Cris up and down for signs of aggression. He saw none. But he noticed something else. Cris had gotten what he wanted. A peek at that book. "What a naughty boy you are!" The Keeper s.n.a.t.c.hed the book off the podium, and then smiled slyly. "No one's ever been able to pull such a simple trick over on me." He was bright and cheery with the Fate Forger. "You may not be Sena. Hendrix worst endeavor ever, young human."

Cris turned back into his serious self. "What do you know about my mom? Better yet," he paused, thinking the reversal would be more appropriate. "What does she know about you?" He looked around with his hands up in the air. "For instance, where exactly are we?"

"Oh yes! I knew I had forgotten something." He extended his hand out flimsily. "I'm Russell, and you are, only technically speaking, a dead man!" Russ had tried that shocking bit on many before Cris. But he didn't know just how well Criston knew his Keeper brother, Gavin.

"I know that if I try to shake your hand, it'll just go right through," Cris smirked, though he wasn't too interested in the gag right then.

Russell pulled his hand away smiling. "You're not nearly as stupid as your mother has been telling us all these years, Sen. Gambit."

"Please," Cris pleaded, "don't keep me in the dark about all of this. I came, because I need to know everything."

"Well, even if I knew -everything, I wouldn't tell you. But! I vowed to help your mother and those above her. So, that I will do, by informing you of all you need to know." He seemed to be very cooperative with Criston's needs. "But-I won't do any of that, until you can a.s.sure me that you can check off the rest of this list here."

Cris couldn't possibly understand how helping the Deaves geeks made him a bad guy. He didn't see anything wrong with a fun card game.

"Criston, you are looking at the wrong issues." It was as if Russell read his thoughts. He wasn't reading them though, he simply paid attention to Criston's mannerisms, which always gave away all his thoughts. "You weren't wrong for helping those in need, but the way you went about it? Especially considering the fact that you don't know why your mother so desperately wanted to end the program in the first place."

"She'd never say!" he yelped in frustration. "Believe me, I've asked several times. That whole thing only cost me a life's worth of education, just not to get the degree." He turned away. "One year, and I would've been out of there," he mumbled while walking to the edge of the cloud. He figured he'd stop right there. Free falling again was not on the agenda he and Sena. Hendrix set back at Corinth's dorm.

"Well, perhaps taking ownership over the poor way in which you behaved is your only solace?" he proposed, while leaning forward over the podium. His voice tender and sweet. "Sena. Hendrix is just as imperfect as the next human, but you know her not to be a foolish woman, right?"

Cris wasn't sure about that, but he was certain that he was tired of this conversation. He turned back to the Keeper of the Halls of Sorrow and said, "I understand, and I do accept and forgive myself."

Russell looked him over for quite some time, surveying his face and body language. Cris didn't think there was chance in h.e.l.l that he'd believe he truly understood that easily. But he figured it was worth a shot anyway. Russ rubbed his chin. Deep in thought about the eager and impatient man standing before him. "I believe you," he said without question.

"You what?" Cris blurted out, surprised.

"You may not know why you were so wrong in your actions, but still you question your own knowledge of yourself. This is what I seek. Not finite endings, but new beginnings for those with their imperfect secondary soul intact," his voice suddenly became serious and stern as Criston looked on with a glimmer of hope shining in his bright blue eyes. "You may now enter through the gates of Eterna."

There were nothing but clouds behind the Keeper, yet somehow, a gate emerged out of that nothing. A sparkling emerald gate. The light was blinding, but Cris was ready for anything at this point. He half-covered his face as the light intensified, and then he began walking as Russell motioned for him to move onward ... into eternity.

He was informed of so much that he couldn't keep his head on straight. "So, you're telling me that the Great Eight, those who created the Worlds I come from, have total control over Eterna."

"No," Russell said, pursing his lips and tilting his head. "Not total control, and certainly not all eight."

"Well, then how many are we talking!" He was frustrated because he felt in over his head. Sena. Hendrix had only pretended to give him all the information she actually knew. Russell attempted to explain to Cris why she was such a secretive woman, but he was raised by that woman. So, that c.r.a.p wasn't going to fly with him.

He was now glad that he, once again, prevented Hendrix from confronting Corinth as the boy's grandmother. When she brought it up back at the dorm, he quickly subst.i.tuted her news with the fact that his new fate forging hand would make it very easy for them to see Julia again. They wouldn't have to wait for her to build a new gate. Hendrix was disappointed, but chose to respect Criston's decision. She felt like she had undermined her son's life enough. He's a man now, so she wouldn't intrude on the choices he made on Corinth's behalf.

The emphatic Russell interrupted Criston's thoughts abruptly. "Well, there's the usual five who are making all the trouble. The one from Hyperborean is obviously aligned with the side of good. The ones from Lirio and Arco haven't yet declared their allegiances." Russell spoke tentatively. Once again, Cris' body language was giving him away.

"a.s.suming they have allegiances," Cris said. Russ shook his head in understanding. "They could be in it completely for themselves, or waiting to be swayed to either side."

"Swayed, you say?" the Keeper didn't quite get the insinuation.

"Yeah," he retorted like a cop. He sat in a wooden chair with his legs stretched far apart. His macho stance was a dead give away to how inferior he felt to those he was up against. "They could be waiting to be paid off, you know." He took a sip of the drink Russ had given him.

Russ watched him carefully as he consumed the beverage whole. "And I'd a.s.sume, though I'm no officer of any laws, that we wouldn't want the help of those that can be swayed by monetary values alone."

Cris threw his finger up, pointing out Russell's a.s.sumptions as reality. "Precisely!" Cris snapped. "There's no guarantee anyway. If we pony up the cash, or whatever dead guys value, we'd a.s.sumedly be trusting them. Then the other side offers them more. Well, now they're just undercover spies in our midst."

He gently tapped the mug on the oak wood table in Russell's old style home. That was his way of asking for more to drink. Russell smiled politely, and lifted the mug without even touching it. It glided along with him into the small kitchenette, just a few yards away from the sitting area.

"Perhaps, some other refreshments are in order. Food of any kind can be ready before you can say; yes, please!" Though old and withered, he smiled like a young, lighthearted gentleman.

"You're really kind," Criston told him in a breezy tone. "I've always loved a good double cheeseburger and fries." As soon as he said fries, a bell rang. DDIINNGG! It was more like an unbearably loud buzzer.

Out of a microwave looking machine, Russell pulled a cheeseburger and fries ensemble. He didn't actually touch it, but it levitated with the guidance of his nearly transparent hands.

Cris watched him put together the meal for him while behind the tiny counter. Everything was painted mustard yellow in the kitchenette and living room. The floor had a nice and plush beige area carpet in the middle of the room. The two sofas were covered in plastic. Just like at his grandmother's house. He remembered that as he rubbed his hand across the couch beside the chair he sat in. All this centered around the large oak coffee table.

Cris ate and drank quickly. He didn't want to waste a moment. "So, do you know Gavin?" Cris asked Russell with ketchup falling down the side of his mouth.

"Yes, I do," the pale fellow retorted.

"How, exactly?" Cris asked, barely allowing any breathing breaks between bites.

"Well, he's my brother, of course!" Russell said, in that ever cheery voice of his.

Cris was surprised. He didn't realize Gavin had any family. He thought he was like a ghost or something. Not born, nor would he ever die.

"So, who are your parents?"

"Well," Russ paused, putting a finger to his mouth. "That is an infinitely complicated question."

Cris kept chewing as he said, "I'm all ears."

"Okay, then!" Russell seemed quite pleased to have someone to talk to. It had been so long since he held a conversation with someone who wasn't simply denying that they did any wrong during their lifetime. "See, the Keepers are in an order. A rather secretive order, I might add. We oversee things that human-kind can't oversee or structure themselves. The watchtower that Gavin holds vigil from has been there for ages. As you may know the half of, he is posted there to look for troubles that could potentially bring about the end of human existence. It was constructed before humans themselves were created, for that very purpose. My post is more evident in that-"

This intrigued Cris as he took another sip from his mug. While putting it down he interrupted. "Wait, how can that tower be that old? Better yet, what existed before humans did?"

"Well, haven't you heard the stories?" Russ asked while putting his transparent hands on his hips.

"What stories?"

"You humans call them ... uh ... myths!" he shouted, after finally remembering.

"Sure," Cris started, "but we call them that for a reason. They aren't supposed to be real. They're, sometimes fun, but always imaginative stories people made up over time. Mostly, because they didn't have any realistic answers for what was happening around them."

"Oh!" Russ exclaimed. "Is that what that word means?" Cris looked at him like he was crazy. "Most people scream when they walk through the Halls of Sorrow; 'the myths were true, they were real!' Or something or another like that. I was always bewildered by this as I watched them on that television set there." He lifted a finger and pointed to the large flat screen TV mounted to the wall adjacent to the plastic covered couches. It was about the only modern thing in this very small apartment looking abode. "Well, not all your myths are true. Naturally, people will exaggerate the stories overtime. Likewise, adding on things they think make them more interesting, invigorating, and enduring. But many are based in truth."

"Wow!" was all Cris thought to say. "I hadn't realized that at all." He dropped his two layered burger on the plate. It flopped a bit, forcing the plate to shudder against the wood. Russ watched as Cris searched his mind for some type of reasoning. He had just learned something that would forever change his perception of life.

"Do know-that overtime, humans lose a great deal of information. They are all too quick to forget, let alone direct themselves away from repeating the disasters of their past. But if history teaches us anything, it is to know when to act, and when to peacefully step aside," his voice grew bizarre and dark with every coming word. "How many wars will be waged before someone realizes that we all lose in the end."

That was the first time during their conversation that Criston heard any deep emotion radiating from Russell's voice. Now Russ' body language gave him away to Criston's emergent keen eyes. They both sat there for a moment, trying to soak up the reality of what they knew was to come.

Then an alarming sound broke their brief silence.

"HOWLLL!!!" ... A dramatic pause came between the first and second earth shattering screech. "HOWLLL!!!"

"Oh my!" Russ grabbed his chest and spoke in a grave tone. "It seems you've overstayed your welcome." Cris was confused. He looked around, as if there were someone else in the room that Russell could have been talking to. "Time to go, friend, time to go now!" Russell waved Criston toward the door. Cris stumbled off the wood chair, falling onto the floor.

As he got up, he questioned Russell's fearful state. "What's going on? What was that howling sound?" He shouted as Russ continued to push him toward the rather small front door. The black and yellow frame of the screen door held tight as the netting of the door busted open with Cris pouring through. "Hey!" he yelled, falling backward onto the emerald road outside Russ' humble mustard-yellow house. Still, the house was encased by a walled-in flower garden surrounding Russell's door, with the rest of the road just over those very rose bushes.

"I'm sorry, Criston," Cris noticed the differences in Russell's body language. Well, what resemblance to a body he did have. His translucent skin seemed to be dissolving even further into the background image of the home behind him. He looked down at Cris on the ground and stretched his disappearing hand forward.

"What is this?" Cris asked. He was staring at a folded-up, beige sheet of paper that had not a single phrase on it.

"This map will guide you across Eterna and beyond!" Russell was rushing his speech.

He wasn't making any good sense to Cris. What the heck was beyond eternity? That's what Eterna represented after all. Didn't it? How could there be something more than eternity?

"Tell me, Russell!" he begged, taking the paper from his hand."Tell me what's going on, and maybe I can help."

There was no use in arguing. He had made up his mind. His white cloak clad body continued to dissipate into the thin air around them. He was nearly gone when he whispered with the winds once more to Criston.

"If you hope to make it out of here alive, never stay in one place for too long a time. You are still among the living, yet you consort with the dead. They use the howling hounds to sniff out your scent of breath. Know well, that the dead need not to breath. Criston, please stay safe. These characters aren't known here for showing mercy."

That telling message gave Cris none of the answers he wanted. But it told him that he needed to get out of dodge, before these so called, howling hounds, sniffed him out.