Welcome to Gaia! ::

Carried through many nations and over many seas,
I arrive, brother, for these miserable funeral rites,
so that I might finally grant the service of the dead
and speak in vain to your silent ashes
since Fortune has deprived me of you in the flesh.

The burial itself was attended by a much smaller group than the funeral service. Understandable enough. The flimsy canopy kept the rain off the gaping mouth of the grave itself, but the mourners stood huddled in black knots under their umbrellas, weighed down by the steady hammering of the rain. The priest was saying some words, but they were muffled and garbled by the drumming of water on the canopy. Jordan Miller hunched his shoulders under the heavy boiled-wool coat and watched in silence. Mom would've said The sky is crying, Jordy, and hugged him. He closed his eyes and held the flower in his hand carefully, so as not to crush the stem.

The sound of wet dirt landing on the lid of the coffin was much louder, or at least it seemed that way. Belatedly, he opened his eyes, moved a step closer, and threw the flower in; then he stood at the edge, half under the canopy, the rain pouring off its edge and onto his umbrella. The men with the shovels shot weary looks in his direction, but didn't tell him to move. Of course not. He was family.

Ah, poor brother, undeservedly lost to me,
now at least for the meantime;

Too many funerals. Bad luck or God's will. Pious assurances of heaven did little for him now. He hadn't cried yet. Denial, his psychology text said, but how could it be denial when he knew perfectly well that there was no coming back? Andrew was gone, shuffled off this mortal coil.

He should have been there. Jordan stood by the grave, not watching as the rest of the mourners drifted away in uneven clumps of black umbrellas and sensible shoes. He'd had to buy a new umbrella this morning, realizing, stubbornly and stupidly, that his was red and he couldn't use it. Andrew's favorite baseball cap was red. Jordan didn't know where it had been put. Might have gotten left in the wreck -- his mind veered precipitously away from that line of thought.

"Mr. Miller," one of the workmen said. "Mr. Miller?"

"What?"

"Uh, we gotta take the tent down."

"Oh." He was in the way. Jordan backed up enough to let the workmen take down the canopy, bundle it up, and haul it off to the discreet white pickup parked in the road that wound through the cemetery, along with their shovels and other gear.

He should probably leave. It wasn't like he was doing anyone any good by standing over the fresh grave. The rolls of turf laid over the top looked new and artificial. In a week or two they'd settle into place, blanketing the plot smoothly again. He rubbed his hand tiredly over too-dry eyes. He should have been there.

The cemetery was peaceful and horrible. Well-groomed, well-kept, made beautiful; old enough to hold statues and headstones rather than the neat flat stepping stones that marched regularly over the green in the one across town. Nana and Grandpa were here, and Mom and Dad, and now Andrew too. The faint icy chill of haunting came and went, eddying around the family plot. No ghosts, not here, not now; but it was inescapable in graveyards.

these things,
which in the time-honored way of our ancestors
are handed down in mournful service to the rites

Andrew had felt it too. He'd hated it. Maybe that was why he'd gotten into the car and -- no. No. Jordan shook his head, then looked down at his toes and tried to pray. As had happened for the past two weeks, the words slipped right out of his head. He'd learned these verses as a kid. Why couldn't he remember now?

A hand landed heavily on his shoulder. He jumped and turned, ready to snap at the interruption.

The stranger wore a long, hooded coat, face nearly obscured by its shadow. "Jordan Miller," said the figure. Its voice was light, mid-range, quiet. He couldn't tell if the person was a man or a woman.

"Who are you, and how do you know my name?" The question came out less angry than it had sounded in his head, more tired.

"That doesn't matter." A short pause. "You feel it too, don't you." Not a question.

Jordan hesitated. Kooks and cranks, said Dad's memory, and don't let me catch you boys making up ghost stories again, amiable enough but with a terrifying, icy edge.

The stranger nodded as though he'd agreed. "I came to ask you if you wanted some questions answered. If you've ever thought that you could fight back."

Jordan looked back to Andrew's grave. Had it been because of the things that nobody else could see? The things that nobody ever believed?

"You don't have to answer now," said the hooded figure's quiet voice. "I'll see you again."

When Jordan turned to answer, the stranger was gone.

receive, utterly sodden by a brother's tears
and for eternity, brother, a tribute and farewell.

- Catullus

He'd never been brave. Sometimes he regretted that.

Being dead, it seemed, was a lot like being halfway asleep, in that comfortable drifting state of mind before you woke up all the way, but after you'd become aware you weren't dreaming any more.

Had it been a dream? No, he decided. Or at least he was going to believe it hadn't been. He'd kind of liked A-One. He'd never much liked Jordan. Jordan had kept his head down, kept his mouth shut, avoided being noticed. That way lay psych wards and medication, and he hadn't wanted that, even if somewhere in the back of his head he'd known that he was probably crazy, should see a doctor about it, let them drug him into complacency.

The knowledge that there were things in the shadows had come from the same place in his mind that knew that he was probably crazy. If he'd avoided attics, kept his feet away from the space under the bed, kept out of alleyways and abandoned places and stayed inside at night ... well, he wasn't hurting anybody, was he? He could laugh it off as superstition, allow his study partners to poke mild fun at him, pretend that he didn't see what he saw.

"Jordy, it's gonna get me," Andy whined. He crawled into Jordan's bed and burrowed under the blankets.

"Aren't you getting too old to have monsters under your bed?"

"There's one in your closet," Andy mumbled miserably.

"Shut UP." He let Andy stay anyway. It was safer than being alone. Well. That was what Andy thought, anyway, and it was no skin off his nose if his little brother felt better sleeping in his room.

Andrew knew. That was a problem. That was the problem. Andrew refused to close his eyes and fit in and pretend he didn't see the things that smiled in the shadows. Andrew learned soon enough not to tell the grown-ups, but Jordan knew, and Andrew knew that Jordan knew.

"I'm not going in the haunted house. It's so fake. I don't want to waste my money."

"Hey, let's go find the best pumpkin while Jenny goes through it." And Andy waited till their cousin had gone to look up at Jordan, scowling. "You're such a liar. It's not fake at all."

"It doesn't scare me. I'd just rather have a shake than go through some stupid fair ride." Jordan shook free of the hand clutching his sleeve and started towards the concessions stand, determinedly not looking back.

The terrors of high school were infinitely preferable to the other terrors. The complex network of who tortured whom had rules that were, at least, navigable if not logical. Jordan did what he'd always done: he kept his head down, didn't draw too much attention, did everything right so nobody would have much reason to call him out. Bs marched steadily down his report cards. He gave the teachers no trouble, sat with the average kids at lunch and study hour, briefly dated a succession of girls he had little in common with. If he didn't talk much, hung out on the fringes of the group, watched more than he participated, he wasn't hurting anyone, was he?

At the end of his senior year, the fat envelope arrived from CSU. He was good enough, and that was good enough.

"Jordy, you'd better give me those driving lessons before you leave. I'd have asked Dad ... "

"Yeah. Yeah, sure, Andy. I promise."

He'd kept that promise. He wished he hadn't. No - then Andrew would've gone to someone else, and Andrew would still be dead, and Jordan would have failed one last time before he left.

A-One hadn't been satisfied with good enough. A-One had stood up and done something, even if he'd failed in the end. Andrew would have been proud of A-One, maybe.

It was over now. Maybe he'd see Andy again. He'd introduce him to Phoenix Squad. That'd be cool.

A voice, bleak and flat and strange, but other. Not his thoughts. Not alone.

Not alone.

Not dead. Not dead? Jordan remembered dying, dying, and regretting, and wishing he'd been braver. The voice was offering him a second chance. A conscious choice. He could fight, and he would.

He reached blindly for - for something, a weapon, his weapon - an image flashed into his mind, the image of a hammer. Simple, but effective, reliable, a forceful counter to problems that couldn't be solved with words. The handle settled into his palm almost as soon as he thought it, and something tense in him relaxed. This was right. This was his.

He'd continue to fight.

Jordan Miller gathered his courage and stepped forward, finding, suddenly, that he could.