Somewhere within the geometry of elder, all but forgotten aeons – along alien curves and spires of an ethereal time-space vortex mastered by things that had existed on the earth millennia before man, Rhyaad de’Annar finds himself lost. Separated from Nicole Collins, Esther Friedman, and Samantha Brook, he now finds himself hurling through a terrible, vast emptiness – as uncertain of how he entered this vortex as he is of his destination. A destination he will find is a point of original he has long sought to forget.

Light.

White light.

Such a bright flash of light — blinding in its intensity.

Then blackness.

Nothingness.

A blurry distant image emerges: it is that of an hourglass; but somehow it is not real. Although for a moment he thought he felt grains of sand. But they also are not real. As in dreams, when you just *know*, in some gnostic insight. These things were not real to him. The tiny flashes were. He dimly remembered Gregory talking about them, how his kind could see these things around people who had traveled in time a lot.

Then, for a moment it was only dark and surreal; nothing frightening. Then the voice. One that he suddenly recognized, and terror filled his heart.

It was his Father! Enchanting.

Slowly the dark scene appeared before his eyes and he beheld himself, sitting obediently at his Father’s feet, just as he had that night.

“NO!” Rhyaad screamed at the top of his lungs and rushed forward towards. . . himself?

But all his shouts and motions accomplished nothing.

He passed through them as if they were ghosts, apparitions.

“I’ll kill you!” he screamed at his father and tried to cast a lightning bolt into his skull – but nothing happened. He realized with horror that they were not the apparitions here – he was. This was that night: that terrible night that happened, and he – he was only a shade of the future. Something that could not be here at all unless all this had happened.

Still he tried something, anything, everything to stop Vorcanny’s spell. But nothing he could do would affect anything. He was more insubstantial than a ghost. They couldn’t even see or hear him.

He was forced to watch, forced to watch himself believe in a spell that would grant him magical powers, make him immortal. Leaving out the horrid details, of course. He watched himself collapse in a flash of red light. But this time he saw what went wrong. It was that amulet, the one his mother had given him and told him to hide it from father. Flames shot out from it. They ignited the straw, the old barrel, and licked at the wooden walls of the house. Vile curses came flying from his father’s mouth.

“She gave him that thing! Damn Domelannes! Now he will not be suitable.
Fine! Leave him here to burn!” He ordered Veraq to throw a torch through the window, and glassy-eyed, his older brother did as he was commanded.

All Rhyaad could do was watch.

He walked through the wall into the house: watched everything that had been his life be consumed, eaten hungrily by fire. He had hoped it would kill him: but nothing here was real. . . no. . . backwards. All of this was real: it was he who was not.

Dehron watched in horror through the bedroom window until Vorcanny and Veraq were gone, then he opened it and climbed out. Rhyaad followed, and watched as the boy somehow dragged his own body away from the fire, used dirt to put out the flames on his clothes. Then he crawled to that tree and sat under it, shaking.

Rhyaad went over to – Rhyaad – to listen. He had always wondered. Yes, it was there: so faint and very infrequent, but the heart did beat.

He knew what would come next.

He averted his eyes, he could not — would not watch it again.

He could not watch himself wake up, struggle to his feet, stare at the glowing embers that were all that was left of his home, feel the strange burning in his throat. A hunger now beyond mortal imagination. Yet, transfixed, he could not *not* watch. Like the people who stare at the mangled bodies crushed beneath fallen rocks, or some other horrible accident – he couldn’t look away.

He saw himself stagger to his weeping little brother, crouch down, and open his maw of shiny white fangs wide. He knew this self didn’t even know what he was doing. Not until Dehron’s boot-heel caught him right in the teeth, and that Rhyaad reeled back in shock and horror, only just beginning to realize what he had tried to do. He didn’t need to see anymore of this. He’d spent the rest of his life trying to forget it. He looked away from himself and followed Dehron, as he ran screaming into the woods.

While his old self – or should he call it his new self? – sat sobbing tears of blood he ran after his brother. Through the trees – not around them. Dehron ran across the bridge, then all the way to the river. He shouted uselessly after him, trying to apologize, to say anything. But he could neither be heard nor do anything to stop his little brother. He watched as he threw himself into the river. In the distance, a light glimmered dimly, casting glints of light on wavelets. A boat. So that was how it had happened.

He watched as they found him: a burley man hoisted Dehron up out of the river. His little brother would live. Not for another two centuries would he even learn of his grave, and lay flowers on it once a year.

They were returning. The specks. The fireflies. The tiny lights that were not real surrounded him as the scene faded into blackness again.

And then —

Light.

The white, bright flash.

And then Rhyaad was lying on the grass.

The same position – but not the same place.

Or time.

He got up slowly.

He recognized the cobblestone street – Frenchman’s Lane!

This was Collinsport.

This was the world were bears forever circled a dragon in the sky. He collapsed on a bench and began to cry crimson tears. How? How did he get here?

How did he get to the past?

Questions without answers.

But he did not have time to think about the answers right now.

He could still feel the bone crushing sorrow of what the questions had wrought.

He found himself collapsing on one of the ornate iron benches.

He had only sat for a short time before he heard footsteps approaching. He wiped his face with his sleeve to hide the blood, or try to. It was Meili, and another tall, dark gentlemen he could not place. Perhaps one of his cohorts. He couldn’t answer either their greetings or their jokes.

More footsteps.

It was Demyx, and as soon as he saw Rhyaad shaking, his eyes downcast, he rushed to him and sat on the bench. “Just hold me”, was all Rhyaad would croak out as he buried his face in Demyx’s chest and smeared more little red drops on his white shirt. Fortunately Meili seemed to realize this was not a good time, and he and his companion took their leave.

Suddenly he noticed a man standing before him: it was Dr. Artemis, from the Miskatonic University. Rhyaad was surprised to see him in Collinsport, but he was not as surprised as Artemis was in seeing him behaving so oddly, so disoriented – and, so emotionally out of control. He was taken aback, especially when Rhyaad asked him if it was possible for him to produce tranquilizers for vampires. The Doctor indicated that he certainly was unaware of any such Pharmaceuticals that would work on vampire physiology and that it would take quite some time before he could possibly develop and manufacture anything that he would be willing to try – instead he offered to take him to his lab for some treatment that he could administer. Rhyaad of course refused the offer as he still had too many suspicions about the man and what he could do once he was in his laboratory to trust him.

The doctor, warily, left him sitting alone on the bench. He didn’t know how long he sat there, shaking, He looked around – where were Nikki and Esther and Sam? Where they all right.

He pressed a key into Demyx’s hand and told him to meet him at the Nightingale tomorrow. Told him that he needed to be alone for a while. It was half true.

He forced himself up and found himself making his way through the narrow streets, back roads and woods to Collinwood. He arrives to see Esther leaving the mansion – she too is crying.

He is about to call out when Sam Brook appears at the front door of Collinwood, “Esther will you be alright to walk home – alone?”

“Yeah – please.” Esther tells her wiping away tears. “I—I just need this time alone.”

Sam Brook nods and closes the door.

Yes, time alone – he begins to feel it coming on – what he knows will be uncontrollable sobbing – he can’t face them – he needs precisely what Esther said she needed . . . time . . . time alone.

Rather then heading to the mansion, or the old house — aware that everyone seemed okay – he found himself moving as if through a daze back to The Nightingale. He stood for a moment contemplating what had happened, what he had been forced to relive – he knew – had known for sometime – he had been slowly losing control – that he had moments where he had felt – felt he might slip – could do or become something he had lived so long to overcome. He needed to get away. He needed to reflect – to heal.

Not physically this time.

He makes his way through the darken tearoom, looking at it as if for the last time – as he heads to the secret panel. He opens it and descends below – to the device he has within.

He takes a deep breath and places his staff, activating the device. The portal opens and he steps through.

Cue Music – End of Episode