This is a follow on of sorts to Damocles

Quiet as the grave so the saying went, implying to an intelligent person that the grave was quiet. Well only someone alive, intelligent or not, could have said it, because when you weren’t alive the grave was anything but quiet. At least Vila’s wasn’t quiet, and somehow he didn’t think the noise was being laid on for him personally.

Not that it was noise as such, just the usual sounds associated with the comings and going of people, and there were a lot of people coming and going in this churchyard. Two thousand years had attached a lot of spirits, if that was what you called them, to this place, and although most of them had left for pastures new long ago there were still a few who hung around for various reasons. Quite a lot of them had visitors….frequently.

Not the live kind of visitors of course; living people never came here any more. The church was silent and had been for several centuries before Blake had brought them here. No feet other than his walked these long neglected pathways, no one came looking for names, or rare plants, or even somewhere for a cold, quiet, one on one with a lover. Some of the gravestones remained upright but no flowers were ever left here, and moss covered most of the markers that remained hiding the names that had once been so carefully carved in stone.

No, people didn’t come here any longer. At least no one other than Blake and his mutoid.

Vila still wasn’t sure what was going on, why Blake had brought them all here. Or why he still came to sit and stare at silent marble. But then Vila wasn’t sure quite why he was still here, or the others come to that.

Which brought him back to noise.

Neither Dayna or Tarrant were any quieter, or more restful, in death than they had been in life. Didn’t seem to him that they had much new to say either, and even if they had Vila sometimes found himself wishing that they would move on and say it somewhere else. Or that he could move on.

Today was one of those days.

Everyone had been more than usually restless today, including himself. As the sun rose he had wandered the church and the churchyard, re-reading inscriptions read many times before, inscriptions that were no longer visible to living eyes. Sometimes the subject of the carving stood besides him while he read, giving him the background; gave you a whole new insight into the pious words that did!

Vila enjoyed the word play, though it still astonished him how he knew things he didn’t know he knew. He might be earth bound, literally, but obviously some element of cosmic knowledge was bleeding into his mind. That, and the fact that his circle of friends was more eclectic than it used to be. Some of them had had very strange pasts, Jenna would certainly have been at home with them.

When he was bored with the inscriptions he sat quietly, watching the sun move across the sky through the jewel coloured glass of the windows; glass that had been buried beneath the dust for many years. That was something else he couldn’t understand, that the church he usually saw was as bright, and sharp and whole as when it was first raised to the glory of God. Yet if he looked at it from another angle it was the broken ruin that Blake saw when he sat on the wall, and if he tried really hard he could see that it wasn’t here at all.

It was enough to make him long for a drink, and for a head that could be lulled by it.

The daylight was failing when Blake came to sit on the steps of their crypt. Funny word crypt, sounded cold and creepy, but it wasn’t certainly not when filled with new friends, and there were a lot more spirits than usual around this evening.
“It’s the end of the year,” Amelia had said as she wandered around the churchyard with him, “it often brings people back. Those who have moved on but are not yet committed to other things.”
Mela, as she liked to be called these days, had been burnt as a witch and she talked a lot about being committed to other things, but she was never very clear about what they were. Not that Vila cared, he’d had enough of people who were committed to things for several lifetimes.

Still it seemed unlikely he was going to get several lifetimes, not given that he couldn’t manage to shuffle off this one. That was Blake’s fault of course; well to be fair it wasn’t, but Vila didn’t feel like being fair about it.

Sometimes, as he watched Blake sitting on the wall, Vila would remember how unconcerned his erstwhile leader had seemed about those sprawled at his feet on Gauda Prime. Oh there had been guilt enough; but not care. At least no care for anything other than his precious rebellion. Even the man called Deva had seemed more aware of the human part of the tragedy he had just seen played out, and he hadn’t known them. It had come as a shock, seeing Blake stepping casually over his body as he lay on the floor. No less of a shock given that he was sitting on the steps at the time.

It had gone wrong on Gauda Prime in more ways than one. Though Vila still didn’t understand the how’s and why’s. Father Paul had tried to explain it to him, but the monk or priest or vicar, or whatever he was, had struggled. It was hard for a man who had lived most of his life in church to understand being shot in the back on a planet he still had some problems accepting existed. Father Paul was less than forthcoming about why he was still hanging around here, but Vila didn’t think that armed rebellion or a fight for freedom had much to do with it. Mela on the other hand might have had a lot to do with it.

But he had tried and Vila thought he had got the general picture, or so he had told the others.
“We didn’t know we were dead? It comes down to that?” Soolin had asked.
“Well not quite,” Vila hedged uncomfortably.
The explanation had taken him by surprise and he wasn’t sure that he was ready to share it all.
“We were still fighting, that was the important thing. We didn’t let go.”
“And there were plenty of people to fight with,” Soolin mused, “we weren’t the only ones to die in that base.”
She looked across at Vila with raised brows.
“So the living fought the living, and the dead fought the dead?”

Vila had wriggled uncomfortably,
“Sort of. Not all of them. Some knew they were dead and so they moved on, nothing to hold them back.” He dropped his voice, “At least not most of them.”
Dayna frowned at him,
“What aren’t you telling us Vila?”
“Nothing.” he had protested, calling on old memories and older tricks to get him out of the difficulty. It had been a while since he had really known fear but he found that old habits died hard; or not at all, in his case.

Father Paul had intervened at that point, trying to explain how the energy that coalesced during the fight, energy from weapons and human emotions, combined to hold the less motivated and more uncertain spirits where they were. Vila had waited for them to ask him about the 'motivated' bit but strangely none of them did; they all shied away and took off on other tacks. Dayna in particular had wanted to know why her father hadn’t come for her, then or since. Soolin sat by her side, listening very carefully to the answer, but saying nothing. Tarrant pretended not to listen, he was as interested as the women but he couldn’t even bring himself to show it.

Vila sighed; even death seemed to withhold what they wanted from them. But that was their own fault; if they wanted to know they only had to ask, or to listen. Or to open their minds and let it come to them.

***

Which was what Vila was trying to do right now. For some reason he had a feeling that tonight was important for someone, and it might be for someone who was important to him.

So he wandered the churchyard, even after Mela and the others had found things to do. He watched as the sun faded from this part of the Earth, then he played a few ‘seeing’ games as he thought of them. Made the sun rise and set at the same time; moved the moon and stars around a little. Then, bored with that, he had wandered through the lanes of time and watched as people flowed into the church for the last night of the year service. Occasionally he would go and sit amongst the children, giggling with them as they wriggled in the sudden cold. Or he would slide between a girl and her betrothed, insinuating his hand into hers and watching her smile. Then drifting away as she cast a puzzled frown at her intended, realising there was no hand under her fingers to hold.

As the shadows lengthened over the churchyard he left the congregations to their devotions and returned to his here and now. Well, what he thought of as his. Timelessness was something he was still getting to grips with.

It was quiet now, only Mela sat in the church.
“I knew you would be back soon.” She said.
“Oh, why?” He looked around him at the silent churchyard, “and where is everybody?”
“Like I told you before – it’s the last night of the year.”
He sat down besides her, propping his feet on the pew in front of them.
“So what’s so important about this year, and anyway how do you know it is? It might not be somewhere else on Earth. Certainly isn’t out there,” he jerked his head towards the stars, “and anyway what’s a year to us?”
Mela just looked at him and smiled,
“You’re young Vila you don’t understand yet. Tonight is the last night of all years. Usually we can’t go there, it’s the one time and place we can’t reach. But tonight it's coming here and most of us are needed somewhere else.”

He caught the seriousness in her look and understood,
“But not me?”
“No, you need to be here tonight.”
“Why?”
“Because visitors are coming soon and this is where you are needed.”
Father Paul was suddenly beside her,
“The last night of all years is also the beginning of all tomorrows,” he said. “Things need to be resolved, ends to be tided up. Lights need to be lit on the ways forward.”
“So when did I become a lamplighter?” Vila protested.
Mela smiled again,
“It’s only one night Vila; and remember, the lamplighter gets to share the light he brings.”
Paul had smiled at her in admiration, and a sudden understanding. He reached for her hand and she turned her smile toward him. They had faded then, withdrawn to some place Vila found he couldn’t follow.

So he waited alone to find out why he of all people, was needed here tonight.

***

It was just dark when Blake came. He was already dressed in some official finery, the medals glowing in the lights of the candles as he lit them. She, the mutoid, was with him. She put her gun down on the wall and took the handful of candles Blake held out to her, she seemed to know where he wanted them to be placed.

The night was cold and nearly still. Above them the stars were bright white, like holes in the dark cloaking fabric of time. Blake didn’t spare them a single glance. Vila found that sad. The candle flames, on the other hand, seemed to stretch themselves, reaching up longingly to the older flames above them.

As Vila watched Blake light those little flames he remembered.

The battle in the tracking gallery seemed to go on forever; though in reality it was over before it had begun, at least for him. He had a vague recollection of being hit in the back but he didn’t remember falling. What he did recall was sitting on the steps watching as Soolin and Dayna ducked and weaved and fired. Only now could he see that they were already stretched out on the floor; at the time it was just part and parcel of the dreamlike quality of the whole thing.

Tarrant had been looking for someone, shouting at someone. He had sounded angry and bitter and sorry at all the same time, and he had kept on shouting. Vila had wanted to shout too, but he couldn’t. All he could do was sit and watch as Tarrant shouted at Avon.

Avon. Standing in the centre of the room, standing over Blake’s body, the look of bitter understanding on his face.

He’d invited death then, had Avon; but still instinct didn’t release him and he had taken half the troopers in front of him down before they got him. Maybe they wouldn’t have done it then except that Avon had half turned to fire on a trooper who had his hand buried in Soolin’s shining hair. That’s when they brought him down.

He’d fallen heavily, sprawling beside the body of Blake, his hand extended outwards to where Vila and the others lay. But still he hadn’t let go; as they circled around him he had muttered something they didn’t seem to hear. But Vila had heard,
“The hole,” he had said, “you were right Vila. I’m sorry.”
Then a trooper fired again and Avon had sighed and laid still.

Vila had gone to stand by him, staring down at the closed eyes and blood streaked hair, and he’d ranted and raved at the silent Avon. Everything he had ever felt or feared about the fallen man poured out. The anger, the bitterness, the condemnation, all streamed out in words he wished he didn’t remember. He’d still been shouting as the troopers’ dragged Avon’s body away.

Vila had assumed that it was Avon’s body then because he’d still been on his feet. Only later had he realised that Avon, of all of them, was still alive. No, he’d only known things weren’t what they seemed when Blake got to his feet.

Blake.

Vila pulled his mind back to the churchyard. Blake had finished lighting his candles and was sitting on the steps of their crypt. The flickering light from behind him showed that it, too, had been decked with candles. Vila smiled, Tarrant would be annoyed; he hated candle grease on their marble, it offended his sense of military order.

Blake was staring into the darkness, his face sombre, hands tightly clenched in his lap. Vila looked at him closely; he was looking well, and well fed. Sleek, that was the word for it. His dark hair was rigorously brushed, his skin smooth and unmarked. The scar was gone; at least the one on his face was gone. The others, well, maybe not. There was something in the air around Blake that made Vila uneasy, and sorry too. Vila had never thought he could be sorry for Blake ever again.

“Guilt is a terrible thing.” A voice came from beside Vila. “And it catches up with you sooner or later, whoever you are.”
Vila froze, he remembered that voice.
“Well you should know.” The words slipped out before he thought them.
“Oh yes.” The voice was a sigh.
Vila turned knowing whom he would see. Fear might be only a habit but it was one that was hard to shake off in some circumstances. Tonight seemed to be such circumstances; not only Blake visiting, but Servalan too.

She was much as he remembered her, still beautiful and timeless. But the aura of power and menace that once hung around her had gone; now all he felt was sadness and loss and regret. It rolled off her in great clouds that drove away even the habit of fear.
“Why are you here? This isn’t your place.”
“No.” She sighed again, and looked at him with a small, sad, smile, “believe me I wish it were.”
He cocked an eyebrow at her,
“Hell, Servalan?”
Her smiled widened a little, humour creeping into her eyes,
“No fiery pit if that’s what you mean, no demons with pitchforks.”
“What then?” he asked.
“Just me, and my past; everything I ever did, everything I ever felt. Everything they ever felt.”

Vila opened his mouth to mock; somehow it didn’t seem enough, not for Servalan. Then he saw her face, and suddenly he understood and didn’t feel like mocking any more. Somehow it was beyond that. It made him glad he was who he was. He looked away, kicking at the ground with an embarrassed toe.
“Oh, I see. Sorry.”
She shook her head just the once.
“No need, not your doing.”
“No,” he agreed fervently.
He looked at her sideways,
“Will you survive it? Get through?”
“Maybe, someday, with a little help.”
“Help, from whom?”
She smiled again, a sad rueful smile;
“The last night of the year. Just like you.”

Vila thought about that.
“Father Paul said it was about new beginnings. Whose beginnings though? Ours,”
Vila nodded to where Blake sat in silent reverie, the mutoid at his shoulder
“Or theirs?”

“Maybe they are the same.”
A new voice came from behind him and he turned to see a face that was in some strange way familiar. Another woman, a pretty face with gentle eyes and a determined chin. Vila felt Servalan draw back a little, the feeling of sorrow around her deepening. He looked towards her in surprise; her eyes were wide with something he didn’t want to read. Behind her Blake still sat in silence, his mutoid protectively at his shoulder.

The mutoid.

He turned back to the new comer.
“That’s you!”
“It was once.”
She said it calmly enough but Vila felt a shiver run through him.
“You didn’t know you were dead either,” he thought he could see.
“Not quite. It took me a long time to break free, but once I was…… well let’s say I decided to stick around.”
“Decided or was persuaded?” Vila asked shrewdly.
The woman who had been the mutiod smiled brightly,
“You are learning. Yes, I was persuaded.”
“Why?” Vila asked, though he wasn’t sure he wanted to know, it seemed that being dead got more like being alive every day. Where was all this peace and rest he’d heard about? Not to mention the joy and love and nice music?”

“I’m still not sure. But I think it has something to do with him.” She jerked her head in Blake’s direction.
She smiled again,
“But I have time, I can wait.”

She looked across at Servalan, standing silently beside Vila’s crypt.
“Would you change it?” she said.
Servalan looked at her for a long moment, the habit of pride warring with the pain in her face. Then she dropped her eyes and nodded just the once, Vila felt his throat tighten for some reason he didn’t want to explore. The mutiod spirit looked at her for a long moment then said gently,
“Then I am sorry.”
Servalan squared her shoulders,
“No need, as I said to Vila it was of no ones making but mine.”
“Maybe” the nameless spirit replied, “yet you are still here. So I am sorry.”

Servalan looked at her in silence, then swallowed,
“Do you know what is going to happen?”
The spirit smiled,
“Yes I think so.” She looked from Vila to Servalan and back,
“It might be easy, it might be hard, but it is necessary. Just remember that. Good luck.”
Then she walked forward past Blake and the self that had once been hers and disappeared into another day.

Servalan cast a longing look after her then wandered towards the church, leaving Vila alone again with Blake.

***

Blake had stayed for an hour or more. Vila had watched him all that time, trying to work out what he was feeling about Blake and what the other man was feeling about them. For once Blake was silent. Often he would talk as he wandered about the churchyard, telling people he couldn’t see, and probably didn’t believe in, of his new world and its difficulties. There had been fewer compromises to the old guard in this last year, and some unexpected discoveries. Not that Vila was surprised; he had been here when Blake was confronted by Jenna.

He hadn’t wanted to believe it, even though he had seen it. He’d tried not to hear Jenna’s words, tried not to remember. It had been no use, and it had all come flooding back again. He’d waited for his world to end but it hadn’t, and in some ways it had started it again. Until then he had been something of a lost spirit, wandering first the desolation that was Malodaar and then this deserted churchyard, alone and distraught. Hiding from the past, denying that there might be a future. Jenna’s visit had ended that and as Blake had stepped out into his new world so Vila had realised that he was not alone.

That was the first time he had seen Soolin since the tracking gallery. But suddenly there she was, sitting on her memorial, one elegant leg crossed casually over the other, watching Blake go. Then she had turned towards Vila and smiled a cool and collected smile,
“Well, isn’t that a turn up for the books,” was all she had said.
As of she had known he was there all the time. Maybe she had.

***

When Blake left the churchyard for some ceremony or celebration or other there was no sign of life, or even of after life. Vila, suddenly bored with the silence, tried to wander off to find some company; but found that he couldn’t. The heavy hand of time was making itself felt again, and the wall of the churchyard was a barrier he couldn’t cross. Something was on its way; he could feel it, something to do with both past and future. He tried to take refuge in the habit of fear but it wouldn’t come, nor would anger or sorrow. Only something that he couldn’t put a name to, something that echoed times he couldn’t recall. Something he rather liked.

So he sat in patient silence, played cards on the altar and waited. Time past and the night darkened further. Memories came and went, mainly came.

Avon on a shuttle above a deadly world, the fear and desperation shining like a halo around him. That and something else, a feeling of despair and the words running through his tired mind, ‘She’s behind this. If this shuttle goes down she gets Orac. It will survive and she will recover it. Then she will have everything she needs. I can’t let that happen, I mustn’t let that happen. I mustn’t.’ Then the feeling of cold, of a hopeless loneliness, and a grief that could almost be tasted .

Vila’s hands continued to play the cards, while his eyes watched the moon through the window and the memories played on.

Avon standing in the ring of troopers, the fear and desperation gone, only the loneliness remaining. Understanding in his thoughts and a bitter regret. Then his last words, echoing his thoughts as he fell,
‘I’m sorry’.

“It's about Avon isn’t it?”
Dayna was sitting on the steps of the chancel,
“Tonight, I mean.”
She suddenly looked very young and lost. Vila shot her a fatherly smile; first time he’d ever managed it, or meant it come to that.
“Maybe,” he said, “though I think its’ got a lot to do with us as well. Us and Avon.”
He dealt another card, the ace of spades; he smiled to himself. Symbols everywhere, as if he hadn’t already got the message.

He looked up again, she was still there.
“Where have you been anyway, thought it was too much to hope I was going to get a quiet night.”
Dayna looked sombre as she got to her feet and came and put a hand on his shoulder.
“Visiting, I think.” She rubbed her forehead, “I’m not quite sure.” She looked at him with wide troubled eyes, “if that makes sense?”
Vila smiled again, he’d knew that he’d had times like that, it was only later you really remembered them.
“It will come,” was all he said.
To his surprise she just nodded her head.
“Yes, I suppose so.”

Above him Vila heard the rafters creak. He looked up, concentrating to see past the barrier of time. The bells were starting to stir; if he listened carefully he could hear the hiss of ropes being run through practiced hands.
“Nearly time,” he said
“For what?” Dayna asked.
“The ending of the last day of the year.”
That was Soolin’s voice.
“And the beginning of tomorrow.” Vila added.
Soolin’s eyes regarding him coolly for a moment, then her mouth curved in a smile,
“Yes, perhaps.”
Vila thought he saw understanding in her eyes,
“With a little luck,” she added
“Seems to me that we are due some,” he teased her.
Her smile widened,
“Don’t think that’s up to us somehow.”
“No,” he said, “but maybe its down to us.” He let the smile slip into his clown’s face of confusion, “if you see what I mean.”
Soolin smiled again.
“Oh yes I see.”
She turned and left the church, heading towards the crypt. After a moment of consideration Dayna followed her.

Vila sat alone for a moment, listening to the past; then he gathered up the deck and wandered after them. As he walked down the path he reminded himself to thank Jenna for the cards sometime, and the wine. He smiled to himself as he trotted down into the crypt, the sooner the Blake business was sorted out the better; then they could have regular visitors. Preferably ones that understood about leaving appropriate tributes to the dead.

***

In the world outside the churchyard the festivities were in full swing. Residence One was ablaze with lights. Laughter echoed through the rooms, drink flowed, and people danced and chatted and remembered old times. Blake, too, remembered old times but found nothing in them to laugh at.

In the privacy of his study he stared out at the darkness and prayed for morning and daylight. At his shoulder the mutoid guard silently watched him watching the night, and felt the first stirrings of an unfamiliar curiosity.

***

The sounds of revelry didn’t make it outside the house. No laughter drifted across the frosted fields, no lights disturbed the shadows of the churchyard. Outside the candles had burned down long ago, fanned by the stirring of the winter air. Now the moon was the only light; in its honeyed glow Servalan sat alone on a gravestone and waited.

Only in the crypt were Blake’s candles still burning. They were all gathered now. The others were back from where ever they had been, and wherever that was it had left them subdued. The tension was growing, even here in the crypt, and with it the weight of time. That felt strange now. Though Vila had lived with it all his life, time was now as alien as once a place without it would have been, he just didn’t know why.

The weight was becoming suffocating.

The candles flickered for a moment. Vila looked around him at the suddenly still faces of the others.
“There’s no wind down here,” that was Soolin.
“No,” Dayna agreed,
“So why are they flickering.” Soolin again.
She looked towards Vila,
“Well?”
“How should I know? “ Vila demanded. “You’re just as dead as I am – why don’t you know?”

Time grew heavier, its folds creaking in protest. The walls of the crypt seemed to flex. Images appeared in the shadows; images of animals and people and things he couldn’t name. Light and dark swirled together in frantic dance, atoms split and span then spilt again. Time contracted, its filaments thickening, creaking and groaning as they did.

Then he heard it, a faint humming noise he hadn’t heard for a while.
“Stand back” he yelled flattening himself again the wall.
“Why” demanded Dayna “its not as if we’ve got a body to get squashed. Anyway what are you expecting?”
“That,” was all he said pointing up the steps and out into the darkness, to the glow that was beginning in the centre of the churchyard. Vila ran up the steps and out into the night and the others followed.

The glow grew brighter as the humming died, time contracted again and suddenly the light was white and bright and blinding. Vila threw up his hands from habit, peering around his fingers as the light died away. It left two shadows standing in the darkness, one male, one female. Vila shrank back into the shadows of the yews; after a moment of stunned silence the others joined him.

“Why here?” the man’s voice was weary, shadowed with a fatigue that seemed bottomless.
“It’s close, and he likes to keep an eye on them.”
The man turned to face the woman and Vila could imagine the raised brow.
“Sorry. Unintentional, I promise you.” The woman sounded both amused and contrite.
The man made a sound that could be taken as a laugh and looked around again.
“Anyway he’s got two eyes again now.” The woman added without expression.
“Well I’m glad that someone got something out of it all.” The man was equally expressionless. “They didn’t “ he added quietly.

“Avon. Don’t.” the woman said, and Vila was shocked for a moment to hear the concern in Jenna’s voice. “There's no point.”
“I know.”
“So why did we come? Why were you so insistent?”
Jenna sat on a Meela’s tomb, her hair glowed pale in the moonlight but her eyes were dark with concern. It shook Vila, seeing Jenna look like that at Avon. Like a mother with a sick child.
“I….needed to.” The words seemed dragged out of him.
“But why tonight?”
Avon shrugged,
“Why not.”

For a moment there was silence between the living ones. Behind him Vila could feel Tarrant tense, like a spring coiling prior to release. Dayna too seemed eager for something. Only Soolin seemed relaxed.
“He looks ill,” she said.
“If what Jenna said last time was right he has reason to.” Vila spoke quietly. But what had she meant, he wondered? Vila found that he was willing Avon to come into the light.

Above them the bells were whispering. Avon and Jenna didn’t notice, for them these bells had been silent for a long time.
“He won’t come tonight, so it’s safe,” Avon said. “Not tonight,” he almost whispered.
Jenna tossed her head.
“We’ve nothing to fear from him if he does.”
Her reply was tart, then she seemed to soften. Getting up she went across to Avon and put her hand on his arm.
“We’ve nothing to fear from him, not any more.” She repeated almost gently.
Avon looked at her, his eyes huge and dark in the moonlight.
“Haven’t we?” he said just as gently.
She shook his arm slightly and smiled at him, a smile Vila had only ever seen her use to Blake,
“No.” she said.

Avon looked down at her hand and brought one of his own up to cover it.
“Maybe you haven’t, but me….”
He let the words drift away.
“Avon!” there was pain in Jenna’s voice and Vila felt his throat constrict.
Avon looked at her from a silent moment then took a deep breath and walked away from her and towards the church.
“You did what you had to do.” Jenna protested.
Avon looked up at the sky,
“They did what I had to do.” He said quietly. “They didn’t get any choice.”
He turned and smiled bitterly at Jenna,
“You may remember that I was very fond of choice,” the smile widened, “I shared that much with Blake.” The smile became twisted, “though we had somewhat different interpretations of the word you may recall.”
Behind him Vila heard Tarrant echo Jenna’s whispered,
“Avon!”

The name came from beyond the churchyard too as Servalan stepped out of the shadows of the ruined church and into the light of the moon. Avon turned as if he knew she was there. In the moonlight Vila could see the stiffness in his face,
“But maybe it will be worth it in the end.” He smiled slightly and looked around him, “Who knows how history will see any of us,” he looked back to where Servalan waited unseen by human eyes, “or even if we will care.”
He walked forward, the blackness of his jacket melting into the shadows. A black gloved hand reached out to one of Blake’s candle stubs, pulling it from the wall he turned it in the pale light,
“Maybe once the candle has burnt out the light is gone.”

Vila moved out from the shadows, and came to stand beside Avon. The face was familiar, unchanged. He grinned and looked towards Servalan,
“You didn’t do it then, you didn’t modify him.”
She gave a small shake of her head.
“There was some plan to but..” she let the words tail away.
“I knew you couldn’t do it.” He cocked an eyebrow at her and his smile became knowing, “I often wondered about you two you know. Two of a kind really.”
“No Vila,” Servalan shook her head again, emphatically this time, “we weren’t. But I found that I couldn’t do it, perhaps I found my limits.” She smiled, pale as the moonlight, “maybe that’s why there is no fiery pit.”

Vila stared at her for a moment, then looked across at the others still clustered in the shadows. Dayna was watching Servalan with a puzzled look, as if she had suddenly seen something unexpected. But he was distracted as he realised that Avon was still speaking, answering a question from Jenna that somehow he had missed,
“What would I say? What could I say? That I’m sorry, that I should have done it differently? Or maybe that they should never have believed in Blake? That I should never have convinced myself that I did? What difference would any of that make to the dead?”
Above them the dead bells stirred, and Vila felt as if time stood still again.

Avon looked around him,
“It’s true of course. I should have done it differently, and I’m sorry that I didn’t. I’m sorry that they died.”
His eyes roved across the shadows and squinted at the frozen yews.
“Maybe on the last night of the year I could even say that I’d do almost anything to change it and that I don’t blame any one for my deeds, or for my own failings.”
He smiled around at the darkness,
“Maybe even that I understand.”

He looked back at Jenna,
“After all who is there to hear? Only you, and you won’t betray me will you?”
Jenna got up and came close to him, placing her hand on his arm again,
“No I won’t betray you,” she said quietly.
She seemed to shake herself,
“Come on let's go back to the ship, leave the dead to the moonlight.”
Avon smiled again,
“You go on ahead. I want a moment or two alone.”
He looked in the direction of the brightly lit house,
“Some thoughts are better thought by one’s self.”
Jenna looked at him uncertainly, her fingers tightened on his arm.
“You don’t have anything stupid in mind, do you?” she said,
He turned back to face her,
“What me? When have I ever done anything stupid?”
She stared at him for a moment then smiled,
“Well, just make sure you don’t break the habit,” she stepped backwards, “Orac would never forgive me if I lost you. He’s not keen on you but he loathes the rest of us.”

Vila winced as time flexed again, the light split the shadows and Jenna disappeared.

Avon stood for a moment watching where she had been, then he slowly looked around him.
“I am sorry,” he whispered, staring at the trees.
Dayna edged from under their shadow and stood watching him. Tarrant followed. Soolin strolled out and came to stand by Vila,
“Do you think he means it?” she drawled.
“Do you?” said Vila.
She was silent for a moment, watching the tired face; then she turned and headed back towards the crypt,
“Yes,” was all she said.
“So do I.” Tarrant muttered and followed her.
Dayna stayed where she was, but tears glittered in her eyes.

Avon cast another look around him; then he stared towards Vila.
“It should have been different,” he said.
For a moment Vila could believe that Avon saw him, but then the impossibility of that, and those words to Jenna came back to him,
“After all who is there to hear?”
No one Vila thought, there never had been.

Over in the house the chime of clocks brought a peal of laughter. In the study Blake swallowed his brandy and poured another. The mutoid watched him carefully.

In the darkness of the churchyard Vila looked back at Avon and realised he wasn’t angry any more, not with Avon. He smiled at the man who couldn’t see him and lifted an imaginary glass.

High above them the bells started to ring. Avon’s head came round and he looked up toward the bell tower, then he nodded and stepped back smiling.
“So tomorrow begins,” he said.
“So they say,” Vila answered before he thought about it.
Time was stretching again but Vila heard the words even over the bells.
“They do indeed Vila, they do indeed.”
Then Avon was gone.

Dayna moved out into the churchyard and stared at Vila,
“He heard the bells! Vila, he heard the bells!” tears were pouring down her face.
Vila stared at her in astonishment as the meaning sank in,
“He knew we were here?” The realisation flowered, “he knew we were here Dayna! He was looking at me. He saw me.”
Vila threw back his head and laughed,
“He saw me! The man who didn’t believe in anything saw me!”

“Of course Vila, he always could. Didn’t you understand that?”

“Cally!”

Later Vila would say that the shock nearly stopped his heart, and Tarrant would point out that that event had taken place some years before. Still it had been a surprise, in all the years on Malodaar and since Vila had never seen Cally and suddenly there she was, standing in his churchyard. He smiled at her,
“Well I suppose that explains a few things. Avon never was what you’d call normal.”
Then they’d laughed, nodded amicably to Servalan, and gone to join the others.

As the sun rose on the new morning Vila watched a haggard eyed Blake remove the candles from the night before. Guilt was such a powerful force, and he’d never realised just how much guilt he felt about Avon. Now it was gone and another piece of the fog had left his mind.

If he could just deal with the little matter of Blake’s guilt, well then who knew what might happen?

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