In a Pub past, a Shadow Lord spoke. "Long-Dead.  Jean-Baptiste.  
The Divider.  A story then, for all of you: 
	"He sat alone on the floor of his cell, staring into space.  He 
did not react when the door swung open.  He did not flinch as I entered, 
bringing with me the long-forgotten light of the asylum outside.  The 
sounds of madness wafted in, faint strains of a familiar music.  He did 
not even acknowledge my presence in any way as I stood there, allowing my 
eyes to accustom themselves to the darkness. I turned, pushed the heavy 
steel door closed with a rumbling boom.  And he looked up. 
	"He was so young.  The downy beginnings of a beard grew on his 
chin, his eyes were fringed with long eyelashes.  A flowing mass of 
raven-black hair, near invisible in the darkness, lay atop an alabaster 
face.  He sat with his hands in his lap, the delicate fingers 
intertwined.  But in his eyes shone the unholy light of the corrupted.  
The Wyrm had taken this one early, apparently without effort. 
	"'Sit down,' he said.  'Or don't.  It's entirely up to you.'
	"I sat.  'You know why I'm here?'
	"He laughed, a sound of broken glass and shattered hope.  'Of 
course.  To lead a lost sheep back to the herd.'
	"'I would bring you back to your family,' I replied.
	"A white-hot flare of rage, almost palpable.  His face contorted 
in a fierce snarl.  'Family?  You would take me to face the accusing 
eyes, the hatred of the just for the traitor.  You would return me to a 
day I would leave forgotten, to see the looks of horror and disgust once 
more.  You would deny me love and comfort, and give me nothing in 
return.  You would return an unwanted son to a family who could care less.'
	"His body twisted, tore, reformed as he assumed the Crinos.  He 
stood to his feet, strode forward.  His frail homid form had not prepared 
me for the dark power he had been granted.  Even had I too worn the body 
of war, the outcome of battle would be uncertain.  It was far too late 
for me to shift now.  All I could do was wait.  I look up from where I 
sat, determined to meet my fate with grim resolve. 
	"He spoke again, a deep rumbling baritone overpowering the 
tortured whisper.  'Would you have me undance the Spiral?  Would you have 
me sit, mindless, unquestioning before the alpha?  Would you have me be a 
good little cub?'
	"Without a further word, without waiting for my response, he 
reached immense hands to either side of his own head and pushed.  A snap 
of bone stressed past the limits of its strength.  And he reached his 
talons to the top of his skull, dug through the broken fragments until he 
reached his target. 
	"He drew forth his own brain, and handed it to me.  I looked at 
him, startled beyond words.  I met those madly grinning eyes, saw in them 
only damnation. 
	"'This is my mind,' he said.  'Teach me how to think.'
	"With a thick tongue and chattering teeth, I replied the best I 
could.  'I will not.'
	"I could not find the words.  I wanted to say that each of us 
must learn for themselves.  That the individual interpretations of 
morality and justice and less lofty ideals are what define us.  That I 
could no more teach him how to think than I could teach him how to fly.  
But I could not.  Perhaps that incited him further. 
	"He looked at me a long time.  Then, with a solemn nod, he 
reached to his face.  Fingers pushed, pried, forced through the skin.  
Bones broke with loud cracks.  His hands clenched into fists, then tore 
forward.  The rainfall patter was impossible to ignore.  Staring down at 
the floor, he raised his arms, opened his hands.  Twin orbs fell to the 
slick ground.  He looked up at me. 
	"Blood poured from empty sockets down over his face.  And yet, he 
knew precisely where I was.  With a fluid gesture, he flicked one eye 
towards me.  I rolled its uneven way to rest at my foot.  The second 
followed, collided with the first.  He grinned, the proud smile of the 
child triumphant. 
	"These are my eyes,' he said.  'Teach me how to see.'
	"I shook my head to clear blurred vision.  I swallowed hard, 
pushing down my gorge.  It was in a much weaker voice that I replied, 'I 
can not.'
	"Again, my tongue failed me.  I wanted to tell him my abhorrence 
of homogeneity.  That, in my mind, forcing another to your way of 
thinking is worse than death.  That in so doing, we would kill freedom, 
kill initiative, kill any hope of surviving the Apocalypse.  I wanted to 
tell him that his beliefs were his own, and that no one would take them 
away.  And again, I could not. 
	"He put both hands to his chest, held them for a moment in 
mockery of a prayer.  Then he tore into his breast with those wicked 
claws.  Blood poured down over him in crimson waves, obscuring his work 
from my vision. I wish that it had masked the sounds as well.  A tearing, 
a wet ripping, as layers of muscle were cut to ribbons.  A horrible 
cracking as the ribcage was forced open.  I forced myself to meet the 
gaping sockets. 
	"A smile, a ghastly insane thing.
	"He reached into that cavity, that abscess, twisted hard.  And 
pulled out a hand, dripping with his own fluids, holding in a cupped palm 
a ragged mass of muscle.  And gave it to me. 
	"'This is my heart,' he said.  'Teach me how to love.'
	"I stood to my feet then.  He looked down at me, a smile twisting 
that horrible face.  It was inconceivable that this homid would dare 
challenge him. Surely then I would abandon him, as so many before me.  
Yet, I walked towards him, and his smile widened.  So many teeth, all 
glistening red.  Perhaps he had overestimated me.  I put my hands, 
dripping with his blood, upon his chest.  Now would come the attack.  He 
raised one arm, anticipation shining brilliantly in his face.  And I 
hugged him tightly to me.  I comforted him as I would have my own pup, 
held that shattered body close to my own.  And waited to die. 
	"He halted the killing blow.  I felt the tense muscles relax.  We 
stood for an eternity in that embrace.  Then, as with anything pure, 
anything that should endure, it was interrupted.  He coughed.  A fine 
mist of blood flew from his lips, danced upon my head.  His eyes widened 
in shock.  'My life,' he said, in a voice crystal clear, a voice free of 
the madness that had so long dogged him.  He pushed me from him, terribly 
gently.  A smile of joy, pure beyond words dawned on that broken visage. 
	 "And he collapsed, the pain finally beyond his endurance.  He 
had lived every moment of his life with pain.  Agony and misery had 
become his constant companions, noticeable only by their absence.  They 
had been present today.  They would be for a while yet. 
	"I walked away.  I am no healer.  He would not have wanted my 
attentions if I was." 
	Cymric shakes his head. "He was not Dancer enough to survive his 
own ministrations.  And yet, I
still wonder." 
	A sad smile.
	"The four saddest words in the English language are what might 
have been.  All the more so, since they are used so often.  But still, I 
wonder.  I wonder what might have been." 
	Cymric's body is wracked by a shiver.  He breathes a ragged 
sigh.  Eyes close for a long moment before looking up to meet 
Jean-Baptiste's.  A faint tired smile. 
	"Did I lose?"
	For a second, it seems he would continue.  Then Cymric shakes his 
head, banishing the demons.  And looks back at the Divider.
	And a little girl reaches out, for a moment, and rests a hand 
upon his arm. 
	The moment passes.
	As it always does.