Prologue

For everything in existence there is an inevitable end. For every mortal there is a life-span. For every living creature there is a time when they must die. Who gets to decide when that end is? No one but God or - rather - Gods.

For this particular God, he'd waited a long time for the end of one particular mortal - he'd wanted him to die for an exceedingly long time, but he'd been forced to be patient. He certainly had a lot of [Authority], far more so than the God of Earth, but when the other Gods - both of the opposing faction and of his own - took a stand against him he had been forced to back off. Those of the opposing faction hadn't surprised him in the slightest, but for members of his own faction to fight back as well...The God of Earth must have done something.

Regardless, he had been patiently biding his time since then. The God of Earth had attempted to distract him by providing him with human toys, but it had only marginally worked. This God had let a few more years on this mortal's life slide, but no matter how many raids he'd gone on with mortals in the "video games,” no matter how many of the simple "cartoons" he'd watched, he'd never forgotten his purpose.

Or at least, that's what he told himself as he thumbed the controller in front of him with unseen hands. He couldn't really be blamed, could he? It was only one more game, and that mortal's life would have been short regardless of his interference. He had even waited longer in other possibilities.

This God chuckled at his own feeble attempt to justify himself and cast his eyes around to the other side of the glowing white platform, floating in the midst of a dark mist, to see the hourglass of the mortal he'd had his eyes on for the past fifteen Earth years. Usually, a mortal didn't have such a specific time to die, but this God had been rather insistent, he needed this mortal.

No, he couldn't care less about the mortal. What mattered was this particular mortal’s soul.

Less than a day now, and the infuriatingly long wait would be over. The God of Earth had sneakily added extra time to the hourglass during a particularly difficult raid, so it was longer than the agreed time, but this God was unable to touch the God of Earth - unfortunately.

The God placed his feet on the ground and raised himself up on his invisible legs from the chair he'd been sitting on and checked the robes he wore on his chest - the only part of his body that could be seen. The bitingly cold mists of darkness roiled and spiraled away from him as he moved.

“Well," he said casually, his voice tinged with excitement, "shall I prepare for my guest?"

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What is the worst kind of life to live? Some might say it's one where you are poor. Some might say it's one that lacks friends or a wife. Some might say it's one that lacks a purpose. For himself, James agreed with all three to a lesser or greater extent, but he personally believed that the worst kind of life is one where you feel trapped. He might even add the moniker “Useless" to that thought.

From the moment he was born that was all he'd known: feeling trapped, being useless, consistently enduring agonizing - will draining pain, and all this while he was pretending he was fine for the sake of those around him.

He had been born crippled on top of being a month early, and his chances for survival were low.

His parents -John and Marla- had been terrified that they would lose him. From the questions he asked of his grandparents it sounded like they'd been more than terrified, they'd felt it was inevitable.

Since then, there were many, many times that James had thought that it might have been better if he had died. It wasn't hard for his mind to wander down that dark path after all, it wasn't just his own suffering that he'd had to endure - it was his parents suffering too.

They had to help and provide for someone who couldn't walk, who couldn't lift heavy weights, whose bones were fragile enough to break with just a casual lapse of focus, and who refused to complain. Since the age of six he's stopped complaining.

He refused.

A simple complaint from him was enough to make his parents go running for whatever he wanted/needed. In his situation most children would have been spoiled brats, but for James…

Well, he'd seen the reality of things at a very young age. He'd become cognizant of the tender care of his parents and he didn't want them to hurt anymore than they already did. What was a bit of physical pain when compared to his mother's emotional pain? What was his legs that broke four or five times in a good year in comparison to his father's physical exhaustion as he worked himself to death to provide for his son?

The hospital bills, medication, school fees, basic needs - these things were something his father took upon himself to provide for. His mother couldn't help - she needed to remain near James to help in the event of an emergency.

After seeing all this, how could he make things any harder on his parents? If there was any little way he could decrease the burden, he would take it - no matter how small. It was the only thing he could do, even if it was practically nothing.

Though...he knew things would be easier for his parents if he were dead...even so, he'd decided to never take his own life. It had nothing to do with the fear of death - he'd accepted the concept of death a long time ago. The reason was simple: he couldn't leave behind his parents. Even more simply, they were his only reason for living. The only reason he got out of bed in the morning.

Despite it all, in a way, he was happy. This joy didn't come from himself in the slightest. No, all that came from himself was hatred of the weak-broken body he had. His joy came from those who loved him. To have someone love him so deeply, and so perfectly, he wanted nothing more than to return that love.

Since awakening to the realization of what could make him happy - despite him having everything that would allow him to dub his life ‘the worst kind to live’- he had earnestly sought joy in his family. As he found it, bit by bit, his greatest fear went from living, to dying. He feared -to the point of paranoia- what would happen to his mother, who had tenderly loved him with all her heart, and his father, who had tried with all his power to have a "normal" father-son relationship with James.

Well, that fear came true of course. Deep down, he knew it was inevitable.

----

James forced himself to suppress a wry chuckle as the paramedic in white loaded him into the ambulance for the nth time. In the past, every time they had loaded him onto one of these things he thought he wouldn't come back home. For the early part of it, he'd had that thought with some amount of misplaced hope, but later it had been fear - recently, it had become indifference.

Every time he'd wondered about death in the ambulance, or the hospital, the piercing smell of antiseptic and the needles in his arm would remind him that he wasn't dead yet.

His mother slid into the ambulance to settle next to him and his father slid into the family van to follow from behind as an awkward little escort. It was practically a rhythm at this point. He even knew the paramedics by name.

The ambulance gently slid away from the curb before quickly picking up speed. John wasn't far behind in the van, James could tell even if he wasn't at the right angle to see because the muffler on "Bob" -as his younger self had so wisely dubbed the vehicle- had been busted for as long as he could remember.

The paramedics fussed around with his legs to ensure that they wouldn't break during the drive. They were both so malformed that it looked like someone had tried to turn them to face backwards, but had given up half way through, as if it was too much effort. Forget his hands, they were usable, but the bones were sharp and set in such a way that he had never been able to extend his fingers all the way. Well, there was a person who would love to hold them regardless.

His mother sat near his head and occasionally stroked his hair. Looking at them, you'd never think they were mother and son. Marla was a short woman who tried to claim that she was five feet, but was in reality a few inches shorter. She had red hair that leaned more toward orange when she hadn't dyed it to be actually red. Her eyes were a nice emerald green, and they were currently shimmering with tears she was trying to hold back.

James had clearly gotten everything from his father. Despite being unable to stand, it was already clear that he was a pretty lanky teen - tall and thin. Odds were, he'd fill out to be like his father if he had been able to lift anything over five pounds. He even had his father's sandy blonde hair and blue eyes as well as his more quiet nature.

That was something he found amusing about his parents: his father was quiet and was rather well personified by the phrase "Gentle Giant."

His mother was the exact opposite.

She had a temper more fiery than her hair and was louder than a child banging on piano keys. Quite simply, she was a woman of passion - she always existed at an extreme; the current extreme being fear.

Not long after leaving his home the ambulance pulled into the circular drive of the hospital, thanks to the wise planning of his parents they had always moved to homes near a medical center of some form or another.

James carefully maintained a neutral face as they lowered him out of the ambulance on his little gurney - jostling him in the process. Even as columns of pain tore up his legs and across his chest he refused to show a reaction to the pain. Why would he? He had long become used to it.

The blustery spring wind buffeted his hair as they wheeled him those few steps into the hospital through the automatic sliding doors before being cut off by their closing.

A few more of the hospital staff rushed over and started wheeling him to one of the emergency rooms located on the first floor, just off to the side of the grand staircase that dominated the center of the room, and down a short hallway. His mother -who had been with him to this point- and his father -who had just caught up and was breathing heavily- were forced off into one of the nearby waiting rooms while he was slid into the emergency room by the panicking professionals.

Weren’t they used to seeing him by now?

One of the nurses addressed the paramedics who had come with him and asked about his physical condition.

His physical condition? Not good. He'd coughed up blood for the first time. It was one of the few problems that hadn't ended him in front of a cold-handed doctor's stethoscope.

The checkup continued and James finally allowed himself to spit out the blood that had been slowly pooling into his mouth. It hadn't been easy, but he'd been able to hide it from his mother after the first time. The salty taste rushed over his lips and dyed his soft white shirt red.

The doctor standing off to the side took one look at that and left the room. As his vision flickered a bit and stars occluded his vision, a small part of James was rather amused to imagine a doctor who couldn't stand the sight of blood. Well, if he had to guess she had run off either to grab something to test what was going on, or to speak to his parents.

He didn't think that second one was very likely - they didn't know anything yet, why would they say something when they didn't know what was wrong?

The checks continued, they shined searingly bright lights into his eyes, pulled out the hated stethoscope, among other things.

James coughed up yet another mouthful of blood as they reached the conclusion that there were two separate issues that lead to his condition: one in his heart and the other in his lungs. They said "what" specifically, but he didn't understand the jargon.

Funny. He'd thought the only properly working thing was his heart? Well, aside from his brain.

The lungs were easy enough to tell, he could feel it and they could all hear it from his wheezed and forced breathing - the reason for his occasionally flickering vision.

The tests continued, then finally stopped. The doctor that left earlier came back in and spoke quietly to the head doctor in the room.

On a good day, he might have been able to eavesdrop, but the pounding that was echoing in his ears made it rather difficult to hear anything quieter than a regular volume.

After a short minute of discussion, during which James spat another mouthful of blood into a cup that one of the nurses had helpfully provided and was holding for him, the head doctor patted the other on the shoulder and walked out. He could pretty much imagine the discussion - it wasn't hard. The reason for that was very simple, he wasn't feeling pain anymore - not good.

The fear, the looming shadow that had plagued him his entire life finally threatened to engulf him. Despite that, he was calm. Well, he was calm about what happened after death for himself. No need to worry, but the issue was with his parents, not himself. For them, he felt sick - the stress and fear was pooling in his gut.

The other nurses wheeled him out of the room and across the hall to a room on the other side. When he saw the name of the room it jolted the small part of him that hadn't accepted what was happening: ‘Farewell Room.’ Was he really saying goodbye to his parents? He was only fifteen for goodness sake. He hadn't even lived a reasonable fraction of his life. Though, the life he'd had...probably hadn't really been living. It felt like someone kept forcing him to be here - rewriting the expiration date every time it got close.

Regardless, it was still the real end for him. He could feel that certainty, like he was able to see the hourglass of his life.

His parents rushed into the room and James could see the head doctor slowly shutting the door to give them some privacy.

His mother was the first to speak, "Honey, the Doctor said that he'll need to perform an operation. He said...He said..." she began to choke on the words, too overcome with emotion.

His father stepped forward to finish what his mother had been saying. It was clear that he wasn't in any better condition than she was, but he was doing a better job to control himself. "Son, the surgery has a very low success rate. He doesn't know what will happen..." His father, who had done his absolute best to hold back tears to that point, let them slide down his cheeks.

James...well, he didn't feel any shock at the news. Could it even be called news if he already knew the content?

He reached out to his parents with his warped and bony hands and grabbed their hands. His mother's right hand in his left, and his father's left hand in his right.

"Please, stop crying. Please, just be happy."James felt tears start rolling down his face. He could feel his parents warm and comforting hands in his, the two most precious people in his life, his reason for living. Why did goodbyes have to hurt so much?

His parents couldn't say anything to respond, so he coughed a bit to clear some space in his lungs to talk, and continued, "You know, I always wanted a younger sibling. I might not be around to play with them, or help you raise them in any way, but I still want one. Do you think that could happen?

His mother rushed to answer, “Of course! When you finish recovering from your surgery we can start coming up with baby names, you can help pick the paint for the baby's room! You can-" John put his hand on Marla's shoulder, stopping her in her tracks.

“Is that truly what you want?” He asked.

In spite of the situation, a natural smile floated up onto his face.

"With all my heart, all I want is for you both to be happy.”

John watched James silently for a long moment before responding, "Thank you, no matter where you go please don't forget us," he took a deep breath, "This has been the best time of my life. Thank you for allowing me to love you all this time.”

James didn't have any words in response to that, what could he say? So he just closed his eyes for a long moment before opening them and smiling at his father.

It was his mother's turn next, she was visibly trembling from head to toe, and she still hadn't stopped crying. Well, he couldn't really blame her. He was still crying too.

She tightened her grip on his hand and spoke, “I love you son. Be..." she let out a hard sniff, "Be happy. We will not ever stop loving you." She leaned down and pulled him into a hug. "Stay strong. Don't forget who you are.”

James returned the hug and finished the adage that they'd learned the first time he'd almost truly died, "Death isn't the end, it's a new beginning.”

It was some advice he'd received from another patient years ago. The man hadn't lived another day, but had faced death smiling. After seeing that, James had shared it with his parents. It was stupidly simple, anyone could have thought of it, but it brought them some measure of comfort for an inexplicable reason.

The doctor took that moment to walk in. He just looked at them with eyes full of unshed tears and simply said, “It's time."

His father pulled him into a quick hug then stepped back, bringing his mother with him. A team of nurses came into the room and, with the efficiency of practiced individuals, wheeled him out of the room and toward the operating room.

As they did so James simply said one thing, “Good-bye.”