aucion huddled firm around his brother, rummaging through his notes and observations, in vain attempt to aid him in his plight. "Let it be," Vil said at last, "you cannot aid me, neither can anyone else."

"I will not abandon you," he reassured him, "I'm your brother, and I want to help you."

"If you want to help me, then stop bothering me," Vil replied, not in a vexed tone but rather quite a relaxed one. It was mean, but he didn't mean that – Raucion could understand, albeit he was hurt.

"Rau," Mey called for him, urging him to sit by him, his natural fingers caressing Raucion's skin and hair, easing his discomfort. Though he said no words, Raucion could feel him asking for Vil to be left alone.

"I'm sorry," Vil replied at last, "it's just that . . . I can't handle people when I'm under pressure, no matter how close you are to me."

"That's your brother, Raucion," Mey smiled, "better know it for the rest of your days."

"He's so much like his father," Raucion lamented, "or rather as the former king described himself in his youth: surprising how much trauma affects you. At first it's a shock, then denial, then anger, and then-"

"Cease!" shouted Vil, his hands clutching his head, tears rolling down his cheeks.

"I'm sorry," Raucion replied, his own eyes filled with tears. "I didn't mean any ill to you, I-"

He tried to keep it in, but could not, there was something strange happening. This was the first time he shed a tear in a hundred years, but why? What was wrong with him? Maybe this is what family is, he thought.

"Please hold it in," Mey whispered, "Vil, you're not a bad person for acting rudely when you can't handle the situation, and Raucion, you're not a bad brother either, mistakes happen."

Raucion buried his face in his arms, collapsing onto Mey's shoulders to control himself.

"Yeah, Mey's right," Vil replied, "it's just . . . I'm stuck in the middle, you two now are the only people I have in my life, but those who died – they never left, they keep visiting me from time to time in the forms of ghosts, as if they want me to go back to them, join them."

"Vil, you promised me you'll never do that again," Mey replied in fear.

"I know, and I wouldn't, but what can I do?" he questioned, "with every day passing by, I find life on this earth harder and harder. It's a labour most intensive, one which makes me question my existence."

...

And then it suddenly popped to him, with the curiosity of a cat Vil turned back and at Raucion. "Brother, tell me now: you too struggle with this idea, do you not?"

"I do . . . how did you know? Did you read my mind?"

"No, I just guessed," he shrugged.

"Then yes, I do," Raucion replied, dropping into silence for a long period. "Let me be honest with you: I do not think we'll ever get to know it, answers I can tell you forty-two but you will not be satisfied. Maybe that's what life is: a mystery that we're not meant to uncover."

"Mystery, and misery," Vil replied.

"Hey, come on, it's not all miserable," Mey replied, "I mean my life was pretty miserable before I met you, and every day of the year you went away was horrible for me. I guess . . . us being together, is that life?"

"Maybe," Raucion replied, "I think this is a question everyone has different answers for. What about you Vil?"

"It is the state that distinguishes animals and plants from inorganic matter, including the capacity for growth, locomotion and change preceding death."

Mey and Rau laughed in unison. "Can I ever trust my boyfriend to not be scientific about something?" Mey laughed, "Probably not."

Vil chucked along, "ah, found it"

"What? The meaning of life?" asked Mey, pouncing atop his back, only to find a sheet of paper in Vil's hand. What it was, he could not tell. It was half written in Elven, half in Dwarven, a little bit of Ancient Elven, some strange symbols he had never seen before, and the rest numbers. "Vil, what is that?"

"It's a spell," Vil replied with a smile.

"A spell?" the other two grunted in question, running their eyes along the mostly-unintelligible scribbling on a piece of old paper, much of which would require extensive lighting and patience to read and understand.

"Brother, I've seen many a written spells, neither of them are like yours," Raucion commented.

"Because it is not the conventional type of spell, this is the equation I saw on a board in the Arcaneum: in its own it talks about a force that can turn the wheel of time, mend that which is broken, and break that which is not. If Morthaur is an element of time, then it is the magic of time in which we must place our hope."

"And . . . are you sure it'll work?" asked Mey.

"I do not know," Vil shrugged, "I'm just continuing grandfather's work, and I hope I got all the equations and constants right here. If no, we die. If yes, then well . . . come on, let me explain it to you."