Author: Sam

Story: Say it With Music: 4 of ?

Series: none

Summary: Presto’s life, basically. Better than it sounds.

Note: This song was indeed used in my series “What’s In A Song: Hocus Pocus"; however, it needed a bigger, grander story for it. So here is that story.

Song Note: Almost Unreal by Roxette from the movie The Last Action Hero.

Feedback: Yes, please? Especially constructive. samwise_baggins@yahoo.co.uk

Webpage: http://www.oocities.org/samwise_baggins/index.html

1975:

Tugging up the over-sized sleeves on the old suit-jacket, Andrew exposed a tiny clenched fist. His nails were chewed short and ragged, the ever-present dirt of childhood under them. Clutched in determined little fingers was an old brass key, its accompanying lock long lost and forgotten.

The freckled redhead grinned widely, exposing a slight gap and very noticeable overbite. Golden eyes dancing with secret pleasure, the five-year-old fitted the end of the key to the scarred old door of his bedroom closet. Naturally, it didn't fit, too big for the current lock, but the boy seemed unaware or uncaring.

He turned the key, scratching the old graying-white paint of the door. Apparently satisfied, Andrew turned the knob of the already unlocked door. It creaked as he tugged on the out-of-place modern silver knob, the door swinging slowly open to reveal an obscenely clean closet to match the equally meticulous bedroom.

Most children could claim a reasonably ordered room with books, games, and other assorted toys tucked away on shelves and in boxes. Some could even display a disordered heap pushed out of a walking path and reluctantly reorganized upon request of an adult. Andrew Preston, however, could boast only of a bare room with plain wooden furniture and an equally bare closet, clothes hanging neatly and shoes lined up underneath. One wall of the room was lined ceiling to floor with books, arranged as neatly as humanly possible according to size and even color. A step stool was arranged under the bed, to be pulled out and set up if the five-year-old wanted a book off of a higher shelf than his small size permitted retrieval of. All in all, the dust-free, clutter-free room was more a showplace than a child's haven.

The lack of welcoming atmosphere seemed not to bother the little redhead. He merely grinned wider at a sight only he could see. To no visible playmate, he called out merrily, "Now to let the tiger out of his cage." With that, key still clutched forgotten in his tiny hand, Andrew made a pushing motion. "Go on, Tiger."

Letting his imagination run as wild as his invisible animal, the boy squealed in glee and clapped his hands, his eyes following an unseen movement. "Go, Tiger, go!" He bounced happily giggling. After an appropriately long time, at least long to a child of five, Andrew turned back to his invisible playmate. His excitement was barely contained as he opened his mouth to give further details of the mysterious game.

The opening of his bedroom door put a stop to all play, however. His golden eyes widened in shock as the brass key fell from suddenly nerveless fingers to clatter on the polished bare-wood floor. A strangled gasp was the only other sound he made. He wanted to pick up the offending key, but didn't dare draw attention to the scuff mark it had made. Instead, he stood rooted to the spot, oversized jacket hanging limp and engulfing his tiny frame, staring in increasing horror at the frowning woman in the doorway.

With a deep frown and a disapproving look, the elderly woman turned regally to a slightly built man behind her. Her voice was austere, unemotional. “And this is Andrew, Mister Halifax. As you no doubt see he is in perfect health.” She then turned to the quaking child and seemed to loom just that much larger. “Andrew, what are you doing incorrectly at this moment?”

Fear tinged the boy’s voice as he gulped and whispered, “I been playing…”

“No. You must use proper English, Andrew. We do not want Mr. Halifax to think we are heathens, do we.” It was not a question.

Andrew shook his head and cringed a bit more, speaking slower than before, yet just as softly. “I was playing with Grandfather’s key?”

A gray eyebrow lifted. A steely gaze swept down for the first time to the floor. The woman looked back at the child, frown deepening. “And what else were you doing?”

“Uh…” at his grandmother’s disapproving look, the boy hurried to correct his lapse in language skills. “I played with his jacket, too?”

The woman shook her head once then looked down on the child again. “Are we not certain of what we were doing? How can you ask me when I have only entered the room just recently? Try again, Andrew.”

Twisting fingers nervously together now, shifting from one slippered foot to the other, the five-year-old gulped, tears welling in his large golden eyes. “I was playing with Grandfather’s jacket and key, Grandmother.”

She looked satisfied for a bare second then glared down at the child. “Yes, you did. Put them away this instant. After you have done that, you may take out the blue suitcase and wait in the hallway.”

He nodded and hurried to pick up the key and walk from the room, moving to avoid touching his relative’s long skirts. The last thing he heard before disappearing up the steps to the attic was his grandmother’s cold voice stating “You see why I cannot have him here? He is disobedient and rambunctious. His suitcase is already packed and you may take him away as soon as he has finished his task.”

1978:

Curled in a ball, silent tears running down his face, Andrew Preston tried not to let his sobs be overheard. He was hiding. Trying to listen intently, while ignoring the pain of his injuries, was not an easy task for an eight-year-old. Especially when that eight-year-old was trying to hiding inside a cement tunnel on a school playground.

Someone heard the child’s stifled sobs. A shadow blocked the entrance for a moment, then disappeared again. Then a young male’s voice rang out, surprising Andrew and making him feel extremely grateful to his unknown rescuer. “Not in here. He must’ve gone back inside.”

The sounds of boys laughing and shouting were heard as several children ran back towards the schoolhouse. After a moment with no further apparent threat, Andrew let himself relax, whimpering in pain. He wanted to scream, his arm hurt so bad, but he didn’t dare. Worriedly, the redhead wondered if his arm was broken. He tested this theory by moving his fingers. A person couldn’t move fingers with a broken arm, right? He wasn’t so sure.

Then the shadow came back, making Andrew stiffen in dread. A slim child slid inside the tunnel and settled down next to Andrew but facing him across the cement expanse. He was perhaps a couple of years older than the boy he’d rescued, with dark hair and equally dark eyes. His clothes were as neat as any adult could like, very dressy with a logo on the breast of the shirt and probably even one somewhere on his sneakers.

Neither child spoke for a few long minutes. They merely remained staring at each other, as if weighing the other’s value or possible value. Finally, the other boy spoke in a voice that was more sneer than comfort.

“You must be the school punching bag.”

Andrew blinked, too surprised by the tone and words to take offense. “Yeah, you could say that. I’m Andrew… but I’m gonna be a magician someday and I’ll change my name to Presto.”

“Presto? That’s kind of a dumb name. I’m Eric Montgomery. My father is the head of Montgomery Enterprises and I have a pony and my own stereo system.” There was a smug tone to the boy’s boasts. “My mother has won the Beautiful Garden award three years running.”

Another couple of minutes passed, this time with Eric filling in the silence with details about himself. He sure was stuck on himself, but Andrew didn’t mind. The kid could talk about himself all day if he wanted; the redhead was too grateful for the save to protest being bombarded with boasts and prideful bragging.

Ringing was heard. Recess was over and the children had to go inside. That wasn’t good. As soon as the teacher saw him, Andrew knew she’d make a big fuss and punish the kids who’d hurt him, everyone knew who they were. Those bullies, in turn, would just hunt him down and beat him up again; they always did.

He couldn’t escape so easily, though. His foster father would be angry that he’d gotten attacked again. A former boxing champion, Mr. Greeley hated the fact that he was fostering a wimp and a bookworm. The last time Andrew had come home trashed, the man had threatened to send him back to the home.

That was the story of his life, though. Like an unwanted toaster. People kept fostering him, then after a few months they’d take him back, claiming one problem or another. Most of the people he went with only fostered for the extra money anyway. None of them really wanted a problem child, as he’d been labeled upon entering the system when he was five. Andrew had never really been wanted in his entire life.

Eric slid from the tunnel then bent to look back in at the injured boy. “You coming, Presto?”

Andrew… no, Presto… nodded, forgetting the trouble he would be in. He hadn’t really had a friend before, and this Eric kid was pretty nice. Sure, he was stuck on himself, but he had saved a stranger, hadn’t he? Presto gasped, “Yeah, I’m coming,” as he tried painfully to follow his new friend.

Eric seemed to realize he was hurt because the older boy rolled his eyes and disappeared.

“What? Wait!” the eight-year-old was stunned by the desertion. “I’m coming, Eric, wait up!” He tried to speed up his wriggling, desperate not to be left behind, unwanted, again. As he made it to the edge of the tunnel, a larger shadow stopped him in his tracks. “Uh…” he gulped.

An adult bent to look into the tunnel and nodded, gesturing over his shoulder. Then he leaned in and gently picked up the injured boy, making soothing noises at Presto’s whimpers. “I have him, Young Master. If you would but lead me to the nurse’s office.” The man was in a uniform of some sort, something that impressed Presto even in the confused, worried state he was currently in.

The raven-haired boy nodded and led his driver into the school, passed the now closed classrooms, and into a sterile room with two cots and a tired looking elderly lady. The woman raised her eyes heavenward upon seeing the patient, long used to treating his injuries by now. The chauffeur put the child on a cot and stepped back with a disinterested look on his features. Waiting outside or waiting in the nurse’s office for the school day to end make no difference to him.

Presto passed out.

When he came to, the other boy and his employee were gone. Instead, the nurse was standing off to the side, quietly talking to his foster father. No! Misery swept over the boy. He heard those dreaded words, the ones he knew would come sooner or later: they always did. “I’ve contacted child services, Mrs. Bostin. I won’t have a child in my house who can’t keep from fighting.” The man’s voice covered up anything the nurse might try to say. “They’ll be with you shortly. I’ve got a job waiting for me.”

Curling painfully back into a little ball, as if trying to hide from the world in the austere little cot, the tiny cinnamon-haired boy cried himself back to sleep.

1979:

Another home, another set of strangers judging him lacking. This was getting real old, real quick. Andrew “Presto” Preston held a battled old blue suitcase with both hands, He glanced around the beautifully decorated hallway. Wood seemed to be the theme, polished and embellished and simply divine. He idly wondered how long it took to keep that hallway dust-free and gleaming.

Footsteps drew his attention… the sound of someone running full-tilt down the steps. Curiously the nine-year-old glanced up, wondering why anyone would be allowed to run inside a house unless his life were in danger. What he saw stunned him further.

A blond boy in jeans and a T-shirt was barreling down the stairs, two at a time. His longish hair looked like it needed a good brushing, and one sneaker was untied. He was maybe eleven or so. However, the real surprise was the equally blond, equally disheveled, man running down the steps behind the kid.

Both were laughing.

Presto’s golden eyes widened, but he had to squint again just to make the fuzzy images of the pair a bit sharper. Shifting from one foot to the other, trying not to stare at this odd pair, the redhead wished he could run around like that, having fun and laughing with an adult. It’d be nice to be allowed to have that kind of romp through such a grand place. He’d probably break something, though.

Skidding to a halt, the older boy grinned and held out a well-tanned, muscular hand. “Hey. Call me Hank. Welcome home, Andrew.”

Oh, his heart sang at those words. Flushing, trying not to let himself immediately get taken in by the warm welcome, he shrugged and said, “Thanks. I’m Presto, though. I’m going to be a magician someday.”

Hank didn’t stop smiling. He nodded and accepted the name change, gesturing instead to the still laughing man. “This is Dad. Want me to show you to your room?”

The redhead opened his mouth but was interrupted by the surprisingly deep, happy voice of the adult, as well as a welcoming bear hug! “Welcome home, Presto. Call me Dad if you like. All the kids do. If you’d rather not, there’s always Tom… or if you absolutely have to, Mr. Baker. But I hope you grow comfortable enough not to have to be so formal.” Tom turned towards the Social Services lady. “Thanks for bringing my newest kid, Anne.”

She laughed and shook her head. “Oh, my pleasure. You know he’s a troubled boy, withdrawn and moody, likes to fight, tells lies all the time.”

Presto was horrified. This woman was ticking off every claim the other foster parents had ever made against him. All of it wasn’t true… but she was wrecking his chances at this new home by passing them on anyway. Red heat flushed the boy’s pale skin and he couldn’t look Hank in the eyes. He really wished his friend Eric was here; he’d give the lady a piece of his mind.

A tug on the battered suitcase drew Presto’s attention back to the other boy. Hank was still smiling, and the smile even reached his eyes, startling Presto. “Come on. Your room’s got a connecting door to mine in case you need to talk in the night. We can add a night light if you need one; half the kids have them.” With that, the blond started up the steps, a bewildered Presto right behind, leaving the Social Worker talking to the Foster Parent below.

Wanting the other boy to like him, the nine-year-old suddenly launched into an embarrassed explanation of the charges against him. “Uh, Hank? She’s wrong. I don’t like to fight and I don’t lie. I…” he gulped, feeling miserable. He really did want to like it here after all. “I get beat up and then I tell them something else happened so the kids don’t get in trouble and beat me up again. I like to read and do magic.”

Hank was nodding happily. “I understand. The Social Workers don’t know what really happens. Some foster parents return the kids like an unwanted puppy and claim the kid did this or that just to make themselves sound good. Dad explained it to us. He says everyone deserves an eighth or ninth chance.” The blond turned and winked at the redhead. “Here’s your room. If you don’t like green we can change it. Mine’s green, too.”

And for once, Presto felt like he’d truly come home.

1981:

Two years, two glorious years gone up in smoke. How could this have happened? What had he done wrong? Presto felt like curling up and crying, even if he was eleven and tears were for babies.

Folding another shirt into his battered old blue suitcase, the too slender, awkward looking redhead hastily pulled off his new glasses and scrubbed a hand over his eyes. He put the glasses back on his face and sniffled.

He had been happy here. For the first time in his short life, Presto had been welcome longer than it took him to cross the front door mat. He’d been encouraged and played with… part of the ever-changing family at the Baker home. Kids were always coming and going here… well, except Hank Knight that is. Apparently he’d been here since he was little and Tom Baker wasn’t getting rid of him ever… there’d even been rumors of a possible adoption if Hank’s mother, out in California, would sign the papers.

But, Presto had hoped for the same for himself. Dad, as all of the kids called Mr. Baker, was so loving. He seemed to have enough time for everyone, enough hugs and kind words to go around. He knew when you needed help, recognizing right away that Presto squinted because he needed glasses, not because he was rude. He teased, romped, and even helped with homework. Dad figured out what a kid was best at and then helped that gift to flourish. It was like living in a fairytale.

All fairytales ended. Presto knew that. He’d known that since he was five and his grandmother had decided to foster him out. He’d known since finding out that his mother hadn’t been married and had given him to Grandmother out of embarrassment. He’d known since he’d come here to a place for unwanted, last chance foster kids and fallen in love with the place… a place kids went whom nobody else felt they could handle. And now, he had to face the end and leave for a home with a mother he never knew and no longer wanted.

If it had been just two years ago, Presto would have welcomed the chance with open heart. To have a real parent, to be part of a real family: it was a dream come true. Now… now he wished she’d just ignore him like the last eleven years and let him stay with Tom and Hank and the others.

A sob broke from the thin body and the boy had to cover his mouth with a trembling hand to keep the noise inside.

The door behind him opened. Thirteen-year-old Hank walked over quietly and started folding the rest of the clothes without a word. His light blue eyes were sad as he worked. Presto let him do it, sinking onto the bed and finally covering his face and letting himself cry. The other boy stopped his chore and slipped his arms around his friend, making soothing noises and rocking him gently.

“Hey, Presto, Dad said you can come sleep over this weekend if your Mom says it’s okay.”

Presto gulped down another sob, tears streaking his miserable countenance as he glanced up to his foster brother. “Really?” He knew it wasn’t what he really wanted, but anything… anything he could get, right? “I… I’ve… near… nearly… g… got tha… that… new trick… d… do… down, Hank… I…”

“I’d like to see it when you’re ready, Presto.” Hank tried a smile for the younger boy, “and we’ll still be going to school together. You’re only one year behind me now.”

With a nod, Presto silently stood and started helping to pack. It felt good to be working with Hank. The other boy always made him feel like he was home… maybe going to meet his Mom would be okay, if he could still come back to Hank and Dad every once in awhile…

He sure hoped so.

1983:

8:15. She was late… again. Presto sighed and lowered his wrist, frowning out at the starry night. He couldn’t wait until he was sixteen and was allowed to learn to drive. Heck, he could pass the test right now if he could just reach the petals.

The short, slim boy of thirteen moved away from the public library’s front window, back into the darkened recesses of the tiled entranceway. It was another lonely Saturday night and his mother had neglected to come for him before the library closed. This was pretty much a weekly affair actually, and it was one Presto would have rather not dealt with.

He suddenly hated his life: how the librarians let him stay after closing time because they knew his indifferent mother would inevitably forget to pick him up. How the kids at school took for granted that they could harass him as long as he wasn’t with Hank, Eric, or Diana, another friend. How Jimmy Whittaker from next door would follow him to the High School to torment him about showing him another magic trick, then laugh and call it stupid once he’d actually seen it. How Presto inevitably let these things happen, unable to change his life no matter how much he wished it.

He hated how ineffective and stupid he was most of the time. Sure, he was top of all his classes, a full two years ahead of his own age group, but that’s not what stupid meant in his particular case. It meant self-conscious and weak. It meant just what Eric said: stupid.

Life would suck worse if it weren’t for his friends, few in number as they were.

In fact, the next day he was supposed to meet all three of them at the amusement park. Three friends… and other kids could boast lists so long they had to worry who they should exclude from which party. But, his three were good, true, steady friends, even if Eric took the more than occasional jab at him. He was thankful for those he had.

Besides, there was a chance for another one or two at the park. Hank was meeting up with a girl from class, Sheila O’Neil, and her little brother, whom Hank was tutoring in one class or another. He seemed quite sure that Presto would get along with the other two, and the thirteen-year-old had long ago learned to trust his former foster brother. He’d certainly go into this meeting with an open mind. Two new friends, even one new friend, would be great.

The sound of an incessant horn broke through Presto’s reverie and brought him running from the library to slide into his mother’s old Buick. She didn’t greet him, and he merely nodded to acknowledge her. Mother and son only existed together, the former never really having shown any warmth to the latter. They were blood relations living in the same house; that was all.

1984:

“I sure hope he brings a gas mask. I can’t stand the stink.” Bobby O’Neil’s voice rang out through the dank, sulfuric swamp. He was discussing their next meeting with the wise Dungeon Master at a place called the Forbidden Tower. Everyone had been walking for quite some time and no one was happy about the situation.

For two years the six children had been stuck in the Realm of Dungeons of Dragons. Odd as it sounded, they had been enjoying a day at the amusement park when suddenly they were transported through space to another dimension. They’d been following the obscure orders of an aged wizard almost affectionately dubbed DM ever since. It had been sheer hell.

Presto slogged through the mire just like everyone else. Since arriving in the Realm he had been painfully reminded at every turn that you should always watch what you wish for. Ever since he was tiny, he’d wanted to do magic, wanted to be Presto the Wizard. Now he was. Dressed in green ankle-length robes and a conical hat, he looked like a reject from a Renaissance Fair. The others didn’t look much more presentable.

Without warning, they were attached by something resembling a giant squid with bad breath. Amid screams, the children drew forth magical weapons provided by their mentor and began to valiantly try to fight back. Presto did his share by pulling of the Hat of Conjuring, though he knew it didn’t usually work right.

“Abracadabra, Alaczoo; Get rid of this monster and take the stink away, too.” He never really came up with good rhymes, but for some reason it made him feel better to be saying something, rather than merely waving his hand over the hat and hoping for the best.

A shower of white and light pink flower petals burst forth in a cyclone of sweet-smelling snow. The swamp odor was fading under the perfume and there was no sign of their attacker. Triumph rushed through the near-fifteen-year-old. He’d done something right for a change! Then, before he could get too proud and happy, the monster was behind him and he was running and screaming.

Suddenly, like a glow from deep inside, a female voice broke through the fear and directed him towards sturdy ground and a copse of trees. He followed her instructions and soon came to a clearing. Inside, he saw a teenaged girl about his own age lying on the ground. She wore a nightgown and had bare feet. Something about her called to Presto’s very soul.

Quickly, thankfully, he stepped forward to take her outstretched hand. A shower of stars, like magic or heart-fire, flowed from where they touched. He could feel her, hear her, even smell her… but there was something a bit frightening about that light display, something otherworldly.

Presto yelped and jumped backwards, eyes widening. “Are… are you a ghost?” He sure hoped not. Just his luck to find a pretty stranger and have it turn out to be some undead life-sucker.

“No.” Her voice was soft and her eyes pleading.

The cinnamon-haired teen stepped forward once more and touched her hand, this time ignoring the tingling star shower. He barely heard what she said, but his heart seemed to understand anyway. This girl drew him in, her cascading red hair, her pleading blue eyes… everything about her screamed at his innermost being. Then she was disappearing with the words “I need you.”

“Don’t go, I need you too!” Presto slapped both hands over his mouth in horror. “What made me say that?”

The soothing voice of DM interrupted his self-searching. “Your heart.”

It was only a few minutes later that Presto was once more alone and trying to find the others, pondering privately just what DM had meant by his cryptic words this time: something about growing power. Presto figured he’d understand with a little thought, but he hoped it’d be soon… he wanted to see that girl again.

That desire was pushed back with the attack by a man called Jarroth, and the subsequent rescue by his misplaced friends, had Presto’s head swimming. This was quickly topped by a dinner of swamp lizard stew in Jarroth’s house as he mourned his daughter’s disappearance, his wife tried to soothe things, and Sheila tried to shut Presto up every time he went to mention the girl in the swamp.

Finally, things seemed to be sorting out. Presto told the grieving parents that a girl had saved his life in the swamp. He was going to go on to tell them what Dungeon Master had said when a terrible pain wracked his entire body and a primal scream came from deep inside. The pain was gone within a second, but weakness replaced it just as quickly. The sounds of high wind and explosions finished interrupting their meal.

Everyone ran outside to find fire and lightning everywhere.

When the group of children tried to help save the village, the villagers grew paranoid. They screamed that Presto was a wizard and evil; that he must be locked up. Lorinda came to the boy’s defense, but to no avail. Presto was in terrible danger.

Deciding to show his goodness, rather than use words, Presto pulled off his hat and produced, thankfully, a stream of water to quench the fire. Pain wracked him again, as did that need to scream. As the horrible sound escaped his lips, his water turned to fire, his help to an attack, and their proof of purity to surety of their evil, destructive intentions. The six children, and their unicorn companion, were accused anew.

A noble countenanced warrior on a glittering white steed arrived and supported the villagers’ fears. He accused the children anew of evil plots. This stranger claimed their Weapons of Power and instructed the townspeople to lock up the newly made prisoners. They would be put to death at dawn. Everything was happening too fast!

Despondency overcame the young Wizard. He lay with eyes closed, head on Sheila’s lap as she bathed his face with a cold rag. How could he have done this to everyone? Sure, he’d been unwanted and persecuted his entire life, but now he’d dragged his friends in on it. And rather than just being shipped off to yet another indifferent household, their very lives were on the line. On top of everything else, no one believed that he’d really met up with Varla in the swamp. Presto was so depressed he even turned down Eric’s efforts at coming up with an escape plan.

Warmth invaded every pore of the near-fifteen-year-old. His golden eyes opened, wonder starting to blossom. He knew that feeling. Before he could even glance around for her, Varla’s voice called out softly, “Over here.”

“Varla.”

Presto turned over and moved towards her, ignoring the shocked stares of his friends. He only had eyes for this beautiful girl. Kneeling down, again ignoring… no cherishing… the tingling star shower when he touched her cheek, Presto listened attentively to the soft words of his heart’s mate. Her skin was soft and warm, though she was just an illusion… Presto was clever enough to have figure that much out. This young woman had a truly remarkable gift.

As the boy listened and stroked the soft cheek under his fingers, a brief commotion happened behind him. Presto’s mind was more on the problem of Varla’s illusion. It was fainter than before; she was weaker. Venger, her captor, had been using her and causing her the pain he kept feeling. It had to be her pain that made his body burn so horribly.

Suddenly, Jarroth and Lorinda rushed forward. The man tried to take his daughter’s illusion in his arms, but she faded away to cries of Venger’s newest attack on her. The grieving father whirled around and gripped Presto’s shoulders shaking him a bit. But he wasn’t angry! Instead, he was thanking Presto for Varla’s being alive.

The Wizard knew he had nothing to do with her survival so far, but he wanted to make sure he did in the future.

The next hour was pretty much a blur. All he could remember later was the worry of not reaching Varla in time. When they finally reached the girl, she was so weak she couldn’t even stand. Then there was the brief battle with Venger to try to get back their weapons and save Varla. But something had gone terribly wrong, and Varla had used the last of her strength to create an illusion of Tiamat. It had worked; Venger was gone… but at what cost?

At what cost?

Presto followed the others down the long winding road towards the destroyed village below. He couldn’t forgive himself. Not ever. He should have found a way to stop her from sacrificing herself. He was a Wizard after all! He should have been able to save her.

When Jarroth ran up and asked after his missing daughter, the Wizard could only bite his lip and shake his head, tears streaming down his face. The father’s wails matched the pain in Presto’s heart. In a single moment he had found his soul’s desire… and in another, lost her again. How could he live without her?

But hope springs eternal, and the versatility of youth is ever constant. Within a very short time the boy realized that Varla couldn’t possibly be gone. The burnt out village was still there. She had created illusions of a destroyed town; nothing she had done had truly damaged the place of her birth. If she was still maintaining the illusion of mass destruction… she was still alive.

Presto ran back up the road, his eyes and heart desperately searching for Varla. Was that a flicker? Was that a glimpse of red and white? Yes! The boy sped up, the figure of Varla coming clearer and clearer as he neared the bend in the road.

Suddenly, her smile filled his heart with a warmth he thought he’d never feel again. He ran up, stopping in enough time to catch her as her weakened legs collapsed beneath her. Swinging her into his arms, the normally weak boy smiled with love at the girl of his heart. He had found her again… nothing would ever take her away.

1986:

Fate could be cruel.

Once more Presto had been forced to leave the people he loved and move on to strange new sights and faces. Sure, he still had his five friends… six if you included the unicorn… but it wasn’t the same. He’d only had a few hours with Varla before DM had given them a new assignment, required the group to move on to continue saving a world they’d never asked to be a part of and had struggled to leave time and again.

It was over a year since leaving his heart’s mate, but Presto still hadn’t forgotten her. He’d had to bury his grief, his misery, only pulling it out in the darkest watches of night. Someday, he’d get back to her; he just knew it. But the surety didn’t make the waiting any easier. Over a year of silent, private grief blended with trying to survive in a heartless world… it was a wonder any hope *could* be claimed.

And finally, the time had come to go home… a home further away from Varla then ever any place in the Realm could possibly be. He hung back as the others stared in wonder at the portal. They were excited, he could feel it. After all, they’d been working for this reward over three years. But somehow, to Presto, it didn’t feel like a reward so much as a prison sentence.

He listened to their excited chatter, their plans and hopes, their dreams. They were waiting for the magical entrance to complete coalescing so they might cross the threshold into their own world. All he could think about, though, was that he was leaving again… going back to a mother who didn’t want him, like he’d done when he was eleven. His heart screamed in protest at the cruel twist of fate. To have found true happiness a world away and then to be sent back to bitter loneliness.

Straightening his shoulders, the sixteen-year-old felt a strengthening resolve deep inside welling up. He wouldn’t go. They’d been given a choice, right? So why couldn’t he stay in the Realm? He wasn’t needed back on Earth.

“I’m staying.”

The others turned in horror, especially when Dungeon Master smiled and softly assured them that the portal would take them where they wished to go, it was a multi-phase door, whatever that meant. Presto nodded, his heart starting to lift for the first time in over a year. He looked at his friends and held out one hand towards them. “Please understand? I… I have to stay…

“Oh, but Presto, don’t you want to go home?”

The redhead smiled softly, a look of pure joy crossing his pale features. “Oh, but I am Sheila… Hank…” He turned pleading golden eyes on his friend and former brother, praying he’d understand.

And by some miracle, just as he’d always done, Hank *did* understand. He stepped forward to clasp arms with Presto, a huge smile on his tired face. “I know you are, Buddy. I know you are.”

Then Presto was being pulled into the portal, lights and sensations swirling all around him. He didn’t fear it; he embraced it. For this transition was taking him back to his heart’s mate… back to Varla.