An old man and a young one stand side by side, stances wary, but somehow relaxed. The being below them, were he still in his original form, would have been a man whose age fell somewhere in between. Instead, in his quest to become more than a man, he somehow managed to become less.

They stand in a frozen moment, lines of tension almost visible between them. Their positions are almost symbolic, like a classic mural or a piece of abstract statuary. Two figures stand tall together, made strong by the support of each other and the many others somewhere behind them. A third is cornered on the ground before them, his followers dead, dying or scattered to the winds. Yet not all is as if lifted from a tapestry. Their adversary may be down, but his hand still gropes for the wand lying inches out of his reach. Though it now has a crook in one end and the tip is smoking faintly, it may indeed still be usable. Yes, the adversary’s eyes blaze with hatred, and the young man’s with determination, but the gaze of the old man is filled with pity.

~*~

Oh, Tom.

~*~

The moment is broken. Old man and young exchange a look and a nod, and his eyes too fill with resolve. The downed figure’s grasping hand comes in contact with and snatches up his damaged wand. Almost as though choreographed, three wands come up.

Fin.