Wergild
To borrow a line, the thing was done with extraordinarily little inconvenience to herself.
Having asked for Samus to help proved fortuitous, for as the time came to write herself out of her own family history, Ali found herself less than capable. The simple truth of the matter being that she had no desire to make herself untethered from history, to make herself paradox. But she found herself without options. She had given her word.
A great deal of the evening was only a blur in her memory. She knew she'd sent Ian home so he could have the family he'd always wanted. She'd made some excuses to the children for why she wouldn't be home that night. She'd sat at the dinner table and pretended everything was okay.
She could make certain conclusions about the rest: they had programmed three tiny PINpoints, they had gone to the diner where her parents had what should be their last meal, they had slipped the PINpoints into pockets and blankets, they had gone to wait. She assumed that Samus had been in charge of the timing, because what came next remained too difficult for her to watch; all she knew for certain was that this time everyone survived. In some world's past, a burning husk of car blocking traffic would be found to have no passengers.
And then there were questions. Her parents wanted to know who they were; wanted to know how they knew what would happen; how they managed the saving and why they had waited. Why they could never go back, why people in America had to believe they were dead. And why, when they had their wits about them a little more, they were back home in Ireland.
They were a beautiful family, doting parents deeply in love with each other and their children. Her father looked like a younger version of Gram, and had the same bearing and commanding voice. Her mother, Ali was surprised to learn, had a French accent and the most beautiful eyes she'd ever seen. She had never been close enough to them before to notice these things.
There was so much she wanted to ask them, so much she wanted to say. And that, perhaps, was the worst of it: she didn't dare. It would only hurt them to know who she was and what she had to do--and wouldn't that defeat the purpose? So she stayed quiet, answering only when necessary, and only briefly before reminding them they had a son who would like to see them.
After her parents turned away from their strange saviors, Ali let Samus take her home again, where all she had now were memories of lives she could never touch again.
Having asked for Samus to help proved fortuitous, for as the time came to write herself out of her own family history, Ali found herself less than capable. The simple truth of the matter being that she had no desire to make herself untethered from history, to make herself paradox. But she found herself without options. She had given her word.
A great deal of the evening was only a blur in her memory. She knew she'd sent Ian home so he could have the family he'd always wanted. She'd made some excuses to the children for why she wouldn't be home that night. She'd sat at the dinner table and pretended everything was okay.
She could make certain conclusions about the rest: they had programmed three tiny PINpoints, they had gone to the diner where her parents had what should be their last meal, they had slipped the PINpoints into pockets and blankets, they had gone to wait. She assumed that Samus had been in charge of the timing, because what came next remained too difficult for her to watch; all she knew for certain was that this time everyone survived. In some world's past, a burning husk of car blocking traffic would be found to have no passengers.
And then there were questions. Her parents wanted to know who they were; wanted to know how they knew what would happen; how they managed the saving and why they had waited. Why they could never go back, why people in America had to believe they were dead. And why, when they had their wits about them a little more, they were back home in Ireland.
They were a beautiful family, doting parents deeply in love with each other and their children. Her father looked like a younger version of Gram, and had the same bearing and commanding voice. Her mother, Ali was surprised to learn, had a French accent and the most beautiful eyes she'd ever seen. She had never been close enough to them before to notice these things.
There was so much she wanted to ask them, so much she wanted to say. And that, perhaps, was the worst of it: she didn't dare. It would only hurt them to know who she was and what she had to do--and wouldn't that defeat the purpose? So she stayed quiet, answering only when necessary, and only briefly before reminding them they had a son who would like to see them.
After her parents turned away from their strange saviors, Ali let Samus take her home again, where all she had now were memories of lives she could never touch again.