It was the height of summer and the English weather had forsaken grey skies and rainy days for endless, oppressive sunshine. There had been quite a few summers like this in the past few years; maybe it was global warming. Or maybe just chance.

The hot air was filled with flies and traffic noises from the open window. These were the days when milk turned sour on doorsteps, when overheated shoppers took refuge in Iceland stores, when dirty run-down ice cream vans made their yearly fortune. The days when Jeannie's clothing became light and skimpy. Marty remembered sharing days like these with her in the past, when they spent their spare time lying naked on the bed, laughing and talking about nothing.

But now it was Jeff's bed she was lying on. Jeff she was laughing with, whose lopsided grin she kissed, whose hairy chest she stroked. Jeff who made her moan and claw at the sheets.

And Marty, invisible to all but the flies that circled him, could only sit at the foot of the bed and watch.

Maybe this was how one became a 'gibbering ghost'. When Marty had erased Jeff and Jeannie's memories of Hadell-Wroxted, he had half expected to be instantly transformed into the kind of lost soul Wyvern had once described. Or he thought he might end up in cold storage, as Sydney Crabbe had when his brother Maurice refused to communicate with him. He had expected to incur some kind of punishment for very nearly handing over the world of the living to the dominion of the damned.

But nothing had happened. Marty still had all his faculties and the run of Limbo. Wyvern didn't mention the incident beyond some vague remarks about guilt. Marty was certainly experiencing plenty of remorse, and maybe the Higher Powers, whatever they were, had taken into account his sincere repentance and let him off lightly. If that was the case, then Marty would have preferred them to punish him. The guilt was gnawing at him like a cancer.

"Actually, I think one pint would do," Jeannie was saying. "We only need it for tea."

"Yeah, but maybe I should get two, just in case." Jeff was sitting on the edge of the bed, pulling on his underwear.

"Why don't you wait until tomorrow anyway?" She tossed a wad of Kleenex into the wastepaper basket. "We can go and get some milk at lunchtime."

"Yes, but in this heat, it might go off. Besides, we're out of milk now, and I'm not like you, I can't drink my tea with lemon, French-style."

Jeannie laughed indulgently and wrapped her arms around him. "Oh Jeff, you silly, old-fashioned man."

God, this was so boring! And more than a little disturbing. Marty's eyes seemed to focus of their own accord on one of Jeannie's nipples as it brushed against Jeff's hairy back. The ghost turned away and went to look out of the window. The flies followed him.

He wasn't even supposed to be here, but at least knowing that his friends were happy offered him some relief. Not that watching his best friend jumping his fiancée was a particularly pleasurable experience. Jeff was so damn attentive and sensitive and all those things women's magazines raved on about. And whoever said size didn't matter was a lying bastard. Jeannie never mentioned her life with Marty when she was with Jeff, but he was certain she was finding his partner a better deal than he had ever been.

His father was right; Marty had never amounted to much after all.

He had failed to live up to his childhood ambition, becoming a detective instead of following in his father's footsteps. He had died a completely needless death and then tried to hand over the world to the forces of darkness. And now he was Marty Hopkirk, voyeur extraordinaire.

"Marty."

The voice surprised him and Marty tore his gaze off the window to look for its source. He swallowed hard and lowered his eyes like a guilty child when he saw the stern figure of his mentor before him. Obeying only his leftover instincts, Marty shook himself out of the material world and took vain refuge in Limbo. It didn't take Wyvern long to find him cowering in the cold darkness.

"Oh, Marty," said Wyvern, shaking his head sadly. "Did I not tell you to avoid your Chosen One now he has forgotten you? What do you hope to achieve by wallowing in the remnants of your past life?"

Marty pouted ruefully. "You're the one who told me I had to hold on to Jeff..."

"That was only when he remembered you, Marty. It was important to keep the connection alive back then. There is nothing you can do down there now."

"Well... I just like to check up on them occasionally."

"Is every day really 'occasionally'?"

"Oh, so you've been spying on me, have you?" said Marty angrily. "And anyway, why can't I visit Jeff and Jeannie, eh? They don't know I'm there, so what harm can it possibly do?"

Wyvern observed him calmly. "It isn't them I'm worried about. It's you."

"Me?"

"You, Marty. Or more precisely your sanity."

"My what?" spluttered Marty. "I'm not a gibbering ghost yet, you know."

"These things always take time."

Marty's anger wavered and then fizzled out. "What do you mean?"

"You have good cause to be alarmed, Marty. You committed a very grave error, and you must be punished for it. I pleaded for leniency, but..."

Marty swallowed hard. "But... I'm still going to be punished?"

"This is your punishment. Separation from one's Chosen One is the worst thing that can happen to a ghost in your position. He is your tether to the material world your mind is still preoccupied with. As you have not yet fully entered the after-world, you are condemned to remain in Limbo indefinitely. That is your punishment, Marty."

"So you mean... I won't speak to Jeff again? That's my punishment, is it?" Marty smiled with new-found confidence. "I can live without Jeff."

"You're not listening to me, Marty," said Wyvern ominously. "I said your punishment is to remain in Limbo forever. The natural course for a ghost in your position is to grow away from your Chosen One, so that once they die, you are ready to enter the realm of the Dreaming Dead. But a ghost who is forgotten or ignored by his Chosen One will either succumb to madness or become entirely inactive. No spirit can live in Limbo indefinitely without the comfort of a living voice to talk to."

"Oh."

Marty tried to think of something flippant to say, but that single sound was all that came out. He couldn't believe this was happening to him. He had always been very lucky; even his death had turned out better than he could ever have imagined possible -- until Hadell-Wroxted, of course.

"But I didn't do anything," he blurted out finally. "Nothing really happened. Hadell-Wroxted was destroyed, and Jeff and Jeannie don't even remember what happened."

Wyvern sighed and shook his snow-white head. "Marty, do you honestly believe that you did nothing to merit this punishment? You tried to murder your Chosen One and came close to allowing evil to rule the world. There are few crimes more worthy of punishment."

"Yeah, and I suppose those would include succeeding in getting evil to rule the world," said Marty with a wan smile. "But the point is that I had a change of heart, right? I came to my senses once Jeannie turned up..."

"Once I sent her to you..."

"You what?"

Wyvern leaned close to him. If they had been alive, Marty would have felt his breath on his cheek.

"I asked her to go to Hadell-Wroxted, Marty. I hoped she would make you see reason since you wouldn't listen to Mister Randall."

"I was probably too busy trying to eat him." In spite of himself, Marty smiled. "He said I'd be the last person he'd pick to rule the world. After Daffy Duck. What a put-down, eh?"

In spite of his flippancy, Marty's confidence was fading. His earlier depressing thoughts returned with a vengeance, telling him something he had always feared might be true. He was a failure. It turned out that even the one thing he did right -- the destruction of Hadell-Wroxted -- was only brought about by his mentor's intervention.

Wyvern's expression was grim and unamused. "You should take this seriously, Marty. I didn't seek you out against orders just to listen to your frivolities. Concentrate, Marty. You are capable of better than this."

"How can you tell?"

His ego now completely deflated, Marty sank despondently into a sitting position. There was no floor in the nothingness around him, but his ectoplasmic form was held up by some unseen force. His imagination, no doubt. He could have asked Wyvern, but it didn't seem like the right time.

"What am I going to do?" he muttered, still unwilling to give in to despair. He looked up at Wyvern. "There must be something I can do... isn't there?"

Wyvern's stern expression softened slightly. He seemed to hesitate and then said, "There are some things which might make your life in Limbo easier..."

"Don't tell me -- I could throw myself into the Pit of Oblivion," grumbled Marty.

Wyvern sat down beside him, his white robes spreading out around him in the darkness. "You are already feeling the strain of the separation from your Chosen One."

"Chosen One. You make Jeff sound a lot grander than he really is." Marty shook his head. "But yes, I miss him. I never thought I would, but I do miss the little twerp. I was just so used to talking to him... and I suppose all your stuff about tethers and all that applies as well. When I was with Jeff, I didn't feel as... dead."

"I had a Chosen One as well," said Wyvern nostalgically, staring into the darkness. "I remember how alive I felt when I visited him."

"M-yes..." Marty was vaguely curious, but not really interested in Wyvern's past. Especially if it meant that his mentor was going to reminisce instead of helping him.

"Even without touching and smelling, the sights and sounds of the living world were enough to make me overcome the hardships of my own death," continued Wyvern. "I died a violent death too, Marty; those are always the hardest to recover from. And I know exactly how you must feel, losing contact with Mister Randall so suddenly, without preparation.

"Society, friendship, and love,
Divinely bestowed upon man,
Oh, had I the wings of a dove,
How soon would I taste you agan"

"Agan?" repeated Marty, unable to repress a smile. "Another rhyme that doesn't rhyme."

There was a twinkle in his mentor's eyes. "Actually, that one was by William Cowper. Not the greatest poet that ever lived, but at least I could sympathise with the sentiment."

"Oh right," said Marty vaguely. He hadn't been listening to the actual verse, just waiting to see if the last word would rhyme.

The old spirit's reminiscences had piqued his curiosity after all. "What happened to you anyway?" he asked. "You said you knew something about losing a Chosen One..."

"I did lose him," said Wyvern slowly. "He chose to ignore me after he married, and it broke my heart. But I think he probably meant more to me than Mister Randall does to you. Things were... different between us."

"In other words, he was your boyfriend." Marty discreetly shuffled away from his mentor.

Wyvern observed him with obvious amusement. "Does that shock you, Mister Hopkirk?"

"Um, no. I'm a man of the world," said Marty with a grandiose gesture. "And to be honest, I always thought you were a bit of an old fruit."

"Well, I'm glad there was no need to spell things out to you." Wyvern shook his head. "He was also my secretary, a man in whom I had absolute confidence. But I shouldn't have told you; this is more than you need to know about my past. It was all so long ago."

Marty smiled uncertainly. "Well, it's always nice to know I'm not the first ghost to lose contact with the bloke I'm tethered to. But what happened next? I mean, if the aim is the realm of the Dreaming Dead and all that, what are you still doing here?"

"I'm helping you, Marty, as I have helped others before. I rest in the oblivion of dreams when I'm not needed, but as soon as a lost soul appears who needs my help, I am there to guide them. I remember what it was like, you see. I too was unable to give up my consciousness when I died and my last night on earth came to an end. I was not a young man when I died, but I had so much to do, so many things left unfinished. I haunted my secretary just as you haunted Mister Randall, and watched him earn fame and fortune through the knowledge I whispered to him. And watched him marry and abandon me. So you see, we are alike you and I." He gazed into the darkness and sighed. "The only difference being that Lauren's wiles never worked on me."

Marty stared at him. "Lauren? You knew her?"

"You weren't the first ghost the inhabitants of Hadell-Wroxted approached," explained Wyvern with a chuckle. "I would not have been so hasty in sending Miss Hurst to you if I hadn't been already aware of the grave danger they represented. Your 'Lauren' called herself Pamela in those days, no doubt thinking that a character from a novel would appeal to a writer like myself."

He must have noticed Marty's blank stare, because he added, "Pamela is a novel by Samuel Richardson. One of the first in the English language, and a remarkably atrocious one, I might add. Henry Fielding and I exchanged quite a witty correspondence on the subject..." His voice trailed off as he again caught Marty's eye. "Well, suffice it to say that she tried to employ the same methods with me that she applied to you. I was at first as oblivious to her plans as I was to her charms, and when she realised her mistake she reappeared as a young man." He smiled. "I will admit that, that time, I was as easily seduced as you were."

"Good-looking bloke, eh?" said Marty, returning his mentor's warm expression.

"Ganymede to my withered old Zeus," said Wyvern. "But I soon felt that something was wrong. It was too easy, and in those days, nothing was easy for a man like me. Fortunately, my Chosen One and I were never lured to Hadell-Wroxted. It just so happened that my secretary and his wife lost a child at that time. Of the twelve they had, only five survived infancy; Limbo was a world of children in those days. In any case, I was no longer close enough to my Chosen One to convince him to accompany me to the village. I believe Bechard and his villagers made some other attempts to put their plan into action. But it had never come so close to succeeding until now."

"In other words, I'm the only mug who didn't see them coming," said Marty glumly.

Wyvern nodded. "You were the only one they found who was both suitable for their purposes and susceptible to the bribe they offered. Still a young man when you died, ill-adjusted to your new status, and with a devoted and loyal Chosen One. You were dazzled by the lure of what you had lost. Right and wrong, your closest friend, even the woman you love were eclipsed by the bait they tendered you. The other ghosts they approached were too pure or too old." Wyvern spread his hands and lowered his eyes self-deprecatingly to include himself in the last category.

Marty shook his head. "Great. So it took them six centuries to find someone with my particular brand of stupidity."

To his surprise, Wyvern was smiling when Marty looked at him again. "That's self-pity talking, Marty." His blue eyes were sparkling with amusement. "But you could certainly do with a little humility."

Marty shrugged, annoyed that Wyvern didn't think he was sincere. "OK, so you're right. I deserve it. But isn't there anything I can do to make things right?"

"Things are already ‘right', Marty. Hadell-Wroxted and its inhabitants were destroyed and the world has continued on without them. Just as Miss Hurst and Mister Randall are continuing on without you. There is nothing more you can do."

"So I'm condemned and that's it? No parole, no pardon, no hope at all?"

"There is always hope, Marty. Acceptance of your fate is the best course for now." Wyvern looked around and lowered his voice. "I cannot tell you what you need to do to obtain a reprieve. But I can tell you that there are things you should not do." His eyes widened significantly.

Marty frowned and then nodded gravely. "Well, yes, I suppose watching Jeff and Jeannie isn't... very good, is it?"

Wyvern lifted his head and looked down at Marty superciliously. "No, to say the least. There is no single action you can perform to make your situation better, but you can certainly make it worse."

"I wish I had known about this before," said Marty with a sigh.

"What would you have done? Did you really think of the consequences when you followed the people of Hadell-Wroxted?"

"No." Marty buried his face in his hands. "No, of course I didn't. You're right; it wouldn't have made any difference. I knew it was wrong to kill Jeff but I... God, I nearly killed Jeff!"

It was as if the thought had never occurred to him before. He had known of course that this was what the inhabitants of Hadell-Wroxted had planned. But it hadn't really sunk in that, for a couple of hours at least, Marty had been perfectly willing to let Jeff be murdered and eaten.

"How could I let that happen?" he murmured, his voice still muffled by his hands. "God, what a bastard I've been. I always thought... I don't know. Maybe I thought I was a decent bloke, you know. One of the lads, someone women fancied and men liked. But when I think about it, it was just Jeff and Jeannie. Jeff's a saint; he likes everyone, and he was always so good to me. You're right about the loyal and devoted stuff. I mean, I was a pest as a ghost, but I was sort of taking it out on him, because I was so fed up with being dead. But when I think about it, I was never very nice to him. As to Jeannie... I don't know what she ever saw in me. I'm no looker, I'm not very bright, and I'm not even a nice person. No wonder they're both happier without me."

"You're right," said Wyvern, his booming voice seeming to echo in the emptiness. "You're not a nice person, Marty. You're selfish, vainglorious and feckless. You took advantage of Mister Randall's good nature and Miss Hurst's youth and innocence. But I know your life, Marty. I chose to be your mentor because I sense your fear and loneliness."

Marty immediately lifted his head. "What fear and loneliness?"

"I know your past, how each thread of nature and nurture led to the person you were when you died," said Wyvern mysteriously. "And what I learned made me volunteer to be your guide when the grave rejected you."

Marty listened with interest, expecting the old ghost to tell him something new about himself. Hopefully, that he wasn't such a bad person at heart.

"There is more to you than your self-centred life would suggest," said Wyvern. "There are reasons for that which are not in your nature. You would have been a very different person if your father hadn't died."

"Oh, that old chestnut." Marty was disappointed. "I saw plenty of psychologists at the time, you know. Well, one, and he said I was fine. Let me guess, you're going to say I'm selfish and 'feckless' just because of that? Oh, well, I suppose a death in the family is as good an excuse as any."

"I was thinking more of your mother's reaction."

"What about Mum's reaction?" said Marty aggressively. "If you're going to say I was spoiled, then I'm aware of that too. Plenty of people have told me I was a spoiled brat. I was an only child and my father died; of course my mother gave me everything."

"Everything?"

"Yeah," he said, though he lowered his eyes again. He picked at his white shoelaces.

Wyvern didn't press the point. Marty thought about his childhood; the hushed house, the black-ribboned picture of his father on the mantelpiece, his mother not yet thirty-five but already one foot in the grave. She had ceased to exist the day Harry Wallace had appeared on the doorstep. "I'm sorry, Lucy... I'm so sorry."

Marty had been fed and clothed, his homework supervised and everything he wanted paid for. But it was as if he spent those ten years with the ghost of the woman his mother had been. She had faded away while he was at college -- cancer, they said. He couldn't even remember if he went to her funeral.

"So I had a few problems with my Mum." Marty stood up and paced angrily. "Great. Thanks for clearing that up. I'm sure I can track down Sigmund Freud somewhere here and tell him all about my mother sometime, right? I mean, are you seriously telling me you decided to become my mentor just because of that? Did you think problems with my Mum would make me --" He decided not to finish that sentence and hoped the old spirit wouldn't guess what he had been about to say.

Wyvern looked up at him, his expression neutral. "No, Marty. I would know if you were --. I chose to become your mentor because you reminded me of someone."

"Who?"

"Perhaps you can guess," said Wyvern dryly.

"Your secretary-bloke?" hazarded Marty. Wyvern did have a habit of standing very close to him when they were talking; so maybe Marty reminded him of his lover. Even if he knew he wasn't gay.

The old ghost shook his head. "You really aren't very bright, are you? Never mind, Marty. I must leave you now, as I have already talked to you long enough. I have other duties to attend to."

"Oh, you mean I remind you of yourself. Right. That's good."

Wyvern stood up and Marty was seized with sudden panic. He could deal with the guilt while he was talking to someone, but he was afraid it would consume him as soon as his mentor was gone. He put his hand on Wyvern's arm.

"Wyvern..." he tried to think of something to say to keep his mentor there. "Thank you."

Then because he didn't know what else to do and he thought Wyvern might appreciate the gesture, he leaned over and kissed his mentor's cheek.

Wyvern's expression was one of alarm, and he raised his hand to his cheek, as if the kiss were burning his ectoplasm. "Marty," he murmured, his voice barely above a whisper.

"I'm sorry, I --" started Marty, but he was interrupted as Wyvern slipped one hand onto the nape of his neck and drew him close for another kiss. A proper one this time, the kind that made Marty dizzy and disoriented. He returned it, with the mental justification that Wyvern deserved something in exchange for all his help.

As he broke the kiss, Wyvern held Marty's face cupped in his hands. "Do you have any idea what you're doing, Marty?"

"Well, I... no." Marty smirked uncertainly. "Like you said, I'm not very bright."

Apparently relieved, Wyvern let go of his face and took his hands instead, pressing the fingers to his lips. "What a foolish old spirit I have become."

"I don't know. I'm rather flattered," said Marty more confidently. Whatever else it might be doing to him, this unexpected turn of events was doing wonders for his deflated ego. His hands were still held close to Wyvern's face, so he freed one and hesitantly stroked his cheek.

This was evidently all the encouragement Wyvern needed. Marty was suddenly caught in a strong embrace, his mouth and face smothered in kisses. Whatever the old man's feelings for him, they included a very healthy dose of lust. The last time Marty had been treated like this was in Lauren's arms, and although the memory gave him cold shivers, he found that it made Wyvern's advances that much more intriguing. This had the taste of a forbidden fruit.

Wyvern pushed him back onto something soft and springy. Looking around, Marty realised that they were now in a grandiose old bedroom, though the walls were fragmented and mobile like those in Wyvern's study. Marty was currently sitting on the bed. At least the old man had the good taste to transport them to a more appropriate location.

He sat down beside Marty on the bed, observing him with a worried expression, as if still afraid that his seduction might fail. Marty smiled encouragingly, though he had no idea what to do.

"Should I... undress?" he asked.

"All in good time," said Wyvern with a smile.

He hesitated, and then leaned over to place his hand on Marty's thigh. He stroked the white material of the trousers until his hand reached the flies and changed to groping rather than caressing. It wasn't too unpleasant. So far so good; no revulsion, no sudden disgust at what was happening. The touch was familiar and arousing, even once the white material was drawn aside to expose the semblance of flesh underneath. The body Wyvern was touching was not real, merely a construct of ectoplasm, but Marty's mind had created it in the image of his old body which lay crushed and rotting in a graveyard. It had the same sensations, reacted to the same stimuli, gave him the same feelings when it was touched by similar ectoplasm.

Marty stared unseeingly at the shifting decor for a long while and then closed his eyes. He lay back on the bed, sinking into the depths of the thick eiderdown. Cocooned in the duvet, Marty let his mind wander. If he was good, he would perhaps be allowed to talk to Jeff again, to go back to a semblance of the life he had known on earth. And then some day, when Jeff came to join him in Limbo, they would both move on to the realm of the Dreaming Dead, and none of this would matter. Then some day, Jeannie would follow and there would be nothing more to worry about. Jeannie with her lovely blonde hair and her large, expressive eyes, her pretty face that could communicate a thousand emotions in one glance, her long white legs and small, round breasts...

His mind returned to reality as he gripped the sheet under his hands and felt his body jack-knife automatically. He experienced that one moment of heaven before crashing back into the reality of his existence. He was dead, lying on an imaginary bed while his non-existent body was coaxed into ecstasy by his white-haired old mentor. Just when he thought he could sink no lower...

"Are you still in there?"

Wyvern's cheerful tone was in stark contrast to Marty's depressed state of mind, but he managed a smile. The old ghost pushed the billowing eiderdown out of the way and kissed him.

"I should have imagined a more practical location," he said, flattening the duvet further. "But I was afraid you might find a field a little uncomfortable."

This made Marty chuckle. Once he was satisfied that the bedding wouldn't interfere with them anymore, Wyvern lay beside him.

"It's been so long," he said softly, stroking Marty's hairless chest under his unbuttoned shirt. "You have no idea how much this means."

"You're welcome," said Marty, though he didn't feel he had done much to deserve thanks. He had simply lain there and waited for things to happen. He wondered if he should offer to do something for Wyvern, but then thought of a couple of things he really didn't want to do. It was probably safer not to volunteer.

Unfortunately, his mentor had probably come to the same conclusion concerning Marty's lack of participation. His hand still buried under the white shirt, Wyvern observed Marty's face intently before speaking again.

"Could you do something for me, Marty?"

Marty swallowed and then nodded. He decided Wyvern deserved to get whatever he asked for, even if it was one of the things he wanted to avoid.

"Make love to me," said Wyvern in a barely audible voice.

That was definitely one of the things he had wanted to avoid. Wyvern was a remarkable man whose eccentricity intrigued Marty and whose knowledge filled him with respect. Even if Marty had been inclined to fancy men, the wise old man with the manic smile would not be his first choice of lover. He'd be more likely to fancy Jeff... and that was not a pleasant thought either.

Still, he rolled onto his side and leaned over Wyvern, who was now on his back. Marty wondered how the hell he had got himself into this embarrassing position; what had possessed him to kiss the old man in the first place? He kissed Wyvern's cheek tentatively and lifted a hand onto his chest to start undoing the buttons on the tunic.

Then he moved back and frowned, trying to think of some way to express what he felt. "Wyvern..."

Although he didn't speak, the old man's expectant gaze relaxed into a jaded expression of resignation.

"I'm sorry," said Marty, shaking his head. "I'm... I... I'm really sorry."

He turned away and sat up, his back to Wyvern.

"Oh, that's all right," said the spirit, his voice avuncular but forced. Marty felt the bed shift as Wyvern sat up beside him. "This isn't my real form, you know. I can be anything you like."

Marty smiled reluctantly. "Now that would really confuse me!"

There was a long silence, and then Wyvern suddenly embraced him, leaning his head on the nape of Marty's neck. The gesture made the ghost feel even more dejected. He felt sorry for Wyvern's unrequited affection, and his own miserable condition, severed from Jeff and the real world, and for all the miserable ghosts who found nothing but trouble in the afterlife.

After a while, Wyvern let go of him and reappeared standing on the floor in front of him. His eyes were sad and he looked years older. The decor faded back to the dark reality of Limbo.

"I really must go now, Marty. I have already spent too much time with you."

"No, please," said Marty automatically. "Don't leave me..."

He didn't finish. Wyvern smiled, his demeanour a pale copy of his usual verve. "Is that why you tried to seduce me -- so that you wouldn't be alone?"

Marty opened his mouth to protest, to deny the accusation. But no sound came out. The time for lying was past. How could he justify what had just happened?

"In that case, you are as much a fool as I," said Wyvern sadly. "We are always alone, Marty. That is the human condition."

"So there really is no hope. Getting back in touch with Jeff won't make things any better for me, will it?"

Wyvern smiled with a tenderness that made Marty lower his eyes. "It will make things less worse. And it is definitely something you should strive for. Existence is meaningless without something to strive for."

"So you'll help me?"

"Only when I can, Marty," said Wyvern, shaking his head. "That is all the comfort I can offer you."

Wyvern's form faded, leaving Marty alone in the cold darkness.