Two Roads Diverged

When Phoebe Halliwell and Cole Turner met, she was the youngest of the Charmed Ones, and he was half-demon, a mercenary murderer assigned the task of killing her and her sisters.

And he meant to…but somewhere along the line, she stopped being his prey and became something more. Somehow—against all odds and all reason—the two would-be enemies became lovers.

They overcame every obstacle facing them (and there were many), but then another rose, more insidious than any before it. She did not realize what the change in him meant until it was nearly too late for them both, and he was powerless to tell her.

And so it went: deception, possession, and then ruin.

His freedom and his death came in the same words.

He returned to her, the soul that had escaped the vanquish gathering enough power to fight its way out of the darkness of the Wasteland, but where there should have been love and joy, he met only rejection and anger.

"I do love you," she finally told him, "and I always will. But it doesn't change anything…it doesn't matter. It's over between us." And with that, she turned him away, leaving him to suffer the slow fire of the Dark magic he'd taken in and the pain of her desertion.

It seemed, for a while, that they must be allowed to continue on the road they had found themselves on, however great the losses would be. But then, as she watched them—a shared glance, the press of unspoken words, an instant's relaxation of barriers.

And what had been a dead end split into a crossroads.

One path led to destruction, but the other…

Light Magic surveyed it, and she smiled on the scene that shimmered in the air before her—a man and a woman, very much in love, and the bright laughter of a child.

"Two roads diverged," she said quietly, turning her attention to the man. His pained, longing look was starkly dissimilar to the contented expression he wore in the image she'd seen; even now, he was preparing to leave what should have been his home. "Given a choice…which will be yours?"

She waited until he faded out, and then she whispered a summons, changing his course and—she hoped—his future.

Cole cast one last longing glance at Phoebe, then backed away from her. He could see in her face that he had lost the small fragment of trust she'd extended the moment his demonic powers had returned. I did it for her, he reminded himself, remembering how she had looked at him—if only for an instant—before Barbas had interrupted. In that moment, there had been no fear, no hatred in her eyes. I did it for her, and that makes it worth it.

But it had been so good to be rid of evil for a while. Why was it that every time he tried to make a complete break with it, some circumstance interfered? First the Hollow, then the Source, and now this?

Comes with the territory, I guess. I was born half-and-half, and I'll probably die that way. He sighed quietly, then turned his back on them and faded out.

Much to his surprise, he did not reappear in his penthouse apartment, as he had intended. Instead, he found himself in an expansive room, divided neatly in half. On the right side, walls, floor and ceiling were of gleaming white marble. On the left side, they were black.

The entire room was bare of furnishings, save for a chessboard standing nearby. The pieces—half clear quartz, half obsidian—had obviously been in play, but there was no sign of either player.

In the magical realm, that meant nothing. Besides, he would not have made a mistake in something so simple as fading—it was too similar to shimmering, which he had mastered well over a century ago. Ergo, something—or someone, perhaps—had interfered and caught him in transit.

"I did," said a female voice, sounding somewhat pleased.

He spun to face a tall, regal-looking woman, solemn-eyed and garbed in white robes. He could see a triquetra hanging on a chain around her neck, and relaxed a little: that was the Charmed Ones' symbol; no demon would dare wear it. "Who are you?" he asked.

"I have many names," she said simply, holding his gaze. "None of them are of particular consequence."

He was curious nonetheless, but decided it would be better to know what he was dealing with before he pried into the affairs of someone potentially dangerous. "Then what are you?"

"I am Light Magic."

He bit out a laugh, but averted his eyes. "So what do you want with me?" he said. "I haven't exactly been the model of goodness lately."

"No," she agreed, her tone entirely nonjudgmental. "You have not."

If she were going to kill him, he thought, she probably would have done it before this. That meant she wanted him for some other purpose. "You still haven't answered me: why am I here?"

She did not answer, but gestured, and the chessboard moved across the room to stand in front of him, a chair materializing behind. "Sit down," she said, conjuring a second chair for herself and sinking into it.

He sat.

"A fascinating game, chess," she said mildly. "It has long been used to play at war."

Either Light Magic's nuts, he thought, or there's something bigger going on here. Glancing down, he scrutinized the pieces on the board.

There were many more of them than there would be in a normal game, and they weren't, he realized in an instant, the usual game pieces. These were small, exquisitely crafted models, some human, some demonic, and more that were neither. The bases of some of them were ringed in silver, others in gold. "So. This is your representation of Light and Dark forces? This board? These pieces?"

"Very good," she said approvingly. "The majority of them belong on one side or the other." She opened her hand, and another figurine appeared in it, which she handed to him. "Then, of course, there is the rare individual that does not."

He traced the contours of the model with a fingertip. It was not wholly quartz, nor obsidian, but both fused seamlessly together. Cut into the obsidian was the image of Belthazor, and into the quartz, his human form and face. He wasn't half-demon anymore, strictly speaking—not since his demonic half had been vanquished months ago—but it was as good a metaphor for his dual nature as any: no power-stripping potion could interfere with genetics.

"Your mother's legacy is strong in you," she said quietly, taking the piece from his hand. She let it go, and it hovered over the center of the board, suspended, rotating in a slow circle. "So, too, is human love. And the two, as they must, are warring.

"You are here," she continued, rising, "because you cannot continue to attempt to straddle both worlds." With another gesture, the chessboard slid back to its original position, the chair vanished even as he stood, and he looked down to find that he had one foot on each side of the room.

It wasn't difficult to grasp what she wanted. "Let me guess," he said with a sardonic smile. "One side or the other?" All things considered, he didn't think he'd been doing so bad a job keeping his demonic tendencies in check. But he was tired of belonging nowhere, and without Phoebe to anchor him firmly to good…

"Precisely," she said, indicating the chessboard. "The time has come for you to choose. You can save one self only by relinquishing the other."

He looked up at her again, allowing himself a measure of guarded hope. "If I choose to be human, will Phoebe…?"

Her expression revealed nothing. "Free will is paramount," she said deliberately, "and the witch's love is hers to give or withhold. I will say that it is not impossible."

Not impossible. A chance, however slim, did exist. Maybe, even now, if he chose good over evil, she would give him another chance. She had forgiven him more often than he probably deserved.

That did not change the fact that Darkness was seductive. A part of him wanted to take a step to the left, wanted to give up the fight and allow his evil side to consume his humanity. The end of conscience would be the end of conflict, the end of pain.

And power would be assured then. Quite aside from his magical capability—which was considerable in itself—there was great and terrible power in knowing what he wanted and having no doubts.

But if he became fully demonic, he knew, he would also lose his soul, his capacity for love. Then there could be no possibility of a future with Phoebe: he would be her enemy, and she and her sisters would vanquish him without a second thought, all their skewed perceptions and wrong conclusions justified.

And after everything he'd gone through in effort after effort to be good, did he really want to invalidate it all now? Could he return to being a mercenary, forever under the command of one superior or another, killing without remorse? Was that what he wanted?

No. Not really. All he wanted was for the pain of eternal division to end.

And Phoebe. Always, always Phoebe.

He'd said it himself, hadn't he? That he couldn't be good and wouldn't be evil? Now he could be good, if he wanted to. For the first time, the choice was truly his—all it would take was a single step. "This is irrevocable, either way?" he asked.

"The choice is yours," she said, her face and tone both very grave. "Once made, it will not be interfered with."

He released a deep, long breath and moved to the right. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the figure representing him change shape and turn entirely clear as it drifted down to join the others. She watched this, then nodded and reached forward to close her hands around his.

For a woman, he thought absently, she's got a strong grip.

"Be now freed of bloodline's ties," she chanted, "so Light may grow where Darkness dies."

She dropped his hands and stepped back, and he gasped as silver fire leapt up in a rush of intense heat, surrounding him; bright tongues of flame licked at his skin and clothes. For a single, wild instant, he wondered if he were being vanquished.

Then he felt slightly ridiculous: he was overheated, but he wasn't being burned to death. For one thing, there would be a hell of a lot of pain involved, and he was not in pain. On the contrary: he felt as though a weight was being lifted from his shoulders as heat and light consumed the traces of Darkness. This was not the brutal tearing that had accompanied Paige's power-stripping potion—or Phoebe's before it, for that matter. This was cleansing. Healing.

Then, all at once, the flames were gone. Experimentally, just to be certain the nightmare was truly over, he swept a hand forward, startled when a starburst of bright blue light flashed briefly in his palm before winking out. "I thought you stripped my powers?"

"Of course," she said, and held up a crystal filled with roiling black smoke, regarding it with some distaste. She snapped her fingers, and it vanished. "They will be properly disposed of."

"Then what was that?"

She raised an eyebrow. "Over a century as one of the Underworld's most prominent demons, and you don't recognize the power of deflection when you see it?"

"Deflection?" he demanded, incredulous. That was not an insignificant power. It could be used passively or actively, and the witches that had it—rare, if he understood correctly—were better armed than most. "Why? After a hundred years as a demon, why make me a witch?"

"I have my reasons," she said with finality, and then reached forward to press her fingertips to his left wrist. "Consignare."

The skin she touched glowed white, and he looked down to find an elaborate symbol drawn there, vaguely similar to a pentagram, but with eight points instead of five. "What's that for?"

"That is my personal seal," she said simply. "The sisters may not recognize it, but their Whitelighter certainly will. Be certain he sees it."

"Oh." He understood that, and was grateful for the consideration. "This says, 'I come with the official endorsement of Light Magic, so don't shoot?'"

She looked mildly amused. "Not the words I would have used, but it is meant for your protection, and will fade away when it is no longer needed. I have also taken the liberty of…modifying…certain of your legal records. It will not do to have difficulties later."

"Can you at least tell me why you're going to all this trouble for me?" he asked. "What makes me worth saving?"

She gave him a long, appraising look, then whispered something too low for him to catch, and an image appeared, hovering in the air before him. A little girl, perhaps six or seven, with dark hair and half-familiar features. "She does."

Cole scrutinized the child's face, drawing a sharp breath in shocked recognition. She has my eyes.

"This child must exist," she said with a nod at the chessboard. "She is significant, and she is—or will be—yours."

The question burned, unspoken: who was her mother?

"My objective is much the same as yours," she said, answering what he did not dare ask. "And to that end, I am, as mortals say, 'stacking the odds.'" She regarded him steadily. "I cannot compel your chosen to love you—and would not, if I could—but I can remove certain obstacles."

That was more than he had hoped for. If Light Magic herself was rallying behind his greatest desire, how could he lose? "You want me and Phoebe together?" he asked, just to be sure.

"Strong parents will produce a strong child," she said matter-of-factly. "And any member of a Charmed circle must be strong." Pausing, she looked up and smiled, which took much of the severity from her features. "Rest assured, Cole, your daughter and her cousins will do great things."

"Any advice about Phoebe?" he asked.

Granted, asking Light Magic for romantic tips was probably pushing the envelope a little, but she'd done enough to help him that he was sure she wasn't going to blow him up, if only because that would preclude the existence of any children.

So he'd bank on her plans for that child.

Her expression was almost indulgent, but she shook her head. "No. What you do will be enough on its own merit: I have faith in your ability to mend the relationship."

How should he start? By groveling at her feet for forgiveness?

"Fine," he said, trying not to sound irritated. "So…will you send me home now?"

"I'll send you where you need to be," she said, and waved a hand.

His vision dissolved in a flurry of bright white lights, a quick, sharp jolt running through his body, and the next thing he knew—

"Cole?" Phoebe's voice, surprised and a little wary. "What are you doing here? We didn't summon you back."

He was in the Halliwells' attic again. Marvelous. If you're listening, he thought, a warning would've been nice! "No," he agreed. "You didn't summon me. I was…sent."

"By who?" Piper demanded. She looked up from the crystals she was packing away, her eyes narrowed in warning, and brought a hand up, a pose that usually preceded an explosion.

Okay, bad choice of words. Placatingly, Cole stepped back, outstretching his own hands, palms up. "I'm not here to hurt you," he said. "I just helped you, remember? Maybe I'm wrong on this, but I don't think blowing me up would be the best way to repay the favor."

Slowly, her gaze never leaving him, Piper lowered her hand and allowed it to fall to her side. "What do you want?"

"I don't want anything," Cole told her honestly. Then he paused, remembering he no longer possessed the power to fade, and amended, "Except maybe to be orbed home." He looked to Paige, righting books and potion vials, then to Leo, who was sweeping shards of broken glass into a dustpan. "If one of you wouldn't mind?"

"Just—fade out the way you came in," Paige said, not looking up. "Go! Shoo!"

"Paige, that wasn't fading," Phoebe told her sister, giving him a scrutinizing look. "That was more like a magic-to-magic spell, or some other kind of transport. He doesn't do that." Then, more slowly, "Demons…don't do that." A brief pause. "You're not…?"

He nodded.

"Phoebe, no," Piper said firmly. "No—no, no. Every time he shows up and feeds you some stupid line—"

"I happen to have proof of what I'm saying this time," he retorted, affronted, and bared the shining mark on his wrist. "See?"

"Uh-huh," Piper said shortly, pointing at the door. "Very nice tattoo. Now get out."

"Piper…" Leo stepped forward and looked at the mark, then back at his wife. "That's not a tattoo. That's a well-known insignia of Light Magic."

Paige spared him a glance. "Never seen it before," she said blithely.

"All right, then, maybe not well-known to witches," Leo amended. "But I've seen it before, Up There. Anything with that mark had it put there by Light Magic—"

"So he forced some witch to cast a spell," Paige interrupted, impatient. "If he thought it'd make him look good—"

"No," Leo cut in. "Light Magic is—good's supreme authority. In charge of the Angels of Destiny, which are in charge of the Elders, and so on, right down to mortals."

"Let me get this straight," Piper said testily. "The damn Charmed Ones have to go through the Elders for stupid orders, but he, a half-demon who's killed God knows how many Innocents, gets a direct audience with the CEO of the whole system?" She glared at Cole, as though this were his fault. "How is that fair?"

"Don't ask me," he said, shrugging. "All I wanted to do was go home and go to bed."

"I'll take you home, if you don't mind taking the car," Phoebe offered.

"Are you sure you haven't lost track of who's taking who for a ride here?" Piper asked. "Phoebe—"

"It's ten minutes away," Phoebe said. "Look, I'll call for Leo if I'm in trouble, all right? But if he doesn't have powers, I can probably kick his ass without any help."

He would have to correct her misassumption about his powers, but he wasn't about to do it in front of Piper. He was on thin enough ice with her as it was, and the last thing he wanted to do was make her think he was a threat—he didn't feel like testing whether or not his deflection would hold up against her power of molecular combustion.

However, he wasn't about to let his wife's jab at his skills go. "We were well-matched, last I checked," he said mildly to Phoebe, referring to their sparring sessions of the year previous. "You won about half the time."

"How do you know how much practice I've had since then?" she said flippantly as she opened the attic door and started down the stairs. "Come on. You look dead on your feet."

He wanted to protest, but knew he probably did—it had been a very draining night. Wordlessly, he followed her down the stairs, into the foyer, and out the front door. She locked it behind them, then slid into the driver's seat. He got in on the passenger side, and she turned the key in the ignition and drove.

"So," she said at length, "are you going to tell me what happened tonight?"

"I meant to fade home," he explained. "And when I tried, that's not where I ended up. I don't have a clue where I did go, but what happened, in a nutshell, is that Light Magic told me to choose either good or evil, and I chose good. She made me human, gave me the power of deflection for reasons I'm still not clear on, and sent me back to your attic."

It wouldn't be a good idea to mention the child, or anything he'd been told about their possible future. After all, he couldn't offer any proof, and Phoebe might think he was making it up in an attempt to manipulate her.

She was still startled, though, even by the little he'd revealed. "You're a witch?" She sounded like she found the idea almost as preposterous as he had.

He couldn't blame her: he was still trying to wrap his mind around it. "That's what I said," he confirmed, wondering whether to demonstrate his new power but realizing he wasn't familiar enough it yet to be able to use it reliably at will. "My working theory is that anything that enters the manor without powers ends up being used as target practice."

"Piper probably would have," Phoebe said dryly. "She doesn't trust you as far as she can throw you."

Given that that was fairly far, the cliché was definitely misapplied. "I know. I can't really blame her—as I told Light Magic, I haven't exactly been the model of goodness lately."

"That wasn't your fault," Phoebe said as she made a final turn and parked near the apartment complex. "Barbas was probably messing with your mind for weeks—we know he was with ours—and before that…God only knows what all those powers were doing. I think they might have been driving you a little crazy."

Okay, he could work with this. If she was willing to forgive some of what he'd done and make excuses for him, he wasn't going to disagree with her and make things harder for himself.

Besides, she was right. Whatever else he had to take responsibility for, he wasn't to blame for the hallucinations and the somewhat psychotic behavior that had gone with them. "This probably isn't the best time for this talk," he pointed out. "If you stay with me too long, your sisters are going to send Leo after you."

"He's my Whitelighter, not my babysitter," she said. "And I do want to talk to you."

As tempting as it was to invite her in and let her talk, he knew that it was better to start working to make a good impression on her sisters. Fixing his relationship with Phoebe would be much easier without their opposition. "You can call me tomorrow," he promised.

"Tomorrow," she echoed, and squeezed his hand gently in farewell as he moved to get out of the car. He nodded and leaned away, but her hand tightened around his until her grip was almost painful, and he heard her draw a short, sharp breath.

She maintained contact for several seconds, then jerked her hand back as though he'd burned her.

A premonition. It had to be; he'd known her too long to mistake the signs. But what had she seen, that it had shocked her so much? "Phoebe? Are you okay?"

"Yeah," she said, just slightly too quickly for it to be the truth. "I'm fine. Goodnight."

He slid out of his seat and shut the car door behind him, and she drove away without another word.

A/N: I hope you enjoyed reading this as much as I did writing it! By the way, Light Magic's spell translates from the Latin to 'to seal, authenticate, vouch for, or record', for those of you who are curious. Remember to review…it motivates me to write and update.