People would look at him and think he was young.  They would be almost right, but not entirely- he'd lived a thousand lives within the depths of the Library, hooked into its interface to take in all the stories it could offer, all the legends and myths and time-embellished histories that perhaps had once been closer to truth. He held in his heart fairy stories and poetry, tales from his father's time and his grandfather's, and older, darker tales still, ones that were only whispered to sickly children on their deathbeds.

If one looked close enough they would be able to see the marks the wires had left on his wrists and temples and neck, lighter scar tissue on already-pale skin, even circles that shone slightly when the candlelight hit them at the right angle.

Candles. There were few who used candles, these days- the power grid seldom went out, and when it did, there was always another light source close at hand. But tradition was one of his great loves, almost as great as his love of stories and old magic, so he used them, even when he was quite sure than an electric light source would likely fulfil his requirements. So, on this most important night, his dining room smelt like fresh-cut roses, pale wisps of smoke drifting up past the empty spot on the ceiling where he'd pulled the smoke detector out from its fixture and thrown it out onto the dying lawn. It continued to beep a high, lonely tone every now and then, but he hardly noticed. Neither did any of his neighbours- they all had more important things to worry about. The odd sound coming from the quiet house next door was not an evacuation alert, or a scream, so they ignored it.

He leant over the table he'd pushed up against the wall, green eyes keenly looking over his preparations. At least eight open books were scattered across the table, passages circled in pencil, not pen- he regarded physical books with a certain reverence. This spell was an old one, one of the oldest of all. He'd spent over a year of Earth time- though it felt like much more, he'd lived decades at least in the Library's archives- searching through story after story, chasing the pieces of a puzzle that few believed existed, that even fewer believed could be solved.

All of this had begun with her, and now it would end with her.

He'd started out simply looking at the prophecy- reading it over and over, trying to understand how it had been wrong. He'd known it all his life, those words, he'd grown up on the stories. There had been a girl, and she had been brave and strong and chosen by destiny, and she had been meant to save them, how could she be dead?

Humanity fought on nonetheless, though their hope was dying; and they fell one by one while he searched for answers in books older than the city itself.

One book led to another. There was no defining moment when he realised he was being led, it was as gradual as the signs were- a line in one passage that stuck in his head, how another would then seem to call to him from its place on the shelf. He never did find out if it was magic. Though he tried many times to sense any enchantments on the books themselves, he had a theory that perhaps the spell was greater, encompassing the entire building, drawing it all together and drawing him deeper into its midst. Eventually he let go of that question, let go of hesitation, and simply followed.

From hands on paper to mind merged with technology, somewhere in the middle of this it began to make sense. The prophecy hadn't been wrong. Her story wasn't over- this was the 'dimming of the flame' it spoke of, and a spell existed, somewhere here, which would be able to relight it. He would be able to bring her back.

And here he was, the words before him, the candles and the symbols behind. Though he did not turn to look right away, his mind absorbed in the old words he must pronounce absolutely right, with little room for failure, he could picture the intricate arrangement of circles and light perfectly. It spiralled in upon itself, from where he stood now to the very center, where he would ultimately say the final word, and do what no human had done in centuries- cast the spell that could undo death.

It was almost three in the morning. His eyes were watering with tiredness, he brushed his hand across them, hoping his vision would clear quickly. It was almost time. The moon in the correct position- he could glimpse it among the buildings, a sliver of white visible through towers of steel, towers which everyone wanted to believe were strong, strong enough to be safe. But it simply wasn't the case.

Danger had been growing steadily closer these past few months, humanity's armies falling back. Though they didn't report all of this on the news, it seemed to be common knowledge that they were losing. It was only a matter of time until the city itself was a battlefield... Unless he was right, unless this worked. It was going to. It had to. He let out a long breath, grateful he'd had enough time to put the spell together. There had been nights when he hadn't been sure of that, of if he would ever get it right. But... here he was.

The phone on the table pinged- three o'clock. Time.

He did not hesitate, but nor did he rush. The words had to be spoken at the correct speed, pronounced correctly, timed with each step further into the spiralling path of circles. Many of the words were not in a language anyone would know, all the speakers likely long dead; but they came from him as if he'd spoken them all his life. One step forward- so careful not to step on any of the symbols, the paint was still wet, but it had to be. It had to be this way. A pause for breath, a moment of silence within the house. A car horn honked in the street outside, and families flinched in their dreams, their minds calling up images of monsters and evacuation sirens. The circles themselves were made of smaller symbols, he'd spent hours practising them on paper, using different brushes to see which produced the clearest lines. Now his own shadow, pierced and flickering by the light of red-waxed candles, danced over them. Power buzzed in the air, swarmed like bees. He could feel it with each new breath, each slightly shallower than the last. His chest felt tight, the words less clear with less air to speak them with.

Now he got to the part of the spell where he specified who he was wishing to bring back, and why. It had taken him months to translate the prophecy into this tongue, to emphasise the idea of relighting a flame, conjuring a phoenix from ashes. But it was not all for the world. It was for the girl, too. He had grown to know her, through all of this, though he had spoken to her only a few times in person. So he spoke in a language that was not his own of the story-cut-short he'd seen and lived alongside, of a girl who was strong, and brave, being embraced by loving parents, of a sister with the same copper hair and wild eyes, wearing a dress as black as the paint he stepped over now, nearly losing his balance. Of a group of girls speaking sombrely in interviews, saying how she was kind, and though she knew her destiny was a dangerous one she never seemed to be angry about it, even to the end... Though they didn't know the end, truly. No one did. By the time they'd found her the life was long gone, her hands stiffened, her skin grey. That same grey crept in through the edges of his vision, but he continued to speak. He spoke with a slowing voice as he took one more step, of a stranger, a boy a few years younger than him, almost a man, just as she was almost a woman, but in death they only ever called her a girl; how he stood with his head bowed and tried so very hard not to draw attention to his grief because there were cameras watching here, and they would try to ask him questions, but he would be gone. The boy would come back to say his goodbyes another time, because it wouldn't feel right to say what he wanted to say, not with the whole world listening.

He would send her back, not because he loved her, but because he knew she was loved.

The last word left his lips, and he stood for a few seconds longer, perhaps even half a minute, before he fell. Black paint smudged beneath him, symbols smeared onto clothes, onto skin that felt numb and cold. But that didn't matter now- the spell was finished. Magic surged around him like an ocean wave, cold and familiar and suffocating. He struggled to breathe, but he had the strength to shift his body slightly, enough so that he could see the moon. It had risen above the buildings now, silver, full, beautiful.

Every hero almost dies, or does die, and is reborn. He is not a hero, but he dies now, a smile on his face even as the colour drained from his skin, even as his heart slowed without the life-force he had put into the spell. One life for another. It is her who will wake up in the middle of the room, surrounded by spell-books and runes and the smell of smoke and death and roses, alive. Alive.

She will be confused, disoriented. This is not her home, an almost-stranger lies dead beside her, she had felt her body die and her soul leave it. But on the book-covered dining table, pushed up against the wall, there lies a letter with her name on it, explaining what he has done, who he is, what she is destined to do and why.

You weren't supposed to die. You were supposed to save the world- and now you have a second chance.