The Light Beyond by BillA1

Copyright December 2005

Disclaimer: The characters Batman, Green Lantern, Hawkgirl, Wonder Woman, Martian Manhunter, Superman & Flash and their respective secret identities are all owned by DC Comics. This story is intended for my own pleasure and is not for profit. It has been posted to this site for others to read. Places and characters not own by DC Comics are my own creation. This story is based on characters from The Justice League story: "Starcrossed, Part 3" written by Dwayne McDuffie & Rich Fogel. Thanks to Merlin Missy for her beta on this story. For the JLA Universe HG/GL Fic-a-thon. From GammaRayGus: John trying to find Shayera after the conclusion of Starcrossed.

The Light Beyond

Rating: (PG-13)

Synopsis: John learns that he knew less about Shayera than he thought. Spoilers up through Starcrossed.

They say in the darkest night there's a light beyond

But the ending always comes at last,

Endings always come too fast.

They come too fast

But they pass too slow.

I love you, and that's all I know. (All I know - Jimmy Webb)

xxxxxx

CHAPTER ONE

xxxxxx

(Wayne Manor -Moments after Shayera Hol resigns from the League)

He'd watched her walk down the hall after hugging the Flash. One didn't need to be a telepath and able to read minds to know that she was heartbroken. The woman who just two weeks ago was the bold, brash, ultra-aggressive Hawkgirl had just resigned from the Justice League. Her resignation speech was short. Her voice was firm. But J'onn could sense the speech was rehearsed, hiding the emotions she'd truly felt.

The last few days had been tough on all of them, but she had perhaps suffered more than the rest. She was a pariah now and he had said so, before the vote.

He'd listened as Superman had answered him, "Believe me J'onn, I feel for her. But after everything that has happened, I honestly don't know if I could ever completely trust her again."

J'onn had said nothing aloud, but answered Superman telepathically: "Even after Darkseid used you, after all the damage you did to this world, people still found ways to trust you. And you have not let them down. Doesn't she deserve that same chance? You cannot let her fend for herself on this planet. She would not survive a week here and you know it. She is our responsibility. She is... Justice League!"

Superman exhaled sharply and said nothing, not even mentally, but he glared at J'onn and then voted Shayera in.

Now as the Flash asked what was next for the League, J'onn wondered what was next for the Thanagarian. He knew John wanted to talk to her, needed to talk to her, and didn't want her to leave before they spoke.

But allowing her back in the League wasn't the same as her staying. She'd just thrown away a lifetime of concepts and beliefs. She had nowhere to turn, but needed to turn somewhere, needed to turn to someone. J'onn didn't have to read her mind to know she wasn't going to ask for help, even through she needed it badly.

John stood up, looked outside the window and suddenly announced he was leaving. Before Clark could say anything to him, John was gone. Diana jumped into Clark's face, intent on letting him know that she was unhappy with his vote.

Clark sighed and said softly, "Not now, Diana. J'onn is first, and then you can have what's left."

"Oh, you bet I'm going to have what's left," Diana huffed. "How could you vote her in?"

He pursed his lips together in a tight line and frowned. It would be easier to swallow a glass full of hornets than listen to the barrage he knew was going to come from Diana. For a moment he wished he could just walk away from things like Bruce. Speaking of that, where is Bruce?

J'onn and Clark walked away from Diana and stood near the window, looking out over the bluff. They could see Shayera standing near the cliff ledge.

The anger in Clark's voice came through his whisper as he spoke pointedly to J'onn. "Don't do that to me again."

J'onn looked out the window as he folded his arms across his chest. "Would you rather I'd said it out loud for all to hear or say only what you could hear, only what you could truly understand?"

He sighed. He'd sighed a lot in the last thirty minutes, he thought. But J'onn was right. The pain he'd felt from being manipulated by Darkseid had not eased over the years. He'd done a lot of damage under Darkseid's control and it had taken him years to regain the trust of the world again.

He inhaled sharply. "Okay. She is our responsibility. For the moment, I buy that, but only for the moment."

The Martian continued to look out the window, staring straight ahead. John had joined Shayera on the bluff.

There was sadness in J'onn's voice as he spoke. "There will be many on both worlds who will want to kill her now. She needs a safe place where no one can find her, where no one can get to her."

Clark was silent. He closed his eyes and mentally reached out to J'onn. There are few places on Earth where no one could get to her. Maybe Atlantis, maybe even Themyscira. No, not there. Sending her to Themyscira while Diana is this angry would seal her fate for sure. Fate! What about a place like Fate's tower?

J'onn nodded. He didn't answer Clark mentally, but instead said, "Agreed. I will stay with her while you contact your friend and see if he will help. Mentally call me when you're ready."

Clark opened his eyes in amazement. "You really think she'll let you go with her?"

"Yes," J'onn answered as he rose through the ceiling and out of sight.

Clark closed his eyes for a brief moment, then turned around and sighed. Too many sighs in so short a time. "Okay Diana, it's your turn."

(On the rooftop of Wayne Manor)

J'onn rose through the building and assumed the shape of a large grey hawk.

He sat perched on a corner of the rooftop overlooking the bluffs of Wayne Manor staring down at Shayera and John below. He couldn't hear what they were saying, but he could sense tremendous sadness in John. Shayera was as he'd never seen her before. She had her wings wrapped around herself as if she were...ashamed.

She kept her back to John as they both stared at the setting sun.

Suddenly she turned to face John and said something that J'onn couldn't make out. She waited a few moments and then turned away, launching herself skyward. J'onn let her rise in the distance before he followed.

Stewart wiped the tears from his eyes and slowly walked back into the house. It had all turned to crud so quickly. Two weeks ago, he thought he was the happiest man on Earth. Now, she was gone and he couldn't follow. His hand and arm hurt. His ring was broken and so was his heart.

He entered the little library room they'd spent the last couple of hours in and saw Diana and Superman having an animated conversation in a corner. Wally was gone. Who knows where. Probably in the kitchen.

Stewart didn't want to stay and listen to the bickering in the corner. Where's Batman? Damn this hand hurts. Batman's butler had offered Stewart medication for the pain, but he'd refused it. He felt, at this moment, he needed the pain to remain focused, to remain in control of his emotions.

He walked out of the room and stood in the hall. He lowered his head as he contemplated the lecture he was going to get from the Guardians for losing his ring. Not losing it. Allowing it to be broken.

"Can I help you, Mister Stewart?"

Stewart looked up into the gentle face of Batman's servant. Al? Alex? Alfred? That's it. Alfred!

"No," Stewart answered. "Wait a minute. Yes, you can. Where's your boss? Where's Batman?"

"Follow me, sir," Alfred answered. He led Stewart back to the study and to the grandfather clock. Alfred stood at the top of the stairway and pointed down into darkness. "Through there, sir."

"Uh, thanks," Stewart said as he walked past Alfred and down the stairs.

Batman was seated at the computer console. The large screen in front of him appeared to be running some sort of program, which displayed (in Stewart's opinion) a lot of gibberish and street maps. Batman studied it intently.

Bruce. His name is Bruce. Think Bruce.

Stewart stood next to Bruce and asked, "How far will your little tracking devices work?"

Batman hit a key on his console and the display paused. He swivelled in his chair and faced Stewart. His eyes narrowed. "About fifty miles. Why?"

"Just wondering far you'll let her get before you leave to trail her," Stewart replied. His hand really hurt now and his shoulders were throbbing from the sling.

Bruce turned back toward the display screen. "I'm not trailing her," he stated flatly.

"What?" Certainly the master of paranoia would have wanted to know where she was. Wouldn't he?

As if he were answering Stewart's unasked question, Bruce looked up at Stewart and replied, "First of all, she never got close enough for me to plant a tracker on her. Secondly, you didn't touch her so the tracker on your cast wasn't planted on her either."

"What?" Stewart looked down at his immobilized arm, and for the first time spotted the tracking device carefully placed on his inside forearm. Alfred! Anger rose in Stewart's voice, "You were watching us? Why didn't you say something? Why didn't you tell me it was there?"

Bruce turned back to his display and pressed a button on the console. The monitor displayed street maps again. Without looking up, Bruce answered, "I don't do that."

Stewart spun the seated Batman toward him. "So nobody knows where she's going?"

Bruce stood. There was anger in his glare as he narrowed his eyes sharply. "I don't know where she's going, but you should go home. It's over. She didn't want to be here and there's nothing you can do here. Go home. Someone will call you."

Stewart lowered his head. Damn him, but Bruce was right. There wasn't anything he could do here. And it was over.

She didn't want to be there. She didn't want to be with him. He turned and walked up the steps passing Diana on her way down. His heart sank.

I should have hugged Shayera.

(Stewart's Apartment -thirty-six hours later)

He'd had lots of time to replay in his mind their last meeting, their last words, her last words to him: "I love you, John. I never lied about that."

Now he wondered, what could he have said to make her stay? Would she have left if he had hugged her? Why didn't he reach out to her? What was he afraid of? Why didn't he tell her how he felt about her?

He couldn't sleep. His arm hurt, but it was just as well. Sleep was the enemy now. In his sleep, he wasn't in control anymore. In his sleep, he saw her face. In his sleep, he heard her voice.

He wasn't sure if it was the throbbing in his hand that woke him up or the steady persistent, light tapping at his door. Once he realized he wasn't dreaming anymore and regained his awareness, he grasped that there was indeed a tapping at his door. He looked at his clock.

1:37 A.M.

He got out of bed and opened his apartment door. In front of him stood a blue-skinned, blonde-haired woman, wearing a long, tan trenchcoat. Her piercing white eyes showed no pleasure as she stood in front of Stewart. It was Droxelle, a Green Lantern who had been a trainee of his.

Stewart extended the customary salutation as he stepped aside so she could enter his apartment. "Greetings, Green Lantern," Stewart said. At least the Guardians had sent Droxelle and not Katma.

"Greetings, Mister Stewart," she answered as she walked past him. He locked the door behind her and turned to face her. She slapped him. Hard.

Maybe they SHOULD have sent Katma.

"Why aren't you dead?" she said. Emotion rose in her voice.

"Happy to see you, too," Stewart answered flatly. What is it with these damn alien women hitting me?

She suddenly threw her arms around his neck and kissed him as the tan coat disappeared, revealing her Green Lantern uniform.

"I am happy to see you, John" she said. "When the Central Battery lost contact with your ring, we feared you were dead. At least Lantern Katma and I thought so. The slap was from Lantern Katma for scaring her if I found you alive, and the kiss is from me because I did find you alive."

She paused and gently rubbed the side of his face. "Oh my. I may have delivered Lantern Katma's message too hard. I hope you'll let me make that up to you." She smiled broadly.

Stewart smirked, "Maybe," he said as he rubbed the side of her face.

"Anyway," Droxelle continued. "The Guardians want you to report to Oa in two days to explain what happened to the ring."

"When do we leave?"

"I'm leaving in a few minutes. You can leave whenever you want. Here." She held out her hand and opened it to reveal a ring. "Oh. They're brown. They're pretty."

Stewart took the ring and slipped it on his finger. He immediately sensed a welcome wave of energy wash over him. It was a feeling he'd missed the last couple of days. He removed the sling from his arm and hand. He didn't need it anymore. The ring had healed him physically.

"Now that's the color your eyes should be," Droxelle whispered. "That's the color I remember, a nice pretty green."

He ringed a uniform on himself and pulled his lantern battery from its hiding place in a pocket dimension. Droxelle solemnly lowered her head and mouthed the words Stewart had taught her as he repeated his oath and fully charged his new ring.

"Greetings, Green Lantern," she said when he finished.

"Greetings, Green Lantern," he replied.

"Don't forget. Oa. Two days. Don't be late." She walked over to his window and raised it. She leaped out of the window and hovered in front of him.

"And don't forget," she grinned. "When you finish on Oa, give me a chance to make up for the slap." She winked at him. "You won't be disappointed."

"Promises. Promises," Stewart smiled. "Take care of yourself and thanks for the delivery service," he added.

Droxelle laughed. "You're welcome, John. Just glad you're okay," she called out as she shot skyward, disappearing into the night. Stewart watched her leave and then closed his window.

Droxelle was wrong. He wasn't okay and wasn't going to be for a while. He knew that. And yet, he also knew he better get okay and quick. No telling how long the Guardians would keep him on Oa and every day he was away, her trail would get colder.

Oa in two days. Damn.

He inhaled sharply. He would go to Midway City, the city she'd protected, first thing in the morning. Right now, he was going to try to get some badly needed sleep.

xxxxxx

CHAPTER TWO

xxxxxx

"Now and then, for no good reason, life will haul off and knock a man flat." - Jim Coates (Old Yeller -1957)

(Midway City -eight hours later)

He'd worn his civilian clothing and sunglasses. It was cloudy and cool in the city. His leather top coat felt good against the wind.

He'd been to her apartment once before, but they had entered through the window. He wasn't going to do that. If it was my apartment, I would have booby-trapped all the entrances by now. There is no reason to think she wouldn't have done the same thing.

He entered the apartment building through the front door. As he stood in the hallway, in front of an apartment door he hoped was hers, he wondered what would he say if she answered.

He knocked on the door and waited. There was no response. He knocked again.

"There ain't nobody in there," called out an older man walking up the hallway. The man was in his late sixties, heavyset, balding and wearing an overcoat. He eyed Stewart suspiciously.

"You sure?" Stewart asked. He put his hands in his leather coat pockets to hide his ring. The old man's eyes narrowed as he asked, "You a reporter?"

"No," Stewart answered, taking his left hand out of his coat pockets and dropping it to his side. "Just a friend. You're sure there's no one in there?" He pointed at the apartment door.

The man cleared his throat. "I'm damn sure. It's my building. What's your name?"

"Stewart. John Stewart." For a moment, Stewart considered how cool it sounded when someone said, 'Bond. James Bond,' but it never sounded as debonair when you use your real name. He realized that the old man probably thought he was a jerk.

"Stewart? Wait a minute, this is for you." The old man fumbled through his pockets as if he were trying to find something he'd misplaced. "Ahhh," he said, as he retrieved an envelope from his trouser pockets. He was about to hand the packet to Stewart when he suddenly stopped.

"John Stewart? I've heard that name before," the man said. "Where do I know you from?"

"Haven't the faintest idea," Stewart answered. "Is that for me?" he added pointing to the envelope.

"Oh. Yeah, this is for you," the man said as he handed the packet to Stewart.

Stewart's heart skipped a heart when he touched the envelope. Was this a note from her? Something, perhaps, saying where she was? He tried to control the trembling in his hands as he opened the envelope. There was a key inside. No note.

Stewart examined the key and then glanced at the old man. "Any idea what this goes to?"

The old man smiled. "Yup! That there door," the man answered as he took the key from Stewart and inserted it in the lock and opened the door. He gave the key back to Stewart. "Works good," the man continued. "Had it made this morning."

Stewart stepped into the apartment. The old man followed.

It was a furnished apartment, but any items which could identify its previous occupant seemed to be missing. The room was chilly, not cold, but very cool. The carpet was off-tan short shag and showed signs that it had been vacuumed. There were two vinyl covered chairs and a matching sofa, along with a coffee table and two end tables: rented furniture in a rented room, standard for someone who hadn't planned on staying long. He should have known.

"So, why give the key to me?" Stewart asked. He looked around the furnished room. No one's been here for weeks.

"Because," the man answered, "the note that came with the check said to give you a key if you showed up here."

There was dust on the coffee table. Stewart swiped his finger across the table and looked at the dust. Weeks. This dust is weeks old. She hasn't been here in a long time. So where is she?

"What check?" Stewart asked.

The old man mimicked Stewart's gesture of wiping his finger across the coffee table, then cleared his throat. "A cashier check arrived this morning by special messenger. It was a check for a year's rent on this apartment. The check was signed by someone named M. Malone. You know him?"

Stewart shook his head. "Never heard of him."

"Well, I guess he's heard of you. There was a bonus in the check to make a duplicate key for you. In fact, I just got back from the locksmith and was going to test the key."

"I want to look around for a few minutes. You mind?" Stewart said as he walked to the kitchen and glanced around.

"I don't mind," the old man answered. "You got a key. The question is, do you mind me being in here? You know, this apartment's been a real popular place. You're the second person who's been here this morning."

There were no dishes in the sink. There was a clean iron skillet on the stovetop. There were menus from the local restaurants stuck to the refrigerator with small magnets. He opened the refrigerator and then mentally slapped himself in the head.

Stop opening stuff, idiot. She could have booby-trapped it.

Inside the refrigerator on a shelf were a couple of bottles of beer; no food, just beer. He started to reach for a beer bottle to examine the date on the label, to get an idea how long it had been there, but stopped. No!

He closed the refrigerator door and started to leave the kitchen when he noticed a small slip of paper on the countertop next to the sink that caught his eye.

What's this?

Stewart picked up the paper, quickly examined it, and then stuck it in his coat pocket.

"Hmmm. Talk to me about the person who lived here," Stewart called back from the kitchen.

The tone in the old man's voice changed sharply. "Thought you said you were a friend."

Stewart stepped out of the kitchen to where the old man could see him and nodded. "I am. Are you?"

"Enough of one to know not to ask questions about the comings and goings on in this apartment."

The old man's expression remained flat as he added, "And enough of a friend not to ask questions of the Green Lantern. I knew I recognized you from someplace. You are all over the TV."

Stewart nodded and headed into the bathroom. He opened the medicine cabinet. It was empty. Stewart! Stop opening doors, stupid.

He walked back to the living room area and sat down on the sofa.

What did I ever think I would find coming here?

He took the paper he'd found on the kitchen counter out of his pocket. It was a store purchase receipt. He turned to the old man. "You said I was the second person here today. Who was the first?"

The old man sat down at the far end of the couch. "Some detective named Bowman, came by about three hours ago and took some stuff out of here. There really wasn't much here anyway. He took away some clothing and shoes, that kinda stuff. I couldn't see what else he took, but he left here with a small box, small for a woman's stuff. You know what I mean?"

Stewart nodded, but said nothing.

 "Funny," the man continued. "I would have thought there'd be more here, but there wasn't. Anyway, the detective woke me up to let him in. Called me at my home. Figured as long as I was up, I would go and get the key made. That's when I ran into you in the hallway."

Stewart looked at the receipt again. "Detective Bowman, huh? From what police department?" He ran his fingers along the seat cushion. Nothing, not even down from her wings. This apartment had been cleaned and it was cleaned some time ago.

The old man shook his head. "This one I think. But, now that I think about it, he did flash that badge and search warrant pretty quick. He was a big guy, wore glasses, black hair. Took about ten minutes to collect a bunch of stuff and then left."

Stewart glanced at the old man before speaking. "He was by himself when he served the warrant?"

The old man nodded. "Funny. Seemed to know exactly where everything was."

Stewart took out his cell phone and dialed local information. He told the operator to connect him to the Midway Police Department. After a few moments, the police desk sergeant answered.

"Hello," Stewart said as he looked at the paper in his hand. "Would you connect me to Detective Bowman, please?"

There was a brief pause before the desk sergeant answered that there was no Detective Bowman with the Midway City police department. Stewart thought about asking if the sergeant was sure, but decided not to. Maybe the detective was a Federal agent and maybe the old man had misunderstood him to be local police.

A feeling of horror quickly washed across Stewart. Maybe the F.B.I. had her.

He sighed and hung up the phone. He hadn't considered that she might be captured or held by the Government. That's a new wrinkle.

Stewart showed the old man the paper he'd picked up off the kitchen counter. "Can you tell me where this place is?"

The man looked at the paper and then smiled. "Sure. Three blocks up and make a right. I think it's the store next to the corner."

Stewart gave the man a card. "Thanks. Look if she...my friend comes back or if anyone else wants to get in here, give me a call. Okay?"

"Sure," the old man said. "But the note that came with the check said that I was to call this number if our friend came back."

The man offered a piece of paper to Stewart, who took it. It was a typewritten note with very explicit instructions: "Make a duplicate apartment key. Give the key to Mr. John Stewart when he asks entry to the apartment. If the former apartment occupant returns, call this number, (555) 427-3637. M. Malone."

Stewart returned the paper to the old man. He couldn't recall ever meeting this M. Malone, but this person knew a lot about him.

"Yeah. Call that number," Stewart said as he walked out of the apartment. The phone number on the paper was Stewart's cell phone number.

Stewart felt like Alice in Wonderland. Someone had paid the rent on Shayera's apartment for a year, but made sure Stewart had a key. Someone, claiming to be a police officer, had come in and collected all of her things save the receipt from a store. Someone wanted Stewart notified if she returned, someone who knew his cell phone number.

While all of these things bothered him, he was primarily concerned about the imposter who took away her stuff. Had to be an imposter. Search warrants require chain of custody receipts. At least two people must be present to execute a search warrant. The guy was a phony. It was as if someone was trying to remove all traces of her and leave him with just her memory.

Frankly, he didn't know many people who could pay a year's rent in advance. Certainly Batman could, but after voting her out, he wasn't likely to, was he? Was M. Malone another Batman alias like Bruce Wayne? He shook his head. He didn't know. Stewart wasn't sure of anything now. She was gone and someone, maybe even Shayera herself, was determined not to leave much of a trail that anyone could follow.

He had traveled the three blocks before he knew it and found himself outside a store, a small used bookstore. He opened the door and walked inside. A little bell over the door threshold dinged and announced his presence. The place reeked of the smell of old and musky paper. The front of the store was well lit, but as Stewart looked down the rows of wooden book shelves toward the back of the shop, he noticed the rear of the store was dark.

There wasn't anyone in the store save for a man sitting behind the counter about Stewart's age who, upon closer inspection, bore a remarkable resemblance to Stewart himself. Good looking man.

The man looked up and stood. "Can I help you?"

Stewart took a deep breath and flashed a quick smile. "Yeah. A friend of mine bought this book. I want to buy her another book by this author for her birthday, but she left on a trip and I didn't get the name of the book. I think it was a travel guide." Why the hell did I say travel guide?

The man returned Stewart's smile and looked at the receipt. He flipped the paper over and then suddenly frowned. "Who are you?" he snapped. "What do you want?"

Stewart smiled again, but stopped and sighed. "Look, like I told you, I want to buy my friend another book by this author. Is there a problem?"

The man moved swiftly. Stewart was surprised as he pulled a shotgun from behind the counter and held it at his side, at the ready. "Yeah," the man shouted. "There's a big problem. Your friend is a dirty hawk! Now get out of my store!"

Stewart ringed a giant hand that grabbed the man and held him firmly against the closest wall. He formed a second hand that took the shotgun from the man and brought it to Stewart. Stewart glared at the man as he said in a low voice, "She was a lot of things to a lot of people, but don't you ever call her that again."

He unloaded the gun, setting the cartridges and the shotgun on the counter, then let the man fall to the floor. Disgusted, Stewart stalked towards the door.

There's nothing here.

"Wait!" the man called out. Stewart turned around, his ring at the ready.

"I didn't know you were that friend," the man said. He offered Stewart his hand. Stewart eyed it for a moment before shaking it. "My name is George Robinson. This is my store, what there is of it."

Robinson walked to the store door and flipped the sign in front from 'Open' to 'Closed.' He grinned at Stewart. "She used to come in here all the time very late at night, just before I close at eleven P.M. She'd ask me questions about books and stuff. But after the hawkpeople left, things got really bad for me here. People broke my storefront window, twice. Called me a 'hawk lover.' I just assumed you were going to make trouble."

Stewart shook his head as he looked around the store and noticed for the first time evidence of vandalism. There had been writing, profanity that had been spray painted on the wall above one row of bookshelves and then clearly painted over by a brush. The new paint didn't match the old paint at all. Suddenly Stewart felt sorry for anyone whom she had befriended. Her friends were destined to keep paying for their friendship long after she'd stopped.

"No trouble," Stewart answered. "So what was this book?" He handed Robinson the receipt.

Robinson's grin broadened.

"She was a strange one," he said. "I mean in a good way," he amended. "The book was Old Yeller by Fred Gipson. She said that she had a friend who really liked the story. Was that you?"

Stewart frowned. "Did she buy anything else?"

Robinson flexed his shoulders and cleared his throat. "It was you, wasn't it? It's okay. She came back and talked to me about that book for an hour."

Stewart's eyes widened. "An hour? What did you talk about?"

Robinson handed Stewart back the receipt. Stewart flipped it over and noticed for the first time there was a mark on the back of the receipt. He's seen that mark or something similar to it before. Thanagarian. That's it! It's Thanagarian writing.

"Oh," Robinson continued. "How a lot of people think that the book is just about a boy and his dog. But she thought the book was a lot more than that." He paused and sat down on his stool behind the counter.

"We talked," he continued. "You know, as many times as I've read the book and seen the movie, she made me see something different, something I'd never seen before."

"Oh?" Stewart asked. "And just what did she see in that story?"

Robinson smiled. "That it's about making tough and sometime painful decisions. Travis has to shoot the dog that saved his family from certain death. And that was hard on the boy."

Stewart nodded. He knew the story well. It was his favorite movie.

"But a lot of people forget that that dog risked his life, time and time again, to save his newly adopted family," Robinson continued. "At the end, the dog knew the right thing to do and gave up everything dear to do it. Sure the dog died, but the dog died saving lives. That's what made the dog's sacrifice noble and worthwhile; not the dying, but being willing to die, willing to sacrifice, to save others."

Robinson gently shook his head. "Honestly, she made me see the story is about the dog, not about the boy. But then she really surprised me because she said the ending was all wrong."

"Wrong?"

"Yeah. She thought the dog should have left the family after fighting the wolf. The dog knew it was wounded and should have walked away and let the family move on. The dog should have never put the family in the position where the family had to decide to destroy it."

Stewart was silent for a long moment.

Suddenly, Stewart flashed back to Shayera fighting Talak to save him, the way Old Yeller fought the wolf to save Travis' mother.

Oh. Good. Grief. Stewart's jaw dropped as he finally understood the events at Wayne Manor from Shayera's perspective.

Shayera did use the book as a guide, as a grounding rod. She thought she was expendable, that she'd served her purpose in saving her adopted family.

She knew we were struggling with the decision about her, just like Travis struggled with the decision to kill old Yeller. She used the book as a guide and followed it to what she thought should have been its natural conclusion.

She took the decision out of our hands so we didn't have to kill Old Yeller.

She let Old Yeller walk off into the sunset.

The little fool rewrote the ending of the story because she didn't trust us to.

"Did she say anything else?" Stewart finally asked.

Robinson shook his head. "Not really. The last time she was in here was just before the invasions and she said that she finally understood why the story was so important. She thought it was a pretty good grounding rod for her friend."

And apparently for her too.

"George," Stewart said as he stood near the door. "Thank you. She chose her friends well. If you see her again, tell that her that her friend said, in the beginning of the story Travis really wanted a horse. But Travis' father was right when he said Travis needed the dog in the worst way. She didn't have to rewrite the story for it to end right."

Stewart shook Robinson's hand and left the store. He stood outside for a moment to think. He wasn't going to find her here, in Midway. He knew that now. Shayera had rewritten the ending and in her version, Old Yeller had disappeared as mysteriously as he had appeared in the beginning of the story.

He ringed a uniform on himself and mentally prepared to fly to Oa to face the questioning of the Guardians. But first he would go back to Detroit. There was a movie he needed to watch again.

(Salem -The house without windows or doors)

"We have a guest, Inza. Would you prepare a place for her?"

Inza smiled and offered her hand. "Of course. Superman brought your things a little while ago. Welcome, Hawkgirl."

"Call me Shayera and thank you. Thank you both."

END