Time wasn’t linear, not at all. It was, if anything, a bit like a tree. Huge boughs sprouted off of the main timeline, with smaller branches snaking off of those, and even smaller ones continuing on. Each new limb was one way the timelines could diverge and split apart. Normally, for each point of divergence - those chameleon points that could be changed - there would always be many branches off the main limb. Hundreds, sometimes, even thousands. But sometimes, very rarely, an offshoot has only one branch, only one way to go. Now, most beings lived inside time, but a select few lived outside. One such being was born in the fires of the birth of the universe - the angha, the fenghuang, the firebird, the phoenix, and it could see the timelines when others could not, could see the chameleon points and the ones fixed forever as if by a basilisk’s stony gaze.

The man knew two things for sure. Two branches, two basilisk points, with only one possible beginning and end.

One, what was born in fire can only end in flames.

Two, there would be one death that he could have stopped tonight.

* * *

December twenty-ninth, 1940. The man walked slowly down the empty street, raggedy greatcoat swishing around his legs as his utility boots clunked against the brick. Heavy darkness was starting to creep upon the city as the sun set, the government-ordered blackout shrouding the city in a false layer of protection. It was hard to believe Christmas had been a mere four days ago - in fact, it was hard to believe Christmas had ever been at all. If the suffocating darkness hadn’t been descending, then the true state of the city would have been crystal clear. Shattered streets, crumpled houses, once-magnificent buildings razed to the ground. Yet the people of London still stood tall, and the man had to give the humans credit for never backing down, even in times like these. To the people’s gratitude, there had been a temporary ceasefire in the days surrounding Christmas, and the hope was that the screeching air raid sirens wouldn’t be heard again until at least the New Year. Even the man was hoping for the reprieve to stretch on a bit longer.

Those hopes were crushed as the now-familiar wailing of the air raid siren rang throughout the darkened city, and the basilisks reared their ugly heads from their perches in the tree. And as the shrieking and the screaming of the sirens sounded across the town, the sounds of German bomber planes tearing towards the city became clear. Suddenly, instead of the darkening city of mere minutes ago, the streets were illuminated with vicious, orange light. Like a demonic beast, the flames howled as they leapt from building to building. For one moment, the man saw the cityscape in front of him silhouetted by the smoke and flames, like some kind of hideous frieze, as the ringing of the fire engines and the rumbling of the bombs echoed through the streets. It was far too soon (it would always, always be too soon) before a too-familiar whistle sounded above his head. In a burst of orange-red light, a building by the man exploded into flames, and the monstrous inferno started tearing away at the walls and roof in a greedy fury. He had half a mind to flee to the nearest tube station, where he and everyone else sheltering there would be safe from the bombs until the drone of the “all clear” could be heard.

But then, another all-too-familiar sound reached his ears. Inside the building, children were crying.

He could never just stand aside when he heard children crying.

In a split-second decision, he sprinted towards the burning building, greatcoat flapping in the heated wind. Behind him, something crashed, causing the ground to rumble in protest - a barrage balloon, downed by a German bomber, but not before doing its job and downing the bomber as well. As he vaulted the over the short fence bordering the burning building, he caught sight of a charred sign. ‘-ds Elementary School’ was all that was left, and the man felt a bubbling of rage in the pit of his stomach. Nobody would die tonight if he had anything to say about it - not here, in this school, at least.

The man scrambled through the thankfully still intact doorway, tearing through the smoke-filled halls as he followed the sounds he had heard outside. He whipped around a corner into the first classroom, coughing as he waved an arm in front of his face to ward off the toxic fumes. In front of him, a group of terrified children were huddled under a large table. All were older children, but they still balked from running for some reason. A quick glance behind showed why - the teacher was pinned underneath a fallen beam, struggling to get out, and thankfully still alive. The man hurried to him, levering up the beam with a spar of wood, as a German bomber roared across the patch of black sky visible through a jagged hole in the roof. Another whistle, and the ground rumbled as more flames sprung up in the distance. “Go!” the man shouted at the teacher and the students, helping them out the shattered window one by one. As he rushed to the next classroom, he caught sight of a Christmas tree in an empty room. It was shorter than usual, as they wouldn’t fit in air raid shelters otherwise, and the man caught himself thinking about past Christmases as he continued to help all the children and teachers out.

Never before had he had an uneventful Christmas, though he supposed that was in part his own fault. In 1914, when he had been a part of the British troops, he had somehow found himself celebrating Christmas with the very Germans that he was cursing now. Back in 0336, he had been at the first celebration of Christmas. Even before that, in the year 0001, he found himself trying to lead three not-all-too-wise men towards Bethlehem (really, it shouldn’t have been that hard to figure out which star was the right star). He found himself smiling slightly at the memories, before jerking himself back into the present. The flames were creeping higher, now, threatening to bring the entire building (and all of the fire along with it) down on the man’s head. But he was sure he had gotten everybody out, and turned tail to leave. Just as he did so, the basilisks hissed for him to wait, look around, listen!

“My brother!” a child screamed, dashing towards the man. “Where’s my little brother?”

And to his horror, the man realized that the pile of debris to his left was what used to be the entrance to a classroom. Only when he listened very, very carefully did he hear whimpering and muted sobs. Immediately, he threw himself at the rubble, frantically scrambling to clear the wreckage out of the way. But his efforts were so careless and rushed, so panicked and frenzied, that he soon found himself as the only thing holding the doorway up. Taking short, rasping breaths through his gritted teeth, air hissing in and out of his clenched jaw, he propped the doorway up with his own body as the flames tore away at the supports. “Out!” he roared, and the cowering children inside didn’t wait another moment before scampering out. They flew past him, screeching with terror and gratitude and relief and fear -

“Tommy!” The child rushed to enter the classroom, where one last boy, clearly the child’s little brother, was paralyzed underneath a desk in fear. He attempted to dodge past the man, trying to get to his brother, but the man quickly threw out an arm. If the boy went in, there was no telling whether he would be able to get out again or not. But the wreckage of the roof shifted with the man’s movements, just a little, and a terrifying creaking and groaning echoed throughout. He wouldn’t be able to hold it for much longer. And suddenly, time seemed to slow to a halt. The flames stayed frozen in place, the shrieking of the air raid siren slowed to a dull roar, and a bomber whizzing above decelerated until it was only inching along. But the little boy, Tommy, had frozen from his hiding spot under the desk, and a single tear was on its way to the ground. In that moment, the man understood.

One of them would die tonight. Whoever it was could have survived, but in exchange, the other would have to die. And in a split-second, that hovering moment between certain death and certain life, the man decided. What was born in fire would end in flames, and it would end tonight.

Throwing himself forward as time jumped back into motion, the man grabbed the small child and launched him out the doorway. He flew into the arms of his older brother, sending them both careening backwards, safely out of the way of the falling rubble. And not a second too soon - with a great roaring and screeching, the weakened wood and concrete finally gave in, crumpling and tumbling into a great heap, blocking off the only means of escape. Still clinging to that faint hope that he could change time, the man dashed around the room in a frenzy, searching for a way out in vain. There was nothing, not even the slightest opening that he might be able to escape out of, and he soon found himself stranded in the center of the room as the hissing flames slunk closer towards him. “No,” he growled, “No, no, no.” So much time left in the universe, so much to look forward to - the end of the war, the first moon landing, first extraterrestrial contact, that moment when mankind would first live among the stars.

But then he saw it.

The majestic dome of St. Paul’s Cathedral, still standing at the end of the night, framed by the smoke and flames. Buildings still toppled around it, and bombs were still falling, but there it stood, the most magnificent sentinel the world had and ever would ever see. And suddenly, the man didn’t mind, didn’t worry about all he would miss. Because right here, right now, was all that mattered, and why worry about what was to come? Somebody else would get to experience that, but here, now, this moment was all his.

Smiling, the phoenix started to burn.