Fate it seems; can be either the Goddess one willingly serves to her every whim, or can be the sorceress hell bent on making life a living personal Hell. For one Harper Jones, it seems Fate has become more like the latter these days. He wished he didn’t have to be here, standing at the edge of a cliff looking out at the wide oceans, but it was what his father wanted. And so; with a deep inhale and exhale of the cool salty sea air, Harper stood and waited.

Moments later, the crunch of car tyres on gravel, alerted Harper to the presence of the person he was waiting for. Turning around, he watched with a narrow gaze as the driver of the black Toyota stepped out onto the rocky ground. Harper shifted slightly as he looked at the other man with slight disdain. A stylish haircut to go with the chiselled features and what looked to be an equally fine pinstripe suit. The suit was complete with a black waistcoat over a white collared shirt and a black and silver striped tie. As the man stepped forwards toward Harper, he could see he was also wearing polished black shoes, which were quickly becoming dusty from the sand interspersed with the gravel. He looked down at his own shoes; a ratty pair of Converses that had definitely seen better days. As the footsteps stopped in front of him, Harper raised his head to look the other directly in the eye.

“Marcus” he greeted with a flat tone, not bothering with niceties.

“Harper” Marcus replied with an equally flat voice. “How are you, dear brother?” he added with cold politeness.

Harper flinched slightly at the word ‘brother’ but otherwise ignored the intended bait. After all it has only been ten years since he had walked away from his family without a second glance.

Ifan Jones and his wife Rhiannon sat at the table, with a twenty year old Harper sitting opposite. They listened with silent dread; as their eldest son proceeded to tell them in a shaky voice how he had gotten into trouble with the underground loan sharks. They were now after his money, so he had to leave; keep them away from this place and away from his family.

Hours later, Harper emerged from the house, with a duffle bag in one hand and his rucksack slung over one shoulder. His parents watched from the window as their son walked towards his beat up Ford and drive away without a glance at them; or at the young boy standing at the door with tears running down his face.