wo men stood ready, their postures tense in preparation, swords drawn. Neither made a move, each waiting for the other. They stood like statues on a rooftop above the city. The man on the left was young, the one on the right old. Both shared the same face—the only difference was their age.

Their name was Graham Ward.

The wind blew through their dark red hair. Young Graham’s hair was shaggy, matching his frayed green tweed coat and black pants. Old Graham’s hair was tight and peppered with gray, his steel blue suit well-tailored and fitting. Their pale green eyes watched each other, their gaze not letting go for a moment. Their stances mirrored each other, each wielding the same blade. The only difference was the space and time they lived in.

Their wrist watches went off simultaneously. In an instant the two Grahams came alive.

Old Graham parried a powerful downward slash from Young Graham with an ease that bespoke the accomplished swordsman that he was. Back and forth they went, striking, jumping, thrusting, dodging, and slashing at each other in quick succession. Young Graham moved with agility and flair. Old Graham moved with swiftness and grace—he moved so fast it was hard to keep track of his strikes. They moved knowing what the other would do. They seemed locked in a dance rather than a fight.

With simultaneous strikes, they knocked the swords from each other's grasp. They looked at their hands, then to each other.

“You’ve improved,” said Old Graham.

Young Graham swelled proudly at the compliment. “I learned from the best,” he said smugly.

Old Graham laughed and rolled his eyes.

“Don’t be condescending. It's unattractive.”

Both looked at the swords on the ground, knowing what the other would do. Old Graham ran and rolled. As he landed and reached for his blade, he was met with a sword already at his throat. Old Graham looked up: Young Graham was wagging a finger back and forth at him.

“You’re not that quick,” Young Graham said with amusement.

Old Graham sighed and pushed the sword away. Younger Graham kicked up the blade from the ground into his empty hand. He put both swords to Old Graham’s throat.

“You know, you should be nicer to yourself,” said Old Graham.

“Good one," said Young Graham.

All at once, rain began to pour, soaking them instantly. They took no notice.

“Ready to say it?” asked Young Graham.

Old Graham got to his feet slowly.

“You know what?" he said with a smile. “No.”

Old Graham leaned back and kicked him in the chest. The kick sent Young Graham flying, dropping both weapons. Old Graham snatched one of them; Young Graham quickly rolled and grabbed the other.

They were back to the duel.

This time Old Graham was more energetic and Young Graham more determined. Young Graham would not fail this time.

“Just give up, old man.” Young Graham pushed on their locked steel, making Old Graham take a step back.

“You know me, we never just give up," said Old Graham, breaking away and dealing five downward strikes.

Young Graham returned with three upward cuts and an attempted stab to his opponent’s torso, cutting his shirt.

“Did you just try to stab me?” asked Old Graham, holding his torn shirt.

“It's just practice."

“Very well.”

Old Graham threw a controlled slash across the left side of Young Graham’s face.

“What was that for?” he asked, outraged.

“It's just practice,” Old Graham repeated. “That was my favorite shirt.”

“Don’t have to punish yourself— it's your face too," said Young Graham, holding the cut.

“Ah, yes, so that’s how I got that scar. Self-inflicted.” Older Graham looked at Young Graham’s face with mock compassion.

The clouds passed, taking the rain with them. The sun broke through, and this time they were soaked in light. Steam rose on the rooftops, a haze around them. Without a word, they stabbed their swords into the roof and took off their coats.

They looked at their watches.

“Four more minutes," said Old Graham.

“I know.”

“You really seem to be trying to kill me today," said Old Graham, readying himself to continue the fight.

Something caught his eye and a smile came over his face. Old Graham ran and jumped to another rooftop. A zeppelin drifted by with a rope hanging from it, dragging across their roof. Young Graham followed quickly after trying to strike at him. But Old Graham took hold of the rope. Young Graham wouldn’t be able to catch up. It was the last rooftop before the ocean. Old Graham waved at him as he floated away.

“Next time then,” Young Graham called after him. 

“Don’t forget my coat!” said Old Graham.

⧫

oung Graham walked across the wet rooftops, holding the cut on his face. The rain started again. He hit a button on the sword hilt, turning it into an umbrella. He walked with a lightness in his step, collecting both coats. A rustle at his feet made him stop. He looked down. A pocket cameo had fallen out of Old Graham’s coat. Young Graham leaned down, taking a closer look, and picked it up gently and looked at it intently. He took in the image. A beautiful woman with curly dark hair, warm brown eyes, a strong and kind look was on her round face. He had not met her yet. He put the picture back in the coat pocket carefully.

His watch went off and Graham was pulled back to his time. He clicked it and thought about his training. They’d fought every week for one hour for almost ten years. He had to beat him in under seven minutes to win. Young Graham had almost made it today. He’d win soon—he was almost ready.

Graham Ward came from a family of Wizards. Not just Wizards, but Master Wizards. Time was their speciality. His parents were major figures in the magic community, and wanted their son to be the same.

Graham had other plans.

Ten years ago his older self came to him, declaring he’d become the best swordsman in the world—for all time. If he was going to become the best swordsman, he’d have to spend a good ten years of hard practice. He had made the time-loop when he was ten. Old Graham said he’d reveal why he was teaching him only after beating him. Mother had strong feelings against it, and would rather he’d finish his studies at the University of Magic, where they both taught. Father didn’t mind, but didn’t like to argue like Mother. Father would rather be smoking his pipe, reading history, or playing a prank. Graham didn’t want his mother to be upset, but he had his dreams. He wasn’t going to let anything get in his way.

Graham made his way in the rain down the mostly empty streets. He turned down the first alley. Water had pooled and he jumped from corner to corner to avoid soaking his shoes. He came to a dead end at a wall with a crate. Graham grabbed the crate and slid it to the side. An outline of a door had been drawn on the wall. He put his hand on the wall, closed his eyes and took a deep breath. He could hear his heart like the ticking of a clock. The outline began to glow, and a door materialized from the wall.

He opened his eyes, took hold of the knob, twisted and pulled. He stepped into the warm and comforting familiarity of his apartment. He closed the door and it receded into the wall, becoming again the outline he’d drawn.

Graham sank into his armchair. A warm cup of tea was waiting for him. He’d made it before he’d left, which was only a minute ago in his own time. He sipped the tea and closed his eyes. The fight and magic had made him tired. He drifted slightly.

A clash of thunder woke him. It was still raining. His father walked in and sat in the chair across. He took out his pipe and snapped his fingers, making a flame at one of its tips.

Father took a deep breath. “Good time?” he asked, smoke pouring from his mouth and nose.

“I almost won this time. He gave me this," Graham said, turning to show the cut on his cheek.

His father stood up and examined it.

“That’ll make a good scar.” He took a cloth from his pocket and handed it to Graham.

“I think it looks good on me," Graham said, not noticing the sting when he put the cloth on the wound.

“Think you’ll win next time?” Father asked, easing back into his chair.

“If not next, the time after. I know he knows it too. I saw it in his eyes today—my eyes.”

“What will you do after you win?”

Young Graham took another sip of tea. “Be the best swordsman in the world—and of Time, I suppose," he said, satisfied.

“What about Magic?”

“I use Magic,” said Young Graham.

“You use it to open Time Doors, but you haven’t learned anything beyond that. I haven’t seen you open a book in years. If you used Magic you’d be able to win sooner.”

“I want to beat him without help. My own skill.”

“Magic is your skill—it comes from your own power.”

“I mean without tricks.”

Father exhaled a cloud of smoke, unhappy at the comparison. He let it slide and continued.

“Your mother wants you to finish school so you can become a Master Wizard and marry Elizabeth before you’re thirty.”

“I’m only about to be twenty. What if I want to only be a swordsman?” Graham asked looking into his cup, afraid of the question himself.

Father took another deep puff, exhaling with a sigh, his face heavy.

“Elizabeth?” Father asked, leaning forward. The conversation became more serious. Graham put his cup down and leaned to match his father.

“She and I’ve known each other since childhood. I just. Don’t. Love her.”

Graham dreaded the day his mother knew. Her fury was scarier than a duel, injury, or anything else, really. Even the other wizards at the university didn’t dare cross her. She had a way of always winning. He could never figure out if it was magic or personality. The only one who knew was his father. She could never be mad at him longer than a few minutes.

His father looked at him. “What do you know?” he asked.

“About what?” Graham asked, knowing exactly what he meant.

His father tilted his head.

“What?”

“It’s just—”

“You see, I knew it.”His father said, interrupting him.

“Knew what?

“I knew that you fighting with yourself would lead to this. Has he told you something? Because both of you should know better. I mean, what have I taught you both? Never know what is going to happen, or you might ruin your destined future.”

“And we both know that. It's just that...I’ve seen a picture of her.”

“Of whom?”

“My wife.”

“How do you know it’s your wife?”

“Why else would I be carrying it? I know myself. I wouldn’t carry a picture if it wasn’t my wife.”

Graham got up and walked over to where he’d put his other coat. He took out the picture.

“How long have you known?” his father asked.

“About twenty minutes,” Graham said without turning around, undecided if he should show his father.

“So you’re not going to marry Elizabeth because of a picture from your future self that might be your wife?”

“I’ve never wanted to marry Elizabeth. Seeing that picture made me realize how much I don’t love her.” 

He walked back to his seat, holding the picture tightly in his hand. Father held his pipe over the fireplace grate, knocking out the ash, then put it in his pocket. Graham handed him the picture.

“What is it?”

“The picture.”

A look of terror came over his father. “You have it?”

“My older self left his jacket behind.”

“You know how many rules you’ve broken? You didn’t have to go through the pockets.”

“It fell out!” said Graham.

Father handed the cameo back.

“I shouldn’t look at it. We don’t know how much trouble you seeing this has caused.”

“What should we do?” he asked. Perhaps things were more serious then he’d thought.

“I need to think,” his father said, putting his face in his hands. “This is why you should have studied Magic.”

“It’s not that bad, is it?” Graham asked.

“If you’d finished that book, the one you learned the Time Door spell from, you’d know what this really means.”

“Magic is chronically complicated,” Graham complained.

“I knew it was risky when you made that loop,” said Father. “But I thought you’d be more careful and not ruin all time and space.” 

“So what are we going to do?”

“What we’re gonna do first is not tell your mother.”

“What if I just ignored that I saw the picture?” Graham offered, but his father’s face said it all before he even answered.

“Your decisions have already been affected. What if you’re supposed to marry Elizabeth? Seeing this picture of another woman from the future, who may or may not be your wife, may have messed up your destined future—changed the outcome of an entire timeline. You want to just ignore it?”

“Kind of.”

“Let me think.”

“What!?” Graham exclaimed. “We can’t just ignore it. What if I ruined something for myself in my timeline?”

“But I’m quite hungry, and this will take time,” his father said.

“How can you be saying that, while smiling?” Graham said, about to explode.

“I made all that up,” his father said with a laugh.

Graham’s face changed. “What do you mean?”

“I’m trying to prove that you need to learn more Magic. Do you see why you should know more? You had no idea I was messing with you about how time-loops work. Graham, you need to know your trade. What if someone wanted to use you?”

Young Graham sighed with relief and fell back into his seat. He took his cup of tea.

“I’m going down to dinner,” said Father. “Should I tell your mother that you don’t want to marry Elizabeth or should you?”

Young Graham threw a pillow at his father. He caught it, laughing.

“I’m teasing, son.”

“You’re pretty mean when you joke, you know that?”

“Your mother keeps telling me to stop teasing you kids, but you guys make it too much fun,” Father said. He put the pillow on the chair next to the door.

When he looked up at Graham, his son was staring into the fire. Father smiled and walked back quietly, leaving his son to his thoughts. Graham was at ease, and his face stung a bit, but it didn’t bother him. To achieve something hard you have to experience pain. It means you're doing the work. That’s how Graham saw it. He was getting close and would win if he tried hard enough. He would not let himself down next time.

⧫

ld Graham stopped and looked in the mirror that hung next to his bedroom door, examining the scar on his left cheek. It had appeared after the last duel. He looked at his watch and took out a piece of chalk. On the clean wall he drew the outline of a door with perfect ease, an action he’d been performing for many years. He finished with the knob, dropped the chalk in his pocket, grabbed his sword, and reached for his coat. He was met with an empty hand. He’d left it last time. He wondered if Young Graham had gone through the pockets. If his younger self won today he’d get the answer to the question that had been plaguing him for so long. The one he had promised to tell after his younger self defeated him.

Old Graham took a deep breath, slowing his heart, readying himself for the magic. He held his hand on the knob, put his other hand on the middle of the door outline. The door pushed forward, the knob putting itself right into his opened hand. With a twist and a push he stepped into the past.

To be safe, they met on mutual ground, in a timeline before they’d been born, someplace not part of family history. He set his watch for one hour and made his way. A rule of magic time travel is you never stayed longer than an hour, so as to not mess with the timeline.

Old Graham, and others, wondered ‘why an hour?’ Wizards would give you drawn-out answers, based on conjecture and opinion. The truth was, no one remembered. Convention and ritual is the imprisonment of the collective. No one really likes to ask hard questions, especially if they look foolish for asking.

Old Graham moved through the crowd and came to the building they were used to meeting in. As he came up, he saw that his younger self was already waiting for him.

“What took you?” Young Graham asked airily.

“How long have you been here?” Old Graham asked, feeling like he’d already lost.

“Long enough,” said Young Graham. He got to his feet.

“Remember my coat?” he asked, loosening his sleeves.

“Ready?” Young Graham asked, throwing the coat to Old Graham. He caught it without looking up, then put it on the ledge next to him. They readied their swords, taking their preferred stance of attack.

“I didn’t come here to just talk to myself,” Younger Graham said, twirling his sword.

“I think I’m really funny, don’t I?” Old Graham loosened his shoulders.

Without glancing at his watch Young Graham counted.

“One.”

“Two,” Old Graham responded.

“Three,” they said in one voice as their watches went off.

Young Graham made the first move. Their swords met in a clash. Older Graham laughed at his arrogance. Young Graham broke away and tried for a stab. Old Graham rolled and slapped him on the back of his head. Young Graham turned, rubbing his head in frustration. Their swords danced with each other, back and forth, moving in rhythm to music only they could hear. Young Graham began to get impatient, erratic and harsh in his movements. Old Graham sensed he was about to make a mistake.

“You need to focus," he said, trying to stop his younger self from slipping.

“You know what you're doing wrong? You're thinking it through," said Old Graham. “You should never think, only respond. Just because you really want to win, doesn’t mean you have to become an idiot. Just a little self criticism.”

The younger came back for him, striking left, right, down, up. Old Graham countered, blocked and moved with ease, in retort to his advances.

“You know what my problem is?” the older said as Young Graham struck at him."I think I’m better than everybody else, including myself. And I let my temper get the better of me. No matter what I teach myself I throw it out when I get aggravated. I’m rather impetuous.”

As if to physically punctuate his words, they locked swords.

“I sure talk a lot," said Young Graham.

Old Graham pushed out, causing them to circle their swords, freeing his own and stepping away. Young Graham quickly came with an upwards stroke. Old Graham stopped it and held him back.

“Do you think that you can ever really beat yourself?” he finally said.

“I really do," Young Graham said, trying for another strike. Old Graham countered, knocking Young Graham’s sword from his hand. Young Graham looked at his hand in amazement. Old Graham raised his sword to Young Graham’s throat.

“We’ve been doing this for ten years, and still you’ve learned nothing I’ve been trying to teach you?” Old Graham put his sword down.

“All you do is keep secrets and make jokes!” Young Graham shouted. He walked to where his sword was and took his fighting stance again.

“I really thought I could avoid this, but we never really change without pain," Old Graham sighed, disappointed. “We still have time," he added, waiting.

“As you wish.” said Young Graham. He knew what he had to do now.

Old Graham fought with a skill and determination he had never let Young Graham see before. Young Graham tried as hard as he could to keep up. Older Graham struck repeatedly, forcing him backwards. Before he knew it Young Graham was at his last step before the ledge. The next would be off the roof.

“I’d say I win," said Old Graham, holding his sword to his throat. “Just go home and don’t come back. You aren’t ready for the answer anyway, and you may never be."

He was trying to make him angrier.

“I still have one minute,” Young Graham said, leaping forward, sword in hand.

Old Graham spun him around, sending him backwards. Before Young Graham could stop his momentum he found himself falling off the roof. Old Graham watched himself fall.

⧫

oung Graham woke. With a jolt his body told him that he had broken two ribs, which were angry being reminded of this fact. He remembered the fall, the wind rushing past him, then nothing.

“Where am I?” he asked in a panic, afraid someone had taken him to a hospital in a different time. His eyes adjusted to the dark room. A figure stood just out of his sight, in the shadows.

“What time is it?” Young Graham asked. The figure rose, stepping to his side. It was Old Graham.

“Don’t worry, we’ll be fine, just a bit banged up," Old Graham said, taking a seat next to him.

“When am I?”

“I brought you to a hospital in your own time. Come on, we know better than that," he said with a wink.

Young Graham relaxed for a moment, but a new panic came over him, thinking of what his mother would do when she saw how he looked. “What am I going to tell our parents? I promised mom nothing would happen to me” he said, grabbing his face and speaking through his hands.

Young Graham brought his hands down and looked at his older self.

“This is all your fault! You're the one who wanted to train me to be the best swordsman in the world, and you wouldn’t even tell me why. I almost died, so the least you can do is tell me why!”

Old Graham watched, slightly smiling at his younger himself. “I am such a sore loser. But I’ll tell you,” he said, growing serious. He sat in silence, looking for the words.

Young Graham sighed impatiently.

“I was never teaching you to be the best.”

“What?”

“I didn’t do this to make you the best swordsman. That’s a ridiculous title—how could you have thought it was real?”

Young Graham’s face looked at him in disbelief.

“I was an aimless little shit growing up,” Old Graham said. “Looking back, I wonder how father and mother could stand me. How Elizabeth ever considered marrying me is inconceivable to me. When I was still like you, I thought only of what I wanted—and that was the most important thing in the world. I challenged everyone and anyone to fight. I never thought to learn from my mistakes or what I could learn from my opponents. When I was about to be twenty I found something that changed everything, putting me on the right path.”

“Which was?” he asked, finally getting the answer to the strange question that had been pressing on him for ten years.

“Purpose.”

Young Graham rolled his eyes and leaned back, disappointed. Old Graham ignored him and continued.

“The pursuit is often better than the actual thing you were after. It’s important to move forward and better yourself. So I decided that I would help myself, and I knew that I would have to sell it, so I said that we were best, because of my juvenile arrogance.”

He looked at Young Graham.

“I actually thought that I could be the best swordsmen in the world and all time—or anything stupid like that. I made this time loop with myself, hoping to avoid some of the mistakes I’d made. It's my fault—I see now that some things are truly unavoidable and just have to be experienced. The best doesn’t exist; only continuous self discipline and refinement are what bring you close to being better.”

Old Graham went to get up, but sat back down.

“Before I go let me say one last thing, something I learned that was more important than anything else in the whole world and through time.”

Young Graham leaned in, hoping for a better answer than the last one.

“Love.”

Graham leaned back into his pillow. “So what is the point of this excessively long monologue?”

A resident nurse entered, interrupting them.

“It will all make sense,” Old Graham got to his feet. “Give it little time.” He winked at Graham, and left.

“Give it little time,” Young Graham mockingly repeated, ignoring the nurse as she checked his chart.

“You two look very alike,” she said sweetly.

“It's very complicated—”

When Graham looked up his heart almost stopped. It was the woman. From the cameo. She was younger, had shorter hair, but her eyes were exactly the same. Time seemed to completely stop.

“So who was he?” she asked.

“What?” Young Graham found it hard to speak.

“Who is he then?” she repeated.

“A very good friend," he said.

Seeing her picture did not prepare him for looking at her in person. She smiled at him, and when she did, Graham didn’t feel much pain. She went back to the chart.

From the doorway Old Graham watched himself meet her for the first time. His hand moved to his breast pocket where her picture was.

“What did you ever see in me?” he mused to himself.

He’d met her the same way, except in his time he’d almost been killed because of his own arrogance in a duel. That had been the turning point in his life. He’d chosen this day and time, all for this exact moment. He had thought he could change who he was without having the same experience. But some things just have to be given time to work themselves out.

His watch went off. With a lightness to his step, he turned towards home. She was waiting for him. Dinner would be ready soon, and she hated when he was late.