I will keep you in the dark no longer.

As Atticus Fletcher’s epic tale draws to a close, I promise you this—that now is the time for me to finally reveal my name, if you have not guessed it already. But first, I feel there is a discussion that must be had, in order for you to fully understand the answer I am going to give.

What is a villain?

You know that I am the villain of this story. Of course you know that. I have been positively insufferable in making certain that fact was conveyed. But what is a villain?

I have heard many definitions of the word. Funny, how many ways a single word may be interpreted, especially one so seemingly straightforward as ‘villain.’ I do not doubt that if I asked you to name the villain of your favorite movie, you could do so with very little thought. These things, at least in fiction, tend to be rather black and white. There is a hero, and there is a villain, and the two are at odds most, if not all, of the time. This sounds correct, yes?

Yes, I thought so.

Well, here is where things get a little more… complicated.

In the tale I have told, the tale of Atticus Fletcher and Princess Tiffany and the world they discovered, things are far less straightforward. If you’re especially clever, it is possible you have determined who the villain is. But I believe there are a great many of you who have not, and that is because, on the surface, there is no villain at all. That is why we must dig deeper.

Ultimately, a villain is the counterweight to a hero. Their greatest enemy. The one who stands directly in their way. Sometimes the villain shares the hero’s goal, and sometimes their goal and the hero’s are direct opposites—either way, the primary difference is one of motivation.

Now think. Atticus Fletcher has several counterweights in this story—Tiffany is one, to be sure, and it can be argued that Ash and Bridger play that role as well. However, there is only one character in this story who continually stood blocking Atticus’s path. There is only one character whose impure motivations threatened to derail all the good in the tale. And it is not Tiffany. It is not Douglas. It is not Ash, nor is it Bridger, nor is it Reuben the steward.

For who could ever stand as an obstacle to Atticus Fletcher, save for Atticus Fletcher himself?

I do not speak like like the Atticus Fletcher you have grown accustomed to. The changes that have taken place within me since the day I first set out in pursuit of the Princess Tiffany have been astronomical, changing—I would venture to say—the entirety of my being. I am not the man I was. I and the world are both better for it. I no longer act like I did; I no longer speak like I did.

Nevertheless, I am Atticus Fletcher. The best Atticus Fletcher I have ever been. And I get better every day, driven to continually do so by the smile of the most incredible person I have ever known. I remember well the days of our youth, during which I never once saw that smile. I know that was, in part, my fault. And I never intend to take away her smile again.

Nor do I intend to ever lose my own.

It was not an easy adjustment for the Valley folk, transitioning from their simple Valley lives to the modernized, fast-paced lifestyle of the city. A few of them returned to the land of King Douglas, unable to handle the change. Of those who chose to remain on the outside, I cannot say what became of them all, but I will tell you what little I know.

I believe it has been mentioned already, but as you have had a great deal of time to forget, I will tell you again that my ‘deadweight’ companion Harry took up the air rifle and currently holds an Olympic silver medal in the sport. He is hard at work preparing for the next Olympic Games, in which he is determined to win gold. He and Julianne remain fast friends.

On the subject of Julianne, I should tell you I attended her wedding only last week. It was a simple ceremony, up on a green hilltop with a small party of guests and purple flowers lining the aisle. I found it rather touching.

(There may have been a few small water stains on my collar afterward—I will not say how they got there.)

Julianne married a city man, a wealthy businessman of some renown. He is one of the kindest men I have ever known. Recently, he has encouraged her to attend a university and become a child psychologist, as she has talked of doing for years. Tiffany also tells me the two purchased a puppy yesterday; I will most certainly have to pay them a visit and meet the little beast.

Reuben the steward never really stopped being a steward, for which I am grateful. I have known the man so long that, were he to abandon the occupation, I think the world might truly stop spinning in its shock, and I now know enough about science to know that would be a very, very bad thing.

In all seriousness, though, Reuben thrives out here. He works as a caretaker for vacation rentals, and holds a part-time job at Ash’s motel. In addition, he volunteers once a week to hold babies in the hospital and twice a week to shelve books at the library… Yes, Reuben is doing quite well for himself. Rumor has it he has even started exercising. What a world.

What a crazy, beautiful world.

Some of the other Valley folk work at Ash’s motel as well, I know. Tad and Alina make the breakfasts… Carol’s in charge of the laundry… Peter, Jack, and Mariah are on the cleaning crew, along with a few others. As a matter of fact, Jack is now Bridger’s roommate, helping to share the financial burden of renting an apartment in the city. (It’s a bit of a sad story—Bridger fell into some financial trouble and lost his previous apartment. But that story ends with both a new apartment and a new friendship, so there really is a silver lining in everything, wouldn’t you say?)

Tiffany lives in the city, just a block away from my own place. She holds two jobs—one as a dental assistant, one as Chick-fil-A’s finest delivery driver—to financially support herself while she works toward online degrees in marketing and advertising. I see her every morning as I go to get a coffee three blocks down (Turns out, I’m rather fond of the stuff). Our paths usually cross then, as she makes the walk to the dental office, a route that takes her directly past the little coffee shop I frequent. If, for any reason, I do not see her in the morning, I simply order a spicy deluxe sandwich and a frozen lemonade in the evening and cross my fingers she’s the one to bring it.

She laughs more than ever. Smiles more than ever. It’s the most wonderful thing I’ve ever experienced.

As for me… well, I thrive just as much as anyone else, I suppose. I get my coffee in the morning,. I go to work. I have a stable job at a law firm here in the city—not as a lawyer, of course; I don’t have any education to qualify me for that. I’m more of an… assistant, you might say. It is a good job; it pays me well enough, and I enjoy my work, which is more than I can say for many of the other city folk.

I meet with Tiffany every now and again, outside of our daily coincidental run-in. Sometimes I cook for her, as cooking is something I have taken great enjoyment in as of late. Sometimes I merely buy her a coffee. Whatever we do, we end up chatting for hours—sometimes long into the night, if she doesn’t have a delivery shift.

I am content with my life here.

And yet… there is a secret dream I have. A wishful fantasy, but one that I can’t help but think may be possible. Every time I meet with Tiffany, every time I hear her laugh or see her smile, I can’t help but see it in my mind’s eye, and I can’t help but hope, against all hope, that someday it will come to be. Each time I see Tiffany, there is a question I come close to asking… but each time, my courage fails me. I wonder if, perhaps, Atticus Fletcher was always a coward after all.

But I cannot escape the fantasy. I cannot escape this scene—

We’re on a park bench, side by side, watching the sun set. Frost blankets the grass. Our breath comes out in misty white clouds. I am wearing the coat Bridger lent to me all those years ago, the one he insisted I never give back. The park is still and silent. It is too early for the junkies and the criminals, too late for the children, too cold for the residents of the nearby nursing home.

My right arm extends along the back of the bench, draping around her shoulders. She is laughing. I laugh, too, but that is not quite as beautiful a sound. I crack a joke; she laughs again. The sky fills with streaks of pink and orange, and her head falls onto my shoulder as night begins to fall. The only sound is that of our quiet chatter. Then the sun is gone, and the sky is a deep purple, and her voice dies away and I realize she is fast asleep.

And we stay there, on that park bench, just like that, for hours. I do not wake her. I look down at her head, still and peaceful on my shoulder, and I know I have more than I ever could have asked for.

I cannot be certain this will continue. I cannot be certain nothing will break us apart. I cannot be certain she will not walk away from me tomorrow.

But then again, there are few certainties in life, and at the very least, I have everything for now.

The end of The Epic of Atticus Fletcher

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