Some parents might have questioned the wisdom of allowing their six year son to witness the death of his beloved grandfather, but not David Bloom's. Alison and Peter Bloom knew that children were tougher than most people gave them credit for, and that they needed to learn early on that dying was as much a part of nature as living. Admittedly, they were a little concerned with what Archimedes Bloom might say to their son in his last moments. Archimedes had always been an odd sort of fellow. The sort of man who might spend his rent money on century old manuscripts, all bound in leather than you could only hope came from an animal. He'd only gotten odder ever since his wife's passing, the woman who insisted her son be christened with a name that wasn't an allusion to some old, dead alchemist. Hell, the woman who insisted her son be christened at all.<br/><br/>After Archimedes' third stroke, he'd been forced to move in with his son and his family, and not a day went by where didn't loudly lament this fact. He'd been forced to put most of his unwholesome books into storage, including the really cool ones you could only understand when under the influence of  dubiously legal substances. Similarly, his awful nag of a  daughter-in-law had put a stop to his attempts to transmute lead into gold, for fear of them putting odd, unscientific ideas in her precious son's head.<br/><br/>Archimedes' grandson David was the only thing that bought the old man any joy in his declining years. When the boy wasn't romping with his friends, he was sitting on the floor of what his granddad charitably called his study. Latin, Enochian, and all other manner of obscure tongues were almost David's first languages thanks to Archimedes. Archimedes had considered initiating David into the occult as his father had, when he was almost grown, of course. Except, that was before Archimedes had been diagnosed with lung cancer.<br/><br/>"I want you to know, David, that you were a better son than your good for nothing father ever was," the old man whispered in Latin, trying to remain concious as the morphine worked its magic.<br/><br/>"What's your grandpa saying, David?" asked Alison.<br/><br/>"Uh," the little boy said through tears, "He says he loves us all loads."<br/><br/>"Tactful! I wonder how my life might have turned out, if I was ever able to master tact," said Archimedes, before dissolving into another round of coughing.<br/><br/>When it almost seemed like Archimedes would ride this coughing fit into oblivion, he regained nominal control of his breathing. "Listen, boy. The only reason I've been reduced to this, and incontinent old man, lying in a stinking hospital bed, is because I failed. Magic is an undertaking for children, because only you don't know what's impossible, and what's merely hard!" said the old man, still speaking in Latin.<br/><br/>David didn't know what to make of this. His granddad always made it clear that he wasn't "a pathetic magician" like his mom and dad always insisted, but he'd never said outright that he thought magic was real.<br/><br/>"When I'm gone, look under my bed, before your layabout parents can. You'll find a book, it's a lot thinner than most of my other ones, but every page is worth a thousand! Don't let age and death conquer you too!"<br/><br/>David was bawling at that point, wavy black hair sticking to his face with tears. "I love you, Grandpa!"<br/><br/>Archimedes sat up, and looked his grandson right in the eye. "And I didn't hate you either, David."<br/><br/>And with that, the old man died.<br/><br/>It might be too surprising to know that the first thing  that passed David's mind was how he'd survive first grade without his granddad. Or what he'd tell his best friends tomorrow.