SERIES: A Tide in the Affairs of Men
TITLE: The End Is Where We Start From
Rating: PG13
Disclaimer: I don't own the rights. Kudos to Smallville writers and producers.
Summary: Aesthetic/lyrical/psychological exploration of the interplay of fate and free will in human life, from the early omens of Chloe's and Oliver's futures building up to their eventual entanglement. Will follow canon as a backbone, but fill in a lot of blanks, don't know how far it will go.
This is the 1st installment, can be read as stand-alone pieces.
Feedback is greatly appreciated :)
There is a tide in the affairs of men.
Which taken at the flood, leads on to fortune;
Omitted, all the voyage of their life
Is bound in shallows and in miseries.
We must take the current when it serves,
Or lose our ventures.
Julius Caesar, Shakespeare
PROLOGUE.
"How do I know when to let go?" she asks in a whisper, scared to break the charged silence.
"It's all about your heart," he answers in the same tone, getting closer, gliding his hand along her arm, encasing her hand, and she can feel his pulse as much as she can hear her own beating insistently against her ear drums. With another caress, he urges on: "Just listen".
She gulps, realization washing over her. It is just a touch, a light brush of the fingers; it doesn't seem to be much, but it's enough to make them wonder what's in store for them. The sensation is amplified, the inkling becomes a rush, and the small waves their senses have acknowledged gather and grow, more inviting than ever, throbbing in their insides. And, albeit subconsciously, they know that somehow, everything has brought them here, that their shipwrecked rafts floating adrift in the moonlight after all the storms that have eaten at them are presented with this one chance to sail away by fusing with each other, by succumbing to the deep gravitational pull between them and this mysterious one that has the water rising. It is excruciatingly tempting to jump at this chance, at one another, to merge their battered souls and move together, frantically, in search of that sense of completeness that has remained elusive for both of them, to find a release.
"Right there in between the beats."
The tide is certainly theirs for the taking, but the tension is still there, thick and heavy, and their scorched beings hold on to what remains, afraid to lose what little they have left, unsure whether their rafts would survive another voyage. It is still their move, more so hers than his because he had already decided to stop going against the flow. The temperature has reached its peak, the strong rhythmic pulsing of their hearts are in sync and they now have to either omit what's staring them in the face or venture out of their walls into each other.
And as she slowly, silently exhales, poised to engage the flood, he gives her that last push to take her with him: "That's when you let go".
What we call the beginning is often the end. And to make an end is to make a beginning. The end is where we start from.* In both their cases, an agonizing ending came early on, the first of many thorns to tear through their fragile, human skin.
Star City, October 13th, 1989
A heavy rain was pounding against the stained glass of the Queen manor's windows, and while such weather was, in California, a scarce occurrence, it oddly suited the internal tremor of the almost 8 year-old blonde pouting boy who had his forehead plastered to his window, looking out morosely at his parents' arriving limousine which would depart again tomorrow morning without him. He had tried distracting himself with the bow and arrow playset that his father had bought him this summer and that he had carried around every day since then, but it only reminded him of how desperate he had been for his father to actually take more than a few minutes to teach him. Instead, his father trekked across the world even more frequently than usual, his mother always tagging along, and he really started to crave some attention, especially from his busy and increasingly distressed dad. When they brought him with them to what he thought would be a breezy family vacation, he ended up at the Luthor mansion, a murky place filled with war antiquities and imposing Persian carpets, where all he could do to pass time was play hide seek with Lex, Jason and Patricia, whom he saw only once a year, while their fathers locked themselves away in their study, and their mothers supposedly went shopping with the exception of Lionel's ill wife.
When the archery practice only made him yearn more for his father's company, he had turned to Robin Hood's illustrated chronicles in hopes of avoiding his boring reality to plunge in the adventures of the hero-thief who fought for the weak . Unfortunately, that did not have the desired effect either, because it reminded him of his mother's soft voice lulling him to sleep while she read the real story, reminding him to always put other others ahead of himself. The idea he usually willingly embraced currently did not bode well, because he wanted to be selfish and ask his parents to stay with him, or at least to allow him to tag along instead of sending him away to boarding school. "Ollie, your education is the only thing that can never be taken from you," his mother's voice of reason sounded again in his head, but he shut it out because right now, all he wanted was his parents, and he was extremely angry with them for dictating his life and, these last months, keeping him on the outskirts of theirs. What was so important that they could not take a break, and decided to send him away, instead of standing by his side while he went to school somewhere near his home? Desperate and fuming, he had gone to the window, reluctantly awaiting their return, because their presence would be, once again, brief.
"Oliver," called his nanny behind him.
"What?" he sulkily answered, knowing full well what she came to announce.
"Your papa is home, dear."
"I don't care!"
"You don't mean that and you know it," she chided him gently, knowing he always dealt with sadness and disappointment by channeling it into anger.
Soon after, he heard his father's steps down the hall, undoubtedly headed his way, and he braced himself to show his clear disapproval of the situation.
"Where's my little man?" sounded the grave, powerful but loving voice of Robert Queen behind him. "Ollie?" he prodded when his son did not make a move to acknowledge his presence. "Come on, pal. I haven't seen you in a week. Give your dad a hug."
At that, Oliver slowly turned around, morphing his facial expression to appear impassive, and crossed his arms to take a stance intended for sending a message to his father: he would not budge or pretend acceptance of the turn of events.
Robert smirked at the picture his spiky haired son painted, with his strong set of shoulders and the steely look of determination in his eyes behind which he could see the same fire that guided him in his own endeavors. One day, he will make a fierce leader, he thought. I only hope he finds a woman like Laura to remind him of what's good in life when he succumbs to these mood swings and to challenge his stubbornness. He's already a handful like his dad. With a more serious voice, he tried again to break this vow of silence his fireball of a son had taken: "Going to school is a little more important than going on a trip with your mom and me."
"But I wanna see where Genghis Khan is from!" he complained, whining, trying a different strategy, knowing his father indulged him whenever he mentioned his ancient idols, and the Mongolian conqueror with his archery skills was certainly one of them. At this moment however, he couldn't care less about Seoul's historical figures - not that he did not relish in the inspirational tales his father had fed his curious mind and aspiring heart - but he knew they were headed there tomorrow to meet with South Korea's Prime Minister.
Robert chuckled at this change of tactics, and his son's theatrics. Not only stubborn, but manipulative and dramatic. God help him!
"He'll still be from there, after you finish the school year," he reasoned. His son's face twisted in annoyance, so he chose this moment to kneel in front of him and pull from behind his back a significantly more sophisticated bow than the one he had given him at the beginning of this summer, with a whole new set of arrows, meant as a birthday gift and to appease his temper. When the boy's eyes widened in surprise and in awe, he felt a twinge of relief; maybe his son would not hold a grudge against him for much longer. "These are just like the ones Genghis Khan used," he told him in a placating voice, handing him the set.
However, while Oliver, entranced, had taken the gift, these words only reminded him of the cause of his sorrow, and his anger bubbled to the surface again: "I don't want a stupid bow and arrow!" he exclaimed, throwing the precious artifact on the hard-wood floor. "I wanna go with you!"
Hurt by the outburst, Robert got up, and addressed his son firmly now: "You have a funny way of showing it." More gently, he reminded him: "I'm here right now, Ollie."
But Oliver would not be swayed, and he no longer made a show of indifference or pleading: "And you're leaving again tomorrow morning! Without me, like always!" he finished, storming out of his room.
Overwhelmed, Robert closed his eyes, trying to regain his composure by listening to the pounding rain, but it only reminded him of the struggle he had endured during the last months, as the prophesied date approached and as more and more weight was put on his shoulders. He worked so hard to ensure this world's, his family's safety and well being, but he kept being reminded of the sacrifices he was making. As he wished his son would one day understand and forgive him, an announcement on the intercom put an end to his musings: "Mr. Queen, your guest has arrived."
Later that evening, Oliver was sitting in a large hallway of the manor, playing with his Warrior Angel and Devilicus figures. "Please, help us!" he screamed holding a plane that he drove towards the floor, making crash noises. "It's too late. Warrior Angel can't save you now!" As he was about to bring the hero to the rescue, he heard voices down the hall.
"We just can't trust him anymore," his father's weary voice resonated.
"We were beginning to sense that," a woman responded.
Dropping his toys, Oliver noiselessly made his way toward the slightly opened door. He could see his dad engulfed in an armchair, eyes glassy turned towards the fireplace, with, to his surprise, Patricia's mother in the other seat.
"The seeds of fascism were watered by altruism, Bridget," Robert continued. "I fear he's pushing us down a similar path. We formed this group to wield our wealth and power towards a greater purpose, to protect that dangerous secret and help the traveler on his mission. But I don't think Lionel understands that it is bigger than all of us. His thirst for power is growing, and I don't know if he will resist the temptation."
"I'll make sure Virgil knows where you stand," said the woman reassuringly.
"Swann is lucky to have you. We all are," observed Robert with a little smile at this acceptance.
"The feeling is mutual. You are a critical part of this endeavor. And so is Laura."
"Eavesdropping is gonna make you a heck of a crime fighter one day." Oliver jumped at the sound of his mother's voice behind him. He had the grace to look sheepish. His mother's amused expression morphed into a more serious set of features, but her voice remained gentle, as it always did when she lectured him: "But not a very trusted leader."
"I'm not talking to you either," Oliver replied half-heartedly, distancing himself. He had more trouble being brash with his mother.
"Ollie…" Laura silkily called. "You know your education…"
"...is the only thing that can't be taken away from me. Yeah, yeah. I know, and I don't care."
"I know you don't want to be held back at school. You don't want Geoffrey and Alden to be a year ahead, do you?"
"You know what I really want?" Oliver continued, fighting to not waver at his mother's soothing methods. "No parents!" he stated childishly. "That way, I can't be left behind."
"Oliver Jonas Queen!" Laura scolded, raising her voice a bit. "Be careful what you wish for."
With a pang of guilt, but not strong enough to override his resentment, Oliver fled away to his room and closed himself in. During the night, in his slumber, he felt his mother's lips pressing against his forehead. "I love you," she whispered. "Love you…" he mumbled in his sleep, fading once again into unconsciousness.
When the morning came, Oliver woke up slowly and walked up to the window. The rain had slowed down, but the skies did not seem to have cried enough yet. Looking down at the grand entrance, he saw his father holding an umbrella, opening the car's door for his mother. Laura looked up to her son's room, and Robert followed suit. They both smiled tentatively upon seeing him, waving their goodbye. Oliver could not smile, but he placed his hand against the glass in acknowledgement, an emptiness washing over him at their departure. Little did he know, it was the last time he would see them...
Metropolis, March 29th, 1995
With a skip in her step, an 8 year-old blonde girl made her way down a quaint little street with welcoming family houses. She was impatient to arrive home, so she could show her latest accomplishment to her mother. She had worn a little green dress today, remembering that her mother had told her lovingly that it brought out her eyes. With a pang, she recalled the loneliness that had washed upon her when she was five, following her mother's departure. She had been utterly lost, suddenly left alone with her father, who tried to explain to her that him and her mother were parting ways for a while, but that he would always be there for her, and that he was certain her mother would make her way back to her eventually.
It had not taken her long to dig up the meaning of "divorce", and she had kept hoping, every time she crossed the door of her home, that her mother would be waiting in the living room. She knew her mother had called and spoken to her father, who would answer questions about her, but she had never asked to speak to her directly. Sometimes, after those phone calls, she would hear her father mutter something about meteor showers and things going awry, but she guessed that was his typically colored way of describing a failure.
Feeling abandoned had not left her reeling in self-pity however. The spunky little girl thrived on observing the people and the world around her. She loved to look at the passengers on the subway and guess where they were going. And, now as she walked down the street, she imagined what was happening behind each apartment window. In the animated city, she'd stare down alleys and wonder who was sitting in the shadows. Mysteries hooked her and drove her to journalism to find the answers, to shed light on the unexplained, to expose the truth. Whenever something cropped up, she never wanted to explain it away, bury it and forget it; she turned over every rock, read every book she could grab at the library, already masterly roamed the search engines on a computer for someone so young. She was fascinated by strange characters, closed curtains and dark shadows, and her insatiable curiosity tended to land her in precarious situations, but she never held back her tongue or her pen.
The tougher questions always grabbed her attention, and the only mystery she might have shied away from was the one which pertained to her mother. Her father was easy-going and always affectionate, albeit often embarrassing with his incessant joking, but she severely missed a motherly figure; someone who would get excited with her on her stories, not just give her off-handed approval; someone who would guide her and inspire her, not just reassure her. She often felt a lot older than she was, and she happily stood alone and claimed to be an independent woman, idolizing Betsy Ross (first American flag, anyone?) and Nelly Bly (a trip around the world and faking insanity to study a mental institution from the inside - you can't be much gutsier than that)… However, the presence of a mother would have been appeasing to her and the void she had left had made the young girl ache to fill it with friends, but these never seemed to be quite enough. Then, two months ago, to her incredulous joy, her mother had returned with the intention of staying.
At the thought of her waiting home for her to come back from school, she sped up her walk, and clutched the newspaper in her hand a little harder in trepidation. Pain shot through her and she winced; she had forgotten her injury. Stupid kickball, and stupid violent boys. I will never play again. I need my hands too much for that. It had, indeed, taken twice longer to type her expose on the legend of the Lock Ness Monster. As the view of her own house appeared around the corner, the girl ran forward and burst through the front door, bee-lining to the living room where she knew her mother would be.
"Mom! Mom! Mom, mom, I want you to be the first to read it," she proclaimed, brandishing proudly the School Gazette of Metro Elementary in front of her. "Long live the Loch Ness monster. Mr. Hedgis said it was my best story yet, even better than the one about the alien abduction."
Pausing in her rant, she took a second look at her mother, who was kneeling in front of her, her face plastered with tears. Her face was strained as she listened to her, obviously trying to hold back more.
"Something tells me those aren't happy tears," she observed slowly. "What's wrong?"
"I'm so proud of you… my little cub reporter," Moira admitted, looking at the ray of sunshine that she would once again be forced to shy away from. She had really thought there would be nothing wrong now that she had control over herself, she was convinced that her powers could do no damage here, that she could finally be there for her daughter again… "Chloe, I'm so… I'm so sorry." I wish you knew how sorry I really am, how I wish I could be by your side to witness the great things you will do.
Not missing the way her mother dodged her question, and growing increasingly worried, Chloe pressed further: "Wait. For what? You didn't do anything."
Moira smiled a little to herself at that. You really don't miss anything, do you? I just hope someday someone will guard your heart the way you seam to want to protect everyone else's.
At that moment, a tall man clad in a doctor uniform and two others walked in the living room, interrupting the explanation Moira was currently formulating. "It's time, Mrs. Sullivan."
Whirling around, Chloe looked at the men who had just addressed her mother. She turned back to her, close to breaking down in tears herself, her voice wavering: "Mom, who are those people? Where are you going?"
Sniffling, Moira tried her best to reassure her daughter. No matter how strong she was, no child could bear the burden of this truth: "Mommy's just going on a little vacation."
"By yourself?" Chloe asked dubiously.
"Don't worry. Your daddy's gonna take good care of you."
"But nobody goes on a vacation by themselves," the young girl persisted, her mind whirling, her heart beating frantically in fear. "When are you coming back?"
Having no strength to answer with a lie, Moira hugged her daughter tightly, letting the tears roll freely down her cheeks.It's for the best, for her own safety, she kept saying to herself. Not being able to resist, she unclasped the heart pendant Chloe wore; she had to at least have a token to remind her of her reason to go on living. She kissed her golden hair, and reluctantly let her go, getting up. "Your daddy will be home in five minutes," she told her. "Goodbye, my love".
As the men escorted her out the front door, Chloe stood rooted in place, and when the loud thump of the closing door resounded in the empty house, she fell to the floor, breaking down in sobs and grasping her sides to keep from shattering into pieces. Through the haze of her tears, she saw her byline staring her in the face; it would be the only safe heaven she could find for a while.
* T.S. Eliot
Note: There were a few inconsistencies on the show concerning the timeframe of Moira's departure. Chloe once said that her mother left the family when she was five (Lineage). However, since she appeared by her side when she was 8, it is to be assumed that she kept some contact with the family (Progeny). I just extrapolated that she had trouble controlling her powers once they developed and left, but came back when she thought she had gotten a hold on herself, only to find out that she could cause harm to her own daughter, thus having herself committed to a mental institution.