JOURNEY'S END IN LOVER'S MEETING
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He is Thomas. And he has his doubts.
The man, Christos, they call him, returns. Strides up to him last of all. Asks him to put his hand here, there, feel where the sword went in. Here, he says, here are my palms. Look. See. Observe.
But as Thomas, he has doubts. He looks around. "He" is not here.
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He is Marcus Antonius. And feels nothing but amusement for her - a Queen of Egypt? A Queen? He studies her; she is tiny, no more than four foot eight. But there is something in her bearing.
He looks around, at the lavish decorations, he smells the air – love sick with perfume – with rose petals. He looks back at her. Small, regal, commanding. She lifts an ironic eyebrow. He smiles back, grimly.
But once more, He is not here.
And they have already burned the library. THE LIBRARY. He cannot fathom such sacrilege, such betrayal. The dolts! Do they even realize what they have done? Did Caesar?
As he looks down into her eyes, as dark as the silt deposited by the Nile at high tide, he misses Him, a foot soldier, standing back in the ranks, observing. Only a soldier, sturdy body, blonde hair hidden. Just another soldier. Awaiting orders.
He fights at Actium.
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He is the Comte Saint-Germaine. And at last, at last, He comes. One of two apprentices. He will teach them. Particularly teach Him everything he knows, everything he has learned. Together, they will learn together. And when the time is right, he will take Him, this golden one, to his bed.
But there is plague in this city in France. And the slight, yellow-haired youth is one of the first to succumb.
He rages.
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He is Wilhelm Thomson. Again with the Thomson, he thinks. Ordinary. He stands behind the madman, listens to him rage. Watches him gesticulate, notes the spittle as it sprays forth. He sees the mad body language. This does not bode well for the world, nor for his own country, the one this maniac promises to deliver, for Deutschland.
He stares around the room. But "He" is not here. He frowns. Again wrong? Again?
He has no way of knowing that one he searches for has already been sent to the camps.
He fingers his pistol in his side holster, studies the back of the slightly greasy dark hair. It would be so easy, he thinks. So delightfully easy. His hand grips the pistol. His eyes narrow.
The scene shifts – and he is gone. Vapor. He wonders idly what those around thought as his form dissolved into the air. Did they even notice? No. They did not notice. The tiny madman had them enthralled with his equally insane promises. But something about him, this sick horror, was so familiar. He wonders, even as the world dissolves around him.
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"You know the rules. NO. CHANGING. HISTORY.
"Boring," he sighs.
"Nevertheless." The bright one sighs. "Go. Go again and you will have to do better now. And hurry."
He raises an eyebrow – or what passes for one here in this place of light and shadow.
"He doesn't have much time?"
The bright one looks at him and sighs again. "You have not been paying attention. His soul advances at an astonishing rate. It is not He who is running out of time."
Realization dawns. "My time. My time is –"
"Running down. Hurry now. Hurry. Find Him. Find the other half of your Soul."
And as the molecules dissolve, he hears—"And pay attention this time."
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He is Michelangelo. He sighs. Going backwards again. But he tries. And it's wrong. All wrong. He creates beauty with paint and brush. He doesn't care. He carves truth into marble. Pedestrian. He spends his precious time in searching for and cataloguing the human ideal – and just misses The One yet again when he is one of the five who bring him the slab of marble, and it topples over, just a glancing blow really, but it crushes the fragile ribs and He dies, there in the dirty street that flanks his studio, dies without ever knowing.
Close. So close.
He picks up a mallet – and smashes the cream marble with the grey veining– over and over and over again.
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Forward this time. And he is Roger Peltham. Theirs is one of the last groups to leave. He finishes hitching up the horses to the strange cumbrous vehicle, all wood and stretched canvas. How quaint. How do they expect this to weather the rain, the snow and ice, high winds?
He meets the group he is to lead through the western wilderness.
And there He is. Slight of frame, blonde of hair, sandwiched between his parents, holding His older sisters' hand. He looks to be ten, maybe eleven.
And he is 38. He groans. Too far. He has gone back too far. Or too far forward.
Three weeks later, the youth falls from a sudden infection. One week afterwards, the natives slaughter the rest of the family, burn the wagons. Burn him in their fires.
He doesn't care, even as he is burning, he doesn't care. He has already burned, back there by the river, when he helped bury the youth. Helped bury Him.
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He is Soleil. Just Soleil. He stands on the mountaintop with his fellow scientists and watches as the flaming rock, the meteor comes closer, closer. He stares skyward, glances around.
He is not here. And he quietly fumes. Too far ahead. He has come too far.
Or else they are just playing with him – and find this amusing.
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"You never did have a sense of humor," the bright one says.
"What was that? Some type of cosmic joke?" he rages.
Again with the heavy sighs. "You are way off track. And yes, you have to give us our little moments, here and there. Now get a move on. Time is of the essence."
He dissolves.
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He is Byron. The features are – nearly – familiar when he looks in the glass. He lives, loves, writes, despairs, dies without finding Him. After death, the people of Greece insist on keeping his heart with them and it is removed.
He doesn't mind. He could have told them, all of them, that they were too late. He has long since ripped his heart out of his chest. And held it in His keeping.
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He is a scientist. Boring .
He is a philosopher. Obvious.
He is a dozen other souls. But none of them feel right. None of them fit.
And when he looks around, He is not there.
He is never there.
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He is James Moriarty. And looks with horror into his own face, listens to his words thrown back at him.
No! Not this. Never this. They cannot DO this. He cannot bear it. He recoils from the madness in his mind even as he puts it on display for the entire world to see. For Him to see.
He rages, throws out taunts, sees the horror erupt on his own face even as he tells him certain truths – "They will die. All your friends. Unless they see you jump."
Aghast at his own actions, sickened by his chaotic thoughts, he puts the gun in his mouth. And pulls the trigger.
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He rages at them all. "What the bloody HELL was THAT! He was there. We were so close. So close."
"You had to know. Had to know how close you came. Now go—"
"I know. I know. Pay attention. Find HIM."
As his atoms dissolve, he thinks, "Please. I'm getting so tired. Please."
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The bright one sighs. Relents. After all, he has a certain fondness for this particular tormented soul.
He gives a push, just a little one really. Electrons dance.
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He is Sherlock Holmes. He looks up, pipette in hand, as Mike Stamford comes in the swinging door of the lab at Bart's.
And sees HIM walk in. He limps, leans on a cane ("Psychosomatic," he thinks. "Easily fixed.")
At the same time, he stares. At the familiar dark blue eyes, the not quite blond hair, the much dreamt of beautiful open face, still slightly tan from time spent in a harsh clime.
His heart does a slow turn. He feels something in the region of his chest begin to open up. Feels warmth spread through his aching body.
At last. AT LAST.
Mike makes the introductions.
"Old friend of mine. John Watson."
He nods.
Somewhere he hears the sound of faint laughter.
"Now get a move on. Lots to do before the end. Lots to do."
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