Meditations of a Dying Man

Phileas felt the blade slip out of him, and he felt himself collapse onto the ground. So this is death, he thought as the maniac who stabbed him cackled and muttered some insane nonsense about the League of Darkness and democracy, or maybe royalty, he wasn't really sure.

Death was different than he thought it would be. He thought it would be all pain and fear, and while there was that, there was more. There was a deep sense of relief, the simple knowledge that he would never have to worry about anything ever again. He would never have to fight himself or anyone else for that matter, he would never have to be afraid again.

As death wrapped itself around him like a black velvet curtain, Fogg let go. He fell into it and enjoyed the peace and the quiet and the warmth. Life hadn't been that bad, it had been rather good, all things considered, but it would be nice to rest. He wondered, idly, what he would miss most. His mind drifted from point to point, England, the queen, the Aurora, the Secret Service . . . none of those things. They would continue without him, maybe spare a second to morn, but they will continue.

There was, of course, Passepartout. Fogg felt a twinge of sorrow at the thought of leaving him behind. He would, of course, be very well provided for, Fogg had made sure of that. He would get the Aurora and enough money to live off of for the rest of his life. And Verne would be alright too. There was an endowment set up for him so that he could write without worrying about starving. And Rebecca . . . she was strong, she would be fine.

But would she, he wondered. They had been very close as children. In fact, she was closer to him than any brother or sister could have been. They had a connection that couldn't be denied. He had almost lost her many, many times and the pain would have been far worse than the present gut wound that was killing him.

He let out a sigh that was intended to be his last, and suddenly found images flooding his brain. It was amazing. His life did not flash before his eyes, he knew his life, he didn't need to see it again. Instead he saw his death. He, in a moment of divine inspiration, saw Rebecca at his funeral. He saw her all in black and it suited her. He saw Jules and Passepartout sanding on ether side of her, crying but trying not to. But Rebecca wasn't crying, her eyes were dry and they were cold. He saw the set of her jaw and realized that while she was strong, she did not posses the grace to be strong gracefully. The strength she possessed came from dedication and focus, but disillusionment was a very hard thing to face and grief disarmed everyone. Instead of grieving she would become angry, and because the moment she let go of that anger she would have to feel sorrow, so she never would. And Jules would fair no better. He would try to pull Rebecca up, out of her bitterness only to be pulled back down into it. But Verne was not strong. It would cripple him. Soon he would despise his dreams and burn pages and pages of ingenious manuscripts because, as he saw it, they were written in Fogg's blood. But Passepartout, he by far was the worst off. Rebecca would never grieve, and Passepartout would never stop grieving. Verne would be a good friend for a long time, but eventually even he would be sickened by the faithful valet who could not seem to let go of his master's memory. He would become known as that insane Frenchman and, when he was old, would be the target of many thrown stones and cruel words by the local children.

Death didn't seem so warm, nor so care free. He did have a responsibility to his friends to live. They needed him, England didn't, and the service didn't, and even the forces of good and justice didn't. But the people he cared about did. He was surprised to find that, for Rebecca's gentleness, Jules's innocence and Passepartout's sanity, he was willing to go on living. He opened his eyes, casting off the heavy velvet curtain with some effort. He pulled air into his lungs and made an effort to sit up. Suddenly he remembered why he was dying. He gasped for breath again and made a foolishly desperate attempt to spare his loved ones from the grief they couldn't handle. "Help!" he called out, as loudly as possible, without a thought to the insane swordsman who had skewered him in the fist place. "Rebecca," he started coughing blood. "Verne!" He was getting light headed and his vision blurred. The black velvet was wrapping its self around him despite his efforts to untangle it.

* * *

A few blocks away the London bobby's were taking away the swordsman. He had made the mistake of attacking Rebecca, now that he had her cousin out of the way, and had quickly been outmatched. This was due, Rebecca admitted modestly, to the fact that he was bleeding from several major lacerations which Phileas had given him.

"Speaking of Fogg," Verne asked, "Where is he?"

An insane cackle came from the paddy wagon and chilled the bones of the three standing in the street. "Dead, dead, dead," he said in a sing-songy voice. "He's dead and bleeding. Asleep never to awake. I flung him from this mortal coil, and that is more than worth my freedom!"

"You, you do not think?" Passepartout said, voice trembling.

He looked at Jules, who did not know what to think and so tried to be brave. Finding no comfort there he turned to Rebecca, who knew exactly what to think. "Of course not," she said sternly. "But we will still have to find him." She took a deep breath and took a decisive step. "I'm going to look south, Verne look North."

"What is there for I to do, Miss Rebecca?" Passepartout asked desperately.

Rebecca looked at him, knowing full well that seeing Fogg weak, helpless, maybe even dying would throw him into a panic and he would be useless to his master when his master needed him the most. But the eagerness in his eyes and the fear in his voice could have melted her heart. "You, Passepartout, will find a doctor," she said kindly.

"Yes, of course, Miss Rebecca!" Passepartout said eagerly before running off .

"Ah, Rebecca," Verne said nervously as soon as the valet was out of earshot. He was about to ask a question but she answered it before a syllable passed through his lips.

"Phileas is not dead, Vern," she said, her voice as solid as a rock. "He is not dead. I would know. I would feel it."

Jules suddenly got a sense of deja vu. He had heard those words before, well, a very close approximation of those words, and in that case everything had turned out alright.

"Now, you go north and I'll go south and we'll find him," she said, not meeting his gaze and not taking the time to explain any further.

"Yes ma'am," the author said, before turning south and starting a desperate search.

* * *

Phileas was barely conscious. He continued to yell out for help, because it was keeping him awake, but every breath brought more blood and phlegm to be coughed out and every heartbeat made him a little weaker. "Passepartout!" he demanded weakly, "Where are you?"

"Fogg?' a very distant and familiar voice asked hopefully.

"Verne?" Phileas tried to turn his head but that made him sick and dizzy. He did manage to lick his lips and speak a little louder, "Verne, is that you?"

"Oh my God!" the yong man said, kneeling down on the street and putting one hand on his friend's wound while supporting his head with the other. "Passepartout!" He yelled, "Rebecca!" There were no calls in response. He was thinking of running out onto the street and calling for them again but suddenly a cold, clutching, hand grabbed his. He turned and, for the first time, looked Phileas in the eyes. All thoughts of leaving him suddenly dissipated. "What happened?" Jules asked softly.

"He was a better fencer than I thought," Fogg coughed. "I got cocky."

Jules smiled down at the wounded man kindly, "You don't need to worry about him anymore. He got cocky himself when he was fighting Rebecca."

"Did she kill him?"

"No, he's in prison now."

Fogg nodded, coughed, and almost closed his eyes, then he remembered something very important. "Verne, I need to tell you something."

Jules blinked, this sounded a little too much like the last testament of a dying man. "What?" he asked cautiously.

"You need to know that life is not what you do."

"Alright," Jules said, praying that Passepartout would come soon with the doctor. All the blood seemed to be draining from Fogg's brain.

"It's . . . it's who you do it with. Do you understand?"

No, not really, "Yes, of course."

"I would never abandon you."

The comment was so uncharacteristically earnest and out of place that it took Jules off guard. "Nor I you." he said, wishing it didn't sound so scripted, so shallow.

Fogg tried to nod, but it ended up in another coughing fit. Jules stayed by him, keeping his head steady and not judging his friend's weakness. "I," Fogg gasped, "I think I'm going to . . . to rest."

"I don't think that's such a good idea," Jules said quickly.

"Oh," Fogg said, surprised, and a little bit bewildered. "Oh, I s'ppose . . . s'ppose not."

Verne bit his lower lip, "Hold on, hold on," he begged.

"I won't die," Fogg said, then he laughed then he coughed. "I've no intention of dying. . . .you need me."

Verne smiled, this time from actual good humor. "Of course we do."

THE END