Wagers
The dead are captured in memory-snapshots. All that remains are the memories of who they were; infinitely subjective and ambiguous, tampered with by time and emotion and oblivion and forgetfulness. We carry the dead with us, heavy on our minds, a gallery of images that define them to us and us to ourselves.
Sometimes, late at night when the computers hum, I can hear the rustle of your robes.
This is the danger of making a wager. Not the possibility of losing, not the chance of winning, but the continuation of it. A wager is a contract, informal and trivial though it may seem. Wagers tie soul to soul. Wagers tie fate to fate.
And wagers don't die until all the terms are fulfilled, or all are annulled.
It was a mistake, making that wager.
Because even now, you're with me.
Sometimes, when I see your son, I see another shade of blond in his hair. I wonder if hair colour can be passed down by adopted parents? My mind says not, but my mind is only a part of me, and the least logical one.
Let the games begin, and let them end. Through them all, you're with me, an unseen presence that prompts my every action, and I can see that damnable, beautiful smile on your lips through it all. I play to bring this wager to an end, because then we are separated and freed, one in death and one in life.
Damn you. Even dead, you won't leave me. And it's my own fault.
There are only two of us with ties to you left. I am bound to you by a wager, by a battle of creed and belief; and the boy is bound by his guilt, by paper on his shoulders. One by knowledge, one by power. How appropriate, considering our career choices. You would approve.
I wonder who will triumph. Whose contract with you – victory or vengeance – will emerge from the battle I know is coming. Whose vision of you will survive to haunt the world with the rest of those who are dead but not forgotten. The time of decision is approaching. I can't help but load the dice, though.
If I close my eyes, I can still feel your touch. If I open them, you aren't there. It is unfair that you should haunt me and still remain invisible. But you were always stubborn.
Stubborn. I suppose it's only right that the two men who bear your memory should be equally stubborn, exactly like you were. Stubborn, to try to change the world, the status quo. Stubborn to hold to their own beliefs in the face of everything that disproves them.
They say that everyone tries to make the world over in their own image. I wonder what my world, the world I would create, reveals about me.
You would probably say something unflatteringly honest at this point. I can feel the emotion if not hear the words. A pity. I always did like the way you put things.
Everything I do, I do to free myself of this last contract.
I can't help but wonder if I truly want to.
A/N: this started out funny. Rapidly turned weird. Then I wrote the beginning weird so it would all be alike. Oh well.