Dear Readers,
So yes, I know I'm a bit late again for the Teslen Monthly Challenge. And yes, this is ironic because I'm the one who originally came up with the idea. But there's been a lot of stuff going on lately in real life. I had summer classes to deal with, and then my great aunt had to go to the hospital, and then my English 101 class got close to unbearable and I got behind on assignments because of what happened with my aunt, and then I was freaking out because I thought my missed assignments were going to give me a low grade in the class and that this would affect my overall GPA significantly and thus prevent me from going to Oxford in the spring. And then I finally got to relax and go to the beach for four days. Aaaannnddd now I have this huge psychology research paper on childhood anxiety disorders due in two weeks. So, yes, I actually have legitimate excuses this time for being late.
Anyway, being the Queen of Angst, I probably should stop trying to apologize for all the times I write angstfic, because you all probably are already expecting it and should only be warned when I actually write something happy. Yeah. Luckily, this fic isn't too angsty, like, say, my April fic was. I know that was traumatizing, and I'm going to apologize again. But...anyhoo. I should probably shut up now. I hope you enjoy.
Best Regards from a Tesla-obsessed Bookworm,
Miss Pookamonga ;p
PS: If you don't know already, Dane was Nikola's older brother who died in a horse riding accident when he was 14 and Nikola was 7. Angelina, Milka, and Marica were Nikola's sisters. And Smiljan is the name of the town where Nikola lived as a child, in what is now Croatia.
Something To Live For
Nine years.
So much has changed in that time. He has had everything taken away from him, only to have it returned and taken away yet again. In nine short years, he has gained and lost more than he ever has since that fateful day in Smiljan a century and a half ago. In nine short years, he has seen hope rise and fall with the passing of the seasons. In nine short years…
"Nikola?"
He flinches at the sound of his name. It sounds so hollow as it echoes against the cold marble walls of this place. Hollow, like his heart; hollow, like his soul. Hollow, like he has felt for the past nine years. Nine wretched years living in isolation, aiding his young friends from a distance in a war that never should have happened. Nine years alone, waiting for the storm to finally calm, for the day when he would finally be able to emerge from his hiding place without placing his life and the lives of his loved ones in danger.
Nine years spent waiting for this day.
"Are you sure you're ready for this?"
He breaks out of his trance to turn and look the young psychiatrist in the eye. "William, I've been praying for this since the moment I was forced to leave her," Nikola answers in a broken whisper.
Will nods quietly in understanding. "She's in…the old office. I told her you might not want to go in there just yet, but for some reason—"
"It's all right," Nikola interrupts hoarsely, trying in vain to banish the memories from his mind—and the tears from his eyes. "Better to face it now than never."
Will nods again before continuing to lead the way, although both men know that Nikola needs no guide in this Sanctuary. The Serbian has been here so many times in the past that he can walk the labyrinth of halls blindfolded.
No more words are said as they enter the elevator and it begins to ascend upward. Nikola is yet again left to wrestle with nine years' worth of tortured thoughts and haunting memories. There are some happy memories—memories of their time together. Studying at Oxford, talking in his labs, working together at the Sanctuaries, and traveling the world on missions. Going out for dinner dates and taking evening walks in the garden. Sneaking out to go for midnight swims, dancing on the roof in the middle of thunderstorms, and kissing secretly in her office when they were supposed to be working. And finally eloping in Italy… But with every happy memory comes the empty ache of knowing that each memory is just that—a memory. A ghost with no substance, a phantom of what was.
And, what is more, each happy memory is clouded by the shadow of a horrible one, of the pain and suffering that annihilated every trace of their blissful days. There is nothing left in the present but a hollow shell of the past. Nothing is left now except the ghostly echoes of her anguished screams filling the halls. Of his own tortured shrieks mingling with hers. Of the cries of an infant whose mother's murder fed the bloodthirsty ambition of her enemies. The memories of paradise have all but been wiped out by the memories of tragedy and loss, and there is nothing to come back to. Nothing to hold on to.
But then again, if there is nothing left, then why does he still live? Why has he waited all this time, hoping and praying for this day to come? Why is he here now, allowing all his wounds to be re-opened?
He jumps slightly as the elevator bell rings and the door rumbles into the wall, revealing the all-too familiar hallway. It is almost exactly as it was when he left—every painting still hanging in its proper place on the wall, every floral bouquet still standing carefully arranged, and every design on the carpet still boasting of the utmost cleanliness. It's like walking through a door to the past, and for a moment, his mind tricks him into believing that the past nine years have been nothing but a horrific nightmare. There was no murder. There were no attacks, no attempts to destroy the Sanctuary Network. He has been here all along. He never failed to save the one woman he loved from the traitor who had once been destined to marry her. He was never forced to leave his only child behind and go into hiding in order to ensure the safety of his newfound family. It was all just a dream. Everything is normal and no one is, has been, or ever will be in any danger.
But the illusion fades as quickly as it comes, and Nikola once again finds himself trapped in the present of despair, staring forlornly at the massive mahogany door before him. Beyond that door are not the good memories of times past. Beyond that door is only terror and pain. Beyond that door is a room that has been untouched for nine years, enshrined in the bloody shadow of only the most horrifying of memories.
And yet, despite all this, beyond that door is the one thing that could banish his darkness forever.
"Nikola, are you okay?"
He gulps and blinks quickly, although he knows that the protégé-turned-leader can see right through his fragile façade. "I'm fine."
He can feel Will's eyes scrutinizing him as he continues to stand there, trembling beneath his thick coat and desperately trying to calm his anxious breaths. There is a moment of agonizing silence before Nikola hears the doorknob turning and the door creaking open. His stomach flips as the door swings past him, revealing the office inside. Again, it is just as he left it. Everything in its exact place—the desk, the tables, the chairs, the papers, the books, the décor. There are only three things that have changed. One, there is a thick layer of gray dust coating every surface in the room. Two, someone—presumably Will, as Bigfoot has been long gone—has lit a fire, which is now roaring to life below the marble mantle. And three, there is a small dark-haired head poking out from behind the back of the couch.
Nikola's breath catches in his throat.
"You can go in now," Will whispers gently, encouragingly.
Slowly, Nikola inches his way past the threshold until he reaches the edge of the oriental carpet hugging the dusty floorboards. In a sudden moment of vulnerability, he whips his head back towards Will, his eyes searching, pleading for something.
For the first time in a long time, Will's lips curve upward into a tiny smile of reassurance—and something else. Something that Nikola thought had vanished on the day of her death nine years ago. And then, just like that, the former protégé has closed the door behind him, leaving Nikola alone in this haunted room where the past and the future have suddenly collided and become one.
He is trembling so violently now that he can barely stand. Locking his hands behind his back, he steps forward carefully, gradually creeping across the carpet, towards the fireplace, and around the corner of the couch, until…
He stops dead in his tracks.
She's spindly and small for her age—her legs are so short that her feet dangle several inches above the floor. Her dark hair frames her face in unruly wisps that refuse to stay bound in her ponytail. She doesn't notice him at first because her little head is bent over a book, her pale brow furrowed in a kind of concentration that is far too advanced for a mere nine-year-old. Her thin fingers grip the edges of the book tightly, but then she flexes them to adjust the book's position in her hands, allowing Nikola to catch a glimpse of the title.
My Inventions, by Nikola Tesla.
He chokes on his breath.
At the noise, the girl's head snaps up, startled, and she accidentally drops the book onto her lap.
And then, for one precious, sacred moment, all time stops.
He is staring into those eyes again. The eyes that he thought had been closed forever, the eyes that had been clouded with the shadow of death and misery. Those beautiful eyes, bluer than the clearest spring sky, bluer than the sea near his homeland, bluer than the most brilliant sapphire in the earth. Here they are, sparkling and shimmering in the light of the fire, dancing with a life more vibrant than any flash of lightning he has ever seen. They are the eyes of the past and the present and the future all merged into one. They are the eyes of his mother and his father. Of Dane. Of Angelina, Milka, and Marica. Of his uncles, aunts, nephews, and nieces. And they are the eyes of the only woman he has ever loved, the eyes of she who has captured his heart for all eternity.
Helen. He is looking into Helen's eyes.
And before he can restrain himself, he bursts into tears.
He suddenly feels something small and warm and prickling with electricity pressing itself against him, and he looks down to find the girl with her slender arms wrapped tightly around his waist. His sobs momentarily wane as he gazes at her in surprise, but then she lifts her face to meet his eyes once again.
"Don't cry, Papa. You're with me now."
And then he suddenly lapses into sobs again, dropping to his knees and clutching his daughter even closer to him, kissing her cheeks, running his fingers through her stray curls, cupping her chin in his hands, and murmuring "I love you" over and over again, never wanting to stop.
"I love you too, Papa. I love you too," she whispers into her father's embrace.
And for the first time in nine years, he knows with absolute certainty that he has always had something to live for.
FINIS