In Remembrance
"There's rosemary, that's for remembrance."
(Hamlet, iv. 5.)
The wind gently ruffled the small, white petals of the rosemary flowers in his hand, courtesy of some teenage girl in a flower shop. She made the suggestion and he went along with it. He thought they fit what he wanted to say.
He'd never been back here since that day, a day not long before he visited the bank for the first time. It felt odd, even now, as if the revealed truths about the man lying here had changed the fact that he was the last of his family.
He'd been raised by this man. He'd been taught how to talk; in several languages, how to take care of himself; down to remembering the seatbelt, how to be a thief; even if that was the opposite of what he should be. In reality, it was really Ian Rider who had made sure that he had the skills to survive as an agent. Then again, Ian Rider was also the reason for his quick entry into that world. A world he knew he couldn't escape anymore. He couldn't count on surviving there any longer either.
The Riders might have the luck of the devil, but with most of them dead…
And as they said; you're never too young to die.
His life was a dangerous one, and now it would always be.
It wasn't resentment really. He had loved Ian Rider as an uncle and, perhaps, as a father. Of course, Ian Rider had never allowed him the last one. The first time he'd tried calling him 'daddy' he had received a firm scolding. It was one of his first memories. Not a pleasant one. He only remembered Ian Rider's expression of sorrow and anger and, later, settling onto the older man's lap while they looked at pictures of Helen and John Rider, his real 'mummy' and 'daddy'.
It didn't change how he felt.
After Jack had moved in, their relationship had become a bit distant. Ian Rider more often went on his 'business trips', all of which lasted from three days to three weeks. He'd been lonely then, even with Jack in the house.
When Ian Rider was at home he'd taken any free moment in his possession and spent it with him. He'd enjoyed it tremendously. It was never boring with Ian. He could always learn so much, experience so much. Nothing else was as fun.
The man that had raised him.
Of course, there would be times when Ian would lose his temper. Yell and pace frantically, often while scolding. But that happened so seldom that it was easy to forget that life with Ian Rider wasn't perfect. It hadn't been, but now, almost a year later, it sure felt like that. It had at the very least been easier.
But that time was long gone. Just a distant memory.
Ian Rider. A human. Jack's employer. MI6's agent. His uncle.
But his uncle had also put him in this situation, maybe unintentionally. He should have remembered that he could die at any moment and that he had the guardianship of a boy that was still a child who needed him.
Wasn't his nephew more important than his work? Did he really matter so little that his uncle would continue with so dangerous missions?
But those were old, aged thoughts. Useless thoughts.
A boy that was still a child…
He really had been. He could see that now.
Even if only a little less than a year had passed, he'd grown mentally, emotionally and physically.
In a year he might think of his present self as a child again, but that was then and not now.
He felt both old and young. Tired and yet full of energy.
He'd seen too much of the world to go back to being a child now. He couldn't hide behind ignorance anymore. He was not a child. He knew reality. He knew the difference between stupidity and intelligence.
He could forgive and forget the bad parts for Ian Rider's sake. For his own sake.
He laid the flowers down onto the cold ground.
"I'll remember you, Ian Rider."