Disclaimer: None of this is mine, it belongs to Warner Bros and other creative outlets and people, I don't intend to profit from this in any way. I am just trying to cure my own writer's block.
reviewerzzz- cinema therapy: yes, it was unusually bright for me, wasn't it? Lauraa-x: yay! tears!? I'm surprised you like Helena, why is that? Eames, poor guy… Yeah, I always knew Arthur was going to be there, but it was touch and go for Ariadne… here is what happened to Arthur… Shoyzz: haha yay! wedding day? hm…. interesting idea. the end of this chapter will be of interest to you. Guest: nope, not the end quite yet! asking too early, I'll address that once the thing is done… which it should be soon… Guest: yikes! that's nuts. but one hell of a compliment! Guest: HERE YOU GO I'M SORRY ABOUT THE WAIT D: Amelia-Rose: whoa, I didn't get the email about your review! wtf. but well timed!
So… School. I've been busy. I literally just finished this chapter and am so tired, I won't be re-reading it before I post. so enjoy the mistakes, because at least you're getting this chapter RIGHT OFF THE PRESSES.
chapter title from the Big Pink. It USED to be "Let Her Go," by Passenger, but this song fit more.
NOTE: SERIOUS TIME JUMP
Velvet
Monday, December 19, 2016: Boston, Massachusetts
Homer Wallace was seventy-four years old, the epitome of "grizzled," and coping with a blocked artery and arthritis. He lived in the Beacon Hill neighborhood with only two cocker spaniels and a maid that came twice weekly to clean, for company; his wife had passed two years previously.
Homer Wallace also happened to be a U.S. army veteran. He'd fought as a simple soldier in Vietnam, been deployed as a more superior one to the Dominican Republic, loitered as an official in Washington. But upon visiting Iraq during the War on Terror, Homer had read the writing on the wall and retired as soon as he returned to U.S. soil.
He might've been a military man to his very bones, but Homer had never thought of war as a way to solve any conflict.
That idealistic thinking had plagued Homer ever since, as he'd sat in his armchair, glued to the news poring in from the Middle East. He couldn't help but wonder if he could've saved any lives had he stayed, or maybe lost his own in the place of someone several decades younger. Over the years, and especially after losing his wife, Homer became more and more susceptible to symptoms of Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder. He would have nightmares, to the point that he would occasionally react to backfiring cars as imminent gunfire.
All of this had led to Homer sitting in a coffee shop in the middle of the Veterans Affairs Boston Health Care System buildings in Jamaica Plain. He was waiting here to meet a counselor, who would supposedly talk to him about how to manage his PTSD.
The coffee shop was rather crowded, filled with nurses in scrubs and doctors in business wear, intermixed with teenagers and children and well-dressed couples. The room was dominated by one solid wall of glass, showing the soft snow falling into the already solidly white courtyard.
Homer was perched on a rickety chair at a small table. He'd preferred to have one of the nice armchairs near the roaring fireplace, but they were all full. He stared down the empty seat in front of him and glanced at his watch. His appointment was supposed to have started five minutes ago.
Almost as if in response to his thoughts, a soft tinkling bell alerted that the front door had opened, attracting Homer's attention and causing him to notice the young man who'd just stepped through.
He was much younger than Homer, certainly, but there was something about the man's face and eyes that suggested a much older soul, or at least someone who had gone through significant trauma. His skin was pale, though that may have been in contrast to the dark ski hat on his head and his thick black peacoat. As Homer watched, he stepped up to the counter to order.
Homer sighed, and returned to idly staring out the window. It was winter in Boston, which meant plenty of snow. Even though it was early in the season, the city had already witnessed a handful of small storms, culminating in about a foot of snow. Homer, born and raised in the city, treated the snow as only a minor inconvenience.
He was interrupted in his reverie when someone slid into the chair across from him. To Homer's surprise, it was the young man.
The man set down a tall cup of coffee on the table and looked at Homer through dark brown eyes. "Homer Wallace?" He asked.
Homer's eyes narrowed. "Who's asking?" Uncertainty trailed up his spine; surely, this couldn't be the person who was supposed to counsel him…
The man smiled, and held out his hand. "My name is Arthur. I'm your peer counselor."
Homer started. "Oh. I, uh… Okay." He managed to shake Arthur's hand. Appeased, Arthur pulled his book bag from his shoulder, while unwinding the green scarf from around his neck. He yanked off his hat, causing a small shower of snow to slide onto his shoulders. His hair was cut very short.
"Unfortunate weather," Arthur commented.
"Yeah," Homer said slowly. "I take it you're not from Boston?"
"Nope. California."
"Really?" Homer's eyebrows soared. "Why the hell are you out here?"
Arthur gave him a small smile. "It's quite a long story, Homer."
He sat up abruptly, tossing Ariadne's head from his shoulder, causing it to fall onto his lap. He quickly shoved her off of him, leaping to his feet and seizing the scrap of paper Cobb had been lazily doodling buildings on while he kept his vigil. Ignoring the harried questions surrounding him, he scribbled three words.
"'I remember Paris'?" The question came from Micah, reading from behind Arthur's shoulder. Arthur flung the inconspicuous paper on the coffee table like it'd personally injured him. "Arthur, what-"
"Don't come after me."
His voice was cold, and sliced through the air that was thick with confusion. The other four men stared at him, united in their uncertainty.
"Arthur… Did it work?" Adam's voice was a mewl compared to his twin's.
Arthur looked away, picking up his bags from the floor, tossing the straps over his shoulders. He seemed to be shivering, acting tipsy with odd energy, eyes darting all over the place even when he turned back to them. He avoided all eye contact as he spoke in a voice that may now not have been overly cold, but was certainly monotonous.
"Ar-… She," he continued, choking on Ariadne's name and dropped it altogether, a slip-up that did not go unnoticed by his audience. "…We have an agreement." He looked at them all, and his face was very intense. "Don't look for me."
"Look for you?" Cobb took a quick step forward, reaching for Arthur. The younger man practically shied away, and that small movement, more than anything else, was what really scared the team.
Cobb dropped his hand hastily, his expression a mix of hurt and surprise. Arthur ignored him and glanced down at Ariadne. She was still asleep, sprawled awkwardly on the couch. The others watched, clearly waiting for him to speak or do something...
But he only swallowed, picked up his last bag and turned, his feet hitting the hard wooden floors of Ariadne's apartment. He didn't say a word as the door slammed shut behind him.
Arthur pulled out a ballpoint pen and a small notebook from his book bag, flipping to a blank page.
"Are you ready to begin?"
Homer hesitated. "What exactly is it that we're doing?"
"Talking," Arthur replied. "You describe to me your experiences regarding your service, and afterwards. Your time in combat, behind the scenes, post-service… But I'm flexible. You can go on tangents whenever you'd like." He smiled widely, instantly making him look uncomfortably young for Homer.
"You seem…" Homer paused. "Have you, uh… counseled anyone, before?"
Arthur nodded. "Yes. I've been doing this for about half a year now."
"You're pretty, um…"
"Young?" Arthur supplied. Homer nodded, relieved he hadn't needed to spell it out. "I'm thirty-five."
"That's plenty young to me, Mr…"
"Arthur," he said. "Just Arthur, please."
It was sweltering hot, practically overwhelming to every foreigner, save for one. The thin young man avoided eye contact as he walked through the marketplace, forgoing the traditional dress that surrounded him for jeans and a t-shirt. Even though he very clearly did not belong there in Kabul, he nonetheless commanded respect and authority. Many of the locals grudgingly found themselves respecting him, as he ignored the typical tourist spots for restaurants and public areas where citizens spoke only in Arabic and Hebrew. After the initial doubt, it soon became clear that his Arabic was exceptional.
For Arthur, his sabbatical of sorts in Afghanistan was just another stop in a list of countries and cities he was visiting in an effort to reclaim himself. But of course, he couldn't deny that Afghanistan was more important than his visits to Manilla or Casablanca; he hadn't returned to the country since his imprisonment at nineteen years old. And yet, here he was now.
Why am I here? He wondered...
Because this country was a critical part of his past. His time here set his future in motion. If he hadn't gone on the mission, if he hadn't endured torture for six months… Arthur was all but certain that he never would've gotten into the dream sharing industry. He would've returned to Harvard, earned his degree, worked on the dream sharing program in the military, safe in Washington, would've married and had children…
He never would've called Cobb to take him up on his offer to work in Paris. He never would've pulled Eames out from his drunken exile post-marriage, he never would've grown to see Miles as a mix of father and brother.
He never would've found Micah, witnessed his evolution from simple graduate student to accomplished dreamer.
And he most certainly never would've come across Ariadne, gifted real-world architect turned-
Something.
Why am I here?
Arthur hadn't even broached the topic of Ariadne. He'd locked her and the memories and emotions he connected to her deep within his mind, behind a door to-be-opened-later. He knew he was only postponing the inevitable, but… He just wasn't ready yet.
On his ninth day in Kabul, he made his way to the Gardens of Babur.
He rested on a bench, surveying the thick walls that surrounded the area, looking down the hill towards the city that spread beyond it. The grass was surprisingly green, the Maple trees in bloom. The air was light, lovely. He inhaled deeply, closing his eyes.
"Arthur."
His eyes snapped open. He looked around, but he was alone. No one near enough to have said his name so softly… Arthur frowned.
Just another example of how crazy he was.
Why am I here?
Arthur nodded. "You're certainly not the first to question my applicability as a counselor. But I assure you… I've had a lot of experience." He paused and added, "You've heard of me."
"Pardon?"
Arthur reached down and retrieved a manilla folder from his bag, opening it. It was Homer's file, complete with photographs and intel of his service abroad, and his work in the states. Arthur studied it for a moment.
"The program has great potential," Arthur read out loud, looking down as Homer watched. "I am very interested in seeing how dream share will affect our soldiers. Research done so far has been overwhelmingly positive-"
"How do you know all this?" Homer interjected sharply. "That's classified." Outside of his co-workers, no one, not even his own wife, knew about Homer's work in the dream share program.
Arthur smiled. "I worked on it."
"No, you didn't," Homer snapped. "You would've been a teenager-"
"I was."
It was loud in Bangkok. The sun had long since set, but the part of the city Arthur was in continued to function, be loud and raucous. Arthur walked in silence, taking in the scene and the electricity and trying to connect to any of it.
He was approached by a young woman-no, a girl. She couldn't have been much older than sixteen, if that. She wore heavy makeup and her hair was sleek, her clothes all straps and sparkles. All she had to do was try to speak to him in broken English, her voice rough and pseudo-alluring.
Arthur shook his head at her. Before she could walk away, he stopped her, shoving a small clip of baht into her palm. She blinked at it, then at him. When she made to take his hand to lead him somewhere, he shook her off, shaking his head.
"What you want?" She asked, confusion making through the translation.
"Nothing," Arthur said. "Go eat something."
She stared. Arthur turned on his heel and walked away quickly, so as to show the girl he did not want her to go with him. As he passed under the sizzling lights of a bar, a voice called his name.
"Arthur?"
He barely paused. Arthur was used to hallucinating at this point, so he continued his brisk pace, until someone caught his shoulder and spun him around.
He almost passed out on the spot. It was none other than Edward Eames.
"It is you!" Eames exclaimed. "Bloody hell, I'm shocked. How've you been?"
Arthur could only stare. He wished, more than ever before, that he still had the small red die. But it was gone now, useless, its power broken due to the dream Ariadne had taken him into-
No. Can't think about her.
"I'm fine," he said at last, avoiding Eames' gaze.
Eames frowned. "Really, darling? I've got to be honest; you look awful."
"I'm fine, Eames."
"Well, then, riddle me this: why are you in Thailand?"
Arthur looked to the side, still unwilling to meet Eames' wide blue eyes. "No reason."
"Sure. You just happened to fly here. Or drive? I don't know what you've been up to since July, do I? Does anyone else? Cobb, Micah, Ari-"
"I'm looking for something," Arthur bit out, stopping Eames' voice, which had been increasing in volume.
That gave Eames pause. "What would that be?"
"None of your fucking business."
Eames actually took a step back. "Calm down there, darling. I don't mean to pry."
Arthur rolled his eyes. "That's hardly the case. Goodbye, Mr. Eames."
Before Eames could utter another word, Arthur was walking away, disappearing around the corner.
Homer scowled. "How-"
"One of your fellow comrades on the board recommended me," Arthur interrupted, still speaking softly. "Colonel Monty Eliot. He was a family friend, almost a father to me."
"Monty?" Homer was surprised. "He didn't mention you."
"I wasn't fully involved at the time. I was a Psychology student at Harvard, in the dream share program, while I trained as a soldier. I would fully join the army's program after my graduation."
Homer paused. "We would've scrapped the damn thing before you graduated."
"You did. I was the reason why."
"We-" Homer broke off, now squinting at Arthur as if he was searching his face for something. "We did… We leaned on Harvard to end theirs, and we followed pretty quickly after… But that guy later died, he was why…"
"I didn't die."
Homer's mouth fell open. "That was you?"
"I told you I led a short mission in Afghanistan."
"Jesus," Homer breathed. "I had no idea…"
"No one did," Arthur said gently. "I made sure of it. I wanted to disappear, and the army was all too eager to see that happen. Faith only stretches so far when it comes to war."
"I've thought about you a lot," Homer said. "Thought about what would've happened to you if you'd survived." He frowned. "Guess you're doing okay if you're counseling the rest of us…"
Arthur smiled darkly. "I am now."
Los Angeles was a pleasant reprieve.
Arthur had unconsciously planned his trip back to the States. It had been eight months since July, since Ariadne had plundered his mind, upended everything that made him who he was. Arthur had been slowly pulling himself together, meditating for hours at a time, forcing himself to relive memories he'd forgotten, come to terms with who he was, who he'd been then and now. Reacquainting himself with his twin brother seemed like a good plan.
He didn't call, didn't contact Adam in any way to let him know that he was coming. So it was no surprise that he probably scared the hell out of his brother by turning up on his front porch in the early morning.
Adam, being Adam, was thrilled and gracious, herding Arthur into his home. Arthur had never been to his house before, and found himself treading carefully, like he was liable to break the peace just by being under the roof. Lily, Adam's wife, wandered out to find the source of the commotion and eagerly embraced Arthur. Arthur could remember meeting Lily, but recalling the emotions that surrounded her was difficult. She seemed to sense this, and left him alone quickly.
Adam called in sick to work, and the two of them left the house before his children were awake.
In Santa Monica, Adam talked Arthur's ear off. He described how Morgan had been reprimanded in school for talking too much during class, how Tom had won a spelling bee. He talked about the movies and television shows he'd been watching, none of which Arthur was familiar with or aware of. Being on the road for eight months had cut him off from the social aspect of the world, ironically enough.
Adam could tell that Arthur was having a hard time. He caught his brother studying his unusually thin frame, paying extra attention to the way Arthur walked, standing a little too close, like he was afraid Arthur may fall.
"How about you, man?" Adam asked, as they ate hotdogs on the beach. "What have you been up to?"
Arthur shrugged. "Traveling."
"Yeah? Where to?"
"Everywhere."
Adam sensed that Arthur was unwilling to discuss his traveling exploits, and wisely dropped the topic. They continued their trek across the sand and the boardwalk.
Eventually, Adam couldn't help himself.
"Are you going to Paris in July?"
Arthur looked away, focusing on the just-setting sun. He twisted his lips together.
"I don't know," he said, honestly.
Adam studied him. "Do you want to-"
Arthur shook his head immediately. "I don't want to talk about her."
Adam relented. He started talking about new policies at the hospital.
Homer's lip twitched. "I see. Well, if you're still talking to people about the things they've seen… That either means you're very brave… or very stupid."
"The jury's still out on that one."
Homer huffed. "I see. Well, tell me this: do you still experience it? You know… the PTSD, or whatever?"
"Of course," Arthur murmured.
"Often?"
Arthur leveled his gaze on the older man. "Enough."
"So you know how to… you know… get through it? The episodes? Do you even have episodes?"
Arthur considered his questions. "Not as violent as they used to be."
"Violent, huh? Ever hurt anyone?"
He was in Prague when he hallucinated himself for the first time.
It was the middle of the day, only a few days past Halloween, and he was on his way to the marketplace to get lunch. He was walking quickly, hands in the pockets of his hoodie, trying to keep warm by moving.
Arthur was making his way across a bridge when he noticed a figure leaning casually against the bridge fence.
He froze.
It was himself.
Other-Arthur spotted him and held his hand out. A cigarette was stuck between his fingers. "Want one?"
Arthur was utterly still, his feet glued to the spot. Other-Arthur surveyed him, waiting… Arthur swallowed.
"I'm hallucinating."
Other-Arthur nodded. "Yeah. Make the best of it. Smoke with me."
Arthur took a step back. "No… This isn't real. Oh my God. I'm crazy."
"We already knew that," his other self said nonchalantly, like they were discussing the color of their shoes (black Converse sneakers.) They were dressed identically, and Arthur may have thought he'd just run into Adam, if it not were the fact that he knew Adam was nowhere near the Czech Republic or Europe.
And the fact that Adam didn't smoke.
And the fact that Arthur knew it was himself, from the way his shoulders were hunched and eyes were dark masks, hiding something from the surface.
Insanity, perhaps?
"Why am I seeing you?" Arthur asked. "Why now? It's been almost four-"
"-Four months since Ariadne screwed with our mind, yes," Other-Arthur agreed. Arthur couldn't help but flinch, catching Other-Arthur's attention. The Other's eyes narrowed.
"Still a little stuck on how to proceed without her, hm?"
"That isn't the problem, and you know it," Arthur murmured.
"Ah, yes. We're trying to figure out who we were with her. How we can be that person again. Bad news, Arthur; we're never going to be. I know it, and that means you do, too!"
"I'm crazy," Arthur whispered. "Oh, God, I've lost it. I should-"
"Throw yourself off this bridge?" Other-Arthur smirked. "I would do it. Come on, how many times have we thought about it? We've died a thousand different times already; what's one more?"
Arthur frowned at him. "I wouldn't come back from this one."
Other-Arthur nodded seriously. "Eternal silence. Can you imagine? None of this reality nonsense. It would be peaceful, Arthur. You miss peace, don't you? Serenity? Contentment? You'd never have to hurt again. Never have to run, to hide, to be anyone but yourself. Whoever that means…"
"I can't," Arthur whispered.
Other-Arthur rolled his eyes. "Come on. What's stopping you?" He studied his other self's dark eyes, the way he fidgeted with his hands, the clothes that hung loosely from bony shoulders, the hood that hid the dusting of hair.
In a tone that was as sharp as a blade, Other-Arthur whispered, "You think she'll come back to you?"
Arthur's head snapped to his other self. "Stop."
"You think, in Paris, that she'll take you back?" Other-Arthur continued mercilessly, his voice increasing in volume. "You think you can fill the shoes of the Arthur she loved? You think you're strong enough to do that? You think you're good enough for her?"
Arthur shook his head desperately, slamming his hands over his ears. "Shut up! Leave me alone!"
He was aware of the people watching him, but he saw and viewed them as if from a great distance. He couldn't hear their harried whispers, suggestions of contacting the police and other authorities. But in that moment, all he could focus on was this twisted version of himself, locked in a maniacal smile.
"She's going to abandon you," Other-Arthur stated loudly. "And why shouldn't she? All you've ever done to her is leave!"
Arthur snapped. He couldn't bear to listen to another word from his Other self. Barely aware of what he was doing, he lunged, but his Other self only laughed, ducked and glided smoothly over the railing. Without hesitation, Arthur followed.
He woke up in a hospital three days later, with a broken arm and thick bruises covering his body. The doctors told him that he was exceptionally lucky, that someone "up there" was watching over him.
"Only myself," Arthur said at last.
Homer nodded sagely. "I'll be damned if that isn't the end goal here. Like what doctors pledge to: first, do no harm. I think every soldier who gets sworn in ought to say that one as well."
Arthur smiled. "That's a good idea, Homer."
"So, you've managed your PTSD," Homer continued. "And now you counsel those of us who are still stuck behind enemy lines."
"I wouldn't put it that way. But essentially, yes, that's correct."
"Putting that Psychology degree to good use, huh?"
"My mother certainly sees it that way."
Homer raised an eyebrow. "But you?"
"This work…" Arthur hesitated. "It gives me peace. It makes me feel like I'm doing some good." Arthur chuckled. "If you'd let me ask you some questions, maybe we can see if I can do you some good as well."
"Well, 'scuse me," Homer snorted. "I'm just being polite."
"It's fine. Many of my other, um… counselees, like to ask these things too. No one wants a lunatic giving them advice."
"I don't know," Homer replied. "In my experience, a lot of these doctors don't really work. Sure, they can give you the drugs, but they lack the real knowledge. They don't know what to say to make any of it better."
"It's good to see you, Yusuf."
"And I you!" The older man crowed. "Considering I thought you were dead!"
"Did Cobb not call you?" Arthur asked.
"Oh, he did, sure, but it pales in comparison to seeing it with my own eyes." Yusuf frowned. "He told me you were very sick. You do look…"
Arthur smirked. "My brother compared my appearance to a heroin addict's."
"He's not half-wrong," Yusuf admitted. "Still…"
A small cough made both men turn. A middle-aged woman, dressed head to toe in a dark, sparkling cloth, stood there, bearing a tray with three flute glasses. She raised her eyebrows, looking importantly at Yusuf.
"Oh! Of course," Yusuf spluttered. "I forgot, you haven't met in person. Arthur, this is my wife, Makena. Makena, this is a former co-worker of mine, Arthur Zaleski."
Something clicked in Makena's expressive brown eyes. She set the tray on the small table and stepped close to Arthur, holding out her hand. Hesitantly, attempting to read the expression on her face, Arthur took it.
"It's nice to finally meet you," he said formally.
"Arthur Zaleski," Makena murmured. "I am very pleased to meet you." Arthur didn't quite know what to make of her intensity, so he turned to Yusuf. The older man shrugged, and they sank down at the small table.
Evening had fallen over Kolkata, and the three of them were tucked away on the rooftop patio of the hotel Yusuf and his wife were staying at. Arthur had been in India for just two days, before he'd learned, through the dream network he could still listen to, that Yusuf was in Kolkata, on a vacation of sorts. For reasons largely unknown to Arthur, he'd decided to track the chemist down for drinks.
It had seemed like a good decision, if only not for Makena.
Yusuf's wife stared at him, unflinching, throughout the evening. She rarely spoke, though he wasn't surprised, guessing at the culture she'd grown up and lived in. But the way she watched him, like he was a remarkable being, made him very uncomfortable.
As soon as Yusuf announced he needed to step outside for an important phone call and left the table, Arthur turned to Makena.
"Why do you look at me like that?" He demanded. He'd been on his own for almost ten months now, and his paranoia had made him wary of anyone who so much glanced at him funny. Makena was setting off all his internal alarms, and if she were not the wife of a friend, he would've left the building within minutes of noticing her.
Makena gazed at him. "Do I bother you?"
"Yes. It's strange. No one stares for that long, or looks at me like that."
"How do I look at you?"
Arthur sighed. "Okay. I don't know what you're getting at here, but it's making me uncomfortable. So just… Stop. Please."
Makena smiled sadly. "I am trying to see you, Arthur. I am looking at you in the way I imagine she does."
He stilled. "Come again?"
"Ariadne."
He closed his eyes. "You met her. I forgot."
"I did not," Makena said. "She is a very unique person. When I met her, she was filled with fear and naive wonderment. She was very concerned for someone she loved. I understood, though I don't think she did, that she thought he may be leaving her."
Arthur swallowed. "Oh. I see."
"No, you do not," Makena countered. "Ariadne… Such a young girl, filled with such weight and a love too deep for her to bear. She wanted so badly to have faith in you, but she couldn't. She wore a message, I think she took it to hear: 'everything is all right if you love'-"
"Please," Arthur whispered.
"Please what?"
"I can't…"
"You must," Makena said, the warmness gone from her tone. Her voice was intense now, demanding. "If you do not acknowledge her, how can you expect to return to her?"
Arthur frowned. "Acknowledge her? I think about her all the time!"
"Do you? How do you think of her?"
He paused. He thought of Ariadne, trying to think of the memories he had. He recalled how she'd dragged him through his own mind fearlessly, how she'd fought for him even when he didn't know her, how she'd looked at him like he might turn into dust and float away when she turned around.
"I think of her as I know her," he managed.
Makena scoffed. "Then you don't acknowledge her. She is more than just a series of memories. She means more."
"She does." He hesitated, before amending that with, "she did."
"Ah. The first step is admitting."
"Why are you saying these things?" Arthur asked. "Why do you care?"
Makena looked confused. "Care? Why would I not? It is clear to me you two belong together."
"How? How do you know that?"
"My husband is a chemist," Makena said. "He deals in chemistry, with elements and compounds and mixtures. I am his assistant. I take notes, process orders… Whatever he needs me to be, I become that.
"Ariadne…" Makena smiled. "When I first met her, she was just a girl, clinging to the man who was her world. And then Yusuf returned to me, and told me that she'd lost you. And I waited, and worried, and Ariadne called me. I didn't know what to expect. She missed you so much, and you loved her so much that you'd died for her… But Ariadne did it. She became what you needed her to."
Arthur blinked. "What was that?"
"She let you go."
There was a pause as Arthur tried to digest and make sense of this. Makena sounded so certain in her convictions, and he just couldn't…
"Why did that make her… What I needed her to be?"
"It's not obvious?" Makena asked. Arthur shook his head, and she sighed. "You loved her. So when you died, gone where she could not follow, you would want her to live her life without you. And she did."
"That doesn't make sense," Arthur said, frustrated. "If she let me go… Why would we be together?"
Makena smiled. "Do not try to complicate this matter. She let you go; so she was ready for who would come after. And in this case… It is you, again… But another one. A different one."
"What about me, then?" Arthur asked. "How can I be what she needs me to be?"
"I think you already are."
"How so?"
"She needs you, in any, and every, way."
Arthur looked away, suddenly overcome with emotion. He gazed out over the dark city, lights and sound echoing around him. He felt heavy all over, like he carried a thick weight around his shoulders, barely able to prevent himself from falling to the ground.
"Then why can't I go back to her?" Arthur whispered. "Why do I feel like I can't?"
"You poor man," Makena murmured. "So much hardship, so much pain. It is very clear on your face, you know. Too clear. Your face actually bears the scars on your soul. That is not true of many, especially not with the number of scars you carry."
"Can you help me?" Arthur begged. "Please. I want to be better, so badly, I want to-"
He swallowed. "She was home for me. She used to be home for me. And I want to go home. I'm so tired…"
"I know," Makena murmured. "I know. I am not sure… But I can guess at what you need to do now."
"Your guesses seem to be doing pretty well, so far."
Makena smiled. "Observation only. Arthur Zaleski… If you want to return to her… You must let yourself go first."
He paused. "What?"
"Your burden," Makena continued. "Not only do you carry your past and your sins, but you hoard them. You take them into your being. They are poison. I see that you are trying to atone, trying to accept. But you cannot. They are part of you, they always have been. You need to let them go. Let it all go."
"And… What?"
"Move on," Makena said. "Make your own self. Build your own Arthur. Without the influence of the family, the work, the friends, without even Ariadne. Not many get this opportunity. Ask yourself: who do you want to be?"
"I…" Arthur breathed. "I want to be better. I want to be a good person."
"Then be that. Let him go."
"I know what you mean," Arthur murmured, agreeing with Homer. That's part of why I do this. Because I like to think that I can understand. Maybe a little bit more than they could. And maybe that would be enough."
"Damn, that sounds good," Homer murmured. "You know, my wife-her name was Jody, if you were wondering, though that's probably in that big old file of yours-she was really into that cryptic, hippie scene. You know, peace in every step."
"You didn't agree?"
"Nah. I'm with her to a point. I mean, I believe there's a God; say, do you?"
Arthur smiled. "That doesn't matter."
"I'm curious. Please."
"I think we were made by something, or someone. But I don't believe that they're still here, watching us."
"Soldiers are always one of two types," Homer commented. "Either big time believers, or atheists. You're a funny little mix."
"I've been told that."
"Anyway," Homer said, returning to his story. "Jody was always talking about my 'poor boys,' that's what she called the soldiers. We never had any kids, but as far as she was concerned, those boys were hers. She'd send them care packages with cookies and books, the whole nine yards." He paused and glanced down at Arthur's left hand. The fingers were long, pale, and all were ringless.
Homer glanced back up. "You aren't married?"
Arthur hesitated, looking at Homer thoughtfully. To Homer, the younger man looked almost wary. Nervous.
After a long moment of silence, Arthur responded, with a soft "No."
"Huh," Homer said. "I thought you might be. Oh well, as I was-"
"No," Arthur interrupted. "I meant… I am."
"Married."
"Yes."
"You don't wear a ring."
"I don't."
"Why's that? You married to a guy? Not that there's anything wrong with that, but I could see why you may want to keep it quiet."
Arthur chuckled lowly. "No, I'm not gay. I have a wife."
"What's her name?"
A pause. "Sorry. Next question."
"What? Why?"
"It's a long story. Look, we really should talk-"
"Did you give her a ring?"
Arthur sighed. "Yes, she has one."
"Does she wear it?"
Arthur sighed, and reached for the front of his dress shirt. Homer watched as he carefully retrieved a thin chain from around his neck. On the end of the necklace hung a man's silver ring.
"She doesn't wear hers either," Arthur murmured.
Homer frowned. "Huh. Is this unusual, or am I just that old?"
"You could be 'that old,' but it's also unusual," Arthur said. "We don't wear our rings… Because it's safer not to."
"Jesus. Even after all these years, someone's out for your blood?" Homer looked aghast. "That's quite the problem. I don't blame you for wanting to keep her unknown-"
"No," Arthur said. "You misunderstand me. We don't wear our rings, because it's safer for me, if we don't."
Homer stared. "For you?"
"For me."
"What did you say your wife does, again?"
"I didn't," Arthur said. "And that's one thing I won't be telling you. Now, we really need to start talking about you."
"One last thing," Homer interrupted. "This wife of yours… Does she know what happened to you? What you used to do?"
Arthur nodded. "She knows everything."
"Still stuck around, huh?" Homer chuckled, and added, "I say that because half the time when Jody was around, I couldn't figure out why she stayed. Before PTSD was a real thing… I felt like I was crazy. I thought I was crazy."
"I was crazy for a while," Arthur murmured.
"And she stayed."
"Yes. I was the one who left."
"Because of the crazy?"
"Yes."
"So… Did she drag your ass back, or what?"
Arthur offered a small smile. "No. I crawled back to her."
"And she let you come back?"
"Not immediately. It was… Very difficult for us. We were apart for a year, while I tried to get my thoughts in order. When we did find each other again… We were very different people. We had to re-learn each other, and we almost gave up several times. But she couldn't leave me. And I couldn't let her go." Arthur shrugged.
Homer smiled at how Arthur was trying to be nonchalant about the whole thing, as if Homer couldn't detect the small undercurrent of pride in his voice. "How long have you been married, kid?"
"Almost ten months."
"That's all?"
Arthur nodded. "Like I said: there were complications. It took us a long time to get to 'happy and satisfied.' And it's taken me a long time to understand her work and accept it. And it took her a long time to understand me, and accept me."
"Her work really that dangerous?"
"Not for most people," Arthur said. "But for me? Yes. Very much so."
"Why? How?"
Arthur sighed. "Let's just say she works with some of the people you used to deal with back in the early 2000s. And that many of them are unhappy with me."
Homer considered this. "So they don't know you're her husband?"
"Very few do." Arthur chuckled. "Consider yourself lucky."
"Do you even live together?"
"Sort of," Arthur said. "We share a home. But she works in New York, she has an apartment there. But I can't go there, so she has to come to me. It's completely up to her on how often we see each other."
Homer frowned. "My, that's… That's an awfully sad story you have, Arthur."
"I don't know. It seems wonderful to me."
"Because you got the girl?"
Arthur laughed. "Oh, no. Because she let me come home."
As he walked down the street to his house, Arthur reflected on his meeting with Homer.
Overall, it had gone pretty well, about as best as expected. His patients were typically coy and awkward at the initial meeting, before opening up later. He had a feeling Homer would follow the same pattern, especially since Arthur had given so much information about himself.
That was how it typically went with people. If you opened up, they would, too.
It was a belief Arthur was slowly coming to accept. He had his own psychiatrist, a professional outsider, who prescribed sleeping pills and pills to combat the nightmares and sorrow. His psychiatrist was always reminding him to connect with people, and to let them connect with him.
Arthur slid the key in the lock and pushed open the door of his house. It was a small, two story place, built in the 1800s, airy with wide windows. Presently, the windows were closed and the heat was on at full blast. Embracing the warmth, Arthur closed the door, scrubbing his shoes on the mat and pulling off his peacoat.
"How'd it go?"
Soft, classical piano wafted towards him. Arthur yanked off his scarf and hat, attempting to smooth down his thin hair.
"Pretty well," he called back. "He was displeased at first… I'm half his age, so he wasn't buying that. I think I got his trust in the end, though." He kicked off his shoes and began to walk down the hall, towards the voice.
"Had to talk a lot about yourself, then."
Arthur chuckled. "Yep. Believe it or not, but I talked about you."
He entered the kitchen in time for Ariadne to spin around and stare at him in amazement. Her brown hair was pulled back in a messy knot and the counter behind her was soaked in the juice of several vegetables.
"What'd you say?" Ariadne demanded.
"That I love you very much."
She rolled her eyes, returning to the task at hand. "I thought you didn't want to talk about me with them."
"I don't. There was something about this guy. He kind of reminded me of an older Micah, believe it or not."
Ariadne snorted. "Speaking of, Micah wanted to know if we're up for drinks with him and Emma on Friday night."
"That's fine," Arthur said, approaching her from behind and wrapping his arms around her waist. "He and Emma have been together for a while."
"Um, yeah. I think so?" Ariadne attempted to shove him off, but he only held her more tightly, resting his face in her hair. "I'm trying to make us dinner, down here."
"I don't get to see you enough," Arthur murmured.
Ariadne sighed. "Arthur…"
"I know," he said. "I know why. It's just, talking with Homer… He makes everything sound so simple. It's hard to believe we're doing the right thing. Well, that you are."
"It's hard to believe that I'm doing the right thing?"
"That's not what I meant. I mean… I can't believe that you do this for me. You do all that work in New York, managing an entire other world and community, and then you trek out here to see your battered and deranged husband, because he's too much of a coward to even chance any of those dreamers knowing he's alive."
"You're only a little deranged, Arthur."
He scowled, kissing the side of her head. "I ask too much of you."
"No," Ariadne disagreed. She carefully turned in his arms so she could look up into his face. He ran his hands down her face, gently cradling it between them. "I think you only ask for what any wife would do. Our situation is just a little…"
"Fucked up?"
"I was going to say 'difficult,' but you've always had a way with words." Ariadne carefully wiggled away from him. "Now, if you don't mind, I'm going to finish making this dinner I've slaved over a hot stove all day for-"
"Your plane landed, like, half an hour ago-"
"-So I can have a nice dinner with my unbalanced husband, who I haven't seen in two weeks," Ariadne finished. "Now shut up and start cutting pears."
"I love you. Have I said that to you lately?"
Ariadne thought back. "Yes. As soon as you walked through the door."
"Too long, then. Shame on me."
"Seriously? Come on, Arthur, I'm hungry-"
"Okay, okay…"
He chuckled, going to the refrigerator and fishing out the bag of pears he'd bought yesterday just for this purpose. Turning around, he took in the sight of Ariadne, standing on tiptoes to reach a pot on the back burner and stilled for a moment.
"I have to tell you about this guy on my flight. So we get on, and the first thing he does is open his phone and call this woman, who he starts just yelling at…"
Because she was there, speaking calmly, and so was he.
review, please
the last line was a direct rip-off of the last line in "The Pale King," by David Foster Wallace. I love it.
only an epilogue to go...
