She must have looked as furious, conflicted and saddened by his questions as she felt, or perhaps he saw the Blade sparking on her wrist. Or perhaps he just had enough time to backtrack over the last few days, and the way her presence had turned his world on its ear, breaking down expectations of her even as he built them up.

"I apologize," Connor said, his head bowing to his chest, where he stood out of the window's direct line of sight. He sighed, with all the exhaustion years of fighting for a cause that seemed lost could bring to a man, and all the fatigue that came from a war that asked too many questions that had no right answers.

"I forgot myself," he added contritely. "Of course, I am in no position to offer commentary on your life or situation, of which I know so little. It was only--your hurt hurts me, and I canna see clearly how you came to be here, a part of this, when I always thought of you that perfect night, thought of you ever that way; the applauding crowd, the regal theatre. That night," his voice became wistful, nostalgic, "in another country, another universe, when I heard you play." He took his forehead into his hand. "Until New Year's Eve that night was my best memory--of anything since I left home," he confessed. "You don't know how many tight spaces, nights without sleep--and even interrogations that it brought me through."

"I'm sorry I don't remember it," she said, the frustration of moments ago melting away. Embarrassed at his candidness, she fiddled with the Witchblade on her wrist.

"How could you?" he asked, shrugging. "I was one of a thousand--and hardly memorable, at that," he rushed on, "Won't you play something now," he asked, slowly looking up. Without referencing his imminent departure directly, he added, "It will be dark in another hour or so."

She thought of how, after darkness fell he would be leaving, disappearing back into the underground, taking wild risks among the resistance--making choices with which she, herself, might disagree, might find hard to understand, to justify.

Once at the piano, Rolf's piano, she did not play anything fancy or difficult (as though she wished to impress him with her skill and technique), instead she played the slow and dignified Irish ballad, Foggy Dew. It was a favorite of Scott's, back at British Intelligence, when he got too pissed on a Friday night to remember that he was a proper Scotsman. After the first few bars Connor wandered over and sat, facing the opposite direction from her and the piano, on the bench.

Surprising her (he did not have a poor voice, for all that he was a painter), he began to sing along, quietly--little more than a whisper--chanting the lyrics that recounted Easter Sunday 1916 and the rebellion that followed.

"'Twas far better to die 'neath an Irish sky,/than at Suvla or Sud el Bar./And from the plains of royal Meath,/Brave men came hurrying through,/While Britannia's Huns with their long-range guns,/Sailed into the foggy dew."

And she could see it all, as though she had been there, down to the last stray pebble on the road--the wheeze of a dying man the age of a grandfather. All this came to her, though she had been naught but four at the time, happily oblivious to such things, far away from Ireland and its troubles. It was then that she knew that he had seen it, and that the view she now shared via the Witchblade was that of a child's perspective, a child near Mabel's age. She closed her eyes and shivered. Perhaps the world changed not so very much.

"And I parted then with valiant men,/whom I never see no more."

"Oh, I'm sorry," Elizabeth said, her hands having finished the last notes on the keyboard. "Sorry that you had to see that."

"To see what?" Connor asked quietly, ignorant of her vision. "That was right lovely," he told her, passing over her remark. "The way you play--why, it was almost like being back there in time--back in that concert hall."

She saw him smile longingly, his face in profile, as she leaned back from her seat to catch his eye.

"'Course the seats are better, here," he joked, his right hand inching toward her seat.

"Shall I play another," she asked, swatting his hand away, wanting to please him, to give him a few more moments of happy reprieve.

"Let's have a dance," he said.

"What?" she laughed. "You want to dance?"

"Well, Lass, I'm a very good dancer--" his eyebrow cocked at her in challenge. "'Twould be a pity if you didn't accept my offer." He stood.

"What will we dance to?" she asked, almost giddy. "The radio only plays polkas and marches, and I can't very well play and dance."

"Come on," he said, holding out his hand.

.

...to be continued...

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Disclaimer: I do not own Witchblade, nor the rights to its characters. Seek out Warner Bros. and/or Top Cow if you want to talk to people that matter. I'm not in their employ, and I'm not making any money off of their creation. But I am having a good time with it. ;)

by: Neftzer (c)2003
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