=====================================================================
Promises Kept
by Nancy Kaminski
(c) December 31, 1998
=====================================================================
The black sedan glided to a halt in the stone house's small parking
area, the gravel scrunching under its wheels. The electric motor
whined softly down into silence. Dried leaves skittered across the
drive, making whispering tick-tick noises and leaping into sudden
skirls with the wind. Clouds scudded across the almost-full October
moon, causing shadows to flit across the ground.
Lucien Lacroix, hands resting lightly on the wheel, contemplated the
house's stone facade. *He* was there -- Lacroix could feel it, just
barely, at the edges of his perception.
The golden thread that had been the connection between them for
centuries had been nearly severed those sixty years ago; nearly, but
not quite. When Nicholas had regained his mortality the connection
had thinned to the merest whisper, but had somehow remained as the
faintest of tugs on Lacroix's mind.
He had never told Nicholas. He had kept his silence and stayed away
as he had promised, leaving his son to his mortal life and love. He
was, if nothing else, a man of his word.
Until now.
For weeks the thread had been fading away, growing ever more tenuous,
like a ship loosed from its moorings drifting away out to sea.
Lacroix had always refused to acknowledge the loss of his son; why
then, come to view the utter finality of it? For what he felt now was
a loss not just to daylight, but to death.
Nicholas was dying.
Just thinking the words angered him, saddened him, made him want to
strike at someone or something. He was utterly powerless against the
tide of time; there was nothing he could do to hold it back.
Lacroix ruthlessly brought his raging emotions under control and got
out of his car. With an effort he drew the cloak of humanity around
himself and knocked on the front door.
It was late; the woman who answered didn't want to admit him until he
exerted some gentle mental pressure. Once inside, he saw that the
house was spacious and well-appointed. It didn't look like a nursing
home, save for the utilitarian elevator tucked discreetly under the
mahogany staircase and the handrails along the paneled corridors. It
was a haven for the wealthy elderly, but it still stank of medication
and illness underneath the facade of luxury.
Unerringly his gaze was drawn to the upper floor. The thread led that
way and he followed it unerringly, leaving the woman seated at her
reception desk gazing blankly at the unsigned guest register.
He walked softly down the carpeted hall and halted outside a door. It
was slightly ajar, and he could hear a man's voice murmuring inside.
There were three hearts beating there, two strong and sure, one
hesitant and weak. The man was relating some petty event; Lacroix
could hear no response. He knocked.
There was the sound of a chair scraping back, then a man appeared at
the door, looking out inquiringly. "Yes?" He was middle-aged, with a
pleasant face, thinning brown hair and wide blue eyes.
"I wish to see Mr. Knight."
"Dad? I'm sorry, do I know you...?" His voice trailed off as
recognition dawned, turning into apprehension and fear.
'You're...him," he whispered.
So Nicholas had told his family. Lacroix nodded. "Yes."
The man looked over his shoulder and said, "Nick? Keep your
grandfather company for a bit, okay? I have to talk to someone."
"'Kay, Dad," said a teenaged voice.
Nicholas' son edged into the hallway and shut the door. He said,
"Down here," and led the way to a small sitting room at the end of
the hall. He sat in a chair and waited for Lacroix to follow suit. He
watched Lacroix cross his long legs and sit back to return the gaze.
They stared at each other for a long moment.
Nicholas' son was perhaps fifty or fifty-five years old, just
beginning to slide into the comfortable fleshiness of middle age. He
had his mother's eyes, Lacroix judged, and her level, considering
gaze. The man's hands gripped the arms of his chair, and Lacroix
could hear his accelerated heart rate, but he showed no other signs
of fear. Yes, he favored his mother in that way, too.
"Why are you here?" he finally asked.
Lacroix steepled his fingers and considered his answer. Finally he
said, "Because he is dying. I wish to...say good-bye."
"Is that all?" The man sounded skeptical.
"Yes."
"Dad told us about you, you know, when he figured we were old enough
to understand. He showed us a picture of his...family. He said you
promised to never interfere with us after he became mortal again."
"That is true. I have kept my promise, and intend to continue keeping
it. One visit in sixty years is hardly 'interfering.'" Lacroix's pale
blue eyes glittered as he stared at the man. "What else has Nicholas
told you of me?"
The man dropped his eyes, unable to withstand that icy gaze. "Not too
much. He and Mum showed us things, some pictures, and told us just
enough for us to understand why he was like he was, and why he didn't
have any relatives. "*Real* relatives. He didn't even tell us your
names. He warned us never to talk about it with anyone else." He
shook his head. "That's all." He picked at the fabric of the chair
arm, then looked up, troubled. 'No, not quite all. He said that you
were his... closest friend."
Lacroix closed his eyes. "And he is my son, even now."
Silence descended on the small room, each man lost in his own
memories. Lacroix could see indecision wavering on the man's face as
he debated what to do. Finally he came to a decision and said, "You
can see him, but first -- tell me your name. I need to know."
Lacroix inclined his head slightly. It was a small price to pay.
Besides, he no longer lived in Toronto and he knew this mortal could
never find him. "Lucien Lacroix."
"Thank you. I'm guessing you're not really French?"
Lacroix allowed his lips to quirk slightly. "No." The man waited,
obviously hoping for some elaboration, but none was forthcoming.
Instead Lacroix asked, "And you are?"
"Oh--I assumed you would know. I'm Robert de Brabant." At Lacroix's
raised eyebrow, he laughed slightly. "Mum's idea. She knew Dad was
old-fashioned enough to want the family name to continue, but he
wasn't willing to change his own back. He was too well-established
here to do that. So we three kids are de Brabants. Richard's the
oldest, and there's my younger sister, Madeleine."
Lacroix nodded and stood. "I see. Now, shall we?" He nodded in the
direction of Nicholas' room.
The two men walked down the hall in strained silence. At the door
Robert halted and held up his hand to bar the way. "Before you go in,
let me tell you about Dad. He's not always quite...in the moment.
Sometimes he's with us, but a lot of the time his mind is in the
past. He'll go for days without speaking English at all. Today hasn't
been one of his better days."
"I understand." Lacroix pushed open the door.
A gangly teenager sat next to an old man, holding his hand and
chatting amiably about a swim meet. The boy's hair was dark blond,
thick and wavy, his eyes dark blue. He was so like his grandfather
Lacroix caught his breath. And the old man...
*Oh, Nicholas.* He was seated in a comfortable chair, dressed neatly
in slacks and a thick sweater. He was rail-thin; time had worn him
down to a shadow of himself. Although he still sat ramrod straight,
his clothes hung on him. His hands were gnarled with snaking blue
veins and arthritic joints. The blue eyes were now faded and the
once-golden hair was ice-white and receding at the temples. His
breath rasped in his lungs, and Lacroix could hear the thready,
tremulous beat of his failing heart.
Robert cleared his throat. "Nick, this is, uh, an old friend of your
grandfather's, Mr. Lacroix. He just wants to visit for a few minutes.
Let's go get a cup of coffee, okay?"
"Sure, Dad." Nick held out his hand. "Pleased to meet you, Mr.
Lacroix." He shook hands and then bent over and kissed his
grandfather on the cheek. "Talk to you later, Granddad."
Nicholas didn't respond. His vague glance passed over his grandson,
then he looked away towards the large casement window.
"Fifteen minutes, Mr. Lacroix," said Robert, and quietly closed the
door.
Lacroix sat down next to Nicholas and clasped his hand. "Oh,
Nicholas," he whispered, "was it worth it? Was a life in the sun
worth this decay of body and mind? Are you so sure there is something
else beyond?" Nicholas gave no response. He looked at Lacroix without
curiosity or recognition, then continued gazing out the window at the
moonlit night.
Lacroix sighed. "I have missed you, mon fils. In all this time I have
not taken another. There can be no other---and soon there will be no
you." He laid his hand on Nicholas' withered cheek, forcing their
gazes to meet. "I came here to tell you that I will keep my promise,
and leave your family alone when you are gone. Your children are
under my protection, and their children, and their children's
children. As long as I am in this world, none of our kind will harm
them. Do you understand?" He stared hard into the faded eyes, willing
them to comprehend, trying to capture the mind that dwelt somewhere
within.
Nothing. Lacroix let his hand drop. He stood and went to look out the
window over the frost-ruined gardens. The window faced east, and
would receive the full light of the rising sun. He wondered if that
was by choice or happenstance. "Did you ever miss the glories of the
night, Nicholas? The freedom, the ecstasy, the power? The exhultation
of flight? I could never understand your desire for mortality and
death; I still don't. Did you ever regret your choice?"
"Never." The voice was weak and cracked.
Lacroix turned to find Nicholas' eyes on him, the familiar half-smile
on his lips. "Still lecturing me, Lacroix? Some things never change."
"Nicholas!" He went swiftly to his side and took his hand again.
Nicholas squeezed gently. "I'm glad to see you, Lucien. It's been a
long time."
"Sixty years."
"A moment to you. A lifetime for me. I did look for you once, you
know, when Richard was born. No one would say anything."
"As I instructed them. You could't have been surprised."
"No, I wasn't. It's been a good life, Lucien, but it's time for it to
be over. I want it to be over. I just wish..." Tears glistened in his
eyes. "I'm ready. This body is used up. Ever since Natalie died..."
He looked up at Lacroix. "What year is it? I've lost track of time.
It's so much easier to simply drift off, it all runs together now,
and I just don't care."
"It's 2050."
"Oh, God, it's been ten years. I miss her so much..."
Lacroix smoothed back the white hair. "Soon, Nicholas, soon. You will
be with her soon." But the reassurance fell on deaf ears. Nicholas
was gone again, to a place no one else could visit. "J'taime," he
murmured, and if he meant Natalie or Lacroix no one could tell.
When Robert and his son returned to the room they found only
Nicholas, sleeping in his chair, his face streaked with tears.
~~~~~
Late the next night Lacroix returned, a silent wraith through the
window. The moon was full, shedding a pale white light across the
landscape. His shadow fell across the slight figure in the bed, deep
in a restless, uneasy sleep. Nicholas' breathing was noisy and
labored: as Lacroix watched it stopped for almost a minute, then
began again with a gasp in the dreadful rhythm of apnea.
Lacroix stood by the bedside and once again stroked his son's hair.
The mortal heart whose strong pulse he had first heard over eight
hundred years ago was even weaker than it had been the night before.
"You told me yesterday you wanted this life to be done, Nicholas,"
Lacroix whispered to the slumbering form, "so you could go on to the
next. You asked me to do this once before, and I refused, and rightly
so. Like Romeo you were unaware your Juliet was not dead. But now she
is, mon fils, and you have asked again. I am your closest friend,
Nicholas, and your father. What else can I do?"
He kissed Nicholas' brow. Then, with exquisite care, Lacroix took the
recumbent head in his hands and twisted, just so. There was a faint
'crack,' one final exhalation, and then nothing. The golden thread of
their connection vanished as silently as a soap bubble.
Lacroix smoothed the bedclothes, then folded a worn silver denarius
into Nicholas' hand. "For the ferryman, mon fils," he whispered. "I
am sure he will find it in your hand as easily as in your mouth. And
there will be fewer questions this way." He felt suddenly hollow and
utterly alone.
As he slipped out the window faint words lingered in the chill air.
"Damn you, Nicholas. Adieu."
Finis
=====================================================================
Comments, criticisms, and offers of therapy to:
nancykam@mediaone.net
=====================================================================
Promises Kept
by Nancy Kaminski
(c) December 31, 1998
=====================================================================
The black sedan glided to a halt in the stone house's small parking
area, the gravel scrunching under its wheels. The electric motor
whined softly down into silence. Dried leaves skittered across the
drive, making whispering tick-tick noises and leaping into sudden
skirls with the wind. Clouds scudded across the almost-full October
moon, causing shadows to flit across the ground.
Lucien Lacroix, hands resting lightly on the wheel, contemplated the
house's stone facade. *He* was there -- Lacroix could feel it, just
barely, at the edges of his perception.
The golden thread that had been the connection between them for
centuries had been nearly severed those sixty years ago; nearly, but
not quite. When Nicholas had regained his mortality the connection
had thinned to the merest whisper, but had somehow remained as the
faintest of tugs on Lacroix's mind.
He had never told Nicholas. He had kept his silence and stayed away
as he had promised, leaving his son to his mortal life and love. He
was, if nothing else, a man of his word.
Until now.
For weeks the thread had been fading away, growing ever more tenuous,
like a ship loosed from its moorings drifting away out to sea.
Lacroix had always refused to acknowledge the loss of his son; why
then, come to view the utter finality of it? For what he felt now was
a loss not just to daylight, but to death.
Nicholas was dying.
Just thinking the words angered him, saddened him, made him want to
strike at someone or something. He was utterly powerless against the
tide of time; there was nothing he could do to hold it back.
Lacroix ruthlessly brought his raging emotions under control and got
out of his car. With an effort he drew the cloak of humanity around
himself and knocked on the front door.
It was late; the woman who answered didn't want to admit him until he
exerted some gentle mental pressure. Once inside, he saw that the
house was spacious and well-appointed. It didn't look like a nursing
home, save for the utilitarian elevator tucked discreetly under the
mahogany staircase and the handrails along the paneled corridors. It
was a haven for the wealthy elderly, but it still stank of medication
and illness underneath the facade of luxury.
Unerringly his gaze was drawn to the upper floor. The thread led that
way and he followed it unerringly, leaving the woman seated at her
reception desk gazing blankly at the unsigned guest register.
He walked softly down the carpeted hall and halted outside a door. It
was slightly ajar, and he could hear a man's voice murmuring inside.
There were three hearts beating there, two strong and sure, one
hesitant and weak. The man was relating some petty event; Lacroix
could hear no response. He knocked.
There was the sound of a chair scraping back, then a man appeared at
the door, looking out inquiringly. "Yes?" He was middle-aged, with a
pleasant face, thinning brown hair and wide blue eyes.
"I wish to see Mr. Knight."
"Dad? I'm sorry, do I know you...?" His voice trailed off as
recognition dawned, turning into apprehension and fear.
'You're...him," he whispered.
So Nicholas had told his family. Lacroix nodded. "Yes."
The man looked over his shoulder and said, "Nick? Keep your
grandfather company for a bit, okay? I have to talk to someone."
"'Kay, Dad," said a teenaged voice.
Nicholas' son edged into the hallway and shut the door. He said,
"Down here," and led the way to a small sitting room at the end of
the hall. He sat in a chair and waited for Lacroix to follow suit. He
watched Lacroix cross his long legs and sit back to return the gaze.
They stared at each other for a long moment.
Nicholas' son was perhaps fifty or fifty-five years old, just
beginning to slide into the comfortable fleshiness of middle age. He
had his mother's eyes, Lacroix judged, and her level, considering
gaze. The man's hands gripped the arms of his chair, and Lacroix
could hear his accelerated heart rate, but he showed no other signs
of fear. Yes, he favored his mother in that way, too.
"Why are you here?" he finally asked.
Lacroix steepled his fingers and considered his answer. Finally he
said, "Because he is dying. I wish to...say good-bye."
"Is that all?" The man sounded skeptical.
"Yes."
"Dad told us about you, you know, when he figured we were old enough
to understand. He showed us a picture of his...family. He said you
promised to never interfere with us after he became mortal again."
"That is true. I have kept my promise, and intend to continue keeping
it. One visit in sixty years is hardly 'interfering.'" Lacroix's pale
blue eyes glittered as he stared at the man. "What else has Nicholas
told you of me?"
The man dropped his eyes, unable to withstand that icy gaze. "Not too
much. He and Mum showed us things, some pictures, and told us just
enough for us to understand why he was like he was, and why he didn't
have any relatives. "*Real* relatives. He didn't even tell us your
names. He warned us never to talk about it with anyone else." He
shook his head. "That's all." He picked at the fabric of the chair
arm, then looked up, troubled. 'No, not quite all. He said that you
were his... closest friend."
Lacroix closed his eyes. "And he is my son, even now."
Silence descended on the small room, each man lost in his own
memories. Lacroix could see indecision wavering on the man's face as
he debated what to do. Finally he came to a decision and said, "You
can see him, but first -- tell me your name. I need to know."
Lacroix inclined his head slightly. It was a small price to pay.
Besides, he no longer lived in Toronto and he knew this mortal could
never find him. "Lucien Lacroix."
"Thank you. I'm guessing you're not really French?"
Lacroix allowed his lips to quirk slightly. "No." The man waited,
obviously hoping for some elaboration, but none was forthcoming.
Instead Lacroix asked, "And you are?"
"Oh--I assumed you would know. I'm Robert de Brabant." At Lacroix's
raised eyebrow, he laughed slightly. "Mum's idea. She knew Dad was
old-fashioned enough to want the family name to continue, but he
wasn't willing to change his own back. He was too well-established
here to do that. So we three kids are de Brabants. Richard's the
oldest, and there's my younger sister, Madeleine."
Lacroix nodded and stood. "I see. Now, shall we?" He nodded in the
direction of Nicholas' room.
The two men walked down the hall in strained silence. At the door
Robert halted and held up his hand to bar the way. "Before you go in,
let me tell you about Dad. He's not always quite...in the moment.
Sometimes he's with us, but a lot of the time his mind is in the
past. He'll go for days without speaking English at all. Today hasn't
been one of his better days."
"I understand." Lacroix pushed open the door.
A gangly teenager sat next to an old man, holding his hand and
chatting amiably about a swim meet. The boy's hair was dark blond,
thick and wavy, his eyes dark blue. He was so like his grandfather
Lacroix caught his breath. And the old man...
*Oh, Nicholas.* He was seated in a comfortable chair, dressed neatly
in slacks and a thick sweater. He was rail-thin; time had worn him
down to a shadow of himself. Although he still sat ramrod straight,
his clothes hung on him. His hands were gnarled with snaking blue
veins and arthritic joints. The blue eyes were now faded and the
once-golden hair was ice-white and receding at the temples. His
breath rasped in his lungs, and Lacroix could hear the thready,
tremulous beat of his failing heart.
Robert cleared his throat. "Nick, this is, uh, an old friend of your
grandfather's, Mr. Lacroix. He just wants to visit for a few minutes.
Let's go get a cup of coffee, okay?"
"Sure, Dad." Nick held out his hand. "Pleased to meet you, Mr.
Lacroix." He shook hands and then bent over and kissed his
grandfather on the cheek. "Talk to you later, Granddad."
Nicholas didn't respond. His vague glance passed over his grandson,
then he looked away towards the large casement window.
"Fifteen minutes, Mr. Lacroix," said Robert, and quietly closed the
door.
Lacroix sat down next to Nicholas and clasped his hand. "Oh,
Nicholas," he whispered, "was it worth it? Was a life in the sun
worth this decay of body and mind? Are you so sure there is something
else beyond?" Nicholas gave no response. He looked at Lacroix without
curiosity or recognition, then continued gazing out the window at the
moonlit night.
Lacroix sighed. "I have missed you, mon fils. In all this time I have
not taken another. There can be no other---and soon there will be no
you." He laid his hand on Nicholas' withered cheek, forcing their
gazes to meet. "I came here to tell you that I will keep my promise,
and leave your family alone when you are gone. Your children are
under my protection, and their children, and their children's
children. As long as I am in this world, none of our kind will harm
them. Do you understand?" He stared hard into the faded eyes, willing
them to comprehend, trying to capture the mind that dwelt somewhere
within.
Nothing. Lacroix let his hand drop. He stood and went to look out the
window over the frost-ruined gardens. The window faced east, and
would receive the full light of the rising sun. He wondered if that
was by choice or happenstance. "Did you ever miss the glories of the
night, Nicholas? The freedom, the ecstasy, the power? The exhultation
of flight? I could never understand your desire for mortality and
death; I still don't. Did you ever regret your choice?"
"Never." The voice was weak and cracked.
Lacroix turned to find Nicholas' eyes on him, the familiar half-smile
on his lips. "Still lecturing me, Lacroix? Some things never change."
"Nicholas!" He went swiftly to his side and took his hand again.
Nicholas squeezed gently. "I'm glad to see you, Lucien. It's been a
long time."
"Sixty years."
"A moment to you. A lifetime for me. I did look for you once, you
know, when Richard was born. No one would say anything."
"As I instructed them. You could't have been surprised."
"No, I wasn't. It's been a good life, Lucien, but it's time for it to
be over. I want it to be over. I just wish..." Tears glistened in his
eyes. "I'm ready. This body is used up. Ever since Natalie died..."
He looked up at Lacroix. "What year is it? I've lost track of time.
It's so much easier to simply drift off, it all runs together now,
and I just don't care."
"It's 2050."
"Oh, God, it's been ten years. I miss her so much..."
Lacroix smoothed back the white hair. "Soon, Nicholas, soon. You will
be with her soon." But the reassurance fell on deaf ears. Nicholas
was gone again, to a place no one else could visit. "J'taime," he
murmured, and if he meant Natalie or Lacroix no one could tell.
When Robert and his son returned to the room they found only
Nicholas, sleeping in his chair, his face streaked with tears.
~~~~~
Late the next night Lacroix returned, a silent wraith through the
window. The moon was full, shedding a pale white light across the
landscape. His shadow fell across the slight figure in the bed, deep
in a restless, uneasy sleep. Nicholas' breathing was noisy and
labored: as Lacroix watched it stopped for almost a minute, then
began again with a gasp in the dreadful rhythm of apnea.
Lacroix stood by the bedside and once again stroked his son's hair.
The mortal heart whose strong pulse he had first heard over eight
hundred years ago was even weaker than it had been the night before.
"You told me yesterday you wanted this life to be done, Nicholas,"
Lacroix whispered to the slumbering form, "so you could go on to the
next. You asked me to do this once before, and I refused, and rightly
so. Like Romeo you were unaware your Juliet was not dead. But now she
is, mon fils, and you have asked again. I am your closest friend,
Nicholas, and your father. What else can I do?"
He kissed Nicholas' brow. Then, with exquisite care, Lacroix took the
recumbent head in his hands and twisted, just so. There was a faint
'crack,' one final exhalation, and then nothing. The golden thread of
their connection vanished as silently as a soap bubble.
Lacroix smoothed the bedclothes, then folded a worn silver denarius
into Nicholas' hand. "For the ferryman, mon fils," he whispered. "I
am sure he will find it in your hand as easily as in your mouth. And
there will be fewer questions this way." He felt suddenly hollow and
utterly alone.
As he slipped out the window faint words lingered in the chill air.
"Damn you, Nicholas. Adieu."
Finis
=====================================================================
Comments, criticisms, and offers of therapy to:
nancykam@mediaone.net
=====================================================================