Bradley Crawford walked into his office. Tonight had been a total disaster. He sat heavily in the large black leather chair that sat behind his desk. He took his glasses off and tossed them angrily upon his desk, and buried his face in his hands. A knock at his office door made him start. He jerked his head up, wiped at his face and nervously ran a hand through his hair.
"Come in!"
The large mahogany door swung open to nothing but dark. Then part of the dark itself began to shift and move. Footsteps shuffled haltingly in the inky blackness, and as Crawford watched, the ebon mass started to take a shape.
"Farferello. . .I would have thought that Nagi-" He closed his mouth like a trap. Of course Nagi couldn't have given him his meds and sent him to bed. Nagi was in intensive care at the hospital with Schuldig. He was being treated for extreme exhaustion. "Never mind. What is it that you want? Your drugs?"
Farferello was now closer, completely in the circle of light cast by Crawford's desk lamp. He smiled. "Ach, man. Nothing like that. I jus' needed to talk to ye."
Farferello's voice was rich and deeply accented in Irish. It was steady. He came to a halt in front of Crawford's desk. Stepping backwards a pace, he fell into the chair that faced Crawford. His one gold eye twinkled in the minimal light. Reaching into his sleeveless blue jacket, he pulled out a knife. The knife had a black leather hilt. The steel blade was decorated a Celtic knot. On the end of the hilt was dragon's claw, in the claw was a sphere made of opal.
"Farferello, I don't have time to-"
Farferello's finger went to his lips. "Shhhhh. . ." His hand flashed out and cut off the overhanging decoration of the arm of his chair. Cradling it in his palm, he began to whittle it. Brad watched him, his patience growing thin with the lunatic. "Far-"
"Shhhhh!" Farferello's eyebrows wrinkled in impatience themselves. His hands continued to be busy with the knife and wood. He stopped and looked up at Crawford. His voice came in a hoarse whisper. "Can you hear it?"
"Hear what? I don't hear anything."
"Listen." Silence thickened in the room. The tick of the large grandfather clock shouted out in the noiselessness.
"Can you hear it now, Crawford?"
"Hear what?" Crawford was now whispering as well.
"'E's cryin'. 'E's cryin' his heart out for ye, Crawford."
Crawford straightened. His face was taut and pale. His lips pressed so tightly together they became a dark line. "That's enough." His voice came even and deadly. "Get the hell-"
"Oh no, Crawford. At that, yer wrong. I know stuff, you don't think I do. I hear things. . ."
Crawford just sat stock still.
Farferello continued his whittling. His face became thoughtful. "He loves ye. And Crawford, if ye don't grab to that, he'll go away."
A single tear ran down Crawford's face to the corner of his mouth. "I. . .I don't love him, Farferello."
Farferello pounded the desk with his fist. The scarred fist opened and a wooden heart fell out. "Maybe one day, yer black heart will open, and let 'im in. But a warnin'. . .He won't be waitin' long."
Placing the knife back in his jacket, Farferello stood up. He turned his back to Crawford and shuffled back out. Crawford watched as he was swallowed by the black velvet dark.
A pair of brown eyes searched the room, for some meaning of what just happened. His eyes rested on the wooden heart Farferello whittled and left on his desk. Crawford's long fingers reached out. He held it in the palm of his hand.
(How could he know?)
Crawford touched the heart with an index finger, and very much to his surprise, it fell in two pieces, split by a clean knife cut through the middle.