Rising Slowly from the Depths
Three floors and twenty years separated them, yet he could still feel her as if she was holding his hand. And that scared him. He couldn't remember being scared like that for a long time. Like grains of sand under his skin, she made her presence known, and he started to bleed just a little. Just seeing her opened all of the scars he thought had healed. The camera did not lie about her; it still showed her eyes, the center of her power. He hoped that he was strong enough to endure; he prayed that he and Sydney could survive.
He stared at the monitors for hours watching as she first prowled through the cell like a caged tiger. He watched her as she settled into disquieting calm, disturbing time around her. He felt her eyes bore into him as she stared into the camera. He kept searching her face to see if there was any of Laura left, any glimmer remaining of what he had loved. He was afraid of finding the remnants; but with morbid curiosity, he kept looking.
So, in preparation, he began to repair the armor that had lasted for twenty years, hammering out the dents, repairing the weak spots. He shined it until it was blinding. For he knew that he would have to fight again.
He knew that Sydney's armor was not ready; that it needed reinforcements. However, she could not hear the advise of those previously wounded. She seemed to hold onto the hope that the mother of that six-year-old still remained, despite the evil that inhabited the same shell. He watched her stride into battle with belief on her side, visions of St. Joan. He hoped that her ending was not the same. He still watched when she returned bruised and damaged, but not conquered. And he celebrated that small victory. He wanted to reach out and show her the way to reinforce her armor, to point out the ways of the Evil One, to give her ammunition for the next encounter. But he could not make her hear him, not yet.
The war raged on and he envisioned himself as St. George to slay the dragon as the sound of scraping metal preceded his path to doom or salvation. The walk to her cell seemed to stretch on forever, like the illusions from a fun house at the carnival. Then he saw her behind the glass. Her eyes were not shining but hardened with hatred and pain. Her smiling red lips were twenty years gone, now a sharp line. Her mesmerizing hair was the same, and he steeled himself against its lure. Her words pierced and stung and cut small holes into the armor. He still felt her under his skin and she still smelled of roses. She was Merlin and Lucifer; sorcerer and gypsy; witch and angel. Could he survive her return?
She had learned much in twenty years. He could see that her game playing skills were heightened and honed. He now knew the game and he fully engaged in the contest. This time it wasn't merely a contest between countries and philosophies. This time it was personal; it was a death match. The prize was Sydney's soul. He hoped that Sydney was ready and hoped that his unwitting and innocent ally, Vaughn, was up for a war. It would be bloody.
His relationship with Sydney had been improving. She was leaning to trust him and he was beginning to need to be open with her. He held a small glimmer of hope that soon things could get somewhere nearer to normal. As normal as a spy's life could be. As normal as a Bristow's life could be. Atlantis was on the rise.
And then catastrophe. This one was as wounding and damaging as the first. What he had done, both in the present and in the past, came to haunt him and tore at the burgeoning relationship between father and daughter. What he had done to protect Sydney was done out of love; but she didn't see that. She was too injured by his actions to see the evidence. His actions were the best ways in which he felt he could protect her, the most outward measure of his love he could show. But it backfired, and now Sydney was wounded even more by what he had done, than by what her mother had done. He ached for her understanding and forgiveness.
And Jack sat at the table staring a blank piece of paper. The fountain pen poised in his hand, several inches above the paper ready to begin. But where to begin? He was sinking, again because of his actions, and he didn't know how to ask for a life preserver. He knew whom to ask, but not how.
He wanted to tell Sydney of the entire story, the good and the bad. She deserved to know. He hoped that with time, faith, courage and love, she could help his ascent to the surface. She could help him find that portion of himself he lost years ago. And, just maybe, he could break through the waves and see the sun.
And somehow, in the future, with Sydney's help, he could Raise Atlantis again and be saved.
A/N: I've decided to end this here because I've reached a point where I don't want to contradict or compromise the unfolding story JJ and company have in store for us. Plus, my muse is pushing me in other directions. I am overwhelmed by the response to this story; you've brought tears to my eyes more than once with your kindness.
Thank you, thank you, and thank you.
GeoGirl