CHAPTER THREE
THEN
Irina Devreko watches her daughter cradle a baby.
It's not her daughter's child. But her daughter believes it's her child.
They found the child just after she was born, in an alleyway somewhere, child of a prostitute they suspect…if they hadn't found her, she would have died within hours.
Irina Devreko is still a mother, and no mother enjoys seeing a child [any child] suffer.
And that's why it's so hard for her to do what they're doing right now.
But she knows that there is no alternative, that there is too much at stake for her to cry over what she's doing to her daughter.
There is simply too much at stake.
Because two years ago, Irina Derevko discovered a missing fragment of the Rambaldi prophecy ["Unless prevented at vulgar cost this woman will render the greatest power unto utter desolation..."] that concerned that same woman.
"She who will unleash this tremendous power will be the daughter of my heir and of a woman herself once believed the prophesised one…the mother will see the beauty of Mt. Sebacio, the daughter will never gaze upon the beauty of these mountains I myself look upon now. And many will weep for her never having seen the splendour of the sunrise upon that yonder mountain, for she will bring undone what is great, and give life to those who are dead. She will be beautiful, and terrible, and the provider of the greatest power the world has ever seen. None will be safe from her, except those who believe they control her. And although her power will seem as a gift, nothing is as it appears. Let this be known – there is a reason why death comes to all men."
Next to this prophecy, there was a sketch of a man who bore an incredible resemblance to Alistair Sark.
Beneath it were the words "My Heir –
Father of the One".
No one knows very much about Sark, not even Irina, who took him in when he appeared on her doorstep nearly fifteen years ago.
[she had opened the door one morning to find him there, a small blond-haired boy with the biggest, bluest eyes she'd ever seen. She had asked him "What's your name, little one?" "Sark", he had replied with a lisp. "Alistair Sark." He had known his name, and nothing else….he was dressed in raggedy clothing, and by the looks of him, he hadn't had a good meal in quite some time. So she took him in. And she trained him, educated him, turned him into a carbon copy of her. Except, she was determined to make sure that he would never be ordered into the same sort of destructive mission she had been…he would never have to forget who he was…he would never want to forget who he really was. He was the closest thing to a son she'd ever have, and she did love him, in her own way.]
Yes, she loved him, in her own way, and that was why it was killing her so much to see him undertake this mission [I swore that I would never let him do something like this…].
But there was too much at stake. Sydney would never have accepted that she was destined to give birth to the one in the prophecy, especially not when she learnt that Sark was to be the father. And there is simply too much at stake, too much at risk, to risk the actions of one woman condemning the entire human race [because what's done will come undone, and the dead will stay dead no longer].
The good of the many must bow to the good of the one. Irina Derevko knows this well enough [lived her life by this, once] and yet she knows Sark and Sydney's child must be born [for the good of all], and so she forces herself to bury her misgivings about this operation [I am destroying my daughter's life, someone inside her screams, but she is weak and easily silenced] in the blackest corner of her heart, where nothing grows from lack of light.
So she watches her daughter and her granddaughter, and she sees the day when the one who will bring immortality to all will lie in those arms.
But somewhere deep inside there's someone screaming.
* * *
Arvin Sloane watches the same scene, and sees nothing except the power and wonder that Sydney and Sark's daughter [sister in everything except birth of the girl Sydney holds in her arms right now] will bring him. He will train her like he did Sydney, groom her in his ways, mould her until she is him in nearly every way…there will be no betrayal, not with her. Not like there was with Sydney.
The daughter of Sydney Bristow and Alistair Sark will be immeasurably talented [intelligent, from both mother and father/ruthless like her father/beautiful like her mother]. She will be the perfect spy, and the perfect weapon, with the greatest power imaginable.
And she will be his to control. [Mine. My precious.]
* * *
A woman and a man both watch this scene. [two of the faces of the devil…the other stands within the scene…]
They see through a glass darkly. [they see what they have to gain, and then they attempt to justify their cruelty]
They don't see the truth. They don't see the purity [her child is innocent, blameless, pure…peaceful] and the love [mother's love for her daughter] within the room, even under all the lies [even though she's not her daughter].
Because a mother still loves her child, even if the girl Sydney Bristow holds in her arms is not her child by birth.
Sark stands beside the bed, gritting his teeth into an approximation of a smile as he watches his "daughter" and "wife. [the child will keep her bound to me, bind her to me forever. No matter how suspicious she becomes, she won't leave her child. And why is that? Because Sydney Bristow will be a good mother, and because Sydney Bristow has "morals".]
"Oh, she's beautiful, Danny!" Sydney gushes. "What a perfect little girl you are!" she coos to Laura. [Laura after your mother, then Grace after my grandmother, he had told her]
She holds her daughter in her arms and taps her nose with the end of her little finger, while her adoring daughter gazes up at her with the biggest, bluest eyes she's ever seen [she has her father's eyes, but where's the black hair from?].
She coos and speaks in that gibberish that only babies seem to be able to bring out in even the most sensible people, and she looks incredibly happy.
But inside she's troubled [she doesn't remember her daughter, her husband…her life]. She tries to just write it off to the coma and amnesia, but there's still something niggling.
She keeps having flashes of memories that she doesn't remember having, flashes of memory that don't make any sense [What was she doing? She sees herself crying, at a pier, then there's a man there with her, and suddenly there's no need to cry…she sees herself kicking a man in the face, but she's wearing someone else's clothes, someone's else's hair…she's a banker] from what her husband has told her about their lives.
But she holds her daughter in her arms, and everything seems all right. [but the memories keep coming, and she keeps having an irrational wish that her daughter's eyes were green rather than blue]
She holds her daughter, and everything is all right, even for a moment.
Because this, this girl in her arms, these blue eyes, these little fingernails, these delicate lips, this wisp of black hair…this is real.
And it is, even underneath all these lies.
Because a mother loves her child. No matter what.