Reconstruction
Sark went outside on the chateau's property. He started to walk, to just disappear for awhile on the grounds. It hurt his leg, every step, but he forced himself to push that aside.
The cold air stung his bleeding hand. Sark loosened his tie with his good hand, and slipped the tie off his neck. He wrapped the red tie over the cuts, gripping the hand-woven silk to stop the blood and the stinging.
Old snow covered the ground. His feet crunched on top of the snow just before falling a few inches down to the ground beneath the iciness. He listened to the awkward rhythm of his steps.
Of all things, Irina lost track of his family. They could be anywhere now, he thought. On the other hand, it wouldn't be too hard to find them. Irina had said she was already working on it.
And now he had to focus on the vault. Sydney wouldn't like it. He already knew he would have to lie to her about that. She probably wanted the plans back, just so they weren't in Irina's hands.
What about Ilene? Sark sighed loudly to the trees. A cloud of his breath dissipated into the air.
She can't be with me on the mission. She doesn't trust me anymore. When Sark first reappeared to his family, she was the most accepting of him. But now that she'd seen firsthand just how ruthless he could be . . .
She doesn't know me anymore.
He shook his head, and winced at a sudden flash of pain in his leg. He gasped and stopped, clutching his left calf.
He allowed himself a moment to catch his breath.
It would be hard to make amends with Ilene. It would take time, time he didn't have. Right now he had to focus on getting stronger.
Sydney. He would leave Ilene with Sydney. His sister wouldn't be happy about being left, but she trusted Sydney.
That was more than Ilene felt about Sark.
He allowed himself to rest somewhat. Irina made copies of the plans to the vault, and gave the originals to Sydney. That had earned some respect in Sydney's eyes, but Sark wasn't concerned with that façade.
He focused on the mission now.
The copies were spread out on the table in front of him. A glass of wine held down one end of the plans.
He traced a finger over the plans, tracking how deep to the bottom of the mine. He typed a note on his laptop, and continued.
It was automatic, this planning. He felt his mind slipping into a familiar pattern: strategy, caution, and stealth.
This continued for hours. When Sark looked at his watch, it was eleven o'clock. The birds outside his window were quiet, no doubt asleep for a few hours.
He sighed and sipped at his glass. His leg was starting to throb. Sark stood, gingerly favoring his left leg. He rolled up the plans and hid them under his bed.
His hand stopped bleeding hours ago, but was wrapped up. He pulled at the gauze, and discarded it. The cuts were inflamed.
Sark unbuttoned his shirt, tossing it on a chair. He left the suit pants on, and fell onto the bed. He sighed as he stared at the ceiling.
A knock at the door roused him from near-sleep.
"Come in," he said smoothly. The door opened, and he was pleasantly surprised when Sydney walked in.
He stared at her. She wore a simple sweater and jeans, but looked amazing as always. The sleeves of the sweater were too long and covered most of her hands. It was endearing, almost timid.
"How are you?" she asked as he sat up against the headboard. He was well aware that his shirt was off, and couldn't help but feel somewhat self-conscious. Her eyes explored his chest.
He cleared his throat. "All right," he said vaguely. "I, uh, overheard you earlier. With Ilene."
Sydney glanced at the floor briefly. She sat on the edge of his bed.
"I hope you didn't mind."
Sark shook his head. "On the contrary. Thank you." He glanced at his bare feet. "I know it's a rarity, but can I ask you for a little advice?"
Sydney's mouth spread into an amused smile. Her lips pursed together, as if she was containing a laugh. It was very much like Irina. She nodded for him to go ahead.
"How would you . . . how should I . . ." He sighed, running both his hands through his hair. "I don't know how to act and still be honest with Ilene. Or the rest of my family, for that matter."
Sydney cocked her head to the side. "You mean you don't think they'll really accept what you do."
He sighed again and shrugged his shoulders. "It took you awhile."
She nodded at that, conceding. "Maybe it's just a matter of time."
"Maybe," he said. He stayed quiet after that, just staring at his hands. He could feel Sydney's eyes on him, probing him.
"You're worried about your family."
He nodded.
"I can ignore my past, but people like Strachen will always be there," Sark said. "How can I protect them, without showing who I am?"
Sydney nodded, understanding the predicament.
"I don't know," she admitted. She scooted forward and leaned towards him. She placed her hands on his shoulders, rubbing them as she looked into his eyes. "But you'll be all right."
Sark leaned forward, bringing a hand up to caress her face. His fingers wandered over her lips, and down her neck. He moved in, kissing her lightly.
He shifted his body towards her and let his hands slide over her shoulders and to her back. He brought her closer, hugging her into him as he kissed her again, harder. Their lips wandered over each other's mouths, nibbling and pressing together with more passion.
Sydney pulled back slowly, opening her eyes to look into his blue ones. Her hand trailed down over his chest. The warmth and chill that it triggered collided with each other, making him shudder.
"Promise me something," he whispered. She nodded. "When I have my family safe again, promise me we'll think of something. Something better than being apart."
She smiled. "I promise."
He kissed her again, capturing her head between his hands.
"Good," he whispered when he pulled back. "Because being without you is one of the worse tortures to endure."
Wakefulness set in at 6 o'clock the next morning. Sark attributed it to anxiety for the forthcoming op.
He changed into some sweat pants and a t-shirt. He examined his hand as he limped downstairs. His leg felt better. It was time to test it out.
There was an atrium of sorts, just off of some studies. The room wasn't open to the outside, but the glass roof and exterior wall let in a dawning light. Judging by the remaining darkness, though, it was going to be another overcast day.
The room was open, devoid of furniture. Instead of ornate rugs, there were lightly padded mats on the floor. Sark stood in the center of the room, and reached his hands above his head.
He leaned to each side, stretching. A deep breath preceded a moment of relaxation. He lifted his right leg off of the floor, standing straight and fully on his left leg. It ached, but Sark ignored it. With another deep breath, Sark started a little freestyle.
Off of his left leg, he took a step forward and jumped in the air. He switched legs mid-air, kicking high with the left. He landed awkwardly, but didn't stop. He leapt forward with a side hop, and lashed out at an imaginary foe. He spun on one heel, turning his body to kick again with one foot.
He blocked hits, raising an arm above his head. He alternated the defending arms, and in between kicked out in front of him.
Punches came next. Forward, forward, cross, cross, uppercut, jab, uppercut, jab. He did combinations, of punches and mixed with kicks. His limbs swung in the air, swishing as his offensive connected with the enemies he faced in his mind.
Suddenly he stopped. His chest expanded and contracted quickly, but he ignored that along with the pain in his leg. He dropped to the floor, and started pushups.
He lowered his body to the floor, just centimeters above the mats. He pushed his body up again, slowly but evenly. His pace didn't speed up or slow down as he continued for several minutes.
Lactic acid burned in his arms and in his abdomen. The breaking point was coming.
With a gasp, he let go and rolled onto his back on the floor. He waited thirty seconds, and then arched his back as he twisted his arms and pushed himself up on all fours. His chest faced the ceiling as he held himself in this awkward arch. His head hung upside down, watching the outside through the glass. He saw his reflection.
And he saw another reflection. Sark let his limbs buckle, and fell on his back. He suppressed a groan, and sat up to face the onlooker.
"That can't be good for your leg, Julian."
He smiled briefly. "Ilene. You're up early." She nodded as she ran a hand through her long red hair. It fell below her shoulders, in wavy strands. She folded her arms and shuddered.
"It's cold," she commented. "Do you always work out?"
Sark got to his feet a little too quickly, and stumbled with his leg. Ilene started to him on instinct, but stopped herself.
"I used to, everyday. Now it just depends," he answered. He stretched his legs, spreading them out in opposite directions and leaning heavily toward his left leg. He bit down on his lip.
"You're pushing yourself," Ilene observed aloud. "Why?"
Sark let out a breath. "I've gotten weak."
"Don't."
It was simple and straightforward, and definitely stronger in tone than he'd ever heard from his sister.
"Don't what?" he asked, coming up from his stretch.
"Don't patronize me," Ilene said, her teeth clenched. "Don't pretend that you have to be this ice-cold wall of a person. That's not who you are."
He froze, noticing the intensity in her eyes. Her stare was relentless, until he suddenly turned away from her.
"You thought differently yesterday," he said. "I'm a cold machine, remember?"
"If you were, you wouldn't care what I think," Ilene said. He turned back around to face her. He didn't expect that from her.
"You're smarter than I give you credit for," he said. Ilene rolled her eyes.
"Gee, thanks, Julian."
He laughed and felt tension seep away from him. Silence settled between the siblings for a moment.
"Look," Ilene started, "I know you've done some bad things. But I also know that's not everything. Tell me about the good."
Sark groaned and ran a hand through his damp hair.
"Ilene, there really isn't any good that I've done. Terrorist, remember?" He turned his back on her again, hearing her sigh in response.
"I want to hear your side of the story." Sark shot her a look over his shoulder. "Or, I want to understand. To hear the truth about you, and what you've been through."
A light was coming on in his head. "This is presumptuous, but are you forgiving me?" Sark asked. Ilene smiled at that, and he continued. "I'll warn you, the truth is bloody, at best."
"Julian," she said, "You've dodged this long enough. I want to know about my brother, about who you are."
He took a second to think of an answer, but realized how complex everything was.
"I'll be honest with you," Sark said. "I'm caught between two lives. I'm not sure who I am. But I know who I have to be at given times."
Something in that statement made her think. Sark watched as the familiar mixture of fear and horror came over her face. She tried to wash it away with stubborn acceptance.
"So this workout thing, pushing yourself when you're injured . . . is that Sark, or Julian?" She waited for the answer, but knew it already. And with that knowledge, the first piece of the puzzle that was her brother fell into place.
Sark knew his silence was answer enough. Without looking at his sister, Sark left the atrium and went up for a shower.
Sydney was coming out of her room as Sark came up the stairs.
"Does no one sleep in around here?" he mused aloud, despite his mood. Sydney flashed him her version of the smirk.
"Apparently not. How's your leg?" she asked.
Sark tried to not show any limp. "Better, thank you."
"And how are you?"
He groaned at that. She heard him and shot him a look.
"I apologize; it's nothing to do with you, per se," Sark said quickly.
"Oh really?" she questioned. She tucked a strand of her brown hair behind her right ear, then folded her arms as she waited for an answer.
"Every time I talk to one of your sex, I am left exhausted," Sark said. "With you, your mother and my sister, I scarcely have a moment free from emotional stress."
The blunt sensitivity of his admission hit him, and before he could take anything back, Sydney was laughing.
He sighed loudly as Sydney started to clutch her stomach from the laughter. He moved on to his room.
"I'm taking a shower," he said before disappearing inside. He could still hear Sydney laugh as he shut the door.
It was only 7 a.m. and he was already exhausted.
He shut himself in his room and studied the plans to the vault. The mission specs list grew but the mission itself wasn't impossible. He grabbed at his hair as he ran a hand through it.
Sark stood up, stretching his back and cracking his neck.
Someone knocked at his door. Sark quickly rolled up the plans and hid them. He yelled 'come in' as he closed the screen on his laptop.
Ilene poked her head in.
"Um," she started with some nervousness, "I have some lunch, if you want it." Sark smiled and waved her in. She brought in a large tray, with sandwiches and fruit and a bottle of sparkling cider. He tried not to groan at that.
She put the tray next to his computer and turned to leave.
"Aren't you eating too?" Sark asked. Ilene stopped her retreat and faced her brother. "Please, join me."
She nodded and sat at the table. Sark opened the bottle of cider as she tentatively went for a sandwich. Silence rested between them as she munched on the sandwich and as Sark drank a whole glass of cider.
Ilene ventured forward first.
"I have to admit, I find the idea of being two people . . . morbidly fascinating," she said. Sark furrowed his brow at the choice of words.
"Morbidly fascinating?"
Ilene sighed. "I know you as Julian. I call you Julian. But Sydney and the other woman . . . they call you Sark." She looked at him pointedly.
"I'm sorry; am I supposed to have an answer for that?" he questioned.
Ilene shot him a look, her blue eyes glaring at him. "I know who Julian is. Who is Sark?"
It was Sark's turn to sigh. "Ilene, I've told you this—"
"You've labeled yourself. I want to know what's happened. Tell me specific stories, how you met Sydney, about Burma, anything!"
She was frustrated, but intrigued. He wasn't thrilled at the idea of telling her the details of his sins, but she wanted to know. Or so she claims.
"I met Sydney while on an assignment. I was trying to buy something from a reluctant source. Sydney was spying on the transaction," Sark said. Ilene looked confused.
"Spying?"
"She didn't tell you?" Sark asked. He thought that detail would have come up sometime in their previous conversation.
Ilene shrugged. "I knew she worked for a government. I guess it makes sense, since she's been around you."
Sark nodded. "She works for the CIA. We work for opposite sides, so to speak. But she's nothing like me. She's . . . selfless."
He stared into his sparkling cider as he said that.
"We almost always worked against each other. Trying to beat each other to something, some mission or other," Sark said. "We fought occasionally. And I started to admire her capabilities."
"Her capabilities?" Ilene repeated. The skepticism in her voice was clear, not in questioning Sydney, but Sark's admission.
He conceded. "Yes, at first, but soon I just admired her. We were still enemies in Burma. That was just a couple of weeks before I saw you and everyone else in Ireland."
"Sydney told me a little of what happened in Burma," Ilene said quietly. Sark smiled at how timid she was about the memory.
"Burma, yes," he said. He forced himself to sound nonchalant as he spoke. "The group that kidnapped you caught me and Sydney. At the time, Sydney and I were in the middle of a confrontation. They took us both to Burma."
"Why did they want you?"
Sark took a deep breath. "Information. They knew I worked for Irina, and wanted information to defeat her."
"Irina . . . the woman here?" Ilene clarified. Sark nodded. "But you didn't tell them, did you?"
Sark's smile was soft, sad. "No, I didn't."
"The scars?" she asked, leaving the blanks of the story untouched.
Sark nodded. "In this business, you do anything to get information. Most of the time, it's not pleasant."
She stood and started to pace around the room. The sandwich was left on the table, as if she suddenly lost her appetite.
"What did they do to you?" The question came as a whisper, but that didn't lessen the effect on Sark. He didn't know why she would want to know the particulars.
"Ilene," he started, "it doesn't really matter. I don't—"
"I want to know, Julian," she said. She looked at the floor. "I need to, to understand what you've been through." He didn't say anything. "Sydney said they tortured you."
He sighed again. He was almost annoyed at her prompting him, but even more that she was serious about this. She wants to know everything, even if it makes her ill.
"Yes, they tortured me. I was beaten a few times, cut up." The images came back to him as he relayed them to his sister. He stood and moved to the window. He remembered the torture, the cuts, the cold from the water, the ice. His lungs heaved at the memory of being starved for air.
"And you never gave them the information they wanted?" Ilene asked.
Sark shrugged. "It was only partially about the information. They wanted to beat someone."
"Why not Sydney?" Ilene asked. Sark shot her a fierce look, to which Ilene raised an apologizing hand. "I'm not wishing it on her. But you protected her."
Sark nodded. "I guess, to an extent. I also ticked off the Hierarchy enough that I was an easy target." He paused, and turned to face her. "Why do you want to know all this? It's hardly a pretty picture," he said.
Ilene glanced at the ground and back up at him. "I didn't know at first. You were willing to protect her, and to protect me." She took a deep breath. "I was so happy to see you on that boat. And I was terrified of you when I saw you kill those men."
"Ilene—" he started.
"Wait, let me finish," she said. "But I understand something. You claim your life over the past years was just so you could get what you wanted. Yet you really saved me. They beat you up on the boat. You got shot too." A tear glimmered in her eyes. "I guess I realize you would have gone through Burma, or worse, to protect me too."
It was something he should have been somewhat proud of. He couldn't help but lower his head though. Maybe it was the Sark in him; he'd been caught in a selfless truth.
Ilene was starting to forgive him, much sooner than he ever expected. But he knew she didn't realize that things weren't over. Sark couldn't just be banished so Julian could take over.
"There's something you need to understand, Ilene," he started. He started pacing, his limp hindering him but yet he was unwilling to stop. "I can't just stop being who I am. Whether Julian or Sark, I have to deal with the life I created for myself."
She started to shake her head.
"It's your past. Leave it there."
"No," Sark said immediately. "Pasts have repercussions. And mine affects you and every person that I care about. You've seen that firsthand. Your kidnappers aren't the only ones who will realize I'm alive."
"He's right," came a voice from the doorway. Sark whipped his head around to see Irina. "Sorry to interrupt."
"What's wrong?" Sark asked. Irina didn't look upset or anything, but Sark knew she wouldn't interrupt otherwise.
"You should go soon." She looked pointedly at Sark, and he nodded.
"Yes." He faced Ilene. "We're going to Los Angeles with Sydney. You'll stay with her while I look for Mom, Dad and Calvin," he said. She nodded, glancing between employer and former employee.
"I'll get ready to go."