A LOVE TWISTED AND A LOVE ETERNAL

He recognises him, my hero recognises him, the fat bloated creature behind the desk, squat like some malignant spider, a terrible spider in the centre of his web, looking upon us, his prisoners, like flies. It's more that he's looking at him, I might as well be invisible and I'm glad of it, looking at him like a spider regarding a fly, but not just as a meal, but as a great banquet, as the ultimate delicacy that has eluded his grasp for so long. And he recognises him, my hero, as my daughter would say, they clearly have a 'history'. A histoire, a story, there is a story behind all this yet I cannot see it, I cannot see it, as the young man recoils in shock and horror and gasps,

"Emile…"

And then he is himself again and in perfect control, once again he warps the world around himself,

"Emile, it's rather pathetic, ne c'est pas, that with all the power you've accumulated, with everything that you've become; all you can do is squander it on an old dream that was never yours to possess."

He's become the centre of everything again, time stands still, the world but awaits his command.

"A nightmare that you twisted into a dream and tried to make sweet reality. It's tragic that that is all you are, a paper monster, flat and singular as your desire, unchanging, waiting for mother to open the book again and set you upon the same well worn path. No change. No variation. Have you ever considered that you are not truly alive? Just another Ahab chasing his whale, stagnant and unchanging, but not even Ahab could lust over his whale. He did not dream of that heaving salty flesh lying at his side. How long has it been? Eight, nine, ten years; I do not care how many. Yet you will know it, days, months, years. It has become everything, your entire world, and you are trapped festering in the prison of your desire. Was it worth it? To kill a man who was once your friend, to have wrecked your entire reputation, in a desperate quest for a treasure that was not yours; was it worth it? To covert something to the point that, you would willingly lie, cheat, and steal, to lay your hands upon it, upon me for one precious moment, and when all that had failed, you would kill and all in vain."

A hear a fizz, a crackle, and turn to see the shackles burnt away, rusted and twisted beyond recognition; no one else saw, I'm sure of that, they are all trapped within the twisted world skewed around his words, he's hypnotised them all entirely, and none more than that Emile-spider, the look in whose eyes I cannot even attempt to describe, as the realisation floods into my mind that this is my answer, my grail. Yet the implications are swept from my mind by the tide and rhythm of his speech, as I am once again pulled by its current into that twisted perfect world, snatched away from the growing horror by merciful waves of perfect oblivion, he is my world and nothing else matters.

"Haven't you realised your own decay? The moment you pulled the trigger, you not only killed my angel, my love but also your very soul, killed it and sent it to hell as your pact with the devil. Yet your pact was not honoured. I eluded your grasp and sought to free myself from flesh entirely and make my love eternal,"

Dear God, the window, the broken window, the boy was pushed by nothing but his own passion, his own heartbreak. Dear God, their love was true. And at last I weep for my brother, years too late, I weep for him and the boy, the man, who died with him. I weep because I was right, the boy was his death. And nobody notices my tears and still the world turns around him, and do my eyes deceive me, he is like the sun, alight with some inner flame around which this world turns.

"You're pathetic, obsessed and deluded. And for all the power that you've gained, all this, you've still failed. For all your obsession, you've failed. You're woefully out of date, but then you live in the past, in that moment, that moment when you won and lost everything you wanted. These cannot hold me now. I am complete, perfect; I have risen ever higher as you sank into feted decay. I am power, now. I am everything I ever could be. I am not that boy, but a man, a god, and I am not afraid."

All this time he's been glowing, slowly glowing, growing brighter than the sun and more brilliant, the thugs and goons back away and shield their eyes as he raises a hand, an arm, in front of him in a slow and perfect gesture. His arm is outstretched towards the cowering spider, who then, at that moment seems so very small. A blinding pulse of light fills the room for one moment and then it's gone.

The panelled wall behind the monster's head is burnt and charred as it cowers blinded in its seat. It could not look away, would not look away, from that beauty it had so dreamed its twisted dreams of, from that perfect beauty that the passage of time had made whole and pure. The goons are trembling, speaking to each other with terrified whispers, surrendering themselves to a terrible merciful god. And he speaks,

"I could have killed you. Once I would have. I have changed beyond words. And you should face a different type of justice. For it was not just me that you hurt. You thought nothing of the victims. Not even me, the boy with silver hair. Certainly not Leon, your former friend. You saw nothing but your desire. The police'll come soon, wait for them."

And then I found his arms around my shoulders as he lead me out, out of what had then seemed a nightmare castle, yet now seemed small and insignificant.

Outside, I wanted to ask a thousand questions, but also none at all, I had all my answers; my brother died for love and for its twisted twin lust. He died trying to protect his love, and when he died he tore that love asunder, wounded so sharply that his love could not bear to live at all and fell to his doom. I had a new question, what had stopped him, what had changed, what made him live. What made him choose life in those swift moments between the shattered window and the sidewalk below? What made him fly? And as I looked at him, I think I saw my answer, but I asked anyway (I think it always pays to be sure of things). And this is, best as I can render it, what he said,

"At first, I found other things to live for. Heroism, the lives of others, the sister I never knew I had, so many beautiful things. Yet each time I lost them, I returned to the place I was before, I wanted to die again. And sometimes I think it pure chance that saved me, others destiny. Each time I found myself another thing to live for. It was not until I had once again lost what I thought most dear, that I realised that I had everything, that I had found love again and with that I could do anything. I realised that love was eternal, I never had stopped loving Leon, even in death, just as I did not stop loving my sister when we were apart, but it took another love to make me realise that. In some ways every love is your first love, since truly they never go away. In loving, accepting this, I accepted myself and was for the first time at peace with myself again. I know this sounds strange, and doesn't make much sense. But I can't find the words. I've seen death, and what lies beyond, and know that it is forever, that I've never lost anyone, merely temporarily mislaid. There are no contradictions…"

At this he faltered, as if he knew in his heart what his lips were not permitted to tell, but I think I understood enough it is what the poet, although I cannot remember which, said "our almost instinct almost true: all that remains of us is love". He had had an epiphany on the road to his own destruction and each time he attempted to retrace that same path, it became clearer until he recognised the truth of it. And yet there was a great sadness in his voice, a sadness that was still there as he asked my address and lifted me up into the air. On the journey home I tried to see the world as he saw it, yet failed. I tried to imagine what sadness pervaded his heart and could not. But he said something of a sister, did he not, I think this could bear further research, once I find out who he is. On second thoughts, perhaps I do not want to know.

I could hear my grandchildren cry out in amazement as his feet silently touched the ground. They fussed around him for a moment and then turned their attention to me, asking what I was doing flying through the air with the Northstar, the Vega. And when they turned back he was gone.

But I looked up into the sky and saw a plane of darkest blue hanging there like a pendulum, perfectly still. And as I screwed up my eyes tightly I could see him standing on the clouds in the calm blue sky talking, I think, to a figure I could barely make out sitting on the wing itself. Then I saw him lean in, and I understood the answer: it was "love again".

A NOTE FROM THE LITTLE B

I hoped you liked this. The poet Mme Dupont quoted was Philip Larkin, quite possibly the most depressing poet that the English language has ever bought forth, and it was from "Arundel Tomb" which unusually is nearly uplifting.

Okay, I really hope you liked this, and hopefully any continuity issues have by now been straightened out somewhat. (I hope this satisfies, Morgana Fata). I also hope that I might finally get some more feedback on this, so please (pretty please) leave a review.

I know I've kept the source of Northstar's little epiphany rather vague, but look out for it real soon, as I've got it planned and plotted just round the corner. So when you see the title, HAPPY HOMECOMING, please give it a look.

Oh and the guy on the plane? I'll give you three guesses.

Love and kisses to all my readers. Little-b buzzing off