A/N: Thanks to all who take the time to review – your comments help me revisit the directions the story takes. (I seem to be having problems uploading my story with the proper formatting...the section splits aren't showing up and show of the italicising isn't showing either...hopefully I've caught them all. If not, I apologize.)
Fanastygirl721: Neither can I! Enjoy!
IcantthinkofaFnick: Nope that wasn't a typo. That was me showcasing my ignorance of the Spanish language and incredible laziness in not looking that up on the 'net like I should have. Many apologies. Merci for the correction – I do appreciate it. I shall stick to showcasing my terrible French from now on…
Chattypandagurl: Glad you liked it…stay tuned for the answer to your question.
Cherrygirl1987: No worries, I'm definitely continuing.
Girl-with-the-green-eyes: Glad you liked the way the chapter ended. Originally I had that scene in the middle of the chapter but then reordered it just before I posted it. Good to know I wasn't the only one who thought it worked better that way.
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Leigh1986: Glad that line got you…it was supposed to!
Sparkling Cherries: Soon…I promise! In fact…
Providence
Chapter 8
Why?
from the journals of Chris Halliwell, the only entry for that day
The service was held in the mess hall for it was one of the few areas on base large enough to house the Resistance's significant population. Everyone who wasn't 'on duty' was here – standing room only. In front, a table had been set up with a single white candle representing each member of the fallen team. On Chris' left, Les stood statue-like and stoic. His eyes focused on the ground, Chris absorbed the very stillness of the room, the silence only punctuated by raspy breathing and the racking sobs of the raw grief.
He envied that display of emotion, the cathartic release…craved it, even.
Instead he was numb.
Over the past year, he had lost track of how many services he had attended. Certainly more than he'd ever imagined if you asked him a mere two years earlier.
As the clock struck ten, the procession began to solemnly file into the hall, a family member representing each of the slain team. Slowly they made their way to the front to stand in front of the table. Dressed in black, they each carefully lit a candle for their loved one; Darryl lighting the candle representing Sheila last.
The silence in the mess hall was deafening.
"He was a good man…"
"She loved life and lived each day to the fullest…"
"He gave up his life for something he believed in…"
The eulogies went on and on but Chris barely comprehended any of it, their words washing over him in waves. He stared at the family members of his comrades in arms, watching their mouths open, their lips move but hearing nothing.
Feeling…nothing.
He shivered.
As their tears poured down their cheeks and they choked out their eulogies, Chris could feel himself shrinking inside. Every heart-wrenching sob, every anguished look – it stabbed him to the gut.
The hardest demand as a leader was to send men and women on missions that could result in their deaths, and then, just as blithely, the next day sends others to face the same potential fate.
And yet he had…and knew he would continue to do so.
The guilt settled on his shoulders like a heavy winter cloak. He was comfortable with this old friend – guilt. He had pushed it to the back of his mind until recently, deceiving himself into thinking of their losses as mere numbers on a piece of paper. And now, only when Sheila had met the same fate as hundreds had before her, that Chris once again felt the full weight of that guilt on his chest, smothering and suffocating him.
He felt tears prick his eyes as he watched each family member lay a wreath on the table encircling each candle. He rapidly blinked them away, holding onto his composure by the skin of his teeth.
The family members moved away, openly weeping, and as expected of him, Chris came forward to clasp each one in a strong hug, whispering words of condolences in their ears, feeling hypocritical. How could mere words offer comfort to someone who had just lost a loved one? He stared into Darryl's grief stricken eyes and could only murmur inadequately, "She loved you."
As the family members turned to take their places amongst the grieving crowd, Chris made his way to the podium to the right of the table that had been set up for him. Gripping the sides of the podium with his hands, his knuckles whitening, he waited for the crowd to quiet down. Unlike the family members, Chris had not prepared anything specific to say. He wanted the words to come from his heart and not his mind.
He paused.
Opening his mouth, it scared him how easily the words began to flow, how quickly his memories of other eulogies given flooded his consciousness.
"We come here today to honour those that were so recently taken away from us. We come to remember those who have given their lives. We offer our condolences and support to the families that they leave behind. I know that whatever condolences we give, it cannot be enough…but I, and everyone here, offer it to you just the same.
Your loss will be an open wound in each of our hearts.
We share your grief, your pain and your sorrow – for we have lost members of our own family as surely as you have, for they were our brothers and sisters of the Resistance."
Pausing, Chris made eye contact with each family member. "They were heroes…each one of them. Your loved ones served with honour, dignity and loyalty – they stood for all that is good in this world.
We honour them today – for their courage, their dedication and their valour. I'd like to share a poem with you; one that was once shared with me…A man lives for as long as we carry him inside us, for as log as we carry the harvest of his dreams, for as long as we ourselves live, holding memories in common…a man lives.
I promise you today…we all promise you today – they will forever live in our hearts."
Bowing his head in prayer, Chris closed his eyes – leading everyone in a minute of silence to honour their dead friends.
Past and present.
And the only thought that Chris could think was…
Why?
She stood at the back of the room, barely able to see over the crowd in front of her. Her eyes followed him as soon as he had entered the mess hall. She watched him as he gravely made his way to the podium to deliver his address. While she was too far back to see his facial expression, each word that he spoke echoed loudly in the mess hall. She heard the sincerity and grief in each utterance, the heartache in his voice.
He seemed to be much older than the nineteen years she knew him to be.
He was…a leader.
The words he'd spoken…his facial expression grief stricken…his tone full of sorrow yet so full of strength.
And her heart had ached in sympathy for him.
Her mind nervously shied away from the thought.
So what? Was she thinking that she'd let her vengeance go?
To answer that question, she forced herself to examine her feelings.
She had tried to shake it off – those feelings that kept interfering. It was just that everywhere she turned, everyone she spoke with…made her understand him a little more. Spying on him, she'd come to know him well…maybe even better than he knew himself. She'd seen him go without sleep for days, his concern for others driving him until he ran himself ragged. Responsibility weighed heavily on his shoulders and unlike some others Bianca could name, he did not shirk away from it – no matter how undesirable that duty could be.
She'd gathered enough information to learn that an assassin had surprised Chris on his way back from a mission. She was sure that assassin had been her mother – seemingly confirming Wyatt's news that it likely had been Chris who'd killed her mother.
He was defending himself, she argued with herself. Killing an assassin before he was killed himself. Could I really blame him for that? Preferring to kill his attacker than dying himself?
Wasn't that what all of the other…targets…would have preferred?
All the anger in her seemed to leach away. She was tired; tired of being angry, tired of hating.
Could she really let it go? Could she really let her mother's death go unavenged?
She felt her heart soften just a bit.
So many people needed Chris. Good people. People like Theresa. People like Elise.
She fingered her pendant – the pendant that had belonged to her mother.
No.
There was only way that she could let her mother's death go, only one way she could rid herself of the grief currently clouding her judgment…
A life for a life.
It was difficult for Les to manoeuvre through the tunnel teeming with people on his way back to his quarters. He winced as someone accidentally stepped on his foot and bumped into his shoulder from behind, brushing by so swiftly that he barely had a chance to hear the muttered apology. Rubbing his shoulder, he sighed. The base was particularly crowded today due to the minimum contingent of scouts on circuit duty – the rest had arrived on base to attend the service.
"Les! Hey Les! Wait up!"
Turning at the sound of his name, Les blinked in surprise. Darryl's sons were waving him down. Stepping politely to one side of the crowded hallway, he waited for the two to catch up to him. "DJ! Michael! When did you guys get in? We weren't expecting you. Why didn't you let someone know you were coming in?"
"We just got in. Look, we need to –," DJ started, grabbing Les' arm to pull him in the direction of the command centre.
Les shrugged DJ's grip off, cutting him off, "Have you seen your dad yet?"
Startled, DJ pulled back. "Nah. We were just on our way back from the command centre to see him. But he wasn't there. We were going to try his quarters. It was just luck that we ran into you."
Standing awkwardly in the corridor, Les looked everywhere except in DJ's eyes. "I think you should go find your dad first. We can catch up later."
Michael shook his empathetically, "No. You don't understand. This is important Les. Real important. But we can't just blurt it out here…we need to go somewhere secure."
Before Les could say another word, DJ grabbed Les' arm again, dragging him behind him. As Les struggled to break free, the two brothers continued to bicker back and forth good-naturedly.
"We should tell him and dad at the same time," DJ was saying.
"What if dad's not at his quarters – you plan on dragging Les with us everywhere while we look for him?" Michael pointed out. "Here. Let's get inside."
Opening a door to their right, the two shoved Les inside quickly before shutting the door securely behind them. The tiny room was lined with shelves, stacked with toiletries and other cleaning supplies – too small to be used as living quarters, someone had cleverly turned it into a supplies closet.
Les cursed as he bumped into the corner of one of the shelves, his elbow tingling. "Damn it! Could you guys not have picked a bigger room?" he grumbled.
Michael and DJ traded glances, both saying in unison, "No time."
Les heaved a sigh. "Look guys. I get you've got something really important to get off your chests but I really think you should go see your dad first."
Too preoccupied with their intel, neither of Darryl's sons seemed to pick up on Les' gentle hinting. Taking the lead, DJ brushed off Les' comments instead saying, "You don't understand…we found out that there could be a spy on base."
About to emphasize to the two again that they needed to find Darryl, Les' mouth snapped shut. As the words infiltrated his brain, "Wha – ?"
Michael nodded vigorously. "That's what was so important and why we didn't alert command that we were coming back. We didn't want to tip off the spy."
Les ran his hand through his hair in thought, "Who else knows you know?'
The two brothers exchanged looks, "You. Our informant. We were on our way to tell dad. That's it."
"Good," Les grimaced. "Who was the informant?"
"Phinks."
Les frowned, "I wouldn't trust a thing that demon says even if my life depended on it."
DJ looked at his brother before saying mildly, "I'm pretty sure he told the truth."
"What did you guys do to him that you're so confident?" Les scoffed. Noticing the silent glances the two brothers exchanged again, Les abruptly changed his mind. "No…no, don't tell me. I think I'm better off not knowing. All right – you had better tell me everything you know about this spy."
DJ began to tick off the facts on his fingers, "One half of a mother-daughter assassin team that killed Marcus. Whoever she is, she's after Chris. On orders from Wyatt."
Les snapped his fingers, "A couple of weeks ago, on our way back from a mission, we were ambushed by a woman. She went straight for Chris. We pretty much figured she was an assassin. You can relax guys – I got a good look at her before she got away. So did Chris. She is certainly not on base. Looks like your intel is stale."
The two brothers sagged in relief. "Thank God," DJ muttered, "though I'm a little pissed with Phinks right now."
Les smiled at the two, "Good work though, you two. It's good to have that stuff confirmed. We were going on guesswork before."
"Thanks," Michael replied as DJ nodded, acknowledging the credit.
"Anything else interesting happen in L.A.?" Les questioned.
"No," Michael replied for both himself and his brother, "but we'd best file our report with command and then go see Dad."
Les shook his head. "The report can wait. Come on, we're going to see Darryl right now." He opened the door, gesturing to the two brothers to precede him. Les ignored the puzzled looks from the passersby in the corridor as he too stepped out of the supplies closet.
Shrugging their agreement, the two brothers walked with Les through the tunnels to their parents' quarters. Michael threw a look at Les, who studiously ignored it, "Something the matter?"
Les sighed. "Let's just find your Dad."
The emotional strain of the day began to take its toll.
Weary beyond belief, Chris had slipped away from the memorial service as soon as it was possible for him to do so without being noticed. He knew he should head straight to the command room but he couldn't bring himself to head in that direction. Feeling like a caged tiger, he had loosened his tie and instead decided he needed to escape.
Jogging quickly through the base, Chris focused on taking even breaths, working on calming his nervous energy. His escape led him to that part of the base where he headed whenever he felt the need to get away from the pressures of his life. Slowly he walked towards the solitary bench. The stillness of the air contributed to the dead silence of the area.
Unbuttoning his collar and the top three buttons of his shirt, he shucked his jacket, draping it over the back of the bench. Sinking down onto the wooden seat, he stretched his legs out in front of him.
At nineteen he'd given more eulogies than any other type of speech.
Surely there was something wrong with that.
His mind flew back to the most difficult service he'd attended…the very first service he'd ever attended…
"I don't understand," Chris' eyes filled with tears. "I don't understand, grandpa."
Chris' grandfather knelt next to his youngest grandson, "I don't have any answers for you, Chris."
The tears spilled down his cheeks. "How can…how can Dad just keep going? Like nothing happened. Like everything's still the same. Mom's gone. Mom's gone, grandpa."
"Everyone experiences and expresses their grief in different ways, Chris. Your dad…he has to keep going. I think he's afraid that if he stops for one moment, if he stops long enough to think…" Victor's voice trailed off.
Chris stared at his reflection in the mirror, feeling lost and bewildered. He watched as his grandfather gripped him by the shoulders and turned him around so that he was now facing his grandfather.
Victor sighed, reaching out to straighten Chris' tie, brushing the imaginary lint from shoulders of his jacket. Chris' eyes were a brilliant green against the pallor of his face, white crispness of his shirt and the black suit. "You ready?"
Chris shook his head, tugging at the tie that was choking him, "No. I don't want to go, grandpa. I don't want to go…"
Standing up, Victor gathered his grandson into a deep hug, "You need to let her go, Chris. You need to say goodbye. You'll regret it if you don't."
Chris awkwardly returned the hug, saying softly, "I'm not ready to let her go yet."
Releasing his grandson, Victor took a step back and said steadily, "None of us are, Chris."
Silence.
Victor sighed again, "It's time, Chris."
"Dad and Wy are meeting us there, right?"
Victor nodded. "There were some last minute details Leo needed to take care of and your brother didn't want to let him out of his sight."
Chris nodded gravely, "Wy's worried about Dad. Worried that he's in denial."
Victor's eyebrow lifted, surprised by Wyatt's perception. He was only sixteen. Then again, Wyatt was mature for his age due to his being responsible for so much magic at such a young age. "Wyatt told you that?"
Chris rubbed at his red-rimmed eyes, "Yeah. He didn't want me to think he was ditching me or something."
Wyatt took his responsibility as older brother seriously, a credit to Piper's parenting. Victor nodded, "So you think you can orb us there?"
Nodding reluctantly, Chris stepped forward, placing his hand in his grandpa's.
They materialized in the anteroom at the funeral home. Through the double doors Chris could see that the room was crowded to overflowing. He flinched, taking a step back to hide slightly behind his grandfather. Victor looked down at his grandson. Releasing Chris' hand from his grip, Victor gently placed his hand on Chris' right shoulder. Giving his grandson a slight push, Victor whispered, "I'll be right behind you. Okay?"
Chris nodded silently. Slowly he moved forward, feeling like he was waking from a deep sleep. As he walked down the aisle, he could see people turn towards him, their mouths moving, their words of comfort flowing forth uselessly. He ignored them. His eyes were fixated on the open casket at the front of the room.
Like in dreams, their words came to him distorted, their movements in slow motion. Only the strong presence of his grandfather at his back stopped him from whipping around and running screaming from the room.
He continued to trudge ahead, placing one foot in front of the other with enormous effort, each step harder and harder to take. Chris felt himself began to breath rapidly, almost hyperventilating. He saw his uncle Darryl and his family, and then his own family. His aunts, his father…his brother. Latching desperately onto his brother's eyes with his own, Chris drew strength from Wyatt's emotions – so similar to his own. Finally reaching his brother's side, Chris shuffled into the seat next to him, clutching at his brother's arm for support.
The service began – each of his aunts weeping profusely as they remembered their sister. Leo was unable to continue his eulogy…Darryl had to complete it.
It was time.
Wyatt pulled Chris from his seat, the two brothers leaning on each other heavily. Taking the huge bouquet of white roses from a nearby table, Wyatt approached their mother's casket. Tears were streaming down his face as he leaned down to press a kiss against Piper's cheek. Reverently he placed the flowers on top of the lower half of the casket. Stepping back, Wyatt glanced at his younger brother in whose hands held a small envelope.
Drawing in a shuddering breath, Chris approached the open casket with trembling legs. He looked down into his mother's face, so peaceful and serene. It seemed like she was sleeping and that at any moment her eyes would open and her mouth would smile up at him.
He waited for her to laugh up at him and tell him it was all some terrible misunderstanding.
"Chris," Wyatt whispered urgently. "You okay?"
It was such an innocent question.
Blinking back his tears, Chris leaned down to press a small kiss to his mother's forehead. His lips touched the cool flesh of his mother's skin and at that instant, he knew and accepted that she was gone.
His mother had never felt this cold.
His hands tightened, crumpling the envelope in his hands. He heard the crackle of the paper and looking down, he smoothed out the envelope. Stretching, he reached out and tucked the envelope into the white roses Wyatt had placed on the casket. There was only one word on the envelope…
Mom.
He would never be 'okay' again.
"Hey, Theresa," Bianca greeted the other woman as she cleaned the debris away from the memorial service. "Have you seen, Chris? I was looking for him after the service…but he seems to have disappeared…"
Theresa shook her head, "No, I haven't. He probably just wanted to be alone. He was really close to Sheila, you know. Why?"
"I…he looked so…when he was up there…I just don't think he should be alone," Bianca finished lamely.
Theresa looked up from her task, staring into Bianca's face. Whatever Theresa saw there must have persuaded her for whatever reason to offer, rather hesitantly, "Well – there is this place he goes…sometimes…I saw him once…" Theresa shook her head, remembering, "It was like…he was in agony."
"Where, Theresa?" Bianca prompted. "Where does he go?"
Scant moments later, Bianca was walking briskly through the base. Following Theresa's instructions, she took the winding tunnels as far east as she could go. Coming to a dead end, she glanced around, her eyes lighting with satisfaction as she found the emergency exit she was looking for. Pushing the door open, she checked over her shoulder for anyone following her and then nipped up the stairs.
Ten flights of stairs and much panting later, the staircase ended abruptly on a tiny landing with a ladder leading the rest of the way up. Sighing, she climbed the ladder until reaching the manhole cover. Putting her shoulder to the hatch above, she gave it a quick shove, surprised at the slight resistance it gave her. Peeking out, she blinked rapidly as the setting rays of the sun temporarily blinded her.
Emerging into the light, she took a deep breath of fresh air. After so many days buried in the base and breathing in the recycled air, the air outside tasted almost…sweet. She scanned the surrounding area, taking in the grey skies and scorched earth. A slight movement in her peripheral vision drew her gaze to her left. Here, a small patch of grass still existed, woefully unkempt and overgrown. Dead twigs and branches liberally littered the surface, another sign of the impending winter. The rusted swing set confirmed that a park had once stood there. A single figure sat on a bench, watching the sole intact swing dangle back and forth in the wind. A wooden statue painted in white casted a dark shadow over the bench and its occupant.
It was the first time she had seen Chris alone since she had arrived.
As if in a trance she walked slowly towards him, drawn to his side, carefully picking her way across the grass avoiding the many twigs and branches strewn all around.
Now…she thought. Now is my chance. He's alone. We're alone.
She flicked her wrist, letting the wrist sheath's trick release free her knife. The handle slid easily into her cold, damp palm.
His back was to her.
Her fingers curled around the knife handle.
You know…you're the first person who didn't say immediately to me that they were sorry.
I think…I think I'd like the company.
Thank you…for listening, for helping me remember Sheila the way she was…and not the way she died…
She gritted her teeth. She would NOT feel sorry for him. He had killed her mother.
A life for a life, she thought fiercely.
Her fist clenched around the knife, her knuckles whitening with the strain.
Clearing her mind of all emotions, she focused herself like she had been trained from birth.
One more step…"It seems unusually busy on base today. Something going on that we should know about?" DJ asked, following his brother and Les through the crowded halls.
"Yeah," Les debated how much to let the two know before deciding, "a couple of days ago we lost a team on a supply run."
Michael paled. "Damn. How many?"
Hoping they wouldn't run into anyone they knew before reaching Darryl's, Les answered, rather curtly, "Nine."
DJ whistled. "We haven't lost that many scouts at once for…what? Three…four months now?"
"Four," Les nodded, walking briskly and scanning the crowds to potentially head off any one who knew the two brothers. Damn Darryl for not telling his sons something…We'll be damn lucky if we don't run into someone who knows these guys…just one condolence, and DJ and Michael will have my head for not telling them as soon as I saw them…
Michael cleared his throat awkwardly, asking in a low voice, "Anyone…anyone we knew?"
Not knowing what to say without revealing too much, Les chose to pretend that he didn't hear Michael's question and switched the topic, "The assassin. You said she was the same one who killed Marcus?"
DJ nodded as the trio turned the corner, nearing his parents' quarters. "Yeah. One half of a mother-daughter team."
Pausing at Darryl's door, Les lifted his hand to knock, glancing back at DJ, "Some family business."
Michael snorted. "Apparently. They're part of this whole family. A whole coven of witch assassins. Phoenixes, Phinks says they call themselves."
Les knocked on Darryl's door, "Phoenixes?"
A muffled voice from inside yelled, "Who is it?"
"It's us, Dad!" DJ yelled, before replying to Les' question, "They're all born with a birthmark apparently. Of a Phoenix. That's how they got the name."
"Hold on!" Darryl's voice carried through the heavy steel door and the sounds of the door lock being unlocked.
Les stared at DJ. "A birthmark…"
The pieces of the puzzle began to slowly fall into place.
He noticed a flash of black under her sleeve. "Is that a tattoo?"
"A little something from my wild days at college, I'm afraid."
"Les?" DJ queried, noticing the strange look on Les' face. "What is it?"
One half of a mother-daughter team…
"Where is your mother now?"Bianca looked away, "She's dead. She was killed."
Without a word, Les turned, tearing back down the hallway, praying for all he was worth.
Shit!His eyes were closed; letting the good memories flow over him and wash away his heartache.
"You may not want a party, but by God, you're going to enjoy it if I have to force you to have a good time."
"Honestly! You guys are hopeless!" Sheila had exclaimed. Her mock glare had made Chris smile involuntarily.
"What am I going to do with you?"
He smiled to himself, involuntarily.
He recalled their conversation in the mess hall…
"Chris – granted one half of you is technically angelic, but not even you can live like a monk. Don't think I'm not aware that you haven't had a relationship since this war started,"
Sheila had never been one to beat around the bush, Chris thought ruefully to himself.
"Let love into your heart and into your life again, sweetheart. I promise you that you'll be better off for it."
He frowned.
Was he better off for it? He had loved his mom, his aunts, grandpa…his family. They were all gone.
He had loved Sheila like a mother.
She had left him, too.
Was he really better off?
He didn't feel better.
In fact – he felt…raw.
Unbidden, an image of Bianca appeared in his mind.
Well, I happen to like cute…He blushed slightly. There had been something…a connection. Something he hadn't felt with anyone before. If he let it, he knew it could rapidly develop into something more.
Maybe even something serious.
The question was – would he let it?
Sighing, he dropped his head in his hands.
It was a question better answered another day.
His back was still to her, giving her the perfect opportunity.
She raised her hand, taking careful aim at Chris.
The target, she corrected herself.
She hesitated.
Her foot paused before the final step, hanging in the air in that brief moment when she prepared to hurl the knife at her target.
She felt her pent up rage and grief over her mother's death suddenly flood her senses.
Her foot came down hard on ground.
The knife left her hand.
Wow, my first cliffhanger! And what – only eight chapters in? Harhar.
To be continued…
