NOIR
by Jaded Faye
Deep Indigo sky and every star alight reaching from the African horizon into forever; it would have been to some the most beautiful thing they had ever seen. But Allan Quartermain had lived for longer than a man in his profession should and this sky was old to him. He had travelled all over the globe and seen so many things, temples, villages, and sunsets that seemed to have been created through some kind of magic spell, concocted from your wildest imagination and the breath that was suddenly absent in your throat as you witnessed it.
But none of these, or any of the fantastic things he viewed in all his daring travels had been as beautiful as that common and yet once in forever moment of a birth, the birth of his son, Harry.
With every sense a man posessed he witnessed it, with senses even he as a hunter didn't know he had. It had been incredible. Sometimes still, he dreamt about it. Sometimes still, he awoke in the dead of night and cried for hours. His son. His Harry. More precious than any treasure ever sought or discovered or dreamed of, and he had been so careless, and he had lost him...He had lost his little boy.
Bitterness quickly fills in the spaces of loss. And a loss of this size had left the great hunter full to the point of spilling over. He had isolated himself, had shunned any new aquaintanceships, had saved the world anyway, and had come to care for another young man so much like his son that he had died rather than experience such loss again.
Yes. Allan Quartermain had died. But not completely. The local witch-doctor had made a promise that even the great hunter, knowing full well of the existence of magic, had not believed he could keep, and yet he had kept it. Africa would not let him die...and yet sometimes, he wished it would.
And here he was, back in Africa where he had started, and some of that bitterness had given way for feelings he had thought barred forever. More so than that...he had allowed those feelings to come back. And deep in the innermost space of his heart, or whatever it was that truely allowed him to feel anything at all...he welcomed them.
He was eager to get back to the League. He felt a sense of responsiblity to them, and especially to their youngest member, who was so much like him. That was one of the reasons he needed to get there soon. Sawyer would inevitibly blame himself, and that was something that Allan Quartermain could not allow the young man to do. Not when he had the power, as so many others did not, to return to that boy...to set things straight. The young secret service agent still had so much to learn...and He could do right by him, as he had failed to do with Harry. He was full aware of the connection. He did not care. Once he had become a father there was no going back. Harry would always be his son. Always. No one would ever replace him. But Thomas Sawyer held significant place in the old man's heart. He would not fail another son.