Chapter 13: The Lion and the Nightingale

Mother of motion, the eyes can't capture time,
Falling emotion, the blind now lead the blind,
We commit indiscretions, and omit our sins from sight,
In a world of intangibles, too many things seem right
The Crüxshadows, "Cruelty"

Crawford shut off the car and stared at the house that he had spent his teenage years in. It was a big Georgian mansion, stately and severe. Three stories of dark brick stood as a monument to appearances and ambition, a shrine to political status. Just the sort of place one would expect a U.S. senator to live in. The white-trimmed windows were all dark.

Crawford passed the Palladian front door and went to the side of the house. He let himself into the kitchen. The cook had gone home for the day. Mrs. Derwin was always the last to leave, so if she was gone, so were the other servants. At least there weren't going to be any awkward witnesses to the confrontation. He frowned over that. His mother knew he was coming. If David Crawford had known his son was arriving, he would have kept a few of the staff around, to better play lord of the manor to the prodigal son. That meant his mother hadn't told David that Brad was coming. Wonderful.

Crawford braced himself for the upcoming unpleasantness, moving through the dark house with ease. Like his father's anticipated reaction, nothing else changed in the Crawford domain. There was where the two Crawfords differed—response to change. David Crawford hated it and didn't take it well. Uncertainty always bogged him down. Brad Crawford hated it as well, but his gift always provided him a way to see through the messes.

He had taken after his father in the respect that he didn't like surprises any more than his father did. David was going to be apoplectic to be visited by his son with no advance warning. Crawford smirked a little at that. The irony was rich. David Crawford would give anything to be able to see into the future. A meticulous planner, the senator had alienated the one person who could have furthered his career beyond his wildest dreams, the one person who had a talent that he would have killed to possess.

Crawford was definitely his father's son. When he started to display flashes of foresight, he had kept it to himself, carefully testing and fostering the talent. He'd told no one, not even his mother. Most certainly not his father. It had puzzled him why his talent hadn't worked when he was at home. His talent had grown stronger and stronger, but the strange blank spells always occurred when he was around his mother. That hadn't been explained until he'd come to Rosenkreuz.

He'd found out about Rosenkreuz while he was finishing up school. It was a whisper here, a rumor there. He had patiently unearthed what he had needed to know. Rosenkreuz had a way of recruiting its future pupils, usually by force. It had been an unheard of event for a student to find his way to it. Yet Crawford had appeared at their gates not even a day after his graduation at the elite English academy, of age and demanding to be admitted.

Rosenkreuz hadn't known what to do with him at first. But he had shown them what he was capable of, let them glimpse the possibilities, and they had taken him in with open arms. He had never looked back. He, of all people, knew his destiny when he saw it. Rosenkreuz had been ecstatic. Pre-cognitives were among the rarest of the talents, reliable ones even rarer still. Once there, he came to realize through careful experimentation on his rare trips home that his mother was a cipher. He had learned many other things, too.

It had been a mutually beneficial arrangement. Crawford had honed his considerable talent, biding his time, gathering information, polishing his plan. He had formed his team, one at a time. Nagi he found as a small, starving child in Japan. He had nurtured the boy on a spoon-fed diet of hate and fear, even as he encouraged the boy to grow into a youth to be reckoned with.

Jei, a broken lad in an insane asylum in Ireland, had been a little harder. Nagi had been a creature of emotions, but very logical ones. Jei had been pure madness, cracked and shattered shards that could slice to the bone. Crawford still had a scar on his left palm as proof. If he hadn't foreseen the slash, the scar would not have been, and neither would Crawford. Instead of a thin scar on his palm, he would have been sporting a long gash across his throat, pouring his life's blood out on the asylum's cold tile floor.

Crawford had been patient, though. He had seen the coming of the linchpin. Schuldig. Schuldig had helped Crawford with Nagi when Crawford couldn't grasp the boy's thoughts and feelings, had been instrumental in making Jei into Farfarello. Jei couldn't function; his madness controlled him. Farfarello, on the other hand, controlled his madness. And Schuldig had made it all work.

Schuldig. A scrawny waif, all wild hair and wide smirk. He had possessed the smirk even back then. Crawford had not been impressed by what he saw at first, even though he had known about Schuldig's coming for years and knew what the telepath was going to eventually be capable of. He remembered his first glimpse of a skinny, cocky kid, full of confidence and brattiness.

Schuldig had not known about Crawford's interest in him. He had struggled through Rosenkreuz unaware of his greater purpose, of his role in Esset and more importantly, Crawford's plan. Crawford had watched the pre-adolescent turn into a wiry teen, then a sleek adult. He had noted the mental changes as well. Schuldig had never broken under Rosenkreuz's indifferently cruel thumb, but he had learned diplomacy and deceit. This had pleased Crawford at the time.

For the first few years, Crawford had felt no connection with the German, despite coveting him for his talents. He had been like a tool to Crawford, a pet to manipulate as he saw fit. And he had, without a qualm at the time. Looking back, it wasn't surprising, really. Crawford had neither known Schuldig nor cared to back then. They had little in common. The two had been separated by cultures, years and team roles as well as by social status.

Crawford put his hand on the cherrywood newel. It was original to the house, a fine example of 18th century craftsmanship. He had been surrounded by antiques such as this all his life, to the point that he rarely noticed them. Crawford had come from an affluent family, old money. Schuldig had come from near poverty. However, the most disparate of all to Crawford was not that, even though Schuldig would have disagreed.

The thing that Crawford felt really set the two apart was their fathers. Both boys had loved their mothers. Only one boy had also loved his father. Crawford would never have shed tears over being separated from his father. The very thought of his father had sometimes brought the sheen of tears to Schuldig's eyes when he had first been brought to Rosenkreuz. He had been open in how much he missed his parents, defiant, genuine and unashamed. Nonetheless, Crawford had marveled not at the willingness to shed the tears but the fact that they were there at all.

Schuldig didn't speak of his parents, but Crawford knew their son loved them. Whenever they were in Germany, Schuldig always managed to slip away for a few hours. Crawford, or the rest of Schwarz for that matter, had never asked. Everyone suspected, though, that Schuldig was off playing the role of loving son. Crawford mounted the stairs, setting an impassive face as he did so. Maybe Schuldig hadn't played a role. Maybe he actually was one.

Crawford ran a hand along the satin-smooth railing as he ascended. Crawford, wrapped in his own agenda, had thought little about the team he had so carefully pieced around himself beyond how they were useful to him. When did that change? When Farfarello died? It seemed that way, on the surface. Deep underneath, Crawford saw the truth—Farfarello had merely driven the change to the surface for everyone, including Crawford, to see.

The change really had started when Crawford and Schuldig had returned to Germany after their first assignment abroad together. Schuldig had disappeared and returned with the cold January wind freezing his tears on his cheeks. Crawford hadn't said anything, but he had known that Schuldig had returned from an all-too-short visit to his parents. And he had felt envy. Envy, and another emotion that he hadn't admitted to until now. The desire to comfort. He had wanted so badly to wrap his arms around Schuldig and wipe the tears off of his face.

That desire had shocked Crawford. Shocked him and terrified him. He couldn't allow his team to get close. If he allowed them to become too precious, then emotions would begin to cloud his judgment, and his plan might fail. Unthinkable. It couldn't be allowed. He had fought it for so long. He had been a fool. Farfarello had shown him that. Once the crack had breached the surface, it could not be unmade. All he had done was to deny what was there. Stupid. To ignore such a thing was to risk it being exploited.

He had the luck of the gods. No one had ever tried to exploit that weakness. Now that Crawford acknowledged it, it was a weakness no more. It was sad that it took Farfarello's death to make him see. A light ripple of laughter seem to dance across his mind, making him start. Death was relative, wasn't it? Within, he felt Farfarello agree before falling silent. Crawford could feel the Irishman's presence. For once, Farfarello hadn't made a comment, then gone back into the depths to sleep. He was watching. It felt like he was waiting.

At the top of the landing, Crawford heard music. The light notes of a piano tumbled down the stairs like playful kittens one moment, like moonlit water the next. Crawford felt the corners of his mouth lift involuntarily even as his heart ached at the beauty of the music. His step quickened as he climbed towards the sound.

He slipped into the music room and silently closed the door behind him. The flow of music had gentled into a soothing lullaby. Crawford leaned back against the door and remembered his mother playing this very piece when he had been very young. She would hum it as she tucked him in. He rested against the door, closed his eyes and let the notes wash over him. His eyes opened when the music took a darker turn. As if she suddenly realized that the music had changed, she stopped abruptly.

Crawford pushed away from the door. "Mother?"

Claire turned to him, her face in shadow. A bar of moonlight fell across the keys of the piano, caressing her still hands. The moonlight from the windows was the only source of illumination. "Brad. You're here."

"Yes. I told you I would be." Crawford was a little puzzled. Why was she sitting in the dark? "Why don't we turn on a light?"

"The moonlight is beautiful, is it not?" Claire remarked, as she covered the piano keys.

Crawford didn't think about moonlight, not aesthetically, anyway. It was merely a hindrance or a help, depending on how much illumination was needed at any given time. "Where's David?"

Claire dipped her head, and Crawford saw a serene smile curve her mouth. Her eyes still were in shadow. "You don't have to worry about David anymore, Brad. You can come home now."

"Come home?" Crawford repeated. "Mother, this hasn't been home for a long time." Realizing that he might sound harsh, he softened his voice. "I've got my own life now that I have to lead. What's the old saying? You can never go home, no matter how much you want to."

"Have things changed so much then?"

Crawford couldn't tell why, but the question sounded fraught with hidden meaning, nuances he couldn't guess. Never had he cursed his inability to foresee around her as he did now. "I guess that would be right." He chuckled ruefully. "Besides, you know that I couldn't stay under the same roof as David for longer than a night or two."

"David no longer is a factor here," Claire said with uncharacteristic sharpness. Crawford took a step back in confusion.

"No longer a factor?" Crawford felt a cold feeling creeping up on him. Something about that sounded very, very wrong. "What do you mean by that?"

She waved that away. "Come home, Brad," she repeated, a thread of desperation stringing the words together. "Leave this life you're currently leading behind and start anew." She stood, knocking over the piano stool with a discordant crash. Crawford flinched back at the sound, but she paid it no heed as she held a hand out to him.

"Let's be a family again. I've weeded out the root of this house's evil. Let's make sure it never grows again. We'll plant new flowers to choke out the last of the evil weeds. Stay with me."

Crawford looked down at the outstretched hand that had soothed away many a childhood illness, ache, and hurt. The hand that had never fallen in anger on him, that had used to stroke his hair until he fell asleep. "I can't."

Her hand dropped, then clenched at her side. "Am I too late, then?"

Crawford didn't know how to answer that, so he remained silent. She laughed, but the laugh sounded suspiciously like a sob. "I guess I am," she said. "If only I had killed him years ago."

"Killed?" Crawford's voice rose, alarm making his voice sharp. "What are you talking about, Mother?"

"Your damned father, that's what," Claire said with frightening vehemence. 'He took you away from me, turned you away from my side."

Crawford felt like he was participating in the last act of a play, with no idea as to anyone's script, not even his own. This didn't sound like his mother. Someone had handed her the wrong script. "David? He used to say that about YOU."

"I know the truth of it," Claire said calmly. The new calm sent chills up Crawford's spine. It sounded too flat. Too calm. The eye of the storm, he thought. The calm reminded him of the eye of a storm. "All of it, Crawford."

"All of it? All of what?" Crawford then realized what his mother had called him. Why had she called him 'Crawford?' She had never done that. He felt reality was sliding through his fingers like water. "What's going on?"

"My sweet Brad," his mother said sorrowfully. "He's become a Crawford. The Crawford name has always been my curse. Nothing more to be done but to get rid of it, all of it. Father and son." She stepped forward into the moonlight. The silvery light glimmered off the tears on her face, the strange gleam in her eye, the cold metal of the gun in her hand. "Oh my poor Brad, I loved you so."

Crawford wanted to laugh, to cry, to scream denial. This could not be happening to him. As if in a dream or a vision, he watched as she aimed and pulled the trigger. Crawford only had a moment to feel disbelief and a strange sense of irony before he felt the bullet's impact, then he saw no more.

A/N: Thanks to: Tysoyo Kalli - Nope, the muse ain't dead yet! Got more coming along shortly (hopefully). Thanks for the sweet review.
Lestat197 – No prob. I get mixed up with chapters a lot on this, and I'm writing this! Glad you liked it!
TrenchcoatMan – The end is in sight, but there's still a few more chapters yet. Hopefully I can get Omi and Nagi to cooperate for you.
Yanagi-sen - Evil laugh We like thickening plots. Makes things more fun!
Suicide.angel01 – Poor Crawford. A bit tough on him. And getting worse yet. I feel almost evil for doing this to him. Almost. Glad you like the subtlety.
Lily – I couldn't leave you guys in the lurch. Sorry it took so long to gear back up again.
Icedbubble – Thanks for the encouragement, and the compliments. It's what keeps me on track when this story starts to bog me down. Appreciated!
Eternal-Darkness2 – Here's the next chapter, hope you enjoy. Hopefully, I won't have such a long wait between this chapter and the next one!