Shattered

It was getting late. Warm rain had been soaking the cobalt carpet under the open window for hours, but Erik needed air. The extra candles he had lit trembled in the night breeze. Erik had been born a creature of the dark, and his eyes were more adept to it than a cat's, but somehow, just now he could not seem to get enough light. All the lamps were turned up to full flame, and more wax was melting than in a cathedral, but it was still not enough. He needed to see. He needed to understand. More light...Just a little more. Perhaps if he found one more candle to light, it would become clear to him, it would make sense...

But he found the box empty just as it had been when he'd checked it an hour before. He returned to the inferno he had made of his desk. The single pale blue sheet of paper gave the impression of the subject of some satanic ritual surrounded there by all that fire. The document was small, only a part of a full print, but it was not a copy. It must have been cut directly from the original design. It shocked Erik that someone could do such a thing to something such as this. Who could ever bring himself to butcher something so...remarkably extraordinary...?

There were no just words for what this was. Sheer unachievable brilliance... Even in Erik's compulsive studies of the most progressive architects, designers, and draftsmen, world-famous to tragically-unknown, he had never before seen anything like what was drawn on this paper. The flawless complexity, the ingenuity of it...It was an onslaught to even Erik's multifaceted mind. And yet it was so purely simple...So formulaic that it seemed ridiculous that Erik, in all his creative capacities, had not thought of it himself. The structure itself was actually similar to something he had included in his latest project, but his designs now paled past primitive in the shadow of this one he studied. Now he felt trite shame in his previous pride. Hubris was always a downfall, wasn't it?

His need to know begged for the identity of the designer. Whose was this? Was it hers? Impossible. Erik could not let himself accept that idea. Immediately and resolutely he denied all notion that this mysterious, nameless woman who had sought him out personally could ever possibly be the author of this...genius. For that would be far too terrifying, wouldn't it? And there were so many other obvious explanations, weren't there? The woman moved in architects' circles...Perhaps some acquaintance... Perhaps some cousin of a friend, or husband's brother in law... Only envisioning the designer as someone that far-removed from the woman who had been in this very building only that morning eased Erik's tension. But what contractor would ever allow something like this to be taken from him, cut up, and handed to someone like Erik? Perhaps it was stolen. Was this little piece of stimulation a bribe? Or an offer? Black market blueprints? The thought was ridiculous, but somehow, with this particular drawing, it made sense to Erik right now. He could think of many architects who would avariciously pay any price to pass off such plans as their own. Is that why this stranger had shown him so torturously little of what must be the greatest work he had ever hoped to see? Erik would never bend to dream of counterfeiting himself, but all the same, he could not be shown so little and ever feel at ease again. And now how could he see the rest? He was trapped.

The wet air from the window was no longer enough. Erik felt light-headed. He needed to get out. He needed assurance. He returned the document to the safety of its oiled envelope and then left the room too quickly to think of putting out any of the lights.

Once out of doors and pelted steadily by the rain, he slowed his pace as he took the steps from the main level of the building, where his offices were located. The only storefront beneath it was halfway below ground level. It and the basement of the building were leased by a mortician's and embalmer's, but everything above that was Erik's. His contractor's offices took up the whole of the mezzanine main floor of the building, and the two more floors above, he did with as he pleased. The house was not as morbid a combination as one might predict, however, as the continual array of flowers adorning that lowest level offered fresh distraction in the winter and overriding fragrance in the summer.

Erik glanced briefly down into the windows of the mortuary, as he always did in passing, of respect and intrigue. Six new coffins he could see, different sizes, but all painted white. And the yellow lilies on the sill were wilting. Probably from the heat down there...Not a good sign.

The construction project Erik had been recently wrapping up was at a site less than a mile from his offices. Although it was not always an option, he preferred to keep his work close at hand. After residing his whole life in the best and worst to offer of one end of Europe to Asia and everywhere in-between, he had become weary of travel, and any place beyond walking distance was detestable. The rain beat coherence back into his thunderstruck self, and he welcomed the sensation without bothering to cover his head with hat or hood. It must have been past two o'clock, and he did not anticipate the conflict on the street he would have encountered in the day as he did when he had need to go about. No facial artifice he attempted ever managed to avoid him that annoying, inevitable clash with society. Even if not one person said a word beyond polite formality, it was not as if there was ever pleasant conversation. Those Erik worked with and employed did what it took to earn their pay and avoid his short, artistic temper, but those with whom he could speak more than give orders were frustratingly few. He had worked with laborers as long as he could remember in those times when building was the focus of his life, but now that he had settled down after being spoiled with the power of politics and the magic of manipulation, a great part of him still missed the sense of having control over something greater than the building of a simple house.

Simple, yes... This house was simple. Simple in comparison to the spectacles he had built in the past and much more so in comparison to the design in the envelope now tucked within his cloak. But that is what this client had wanted: Simple, ingenious elegance. And it had been a challenge for Erik; such simplicity was very difficult to maintain in a structure still so sophisticated. But Erik never began a project that was not a challenge; how he hated to be bored.

The house was finished enough so that the doors and gates could be locked and a watchman for the site no longer needed to be on the payroll. However, the roof had still not been completed and rivulets of the rain penetrated edges of the protective tents and spider-webbed the interior walls.

Erik passed through the front rooms of the ground floor, criticizing his work with a new, frustrated judgment. Each new house he built was always better than the last, and this, his latest, the best. So why did it seem now to him as if a child had designed it? He was good, he knew he was good. Isn't that why he had been sought after by the rulers of Asia Minor and now desired by the crème of European society? He was more than an oddity to be collected, he was good... But that tiny piece of a drawing was laughing at him with all of its deserving grandeur.

That pointed archway was dull, those slender columns were inane, and this central courtyard ached of a Pompeian stereotype. Erik took out the envelope. He would go upstairs where his construction reminded him of what was in this design and masochistically compare just how far removed he was from the brilliance.

As he stepped around the fountain, he was diverted by what sounded like a groan. He stopped and quickly looked about himself. Who had followed him in here? Who dared to disrupt such a personal moment! His eyes searched every dark curve and corner, but no one was there.

It was not until he turned back to continue that he became quite aware of the man sprawled out amid dark burlap sleeping in the fountain. A curly red beard hid half of his face and a wide-brimmed Spanish hat pulled down over the eyes hid the other half.

Trespasser. Erik frowned and returned the precious envelope to the shield of his cloak. He stepped down into the dry fountain and moved across it quickly to take the stranger roughly by the shoulder and shake him awake.

"Get up."

The man lifted a heavy hand to search for the edge of his hat and spoke, his French accented by some sort of British dialect, "You're late."

Erik stood back. "You're mistaken."

The trespasser pushed up the brim and his creased and green eyes widened as he saw that he was mistaken indeed. "Who are you?" he asked with an irritation that angered Erik.

"Get out of my house."

The man began untwisting himself from his burlap and challenged, "Your house? Beg your pardon, but no one lives here."

"This is private property."

"And I'm a private citizen." The man drew out from the rest of the material and pulled himself up onto the edge of the fountain before standing. "Now if you'll pardon me, I'm expecting company."

Erik was fully prepared to violently strike this stranger for interrupting his previous self-assault, but as he looked down at him now, he could not bring himself to do it. The man, who must have been almost ten years older than Erik, and even though he was standing on the ledge of the fountain at least five hands above where Erik stood, was still so much below Erik's height that he required looking down at in order to be seen. This little red-bearded stranger was less than a meter tall. Erik had known many people of such stature in his history, but he had not been prepared for the surprise from this disrespectful intruder.

The little man smirked with satisfaction. "Didn't expect that, did you?"

Erik made no response.

"It's never what you expect, don't you know?"

Erik was neither amused nor appreciative. "How did you get in here?"

"Not so difficult," he dusted off his shoulders with stubby fingers. "Likely the same way you did."

"Indeed. Leave now, or I will not wait to summon the police to expel you by force."

He snorted and began to reluctantly toss his loose sacks up out of the fountain. As it was, Erik was more than twice his size, and who knew what sort of doings a masked man was capable of in the dead of night. "Aren't you trespassing?"

Erik moved to the fountain's side and stepped out of it. He now towered so far above the man that when he craned his neck to look up at him, the Spanish hat fell off his head and to the floor. Erik made no move to help retrieve it as he spoke, "This is my house."

The intruder picked it up himself and pointedly dusted dirt from it that couldn't have existed in such a new building. "Are you the Baronette Von what his name is?"

"Hardly."

"Thought you didn't quite seem pompous enough. And he's a jolly corpulent man, isn't he? Bloody close though."

Erik kicked one of the sacks near where he stood so that it rolled over against the man's legs. "You are running out of time."

He picked it up along with the others and began towards the front door, but he kept an eye over his shoulder where Erik followed him. "This is my first eviction from a place I wasn't behind on payments for."

"Be quiet and leave. I am already tempted to make it your last."

At Erik's comment, the other man stopped at the end of the foyer and turned around to look up at Erik to study him very closely. "Don't I know you?"

Erik reached over the man's head and pushed the door open. "Be glad that you don't."

"Damn it all, I do! Spain, wasn't it! Oh, I remember you now! You weren't so big then, were you?"

The man snorted with a laugh of sudden understanding and victory so repulsive that Erik could hold back no longer. With a violent strike, Erik silenced the annoying giggles and blew the little man out the door. He cleared the steps completely, but instead of landing on the path below, he tumbled right into the arms of another man who had been about to come up into the house.

Erik did not realize that there was someone else there until the two separate grunts were made with the contact. He could only assume this was the company that had been expected.

The new stranger, who had somehow managed to gain entrance through the gates, set the old one down on the path. He was a Belgian of normal height who looked as if he were some sort of upper-class that had failed in effort to disguise himself as a peasant. He looked up at Erik's volatile form in the doorway and demanded in a half-drunken slur, "Who the hell are you?"

The smaller man was attempting to catch his breath as he picked up his sacks from where they had landed. "The Baronette Von Bastard has evicted us."

The Belgian knelt to help and asked in a whisper that was too loud, "He looks like he's up to no good, Johnny, don't you think?"

The little man looked back up at Erik and laughed again amid snorts. "Oh, no! Not at all! He's as ugly as sin under that mask and you ought to thank him for keeping it on!"

The Belgian stood again and swayed slightly as he eyed Erik, who remained a black statue in the doorway. After a long moment of contemplative silence, save for his companion's dying chuckles, the stranger turned away from the door to look down at him. "Well, we'd better hurry and find out someplace else then before my wife gets to wondering where I've gone."

A dazzling grin split the red beard, and he who had been called Johnny reached up and offered his arm to the Belgian. "By all means!"

The arm was accepted and the two started back to the gates with a saunter that was a combination of their strange difference in height and Belgian's drunkenness. When the door to the house slammed loudly behind them, the red-bearded man, now infected with gleefulness, turned around and cupped a small hand to his large mouth, "Don't you know? It's never what you expect!"

Erik tried to pay the comment no attention and only remained behind the door long enough to make sure they were gone. It took much too long for his patience, but soon the echoes of singing had faded down the street and Erik was no longer tormented by off-key refrains of "Those old Spanish days..."

It was only an afterthought that he realized he should have kept an eye on them until he saw how it was they had passed through the gates. But it did not matter. He would hire a new watchman, and the problem would be solved without undue effort.

For some reason, Erik was feeling very weary. What was wrong with him? He did not even want to give thought to the stranger's comments about remembering him from Spain. He did not have the strength for that right now... He had let the little man get away and was sure he would never come across him again, but how unlike Erik... Ordinarily any man with the stupidity to reveal such familiarity would be dead before the second word, and yet Erik had done nothing but tell him to go away. And even more oddly, he found that he really did not care.

Apathy... How strange indeed. It was most unlike him. Depression? How? Why? Erik was unconquerable! But he knew why... Damn that envelope! Suddenly he wished he had never given into the curiosity that had made the excuse for him to open it! He wanted now to tear it to pieces! Destroy it and let that damn woman know, that messenger of devastation, he would compromise his principles for no one! He would never meet with her.

But he did not even have the strength to draw the document from his cloak. Why was there not a single chair in this house? He sat down on the ledge of the elevated hearth. But he was never one who could remain still for long, and soon his eyes began to roam its contours. He should have widened it at the base... Yes... Yes! That would have changed the whole shape of the room. He would have to remember that for next time. And those beams up above... He would never use those again.

And as depressing as all of it was, he realized his mind was exploding with an artistic and structural inspiration he had not felt in years! He tore the envelope from his pocket and pulled the document from it. Gripping it tightly, reverently in both hands, his eyes shifted from it to his house and back countless times over. Why had she only given him so little! He wanted to see more. He needed to see more. He would have to go through with it. There were far too few lines on this one page to ever satisfy him and the note that had been pinned to the back of it held far too few words... Those damned words in deplorably feminine handwriting: I can show you more.