Believe

Chapter Nine

Resolve

Sark found himself outside on the terrace of his luxurious hotel room, pondering the meaning of life. Well, less than that, he was pondering the real meaning of Irina's game. She had called another meeting tomorrow, to discuss more about what they had read in the Prophecies, but he had heard the amused tone in her voice. He didn't like that tone. It was the way she sounded when she thought she was playing a delightful game of cat and mouse with humans she considered less intelligent than herself. In a way, it offended him that she apparently thought less of him than he thought of her. But he also knew it was to his advantage, because Irina Derevko was underestimating him. No one underestimated him and lived to regret it. In fact, Irina was the one who had taught him to pay back anyone who doubted his abilities. Well, it was only right that she would get a little bit of what she taught.

Sark sighed lightly as he stared out over the dark night; no stars, hardly any sliver of moon. He wasn't really one to admire his scenery, but he was restless and he hadn't wanted to wake Rogan. The little boy had survived quite an ordeal after meeting Irina. He had been exhausted and confused, and likely a bit homesick, and Sark wanted him to rest. Tomorrow would likely be another one of those tragically strenuous days for him. He moved back inside, his blond locks curling slightly at the ends as the wind brushed through his hair, tousling it just so. Rogan lay asleep in the large hotel bed, making him look like a dot on white paper with how deep he was snuggled into the clean white sheets.

Sark watched him, guilty feelings bubbling inside of him. He hated this newfound guilt that he seemed to be plagued with occasionally. He liked not having a conscience. His life was better for leaving it behind, but this boy brought it all back. Maybe because Rambaldi and things so much bigger than him were controlling his life. Rogan would never understand what was happening fully, at least not for a long time. Sark knew what it was like. That was the way his life had been, especially after his mother had been murdered. Alecksandria's death had ended any chance of him being completely happy and without the search of a 14th Century prophet. His mother had never mentioned Rambaldi to him, just as Sydney had never mentioned Rambaldi to Rogan. Yet all of their lives were impossibly tangled between the darkness and light that Rambaldi brought.

This boy remained fairly untouched by what he was living through, completely unaware to his true meaning in life. Sark had thought he had saved this little lost child when he had ended the deplorable Mr. Sloane's life, but apparently that had been a ploy of Irina's. He knew better than to trust Irina Derevko, but he seemed to do it continually. Not that he regretted murdering Sloane. The man got everything he deserved and at least Sydney had had a few years of happiness with her child. Now there would be no happiness for them again. If only this little boy would be aware of what was happening. Maybe Rogan could talk some sense into him, since he obviously had a soft spot for the child. Or perhaps it was the soft spot for Sydney that had gotten to Sark. All the same, Sark didn't know how to stop what was happening and he wasn't so sure he wanted to. He had always wondered what Rambaldi had intended for all of their lives and if he stopped Rogan from fulfilling his destiny, he would never know what it was that Rambaldi wanted for everyone's lives.

Sark started to walk towards the other bed, ready to at least lie down, but Rogan stopped him with a whimper. Sark turned back to the boy and studied him. His face was twisted in agonizing pain and he was whimpering more. "AH, MOMMY! MOMMY!"

Rogan's cries were somewhat heart-wrenching. Sark had heard people cry for their mothers before, right before he had stopped them from every breathing another word. But this was more than he could take, this little boy crying for Sydney and she couldn't come because he had taken Rogan from her. He hesitated at the end of the bed, unsure of what he was to do. He remembered now that there was a reason his interaction with children was limited. Sark was more up for torturing people than nurturing them. Children's innate helplessness made him incredibly uncomfortable and slightly irritated, just as Rogan's cries for help made him nervous. Sark wasn't one to abide helplessness in anyone; there was no excuse for being such. Of course, Rogan was an inexperienced child, and he was allowed to be helpless. Sark stared at Rogan and wondered what he was to do. He had no experience in comforting a child from some traumatic nightmare. He'd only dealt with his own nightmares and he rarely had them anymore. Perhaps it was the fact that his own life was so horrific, that his imagination had nothing left to make into a nightmare.

Sark finally decided he should awaken Rogan. Sark sat hesitantly beside Rogan and studied Rogan a bit more. The closer Sark got, the more he realized that the boy was already awake. His wide brown eyes stared almost vacantly at the corner of the room, his face contorted with fear.

"Rogan, you are simply having a nightmare. It is probably due to your unfamiliar surroundings and the absence of your mother."

Sark waited for a reply, but all Sark received was a whine. Sark reached a hand out tentatively and clutched Rogan's shoulder. The boy shot up and scooted into Sark's lap, ignoring any internal warnings he had not to get too close to Mr. Sark. Sark remained in a stunned silence for several moments. He wasn't completely appalled by Rogan's trust and affection, a confusing fact for the insidious Mr. Sark. Sark awkwardly patted Rogan's back as the child snuggled into him.

"Do you wish to discuss the dream?"

Rogan shook his head stubbornly, unwilling to relive any moment of his terror. Sark hesitated, then chose to let the boy calm himself before Sark pressed him any further for information.

Rogan finally stopped shaking and for a moment, he seemed oddly serene. He appeared to have found that post-nightmare calmness; an occurrence that often fascinated Sark for he rarely seemed to find that serenity after his nightmares. Sark debated whether to pull the child from it, but he had to know what disturbed the child to the point of terrifying screams.

"Rogan, can you tell me about your nightmare now?"

His voice was harsh against the silence of the room. He was too hardened to the world not to have a sharp edge to his voice. Rogan pulled away from him quickly and crawled back onto the bed, reaching for a pillow to clutch. Sark's words seemed to have sprung him into action.

His childish voice slurred obstinately, "I doan wanna talk 'bout it."

"Who was in your dream?" Sark pushed.

He shook his head again and Sark found himself growing irritated with Rogan. Sark's typical method of drawing information from others was not appropriate for forcing a three-year-old to talk. He didn't know how to speak gently or coax it out of a terrible toddler.

"Rogan, I truly must insist that you talk to me."

When Rogan didn't respond, Sark's patience was non-existent. Sark grabbed Rogan's shoulders in a flurry of motion. Rogan's eyes widened at Sark's sudden show of violence, his trust in the older man failing miserably. He had never really thought about Sark hurting him, as the thought rarely crosses a child's mind. He never considered the possibility of his mommy's friend being bad. But now he wondered as Sark gripped him roughly and applied too much pressure to his shoulders.

"STOP! Mommy will get you if you doan stop it!"

Sark let go, not because of the threat, but because of the realization of what he was doing. He was hurting Sydney's and Rambaldi's child.

Rogan held onto his pillow more tightly, because he had no safety toys to hold near. His eyes were wide and scared again, but this time scared of the threat in front of him. He curled into a ball and started to rock.

"Just tell me, Rogan." Sark's voice sounded tired for the first time in a long time. He seemed almost exhausted.

"The bad man died. But Mommy died, too."

Rogan turned his back on Sark and snuggled under the covers with no intention of talking to Sark anymore. It was his way of punishing Sark for hurting him, because in his mind, not talking was a horrible thing.

Sark watched him for a moment, that annoying conscience problem arising again. He'd hurt the poor boy after he'd had some nightmare of his mother being murdered. Sark could sympathize with that horror. Sark finally stood and walked back to the terrace. He would take Rogan away tomorrow, away from Irina and Cole, and then he would find Sydney and tell her of Rogan's dream. Because it was very possible that Rogan was a prophet, as Rambaldi had been. Sark realized it was very possible for that to be genetic, since Rambaldi was so particularly spectacular; Rogan could have been given it as well. Most three-year-olds didn't dream of murder, unless there was a reason for it. Yes, tomorrow, they would go somewhere safe where Irina's claws didn't reach him.

Sydney walked cautiously around the perimeter of the Whitechapel cottage. The place was Sark's and he was fond of setting traps to protect his interests. He was no idiot, all though most people were unaware of this cottage, so he would take measures to protect it. She finally felt satisfied that she was not walking into a trap and headed down the path to the stairs. She took out her lock picks when she reached the door and went to work at the lock. She jimmied the door open and entered carefully, her gun well within reach if she needed it. Scotch assaulted her senses, Scotch and the musty furniture smell. The cottage was as comfortable as she remembered, when Sark had brought her there last time, where they had shared their first real kiss. She could still feel the heat on her lips. The cottage made her feel calm and safe, a part of Sark's past before his life went downhill, and Sark had been safe there as a child. If Sark had been safe there, she truly believed she would be safe there now and hopefully her child was safe there now as well.

Sydney paused inside the den and shivered from the lack of heat in the house. Sark would have the heat on if he were there. Sark wasn't one to live without every comfort available. Still, Sydney refused to lose hope that Rogan was there. She began a frantic search of every envelope-sized room to find any sign of life, but there was none. The closer she got to the last room, the more hopeless she felt. This had been a desperate attempt at finding Rogan, but she had put all of her hope, energy and faith into finding him in Whitechapel. She had thought she understood the way Sark worked, of course with the exception of understanding why he would kidnap Rogan. Sark would take Rogan somewhere he could be in charge of the situation. She had been positive the Whitechapel cottage would provide that for him. Apparently she didn't know Sark as well as she had assumed.

She finally stopped in front of the last room in the house. The door was shut tightly and Sydney remembered that it was Sark's bedroom. The last time she had been there, Sark hadn't allowed her in. She reached for the knob tentatively, slightly shaky because she didn't know what she would find in the bedroom. She didn't know what Sark had concealed in the room. She finally pushed the door from her view so she could absorb what she saw. And she smiled.