Chapter 2 [Smallville Regional Medical Center—Ten Minutes Later]
Byron considered a poem in front of himself. Lament and Joy sang from Longfellow's stanzas and prose. The florescent light washed the pages in their cobalt hue. The bulbs' buzz droned in the background. Still his mind drank in every detail and metaphor. His heart felt much lighter than it had in his parents' basement. Instead of being the modern day Fortunato in his parents' adaptation of The Cask of Amontillado, he no longer felt buried or trapped. Granted he couldn't leave his hospital room (at least not during the day). Still the nurses spoke with him pleasantly. Pete wheeled himself down the hall to visit every day. Clark and Lana brought their friends to meet him. At night, Lex would bring him to the Talon for a coffee with a hefty side of socialization.
It was definitely more of the best of times rather than the worst of times for a change.
Still he wished he remembered more of the blacked out periods. Rage robbed him of control and knowledge of the past. He grimaced over Pete's bruised ribs and Lana's sprained wrist. He hoped that Clark was all right. He heard that he'd yanked a helicopter back to earth with authority. Despite that, Clark had stopped him.
Clark….
How did he stop me? Byron shook his head. Clark's accomplishments mystified him. Two deeds framed each side of his last blackout. Byron marveled at Clark ripping apart the manacle holding his ankle to the wall. He recalled Clark's grip and hold on him as the fog lifted on his perceptions. He didn't understand. Query confounded him.
And it seemed like he wasn't the only one.
Lana hedged on her feelings for Clark. He cares deeply for her. Why does she doubt him? Certainly an incredible person like Clark would be worthy of her love. He is devoted yet he is torn. Why did she just say he was a friend? Perhaps he needs to share with her as well? He considered his Longfellow collection anew.
Ironically it had fallen open to Evangeline, a story about the title character pursuing her lost love across the Colonial American frontier in eighteenth century.
Whatever forces hold Clark and Lana from Amor's sweet embrace, are they worth the hesitation? How can they not deal with it? Are they willing to lose that special bond? He sighed deeply. He closed the book firmly and set it down on the bed beside him. What is the answer?
A knock came from the door.
"Who tarries there?" he called.
Clark edged into the room. He puzzled over his friend's arcane reply. Still the Kent grin broke through Gloom's façade. "Hey, Byron! How's it going?" He noted the paperback lying beside the patient. "Anything good?"
"Longfellow's always enjoyable, Clark. Thank you for that sentiment. He offers scenic backdrops for our consideration. He ponders deeper issues. There's heartbreak. Still we witness the struggle," Byron declared. He opened the nightstand's drawer and produced the dog-eared book of limericks. "I have determined to strike a balance in Mood's tone however." He cracked a smile.
Relief warmed Clark's heart. "So you did like it? It sounded good." He shrugged. "Some of them made me smile."
"They do that." Byron motioned toward the chair by his bed. "Please, Clark. Recline in the chair. Divest yourself of all care." He smirked.
"Yeah well…I wish I could." Clark frowned. "Thanks for the chair." He sat down.
Byron studied his visitor's face. It didn't take much for him to see Tension knotting Clark's brow. Still he didn't want to jar his friend further. "What vexes you? Your heart sags under the weight of your troubles. Still Amor confounds you. Doesn't it?"
Clark shrugged. Embarrassment streaked his face bright red. "I'm trying to be honest with her. I want to care. It's just that she wants me to share more." He held up his book of Shakespeare's sonnets. "I want to understand this. She likes it. I should too."
"It would make things easier if that was true. Alas…." Byron sighed deeply.
"Alas…what?" Clark raised an eyebrow. Alarm jarred his resolve.
"It means it's not that easy. Love doesn't allow for one way relations, I fear. If you wish to receive, you must render unto her altar." Byron sipped on his glass of water.
"I'm trying." Frustration narrowed Clark's eyes further. He shook his head. "I want to. I really want to, Byron. It's just that everyone and everything's holding me back." He looked around.
"Everything? Ah perhaps this is the reason you understood my quandary before? As you freed me, your bonds still hold you fast. Well as my bonds were sundered by your strong hand so I shall endeavor to return your most welcome favor, Clark." Byron shook his head at Clark's denial. "Father installed those manacles on that morn, Clark. They couldn't be rusted. I did not say anything in front of Pete." He put his hand on Clark's forearm. "It is all right. I shall keep your secret unto my own death and beyond. Perhaps though you might wish to let our fair companion in on the secret? She deserves to know."
Clark rolled his eyes. "My parents don't want me to tell her. I hate that I can't. Byron, I want to tell her. I want Lana to know. I just don't know how she'll take it."
Byron nodded. Understanding dawned on him. Compassion softened the planned lecture. "Amor cannot be restrained by such bonds, Clark. She pines for you as much as you do her. Open yourself. Offer yourself up. You will need to tell her."
"My folks will kill me," Clark worried.
"I doubt that. They will be angry. You however are strong enough to endure the tempests of parental hurricanes. Having Lana beside you will strengthen your efforts in that regard all the more." He motioned to the Shakespeare book. "You must reach out to her. She must reach out to you. Each of you will learn Comfort's level in the other. Persephone and Hades shaped our world and seasons with their love. So can Lana and you. But you must do so in a way that meets her needs and that is yours."
Clark nodded. "I'm trying." He threw his hands up in the air. Exasperation clenched a hard vice around his brain. "I want to understand this for Lana's sake. I can't make heads or tails of it."
Byron considered the Shakespeare. "The verbiage is a puzzle at times. Still, Clark, you are a farmer. Are you not? Your words come from the hearth not the erudite lectern. Keep it simple. Perhaps Keats? Thoreau would be a possibility. Their language is much closer to our modern day. Despite this the imagery is easier to understand. It suits you best." He motioned to the duffel bag in the corner. "There's a brown covered book with gilt trim on top. If you wish to borrow yonder text for an initial foray along Thoreau's path less traveled, I would be most supportive."
Hesitation slowed Clark's effort toward the bag. He recalled his earlier disdain for sonnets. Still Byron's advice did make an impression on him. "I can actually read it?"
"Give it a try, Clark. Reach beyond your limits. Seek out the stars," Byron advised. He cleared his throat. "Thoreau has a poem on friendship in there. Read it at your leisure. It will enlighten you to that path and expand your perceptions." He grinned.
"Okay." Clark doubted that it would work. Still he did want to try for Lana's sake. Also he desired some greater insight on his newest friend's world as well. "Can't hurt."
"Never does," Byron agreed. Just then he saw a slender blonde in green scrubs enter the room. "Ah the most attentive Sandra has arrived. Good afternoon." He managed a bow for her.
She giggled. Despite his over the top greeting, her heart skipped a beat. "Mr. Moore, you're in great spirits today." She read his chart and put it back on the bedframe. "From which vessel have you been drinking the poetic mead today?"
"What?" Clark struggled to understand the metaphors flying through the air all around himself. His brain seized up.
"Longfellow's Evangeline. In fact I seek to prevent my friends from falling prey to Circumstance's separation of the lovers." Byron motioned toward Clark.
"Nothing's worth that. If they can prevent it, they should." She made a few notes to herself. "Rumor has it you like roast beef and mashed potatoes."
"You take hints from Rumor's whispers now? Be careful lest it acts akin to the Sirens of yore," Byron teased.
"I trust your mother." She shrugged and added a grin. "She gave me the recipe. Be patient with me, Master Poet?"
"Master Poet huh?" Clark clearly caught the meaning of that exchange.
"You see, Clark? Sandra and I are friends. We seek an understanding between ourselves. Still we reach out as an extension of our true selves," Byron told him.
"I do have to remain professional. Still well…once Mr. Moore checks out, who knows?" she added.
"I get it." Clark took the copy of Thoreau. "I'll leave Shakespeare if that's okay. I'll try this."
"The Bard is more than welcome at my bedside, Clark. May Thoreau's path less traveled provide the illumination you seek," Byron agreed.
"Me too. Nice meeting you, Sandra. See you soon, Byron." Clark waved and hustled out of the room. He sensed that Byron and his nurse had things to discuss of various topics.
Besides he had a mission of his own…..