8. The man with the coins

It wasn't the gravedigger. He was long gone.

Perhaps this was the final chapter on his madness. One he'd thought beaten and calculated. Peter Lake stared ahead at nothing.

It wasn't the fog who spoke, surely. Not this biting chill, these white clouds. This winter walling him away.

This was the voice of heat.

This was a voice he'd known…

Saint Peter…

Saint. Peter…

Peter…

Peter…

"Well?" The fog contracted, expanded. "Do you not recognize the voice of an old friend?"

Peter… What?

Peter Lake grunted, tried to say something, but his throat was fleshy and pasty with the old cold he'd surpassed, the inactivity it had led up to. He'd forsaken the art of speaking long ago. This was something he'd chosen to forget, all on his own.

He only realized now that he needed to learn it again.

"Oh… Well. Of course you don't."

There was something else. One more sound for him to grab and maintain.

Sharp and fickle. Shortly-lived, repeating.

The silver glint of a coin.

"But… I'm sure you remember this."

He saw it, now, too.

A little light breaking through the mist, suspended in midair.

A small dent in the mist.

O Come, O Come-

Peter Lake lunged to his feet, trampling over the folds of his jacket. The old black fabric tore under his knee.

And then he whined in a manner that made him feel like an old hound, a starving animal lost in the wilderness he'd been sworn away from.

"Remember Christmas night, 1917?" the voice in the fog asked, its former cheeriness now completely gone. "When you spent all the money you had on a horse you'd just found?"

And he saw it. He saw darkness. He saw a bucket of flames. He saw two feline eyes, warm with secrets. A youthful, dark face, hiding endless exhaustion.

Who are you? Who are you?

The glint of the coin formed a little lighthouse in the mist. Peter Lake crawled toward it, whimpering. His eyes filled with tears.

"The following morning, you were rich again, but you were also starving, because in your hurry to give me and the horse everything you possibly could, to make right by the means through which you'd gotten that money… you failed to realize that you'd saved nothing for yourself. Luckily, I knew you well enough to know that would happen, and it led you to breakfast. It led you to her."

Her…

The warmth.

The boiled eggs. The teacups. The smell of black tea.

The taste of yolk.

The laugh… The sunlight… The color of her hair…

Who are you?

More. He needed more. More colors, more smells, more words. He got to his feet and walked forward, toward the glinting light.

"That was always your nature," the voice in the fog said gently, "and it still is now, despite everything. Hence your roots as a poor, orphan thief: whenever you get anything, you use it up as soon as possible. Coins. Chalk. Love. Peace."

His hands were dusty with lost colors and forgotten dreams. Long tresses of greasy black hair webbed before him, digging into the fog.

"You hate saving them up for later, cause in your eyes, everything you have is stolen. So you must make use of everything as soon as possible, and as well as possible. Make the theft worthwhile. Clean up your act… And in your desperation, you fail to realize that you're still starving. 'I'm no good,' you told me the last time you saw me. A week later, you were dead."

Goodnight, Saint Peter.

Cecil.

Cecil.

His name was Cecil.

He'd helped him hide away in attics and shadows. He'd hugged him and pat his back one Christmas night. His eyes sad with awareness.

"Ce- C- Ehh… Ah…"

He couldn't speak. He couldn't say the name.

The coin stopped glinting. The light went out. The veil of fog waved in the cold.

Peter Lake cried out. "NO!"

And then he saw. Saw, in the fog. Something other than color and stones.

He saw a lamppost, dimly lit. He saw the orange light bleeding into the white.

And he saw a man, leaned back against it. A grey bunnet. Fingerless gloves, wrapped around elegant dark hands. A silver coin, lodged between two fingers.

Two cat-like brown eyes, flooded with pity and tenderness.

Peter Lake gasped out. His eyes filled with tears.

And now, finally… he could say the name.

"Ce- Cee… Cecil…"

Cecil Mature smiled. "Good morning, Saint Peter."

Peter Lake ran. Ran, like he knew he'd known.

Ran madly, tremulously, tears streaming down the frost on his cheeks.

Cecil's grin fell heavily. He sighed softly.

"We're sorry for everything," he whispered. "All of us. Trust me when I say, the worst part is over."

"Cecil!"

"So hold on. For her."

He flipped the coin, sending it straight into the air, high up. The golden light of the lamppost bled into the silver. Yellow sliced through the fog.

Peter Lake cried out. "Wait! Wai-!"

And then he slammed into the child.

Author's Note: To anyone who is here today, thank you for reading.

Cecil is back, yipee! Though for a very short moment. In the movie, Cecil flipping the coin in the air is what seems to wake Peter from his comatose "fog" state (the fog is only referenced by him in an allegorical sense in the film, to equate his amnesia and his dive through time) and leads to Abby bumping into him. So I'm doing that, but of course, adding a whole lot more dialogue, as I often love to do, and some more dramaticism in the fact that Peter recognizes his old friend. I wanted to make their friendship believable and lowkey tragic here.

Will Cecil appear again? I honestly haven't thought it much lately. You know how much I loved writing about him in "The Flight of the Magpies", so I'll definitely not cast him aside, but for this story, being Peter's story and Part 2 of my duology specifically going over his journey in the movie... he may not show up much more. But who knows. I'll see :3 As long as I don't get lost like I did with TFOTM.

I have to go back to work so that'll be all for today. Two chapters, again. And next time... Abby and Virginia are finally appearing. Here's your hug, again. Thank you for reading. *hug*