Nightfall Glimpses

[Nightfall]

Are they laughing?

I can't tell.

Which bugs me, because I'm used to reading women pretty well... especially dancers.

A lot of them seem confused.

"Hi... I'm looking for one of the dancers? Myah? Myah Torsione?"

There's that look again... the one that makes me wonder if she's married, and her husband works here. I know she's too good to be a line dancer, but none of the private dressing rooms were hers, either.

"What?"

At least this one's trying to help... although I'm not sure who 'Mr. Hamilton' is. I'm starting to think this was a really, really bad idea. No questions. Wasn't that the deal? We never said it, but that's what it was.

So I follow, thumbing the VIP pass that Coralane gave me, wondering if Myah is some Mafia princess that I'm going to be shot for knowing. Maybe this whole theater is a money laundering front, and that's why Myah throws knives like some ninja.

"Hi, I'm Neil... I was looking for Myah, Myah Torsione... I thought she was a dancer here."

This Hamilton guy has to be the manager, or something. I can tell by the way the girls swerve around him, and the way he sees everything. You can't see me, though. Not the worry, or confusion, just my happy, go lucky smile.

"Oh. Huh, OK. Yeah I was just going to ask if she knew anyone that had tickets to the premiere they wanted to sell, since the box office is sold out."

Hamilton's smooth. Smooth as silk, and he's got a perfect 'trust me' look.

I don't.

You can't bullshit a bullshitter, and I'm a Fairest with a Prismatic Heart. The bullshit doesn't get much deeper.

But I trust Myah.

The tickets are cool in my hand; heavy, printed on thick bond paper with embossing. Each one of these probably cost as much to print as my box of 1000 shitty business cards.

"You're kidding, I can't."

But we both know I won't make a scene, and I saw you look at my shitty shoes and worn collar tips. Right now you're probably making a mental note to dim the lights early and darker in this box so people don't notice the guy in the cheap suit. It's cool, though, because you're smooth, Mr. Hamilton.

You're so smooth it scares me, because you shouldn't be this nice to one of your dancer's friends.

"Thank you so much, really, and please, tell Myah I said 'hi'..."

I get it, though. We can both feel the strain of something awkward... so I'll take my tickets, come see the show, and never come back, never ask the questions.

Smooth Mr. Hamilton.

It's cool, though... I have secrets, too.

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[Nightfall]

Neil was not a slow learner.

You couldn't be, if you wanted to be perfect.

Mistakes still brought his father's voice to his ears, or the slight frown that made his stomach tighten up. Mistakes still brought the echoes of things he couldn't quite grasp, slipping away in the haze between slumber and wakefulness; echoes that made him jump every time he heard glass shatter, without knowing why.

"Sup, Berg-dog," he drawled, dropping the super-sized quaddozen box of donuts from Dee's in front of the large Sergeant.

Fist bump.

"Is the Captain busy?" he asked.

A few minutes later, he stood in Captain Wallace's office. He stood straight, and spoke politely, without contractions or slang.

Respect authority.

Another lesson. One his father learned himself in the Red Army, one that...

...one that made his voice catch and disappear for a few moments; another echo.

"Yes, sir, Keith Fairweather."

A pause.

"I would also like to talk to you about a very good friend of mine, Alison Yates..."

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[Nightfall]

Neil hated the smell. Even the cold. It wasn't the cold of Winter, nor ice or snow. It was the cold of emptiness, loneliness... death.

The desk attendant finally let him by, after he rattled off the required information. Amazing how some things are never forgotten. He walked down a white hallway, so bright it hurt your eyes; too clean, the air thick with antiseptics. Potpourri for the Grim Reaper.

The room was dim, and he didn't raise the lights as he slipped in.

Plastic and rubber tubing creaked as the old man turned. Milky white cataracts fogged his vision like the Alzheimer's his mind. "Kolya?"

"Da."

"Syn cheloveka yavlyaet·sya yego gordostʹyu," he wheezed in Russian, settling back into the crisp, starchy hospital pillow that crinkled like styrofoam. "Vy byli praktikuyushchim dlya vashego Bar-mitsva aliyah?"

The subtext: Make me proud; be perfect.

Neil pulled a chair close, and sat. Sometimes it was now, and he would report what the mime saw in the park, of the woman and child, and leaving quickly. Sometimes, today, it was not.

"Vy vse yeshche budet gorditʹsya mnoĭ, yesli by ya plyasala, a ne igratʹ v basketbol?" he asked, his tone light and joking; his tone lied. The question, and the questions unasked, were no joke. If he was not that person at all?

There was a long silence. "Yestʹ ... mnogie Larry Birds, Steve Nashs, Bill Waltons. Sushchestvuet tolʹko odin Baryshnikov."

Neil leaned forward, and long, elegant fingers covered his face, silently wiping away tears. While everyone else was slowly losing this man, for a few minutes at a time, he could have him back. He drew a ragged breath, wiping his hands on his pants, composing himself.

"YA vstretil simpatichnuyu devushku, papa..."

English

"A man's son is his pride," he wheezed in Russian, settling back into the crisp, starchy hospital pillow that crinkled like styrofoam. "Have you been practicing for your bar mitzvah aliyah?"

The subtext: Make me proud; be perfect.

Neil pulled a chair close, and sat. Sometimes it was now, and he would report what the mime saw in the park, of the woman and child, and leaving quickly. Sometimes, today, it was not.

"Would you still be proud of me if I had kept dancing instead of playing basketball?" he asked, his tone light and joking; his tone lied. The question, and the questions unasked, were no joke. If he was not that person at all?

There was a long silence. "There are... many Larry Birds, Steve Nashs, Bill Waltons. There is only one Baryshnikov."

Neil leaned forward, and long, elegant fingers covered his face, silently wiping away tears. While everyone else was slowly losing this man, for a few minutes at a time, he could have him back. He drew a ragged breath, wiping his hands on his pants, composing himself.

"I met a nice girl, Papa..."

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[Nightfall]

Neil whistled as he worked, gently sanding the framing boards he'd cut with the miter saw. The work was tedious, and demanding; the smallest imperfections in the framing or matting would be immediately noticeable.

Still, it was a task he took pleasure in.

If there had been any question that the woman they'd met at Ballo Della Notte was a professional, the results dispelled them. Not that there had been -- her direction had been precise and decisive, and the photos showed her understanding of her subjects' best qualities and how to highlight them.

Alice had been a little nervous, after the interest Ciara had expressed at the concert, but was soon comfortable when it seemed the matter had been settled. There was a slight hint of playfulness to the professionalism that set them both at ease, and he was glad they hadn't gone elsewhere, as Ciara had offered to refer them.

He took a look at the picture... his favorite. It wasn't a conventional portrait of them staring at the camera, but instead of them looking at one another in an embrace. Neil smiled slightly; despite the professionalism, it was still obvious who the primary focus of the photos were on. Not that he blamed her... Alice was stunning, and photogenic. Were it someone else, the Treasured might feel a stab of annoyance -- of jealousy. At being upstaged, of not being the principle subject.

He wasn't.

The photo showed why, at least, to him. He was the principle subject; he was Treasured. By Alice, by the way she was looking at him.

He carefully affixed the mounting hardware, then penned a 'Thank You' letter to one Ciara Maskelyne. Then he left to go buy a ring.

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[Nightfall]

Mirror, mirror, on the wall... Who's the Fairest of them all?

For a Fairest, Neil wasn't very. Not today, at least. Several days of growth dulled the angular line of his jaw with hair as unkempt as that on his head; eyes behind sunglasses were bloodshot and swollen. Cheeks, white as bone --paler than usual, were splotched with red spots from the bite of the cold wind.

In contrast, the day was beautiful. A cloudless sky, and lemon-yellow sun to provide some relief from the winter chill.

The Winter chill was not kind to it's prodigal son.

Behind a tree, across a field, he watched as the people left; watched as one reached into a pocket and left something on the headstone.

Despite the distance, he knew what it was.

Dead leaves underfoot drown out the sounds of his Mantle as he finally approached the empty area, and reached out to pick up the knife. A fluid motion he hadn't made in years was coaxed from muscle memory to open the blade.

Two sides, reflections. Just as they were each living half of a life; one the beginning, the other, the end.

Circles were closing.

The knife went into a pocket... it wasn't his to give. It was Neil's.

Between 1989 and 1993, over a million Jews had left Russia -- a second Diaspora. Despite the legal right, denial by bureaucracy was all to easy a harsh reality.

Aside from a few sets of clothes, the knife was the only thing they'd been able to keep.

Neil remembered through a small boy's eyes as guards and officials slowly took every possession his parents had carefully packed; their load growing lighter and lighter as they moved from one line to the next. First it was money. Then jewelry. Then silverware, dishes. The hidden heirlooms. He watched as they took everything from his father... and more from his mother.

Foreshadowing, perhaps, of the Thief coming for him. Or a tipping of the scales that he would balance with his own sacrifice.

Nearly a year was spent crossing Europe and finding passage. The knife provided food, created shelter, even made toys. Swords, tops, even boats. It also provided protection, more than once. It provided... hope.

He remembered the day he was given the knife. For the Lord of the Morning, it was no longer a talisman of Hope. It was Sacrifice.

And once again, the son took the knife from the father.

To everything there is a Season, and a time for every purpose under the Heavens. Now that the circle was complete, it was a time for killing.

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I am the Nexus One
I want more life, fucker
I ain't done
"More Human Than Human"
- White Zombie

[Nightfall]

Neil remembered a conversation he'd had once, with crazy Grace. They'd spoken of the Seasons, and the seven stages of grief. Spring, Autumn, Summer, and Winter. The analogies weren't perfect, but that hadn't been the point. It was about getting it.

They were all survivors, victims of the Thief of Always.

He was no Pledgesmith, but did any of them ever question why the emotions were bound to the Courts? Those were the weapons they had to keep the Fae at bay. They still felt. They survived. So the avatars of the emotions had to distill them to their purest form; untainted by motive or causality.

Alice had never wanted to be the Queen of Spring; yet, in that moment, none could match her Desire. Katrin had matched and surpassed his Sorrow with hers, twisting the thorn of what wasn't meant to be between them. HAL had driven himself insane with his own fear.

How could the Lord of Wrath back down so easily?

Sam would be content to let Rust stand aside for Spartan, Accepting the Lion's weakness.

He Hoped otherwise.

He moved next to Marcus, holding up a hand to pause Rust and pause the Metalskin for a moment. He spoke softly, but with intensity.

"Really? That's it? You're going to let me say those things and just walk away? Now is the time for anger. Now is time for your Wrath to redeem yourself. Now is the time to fight. Sam isn't here, so you're stuck with me... us," he said, glancing at Marcus to include him.

"But neither Sam nor Harry would have ever walked away. Sacrifice is mine, lion. Wrath is yours. You have Sacrificed your pride, and now it is time for Salvation. Do not accept this. Show us the heart of Summer."

He grabbed the Lion's shirt, looking for a King.




Revolutionaries wait
For my head on a silver plate
Just a puppet on a lonely string
Oh who would ever want to be king?
- "Viva La Vida", Coldplay