Date: Sun, 24 Sep 1995 12:44:39 -0400 From: "Susan M. Garrett" Subject: A Greek Tragedy You must, at least, let me do this for an historical story. ******************* A GREEK TRAGEDY by Susan M. Garrett The rain plastered down his hair, but Nicholas didn't bother drawing his cloak closer around him. It wouldn't have mattered. Not to him. The fury of the storm washed over him, treating him no more and no less like the out-cropping of rock on which he stood. They both seemed immutable. The erosion, layer by layer, could be seen only through the eyes of eternity. LaCroix was there before he knew it, standing silently beside him. He didn't need to glance over to know that his master was cloaked from head to toe, protected from the elements. But so little of anything ever touched LaCroix. "Come away," he said. Nicholas simply stood there, watching the darkened sea swell and break into whitecaps. These were Homer's wine-dark waters, where gods once walked among men. On a night like this one, he could well believe a man might see Poseidon rearing up from the kingdom he ruled, trident in hand, poised to spear the unfortunate mariner. "It's almost time." Those were the only words that could have stirred him. He turned and made his way down the outcropping of rock to the beach below, knowing there was time, at least, to pretend to mortality. LaCroix had no such patience and flew, waited for him at the base of the rock, his fine boots sinking into the soft and water-logged sand. He gave LaCroix no notice but strode the length of the beach with a steady step. It was LaCroix who'd delayed him in England, LaCroix who'd held up the transfer of funds that he'd promised to the glorious cause of Greek independence. But then, even Nicholas hadn't been aware of the constraint of time. When he'd arrived at Missolonghi yesterday, he'd been surprised not to find a greeting from his friends--he'd expected a celebration at the very least, for any joyous news was an excuse for a party in their eyes. Instead, he'd found only silence. At first he'd assumed it was because it was Easter Sunday--the piety of the Greeks surpassed that of most Christian countries, as if they served God passionately to atone for the old beliefs that still lingered in their hearts and the earth around them. But then an innkeeper had given him the news and pointed him to the small dwelling on the hill. George Gordon was dying. He'd hurried to the cottage and gained admittance, though it was well past midnight. The rooms outside were filled with the sound of argument, voices raised in a number of languages. They stilled at his presence, as he'd stood dripping in the outer hall, eyeing them with reproach. The doctors straightened defiantly and glared at him, but not for long. When they turned their gazes away, their voices were softer, though no less violent. A woman had shown him to the sick room, close and fetid. It was dark, the windows shut against the torrent of rain and the chill of the wind, not even the candles bringing any real light. Nicholas lifted one and brought it closer to the bed where a young man was sitting. The man, a boy really, looked up at him with tear-stained eyes. There were no words needed--he gestured toward the door. Fletcher shook his head, his gaze resolute. Nicholas had stared into his eyes, whispering, "You'll fetch a bowl of water and a towel--he's fevered and his brow should be wiped." The words echoed in the quiet room, disturbed only by the labored breath of the dying man and the too-quickly beating heart of the boy. After a moment the boy rose from the seat, dazed, and left the room, closing the door behind him. Only then had Nicholas turned his attention to the dying man. He frowned angrily at the leeches plastered to the man's forehead, beads of fever sweat clustering around the black, bloated parasites. He reached out to grasp one, to rip it away, but stayed his hand. Instead, he pressed the back of his cool hand to the man's fevered face. The eyes opened, bleary at first. There was a moment when they seemed to see through him, beyond him, growing wide in horror, then sinking back into comforting recognition. "Nicholas?" "I've brought the money, as you asked. I'm sorry for the delay--it was unavoidable. Had I known you were ill--" "You would not . . . have thwarted him." It was the patient's turn to smile, then Nicholas looked away. "Your Ruthven is unforgiving and demanding." "I be free of him," whispered Nicholas. He looked back to the patient. "Are you ready?" "No." He withdrew his hand and sat upright, surprised. "But--we'd agreed-- ?" "I've changed . . . my mind." The patient had sighed, his gaze moving to the heavily shuttered windows. "The night's no longer my friend. There's no moon, only the clouds, violent and full of fury." "There will be other nights," said Nicholas quickly. "But not other days?" The lips quirked into another, bitter smile. "You offer to take my light and give me eternal darkness-- you're too late! The light was taken from me long ago." He closed his eyes and Nicholas started when he coughed; the sound was wrenched from a worn and weary chest. It was not too long before the end. Reaching forward, he touched the man's face again--the features were bloated and pasty with his illness and the skin was too warm. "The bleeding will kill you. I'll order them to stop--" "No." The eyes fluttered open again. "Let it happen; I've no will to stop it. I have lived in such dreams, Nicholas. Augusta was here, for a while." He sighed and closed his eyes. Nicholas rose to his feet and stared down at his friend. They'd spoken of this so long ago. It seemed the greatest joke, that at his death he'd be brought across, the wild, intemperate, blasphemer would defy God and nature. The ill-health that had plagued him throughout his life would no longer be a concern and he'd not feel cheated, having lived a mortal span to its end. Yes, they'd agreed to do it while he was still young, before age took him, but so soon? He walked to the window and placed the flat of his hand against it. Even through the glass and wood, he felt it shudder when struck by the storm outside. Utterly poetic, the heavens railing against the passing of such vision from the earth. But it need not pass. It could be saved so easily. A moment of pain, a little blood between them . . . . Nicholas turned and stared down at his friend. For the moment, he seemed at peace, his breathing quiet. The eyes opened. "Let me die, Nicholas. I am thrice-damned in life. If I am damned in death, let me face it with the courage of a mortal heart. And if not . . . then at least I will be free." He couldn't stay. If he did, there would be no choice--he'd drag his friend into darkness without his permission. Without a farewell, Nicholas turned and fled from the place, frightening the boy with the water bowl and towel who'd started up the stairs. He'd gone to the rock, to wait for the end. It was time. As if in sympathy, lightning raced across the sky and the rumbling thunder sounded so loud he would have thought the earth itself had split asunder. Nicholas knew that such a thing was only fancy, for the sound was not the wounding of the earth . . . only the breaking of a tired and noble heart. He was dimly aware that LaCroix was behind him, kept pace with him. "You might have saved him," whispered his master, his voice audible even through the pounding of the rain and the peals of thunder. "Think of what he might be among us." Nicholas stopped then and turned, LaCroix instantly drawing close behind him. "Do you think I don't know?" he answered, far too angry to speak quietly. His shouts matched the fury of the storm. "It's his choice, not mine! I won't earn his eternal enmity to save his genius at the cost of his soul." The rain dripped from the edge of LaCroix's hood, veiling his expression. "He's damned in his own eyes. Would you presume to save something already lost?" Nicholas knew he couldn't let his friend die. He whirled and ran up the slope and to the cottage. He would be brought across. The door flew open at the merest touch of his hand, slamming hard against the wall. Nicholas never noticed, taking the steps two or three at a time as he made his way to the sickroom. There was only quiet now and the thudding of his wet boots upon the unprotected wood. The door to the room was open. He stopped at the head of the stairs and peered in, his heart freezing at the sight. The doctors stood to one side, speaking quietly. Fletcher knelt by the bed, a cold hand clasped in his own, his hoarse sobbing echoing in the quiet. There was no labored breathing and the heart whose sound he listened for was stilled. "Too late," whispered LaCroix behind him, a note of sorrow in his voice. "No." Nicholas smiled and turned toward LaCroix. "Not too late. His soul is still his own. And it's free." There was no need for a backward glance. It was Easter Monday and the dawn would soon be breaking--time to find shelter from the light. Nicholas walked out of the cottage with LaCroix behind him, both knowing that he had failed neither his friend nor himself. And the storm continued to rage, as the darkness passed into the light. ******************** This facts presented here are true in all their particulars, with the exception of the presence of the vampires. They were probably a continent away at the time. Regards susang@vitinc.com -- Home of Edgar, the lawn Raven. Forever Faithful Ravenette, because somebody STILL has to. "Friends help you move. Real friends help you move bodies."