Date: Mon, 20 Sep 1999 10:42:14 -0400 
From: vampwrtr@INNOCENT.COM 
Subject: Never Enough 
To: FKFIC-L@lists.psu.edu 


usual disclaimers.  permission to mel to archive.  comments and beer to
author at vampwrtr@aol.com  this little ditty sort of fits in between parts
one and two of intotf....cheers

"Never Enough"

He had been gone for most of the night.  In the days since Divia had
attacked him, he had been withdrawn and sullen.  It didn't matter that both
of his children tried to comfort him with their presence, or that they
tried to make their love for him known; he was still keeping them at a
distance, and holding his emotions in on a tight reign.  Janette sighed as
she set her glass down on the table.  She couldn't help but feel an almost
overwhelming concern for him.

She closed her eyes and tried to concentrate on the link she had worked so
hard to maintain between them.  As usual, LaCroix was doing his best to
block his thoughts and emotions from her.  The only thing she could sense
at this distance, was that he was still living, nothing more.  She got up
from the couch and walked over to the window.  It would be dawn soon.
Where was he?

Janette continued to stare out the window, as her thoughts touched upon
different realms of her past and present, lazily weaving their way along
her consciousness.  Her relationship with LaCroix was different now:  He
was no longer her Master.  Everthing was different, and yet, it was still
the same.  He still controlled her; he still held her in the embrace of his
charismatic persona.  A stern look from him still sent chills up her spine,
like that of a little child caught embroiled in mischief.  And a smile from
him, could warm her like nothing else she had ever known.

A thousand years had gone by; a thousand wrongs he had done her, to which
she could easily point; a thousand reasons she could leave him.  And yet in
reality, Janette never could.  She had thought of it many times.  She had
even gone as far as planning out her great escapes, but always, when the
time came, she could not leave him.  Only when the threat of her own
continued existence as a vampire became apparent to her, did she finally
go.  And even then, it was not because of LaCroix that she ultimately left.
Indeed, leaving the safety of her father had been the hardest thing she had
ever done.

Janette smiled:  Her father.  He was so much more than the simple mortal
definition of the word.  He was her mentor, her protector, and at the time
he brought her across, he was her mate.  It seemed strange to her, even
now, that this man, who could be so loving, worked so hard to hide his
heart from not only the world, but his family, and worst of all, himself.

She felt a sudden pang of hurt for him.  She could not sit in judgment of
him, knowing all of the tremendous blows his heart had taken over two
millennia.  The cruel abuse his own father had inflicted upon him, LaCroix
still carried; hidden from himself, in the deep recesses of his scarred
soul.  Janette had been able to glimpse at it; to feel the pain of the
sensitive young boy, who perceived his father's rejection; the soldier's
hatred of what he had become, and finally, the fear that he had somehow
been given no choice in the matter.

This was to say nothing of the wounds Nicolas had inflicted through his
countless rejections of LaCroix over the centuries.  Janette knew that they
loved each other, at least on some level, but to watch them in action, mon
Dieu!  She shook her head unconsciously, as she recalled the awful prices
that each of them had exacted from the other.  Her face took on a palpable
sadness as her mind recalled the worst blow of them all:  Fleur.  To this
day, Janette knew that if Nicolas had realized the depth of feeling LaCroix
held for Nick's sister, he would not have been able to be so heartless as
to tear them apart.  It was probably the cruelest thing Nicolas had ever
done to anyone, much less his true father.

Janette's reverie was interrupted as her gaze landed on the antique tea
cart in the corner.  On it lay Divia's cameo, where LaCroix had apparently
left it.  Janette had not seen it in almost a week.  She walked over to the
cart, and even though she knew that LaCroix was not nearby, she glanced
around nervously, before picking up the cameo with her hand.  Her fingers
ran across the smooth surface of the cameo, and then the raised portrait of
the little girl, who had once been the very embodiment of LaCroix' love.

Tears began to form in Janette's eyes.  LaCroix had not said one word
regarding Divia since the night she had mysteriously resurfaced and
attacked him.  He had not said one word.  But Janette knew; she could feel
his unease.  It was in the way he started at the sound of wind howling
against the windows, or the haunted look that would suddenly appear in his
eyes.  She had never seen him so unsettled, so at odds with himself and his
surroundings; so uncomfortable around his children.  But he had said not
one word.  He didn't have to.

She set the cameo back down on the tea cart, and brushed away an errant
tear that was rolling down her cheek.  Since the first night she met him,
LaCroix had always been for the most part, undemonstrative.  It was his
way.  She knew this, and she accepted it.  She knew that he was vastly
uncomfortable with his own emotions, and over the centuries, had developed
an uncanny ability to mask them out.  Janette had always known it and
accepted it.  Until now.

But now was different.  She could feel him dying inside.  The very being
who had taught her to embrace her vampiric life so fully, was now, himself,
rejecting his own will to live.  She could sense his longing for love; his
need for the comfort of a loved one's touch, and yet, he could not allow
himself to accept so much as a kind word.  Not from her, not even from
Nicolas.  His heart was no longer just cold, it had turned to stone.

There were moments when she wanted to just crumble to the floor and weep
for him.  Weep for the burdens of his heart, the great sadness that she
knew he so desperately needed to stuff down.  At other times, she wanted to
grab him, and shake him, until he came back to his senses.  Not so much as
a slightly amused smile had dared to appear upon his features; his eyes had
grown weary and no longer had the glint of immortal mischief about them,
but rather, reflected the death of many tired mortal lifetimes.  There was
of course, nothing she could do.  There was nothing to do, except sit by
and watch him slip away.

Janette sat down in his big leather winged back chair, pulling her legs
under her.  They were losing him, she and Nicolas.  There were losing him,
and there didn't seem to be anything to be done about it.  Tears began to
fall rapidly down Janette's cheeks.  She wanted so desperately to love him,
if only he'd let her.  But then, that was the very heart of the problem,
wasn't it?

LaCroix had finally felt the pain of losing a child's love so acutely, that
he couldn't beare the thought of feeling it again.  Divia.  A girl Janette
had never so much as laid eyes upon.  A child who, according to Nicolas,
was the original bad seed.  Somewhere deep down, Janette knew that she was
losing her father because he could no longer tolerate the pain of this
particular loss.  The loss of his mortal daughter.  Or was it more accurate
to say that he could no longer stand to feel guilty for unconditionally
loving a child who was such pure evil?  Janette knew that despite what
LaCroix may have said to Nicolas, he still loved Divia.  And Janette hated
Divia for what she had done to him.

She looked up toward the door.  She could sense him.  The door opened, and
LaCroix walked in.  He looked tired and somehow, old, even though Janette
knew that such a thing was impossible.  He barely glanced at her as he
closed the door.  He removed his coat and set it on the back of a chair
near the door.  As he walked toward Janette, she thought she saw the barest
flicker of concern in his eyes, when he saw her face streaked with tears,
but if it was ever there, it was gone before it had time to register.  He
continued past her, without a word, heading for the hallway leading to the
bedrooms.

Janette swallowed and spoke to him, her voice lined with concern, "LaCroix?"

He stopped, but did not turn; his voice was as cold as ice, "Yes?"

Janette fought momentarily with herself.  What little she could sense from
him, urged her to shut her mouth.  She licked her lips which had suddenly
gone dry as a bone.  Ultimately, she could not help but try and reach out
to him.

"Would you like something to drink before going to bed?"

He answered her as he walked toward the hallway, "No, thank you."

LaCroix disappeared down the hallway, and momentarily, she heard the door
to his bedroom close; shutting out life, his feelings, his love, his
children, her.  For a long moment, Janette just stared toward the direction
he had gone.  Then, slowly, she turned toward his coat to hang it up.  As
she picked up the black wool overcoat, a sob escaped her lips.  She pulled
the coat up, and buried her face in it.

Overcome with her own emotions, Janette sank into the chair, and sobbed
uncontrollably into his coat.  She could smell him on it; his cologne, his
skin, his essence.  Her heart ached.  She could not force him to come back
to the living.  A part of her was afraid that he would never come back.
>From the beginning, LaCroix never had believed in anything but himself.
And now, he didn't have that.  She could do nothing but cry for her father,
her love, who no longer believed in life.  The man who could never be in
love with anyone or anything again.  He scoffed at the idea of it; and yet
in Janette's eyes, nothing else would ever be good enough for him.


fin

end part 01
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