Date:         Sun, 26 Nov 1995 22:02:16 -0500
From: AC Chapin <sdragon@GLUE.UMD.EDU>
Subject:      The Crucible of Pillows (1/1)

                    The Crucible of Pillows
                 (a fantasy with happy endings)
                                   --by AC Chapin

It was all burning. 
     It could have been a battlefield, this mess of twisted metal and fire
and the smell of corpses.  In its own way it was. 
     Nick Knight turned slowly in place, the smell of scorched fuel making
him ill.  In his hand was clutched a piece of half-burnt paper.  Nothing
much.  It was an airline ticket, in the name of a woman he did not know. 
     Some claim that in dreams, the ability to read, to puzzle out
numbers, escapes us.  It isn't true.  Nick could read the flight number,
the destination, the arrival time, quite clearly. 
     His knees stopped supporting him and then jolted against the ground. 
He tried to weep, but the tears would not come.  He tried to breathe, but
he, like everyone else, was dead. 
     On the crest of the little overlook where he had parked the Caddy, a
sunburst blossomed out of cool night air. 

Nick Knight woke up in his own bed, sweating.  No big surprise there;  he
so often had bad dreams. 
     He closed his eyes again and cast blindly on the floor for his
discarded jacket.  His sleepy hands fished out the cellular phone and
dialed the so familiar number, even as he was telling himself not to. 
     "Hi, Myra?" 
     "No, no, don't wake him.  Let him sleep.  I'll talk to him about it
later." 
     "You have a good day too." 
     The ears of a vampire might hear Schanke's snores across the city, if
they cared to hear. 

Don't stop yet.  There's so much more. 

It was all burning. 
     His beautiful furniture, his paintings, his books.  Later he would
find that the mantlepiece, the da Vinci, all the most precious things, had
survived.  But this, their last, worst fight, had made Nicholas Knight's
home a battlefield. 
     Clutched in LaCroix's arms was a frail thing.  Nothing much.  A woman
he barely knew. 
     Some people claim that there is no sense of time passing in dreams. 
They lie.  Hate and fear had exactly fifty-three seconds to build before
he made the choice. 
     Not for the first time or the last, he lifted the piece of wood.  It
was burning.  It was sharp.  It was one of the only things in the world he
was afraid of. 
     Not for the first time he threw it, and saw LaCroix's screaming,
snarling, raging face as it found home.  Rage. 
     Sorrow too. 
     Aftermath comes quickly in dreams, and he was soon standing in the
middle of the charred loft, amid all the burned and broken things.  He
walked over to the smear of ashes and put his fingers down, dirtying them. 
     Without knowing why, he began to chant, sing-song:  "Sorry, sorry,
sorry, I'm sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, I'm sorry . . . " 
     He had thought he was alone, but someone else must have been there
because the blinds opened, and the sun shone in. 

Nicolas Knight woke in his own bed and looked around.  Nothing strange,
nothing surprising.  Two cups stood side by side on his mantlepiece,
purely decorative.  If the wood of the mantlepiece was singed, well, he
has had many fires, and has not always been careful. 
     Before his muzzy head could even put into a solid thought the lost,
confused feeling that was pressing down on his forehead, the radio came
on, telling him that it was time to wake up, time for the night shift. 
     The voice on the radio was velvety and dark. 
     "I'm not quite new to the radio, my friends.  And, believe me, you
and I will be friends.  I was a pirate of the airwaves for a while, when I
thought I might not be welcome.  But now . . .  well, I feel quite close
now.  Close to you all." 
     He would be hearing a lot of that voice. 

You can stop if you want, but that would defeat the purpose.  You know
what a crucible is for. 

It was all burning. 
     All the blood in Chicago was boiling.  Bodies lay in the streets,
free to his teeth, free to his hunger.  It might as well have been a
battlefield.  Nicolah would not drink. 
     Janette, telltale soot at the corner of her mouth, took his arm. 
"Time to go, Nicolah.  Time to leave." 
     "Why?"  How could he feel guilt for this?  For something done by a
*cow*? 
     Clutched in his hand was a scrap of blue silk.  Nothing much.  A
woman he had not known had worn it when she died. 
     "LaCroix is waiting."  and at once she must have known it was the
wrong thing to say.  At the same time he hated her, and wanted her,
desperately. 
     He fought down the hot clutch of desire and turned his back on her.
"Let him wait." 
     They like to say that there are no colors at times like these.  No. 
All cats are not grey at midnight. 
     LaCroix's eyes, a cool, lovely, almost transparent blue.  "Now." 
     "Never.  I've had enough of you for as long as I can remember." 
     "Then your memory is very short.  We must go." 
     "I despise you.  You are both monsters, depraved, disgusting
monsters.  Get out of my life." 
     As he flies away, light comes to the sky. 

Nicolah woke in Janette's arms in the basement of a building the fire had
not reached.  It came as no surprise, Janette was a familiar shape against
him, and LaCroix, who sat near, watching over them, always found the
safest places. 
     He closed his eyes and nestled his face more closely against her
sweet side.  "LaCroix . . . " 
     "Yes, child?" 
     "Did I . . .  did anything happen last night?" 
     "Chicago burned like a field of dry wheat." 
     Janette turned gently in his arms and giggled.  "Only you could
forget such a night, Nicolah." 
     He tickled her to hear that giggle again.  It was such a sweet sound. 

All right.  Stop now; pull it out of the flames before everything is
burned away.  Stop. 

It was all burning. 
     Nicolas de Brabant knelt in the middle of the battlefield, under the
blazing Jerusalem sun, and winced at the smell.  The corpses stank, the
whole Holy Land stank.  But not half as badly as he himself stank. 
     He had been clutched in a dream of a temptress, a dark-haired, pale
woman he had never seen in the waking world.  There was little room for
women in his life. 
     Some claim that dreams are only reinterpretations of things that have
already happened.  It isn't true.  In his unconsciousness he had dreamt of
long cool nights of passionate living.  Refinement.  A too-delicate
balance of joy and sorrow, both exquisite.  Nothing in his life had even
come close to this. 
     He was an old soldier.  A long line of glorious victories and brave
defeats followed his name.  Every last battle was remembered. 
     With not a single exception they had been boring.  Terrifying, of
course, terrible, but dull all the same.  Slogging in the bright southern
heat, in heavy armor.  Killing until it became mechanical, meaningless. 
There was no passion in this kind of death.  He had killed over two
hundred men, and he remembered not one of their faces. 
     And now the end had come.  Alone, as he had always been.  Passionless
as his life had been for so long. 
     He watched, hardly caring, as the ball of fire in the sky rolled to
its apex. 

You can't stop now.  Please.  There must be something better than this. 
What the hell kind of happy ending is that? 

Nickolas had been dozing in his chair.  No great surprise there.  His job
with the police was demanding.  And Janette too, was demanding.  Her club
was doing well, and she kept it open late into the day so that he could
enjoy it.  He blinked slowly, finding that his eyes hurt.  His neck was
stiff.  Maybe he should invest in one of those neck pillows Schanke had
shown him. 
     Bleary half-thoughts suddenly fell away in the wake of the memory of
his dream. 
     His hand darted out to catch the hand on the other side of the
control panel.  And so the Nightcrawler's voice did not cut in and track
four was followed by track five. 
     "Nightmares, Nickolas?"  LaCroix's eyes looked up, concerned, gently
amused too. 
     He nodded, uncertain, nervous. 
     "Go, Nickolas, sleep." 
     "I... I don't want to dream that again." 
     "You will not."  LaCroix eased him to the couch in the room beside
the broadcasting booth.  The wide bed might have been better, but Janette
was sprawled all over it at the moment, catlike, taking up three times the
room her body should have required.  She spent most of her days that way,
and they joked about buying a second apartment, all for her and her
clothes and her naps. 
     "Please don't let me dream that again." 
     "Trust in me, Nickolas.  No more nightmares." 
     Track five continued to track six.  No matter. 
     He was drifting off again, but he smiled up at LaCroix.  "I always
do." 
     After track six the Nightcrawler began to speak again.  His voice was
magnificent. 
     In a sleep of sweet dreams, Nickolas heard it and was content. 

You never know what will burn away and what will remain, fire forged and
perfect.  What better crucible than one man's dreams? 

"The Crucible of Pillows" copyright 1995 AC Chapin

AC Chapin sdragon@Glue.umd.edu
        ...wrote this before SoB, I swear...