Date: Thu, 28 Oct 1999 06:39:34 -0500 From: Tim Phillips Subject: A Very Happy Halloween (Part 1 of 2) To: FKFIC-L@LISTS.PSU.EDU OK, people. Stop lurking and break out the wordprocessors. Here is my contribution. This story is copyright by myself, but I freely give the right to archive/provide to viewers this story on any website or FTP server that is collecting Forever Knight fan fiction. Printing a copy to give to friends without access to the Internet is also OK by me. The Forever Knight characters/storyline are owned by other folks and their copyright also needs to be respected so their hard work is preserved. This story takes place after LAST KNIGHT. It contains spoilers to that episode. comment to timp@dec.anr.state.vt.us A VERY HAPPY HALLOWEEN (Part 1 of 2) He alighted on the roof next to the skylight. The General had the control code to the door memorized, but he had almost always arrived here via the skylight and it was a familiar part of the ritual. A squeeze and twist freed a bolt so rusted a mortal would have snapped it off in trying to move it. LaCroix lifted the skylight open and dropped through to the floor far below. The General stood still, absorbing his surroundings. The Loft was cold and quiet in the deep October night. Very faint and deeply familiar scents tickled at his nose. He turned in a slow circle, confirming that he was indeed alone. Lucien saw well in the dark, but he felt the need for some brightness on this gloomy night. Assured of his privacy, he crossed the Loft to an end-table, his shoes tapping quietly in the deep silence. LaCroix removed his gloves, set them on the end-table and turned the light on. It helped little against the melancholy of his mood. LaCroix busied himself removing the white dust-covers that protected the piano and chairs and elegant furniture and stacking them in a distant corner. There was dust on the paintings. The palette and its bottles were frozen solid from drying. LaCroix slipped the dust-cover off the motorcycle. For reasons he didn't feel the urge to understand, LaCroix had tried to start the machine the year before and had paid to have the battery replaced and the carburetor tuned when it didn't. He touched the key and considered, then left the motorcycle silent. LaCroix thought about going upstairs to the bedroom and decided against it. This was the room where his son had spent most of his time during the last years. It was here that his incredibly keen nose could still smell the faintest traces of Nicolas's existence. LaCroix walked to the stereo system and turned it on. The same tape that he'd listened to the year before was waiting in the tapedeck. LaCroix pressed down on PLAY. The gentle strains of Mozart arose. It was Nicholas's own hands guiding the piano's notes. A tape he'd made for LaCroix some years before the end. A token of esteem and sharing in an often strained relationship. The General stood for some minutes and listened. He could see Nicholas's hands gliding across the keys. Centuries of practice had made his son an accomplished pianist. The instrument had always talked to LaCroix when Nicholas played. Lucien lifted his eyes. He drifted across the floor to a small trunk he'd moved down from the bedroom. LaCroix opened it and the odors filled his head. On top was a black leather jacket with a wide bat-wing collar. LaCroix had always found the jacket cliched and had made the mistake of telling Nicholas that once. Of course, Nicholas had then made a point of wearing it because he knew that it annoyed his master. The jacket bore Nicholas' scent strongly. LaCroix moved the jacket to his face and inhaled, remembering. His beautiful, head-strong son. A noble-born warrior. Intelligent. Articulate. Possessed of a strong resolve that had brought them so frequently into conflict. A cascading torrent of their lives together tumbled through LaCroix's mind's-eye. The pain was as sharp and as fresh as if it was yesterday. It cut against LaCroix and when he had enough, he set the jacket aside. Under it was a pocketbook. It had spent the first two years upstairs in the bedroom, until LaCroix had realized that its place was in the box with the jacket. It was Natalie Lambert's pocket book. It carried her scent. In the years since, LaCroix had grown to regret that he'd never spent more time with the woman that his son found so fascinating. She had to have been a truly remarkable woman for his son to follow her willingly into oblivion; trusting only in her faith in him and that which lay beyond. On that terrible night, LaCroix had acted partially out of anger and rejection. Upset that he wasn't the recipient of his son's trust and faith. That a mere mortal could secure the acceptance that eluded LaCroix. Now, years later, he regretted the good doctor's passing both for the pain that it had brought his son and the lack of knowledge that Lucien himself had of her. LaCroix held the pocketbook in his strong hands. In that moment, no one would have called him foppish. No one who saw the terrible look of pain in his face. LaCroix had often counciled his son against Love. But, he had fallen to that terrible curse himself. Love for a son. And the woman who'd been his partner in death if nothing else. Lucien walked across the Loft and stood on the ornate rug upon which Natalie had lain that night. He set the pocketbook down where her body had been. On this one night, he permitted himself the luxury of second guessing. Of regret for paths not taken. Nicholas had been his beloved son. If LaCroix had supported him in his quests, accepted that his son was not formed in his own image, Nicholas might still be alive. Different perhaps, but not committed to the endless void that awaited beyond Life. LaCroix felt the darkness of his mood deepening. He wondered if the light was being sucked out of the night sky outside. If Toronto was going black, LaCroix didn't mind. This city was accursed in his mind. He'd lost his son here. Divia - who'd been the light of his life prior to her Crossing - had died her - so far - final and most painful death here. LaCroix didn't believe Janette to be dead, but he had last seen her in this city. Vachon and other vampires that LaCroix had spent time with had died in this place. Toronto had brought LaCroix far more pain than any place else on this planet. In the years past, he'd returned only once each fall. Coming each time to the Loft to wait and reflect and engage in the only hope that he permitted himself. Almost two millenium had passed since Lucien had become a vampire. He'd seen many strange things traveling in the twilight border of reality that was the vampire world. Strange enough things to believe that the Celtics might be right. It was October 31st, 1999. Halloween night. Or, as the Celts had called it: The Feast of Lord Samhain. The Night of the Lord of the Dead. A night when the wall between the spirit and material worlds grew thin and ghosts could pass through for a brief visit. In his belief, there were places that Lucien didn't wish to be. Places where vengeful meals could await him. Here, in the Loft, he hoped to learn that his beloved son was well. That Nicholas didn't regret the stake that Lucien had driven through his back and heart. Without trying, Lucien felt the shock of the wood against his hands as he drove the stake through his son's body. Saw Nicholas crumple forward across Natalie's still, dying form. Nicholas had been an old enough vampire that he could have fought. Tried to stave off Death as it reached for him. Instead, he'd only reached for Natalie's hand. And held it until long after the faint, slow murmurs of his heart has stopped. Something had snapped in Lucien's dark soul that night. He'd done what he considered proper: stayed to see the bodies recovered and buried together in a common plot. And then he'd done something unusual: arranged to have the Loft maintained and fresh flowers placed on Natalie's headstone from Nicholas on every Friday. LaCroix had then left Toronto, certain that he would not return for many decades. He'd returned every Halloween since. LaCroix would wait at the Loft until almost sunrise and then fly to the cemetery where the remains of his son and his mortal love were buried before racing for shelter just outside the city - not to return for another year. Nicholas lacked anything as melodramatic as a grandfather clock to chime the hour, still, the clock in the living room did show midnight as it arrived. Lucien found that he was holding his dead breath. Subconsciously tensed for something, anything. The emptiness of the Loft almost taunted him. Ordinarily, Lucien would have reacted with polished scorn and venom to the mortal weakness of love and pain that he was feeling. This was the one night of the year he indulged. Out of respect for his passed son. Eight hundred years of a relationship - even a sometimes badly strained one - had to have some meaning. To Lucien, if no one else. The least he could do for the son he'd slain was Hope that Nick had found the peace he sought. That there was something Beyond but the endless, frigid void that Lucien feared like he feared nothing in the night. Tim Phillips timp@dec.anr.state.vt.us This story is copyright by myself, but I freely give the right to archive/provide to viewers this story on any website or FTP server that is collecting Forever Knight fan fiction. Printing a copy to give to friends without access to the Internet is also OK by me. The Forever Knight characters/storyline are owned by other folks and their copyright also needs to be respected so their hard work is preserved. This story takes place after LAST KNIGHT. It contains spoilers to that episode. comment to timp@dec.anr.state.vt.us A VERY HAPPY HALLOWEEN (Part 2 of 2) Another might have paced anxiously. Lucien stood and listened to Nick's piano speak to him across the years and waited. If it was to happen, it would. Some things were well beyond the control of even a very old vampire. The hours passed. Lucien had left the stereo set on AUTOPLAY/REVERSE years ago and Nick's piano looped endlessly. It was nearing two o'clock in the morning. Outside, the area was quiet. Lucien roused himself. He considered flying and then just walked up the steps to the upper level of the Loft. In the bedroom, he found a small suitcase. Lucien unzipped the bag and opened it. Natalie's scent drifted up to greet him. It contained a handful of personal effects that had been found in the Loft when Lucien had had it cleaned prior to departing Toronto so many years ago. Topmost was a scrunchie. One of the bands that Natalie had used to hold her long hair back from her face while working. Lucien held scrunchie up to his nose and inhaled. He could almost smell the woman's warmth in it. If it was frigid where his son was, at least he should have a warm companion to spend eternity with. This thought made Lucien smile thinly. He expanded the elastic hair-band and slipped it onto his right wrist. Lucien turned the bedroom light off and went back down to the living room. He walked from painting to painting in the Loft. Admiring Nicholas's touch with the brush. The delicate attention to tint and texture. Lucien felt pride for his son's talent until the wondered how much better Nicholas would paint with another thousand years of life. Since that was impossible, Lucien felt dark again. And moved to speak. He walked to stand on the rug where Natalie and Nicholas had died. LaCroix had offered a prayer for and to the spirit of his daughter Divia many years ago when he'd cremated the body that Nicholas had killed. It had been the first time in centuries that he had done so. He felt a symmetry in that he was about to speak for the son he loved as much as he had loved his daughter. LaCroix didn't address the ceiling. He spoke to the dark corners of the Loft. "Nicholas. It is me." "Can you hear me, Nicholas?" "If you can hear me, I would very much appreciate a sign. A burning bush or something suitable." Lucien felt his own spirits lift slightly with the joke. "Please reply if you can. I wish to know if your decision was correct." That was a lie that LaCroix didn't even admit to himself. If Nicholas was trapped in oblivion, LaCroix didn't want to know that he had sent his son there - however much Nick had wished to take that journey. LaCroix waited a few moments. "Natalie, if you can here me, please accept my apologies. I discounted the depth of your friendship with Nicholas. I should have been proud of his ability to attract a woman such as yourself. Instead, I belittled and reduced you. That was not the correct thing for me to do." It said something that - even in private to an empty room - LaCroix admitted he was wrong. "Natalie, if you can reach out to me, please do so. I have changed my opinion of you in the years since you passed and I wish to know that you are well." It was a calculated request. If there was an afterworld, Nicholas and Natalie might not be together. Most visions of the afterlife would have consigned a vampiric murderer like Nicholas to the deepest pits of eternal torture. If LaCroix heard from either of them, it would clear his mind of the terrible uncertainty of what had happened to the star- crossed couple. The empty Loft was all that greeted LaCroix pleas. He shook his head slightly in frustration. For the first time in millenium, LaCroix's skin crawled with cold fear. Then, Nicholas stepped from a dark corner at the edge of LaCroix's peripheral vision. It was impossible for a vampire to have a heart-attack, but it was possible to startle one. LaCroix jerked and stepped back from Nicholas. His son looked well. Hair tousled and eyes clear. There was what looked like a tan across his face. In odd moments of reflection during the years, LaCroix had wondered if his son might appear dressed in a white robe with a harp. Instead, he wore his normal jeans and leather jacket. "Good evening, LaCroix." Nicholas's voice was remarkably normal. "You are looking well," LaCroix rose magnificently and dryly to the occasion. "The afterlife seems to agree with you." Nick looked down at his form and then looked up at Lucien. "Well, this isn't really me anymore, but it is what I can show you that you would understand," Nick said. Nicholas looked around the Loft. "How long has it been?" he asked. "It is October 31st, 1999," LaCroix said. "It doesn't feel that long," Nicholas said with wonder. "But Time has little dominion where I am now." "Where is that, Nicholas?" LaCroix asked with anxiety. Nicholas heard the concern in LaCroix's voice and his smile was the warmest that LaCroix had ever seen. "A place beyond. There is no void. There is no emptiness. There is a place that I can't find the words to describe to you." "You are safe and happy?" LaCroix prompted. "Yes. Very much so." "And Natalie is with you?" LaCroix wanted to know. "I could not be happy if she wasn't with me. We are both fine." LaCroix considered the priceless opportunity that he had. "There are no problems with what you were?" LaCroix asked. "No. None. Consider, Lucien. Would you hate a child for the mistakes that it makes? Of course not, it is a child. It does not understand the wrongness of things in the same way that an adult does. Consider this world a childhood. A place to make mistakes and learn the basics on the way to being mature. Loving parents will always accept the child despite its errors." "Then, there is a God?" Lucien felt two millenium of certainty shift under his feet. "Perhaps," Nicholas said. "Depending upon what you believe and how you phrase that. Natalie believes. I do not. Irregardless, we both are and will be." Nick cocked his head to one side and Lucien thought he heard Natalie's voice calling distantly and so soft it could have just been the settling of the old warehouse under the Fall chill. Nicholas Knight smiled at his old master and ancient friend. "I must go now. Be assured that Natalie and I are happy. You did the right thing for us. You will see yourself in time." Lucien marshaled his will. "Please tell Natalie that I am sorry for the dreadful way I treated her." Nick's smile conveyed his thanks for that gesture of respect. "I will tell her." "And I am sorry for the problems that I caused between us, Nicholas. I did what I THOUGHT was right for you, not WHAT WAS right for you." Nicholas stepped forward and his hand was a cold hard reality on Lucien's arm as they gripped hands in the old Roman fashion - hand gripping forearm. "I know you did what you thought was right, Lucien. As I did what I thought was right. We were both often wrong. I am sorry for the pain that I know I caused you through the centuries. It may be tomorrow, it may be a thousand thousand years, but eventually you will join us. And you and I will have eternity to continue our friendship." Nicholas let go of LaCroix's arm and stepped back into the shadows. "Goodbye for now." Before the General's eyes, Nicholas literally faded until he was no more. The Loft was empty except for the gentle piano music. Lucien stared into the corner where Nicholas had vanished. Any belief that he was hallucinating had disappeared when Nicholas took his arm. His mind whirred. There was life of some sort beyond the forever night. His son and daughter-in-law-to-be were happy. And Lucien himself had a future and a place beyond Life. LaCroix found that he was happy. There was absolutely no reason not to be. LaCroix carefully reset the dust covers on all the furniture and motorcycle. He stopped the tape of Nicholas playing piano, found a case and put the cassette in his pocket to enjoy later. The General put the sheet back across the stereo equipment and moved to the small trunk. He put Natalie's purse and Nick's jacket back into the case and closed it up. Lucien went to put his gloves on and discovered he still wore Natalie's scrunchie around his wrist. Lucien stroked the band. He touched his pocket to confirm that he had the tape of Nicholas and smiled. He slipped his gloves on; turned off the lone light. He flew up to the open skylight and paused to close and lock it again Lucien LaCroix stood on the roof of the old warehouse and stared up at the stars before climbing into the skies to attempt to join them. There was still hours of Halloween night before the dawn. Still time for Life. Tim Phillips timp@dec.anr.state.vt.us