Oh Three
003: Endings
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His life had been so painfully interesting, when he was young. When he'd been in the center of a massive international crisis. When he'd headed up the repair work, making amends for everything that had been done on his watch. He'd been famous and even, in a way, beloved. Because, if nothing else, Corinth was a smart enough man to make sure that he came out on top of whatever madness swarmed around him.
But, after a long time in those days, only a handful of minutes now, he had finally settled into a nicer, calmer way of living. A way that appealed to him in the same way filling out forms did. It was routine. Stable and unshaken.
For the boy hiding inside him still cowering in fear, hiding in the corner of a cage, beaten and bruised, malnourished and sleeping too much for the reprieve it gave, such total, bland pointlessness was impossibly reassuring.
He had done enough to last a life time well before he'd reached thirty.
Now, his cherished daughter was out there, reliving his mistakes in a new world and a new way. But he was too old an stiff to be of much good to her. If she wanted run away and join a war she couldn't possibly win, there was nothing he could do to stop her.
But, when Centenaria's mother had stumbled upon his doorstep, looking as perfectly unchanged as ever- younger than her own daughter... that had shaken him. He was terrified by her. By the madness that lurked dark and dank beneath her surface. Even his formidable talents could do nothing to soothe the woman who had plunged headlong into his life three times before, and each time brought it nearly to ruins.
She had nearly destroyed Cyrano the first time, as she ruptured the comfortable world within Eternity and started the cataclysm that had launched him to fame. The second time, so soon afterward, she had thrown their lives into chaos again, dropping a screeching little blonde child and fleeing. The last time, she'd taken the bright young woman that child had become, and crushed her mind to unstable shreds.
But, faced with this hunched, hollow shell, he could feel no anger. Just pity. She would live with the guilt and the pain for aways. For an eternity. The word, for Kalte, must have held an entirely different meaning.
"I thought you should know..." she muttered, staring blankly past his face. "Your daughter has a son. She's in India, with him there. They... killed her husband. I think she's going... to prove herself my daughter. She needs help. The sort that only you 'n Cyrano can give."
The words ought to have been cryptic, but Corinth had more practice dealing with the Enfuir project than any other person alive. It was touching, in a twisted way, that Kalte was finally concerned with her daughter's sanity.
She studied his face, then, looking for a reaction, and when she failed to find it, he felt her prying into his mind with all the subtlety she possessed. Not very much.
"I suppose you can tell, then, my dear. I haven't got any help left to offer. My gift has run its course, I'm afraid. And without the research you were so keen to destroy, it won't be returning."
Kalte said nothing, simply turned and ran. That was what Enfuir was good at, running away.
When he'd been young, he had been an impossible thing. Exciting and strange and powerful. Such power... Wilted away now. Gone for all the rest of his years. He was hardly near death, at fifty eight. But, the years remaining would be so gloriously, perfectly normal.
It was the war of a new generation now, and just as there had always been, there would be casualties. It was no longer his business.
==-==-==-==
His life had been so painfully interesting, when he was young. When he'd been in the center of a massive international crisis. When he'd headed up the repair work, making amends for everything that had been done on his watch. He'd been famous and even, in a way, beloved. Because, if nothing else, Corinth was a smart enough man to make sure that he came out on top of whatever madness swarmed around him.
But, after a long time in those days, only a handful of minutes now, he had finally settled into a nicer, calmer way of living. A way that appealed to him in the same way filling out forms did. It was routine. Stable and unshaken.
For the boy hiding inside him still cowering in fear, hiding in the corner of a cage, beaten and bruised, malnourished and sleeping too much for the reprieve it gave, such total, bland pointlessness was impossibly reassuring.
He had done enough to last a life time well before he'd reached thirty.
Now, his cherished daughter was out there, reliving his mistakes in a new world and a new way. But he was too old an stiff to be of much good to her. If she wanted run away and join a war she couldn't possibly win, there was nothing he could do to stop her.
But, when Centenaria's mother had stumbled upon his doorstep, looking as perfectly unchanged as ever- younger than her own daughter... that had shaken him. He was terrified by her. By the madness that lurked dark and dank beneath her surface. Even his formidable talents could do nothing to soothe the woman who had plunged headlong into his life three times before, and each time brought it nearly to ruins.
She had nearly destroyed Cyrano the first time, as she ruptured the comfortable world within Eternity and started the cataclysm that had launched him to fame. The second time, so soon afterward, she had thrown their lives into chaos again, dropping a screeching little blonde child and fleeing. The last time, she'd taken the bright young woman that child had become, and crushed her mind to unstable shreds.
But, faced with this hunched, hollow shell, he could feel no anger. Just pity. She would live with the guilt and the pain for aways. For an eternity. The word, for Kalte, must have held an entirely different meaning.
"I thought you should know..." she muttered, staring blankly past his face. "Your daughter has a son. She's in India, with him there. They... killed her husband. I think she's going... to prove herself my daughter. She needs help. The sort that only you 'n Cyrano can give."
The words ought to have been cryptic, but Corinth had more practice dealing with the Enfuir project than any other person alive. It was touching, in a twisted way, that Kalte was finally concerned with her daughter's sanity.
She studied his face, then, looking for a reaction, and when she failed to find it, he felt her prying into his mind with all the subtlety she possessed. Not very much.
"I suppose you can tell, then, my dear. I haven't got any help left to offer. My gift has run its course, I'm afraid. And without the research you were so keen to destroy, it won't be returning."
Kalte said nothing, simply turned and ran. That was what Enfuir was good at, running away.
When he'd been young, he had been an impossible thing. Exciting and strange and powerful. Such power... Wilted away now. Gone for all the rest of his years. He was hardly near death, at fifty eight. But, the years remaining would be so gloriously, perfectly normal.
It was the war of a new generation now, and just as there had always been, there would be casualties. It was no longer his business.