Nutrisco et extinguo - Chapter XXXIX - Part 1
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Nutrisco et extinguo: "I feed upon it and extinguish it"
Ab absurdo: "from absurdity"; used of an argument that an assertion is false because of its absurdity
Warnings: Rating for this chapter is T.
You can read this story on my LJ with its illustrations, and the songs by Ingrid Michaelson - FFnet unfortunately doesn't allow me to insert those on this page. Please check my profile for the link.
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Chapter XXXIX: Ab absurdo
Snowfall, by Ingrid Michaelson
oOo
I want a snowfall kind of love
The kind of love that quiets the world
The world was silent tonight, as if the snow had numbed every nocturnal animal. Sebastian stood in the middle of the white cold clearing, a cigarette in his hand. The orange of its burning end contrasted sharply with the colours around him, the white of the snow, the black of the wood and of the lonely raven standing still on the heap of rocks. Sebastian grinned at him. He dragged one last time on his cigarette, watching the white blue smoke. Then he bent down and put it out in the snow.
His target was standing mere meters from him, motionless and quiet. The night was clear and the moon light allowed him to see the details of the figure distinctly. Not that it mattered. He took out his gun.
Will the crow cry? he mused distractedly.
The snowflakes falling were scarce enough but gave the night a silvery glow, like glistening ashes falling from the sky. Snow was softer than rain, less passionate. But you could get drenched in it nonetheless, and some found it more oppressive. Unnaturally quiet, as if it should have been more violent, or not been at all.
Sebastian raised the gun and pointed it at the soon-to-be-corpse. A firearm was a strange thing. Moran would have liked to talk with John about it, but he wasn't supposed to know he had shot the old cabbie. With one hand gripping the gun high on the back strap, the other pressed firmly against the exposed portion of the grip not covered by the first hand, with the index finger pressed hard underneath the trigger guard, how could it be that you actually held the life of a person in your hands? It was ridiculously easy. Firing a gun did not even require the skills of a sniper. Anyone could do it. By merely applying pressure to the trigger, you could take the life of the person in front of you. Sebastian had always thought it was a bit like magic. In better.
The moment when you slowly squeezed the trigger to the point where you start feeling resistance was what Moran enjoyed the most. As he presently took the slack out of the trigger, he felt himself get closer to the instant of utmost power, the limit between life and death: he hovered over it, marvelled at how little resistance the trigger put up when a human life was at stake. Shooting a man was like shooting a bird; but easier still. Sebastian smirked. He remembered a conversation he'd had with Jim about shooting.
"It's such a pedestrian way to get off, really," the consulting criminal had teased. "It's just like sex."
"Yeah. Just like sex. Minus its effect."
"It's the same effects!"
"No baby ever came out of a bullet I shot."
Jim had burst out laughing. "Don't be stupid, that's just a side effect."
"...Right. What are the effects of both sex and shooting, then?"
Moriarty had given him one of his manic grins. But Sebastian liked them. He always saw the edge of irony and the glint of sheer genius in it. Which didn't mean Jim wasn't mad.
"A shot, then a cry," he'd said in jest.
"Idiot. That's not even possible."
"What?"
"A shot, then a cry? When you shoot someone, it's usually the other way around."
Moriarty had laughed again.
Sebastian focused on his target and reaffirmed his grip on the gun. It was a cold, silent night. He glanced at the raven and smirked. Jim was never wrong. Tonight it would not be the other way around.
He pulled the trigger.
A shot. A cry.
I want a snowfall kind of love
Sebastian Moran liked nothing more than having a brilliant man as prey. Once he'd got used to the job, he even started to select his clients according to the person they wanted him to target. Sebastian liked to know the whole background, just so his pleasure would be more acute: he enjoyed knowing exactly who his victims were, how smart and important they were, before he shot them dead. It gave him an addictive sense of power, to hold the life of geniuses in his hand, and to know, to know that they couldn't do a thing about it - and, sometimes, weren't even aware of it. This was even more thrilling than war. The ex-colonel did not miss it in the least. He appreciated his newly acquired freedom.
When he had been employed to kill Jim Moriarty, he'd known he would be taking great risks. The man was most definitely famous in the underworld, though Sebastian had never met him personally. But the one who'd commissioned the sniper had; he said he owed Jim Moriarty. Sebastian had thought his commissioning a sniper a fine way to repay whatever debt he had, but had made no comment. The client knew Jim Moriarty, knew what he looked like and even where he was most likely to be found. That was all Sebastian needed to know.
Still, the sniper had been forced to hunt for his target. It had only made the whole chase and catching more thrilling. Never had Sebastian been so excited to see the moment he would hold somebody's life in his palm.
He hadn't expected it to turn out so perfectly and delightfully wrong.
"Hello, there," said the man in the Westwood suit walking casually up to him on the rooftop.
"Oh."
"Yes. Oh." Moriarty grinned broadly.
"I was supposed to shoot you."
"Indeed. I'm afraid you quite remarkably failed here, Seb."
Moran didn't blink at the nickname, as if it were perfectly natural for a complete stranger he was hired to eliminate to be familiar with his identity. He looked down to the street and watched the silhouette he'd been aiming at.
"Oh, him? It's just a fake. You can shoot him if you want. But he's not me."
For a second the sniper locked eyes with the consulting criminal and something seemed to pass between them, some electric current of recognition. But soon Sebastian broke the intensity of the instant. He shrugged with indifference.
"Oh well." Lighting up a cigarette, he started smoking as if he hadn't been about to kill someone, and as if now he weren't very likely to be killed. He turned to Jim and offered detachedly:
"Would you like one?"
The other's grin became cartoon-like, and his eyes twinkled with amusement.
"Ooh, I'm liking you," he announced in his sing-song voice. Sebastian smirked as he dragged on his cigarette, inhaling deeply.
"Aw, how sweet. I'm sure you say that to all your victims."
Jim's eyes widened in histrionic bewilderment and Sebastian repressed the urge to roll his eyes at the man's theatrics; yet there was tinge of genuine surprise in it.
"Victims? I don't have victims. Only clients - like you."
The sniper smiled crookedly behind the cloud of smoke he had just blown.
"Not quite the same job, though," he commented smoothly.
"Obviously."
Moriarty began to pace around him, as if circling a prey. Quite a reversal, Sebastian mused. But he noticed his gait was nonchalant.
"You use your brain. I use my eyes," Moran went on.
Moriarty pouted dramatically.
"I use my eyes too!" he whined. Then in a lower, almost playful voice, laced with the subtlest threat and a tinge of cruelty: "I spotted you after all."
Not impressed by the tone in the least, Sebastian retorted indolently:
"No you didn't. You knew where I was going to be. You thought - you did not see."
Jim chortled with something akin to mirth, in a very twisted way.
"You're a funny one, Seb!" he exclaimed. "Before thinking, one needs to observe."
"Exactly," Moran concurred. "You observe to think. You never watch just to see."
Something indefinable flashed in Moriarty's eyes, but soon the expression was gone and his face split into a grin.
"Mmm, daring. I like that."
Sebastian smiled back, unperturbed. He was, in fact, enjoying himself quite a lot.
"You're going to kill me anyway. I might as well have some fun."
Moriarty smirked knowingly.
"Who said anything about killing you?"
"If you don't, I am going to kill you."
The consulting criminal burst out laughing at the words, and Moran could tell it wasn't only for the show.
"Oh, Seb, you're funny, you're very funny." He ran a hand in his hair and suddenly turned to the sniper, adding excitedly: "What if I hired you to off your current client? What would you say?"
"I'd say that it wouldn't be very professional. And I'm a pro, Jim."
Moran relished the knowing smirk Moriarty gave him, as if they'd known each other their whole life.
"Aw, come on, you're dying to," he insisted.
"What makes you say that?"
Moriarty's smug, regal look was priceless. Sebastian was so glad he'd accepted the job.
"Because you love geniuses, and you love madmen." Jim turned on himself and spread his arms ecstatically. "And I just happen to be both!"
Moran had to repress a chuckle. He blew some smoke instead, before replying off-handedly:
"Ummm... Nope. Sorry, not interested."
Moriarty just grinned, as if sure of his victory.
"Oh well. I'll let you think about it, then."
He turned to leave, and Seb watched him, nonplussed. He stood, drew a gun, and pointed it at the consulting criminal's back. Jim stopped dead in his track and looked behind his shoulder, a smirk playing on his lips.
"You won't shoot, dear. And you'll come to me in the end."
Turning back, he walked to the door casually. Moran's eyes turned to slits, and his grip tightened on his weapon. But he did not shoot.
"See you soon, Seb!" Jim let out, waving his hand without looking back at him, his tone confident and mocking. The tone of a king.
Sebastian never shot.
'Cause I'm a snowfall kind of girl
Eliska Šárka liked nothing more than having a brilliant man at her feet.
At age 18, she married Czech ambassador in Bangkok Branislav Janecek. He was 50. She had known him since she was 12.
Branislav was not a handsome man. As a friend of Eliska's father, however, he had the undeniable advantage of being both powerful and wealthy; and as a close friend of her father's, Eliska knew he was more powerful and wealthier than he let on. She decided she would marry him when she was 16. Two years later she succeeded, and seeing that her plans seemed to go so well, she took another decision: at age 18, newlywed Eliska Janecek decided that her husband would know the tragic fate of Emperor Claudius in a matter of three to five years. The fact that she learned during her honeymoon in Rome that Branislav suffered from arrhythmia had naturally contributed to her thinking of this lovely ending.
Her second husband was a colonel working for the Glavnoye Razvedyvatel'noye Upravleniye. She had met him when Branislav was still alive and had been appointed as ambassador in Moscow. She married him when she was 24. He tragically died in service a year later; this time round, Eliska had no hand in it. It seemed that working for the GRU had the potential - and most regrettable - effect of shortening one's life expectancy.
Thereafter Eliska - whose official surname now was Svoboda - had many men. It wasn't so much that she was interested; but she was addicted. She shared the same addiction as her father, which was the same as that of her two husbands: Eliska was deeply, intrinsically, irretrievably addicted to power. And refinement. And luxury. It all came together; and ultimately it all came from the hands of men. Hence her loving nothing more than having them dance in the palm of her hand.
The first time she met Jim Moriarty, Eliska understood she had never been in love. The second time, she realized she had never even desired anyone.
She first met him at the National Opera and Ballet Theatre in Odessa. It was summer and the evening was warm. Unperturbed by the clammy weather, Eliska was wearing a crimson sheath dress, her ethereal, aristocratic beauty enhanced by the contrast of her pure white skin with the fabric of her gown and the redness of her lips. She was supposed to meet a man there, a "lover", but he had never come; instead, it was Jim Moriarty she had found sitting next to her as they watched Swan Lake. She had never quite forgotten.
Jim had given her a red rose to apologize for the other man's absence, making it clear that he was in no state to honour his rendezvous - or any other in this life. Surprisingly, Eliska had been more charmed than frightened and had taken the rose with unconcealed pleasure. She had thought this stranger must have wanted something of her, or he wouldn't have come; and the idea that a man who seemed to know everything about her and who spoke of her lover's murder with the graceful nonchalance of kings - absolute and unreachable - needed her assistance had sent down her spine a shiver of exquisite anticipation.
But instead he had told her that it was she who would need him eventually.
"I do not see how you could be of any use to me, Mr. Moriarty," she had said with a thin smile.
"Oh I know you can take care of many tasks yourself," he had chimed back. "But you will need me."
Eliska had considered this a moment. Not truly, of course, but she had paused and made sure to take an absent air before replying in a polite but definite tone:
"Mr. Moriarty, you seem to be a dangerous man. I do not wish to owe you anything."
His smile alone had been enough to make her doubt her words the moment they had been uttered.
"Well," he had said casually, "we shall see about that."
She had lasted a week.
Within a month, Jim Moriarty had taken in her life the place of Mephistopheles in Doctor Faustus': except that Jim was not her slave, and would not wait until the afterlife to get his price.
Soon the roles were reversed. She was more indebted than she could ever pay back. She had fallen in love.
She tried to get out of it at first by being more cruel and vicious than she'd been to any other man: but Jim Moriarty was not a man. He was much more. He was beyond her reach; beyond the reach of anyone among those he called the IOU people, those who were indebted to him in a non-negotiable way. Those who had accepted a contract with the devil. Power. Power above anything else. In this respect, Eliska was special. She shared this visceral craving for power; she shared the characteristics they all had, personal networks, the knowledge of dark secrets for blackmail, money beyond necessity, an education; manners, wit, cruelty; shrewdness and a lack of scruple; a familiarity with the ways of the world. But deep within her another passion had corrupted the purity of her thirst for power. It had been laced with an even more corrosive and malignant poison: another kind of desire. Sometimes she thought she could not live as long as Jim Moriarty was alive; sometimes she felt she would die the moment that he did. Her love was like nothing she had ever read about, it was brutal and deathly and so very much akin to hatred; a feral, primordial loathing that had become her only drive. He could ask anything of her, and she would find a secret joy in his manipulating her, and her letting him, knowingly.
"What if I refuse?" she asked once. The iridium nib of the Parker Duofold he was writing with had stopped running on the paper instantly. He had glanced at her, then resumed his letter with a smile.
"Don't be silly, Liska. We both know you won't."
"How can you be so sure?"
"Because you'd be bored, dear. You enjoy it too much."
"I am proud."
"Oh, yes. You are, aren't you? But you're bored, too." His eyes caught hers and he did not let them go. His face broke into a grin. "You can't stop now, can you? Not now that you've had a taste of it. It's too much fun! You won't deny it." He had folded the letter and had sealed it as if it were of any importance at all; Eliska knew it wasn't, knew he was only putting on a show. And she'd watched, mesmerized.
"You won't deny it because you love it, my dear. You love this!" he said as he was putting away the letter. "You love power. You love plotting and treason; you love intrigues and sophisticated crimes. You love the thrill." He had readjusted his suit, walked to the door. Stopped. "And..." Eliska had watched the corners of his mouth twisting into a tantalizing smirk, watched with the same ecstatic fascination with which she would have watched the glint of the guillotine above her. "...you love me."
Eliska never denied it.
I want a snowfall kind of love
That lights up the sky from below
Jim Moriarty never had to wait long for anything. Or for anyone. He had personally picked Sebastian Moran to be his pet; his own John Watson, but better (a colonel, please, not just a captain). His live-in admirer.
"I want my own room," was the first thing Sebastian told him when they met again.
Moriarty faked disbelief.
"What makes you think we'll even live together?"
His tone was implying that such a thought was preposterous. But Moran did not become flustered in the least. He even held back a sigh of annoyance at the criminal's dramatics.
"Because you're obsessed with Sherlock Holmes. And he lives with the ex-soldier he picked - and who's got his own room, by the way. You obviously hired me to play flatmates."
"And more if we hit it off," Jim confirmed with a wink, clearly finding the man highly entertaining. "I was so right to choose you! But then again, I'm never wrong."
Sebastian stared, and wondered what he had got himself into.
It turned out living with Jim Moriarty wasn't so bad. Moran never had so much work, but then that was what he lived for, and so he would never complain.
He'd thought at first that Jim would be the type to eat only in high class restaurants and bring all his clothes to the dry cleaner's. But he wasn't. He was fine with frozen food and ready-made, and didn't always wear Westwood. Sometimes he disappeared for days on end, and Sebastian knew he probably owned several flats and different places, most likely in various countries. He was even surprised he'd risk living in the same place for long, and with a flatmate to boot. But soon he realized how unreachable Moriarty truly was. He'd known from the start that Sebastian's client - the one who'd hired him to kill the criminal mastermind - would target him. He'd only let it happen because he wanted to meet the sniper. Said client had been killed the very same day; he had served his purpose.
"You see, Seb, only those who owe me everything know me personally. Powerful people, if there are any - like your client." He smirked. "I call them the IOU people. Incredibly overweening and useless. Well, they're not so useless. If they were, I wouldn't bother with them, even if it's cute to see them yapping and begging for more: Daddy, please get rid of that ambassador for me, so I can start a war. Daddy, won't you put me in contact with the Chinese Mafia? Daddy here, Daddy there..."
Sebastian stared for a second.
"… Right. Just so we're clear: I am not calling you 'Daddy'. Or dad. Or anything of the sort."
Jim burst out laughing.
"Ooh, the attitude! You're not cute at all, Seb."
"Pick a doctor, next time. Not a sniper." Idiot, said the lackadaisical tone.
"Aw, don't be jealous. Let's look on the bright side of things: you're not as devoted, but you're much smarter than him."
Moran made no comment.
I want a snowfall kind of love
That brings people to their window
A shot ripped the air and the man holding the gun fell dead on the riverbank. Moriarty looked up to the bridge and grinned widely at the invisible silhouette he knew was standing there.
Jim had always liked symmetry. He liked things to be harmonious, as it participated in the brilliance of his schemes. Consequently, it did not seem crazy at all to him to put his life on the line just so Sebastian would burst on him and save him by shooting the source of danger.
He hadn't set it in the same place John Watson had shot the old cabbie, though; he'd thought the bank of the Thames at night, close to the murky water, would be a more fitting environment for the show. Naturally, he'd calculated everything so dear Seb would find out in time exactly where he was, and what was going on.
As he joined his sniper, Jim did nothing to hide how he revelled in the annoyance that filled his traits. Seb is so listless! he'd say. Moran knew Jim loved it when he could get him to show some emotions on what he called "that unruffled face" of his.
"You did this just so I could mirror John Watson?" he asked point-blank, his tone discrediting.
"Oh, so you've read the blog too!"
"Don't be stupid. He didn't say he killed a man on his blog, Jim."
"Ha ha, naturally! But wasn't it obvious?"
"Of course it was. That man is obvious."
Jim pouted.
"But isn't it adorable?"
"You're an idiot," Sebastian dead-panned, referring to the jeopardizing situation he'd put himself into on purpose. Then, with a clouded brow, and in a colder voice, he added:
"Don't reproduce the Pool so we can mirror it."
The consulting criminal and the sniper looked each other in the eye under the grim streetlight. Sebastian went on:
"I'm not John Watson. I won't offer my life to save yours."
Won't you bury me in your quiet love
"I'd give my life to save yours," Eliska blurted.
She hated it. She never blurted. But the way Jim had got closer to that sniper of his, the way he lived with him... She resented it. She had known Jim for much longer than Moran had known him. They had history and their bond was deeply rooted in the most fundamental passions of the human soul; surely that accounted for something. She despised the sniper for being so silly as to try to shoot Jim, hated him for getting into the picture. All the more so as his detachment was not feigned, his apathy, genuine. It struck her when she first met him: the way he took everything that came his way with plebeian simplicity and easygoing amusement. There was something inhuman in him, something that reminded Eliska of cows watching idly trains go by, stupidly, or even the grass eaten by the cows. Yet he was a man. A man looking at everything around him like the cows looked at the trains or the cat at the strangers down in the street out the window - unconcerned. His blatant disinterest insulted her. She saw his unrefined nonchalance towards Jim as sacrilege, his offhand and jaded mordancy as blaspheme. She hated how laid back he was around Jim, how he took it all for granted. She hated him.
What she loathed the most, though, was the way Jim was playing with her. He did not treat her like just any of the IOU people. He did not show as much contempt towards her. Or rather he showed it in and entirely different, more elaborate manner. She knew he had told no one about Sebastian Moran. She knew he was trying to make her feel special and favoured, but also sick with jealousy. He complained about Moran's indifference and his eyes dared her to tell him how better she would have been to share a flat with; to share a life. She never did. But when he recounted his little discussion with 'Seb', the words were out of her mouth before she could stop them. She uttered them as if they were poisoned. They burned her tongue and she told them with the ferocity of one declaring war or a death threat. Moriarty laughed.
"I know you would, dear. That's why you're so precious to me."
Eliska did not make any comment on the ambiguity of the compliment.
It was only much later, when it was too late, that she realized Sebastian Moran was not the real danger. He was not a rival, the rival, but a mere shadow of it; a faded copy, a toy for Jim to occupy himself when he could not play with the real thing. Or so she hoped. Her envy was deepened and brought to an almost unbearable level when she learned that Moran, regardless of him being nothing, had known everything about what truly mattered for Jim, when she hadn't; Moran had known about Sherlock Holmes.
It all resulted from her investigating why Jim had chosen London of all cities to share a flat with Sebastian. She knew Jim had told her its location with a purpose in mind; when she discovered the existence of Sherlock Holmes, when Jim came to her once bouncing with excitement and asking her to write a note to the abhorred consulting detective, she knew she had fallen for his trick yet again.
"What is so interesting about him?" she asked him once. The moment she had said it she knew she had made a mistake. The flash of scorn in Moriarty's eyes, even though it only lasted an instant, cut her more deeply than any of his remarks until then. His subsequent smile had made her nauseous.
"You wouldn't understand," he said as if he were talking about a trifling matter, "he's not important." The blatant lie only made her fury more acute. She was certain then that she would know no peace until she had utterly destroyed the consulting detective. And she knew she couldn't. She knew Moriarty would kill her if she did, or worse; he would find a way, find a torture she could not even imagine, the perfect retribution for her crime, something unfathomable before it was made real, like the punishment inflicted upon Prometheus for having stolen the fire of the gods. But that was not the issue. That was not too high a price if it meant she could have an everlasting impact on Jim's life: if she could take away the one thing that excited him the most, the one thing that seemed to bestow some superior meaning on his existence. No, the problem was what he told her next, stroking her hair, whispering in her ear.
"Liska, Liska... You know how I trust you. I have a better fate for you than that. I have such high hopes for you... You are the only woman in my life, so don't be stupid. Don't ask for more."
The only woman in his life. As if that held any significance. Her gaze drifted to the vase where she had put the one red rose he had brought her today. One and only one magnificent crimson rose, like he often did.
"Blood will have to be shed," she said lowly, her voice trembling. He nodded.
"You shall have blood, Liska. Loads of it. I will give you an entire kingdom to kill if you wish."
She broke away from him and turned to see his face. "You have no idea what I wish for."
"Yes I do," he said with his sing-song voice. Then his expression became grave again. "You won't deny me this, Liska."
"Why did you tell me about it?" she inquired, refusing to say: about him. Moriarty smiled, his boyish demeanour contrasting sharply with the ruthlessness of his words.
"Because I like to watch you burn."
Oh bury me in your quiet love
"Say, why did you pick me?" Moran suddenly asked one night while Jim was playing with his hair. Sebastian found it annoying. He'd told him to stop because he found the gesture patronizing - revoltingly fatherly - but Jim had grinned and said he found his dark locks funny and that it'd be a pity not to play with them. Moran had retorted it was only because Jim's hair was dull and unpleasant to the touch, and that he should just get himself a wig to pet, or scalp Sherlock. Moriarty had laughed - a lot. But he hadn't dropped the habit in the least.
"Why the question, out of the blue?" Jim asked in an amused voice.
"What you wanted was your own personal John Watson. I have nothing in common with him."
"Don't lie, Seb. We both know you admire me."
He grinned, and Sebastian couldn't help but think he really looked like the Joker in Batman when he did that. Or the Cheshire Cat. He arched an eyebrow, more contemptuous than truly puzzled.
"We do?"
"Of course. You're fascinated with me."
"Fascination and admiration aren't the same thing," Seb remarked. "Plus, John Watson is sickeningly devoted to Sherlock. He adores him."
Moriarty pouted and pulled capriciously on the black locks, like a sulking child.
"And you don't adore me?"
Seb gave him that stare he knew Moriarty found most amusing, for it conveyed quite effectively his blasé mindset, that wouldn't even bother with a sigh.
"I'm not even going to answer that," the sniper said.
"But you just did," Jim pointed out, gloating.
"You're such a child."
"Thank you."
"It wasn't a compliment."
"But you know what they say: we should all retain the innocence of children."
"Too bad," Sebastian mused. "You only retained the brattiness."
Bury me in your quiet love
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