Despite the way the first few paragraphs start out, this *is* a Forever Knight fanfic.  And as such I must dutifully disavow any ownership of the esteemed Mr. Parriott's characters.

 Normally I'm not a fan of first-person stories---this is a first for me.
      Comments can be sent to:  [email protected]
      Flames will be dismissed as mere rantings. :)

      What would you do if you were offered eternal life?

      I was born on April 24th, 1963, at 3:05am, seven weeks premature, to a
mother who suffered many months of physical hardship because of her
pregnancy, her (I believe) third, and second succesful one.
      Why God allowed either of us to go through that is beyond me.

      When did I first begin to think in less than stellar terms of my
existence?
      That's a good question for which I wish I had the answer.  I do
remember being in my kindergarden room, browsing through the books on the
bookshelf, when the corner 'kitchenette' play section caught my eye and I
thought to myself:  "I have no interest in that...I wonder why."  Wonder,
because as a female I already had a good concept of the roles of female and
male in 60's society---and at that time housekeeping was still a large role
in female life.  I had only to think about the problem for a moment before
an answer presented itself:  "You're never going to have children or a
family of your own."  "And why is that?" I asked myself.  And the answer was
absurdly simple.  "You won't live that long."  And that settled that.
       No arguments, no gasp of shock and horror.  Just acceptance...and
maybe a little bit of relief.
       So, whatever the truth for the first question, it is of a certainty
that by the age of five I held no great desire for life.

       Was I abused?
        I don't think so.  Though certain parts of my personality would
definitely give someone that impression.  Like the fact that although I can
imagine demonstrations of tactile tenderness with great clarity without
feeling bothered, actually *being* touched makes me highly
uncomfortable---and even somewhat angry.  And I've always had more than your
average helping of shyness.  And a feeling of incompetence no matter how
many praises or words of encouragement I receive.  So, yes, I can see where
all the psychology majors out there would be screaming:  Sexual/Emotional
Abuse!
       But I don't believe I was anybody's victim.  Even if I was, it would
have had to have happened when I was so young that I can't even remember
it--- so what difference would it make?
       And you would have to get around the fact that my parents and brother
have always been rather protective.  And loving, and encouraging.  As were
my school teachers.
       In fact, the only people who ever put me down (at least to my face)
were my school peers.
       I've always felt people were rather like the chickens we used to keep
in our backyard.  They liked to peck at those not exactly like themselves
and will even go a considerable distance into the loner's own territory in
order to do the pecking.

       No.  I didn't garner many friends.  Didn't date.  Didn't go to the
high school prom---or any other social function for that matter.  It was my
own choice, based on observation of my parent's social life.  Children *do*
learn from watching their parents, you know.
      My mother...she was, she tells me, at least as shy as I was when she
was younger.  Constantly tries to get me 'out of my shell.'  I wonder
why---seeing as she can't be any more happy now then she was then.  Having a
closer relationship with friends and relatives have brought her emergency
calls for rides, requests for money, physical aid, nursing, babysitting,
seamstressing, and all sorts of 'little' favors.  In return she has received
insults, slander, accusations, cancellations (by the owee) of the debts,
aches and pains, and scorn.  Is *this* the grand social life she wishes for
me?
       I'd rather be alone!
       Now, I am not saying that one should not have friends and
aquaintences.  But where is it written that they must be close?  If I dared
to let it be known to her, I could tell her that I have met and had friendly
communications with lots of different people----students to technical
workers to public servants---and not one of them have *demanded* a favor, or
insulted me (that I know of), or *thrust* their needs upon me at  their
conveniance.  They have spent their own time helping me---of their own free
will and at *their* convenience---when I sought such assistance.  And I, in
return, try to return the favor whenever I can.  There is no obligation
other than to be polite and to uphold one's end of any bargains made.

      Who are these people *exactly*?
      Darned if I know.  I can tell you some names, maybe two addresses (if
I was so inclined---which I'm not.).  But most of these names are obviously
false or could be.  Heck, the name *they* know *me* by is fake.  It doesn't
matter.
      Because these relationships I have chosen are all on the Internet.  On
the Internet where even the most ardent white supremist could talk gardening
with a stout Black Muhammed follower---and not even know it.  Where you
could dress in your most disreputable clothing and not give the other person
reason for offense because of it.
       In fact, the *only* way you could possibly give offense over the
Internet is by what you type to those you are 'talking' with.  Personal
appearance has not a chance to bring irrational prejudices into play.
       So many people like to harp on the 'dangers' of socializing on the
Web, yet very rarely does anyone talk about what a great leveler of the
field it is.  If only jury trials could be conducted this way.  Then justice
truly would be blind.

      But I digress.

      As stated before, I hold no desire to live a long life.  It just
doesn't appeal---already lived longer than I expected I would.  So, it was
with great suprise when I was offered the chance of eternal life.
      No...it wasn't by some wacko fruitcake preaching to his bald headed,
robe and flower bedecked followers.  Nothing like that.
      It was by a rather tailored fellow with very piercing eyes and a look
that could make a glacier pack it up and go home---all the while giving off
the air of an Old World gentleman.
      Which he was.  Sort of.
      You see, it all started a couple of months back when I met this other
man one night in the park.  I had decided to go for a walk, feeling rather
more morose than usual and had always preferred the night sky to the blaring
light of the sun.  And there, sitting alone and huddled on one of the park
benches was this guy, kinda good looking in a rugged sorta way what with his
dark blonde hair all mussed up and a chin that hadn't seen a razor blade in
the past couple of days.  I could tell he was upset by something because he
kept his eyes downcast to where his hands were hidden in the dark fabric of
his long jacket.  Trembling, too---though it was warm yet despite the hour.
(No  fooling, you just *can't* get cold in my neck of the world no matter
what the time.  It never cools off less than 90 degrees F at night here
during July, you know?)  So it wasn't the temperature affecting this man.
       Now normaly---being the shy person that I am---I'd have just walked
on by without a second thought.  I mean, if he *wanted* company, a deserted
park in the middle of the night was hardly the place to go looking for it.
All my instincts told me to mind my own business.
      That's when he looked up as I passed by him.
      My instincts were not expecting to have to deal with such eyes.
      They were filled with pain, these were.  Heaping gobs of it that you
could plainly see in their depths.  Dark blue like the sea before a storm.
So appropriate, if you believe the saying that the eyes are the windows to
the soul---because this man was clearly drowning.
       Even such an introvert as I could not let such a plea for help go
unanswered.  Swallowing my own uncomfortableness of the situation, I sat
down beside him.
        For long minutes neither of us said anything.  I got the impression
that it was not so much conversation he needed---just a non-threatening
presence for reassurance while he struggled not to sink into those depths
his eyes held.  No problem...I could play the part a life boat for him for a
quite a while--it wasn't like I had someone at home to go back to.  And he
seemed to sense this, for it wasn't long before he gave a  little sigh and
just sort of keeled over into my lap as if that bit of breath was all that
had been keeing him upright.
        Just like that.
        No pawing, no grabbing---only an exhausted surrender.
        I could just hear my parents screaming at me to get up and get away
from this guy before he *did* do something barbaric.
        Instead, I hugged him to myself while reciting my memories of
seaside vacations (you can hardly go wrong with the ocean for calming
images) and caressed his head like he was some small, lost kid whose terror
had left him too tired to do anything more than fall into a complete
stanger's lap for comfort.  Because that is exactly what he felt like for
all this was a grown man I held:  a lost boy.

       "Natalie..."

       Ah.  So it was the loss of a loved one that had corroded his
foundation.  I idly wondered if she was a relative or a lover.  Of the two,
I think that losing a loved relative would be the most devastating.  I mean,
you can always fall in love again with another stranger---whereas, I don't
think anyone could replace a parent, sibling, or child, do you?  However, I
am hardly an expert on such matters.

       It was then that the other showed up.
       And I don't mean 'walked up' either.  One moment I was alone with
Little Boy Blue, the next, I had Cardinal what'shisname staring down at me.
(You know the painting I mean?  Dark portrait of a man from centuries ago
who had eyes that fairly screamed out from the paint:  You have been
condemned by order of the Inquisition!  *That's* the kind of eyes this guy
had.)
       This second patroner of the night air was tall and blonde, pale
skinned with dark clothing---and that's about where the similaries ended.
The man resting his head on me exuded helplessness; Stranger #2 radiated
death.
        My first thought was that he wanted *me* for...well, something mom
had always warned me about.  The second was that he had spotted two easy
victims for a mugging.  His first words proved me wrong on both accounts.

       "I see you have found my son."

       His son?  Either the one was a lot older than he looked---or the
other was way younger than *he* looked!.  Had someone told me just then that
both speculations were correct I would have asked what kind of weed they
were smoking.
       Licking my lips, I strove for an indifferent tone in my voice---you
know, No Fear?---, but I'm afraid it probably came out much more sickly than
I had intended.  I was prey before the predator here---and my subconscious
knew it.
       "Sir, I think it's more the case that he found me."

       A shark's smile pulled at his pale lips as he sat down on opposite
edge of the bench, the man I held stiffening under my hands as the other
made himself comfortable.  I got the distinct feeling that the younger would
have preferred the other was not there; however, neither did he make any
motion to get up and move away, so I suppose I could have been wrong.

       "You must excuse Nicholas---I am afraid that he hasn't been himself
of late."

       "Then who has he been?" Distracted by the feeling that I knew this
man somehow, the quip slipped out before I could stop it and I regretted my
impudence immediately as those ice-cold blue eyes fixed on me.  This was no
time for humor, idiot, I silently berated myself.  Whoever this was, he did
not seem the type to appreciate levity.  At least, not from others.

      "That, my dear, would require the better part of the hour to
recite---and we have not even been properly introduced."

      "I agree...we haven't," I stalled, reluctant to say more.  He chuckled
to himself, a singularly unpleasant sound.

      "Then let me introduce myself.  My name  is Lucien Lacroix."

      "You're the Nightcrawler."

      He stiffened in his seat, eyes hard and voice suspicious.  "I beg your
pardon?"

      "You're the Nightcrawler, are you not?  Or, you certainly sound like
him.  A friend on the Internet sends me tapes every now and then...from
Toronto.  I think the radio station is..Cerk?  Yes, that's the name--God,
it's been what---eight years?  But I still listen to the tapes now and then
and  I thought your voice sounded familiar.  Come to think of it...I
remember you referring to a 'Nicholas' once or twice."  I looked down at my
fingers, still carding through the golden hair as its owner murmured
fitfully from my lap.  "Nicholas..  You always had this kinda reproving tone
when you spoke of him.  But then, you never were terribly considerate of
your listeners as I recall."

       "Indeed?  And yet they---and apparently, *you*---seemed to tune in
often enough.  If you found me too abrasive, why did you continue to
listen?"

       "Why not?  You seemed honest enough in your point of view.  I even
agreed most times."

       "Then, my dear, I suppose there is some hope for you.  What did you
say your name was again?"

       "I didn't."

       "Now who is the one being inconsiderate?  I told you mine."

       "Yes, you did," I sighed.  "Names are hardly important really.  I
mean, chances are we'll never be seeing each other past this moment anyway.
Why burden memory with unnecessary information?"

      "A wise, yet curiously unsatisfying response, m'dear."

      "Life is unsatisfying.  Why should this conversation be any different?
But if you feel you must have something to tag me with...how about Zorn?

      "An odd name to be born with---let alone one to purposefully choose."

      "An odd chastisement---coming from someone who chose the name
'Nightcrawler'," I let a small smile escape before sighing.  "According to a
fictional novel about rabbits, the word means 'disaster'.  I find it kind of
apprapo."

       Another chuckle that set my nape prickling.

      "And what kind of disaster have you caused."

      "Not nearly as much as you have, I think."  In that, I was referring
to the as yet quiet Nicholas.  I may not have been abused, but this one
surely had been.  And I had a good idea who his abuser was.

      "A perceptive statement.  May I ask what drove you to that
conclusion?"

      "Your son is afraid of you.  In my book, for a child to feel reason to
fear their parents is a calamity."

      "Unless the fear is based on misunderstandings."

      "That is a possiblility," I conceded.  "Perfect communication between
people is as rare as 'common' sense.  So often emotions get in the way, and
before you know it more is said and done then was meant at the start."  A
thought struck me.  "Is that what your radio show was for?  A way to talk to
your son without his feeling so threatened that he automatically tuned you
out?"

       A weary sigh preceded his response.  "Nicholas *is* rather thick
headed by nature.  He does not know what is best for him and rebelliously
spurns direct correction.  So, I resorted to a flanking manuever.  It worked
better than I expected...for a time.

       "And after that time?"

       "It became necessary to revert back to my original measures.
Regrettable, but better than the alternative."

       "He was going to commit suicide."  It was a statement, not a
question, and Mr. Lacroix did not gainsay it.

       "He wanted me to do it for him.  A 'mercy killing' is the current
phrase, is it not?"

       I nodded, keeping quiet.  Something told me that this man would no
more appreciate my views on the subject than my family would.

       "Yes...mercy, love, faith---such nonsense.  It was my duty as a
father to dissuade him from such folly.  But he didn't understand the
necessity of leaving these concepts behind.  Always the dreamer, my
Nicholas."

       "So you showed him your displeasure."

       "I saved his life!"  he growled---a deep sound from the throat, not
unlike that of a large, wild feline.  "He would have allowed himself to be
impaled---or burned  to ashes!---all because of the seeds that...that woman
planted in his mind."

       "Natalie." I surmised, whispering the name under my breath.
Amazingly enough, he heard me---which should have tipped me off that
something was not right---, however, the truth was something that at that
time I could not have guessed at.

       But I was about to.

      With a snarl of rage he had his hands gribbing the collar of my shirt.
Golden eyes like those of a lion fixed on my widening brown ones.  I said
nothing.  What could I say?  'My..what interesting eyes you have there,
Granpa?'  Being witty was not my priority at that moment, I can assure you.

      "How do you know her?!" He spat in my face.  To which I oh, so
eloquently responded with something along the lines of:  "W-Wha?"

       "The coroner!  Whom do  you think!" he growled, gripped me even
harder---the cloth stretch to the point of ripping.

       There was the barest glimpse of fangs glistening with saliva and I
knew then---God help me, I knew.  This was a vampire:  A mythical monster
from Hell, and I was about to die an improbable death that would likely
stump the police no end, resulting in extra paperwork, job disatisfaction,
and increased taxes.
       (*Everything* results in increased taxes.  It's a law somewhere.)

       I fervently hoped it wouldn't hurt much.

       And then I was granted a reprieve.

       Right here, I am tempted to say 'darn!', but I must be truthful and
admit that as much as I don't mind death itself---*pain* is another matter
altogether.  I'd much rather die in my sleep---blessedly unaware---thank
you, Mr. Almighty.
       At any rate, I was granted a little more time on this planet, for at
that point my little Boy Blue---this Lacroix's son---the pitiable man who
had been resting his golden head on my lap---suddenly rose and thrust his
master away from my throat.  It was quite dramatic I must say.
Unfortunately, it was also short lived, for now that his hands were out and
visible I could see that my 'knight in dusty raingear' was shackled at the
wrists by a pretty hefty pair of handcuffs.  The vampire was quick to take
advantage of this---heck, he was probably the one who put them on---by
grabbing ahold of the bound wrists and forcing the blond man...pardon
me...Nicholas, down to his knees on the concete pavement.

       "Please, father...please, father..please..no...please.....don't.." my
would-be rescuer pleaded breathlessly to his capturer, head flung back with
eyes closed.  He repeated the string of words as if they were a mantra of
some sort, slowly descending in volume like a radio with dying batteries,
while the stern figure stood over him still clenching the hands.  Both
immobile as statues except for the failing whimpers.

       And I?  Did I use this opportunity to run screaming for the
constabulary as loud and as fast as my legs and lungs would allow me?  Well
no.  I was just as stuck in this Medusan tableau as they.
       Because I was still tranfixed by the sight of the vampire's eyes.
You  see, they were no longer golden, or even icy-blue.  No, they were twin
orbs of *anguish* in a stone setting that looked fair to cracking.  *God*
could have announced His coming and I doubt I could have turned away to wave
hello.  The whole Earth seemed hushed by the tragic agony of these two
Shakespearean actors lost in their roles.  I wasn't going anywhere.

       "Nicholas..."---And now in the vampire's voice there was a definite
cracking to be heard---"Nicholas, my blood, my sun...I'm listening.
Talk....tell me what it is you desire."

       "I.." The blonde hair shaded his eyes as he looked downward,
expression troubled.  "I want...to...the sea..?"

       "The sea?"

       A hesitant nod, and then another, more confident one.  "Stand....on
the tide..pools..."

       I couldn't help finishing for him.  "And listen to the symphony of
water on the rocks."

       He looked up at me then, smiling, his eyes flecked with soft gold
with the slender points of fangs peeking out from his upper lip.
"Yes...music."  The eyes shifted their pleading to the other, head resting
against the older's hands still on his own.  "Please, father?"

      "Yes...I think that would be possible, mon fils."

      "Good."

        And then Lacroix lifted his son and held him close as Nicholas fell
asleep against him, eyes hard and cold once more as he gazed on me.

       "It has been eight years since my son has spoken a word to me---to
anyone.  Not by hunger, not by beatings, not after confining him for months
alone.  Not one syllable in eight years.  I should kill you for what you
have seen and heard, but I cannot---for Nicholas' sake, I will not."  He
studied me for a moment.  "I could grant you eternal life."

       "No," I shook my head, certain that this ageless creature would not
understand my decision.

       "In that case, my dear woman, I can only offer you this in my
gratitude."  His eyes glowed softly like polished amber over a light.
"Forget us."

       And do you know that that is exactly what I did?  And did it quite
well, I might add.

       Until one windy morning while vacationing on a California beach.
There was this amateur art show being held on the boardwalk.  Most had the
artists in attendance, but a couple were not, the works being watched over
by amiable fellow creators in paint while their owners were presently
elsewhere.  It was at just one such an exhibit  that I was passing when, as
I walked by, a gust of wind knocked over an easel just in front of me.
Instinctively I reached out to save  the work---a dark, watercolor
landscape---and froze at the scene depicted.  The attending neighbor was
quick to thank me, remarking as I held onto the work:  "That's one of the
better ones he does.  A pity he can't be here himself---really nice guy.
Got some weird allergy though.."  I just nodded, barely listening.
       You see, unlike all the other sea-landscapes being shown, this one
was a night scene:  two grown men standing together in companionable silence
upon the rocks of a tidal pool; one with short hair, face upwards to study
the starry sky, the other, longer hair swept about by the breeze as he
reached down to touch the fanning spray created by ocean meeting land.  And
in the right lower corner of the foreground, written with a bold flourish of
yellow paint was the signature:

       Nicholas.

       Smiling, I continued on my way.
 

~~ I have seen you smell the sea, gaze at the stars at night.~~
                                                         ---LaCroix/Last
Knight
=============================
End