Of Phantasm and Fury

Long Ago in Laval

6 Long Ago in Laval

"...Where the color is ripped from the skies..." -E.H. Hanson

Day 1 to Day 2

Dorm, Palazzo, Siena, Italy, Simulation Crystal

"Nobody remembers her as she was...least of all, her—"

Macy tilted her head, intrigued. "Not to be weird, but leukemia isn't Alzheimer's..."

"With 'Knansie-with-a-K,' it might as well have been."

Her insides froze upon hearing the necromancer's name, her latent fury at the underworldly woman causing spare bits of parchment to flutter, the music stand to vibrate—

You, she thought. Knansie. I should've known—

Flashback

Tears. She remembered tears. Silver slivered moon rivulets coursing down her cheekbones, hands stumbling, bracing for impact, for coarse burnt sienna brick, as her subconscious melded with the nightmare before her—was it not enough to lose her mother, her father too? Dealing in things unnatural had consequences—

She would know.

She was—

Unnatural.

Lonely and unnatural.

And after seeing—witnessing—that sordid scene—unlovable too.

Her labored breath emanated forth in shuddered gasps, and now it was Antonio's turn to offer comfort, drawing her close with an outstretched arm. Shhhh. It's ok. I'm here. I'm here. I'm here. "I take it you're not on the best of terms?" he asked, as she adamantly shook her head. A definite no.

"I'm sorry," she said after some time had passed. "Compared to what you left reality for, mine pales in comparison—"

"Having different problems doesn't make the pain matter less. This isn't a competition," replied Antonio matter-of-factly.

More minutes passed, but neither she nor he kept track. "You know what I said earlier? About you looking young?" Macy lifted her gaze. "I take that back. You're definitely an old soul," as he managed to suppress the barest hint of a smile. "And I can't make this about me—what about you? And Laila?" Her hands fidgeted out of sheer habit. "I mean," she added, "if you're ready to talk about it—"

He sucked his breath in sharply. Laila. It had been ages since he'd heard that name uttered by someone else other than him. "I'm ready," he answered, as their world-weary eyes met. "And no visual flashbacks—some memories are...not worth reliving. If you get my drift—" as Macy nodded in understanding.

Closing his eyes, Antonio imagined where they had last left off. The German Christmas Market. Quebec, Canada. "We were together for a year. Both starry-eyed, you know, like Nicholas Sparks novels. But one day, she ended up in the hospital."

He opened his eyes, checking to see if he wasn't trapped in the life-altering past once more, and finding he was still in Siena, still in Italy, blinked rapidly, then shut them again, as Macy rubbed his back as only a big sister could. "On her nineteenth birthday. Talk about true holiday shi—"

"Yeah," Macy murmured, thinking of the jingle hell she'd endured that first Christmas with her newfound siblings. Maggie had received an ill-gotten necklace from her half-demon ex, a broken legged Galvin made a surprise stop, Ray absconded his fatherly duties again, and Harry ended up trapped in Tartarus. Maybe it was the pressure to put on a happy face in a despairing world. Or too much family in one place, with exhaustion and high emotional tension besides. Whatever it was, she, Macy Vaughn, was very familiar with that sub-category known as 'terrible holidays,' each awful in their own horrifying way.

"Then I noticed she stopped coming to class. Usually, treatment was pills—modern medicine, targeted therapy—the works—with weekend hospital visits for monitoring. When she didn't show up to improvisational contemporary—the class—I knew. I knew."

"That it was bad?" He nodded.

"Worse than bad." Inhaling deeply, he continued. "Her body stopped responding to meds—they switched her over to IVs—"

Deep concern was etched all over Macy's visage. As a geneticist, she understood that when top-of-the-line gene therapies failed, there wasn't much hope for survival.

"I always thought," he stated with an ironic laugh, "that she'd outlive me. That we'd grow old together, and she'd survive me by a decade with her music and bright persona. I thought..." his head was in his hands at this point, "I thought we'd have...forever."

Macy mulled his account over, wondering what she would do in such a situation. But then she knew, recalling how Harry had suddenly aged, a punishment from above, his smooth skin turning to elephantine creases, interlaced here and there with wrinkles, his energetic will giving way to soporific tea-time. How she took his porcelain teacup from his drooping lap before it met the carpeted floor. How she had glanced at his visage and thought, back then, how sweet he looked and how wonderful it would be if one day, some day—but no.

Not today.

Not ever.

Glancing over at Antonio, she reflected on the irony of the situation. His lover was critically ill and they cherished each other, wanting to spend forevers together—and here she was, fleeing a man who had made a catastrophic error in judgment, but who, by all intents and purposes, was perfectly healthy, and immortal besides.

"On her last night...I-I was—" she turned toward Antonio, hearing him begin to speak again. He stopped, then resumed. "That night...I had a solo. "Oh Holy Night." Latin. Part of Laval University's Christmas concert."

Macy read between the lines. "She wasn't there." A statement, not a question.

"I meant to tell her about it after, give her a solo performance. I showed up at the hospital, but—" his voice caught, unable to continue. Macy understood the implication. It was too late. She was—

"Gone?" she voiced the word aloud.

It took some time before he could respond, which he did with a curt nod of his chin. "I was arrogant, smarmy, pig-headed, stubborn—let me finish!" he said as Macy tried to interrupt. "Seriously, I was. Then, I met her. I became a better person. Kinder, more patient, so they said." He lifted his head from his hands. "When I grew up, I was a terror. Nobody took a chance on me. Nobody believed in me. The only reason the choir director took me on was a drunken bar crawl bet he'd made with the sports coach—everyone had a field day about that. But Laila—she believed in me. No clue why, but she did."

"She sounds pretty amazing," murmured Macy.

"Yeah...yeah she was."

Day 2, Command Center, SafeSpace, Seattle, Washington

Where on earth was Macy? Harry wondered, his eyes skimming the leader board and the other dimly lit surroundings. This just wasn't like her at all. But then again, she had been growing cozy with a certain man by the name of Julian. That must be it. Julian. Of course she's with Julian—

Most likely, she was out soothing her feelings from the earlier day's palpable tension, himself annoyed she was unable to talk things out, given they were both proper adults of a suitable age. Bickering openly to come to some semblance of agreement would be preferable to those awkward silences, those heady glares he had noticed in days past. Deep down, he knew it was partly his fault, as he himself had skirted the truth that hit him in the face the first time he laid eyes on the melanin beauty that was her—his smart, sultry partner-in-crime, his petulant angel.

He paused, hearing the familiar buzz of Macy's phone, his ears attuned to the very sound. Following the device's echoes, he traversed the iron stairs to the balcony lookout, as his toe hit a smooth, flattened object—

Macy's phone—lying carelessly by the hidden brick entrance.

But where was Macy?