Each segment of this series is a single vignette; though they need to be read in sequence for the story to make sense, I prefer to think of each as its own individual piece. For this reason they have all been given their own subtitle, are labeled in single parts, and are individually rated. Here comes the required information: Title: CHIAROSCURO 14: PATIENCE (1/1) Author: Blueswirl @aol.com Classification: V,A, MSR Rating: PG Keyword: Mulder/Scully Spoilers: 4th Season, Pre-"Leonard Betts" Summary: The past cannot help but have an irrevocable effect on the present. Distribution: Please distribute to the EMXC, XF Fanfic List, ATXC and Gossamer. Feel free to post this story on any other archive or web page as long as my name remains attached. Watch out -- Disclaimer ahead: The characters of Fox Mulder and Dana Scully belong to Chris Carter and 1013 Prods., Fox Inc. and most importantly to David Duchovny and Gillian Anderson. I'm using them for this story without permission. So sue me. Feedback: I love it more than you could ever know. Please drop me a line -- good, bad, whatever! -- at Blueswirl@aol.com. CHIAROSCURO 14: PATIENCE (1/1) Blueswirl@aol.com 6/98 chiar-oscu-ro: the quality of being veiled or partly in shadow (Webster's, definition #5) For the first time since all this began, Virgil is becoming confused. His carefully orchestrated plans are not bearing fruit as quickly as he had fervently hoped they would. What had once seemed so clear has become murky and distorted and that frustrates him. If she will only listen, he thinks. He has so much he can teach her, if she will only listen. Virgil climbs the stairs to the upper story of the house. It is a beautiful house, made even more beautiful by its absolute isolation. It didn't take him long to find it; he had a very specific idea about what he wanted, and that clarity made it easy. Purchasing it actually turned out to be quite simple. He managed to handle a majority of the transaction via his computer and phone, which pleased him immensely because it kept things private. The house has been lovingly decorated. Virgil spent money freely, needing the work to be done quickly. The house is the home of his dreams. Of their dreams. And yet she has never once complimented him on his efforts. Sometimes he thinks that she preferred his old place, where they spent the first two days together until it was safe to travel. He liked it too; it was where he lived while putting his dreams into action. But the house is so much better. She has never once thanked him for all of the special construction work he had done on her behalf. She has never thanked him for saving her life. She has never thanked him for delivering her from evil. She has so much to learn, he thinks, reminding himself to be patient. Patience, he knows, is a valuable trait. The top floor of the house is tiny, just two rooms and a connecting bath. Everything else is downstairs, all of it carefully renovated to his specifications. The bedroom is her sole domain; for now, Virgil sleeps in the other room, which doubles as his laboratory. He is giving her time to adjust. He is very considerate that way. He knocks twice on the door to her room before he unlocks it. The lock is more than a formality; though there is little chance that she can escape, he knows better than to trust her. She is clever, and resourceful, and in the five weeks they have been together, she has tried to outsmart him more than once. Virgil opens the door and steps inside. The morning sun streams through the window, between the security bars that he installed just in case. The walls are painted a bright cheerful blue and there are roses on the dresser and the bedside table. He is careful to change them as soon as they start to wilt. "Good morning," he says, approaching the bed. She lies still beneath the flowered comforter, her head turned towards the wall. Away from him. She says nothing, but he has expected as much. She is always cranky in the morning. He pulls back the comforter and sheets to reveal her small, perfect body, clad in a white cotton nightgown that he special ordered from a catalogue. She turns her head then, copper hair spilling across the down pillow, and fixes him with the angry stare to which he has become accustomed. Virgil returns her stare with a brilliant smile as he pulls the hypodermic from the pocket of his shirt. "Let's get this over with," he tells her. "On your side." She clenches her hands into loose fists, but makes no other motion, though he knows she is perfectly capable of it. He sighs, resigned, and with one hand lifts her body, rolling her so that she lies on her side, her back now facing him. At least she has stopped fighting, he thinks as he lifts her nightgown, exposing the base of her spine. When they first reached the house, every shot was a fierce battle, making him reconsider his decision to restore some of her mobility. It only takes him a minute to administer the drug. Finished, he settles her flat on the bed once again before he asks, "Are you hungry?" She doesn't answer, until he reminds her that if she doesn't tell him herself, she won't be getting anything to eat. Finally, he is rewarded with a faint, "Yes." "Good," he replies. "Then let's get you ready for breakfast." Later, after he has bathed her and dressed her and carried her downstairs, Virgil prepares food for the two of them. Poached eggs -- his favorite -- and bacon and toast. A pot of coffee, and some fresh grapefruit juice. Once everything is perfectly arranged on the dining table, he goes looking for her. He finds her seated in her chair in front of the sliding glass doors that lead to the deck. The view from the house is incredible, and he understands why she loves it. The house is set alone near the top of the mountain, and the deck overlooks a vast expanse of forest, stretching for miles as far as the eye can see. There are no neighbors, no other houses to block the view. From this angle, the road down to the main highway isn't even visible; even if it were, there would be no traffic to see. It is miles from where they are to the main highway, and there is no reason for anyone else to travel the service road. There is nothing Virgil likes more than his privacy. "Come on," he tells her. "Breakfast is ready." She doesn't respond at first, but he waits, familiar with the routine. Just when his nerves are beginning to fray, she moves, her hands sliding from her lap to grasp the wheels on the sides of her chair. The chair has no motor -- Virgil finds the sound irritating -- but the fact that it is manual doesn't deter her in the slightest. She backs up smoothly, effortlessly, spinning the chair in a graceful half-circle that it took her very little time to master. She guides the chair forward then, towards the dining table, coming to rest in front of the plate that he has set out for her. They eat in silence. Virgil prefers the silence to the screams and rants and pleas that echoed through the house, those first days after she regained the power of speech. And to the lies she told him later, when she pretended and told him what she thought he wanted to hear in an effort to trick him. But sometimes he misses the sound of her voice. She talks very little now, addressing him only when it is absolutely necessary, and then only in the coldest of tones. He wonders how much longer he will have to wait until she speaks to him freely, with those sweet honeyed words he remembers so well. The words that she used so generously with *him*. She finishes almost everything that is on her plate, and that is enough to make him happy, at least for the moment. The fact that she is eating again is a good sign; for a time, he had suspected that he would have to resort to feeding her intravenously. But her appetite has returned, and Virgil knows that this means that she has begun to accept things. Has begun to accept him. It is a very good sign. As soon as she is done eating she rolls away from the table without giving him the slightest of glances. He lets her leave, well aware of the fact that she can't go far without him. There are no ramps attached to the front or side doors; each boasts five wooden steps to the ground outside which effectively prevent her from leaving the house without his help. Virgil has planned for everything. Nothing has been left to chance. He decides to reward her for eating by opening the sliding doors to the deck. As he clears away the breakfast dishes, checking carefully to be sure that she hasn't stolen any of the cutlery, he listens as she moves through the rooms on the ground floor. He is pleased once more by his own generosity in having the house renovated to accommodate her chair. He gives her this freedom, to roam as she pleases. He isn't worried. He knows where to look for her, when he is ready. Sure enough, when he is finished he finds her outside, on the deck. A tiny figure, delicate and fragile within the metal frame of the wheelchair. The mid-November frost has blanketed the leaves on the trees, but she doesn't seem to mind. He has dressed her warmly, in a heavy wool sweater and corduroy pants, and feels confident that she will not catch a cold. He won't let her stay outside long enough to take that risk. "Beautiful, isn't it," Virgil remarks, as casually as he is able. She makes no response, refusing to turn her head in his direction. Her gaze remains firmly focused on the trees. The wind blows strands of hair across her face, but she doesn't even raise a hand to smooth them back. "Maybe we should get two trees for Christmas," he offers. "We could put one of them out here on the deck." It is like speaking to a statue. Sometimes it makes him crazy, but not today. Today, he is filled with patience, and so he tries again. "We're so lucky, to have this wonderful house." She surprises him then, spinning her chair to face him directly, tilting her head up to lock her eyes with his. "*We* don't have anything. *You* have this house, and you have me. But keeping me here against my will doesn't mean that *we* have anything, except in your sick mind." Virgil is shocked by the harshness of her words, but he doesn't let her see that she has wounded him. Apparently, he thinks, she has not learned as much as he hoped. "This is *our* house," he explains patiently, as though to a child. "I bought this house for you. For us." "Well, you and this house can go to hell, for all I care." Such brash, impertinent words! He is tempted to slap her, to teach her a lesson, but he forces himself to refrain. Instead, he tries a different tact. "Dana," he begins, "you're not being reasonable." "Fuck reasonable!" Her face is flushed now with anger and fury, her hands tightly clenching the wheels of her chair. "I don't know what you hoped to accomplish with this insanity, but it's not going to work." "Dana...." He loves the sound of her name. He could say it over and over and over, if only she would allow it. "Dana, listen to me -- I can help you, if you'll let me." "Help me." She spits the words out as though they are distasteful. "You've done everything *except* help me. You've destroyed my family. You've destroyed *me*." She slams a fist against the side of her chair as her eyes slide away from him for a moment to regard the landscape below. When she raises her eyes to his again, they are full of unshed tears. "You've taken everything from me. *Everything*. And I will never feel anything for you except hate. I *despise* you," she hisses. With a quick deft motion of her hands, she spins the chair away from him and rolls across the deck, through the open sliding doors and back inside the house. Virgil stays where he is. There is no need to follow; she isn't going far. He will give her time to come back to her senses. And then they can begin again. "All things are possible until they are proved impossible -- and even the impossible may only be so, as of now." - Pearl S. Buck CHIAROSCURO 15: FORTITUDE (1/1) Blueswirl@aol.com 6/98 chiar-oscu-ro: the quality of being veiled or partly in shadow (Webster's, definition #5) It was the nights that were the hardest. During the days, her mind was occupied with so many other things. Just trying to get around, to manipulate that damn chair, took plenty of concentration. Keeping out of his way took a lot of effort. When she couldn't totally avoid him, she focused all of her energy on blocking out his flat monotonous drone, on ignoring the clammy feel of his hands on her body as he tended to her needs. She was always vigilant where he was concerned, looking for any loopholes, any loose ends that might help her escape. But he made no mistakes. During the days, he watched her like a hawk. At night, however, she was alone. Left to lie helpless in the queen sized bed behind the locked door, with nothing but her thoughts for company. Her thoughts, and her memories. When it became too painful to think, too agonizing to remember, Dana Scully resorted to exercise. She would awkwardly twist her body until she lay face down against the sheets and then she would do sets of push-ups, again and again. It was hard going, the mattress not being the most solid of surfaces, and after just a few repetitions her arms would begin to shake with the effort. But she kept it up, over and over, ignoring the tremors, pushing past the pain. Knowing how important it was to preserve what little strength she had left. ....ninety-eight, ninety-nine, one hundred. Each time she reached one hundred she would stop, and rest, and think. Going over her limited options until her breathing slowed and she was ready to begin again. One, two, three.... When she simply couldn't take it any more, she gave up, rolling over to lie flat on her back once more. She could feel the tingle of post-exercise adrenaline course through her body, as strong in her legs as in her arms. Yet though she never gave up trying she couldn't get her legs to move, couldn't get her knees to bend. Thanks to the daily shot Virgil administered, her lower body remained paralyzed, from her waist to her toes. Some nights Dana was consumed by bleak despair, by the fear that she had suffered irreparable damage at his hand. By the fear that she would never get home again, would never again hold her child, or be held by the man she loved. Other nights it was rage that filled her, a rage so deep it turned her heart black as pitch. Those were the nights that she dreamed of revenge, of finding a way to pay Virgil back for all of the suffering he had caused her family to endure. Tonight was different. Tonight she had a goal on which to focus. Escape. It was finally within her grasp, that much she knew. But she would only have one opportunity. If she failed, there was a better than average chance that Virgil would decide to use the drugs to totally immobilize her again. Or he might simply decide to kill her and end it all. Dana was not afraid to try. She had nothing left to lose. Over the long, long weeks, a pattern had emerged. Once a week -- always on Friday -- Virgil would drive down into town and load up his sports utility vehicle with food and supplies. The trip usually took him about three hours, during which he left her in her bed, the door securely locked. This Friday was only two days away. With any luck, this time he would return to find her gone, and the police there to greet him. Dana had made and rejected many other plans before this one. There were no neighbors; no one came in response to her screams and cries during the first endless days of her captivity, and she had since abandoned hope that anyone would. Despite the relative mobility her wheelchair allowed her, there wasn't any way for her to escape the house. Even if she somehow managed to negotiate the outer stairs and reach the car, managed to somehow start the engine, she couldn't possibly drive, having no means to work the pedals. And the woods themselves were too treacherous for her to maneuver in her chair. He would catch her in an instant if she even made an attempt. Reasoning with Virgil had proved equally fruitless. She had tried to get inside his head, to figure out what he wanted to hear and then say the words. She had tried to negotiate with him, had tried to bargain though she had little to offer. Though it had sickened her to do it, she had even tried to seduce him, had flirted with him in the hopes that he would stop giving her the drug and restore the use of her legs. Everything failed. Though Virgil stubbornly refused to be specific, Dana knew that he blamed Mulder for whatever had gone wrong in his life. And that rage against Mulder had somehow been transferred to her. She had only a vague understanding of the events that had set all of this in motion, but it was enough to assure her that Virgil was singleminded in his intentions. He wanted to save her, to save her from the evil that Mulder represented. What she feared most was that he would keep her here forever in order to do so. Her one and only hope lay behind the locked door of the other bedroom, the room Virgil used as a lab. It was there that he kept the only phone. It was on his bedside table. Dana had seen it once by chance, when he accidently left the door ajar; she had caught a glimpse of it as he carried her downstairs. There was a computer in there too, maybe even one with a modem. But a phone was all she really needed. Discovering the existence of the phone was just the first half of the battle. Getting in there to use it remained an insurmountable obstacle. Even though he left her alone on his weekly errand run, Virgil kept all of the doors securely locked. Though her bedroom and his were connected by the bath, there were no handles or knobs on the door of the bath that led to his room, so that avenue was out. Which left her only one option: unlock her bedroom door, and then unlock the door to his room that was on the hall. The big question then became how to handle the locks. There was nothing in her room for her to use, and Virgil saw to it that nothing that could conceivably be used as a tool or a weapon ever came into her possession. Sometimes Dana suspected that he had eyes in the back of his head, so closely did he watch her. But now her prayers had been answered, as though by a miracle. This afternoon, Virgil had put a kettle of water on to boil before going upstairs. It was the whistling sound of the kettle that brought him rushing back to the kitchen; in his haste, he had carelessly tossed a pile of paperwork he had brought down with him onto the table in the hall. A sudden hunch had caused her to roll over to the table, and it had paid off big time. It wasn't the papers that caught her eye, but the fat paper clips that held them together. While he was busy in the kitchen, she had snatched one of the clips, sliding the papers that it had held underneath one of the others. She had tucked the clip into the pocket of her jeans and scooted back across the room before he returned, seemingly unaware of the rearranged paperwork or the ferocious pounding of her heart. Now the pilfered paper clip was safely tucked along the inside edge of the window sill above her bed. Picking a lock with a bent paper clip wasn't the easiest thing in the world, but she had managed it before, and she would manage it again. Dana knew the hardest part would be getting herself out of bed and down the hall to his room. Virgil never brought the wheelchair upstairs; there wasn't any room for it, so there was no sense in trying to persuade him to do so. Which left crawling as her only viable choice. Night after night she had fought to build up the strength in her arms; she now felt confident in her ability to get herself out of the bed and across the room. She could slide the chair by the side wall over to the door and use it to hoist herself up to reach the lock. Once out of the room she would drag the chair with her down the hall to repeat the procedure outside the door to his room. And then she would be in, and on the phone, and help would be on the way. Not so hard, she silently reassured herself. Not when there is so much at stake. Failure was not an option. Dana knew that she was already at the brink of losing her sanity. She could no longer handle Virgil's endless ranting, his delusional babble mixed with quoted scriptures. He went on and on about how much he had to teach her, how much she had to learn, how he would deliver her from evil and save her soul. As far as she could tell, he had only succeeded in delivering her to a waking nightmare from which there was no release. Though Virgil professed that he was her savior, Dana knew better. He was nothing save the agent of her destruction. And to get away from him, she was willing to try just about anything. "If I shoot at the sun, I may hit a star." - P.T. Barnum CHIAROSCURO 16: VERACITY (1/1) Blueswirl@aol.com 6/98 chiar-oscu-ro: the quality of being veiled or partly in shadow (Webster's, definition #5) The charter jet wasn't as plush as those frequented by movie stars and rock musicians, but it more than served its purpose. Six federal agents fit quite comfortably within the interior of the plane, the six most senior members of the task force assigned to track down Dana Scully. True to form, Fox Mulder hadn't taken the time to become acquainted with any of them. He knew their faces and their names; his eidetic memory had seen to that. He didn't want to know any more. Knowing more would be superfluous, a distraction that he couldn't afford. Instead, he kept his eyes focused on the papers that lay in front of him. Thinking not of the people who surrounded him on board the plane, but of the man who had become his quarry. Virgil Raymond Milhouse. "About ten more minutes," Skinner announced, from somewhere over his shoulder. Mulder glanced at his watch and nodded. "Have they seen anything?" A local team of agents had been dispatched to the house that was listed as belonging to the brother of one V.R. Milhouse, in a small suburb outside of Roanoke, Virginia. "We've got the area staked out," Skinner replied. "The house is pretty isolated, and they say it looks vacant -- no one has been in or out in the last two hours." "Doesn't mean anything," Mulder responded quickly, hoping that he was right. "He could just be laying low." In his heart of hearts, however, he doubted his own words. It had all been too easy, and easy did not seem like the m.o. of the man he sought. It was the Conway case that had led them this far. Mulder remembered the investigation as though it had happened yesterday, though more than a decade had passed since the incident. Along with several other agents from Violent Crimes he had pursued a vicious killer, Roger Conway, across four southern states. After an arduous chase, they had finally managed to trap him inside a convenience store. A standoff ensued, during which a panicked Conway took out seven innocent customers with an automatic rifle before he was subdued. The seven victims were unfortunate casualties in a battle to bring down a man who had already taken thirty-one other lives, but the media hadn't quite seen it that way, resulting in a series of public hearings indicting the behavior of the Bureau. After he stumbled across the footage from the final day of the hearings, everything clicked into place for Mulder. He remembered how the word justice had been tossed around recklessly then, the friends and families of the shooting victims having had much to say about the loss of their loved ones. It was there that Mulder began to search, running background checks on all seven of the deceased, looking for anything that seemed unusual or suspicious. Nothing was found amongst the closest friends and relatives, so the search was widened to encompass colleagues, neighbors -- anyone that had known the victims, regardless of how close the context. It was then that they found Virgil Milhouse. According to the information uncovered by the Bureau, Virgil worked for the same company as the only female victim, Annie Delanoy. A company that specialized in industrial pharmaceuticals, based in Knoxville, Tennessee. Further investigation revealed that at one time Virgil had pursued a romantic relationship with Annie. Though the relationship never blossomed into anything beyond casual friendship, Virgil had been unduly affected by her death, suffering a nervous breakdown which led to his being institutionalized. Thirteen months ago, Virgil Milhouse had been released from the Citrus Grove Sanitarium in Knoxville. Two weeks after his release, he rented an apartment outside of Knoxville. The lease on the apartment had been allowed to expire six months previous; it was then that he had apparently moved into the house owned by his brother, who was stationed with the Navy in the South Pacific. With any luck, it would be there that they would find him. The pilot's voice boomed over the intercom, announcing that the plane was about to land. It had been a short flight, less than an hour; then again, it only took six hours to travel that distance by car. So close, Mulder though. Could Virgil have really been so close, all this time? The plane landed without incident and they were on route to the house within minutes. Sitting in the front passenger seat of the lead vehicle, Mulder clenched his hands into fists, his nails leaving crescent shaped imprints in his sweat-dampened palms. It was apparent when they reached Derek Milhouse's neighborhood that it wasn't a wealthy area. Far from it, in fact; most of the houses were in severe disrepair. They parked a block away, near some of the vehicles driven by the local agents, and made their way forward on foot. Too easy, Mulder thought, resisting the temptation to wipe the sweat from his brow. Too goddamn easy. Aloud, he spoke to Skinner and another agent, whose name happened to be Taylor. "We'll take the front. Make sure the house is surrounded." Taylor nodded, and turned to announce the plan to the other members of the team. Skinner merely looked at him, his expression grave. "Are you ready for this?" "Ready as I'll ever be," Mulder grimly responded. As they approached the house, Mulder found to his surprise that his thoughts were occupied by his son. He knew that Ryan was safe at Margaret Scully's house; he had spoken to him before they boarded the plane. And yet now his son was uppermost in his mind. Perhaps it was due to the guilt he felt, not having been the best of fathers these past few weeks. Perhaps it was because thinking of him was a comfort. It helped block out some of his fear of what they might find. The maneuver was perfectly executed, with extreme precision, and they were inside of the house in the blink of an eye. Mulder found himself surrounded by agents on all sides, weapons at the ready. He took the lead, anxious to be the one to discover whatever horrors the ramshackle house had to offer them. Inside, however, the house appeared as deserted as it had from the outside. With Skinner by his side, Mulder entered each of the front rooms of the one story house and found absolutely nothing and no one there to greet him. "All clear," came the voice of one of the local agents, whom Mulder could not name. He was the leader of the team who had entered from the back. Shit. The word ran through Mulder's mind unbidden, his frustration springing forth at the idea that this was a dead end. "Agent Skinner?" A different voice this time, belonging to MacKenzie, a female agent who had traveled with them on the plane. "I think I've found something." His feet moving double-time, Mulder followed the sound of her voice down the hallway towards a small room at the end. Skinner was one step behind him as they passed MacKenzie and entered the room through the door that she held open with one hand. Once there, Mulder froze, rendered immobile by the sight that greeted him. It wasn't the room itself that held him in thrall. It was simply furnished, bearing only a bed, a chair and table, a dresser and a makeshift bookshelf. It was obviously a spare room, a room carelessly thrown together to accommodate the occasional overnight visitor. Except for the wall. The wall that was covered in photographs of his wife. Mulder stepped forward, transfixed, his hand rising of its own accord as he closed the interminable distance. There were seemingly hundreds of pictures, taken with a long lens camera, depicting Dana in all manner of mundane daily activities. His fingertips brushed against them, one at a time, heedless of the fact that he might be eliminating prints by doing so. They had no need for them. They already knew the identity of the man who had taken the shots, and the photos themselves were stark proof of the level of his obsession. Of his insanity. "Dear God...." The words were Skinner's, but Mulder barely registered them, so focused was he on the sight that lay before him. It was almost more than he could stand, looking at her, just as he remembered her in his mind's eye. Looking at her and knowing that someone else had done the very same thing, and had dared to leave behind photographic proof of having done exactly that. Skinner had to pull him away from the makeshift collage in order to get him to examine the cellar of the house. Mulder didn't remember the rickety wooden steps that they descended, but once beneath the ground he recognized the damp, dank stench. Recognized the lengths of chain that had bound him to the wall. And when one of the agents found the switch on the wall that activated the blinding overhead light, he remembered that as well. Now, any lingering doubts as to the identity of their quarry had vanished. His intentions were now frighteningly clear. All that remained was to discover where he had gone. Please, Mulder whispered, offering up a silent prayer. Please let us find them before it is too late. "Come on," said Skinner, his words echoing in the squalid cellar. "Let's get out of here." Numb, Mulder could do nothing else but follow as Skinner guided him back up the stairs and out into the light. "You must do the thing you think you cannot do." - Eleanor Roosevelt CHIAROSCURO 17: ABSOLUTION (1/1) Blueswirl@aol.com 6/98 chiar-oscu-ro: the quality of being veiled or partly in shadow (Webster's, definition #5) There is nothing better than a crisp, winter day. Virgil loves the winter, loves the snow that blankets the mountains, loves the sight of his frosty breath as it exits his body. It hasn't yet snowed this year, which he finds surprising. As a child, he remembers the snow sometimes falling before Halloween. The weather is changing, he thinks sadly. The world is changing. Virgil isn't often pleased by change. He pushes these thoughts out of his mind with little effort. Today he is in a marvelous mood, and he wants to savor every second. Today, when he came up to wake her, she greeted him pleasantly. Not with a smile, not quite, but at least without a scowl. It lightened his heart, especially after her angry outburst earlier in the week. Then, he had been upset. Now, his heart is filled with hope at the fact that she is finally beginning to come around. Today, Virgil welcomes change. Whistling a cheerful tune, he packs the groceries in the back of his Suburban, glancing into each bag to make sure that nothing has been forgotten. He has purchased special things this time: a good bottle of wine, a hunk of expensive cheese, a fancy package of crackers. Two prime cuts of steak, fat potatoes, the freshest of vegetables. A cherry pie, straight from the oven at the local bakery. Tonight, he thinks, will be a night of celebration. Finished loading the groceries, Virgil slams the back door shut and then walks around to the driver's side door. He climbs into the vehicle and starts the ignition, still whistling his happy tune. The radio comes on automatically, but he shuts it off, preferring to be alone with his thoughts. He has everything now. Everything he ever wanted. Virgil drives out of town, closely adhering to the speed limit. It would not do to be pulled over in such a small town; he has no desire for questions. As he drives, he smiles, realizing that at last it is almost all behind him. Soon, he will no longer think of Annie. That fact is a miracle in and of itself. There was a time where Virgil feared that he would never wake without hearing her laugh, never laugh without seeing her smile. She was perfect, his Annie, and he was perfect for her, though she had never seen it quite that way. And yet her very obliviousness had somehow made his feelings for her all the more pure, all the more special. He had mourned her deeply when she was taken away. At first his thoughts had consisted only of finding ways to purify and sanctify her memory. Ways to punish those who had deemed her death insignificant. It was only later that things became clear to him, after he captured the man who represented the evil that brought about her destruction. He realized then it was true that revenge was a dish best served cold, and his own heart was still too warm to exact the proper penance. It was only then he realized that Annie was merely the conduit designed to lead him to his true destiny, to his true love. It was mere icing on the cake that acquiring this love, making this woman his own would serve to undo his opponent better than any torture ever could. Joy floods Virgil as he negotiates the steep, mountainous curves. Images of her, of their future together, drench him with vivid colors, with wild strident sounds. Soon, he thinks, elated. It will be soon. Before long, he reaches the turnoff that leads to the side road up to his mountaintop oasis. He glances at his watch, noticing that he has made good time, despite his stop at the flower shop. Today, his feet have wings. He is early. She will be pleased. Virgil pulls the vehicle up to the head of the drive and parks alongside the house. Keys in hand, he moves to the back and grabs two of the bags of groceries, making sure that the ones he takes are the ones with the most perishable items inside. He walks up to the back door and unlocks it, carrying the bags into the kitchen and dropping them on the counter. It is only after he has put the milk and eggs and cheese in the refrigerator, only after he has unloaded the other grocery bags from the car and tucked their contents safely away, only after he has taken down the crystal vase from the cupboard above the sink and begun to arrange the flowers, only then does the strange feeling hit him. The feeling that something has gone horribly wrong. Virgil abandons the flowers and mounts the stairs to the upper floor with cautious deliberation. With each successive step the feeling becomes stronger until it threatens to overpower him completely. Before he has reached the top step, he knows that his intuition has not failed him. It is the hallway runner that he sees first, its long printed length no longer lying flat against the wood floor. In places the thin rug is twisted, as though something has been dragged across it with the intent of marring its intricately woven pattern. Virgil stops at the head of the stairs, stunned, and it is only with the greatest effort that he manages to turn his head to the left. The doorway to her bedroom is open, hanging ajar to reveal crumpled sheets tossed recklessly on the bed. The room is empty, and its very emptiness siphons the joy out of Virgil's heart inch by painful inch. The ragged sting of betrayal pierces a jagged hole in the wall that holds back his anger, and he draws in a deep, agonized breath. Virgil's feet carry him down the narrow hall to the opposite end, towards the other open door. His door, the door that leads to his sanctuary and his lab. He knows what he will find once he steps through the doorway. The chair that stands crookedly balanced against the doorframe is enough to erase any doubts he might have had; it is her chair, from her room. Now he knows what she has done. Perhaps it is that knowledge that slows his pace, some tiny part of him still hoping that he has been wrong. Still hoping that there remains a chance to set things right. He reaches the doorway and that tiny hope is extinguished as soon as he sees her. She is sprawled on the floor near the broken remains of his bedside table, arms and legs akimbo like a broken marionette. In one fisted hand she clutches the phone receiver as though merely holding it tightly enough would restore its dial tone. Virgil knows better, knows that the line has been rendered useless by the master switch in the basement, which he never fails to flip before leaving the house. He stands and stares at her for a long moment as his disbelief blossoms into fury. Looking at her now he sees what he should have realized all along. There is no beauty left within her, no innocence left to save. The shirt she wears is torn, stained with rings of sweat as dark as her soul. The truth is revealed to him in the damp strands of hair that cling to her face, in the panicked flush of her cheeks, in the hopeless despair reflected in her crystal blue eyes. "Virgil...." She utters his name softly, as a precursor to what would undoubtedly become another in her litany of excuses and lies, but he cannot listen to her now. He must act while the path to salvation remains clearly illuminated. As he turns his back on her and walks down the hall he hears her call for him, calmly at first, and then more frantically. Apologies and pleas mix in with his name, but the sound of her voice means no more to him now than the buzzing of a fly. He descends one set of stairs and then another, entering the basement through the door off of the kitchen. Once inside the basement he quickly finds what he needs; the yellow canisters are clearly marked. Virgil's good spirits return as he sprinkles the kerosene throughout the basement, and by the time he reaches the ground floor of the house they have risen to the point where he feels almost transcendent. He splashes the flammable liquid indiscriminately over each piece of hand-picked furniture, over all of the custom designed additions. Rather than extinguishing his dreams he is purifying them, sanctifying them. There is, he thinks, no more holy an expression of love than ultimate sacrifice. He is almost out of kerosene when he reaches the stairs so he douses the bottom few steps with the remainder of the last container. He pauses for a last moment to appreciate all that he has built, all that he is now so willing to destroy, and then heads back to the doorway that leads to the basement. From his pocket Virgil extracts a matchbook, and from it he plucks a single match. He lights it on his first attempt and tosses it down the stairs. The reaction is immediate; the match ignites a puddle of kerosene in a plume of acrid smoke. Virgil leaves the door to the basement ajar as he turns away, wanting to be sure his fire has enough oxygen to survive. When he gets back to his room she's still on the floor but has shifted position, her back now against the frame of his bed, her useless legs laying limp on the wood floor. Her arms are tucked tightly across her middle as though she is in pain, and when she raises her head to allow her gaze to meet his he can see it in her eyes. "Virgil," she pleads, "you don't want to do this." He knows that she is talking about the fire. The smell of the kerosene is pungent and smoke is already in the air, though it will be awhile before the flames themselves reach this room. "Yes," he tells her, "I do." "No!" Her chin trembles, her eyes weep. "No, Virgil, please. Stop this, stop it now." "This is the best way," he explains, as though to a child. "It's not!" Her eyes are wide with fear. "There's still time. You can save us, Virgil. You can save us both." "This is our salvation." "This is wrong! This is crazy... you're scaring me." She draws in a deep, shuddering breath. "Don't do this, please. You don't have to do this." Even now, she fails to understand. "I am doing this for us." It is then that she really begins to cry, her head slumping below her shoulders, her body shaking as the tears break free. "I don't want to die. Please, Virgil, please don't let me die." Her plaintive, helpless wails touch him, remind him that she is but a lamb who has been led astray. "This is not death," he says gently, moving towards her. "This is our rebirth." She doesn't raise her head as he sits down beside her, tucking his legs beneath him. He folds his arms around her shaking body and leans his cheek against her hair. She allows the touch and in it he feels her growing acceptance. "This is our rebirth," he repeats, comforted at last. He is startled when she shifts in his embrace, her hand moving with remarkable speed. He feels the prick of something sharp pierce the skin in his arm and his eyes open wide in shock. He twists his head to face her and what he sees in her eyes is not fear but madness. "What....." The rest of the sentence dies in his throat as his body begins to spasm and convulse. He loses his hold on her and collapses, sliding to the floor in a heap. It is only then that he sees what has been hidden from him, beneath the bed. His prized metal case, its hinges open, its contents disturbed. It is only then that he truly realizes what she has done. No, he thinks. This is not the way it is meant to happen. Virgil shudders, a last gasp of air entering his lungs, and then everything fades to black. "Nothing is as far away as one minute ago." - Jim Bishop Thanks for reading. Feedback *always* appreciated at Blueswirl@aol.com. = The Blueswirl Stories = Revolving Satellites Platonic Tangible Inadequate Chiaroscuro Chiaroscuro 2: Interlude Chiaroscuro 3: Covenant Chiaroscuro 4: Inversion Chiaroscuro 5: Courage Chiaroscuro 6: Devotion Chiaroscuro 7: Simplicity Chiaroscuro 8: Supplication Chiaroscuro 9: Commencement Chiaroscuro 10: Terror Chiaroscuro 11: Resurrection Chiaroscuro 12: Exploration Chiaroscuro 13: Contemplation Chiaroscuro 14: Patience Chiaroscuro 15: Fortitude Chiaroscuro 16: Veracity Chiaroscuro 17: Absolution