Requiem (22)   I resemble everyone but myself, and sometimes see in shop windows, despite the well-known laws of optics, the portrait of a stranger, date unknown, often signed in a corner by my father. If he closes his eyes he can pretend it is Petersburg. If he closes his eyes he can pretend. Pretend he has walked the length of the Prospekt - over the Fontanka, west with the breeze, past the Merchant's Yard where he'd pause out of courtesy to examine Yakov's fresh selection of gloves and on to the Grand Hotel for tea, where he'd suffer the choice between an apple sharlotka or a tart strawberry vareniki. Half an hour he'd take with his pastry, skimming through a local paper or a book, before rising to his feet again. He would be full then, fat and warm, his stride now rounder, now fed to satisfaction with a slower pace to the Kazansky Sobor; the magnificent cathedral of Our Lady of Kazan. Ninety-six Corinthian columns she had, arcing like great stone arms around the fountain to extend her embrace to the street - so like Bernini's colonnade in Rome. He would amble, he imagines, past his favorite places, through his common Sunday afternoon routines, all the way down to the Neva where he will pick his bench and sit like some ambivalent Romanov, pinched between the water and the Winter Palace, thinking sour thoughts of how the years have fled and how his family has distilled into legacy. If he closes his eyes he can be halfway home, or where home was once supposed to be. If he closes his eyes, which he does not. He'd reached the site of the meeting first, having thrown his schedule fifteen minutes ahead, attired through the lens of grim experience in casual slacks, a cashmere jacket and a soft linen shirt minus tie. A cursory inspection of the premises assured him Nikolas had yet to arrive, and he admitted to a certain relief for that. The staggered timing afforded him a few sacred seconds to relax; a short calm before the probable storm to gather his thoughts and accustom himself to these dockside surroundings. He'd taken a seat on the long wooden bench at the center of the pier's promenade making note that, once again, the prince had chosen to confront him in a public place. While it would certainly appeal to his vanity to assume this proof he was a man to be feared, Maxim suspected the reality was far more disheartening. So often are our struggles betrayed in the most inconsequent of our actions. That fear played a part in his selection of venue, Maxim had no doubt. Yet what the man dreaded was not what might be rising in front of his eyes, but what lurked with such appalling ever-presence behind them. It was becoming painfully evident that Nikolas Cassadine's terrors existed not, as he had originally believed, in the exterior world of brutal fact but rather deep in the well of his psyche. To Maxim's view it seemed obvious there were thoughts the man was afraid to think; feelings he could neither name nor restrain but that, on particularly stressful occasions, boiled to the surface in their rawest state - unprocessed by the mind, unfiltered by logic or reason or even the most preliminary pass through the prosaic sieve of common sense. This psychological fortress he'd built, whose purpose Maxim initially supposed was to keep the demons out, may instead have been constructed to keep them in. What else had that crushing handshake been about? And those words: You'll never know the truth. Insinuating there was a truth to know; some daunting verity he clutched at his core and was unwilling or unable to reveal. One had only to look at the men who came before - Mikkos, Stavros, Stefan - to find historical precedent for this; to cite it as an intrinsic and perniciously persistent Cassadine lament. What we imprison inside us, Maximillian, is a service to the world, his father had said. They were all afraid of it, all enslaved to it - this overwhelming evil each imagined himself afflicted with and, in times of cruelest crisis, proved to be more than capable of. It was not so very outrageous to suspect his cousin spent the body of his hours struggling to contain the gremlin within and that it had, for lack of expressive sustenance, begun to feast on his soul. All theory, of course. All speculation, he supposed, as he bent back a sleeve to check his watch. Yet like every other debatable contention, it needed testing out. "Maximillian. I haven't kept you waiting, I hope?" "Not at all," Maxim replied, rising to offer his hand. The prince gripped it briefly and returned it to him unmaimed. "I thought to have a look at the harbor myself in an effort to better explain your proposal to the council." He gestured to the bench and Nikolas took a reluctant seat at his side, setting the folder that bound his prospectus on the wide wooden slat between them. "I was surprised you didn't send this by messenger. I hope you didn't feel obliged to meet with me in person?" "I wanted to be sure we were on the same page regarding the exhumation," Nikolas sustained, twisting open the buttons of his overcoat to relieve the tightness at his chest. "Now that you know my reasons, it should be clear why the grave must remain untouched." "To preserve the myth that he's there, you mean? It may be a little late for that," Maxim noted leniently. "You read the papers. You realize they've caught on to this?" "It's a mystery I'm willing to live with," the prince professed. "So long as it stays a mystery absent of provable fact. They can wonder all they like. As long as the grave remains intact, they'll never be absolutely certain. Just another Cassadine rumor to add to all the rest." "And Helena?" "I've taken precautions. That's none of your concern." "Be that as it may, I'm sure there's no need to remind you that while this might do for your grandmother and the inquisitive citizens of Port Charles; it will not mollify the council. I'll have to see him. You understand that, yes?" "No." A final answer, and firm. "You don't trust me, then? You don't trust us to keep your secret?" he asked, his voice evincing a hint of polite exasperation. "Nikolai Stavrosovich, do you truly believe your family would betray you in this or any other way?" "I don't know my family," Nikolas proclaimed, reacting to the censure with marked disdain. "Stefan was my family. He was all I was given and he's dead." "So you're an orphan now, are you? No relation at all to Natasha or Helena? To Lucky or Laura or Luke, whom it seems you've gone the distance for on more than one occasion? You're all alone in the world, as you see it, with only Emily to share your name?" Maxim scrutinized him carefully, noting the way this prince purposely avoided his gaze. "And does she know? About the grave, I mean? Have you told her the plot is empty?" "I haven't and you won't either!" an infuriated Nikolas maintained. "There's no need to bully a loyalty out of me. I've told you I won't interfere in your marriage or the selected lies you choose to tell your wife." He could see the hostility shimmer as it crept up to flush his cousin's skin. Maxim tempered the rebuke in his tone and converted his course to logic. "You must recognize that the questions surrounding your uncle's death and the mystery of his burial are far too significant to be swept beneath the rug. The world may be forced into satisfaction with whatever factual fragment you give it, the council will not rest until it has the truth. Refuse to deal with me, kill me if you like, and they will only send another, and another. Their need to know quite surpasses the somewhat negligible concern of a body count." He gifted his cousin the slip of a smile and pointed to the folder between them. "The prospectus is a brilliant maneuver, though. You've got them weighing the worth of a direct approach. Reach for their riches and they'll always retreat. But Nikolai Stavrosovich, mark me on this, they'll only end in going around you. I can't think you'd be any further pleased to have your secrets pursued by invisible men rifling through the shadows at your back." Nikolas snarled, springing from the bench, unable to contain the aggravation that bristled to the surface. "He'd dead! Can't they get that through their heads? It's over and done. The how and why are immaterial." "Not to them." And on this truth Maxim sat back resolutely in his seat; testing the recuperative powers of the man who stalked like a great caged cat to the lip of the harbor before him. Could he find his strategic mettle through the haze of this impotent rage? Could he wade through the acidic sea of his resentment and cast a foot on dry land again? Or was he lost to it now, lost to his ire and the tempting, affirmational power of the violence roiling within? The distance he put between them - the back he turned, the neglect he displayed - gave his cousin no indication of the next step he'd take or if, in fact, there was an additional response this prince felt compelled to make. "Any suggestions?" Nikolas submitted in a growl to the ships that lay at anchor in the bay. "I'm sorry?" Because he'd need to say that again. He'd need to own the question and its relevant, though no doubt regrettable, reach for an answer. "If it were you," the prince repeated, rewording his request to a less offensive hypothetical, "how would you counter the council's demands?" "Well, I wouldn't roll over and play dead. They're Cassadines, they'd never believe it," he riposted dryly, rising on that light aside to join his cousin at the water's edge. "I suppose I'd hunt for the unhappy medium." "Which is?" Nikolas spat tersely. "You could try provisions and contingencies. I'll give you this if you relinquish that? Negotiate your way to a solution you can live with. You must remember the body, while of paramount importance in an evidentiary sense, is not their only concern. Do you imagine Langston would have granted your aunt that temporary reprieve if it were? No," he disclosed through a companionable grin. "And so I would ask myself what else the council wanted that I might be persuaded to concede. The most obvious, of course, is a recounting of events that led up to your uncle's death as witnessed by the man who knew him best - through his uniquely Cassadine eye. Tell them what happened and why. You say these things are irrelevant. How much of a sacrifice could they be to extend?" "I'm their prince," his cousin snapped back. "I don't owe them anything, and I won't haggle like a fishwife over the corpse of the man who raised me." "You'll leave them to their own devices, then? A brave choice." Maxim nodded somberly, his attitude reflecting only the most humble respect. "And you're right, I suppose. How could a prince be expected to retain his authority were he to debase himself with the making of a single concessional gesture - no matter the time and trouble it saves? Forgive me for suggesting the common man's response. I'm afraid my insights can only rise to the level of my station." "Don't do that!" Nikolas roared, erupting abruptly into rage. "I hated it when he did that…just backed away from an argument beneath his insufferable cloak of humility!" His head jerked to the side and he sought to regain his composure, his voice lowering an octave as he forced it to calm. "He was as arrogant as I was, as titled as I was, as born to privilege as any other man on earth could hope to be. We both knew it. His every retreat was a lie." "I'm sorry, I don't…" "Stefan," he hissed through clenching teeth. "Your Count. My uncle. This fostering father who kept us all dancing on a string. That's what he left behind, you know. That was his bequest to me. A world full of puppets and the skill to manipulate them in any way I pleased. There's nothing real there, don't you see? Nothing genuinely worth having." He quieted suddenly, seeming to realize he'd opened a door better left closed, and took hold of himself once more; ruthlessly repressing his emotions in an effort to recover some semblance of reserve. Once he'd achieved a posture he found more comfortably remote, he inquired on an almost indifferent note, "What would they need to know?" "Oh, whatever you could tell them I imagine," Maxim offered guilelessly, shrugging his shoulders to minimize this prince's struggle with capitulation. Easy. It should be made easy for him. Bordering on the meaningless. "For instance, when your uncle first returned from Milan, did you notice anything different about him? It's a frequently-asked question, and heavily debated among the kin. Was he observably altered prior to his arrival or were his more erratic behaviors the product of something he encountered here? I guess what I'm asking is this: Did he seem mad from the start?" "No. I don't…no," Nikolas conveyed haltingly, his wary brown eyes clouding as he troubled over the phrasing. "You're operating under the assumption he'd gone insane." "Didn't he, though? You, yourself, have called him a madman and I have no proof to dispute this claim. In fact, his acts fall quite neatly within the boundary of that diagnosis. The murder of Summer Holloway. The attempted murder of Lorenzo Alcazar. The kidnapping of Lydia Karenin. Not that these choices are in any way unusual or inappropriately entertained in the mind of a Cassadine, any Cassadine," he yielded deferentially. "But the lack of reasoning behind them? The startlingly illogical and brutish manner in which they were conceived and carried out? Where was his tactical mastery? His strategic brilliance? His legendary legerdemain? No wit sits in evidence here; no class, no grace, no style to apply or cite as belonging to the Stefan Cassadine we all once knew. Something changed, that seems obvious. Are you saying this isn't true?" "I wouldn't call him insane," Nikolas contradicted impatiently, plunging his hands into the pockets of his coat and turning to face the harbor; its waters growing grey with an encroaching fog. Twilight had somehow found a way to come silently creeping in. "He wasn't insane. He was the same man he'd always been, only older…fiercer…more fixed in his conceit of who I was and what I should be doing. As if he had all the wisdom and I had nothing but an urge to misbehave. The fights were exactly the same." Maxim rocked back on his heels and clasped his hands behind him, taking a moment to digest this. "So it was not at all extraordinary for him to have made an attempt on Emily's life? You feel that response was in character? Had he threatened your women before?" "No. No," Nikolas disclaimed, shaking his head intently. "I don't know where that came from. I'd backed him into a corner, I guess. I didn't know he'd borrowed money from the mob. I didn't know how desperate he was. The Karenin fortune was all he could see. For him, it was the only answer." "And Emily stood in the way of that." "In his mind, she did." "Very well. Then discounting all the rational means he might have found to remove this obstacle, and allowing for that desperate state you suggest, why didn't he simply abduct her? Remove her from the scene altogether? He had a skill for that, didn't he? And past experience to draw on. Lesley Webber? Chloe Morgan? Emily could have disappeared without a trace, to be returned at a later, more convenient date, after you'd married Ms. Karenin. And if it was his intent to kill her, if this was the only solution he could find, he could have killed her there - not here, on his property, surrounded by people who knew her and would care; where he was certain to be labeled a suspect. You don't find this choice at all absurd?" "Of course, it's absurd. It's murder!" Nikolas fumed, lifting his eyes to the sky; intolerant of both this conversation and the memory of what his uncle had done. "I don't know what he was thinking. None of it seemed rational at the time. He ran around town committing crime after crime until the walls began closing in. It was brutal to watch and painful to be a part of." "Yet you never thought to put a stop to it? You never sought to get him help?" His cousin snorted scornfully. "You don't know what you're talking about. I turned him in to the police. I allowed Luke Spencer to put him on trial and forced him to account for his crimes. I went to the tunnels the day before he died and offered to fly him out of the country, to begin a new life somewhere else. I tried to put an end to this misery. I don't know what else I could have done." "Don't you?" Maxim contested in a tone that barely concealed the bile rising in his throat. "I would have thought he deserved, at the very least, the same consideration you've given your mother. She's lost her mind as well, hasn't she? Killed a man, didn't she? Did you turn her in to the police? Did you deliver her to her arch-enemy and have her publicly flogged for her crimes? Did you thrust a ticket into her catatonic hand, tell her she's on her own and attempt to spirit her out of town? No. As I understand it she's received only the best of care in a string of impressively prestigious sanitariums, her every treatment and transfer faithfully underwritten by you. And I have to wonder how Laura Spencer, despite her many abandonments and inconsistent maternal attentions, has earned a compassion you cannot seem to locate for the uncle who never once left you behind." The prince's brow grew dark, his temper twisting tight to thunder. "My uncle was not insane," he pronounced. "You can't draw a comparison." "Keep telling yourself that, Nikolas," Maxim derided callously. "I'm sure it makes the nights go by so much faster." "What's your problem?" his cousin charged, an arm launching out to tap his chest and shove him a stumbling step back. "What do you want from me, huh?" Nikolas lurched forward, his hard eyes squinting ruthlessly. "You cared about him, didn't you?" "Does that surprise you?" Maxim countered, trapped between the water and the menacing storm of this mounting Cassadine rage. "That someone else might have given a damn? That someone else might have loved him apart from his distinctly over-praised and over-pampered nephew? That there might have been a soul alive on the planet whose loyalty to him did not depend upon a mood or a day, a whim or a judgment - or the swiftness with which he bent his knee in appropriately subservient devotion? You think yours was the only heart that bothered with him, don't you? And such a charitable heart it was," he sneered, building that anger, banking that pain. "Did you keep him on a diet of affection? Starve him one day, overfeed him the next? It was all feast and famine with you, I'll bet. Because you knew you were his only weakness. You knew he'd do anything, anything at all, to keep that love intact." Nikolas thrust a threatening foot forward but Maxim stood his ground, his chin rising in defiance. "He was such an easy mark in the end. Inattentive father. Hostile mother. Brother overshadowing everything he did. Not a single long-term lover; no wife, no life to speak of that wasn't grafted to duty, compacted and compressed to the thankless task of servicing an empire so few manage to remember and far fewer would take the trouble to defend. And here you are, his child, his boy, this prince he's cherished from birth. How much your love must have meant to him! How warm a joy to fill such a cold and lonely soul! Too bad it couldn't manage to keep him alive." His cousin bore down on him them, every step a fury; his left hand raised in warning, his right clenched to a fist barely able to restrain itself at his side. His coat swung open to reveal a chest inflated with hate, the muscles at his neck feverishly flexed with a pulsing, anticipatory strength. "I don't know who you are or how you knew my uncle," he snarled through gnashing teeth, "but I resent being blamed for his death." Maxim blinked blandly and tossed a shoulder in pity. "He died on your watch, not mine. If I were you, I'd get used to it." The first swing, coming as it did in broadly roundhouse fashion, was easy to duck beneath. The second, however, met its mark - this hidden hammer of an iron fist striking squarely to the center of his solar plexus and ripping the air from his lungs. He crumpled in pain, wheezing for breath, and it was in this regrettably vulnerable position that Nikolas' brawny hands took hold to pitch him over the dockside edge. Seconds he had in the air, floating, croaking for an ounce of oxygen, before he smashed into the murky water below and his world turned black. Nikolas, his heart pounding in the miasmic aftermath of rage, felt the fever leave him in a tidal rush. He, too, found himself gasping for breath and bent forward, a hand to each knee, seething as he scanned the chop of the harbor; waiting for his victim to surface. Another vulnerable position to be sure and, as such, he was equally unprepared for the force of the blow that came crashing to his back to send him sprawling head-over-heels in pursuit of his reviled cousin, beneath those same darkly-cresting waves. Maxie, having dispatched the threat and dismissing Nikolas Cassadine before he'd even hit the water, rushed down the dock to where her friend had surfaced and reached out her arm - having good reason to believe it was something he'd probably be used to looking for. He was, and did. In an exertion that was half-scrabble, half-ferocious pull, she managed to yank him from the Port Charles harbor and tumble him onto the dock. Once flopped like an overgrown sturgeon to the firm wooden planks of the pier, Maxim choked out the brackish brine and settled, as best he could, to recover in a puddle at her side. His acts were few and first among them was to squeeze his savior's hand in thanks. Second was to check on the state of his cousin, who could be seen swimming the short ten feet to the safety of the dock's piling. Last he turned his head to a sky now salted with stars, blessed the gods for their indulgent kindness and consoled himself in the knowledge that, as dearly as he longed to find himself in Petersburg this night, the waters of his beloved Neva would have been much, much colder. Requiem (23) Only barbarians forget about their fallen… She repeated herself impatiently. "Pneumonia and influenza back-to-back, that's what I said. So you can't just give him the standard meds, okay? He's going to need something stronger." "Is this true?" Her uncle's eyes bored into his, suspicious and unyielding. Maxim nodded from his perch on the papered cushion of the examining bed, miserably aware of his muddled hair, the now perpetual sniffle, and the continuing drip of his still-wet clothes that pooled to expand in a rank, damp circle around him. So much for first impressions. "A year ago, more or less. I'm sure it won't be a factor. I feel fine, if a bit soggy at the moment. Your niece has been very kind and I appreciate her concern, but I really don't think there's anything to worry about here." "Why don't we let me be the judge of that?" the doctor suggested rhetorically, moving to the curtain that separated the bed from the rest of the emergency room proper. "Maxie, you know your way around admissions. You can get a start on the paperwork. And you? You can get undressed. You'll find a gown in the cabinet there. I'll be back in five minutes. Nurse," he directed, striding through the drape and barking out instructions; his voice fading almost immediately into the buzz of background noise. "Nice to meet you, Maximillian," Maxie retorted, mocking the man as she closed the vinyl partition behind him. "I'm sorry to hear you fell off the pier. Gee, can I get you a blanket? Maybe something hot to drink? Ugh," she chuffed, turning back to the bed to offer her friend a sympathetic smile. "Doctors suck. Don't get me wrong, he's really good, but they all act like they own the place and they're doing you this huge favor just by letting you in. The nurses are much nicer. Here, let me help you with that." He'd managed to wrestle an arm halfway out of the sleeve of his sodden cashmere jacket before it twisted in protest, refusing to retreat another inch. He surrendered the effort to her gratefully and admired the patience she used to untangle that sleeve, then the next, and gingerly draw the coat away. "You really don't have to stay, Max. You've done more than enough." But she was already down on one knee, cupping the heel of his boot in her palm. "I think I've got a pair of socks in my locker," she volunteered, pulling the ruined shoe from one foot and gesturing to the other. "They're not ankle peds, either. They're regular athletic socks. Nothing to be ashamed of." She set the boots in the corner by the stool and opened the cabinet to extract a gown. "I can't do anything about this, though," she confessed, shaking the garment out. "At least you've got one that closes in the back." He reached for her hand and put a halt to the fussing. "Have I thanked you yet?" "About six or seven times," she piped brightly. "How about six or seven more?" "Works for me." Their eyes caught for a moment, hers warm with a confident humor and his softened in complete appreciation. A small grace, this, yet one that filled him with peace; a rare and priceless treasure. It was with great reluctance that he broke away, curious at the sound of a commotion beyond the enclosure; some discord on the approach. "Emily, no!" But she burst through the curtain despite the warning; her prince's outstretched hand still lunging for her arm. "I don't know who you think you are," she scolded in a fury, charging to the bed with a sharp finger launched in the general direction of his chest. "How dare you throw my husband in the harbor?" "That was me," announced Max, slipping her hand from his grasp to take a protective step forward. "And it wasn't a throw, it was a push. If you want, we could go to the pier right now and I can show you how it's done." Hard glares followed on both sides; animosity crackling in a flurry of sparks to ignite the tension in the room. "I don't think your father's going to be very happy when he hears about this," Emily contended through frigid lips. "Especially if Nikolas decides to press charges." "You talk to my dad and I'll talk to yours," Maxie shot back indignantly. "And I'll bet you Alan's closer." "What's my father got to do with it?" Emily sputtered defensively. "About as much as mine, I guess. I really don't think he'll be jumping for joy when he finds out your husband is beating up people on the docks. I'm pretty sure he thinks one enforcer in the family is enough." Her gaze shifted over her accuser's shoulder, her eyes narrowed in judgment. "So how about it, Nik? Are you going to put me in jail? 'Cuz we'll both go together, you can count on that." "No. No," countered Nikolas, decisively shaking his head, first to Maxie then to his wife as she crossly spun around; his eyes studiously avoiding the man on the bed. "It was a misunderstanding, I told you that. Now if you don't mind, I'd like to go home and change." "Not until a doctor looks you over," Emily stipulated, firm on the point. "That water is filled with contaminants. You'll need an antibiotic, at least." "Whatever you say," he submitted brusquely, drawing back the drape to usher her through. "Let's just get it done, all right?" His wife tossed a stern, admonishing glower to the silent pair behind her, her tone tight with warning. "We're not finished with this." "Oh, yes we are," her husband pronounced, snapping his fingers and directing her out. Emily sighed truculently but followed that command, haughtily stalking to the curtain and ducking beneath his arm. "I apologize for the interruption," Nikolas relayed politely, his attention fixed solely on the girl. "No hard feelings, okay?" And the curtain dropped before anyone else could further complicate the day. Max turned to face him and he smiled, awarding her a nod of respect. "That's twice in two hours, you know. Save me again and you'll own me for life." The soft, scarlet blush he was becoming so terribly fond of rose once again to inflame her cheeks. "I'm going to get a start on that paperwork," she stammered in a rush, as if it were somehow possible to override this endearing fluster. "Uncle Tony will be back any minute so you'd better get undressed." "Yes, ma'am," he barked, two fingers lifting in crisp salute. And when she laughed…ah, when she laughed…it dawned on him of a sudden that all of this, every single bit of it, was something he was in grave danger of genuinely getting used to. That Tony had insisted on an overnight admission was no big surprise. She knew the minute she told him about Maxim's medical history this was probably what he'd do. Better safe than sued was the hospital's policy these days. Especially with strangers. Especially with evidently rich and potentially litigious strangers. But that was fine - it was more than fine, in fact - because Maxim had suffered enough from riding out injuries just like this. Like being punched in the stomach (or the soul) and pretending everything was okay; pretending nothing hurt too much and that he hadn't been wounded in a hundred different ways. She knew he ached, knew the agony leaked inside him; pulsed like blood from a severed vein - whether he chose to admit it or not. And taking it easy, taking it slow, taking a night off from the pain in your heart, in your head, in your bones, was not such a bad idea for him. Kind of like skipping school when the most intimate moment of your life had been downloaded into everyone's brain. Those weren't classes anymore. They were crash courses in shame. You get away from it if you can. You take a break from it, take a breath from it, and build the strength to scramble to your feet and charge into the breach again. It was the only way. It was the only road left to travel if you decided, at the end of the day, that you actually wanted to survive. She pushed open the door to his room with the socks held high. "Found 'em," she announced and his head rose up, his fretful expression dropping away. "They've admitted me, can you believe it? I've been captured. Again." He took the socks from her hand and threw the sheet back, bending a knee to uncover a foot. "I've never been in prison but I can't imagine the experience is much different. The rules, the food, the sado-masochistic torture delivered like clockwork at the top of the hour…" "I know," she avowed through a commiserating grin. Her purse landed with a thump on the chair, freeing her arms to shrug her jacket off. "I'm a skell from way back. There were times I thought I was a lifer." "What'd they get'cha for?" he growled, gravelling his voice like a grizzled con from an old gangster movie. "Bad heart," she growled back. "Sliced and diced and traded up for new." His fingers froze for an instant, the pull of the sock halting between his toe and his heel as he registered what she was saying. "You're kidding." "Nope," she declared, sticking to the scene, clinging to the metaphor-in-progress. It was hard enough to reveal these things and she found she'd rather rat-a-tat it out in a fifties black-and-white than some maudlin Lifetime weepy. "So you can strum that violin for all it's worth, you won't come up with a song I haven't sung before." His feet, now preserved, slid back beneath the sheets and he drew the blanket over, patting the mattress at his side. "So you're an old-timer, are you? Just my luck. I've got a hand full of sympathy cards and nothing left to play." She hopped on the bed and shimmied to a comfortable spot at his hip. "S'okay," she said, bringing up a hand to cup her mouth and lowering her voice to a whisper. "I gotcha covered. I can smuggle in whatever you want. Ice cream? Tea? Magazines?" He collapsed to the pillow with a tired smile. "You're enough for now. So tell me, how is it you happened to be walking along the pier just when I needed you most?" "It's a shortcut to Kelly's," she allowed, idly plucking at the sheet. She wasn't sure how much he was willing to discuss about the fight, and was a little bit afraid he'd question the wisdom of attacking Nikolas Cassadine the way she had, so she changed the subject quickly. "Should I call Djinn? She's probably really worried about you. We should tell her where you are." "There's no need," he assured her, his eyes shifting away, their brilliant blue clouding over in weary resignation. "Djinn doesn't worry. She reacts. I sincerely doubt she's sitting by the phone." "But she's not here," Maxie observed in confusion. "No, she's not." And those eyes closed. Fatigue settled in like a shroud around him, melting the muscles of his face; his shoulders slumping slightly, his limbs falling limp and sluggish with its weight. She pressed a hand to his brow and found it chilled, almost clammy. "You're not going to be able to sleep, are you?" And without waiting for an answer, without giving it a second thought, she laid down on the bed beside him, her body adjusting to conform to his curve as she curled into his chest - one leg launched protectively over the expanse of a blanketed thigh. He stiffened in surprise and several seconds passed before his arm came to enclose her with a tentative reluctance. "How much did she tell you?" "Not enough," Maxie sustained, snuggling even closer, unwilling to rest until she could hear the beating of his heart in her head. Once she did she stilled, careful in this place, quiet as he grew accustomed to both the embrace and the choice. Her mind wandered in the silence, sifting through the events of the day, and after a time she spoke. "You provoked him, didn't you?" "Yes." The word was a warm thunder in his breast; a resonant thrum of admission. "Why?" Her head rose on his sigh. One beat, two beats, three beats…five before the answer came. "He's a troubled man. He lives in fear of facing what's happened to him. He doesn't question anything. He's not looking for the answers he needs. I hoped to make him curious enough to try. Max," he reproved, his tone sinking in grateful dismay. "You really don't have to…" "Hush," she commanded. "But you really should…" "Hush," she insisted, lifting a hand over her head to touch a finger to his lips. "Time to sleep." The argument ceased. And as if to bravely lead the way by setting an example, she flung her apprehensions free and drifted off herself. Mac resisted the impulse to fully pace the hospital hall, sticking to the circumference of the surrounding three feet to jockey his weight from right to left, pitch a leg forward then back again, and swivel his head to scan the corridor from end to damnable end. He ignored the woman behind him, standing sentinel at the glass, as strangers routinely ignore one another when their eyes fail to meet. Why she was watching that couple sleep was of absolutely no interest to him, though he wished she'd leave and relieve him of the need to control this restless urge to stalk and take the edge off his temper. Tony's call was proof (for those who still required it) that Maxie had no business spending a single second more in the company of Maximillian Cassadine. That clock had been ticking down to trouble since the guy got off the plane. Three-two-one and we're here, in the hospital to be exact. Who couldn't see this coming? Who couldn't know this was one of those inevitable, gut-wrenching places she was bound to wind up? Hospital, jail, the morgue - it didn't take a genius to figure it out. Only a matter of time. It had only been a matter of time. He swore under his breath, his useless hands twitching at his sides until he forced them to take another slide into the restrictive prison of his pockets. But she wasn't hurt. She wasn't hurt. Tony said she'd just brought him in. And he clung to that fact, snagged it like a lifeline, talking himself into the truth yet again that his daughter, when it came to these losers, these unwieldy, unwelcome and unworthy men, was all about the rescue. Cats in trees, puppies in a bramble, any sad sack shuffling down the street. That was her M.O. - saving the world soul-by-soul. You'd think he'd be used to it by now. Robin and Stone. Robin and Jason. Georgie and Dillon. Zander, damn. He should have put his foot down, could have put his foot down, had sworn he'd put his foot down a lifetime ago. Just not hard enough, it seemed. But that was going to change. This was going to end, beyond a shadow of a doubt. They could whine about it all they liked, it was Scorpio rules from here on out. Felicia, where are you? If Maxie's mother didn't get here in the next sixty seconds he was going to page Tony himself, collect the details and his delinquent daughter and go home where no one would be walking out the door for a solid ten years. Wait for me, Mac. Promise. Not asking but exacting his word that he wouldn't confront their daughter without her present. And when hadn't he waited for her? He'd spent the better part of his married life, along with every potentially, preposterously foolish day afterward, standing on the long line of her whimsically-listed priorities, patiently killing time to his turn. As a promise it was easily given; habitually restored. But she better show up soon. She sure as hell better show up soon. Another restless lurch around and he found himself alone in the hallway. The woman had gone; the field was free to pace this agitation off - and down the corridor he plowed, staking a turn at the bitter end to plow his way back up the aisle again in a darkly-disgruntled furrow; last straws winnowed and whisking in his wake. Done. We're done. This is over. No more. He lost count of the number of passes he made, marching the aggravation out, and knew only that he'd come to rest at last before the glass of that stranger's window and the quiet couple slumbering in that bed. This…now this was love. No danger, no crisis, no stupid moves. Just two people comfortable enough in their own damn lives, in their own damn skins, to fall asleep in each other's arms no matter where, no matter when. There was a peace he could get behind; a tranquility he could go for. There was…there was…wait a minute, that was…no, it couldn't be…Maxie? "Wait." The clamp of his arm was so familiar he didn't need to turn to see she'd arrived. "Felicia," he snarled through clenching teeth, his glare bolted to the pair behind the glass. If that hand strayed a single, solitary inch to the left the guy was going to lose it. He had to get in there. He had to get in there now. Mac yanked his arm away and made a beeline for the door but his ex-wife was faster, skirting around him to slip in-between and halt his charge into the room. "Stop," she ordered, her palm thrusting flat to the center of his chest. "I want you to stop and think about this. They're not going anywhere. Take a deep breath and think about what you're doing." He didn't need to think and she shouldn't need to think, either. It annoyed him that she did; that she could defend what was going on in that bed. "I'm taking our daughter home, Felicia," he ground out stubbornly, his jaw set in stone. Felicia's gaze hardened, her stare determined and unflinching. "It's not going to be her home for very long if you keep this up," she warned. "Sure you can drag her back tonight, make a big fuss, lay down some more rules, but what about tomorrow and the day after that? She's nineteen, Mac. You can only push her so far before she packs a bag and moves out. And if she makes that choice - when she makes that choice - there'll be absolutely nothing you or I can do about it." She knocked her head over her shoulder, toward the couple sleeping behind the glass. "And what if she decides to move in with him? What are we going to do then?" He eased down to his heels at the sight of her eyes growing damp and the fearsome struggle she made to keep her chin from quivering. "What if he takes her back to Europe with him, Mac? What if she decides to go? I can't lose her like this. I won't!" "That will never happen, Felicia," he pronounced sternly, convinced she'd driven this worst case scenario right over the edge into fantasy land. "I'd never let Maxie leave the country, and neither would you." She shook her head sadly and turned to the window in despair, her fingers lifting to trace her daughter's form through the glass. "Oh, Mac, we don't have a vote. Haven't you figured that out yet? Maxie has. Or if she hasn't she's just about to. Someday we're going to lose her. Someday she's just going to walk away. And I'd rather have her down the street than in Russia or Greece or wherever this man decides he wants to take her." "You don't really think she'd go?" he snorted in disbelief. "Robin did," she noted softly. "Robin was older." "Not that much older." "But it was different. Robin went to school. And besides, Robin was ready." "They don't always wait until they're ready, Mac," she disclosed disconsolately. "Some of them don't even know what 'ready' is. A lot of girls leave in anger, and I don't want my daughter to be one of them." "I can't even believe we're discussing this." But he couldn't find the rage that had filled him only moments before; couldn't locate the paternal conviction that insisted his instincts here were right. "So what do you suggest we do, Felicia? We can't just leave her in that bed, with him." "Oh yes we can. And we will. There's nothing going on in there, and I'm betting we've got nothing to worry about yet. So there's still time." Her hand reached back to hunt for his and he took hold of it reluctantly. "Maxie will come home at some point, and at some point she'll want to talk. What we should be doing right now, Mac, is figuring out exactly what it is we plan to say." He might have debated the wisdom of popping these horse pills with a vodka chaser if he'd allowed the thought to fully form in his mind. He didn't. He just tied that dangling precautionary thread to the rest of the half-formed considerations he prevented giving life to throughout the day - this expanding strand of conceptual abortions - and let it float away. Why tangle with deliberation when you know you'll be left twisting in the wind? When you recognize reflection for the snare it is, and logic as a bind that only grows tighter and tighter? Best to view all spider webs from the safety of a distance, said the most sagacious fly. Best to stay alive. He upended the drink and let the liquor flow down the crevice of his throat, appreciating its searing warmth and citing the growing numbness in his knees as little more than an abstraction. Drag the decanter to the coffee table and dump yourself on the couch. Problem solved. Better here anyway, he thought, as he threw his legs up one by one and sank his aching head to the tuft of a decorative pillow. Better here than upstairs, than in bed, than torturously twitching restless at the side of his deeply-sleeping wife - she who seemed to understand on a purely intuitive level that consciousness, in the wee hours of the night, only brought you pain. Sleep. Sleeping. Slept. The word danced its conjugations in his brain like a courtesan luring him forward only to push him back again and again - a perpetual nocturnal enticement. He'd welcome her embrace in a heartbeat, with a passion undenied, were it not so resolutely filled with the promise of noxious dreams and the occasional scream of a nightmare. Took the bloom right off the restful rose, those anxious expectations did. He drew an arm over his eyes and consigned his mind to darkness, plumbing the depth of his drunken haze and gauging the possible need of a shot or two more to coast through the endless hours ahead. It was in the midst of this important and oh-so-necessary calculation that the knife came to rest at his throat. Requiem (24) Iniquitous, unequalling death I would not complain if you were just but you take the worthy leaving fools for us. An ominous silence descended that barely permitted the clocks to tick, the air to flow, the walls to creak, as Wyndemere itself seemed to hold its breath in anticipatory suspense. A stranger had entered, her weapon drawn, her blood familiarly cold - and the Cassadine ambiance known of old that had faded from these rooms in recent years appeared to rouse, arch an inquisitive brow and tremble to life once again. "It is common practice in Bedouin stables to sell all stallion colts before they reach an age of nuisance," she relayed, her blade warm and sharp beneath his chin, its razored edge tipped to prick the swell of his adam's apple. "Months, a year at the most before the trouble begins. Before they become intractable and their whims rule the day. Even their fellow horses - their sister foals, the dams, the mother mare - will push them to the periphery for their bad behaviors; for their selfish spirits, their aggressive intent. So sound a financial benefit would it be for the Bedu to keep these colts, to raise his stallions and provide himself the means to breed at his pleasure, that to decide he cannot is proof enough, I think, of the viciousness of the venture." The arm he'd draped over his eyes slid slowly down and around the knife to fall to rest at his side; quiescent as he took his measure of the threat and prepared for an opening. She swum a bit above him, hazed through the effect of his inebriation, but he thought he could judge enough of her to grab hold when the time came. "Where do they go, you may ask yourself, these willfully refractive and reckless beasts? Who would take them? How could they be reared? There is only one way, really. Only one option open, and that is to hand them over to their own selfish kind; to the society of other stallions familiar with such destructive wiles and narcissistic excess. It is hoped that in the company of older, stronger steeds with the ability to read his mind and his sorely-contentious nature a colt may learn what is expected of him and how best to adapt to the challenge of his life. So your mother gave you over to your uncle, and your uncle gave you over to the world. Needless to say, I am not impressed." "I doubt my uncle had you in mind when he drew up his lesson plan," Nikolas remarked softly, modifying the tenor of his voice to reduce the friction of the steel at his neck. "Impressing thieves and assassins was not a skill he deemed important. I imagine he thought it was a waste of time." "Then he was a fool," she announced, adjusting her position behind him, her free hand lifting to the arm of the couch to bring balance to her hectoring weight. "Who better to impress than the one who comes to steal your gold or rob the breath from your body? Oh," she chided, shaking her head. "I think he gave that lesson. He struck me as a man smart enough for this and a clever trick or two besides. I suspect you just weren't listening." "You met him, then?" He tried to strip the interest from his words though he could feel his urgency on the rise; his avarice for an answer unexpectedly ranging within reach. Her wrists were in reach as well, he noted, and he thought he might easily pull her down but that need was no longer paramount in his mind. "Your uncle? Why do you ask?" And her shadow loomed closer, her cheek coming to align itself against the temple of his brow. He cursed himself for the vodka, and Emily for the pills, knowing a clearer focus would increase his advantage in this moment, but there was nothing he could do about it now. She wasn't likely to break her hold for a sobering cup of coffee. "Maximillian mentioned he knew Stefan earlier this evening," he advanced in a cautious tone; the statement dangled like a hesitant toe to test the chill of these waters. "Is that why you pushed him off the pier? Because he had the temerity to claim an association with Stefan?" "Something like that," he admitted wryly, a finger lifting to adjust the collar chafing at his throat. Her blade flicked and his hand fell back, returning to his hip. "I was surprised you weren't there to prevent it. I half-expected you to launch from the shadows like some biblically avenging angel. That's what you are to him, isn't it? His guardian angel?" "If only Life were so simple," she crooned, a small mirth singing in the hollow of his ear. "That was his angel you had at your back. And a fierce little angel she's turned out to be. But now? Now you are facing something quite different. Something even Maxim has difficulty putting a word to. Djinn, he calls it, and that will have to do." "Why, Lady Cardiff, if I didn't know better I'd think you were trying to threaten me." "Maxim doesn't threaten you enough?" she responded in amused astonishment. "He should. He will once you open your eyes. Once you see what he means. Until that time I suppose we're all obliged to tolerate these childish temper tantrums. Ignorance, in your case it seems, has been judged an acceptable defense." "Then tell me," Nikolas urged, his head twisting on the pillow in an attempt to engage her face-to-face. "What's the big secret? So he knew my uncle, cared for him even. Why should that mean anything to me? It's not like my uncle cared back. Stefan never mentioned him. If he were a man of any consequence whatsoever you can be sure we'd have been introduced. We weren't. I'm sorry," he said, though it was clear he was not, "but your friend seems to have an exaggerated sense of his own importance here." "Pots and kettles," she derided, dismissing him with a laugh. "Tell me, prince, are you so completely certain your uncle shared his entire life with you? Its every mystery? Its every joy? The man opened many books, it's true, but I hardly think this makes him one. Even to you." "All right," Nikolas submitted, expelling an exasperated sigh. He was no longer interested in playing this game. He chose to indulge her from this point forward solely to buy himself time as he looked for a means to turn the tide. He would get the answers he wanted, through force should it prove necessary. "If you know something about my uncle and his connection to your friend, then I'll ask you again. What is it? Who is Maximillian Cassadine? Why is he so important? What does he mean?" "A complicated question," she deflected neatly. "Maxim means different things to different people. One can only answer for oneself." "Okay, then tell me what he means to you." He could sense her still and marked the way she quested for an answer, hunting a manner to define the bond - and the longer this took the more serious his situation became. Loyalty was one thing, devotion quite another. Bribery was out. Coercion, too. As the seconds ticked by he began to wonder if she would even respond to reason. He couldn't see her eyes from this angle, couldn't read the expression on her face, and he itched to pull her down; to demand she lay those cards on the table and tell him what he needed to know. But before he could devise a workable strategy her knife hitched tighter to his chin as if she'd read his mind. "Let's just say Maxim is the reason this blade rests at your throat," she allowed in a quiet voice. "And he is also the reason it has yet to pierce the skin. Curse or benediction? You be the judge. Such is the power he has and what he means to me. What he means to you is another matter, and one I find I care very little about. But know this, Nikolai Stavrosovich," she warned on a menacing breath, her lips arriving at the crest of his ear. "If he dies that staying hand disappears and the minutes of your life begin to dwindle down to none. I will be swift with my vengeance. You would be wise to keep that knowledge at the forefront of your mind." The steel lifted from his neck and Nikolas lunged backward, his muscular arms rising, his hands clawing for her wrists. Those clutching fingers closed over empty air. He spun to his stomach and launched himself over the sofa's arm in chase, only to have a sluggish foot catch on the curve of its upholstered trim and send him sprawling to the floor. His palms pressed hard to the carpet and he struggled halfway to his feet before the full effect of his inebriation hit and the room began to swirl. His knees buckled, forcing his retreat to a chair for support. He didn't have to look to the door or the hall or the sill of an open window to know she was gone. Nor did he have to be sober or alert or in any way sharper of mind to know what would bring her back again. Whether this was something he wanted, he had yet to decide. Mrs. Landsbury cupped her hand to the sleeping girl's shoulder and gave it a gentle squeeze, dispensing just enough pressure to lift her from the snare of her dream. The quiet clearing of her throat did the rest, bringing those drowsy eyes around to the woman standing beside the bed, bathed in the muted glow of the hospital's fluorescent lighting. Bewildered for a moment, having forgotten where she was, the girl marked the bedrail, the tray table and the man still asleep at her side, squinting as she struggled to put her memories in their proper waking order. "It's all right, dear," the older woman whispered reassuringly. "You can go home now. I'm sure your parents are worried." The mention of her parents roused Maxie with a start. She looked to her watch and gasped at the hour, turning back to Maxim with chagrin. "He'll be fine, I promise you. We're old friends." She offered her arm to assist his hesitant protector from the bed. "I saw him through a sickness once before. It's no trouble to do it again." "You're…?" the young girl quested, vaguely recognizing the face. "Mrs. Landsbury, dear. I work at Wyndemere. I have experience with these men. Go, now. Go," she encouraged, passing over the purse and coat as she escorted Maxie to the door. "I have experience with fathers, too, and they're not the kind of people you want to keep waiting at this time of night." The door closed and the girl took up a momentary vigil behind the glass, confirming for herself that this woman meant no harm to Maxim. Very nice, that. Quite promising, in fact. And she walked back to the hospital chair, sinking into its plastic seat, bending to pull the embroidery from her bag as she made herself comfortable. Six rows of neat seed stitching threaded through the linen before she deigned to look up again, to note the hall was empty. "She's gone. You may open your eyes." No need to turn her head from the pattern. She knew he was awake. And he knew she knew it, too. "You're playing with fire, Maxim." "She's nineteen," he protested, surrendering the simulation of sleep to fuss with the sheets on his bed. "Oh," she scoffed, "are we strangers, then? Should I pretend to be bothered about the girl?" That stopped him short. Made him think a little harder. "So it's Nikolas you've come to discuss? I shouldn't be surprised. I don't know why I am," he muttered, a tendril of resentment coiled in his tone. "Don't get peckish with me, boy." Her lips pursed, her thumb pressing down to contain the chaos of a clever French knot. "You can be just as perverse as your father, you know. Just because you make your lives about everyone else doesn't mean we don't see you. I could have stayed at Wyndemere, yet here I am." "But you're worried about him, admit it." "Cha!" she exclaimed, reaching for her scissors to snip the flax at the back of her cloth. As if she worried about anyone or anything in all the days of her life! "Master Nikolas has a wife, a brother and an aunt. You have your Djinn and this girl. There's plenty of concern to go around. To ask for more is simply greedy." Her peripheral vision, which had always been keen, caught the wry cock of his brow and his prim sink to the pillow; those soft scholar's hands rising to rest solemnly atop his chest. Minutes passed and the matters he was so concerned with wrestled once again to the surface of his brain. "Was he insane, do you think? In those last six months? Had he completely lost his mind?" "Your father? It's not my place to say." But the slip of a finger that caused her silk to fail its thread through the needle suggested otherwise. And to be fair, he deserved more than this. "We all have a madness in us, Maxim. Some hide it, others lay it out for all the world to see. And there are others still, a tormented few, who have their madness lured from them by design." She paused here, allowing her stillness to speak the words she would not, then calmly delivered her denouement. "He was different than he had been. Does it matter to what degree?" "Different how?" His voice had grown flat and so familiarly foreign; she recognized the deceptive neutrality in its tone. "Different eyes, different differences," she replied succinctly, tugging at her needle to anchor a knot. "I kept his house. That was where my eye remained. I can tell you I bought more brandy than tea during the course of those last six months. I can tell you his bed rarely called for a making, no book in his library needed putting back, and the clothes he wore for his oriental discipline never came to me to be laundered. I can tell you I was given insufficient notice for the two celebrations he arranged - an engagement party and a wedding reception. I can tell you the floors before the tunnel doors were scrubbed no less than twice a day, the first-aid kits required constant stocking, and there were more women on the premises than there had ever been before - none of whom he seemed to get along with." Too much, too much, and would you look at that! Such a furiously tangled stitch! "This is all I can say." "Can or will?" he taunted, challenging those vaunted professional ethics. It was an impertinent question and one she had no intention of answering. Instead she bent closer to her work and let her silence distend, swelling to thicken the air between them in a calculated hush. Backstitch, chain, chain to a split; she filled the petal of her pattern in. "Who would lure the madness from him?" he asked after a time. "Who could? And for what reason?" They might as well have been rhetorical questions for all the response he got. He crossed his arms churlishly, his frustration plain, and rewound the conversation to its start. "So I'm playing with fire, what of it? He's nothing but fire these days." She barked the single note of a laugh, muted it and shook her head. "You sounded like your grandmother, then," she advanced in lieu of a reply. "She has just that careless, contemptuous way." "There's no need to get insulting," he groused, yet with the hint of a grin twisting, irrepressible at the corner of his mouth. "Seriously, though, do you think he suspects her? Is that why he pushed her off the cliff?" "More that he'd reached the end of his rope, I imagine. And a short length of rope it is, since his uncle died. Mark my words, Maxim. Keep him imprisoned at those fringes and you'll wish you'd stayed away." "Are you asking me to back off?" "I'm asking nothing of the kind!" she chided, bristling at the charge. "What passes between you and your cousin is no business of mine. Kill each other, if it makes you happy, just don't go whining in your cold, cold graves that this wasn't what you had in mind." A stern eye lifted to take in his terse, noncommittal nod. Her warning now given and received, she found she had little left to contribute to this early-hour exchange and thought it well past time the boy got himself back to sleep. Ah, but wait. There was one thing more, one item remaining; one last, lonely concern still needing to be addressed. "We've had word from the synod. I don't suppose you know anything about that?" And back to his sheets he went, arranging those bedclothes around him as if this act took precedence over whatever it was she was about to relay. "The synod, you say?" "Bishop Demetrius himself," she clucked as her head bent once again to her linen and the needle pushed through. "It seems we've fallen victim to a scheduling oversight, for which he apologized most profusely. There will now be a priest in the Spoon Island chapel every Sunday to the end of time, and a monthly visit for confession as well. What do you think of that?" "I think you'd better get busy sinning, Mariska, if we're to make this worth his while." A sharp tooth found her lower lip and bit down hard, cutting off the chortle before it sounded to betray an unseemly mirth. She saw his hand reaching out for hers and took it without looking up. "Petersburg is a plane away," he contended softly. "She's right, you know. You have only to ask." "Ach!" she derided indomitably, slipping her fingers from his grasp. "And leave our Father Forgetful to a fellowship of none? I've yet to see a miracle of his that merits such a pass. He'll have his hands full with me, the Lord knows He can count on that." Maxim withdrew his arm and retreated to his pillow with a smile. "The Lord's not the only one," he confided in bemusement, content at last to settle back and close those weary eyes. Poetic Attributions (The Introductory Lines): Chapter 22 - from the poem Self-Portrait, by the poet A.K. Ramanujan. Chapter 23 - from the poem Veterans, by the poet Aleksey Shelvakh. Chapter 24 - from the poem Lament for a Brother, by the poet Al-Khansa'.