The Sigh Of Things (4)   Ignorance is a bliss you're always unaware of… Ronald waited at the glass wall. Again. Ronald held the leather cuff with its sheepskin lining and its odd metal eye. Again. Ronald shifted his feet, took a look at this watch and fingered his straw-colored hair. Again. Day after oh-so-tedious day this duty left him stalled in the hall, biding these many lengthy minutes until the brother saw fit to finally arrive. It was all so senseless, really. Ronald could have made the change himself, in the seconds it would take to twist a key in a lock. But he did not have that key. The brother wouldn't give it to him even if he asked - which he had. More than once. And once again, Time took a good long circle around the drain. As he watched the old crone do her work, his lower lip curled in disgust. Ancient Mae, with her broken back and her bulbous knuckles, scrubbing at the slate on her hands and knees. She was a true archeological amazement, that one. Every day to clean this cavernous cell, top to bottom, stem to stern. Agreed, it was a spartan affair; one double mattress on a platform bed, a single aluminum chair tucked to its built-in aluminum desk, the black-lacquered bench beside a tidy pile of free weights and the last - a five-by-nine sheet of steel jutting from the left-hand wall, suspended midway between the ceiling and the floor. Behind that steel lay the bath; a heavy metal toilet and half a shower stall. The only place to hide, he imagined, though the feet were always visible. And sometimes the crown of his raven hair. Ronald watched the way they ignored one another; this wizened witch and the prisoner. For all intents and purposes, they lived in different universes. Every place she was, he wasn't. Not that he could travel far…yet still, it was far enough to never find her underfoot. Even the ten yard length of chain that leashed his wrist to an anchor in the floor never once grazed her bird-like head. Never once tripped her up to stumble or wrapped a link around her fragile bones. In truth, it seemed nothing less than a dance. A dance of practiced evasion. Ronald had evasions of his own. Try as he might to occupy his eye, it always found its dark magnetic north. Quite by accident - or at the very least unconsciously - his gaze would fix on this stygian prince; wander his lithe, unforgiving frame; gauge the strength in a shoulder or a thigh. A moment's unfocused glance might find itself shadowing the arc of a reflexive gesture or marveling at the singular purpose in a stride. His comparisons ran through the gamut of the feline genus. A leonine authority. The agility of a jaguar. A panther's grace. And when he came to himself - which was inevitable, really - when he saw where his eye had gone, the shame alone brought a flush to his cheek and a deep desire to melt through the floor. He'd shiver to shake the embarrassment off, grateful the object of his accidental scrutiny had never once caught him out. "Done and done," announced the crusted old hag, grabbing up her bucket and proceeding to the door. The same three words every time. It was a phrase he was convinced had been designed to mock him with the trust she had engendered and which he, apparently, had yet to earn. As she tottered past him in the hall, his flat hand rose to stop her. "What makes you so special, crone?" The bones cracked in sharp succession as she raised her head, grey wisps of hair plastered to her skull. Blinking once, she fixed a squint to his face. "What makes me so special, eh? Nothing, boy. And that would be the point." Her tired head dropped once again to her chest and she shuffled on. Ronald was so entirely involved in projecting his derision at the hag's curled spine that he failed to notice his employer had arrived. Already at the desk in the prisoner's cell, he was setting down a handful of books and gesturing (with no little derision of his own) for the flustered aide to join him. Ronald hurried into the room and took his place at this brother's side. The prisoner, standing silent in the corner, appeared immersed in some form of deep meditation. His arms were crossed against his chest, his head lowered, his eyes closed - in all, a somber pool of composure. "I brought two of the histories you requested, brother. I have also added, as it did seem appropriate, our old volume of Dostoyevsky." The prisoner's chin lifted. His smile began before he opened his eyes. "Your sense of the ironic has staled, brother. Which among us would be Raskolnikov?" His arms lowered casually to his sides as his weight shifted backward to lean against the wall. "I never kill for gain, only insufferance. What guilt is borne of that?" If the words were meant to ruffle, their intent made no mark. Stefan Cassadine continued as if nothing had been said. "I have spoken with the cook and altered her menu to provide the meats you've requested. Additional clothing has been ordered, as have the leg weights. All will be delivered here as soon as they are received." "And this," Stavros inquired, looping a length of chain in his fist as he pushed off from the wall. "When will I be delivered of this?" Walking forward, he gathered more and more of the extraneous chain and came to stand before his brother. "Completely unnecessary, as you well know. I would never leave Laura, especially now, when she lies in such historically incapable hands." Stefan nodded, as if the point had been taken. "The chain does not bind you to a room, Stavros. Nor does it bind you to Laura. The chain binds you to me." The bark of laughter was unexpected. Stavros raised his fist of chains and rattled them in the face of his jailor. "I always wondered how Nikolas felt. Now no more! Tell me, Stefan," he said, shaking those chains. "Does this sound familiar? Is it a melody you miss?" His brother straightened and took a heavy breath. "You know what I need. Give me the exact formula you've used." The chains dropped noisily to the floor as both men glared at each other. Seconds slipped by as they acknowledged the impasse. Without breaking Stavros' steady stare, Stefan reached into his pocket and removed his keys. He offered them blindly to the aide. "Do it," he ordered, as the man came forward to retrieve the ring. Ronald moved quickly, following the chain to where it was anchored in a metal plate sunk into the floor. His fingers fluttered as he twisted the key, lifting the plate on its hinge. Pulling a second length of chain from the hidden well, he rose and walked toward the prisoner. Attaching the leather cuff he carried to Stavros' other wrist, he bound it to the chain he'd brought and locked the two together. Only then did he remove the old cuff, wet with perspiration or water from the shower, he did not know. Detaching the old chain from the used cuff, he returned to the floorplate and curled it in for storage. The length was ungainly and required both of his hands to properly coil. The damp cuff he set to the side. Locking the plate back into place, he returned to his employer and handed back the keys. "Stavros," his brother said softly, "we both know I have the patience of Job." A brief moment passed before he turned on his heel and herded the aide before him out of the room. As soon as they were through the door, Stefan circled the man and stalked down the hallway. Ronald knew the very second his foot crossed the threshold that something had been missed. Sure enough, the old cuff lay in the center of the cell, aside the metal plate. He looked down the corridor, back to the cell, and down the corridor once again. Ah, to hell with it! This would take only a second, then he'd be done for the day. Besides, the prisoner had disappeared into the bath. Judging this his best opportunity, Ronald re-entered the cell. Snatching the cuff from the floor, he rose to find himself face-to-face with Stavros Cassadine. His shoulders arched back in surprise, yet the luminous eyes caught him, held him, fixed him into place. He sensed the peripheral movement of an arm. Rising. A thumb found the hollow beneath his chin, hooked it and turned the head first left, then right. The entire hand stretched to encompass his jaw - the free hand, Ronald thought. The left hand. The weaker hand, as if it were a comfort to him. Stavros snapped his neck like a twig. "Done and done," he murmured, stepping over the body to examine his books. The Sigh Of Things (5)   The heart of my false love is never true but a thing that goes without staying… Daisies for comfort, roses for love. And to Laura, the slumbering spirit of his unsettled past, he had given white and yellow Gerbers. While most women would take solace in his choice, she took this as the first sign of loss. There would be others. They would come, because to know his soul - broken in so many ways, by so many hands - was to know that one most cherished gift; the offering he held above all others; the one honest grace he yearned to obtain for himself was not love. Had never been love. Could never be love. Only comfort. He had given this ghost a symbol of what he most desired to receive. In a way, she thought, I am now a sister to these freshly-cut flowers, brilliantly blooming at the point of death. Her heart skipped a beat before she pushed that thought from her mind. Rising from her seat, she crossed to the bed and pulled the errant sheet true. Her fingers drew a strand of golden hair away from Laura's face and checked the warmth of her brow. Her color had improved from its initial bleak pallor to a healthier, dusky pink. Although it was impossible to truly know, she seemed more restful now; calmer and more comfortable. Had her children been part of her everyday experience, she might have risen closer to the surface of this dream. But he had done his very best. His care would rival that of the most expensive institution, his concern more than any doctor could have found the time or inclination to provide. Standing back, she realized she felt no pity for the woman. Just a simple, honest concern. "She is well, then?" She was no more surprised at his presence behind her than hearing the anxious tone in his voice. It was a lovers' acuity, enhanced by a year of midnights spend listening to the dull thrum of his heart, the soft flow of blood through his veins and the sudden pause in his breathing just before he turned from her sleepless embrace. She knew more than every word and inflection, every driving impetus and shading of intent - above all else, she knew his silences and for this alone he had kept her at his side. As his question required no answer, she replaced it with a query of her own. "He was sleeping with her, they said." "Not sleeping. Waiting. Playing a string." Yes, the brother would use her that way - as a living prop to assist in the deception. Still, to come upon such a shocking scene must have troubled him. He would not talk about it. Nor would she ask him to. Adjusting the dimmer to its lowest setting, she softened the light in the room and slipped past him into the hall. After a moment he followed, closing the door carefully behind him. They walked through the open courtyard to his quarters; down the bleached-brick path trimmed with snug green grass and the occasional planting of ornamental flowers. Shadows were lengthening along the ground as the sun slipped over the western wall on its way to drown in the sea. The breeze grew cold and thick with the scent of the waves that continually battered against the rocks. Such a furious pitch-and-toss where the Pacific met this particular shore! She once thought this kind of elemental violence could only be found in Nature. These men gave her reason to re-examine that assessment, among any number of others. "And Stavros?" she asked, breaking the silence as they entered through a counterpaned sliding glass door into the common room of their apartments. Lifting a netted woolen shawl from where it draped across a chair, she wrapped herself for warmth and waited for her answer. Stefan busied himself with the lamps, circumnavigating the room until he arrived in front of the marble hearth and the modest fire laid, no doubt, by his servants only moments ago. Here, his palms flat to the flames, his shoulders falling ever so slightly with fatigue, he finally addressed the subject of his elder brother. "I've given him to Sancia. She, at least, has the sense and the skill to resist his efforts to kill her." The death of the aide weighed heavily upon him. As with all else, he would take the blame for the lethal misjudgment of that callow young man. One could tell him over and over again that choices were made which would heed no warning or preventative measure - you might as well pound the earth for rain, as futile as that would it prove. He turned his back to the fire then, his hands clasped behind him. "You remember Sancia, yes? She was a member of the team that retrieved him. You've seen us at practice in the yard…?" She inclined her head. Yes, she knew Sancia. Hard. Fit. An instrument of battle. Each morning, at dawn, he would join her on the grass where they honed their skills in a variety of martial arts disciplines. She particularly admired their forms in Tai Chi; his surprisingly more graceful than the girl's. "He hasn't told you the why of it then? Why he killed the boy?" Stefan sighed and she could sense his exasperation. "Do you really want to know what he said? He said my staff lacked discipline. Oh, yes, and he said no thanks were necessary." She took his irritation in stride. It was the difference between being angry with a person and wroth with a situation. Still, this stalemate could not continue. For his sake, and his sake alone, she pressed to the core of the problem. "He will not give you his formula." "No. No, he will not." He had known this all along, she realized, crossing the room to stand beside him at the fire. He had known he would be taken to task by his brother, forced into compromise, blatantly coerced into a wrangling of power. Stavros had always required a supplicant. His candidate of preference, throughout his life, had been the man whose hand she now took in her own. "You must let him see her," she whispered, almost to herself. "Yes," he replied, allowing her into his embrace. "Yes, I must." She touched her lips lightly to his, coaxing the hunger from his damaged heart. She felt his recriminations lose their sway, his troubled mind soften its grip. That's right, she thought, as his arms wrapped around her, pulling her tight to his pain. Surrender this second to my honest soul. Take your comfort in the momentary absence of despair. His mouth found the crest of her ear. "Ah, Regret." "Yes, my love." And from then there was silence. The Sigh Of Things (6)   What else was there to say but yes to the brilliant sun, yes, when life lies like a cold stone atop the frozen earth… "You are an insult. You understand that." He stated these facts dismissively while testing the length of his stride in the leg-chains. Ignoring her lack of response, he continued. "You are a little soldier in a larger war. You are used less for your destructive value than to gain a slender psychological advantage. A transparent tactic. No surprise there, considering the pedantic mind of the strategist." He appeared to be talking to the restraints he tested, adjusting them left and right in varying degrees. "I'll need three more inches to the chain," he announced, as if placing an order for a pretty piece of jewelry. He spoke to speak - some prisoners did; as if hearing the sound of any voice, including their own, would admit them back into civilized society. Her last three days had been filled with similar one-sided conversations. She raised her hand without a word and he, without looking, offered the wrist with the cuff. Some might be startled by his preternatural sense of movement. Not Sancia, to whom such awareness was common; a familiar feature of an expertise in Eastern meditative disciplines. Twisting the key to the lock, she released his hand and drew several steps back. "Stavros," his brother barked from the doorway where he stood flanked by a pair of massive Samoan guards. "You will join us, please." Sighting the level of security he'd inspired, the prisoner offered a genuine grin. Sancia admired the confidence with which he moved forward; the easy gait he'd crafted from just a few moments' practice in the leg restraints. Filing that aptitude away with the rest, she adjusted her respect accordingly. This potential opponent grew more formidable by the day. As she fell into position behind him, she reminded herself to add an additional hour of training to her schedule. Two long hallways and a sharp right turn brought the party to the door of the compound pharmacy. Stefan slowed to enter, but his brother blithely strode past. "I will see the damage you've done," he snapped, and with that became the locomotive pulling this well-muscled train. Sancia sharpened her speed and took position aside him, matching him step for step. Stefan soon caught her lead and took his brother's other flank, book-ending the prisoner. Stavros threw a hand on Stefan's shoulder as if the lapse in coverage had never occurred. "Reminds one of that accursed hospital. The smell of medicines infusing the air. Do you remember? Well, of course you remember! You ran the place for awhile, as I recall." Stefan refused to rise to the bait and instead gripped his brother's arm to stop him short in front of a door. Stavros bounced to rest with a smile, resembling a child's jolly jack-in-the-box; all loose limbs and coiled springs. "Laura is behind that door," Stefan warned, his voice low and dangerous. "I will not have her disturbed. I don't care what you have to offer or are willing to provide. Remember that, brother." Stavros let out a contemptuous sigh and waited for the door to be opened - an action he could have taken himself, Sancia was careful to note, yet did not. Was this deference? The begrudging recognition of his subservient position? Or was it merely another egotistical ploy designed to force his brother into labor; to lower his status to that of doorman? The complicated puzzle of this fraternal relationship resisted her every effort to lay it flat. She had yet to find a single easy answer. One of the two surprises that morning came after this door opened, as the prisoner cautiously entered the room and, upon seeing the woman in the bed, for the first time tripped on his chains. He recovered swiftly, drawing a chair to her side and sitting soft as he took her limp hand in his own. His gaze narrowed, examining every aspect of her face. "Her eyes have been closed for how long?" "Her eyes have never opened," replied Stefan, as if the fact were known well enough to not need saying. "Never?" Stavros grew agitated with this news, his hands moving quickly to her forehead and the pulse at her wrist. He bent to press his ear to her chest, then withdrew. "Laura. Laura," he called, grasping her shoulders to deliver a gentle shake. When she did not respond he dropped her body in disgust. "I will know what you've given her," he said darkly. "This must be rectified immediately." Stefan, a slight crease of worry on his brow, gestured at once to Sancia. "Take him to the doctor, then the pharmacy. Allow him to prepare what she needs." Sancia insisted on carrying the syringe back to Laura's room herself. It was a simple security precaution, and one the prisoner had shown no reluctance to follow. Once they returned to the side of the bed, the device was laid carefully in his palm. Stavros removed the tube from the patient's IV and inserted his needle into its housing, then plunged his solution into her vein. He dropped the emptied vessel to the floor. "You will report her reaction to me," he said evenly, rising to stand before his brother. His flat hand raised in the air between them. "Don't bother, Stefan. I will not tell you. Learn to live with that." Stefan's eyes closed, his head falling for a moment to his chest. The second surprise came at this precise instant, as Stavros' fist suddenly shot out to the side to bury itself in Sancia's chest. She went to one knee with the blow, all the air now absent from her lungs. In the seconds it took for him to be restrained, he bent to whisper in her ear. "The next time you see her," he murmured with disdain, "feel free to send her my best."