The Sigh Of Things (43)   Not today, I think, but some day later you're gone I will wonder how it is I could still be alive… There had only been a single scream, but it had lasted too long for his comfort. A shrill cry, sharply rendered, and ripe with authentic fear. Made one wonder what he'd done; what she'd seen or been forced to suffer to produce so startling a sound. But it was not the scream that moved him most. It was the keening coming after. One could almost hear the demon's name waver on its hauntingly pitiful note, and then an entreating string of "no's" as if, even after the start of his assault, she thought she might convince him to stop. The persuasive savor of the supplication was thoroughly unmistakable and thrashed against the barrier he'd built around his heart. A woman's plea had always been a delicate dilemma; an appeal he'd forever found it difficult to resist. Not so his family. He watched them from the corner of his eye, noting the way they pretended to ignore what was happening behind that door, yet never quite forsaking their proximities, never quite wandering far enough away to sacrifice the sorrow her pain put into voice. "They turn against her." "No," said his padrino, shifting closer to his side. "They turn in the direction of a prince. I have warned you about this. It is the beast in us that yields only to a stronger beast. We would be mastered and welcome that mastery, yet kill every man possessed of the effrontery to try and fail. This is the meat of a Deciding, my son. And your angel? Your angel is its gristle." Argos tried to push beyond the ire of his offended sensibilities to consider this development in light of its strategic intent. It was true, Alberto had made mention on many occasions of the brutish nature of the Cassadine soul. But who could see this as anything more than an example of egocentric legend; a bit of fictitious mythos designed to polish the already proudly preened disposition of the Cassadine clan? It was one thing to imagine your lineage bespoke the fire of ancient warriors, quite another to descend to the savage level of their brutally barbaric bloodthirst. This was indecent. Immoral. Obscene. It was virtually impossible for any man equipped with a modicum of principle to permit a rape's occurrence, much less assign its perpetrator points for the boldness of his crime. His first instinct, strong and fiercely felt, was to take a stand and call them back to their convictions. Lead through virtue, compel through blame. Show this prince for the blackguard he was and return them to their wits. Was his family content to wallow like pigs in the mud of their primitive past, or would they rather reside in a reasoned age with the wealth and power required to rule it as they'd choose? The path was plain. "Now is not the time, figlioccio mio," warned Alberto in a whispered tone. "You are the noble boy, always the noble boy searching for his noble deed. The moment for this has yet to arrive. Look to your kin and judge them well. Their ears are deaf to all but the wailings of the woman they would have him wound. As they themselves have been wounded by the many years he has forsaken them. You seek condemnation. He seeks forgiveness. It is for the kin to weigh the balance. And I tell you with great sincerity, what he offers is not enough. Be this the sum of his repentance, it will not prove enough." "And if he kills her," snapped Argos impatiently, "will that prove enough?" The padrino considered this well. Upon careful thought he provided his opinion. "If he kills her behind that door? No. This would not be enough. They have seen him hunt. They have seen him capture. They must now see him subdue. With their eyes, Argos, with their eyes. What he does beyond this wall is modestly entertaining. It does not prove a thing." Argos pulled back in astonishment, certain he had misheard. "What you are saying is insane. It makes no sense at all." "On the contrary," remarked Alberto, blinking languidly. "To a Cassadine it makes all the sense in the world." She had managed to pull him away from the door, but was not at all sure this was the wisest course. Yet given the option of leaving him there - his heft and position impediment enough to completely obstruct the entry - or laying him flat to ease his breath and tend to his resuscitation, the choice seemed clear. She would revive this prince, have him rise to his feet and stride from the room to contend with the forces his Deciding had put into motion. She would restore the vigor required of him to shoulder this burden and take these matters out of her hands. And if it were not to be, if he were never again to know his life, or fight for it, or own it…well then, let them come. Let them come and see what their horrid little poisons had finally accomplished. Let them know what their wretchedly insidious ambitions had ultimately achieved. Let them recognize the theft of a prince possessed of the strength to wield this Empire's weight; to crush its enemies, protect its interests and march its maddeningly sluggish ranks hard into the fold of the future by the sheer thrust of his will. Let them understand to the very last man that, when all was said and done, they had victimized themselves. The pocket they'd picked had been their own. Every thought had a tear, it seemed. Every reason, every need, every fear came complete with a sadness so overwhelming it demanded its own lament. Her sorrow threatened to drown all hope. Her grief, like the torrent of a tidal flood, was restrained only by the fragile fact that his chest still rose, if imperceptibly, his flesh still trembled, if involuntarily, his brow still troubled itself to crease, if insensibly resistant to the tremulous brush of her hand. In truth, there were times she found herself too terrified to touch him and would rock back on her heels, shaking her wrists and mouthing some voiceless complaint to a god who had lost all interest in the battle. Hysteria danced on the edge of these moments, beckoning a joyful retreat into madness. She had succeeded thus far in resisting that call, but knew it an ongoing negotiation. Let him be well and I will come. Let him rise and I will dive into your every dark delusion with relief. You will have me forever. I swear. Bargaining. She was bargaining now with lunacy. Who was to say they hadn't already struck their deal? She bent over him again, her ear pressing lightly to his chest to hear the comforting sound of his heart. She counted each beat, one after the next; seizing this pulse, clutching this proof for the confidence required to carry on. He had not left her yet. Somewhere…somewhere inside this shell was the man she knew she needed. It was merely a matter of calling him forth. But how? How to inspire that emergence? A silly thought; a ridiculous idea rising up from the mire of a childhood memory. On another night she might have laughed. On another night he might have joined her. She twisted her head to observe him down the long line of his shirt, weighing the aspect her position afforded. He was just a bearded chin, a nose and a thatch of raven hair from this perspective. Asleep. He might as well have been asleep and she the lover who had done him in. She lifted a hand to quest along the slope of that cotton cloth, her fingers tripping over the collar and up the throat to his jaw. Her thumb ran the curve of his lip, slack and soft to the pressure; a whisper of breath skating across her knuckle as it slid. Why not? she thought, reaching to greet an odd moment of abandon. Not why, but why the hell not? And in that instant of irrational folly she drew herself above him, tipped her head to the side and lowered her mouth to a kiss. Absurd, it was all too absurd - she knew this the moment their lips met; his flat and lifeless, hers restively charging after the hint of a response. What could she be thinking? How could this have worked? He wasn't a frog, after all, nor she a charming prince pitched over the bier of a terminally slumbering beauty. Where were the fairies when you needed them? The magic potions? The breakable spells? Better yet - and a far cry more rationally apprehended - where in all of God's creation had he hidden his will to survive? She felt her anger rise and had no inclination to inhibit it. Damn him for making me care, she fumed, incensed by his stubborn reluctance to revive and his disrespect for life in general. She pushed from his chest to turn away and thought twice about letting him off so easily, delivering a rebellious shove as she dropped to her seat on the floor. Not bad, really, but not good enough. The flat of her hand slapped the cage of his ribs and elicited a refreshingly thick-bodied thump. She reversed that hand and flung a brace of knuckles into his hip. In no time at all she was pummeling his torso with every fury she could fit into a fist and finding the ferocity of each foul blow surprisingly redeeming. Take that for making me fight my imprisonment, and that for invading my dreams. And here is this for disarming her bomb of a bracelet, and this for that despicable pact with Laura, and this for that darkly demented dance, and this for kissing me, and this for holding me, and this and this and this for forcing me, forcing me, to have you in my heart. And just as she came to the ripe expanse of his heretofore virgin cheek, her arm drawn back, its palm flexing in hunger for the sting, his hand shot up from the carpet to catch her by the wrist. "Enough." All her strength had been behind that blow, and all her balance too. She pitched forward and snapped back, struggling to free her arm from his hold. His grip simply tightened. "What are you doing?" she demanded, tossing her hair in defiance. "I've been trying to die but it doesn't seem to be going very well. Perhaps if you kept your hands to yourself we could give this a second shot?" His lip curled to the shadow of a grin and his eyes came open. They came a bit wider when he saw her face. "You've been crying." "I haven't." "You have," he contended, drawing her hand to his chest. "It's alright. I forgive you." Torn between her outrage at this sanctimonious pardon and her sudden comprehension of the fact that he had actually come back to her, Regret succumbed to the more powerful truth and immediately felt the harsh burn of tears rising behind her eyes. He brought a finger to the quiver of her lip. "No," he chided, though struck by the response. "No one weeps for me. It's one of the Cassadine commandments. The one most easily borne, or so it seems." He released the hand he held and watched as she brought it to her mouth to remove his finger and deposit a pious kiss in the hollow of his palm. "I missed you." She could see this was what he wanted yet, somehow, a great deal more than he thought himself able to endure. He covered the feeling with a mask of resolution. "Help. Help me up," he directed gruffly. She complied, clasping his arm and levering him off the floor. He swayed to his feet and sought his balance, losing one step, two, then stumbling back to prop himself on the edge of the desk. "How long?" he queried, arching his spine and rolling the muscles of his shoulders. His head tilted, his neck cracking as the bones fell into place. "Fifteen minutes. Twenty, no more." He motioned her closer and she came to his side. "You know what they think we're doing, yes? What I'm doing to you?" The look he gave her was a hard one. She nodded and he nodded back. "Twenty minutes is a long time. I've certainly had my fill. Here." He dragged a crystal weight from the center of the desk and pressed it into her hands. "On my mark, right at the door." Stavros pushed himself to his feet and filled his lungs with air, then released a savage howl. "We're done when I say we're done, and not a second sooner!" He gestured to the entry and the crystal went flying. It struck the door dead center, audibly smashing in a shower of glass that fell to the carpet below. "Good shot," he conceded, sinking back to the table for support. "I gather we're going out there again," she allowed in a neutral voice. "Not only are we going out there again, we've got no time to waste." He began to busy himself with his clothing, brushing off his shirt and his pants to remove any sign of his lying down. This prince would have had control throughout, there could be no proof to dispute it. He swiveled around to gesture at his back. "Anything there?" he asked, calling for her eye. She plucked a few fibers from the collar of his shirt, then swept her hand along its length. "You have a strategy for the wine, of course. Because you can't drink anymore poison. You do realize that." "The drinking will continue," he affirmed, lowering his head as her fingers came to comb through the hair at the base of his neck. "In fact, I imagine I'll step up the pace. You look like a woman who could build a man's thirst." He was seeking a smile with this light aside, yet her hand couldn't help but halt its progress, frozen on the note of that news. He sighed and turned to face her, lifting her chin to catch her eye. "We've arrived at the very heart of this business. There's no faltering now. You understand. You do. You must. Or was it someone else who spun my fortunes with the gift of that dance?" She searched his expression, looking for a sign he might relent, though she knew she searched in vain. "I had hoped to buy a bit more for you than this." "Than this?" he inquired in mild surprise, curious of her meaning. "Is it such a worthless thing, this moment? Because I have never known it. You. The way we are. The way we inhabit each other. The way we stand as witnesses, each to the other's travail. Is this so common a condition it merits no respect? An honest question, Regret. I would have an answer." Her hand came to his face, the tips of her fingers tracing the earnest cast of his features. How was it possible to resist this man? She prayed she never found the answer. "I have a greed for you, Stavros," she admitted, drinking him in with her eyes. "I crave this moment and a thousand more precisely like it. I would fight for that." "And you would lose," he responded, kissing her fingers as they passed over his lips. "Take it from a man who has delivered his life to the quest of re-acquiring a single moment in time. Flakes of snow, Regret. They are flakes of snow, all of them different, none of them the same. Know this moment; embrace it, treasure it. Then move on to the next. It's all God's given us to do." Something in his look called to her; something in the silence that followed this quiet assertion demanded a response. Rising to her toes, she leaned against him and pressed her mouth to his own. He met that desire and doubled it; his longing echoed by a rumbling deep inside his throat. Her eyes closed and she could feel the fire raging within her, the flame of its need licking against the walls surrounding her heart. She took his advice and opened the gate, embracing the race of this brilliant blaze to the very center of her soul; not looking back and not looking forward, just holding this heat though it singed and scorched and blistered every sense she could name. The moment was melting, melting in her hand, and for the first time she didn't care. For the first time she understood, to the very core of her being, what they might be capable of. And when he pushed her back, taking his startled step apart, she knew he understood it too. "I must…" he seethed, his eyes bright, his hunger alive in the space between his words. "We must…" he struggled, grappling for the skill required to finish his thought. "Good God, we don't have time for this!" He spun her around to grip her gown and rend it in two, splitting the seam all the way down to the base of her spine. She stumbled forward, forced to catch the front of the dress before it spilled to her waist. Clutching it tight, she turned to confront him, her gaze challenging his motive. "I would have done that," he declared, "and a good deal more I'm on the verge of doing now. We can't afford to put this off, Regret, unless you'd rather your clever little name became my epitaph?" He gave her no time to think, no time to question or even concede that he was right. "That ring," he barked, gesturing to her hand. "The vote's not cast. Your heart's still full, isn't it?" She frowned down at the cloisonné ring she once thought so enchanting yet had recently decided she didn't particularly like. "Yes," she admitted reluctantly. "The powder's still there. What do you…? No." She refused to look at him, her head shaking in denial, her feet falling behind her in a stumbling retreat. "I won't. No. Not in a million years, Stavros. No." In too few steps she'd reached the wall; in too few strides he'd caught up with her there. "You will, and you know the reason why." His hands came around her waist to gather the scraps of her gown and shove them into his fist. The silk strained in a cruel stretch around the circumference of her ribs. "I can't," she moaned softly, her head still shaking, her anguish rising to choke the refusal from her throat. "Don't make me do this. I won't be the one…" "You will." Harsh now. Resolved. Cold with purpose. And without another word he swung her about by the grip of that dress and drove her to the door. Not a scratch on him, they noted, peering around the bedraggled creature he propelled through the door of the salon. In front of him, though, and a smart move it was. They had no honor, these defiled ones, and would slip a blade to your back in the blink of a faithless eye. Vindictive they'd be. Dangerously so. And he knew, as they all did from long experience, that the spectacle flavor of her spoiling would simply inflame that unbridled spite, causing her to clutch at any sinister straw to take her ravager down. Especially here. Especially now, in front of these kin who had spurred him on, goaded him; applauded his aggressive approach to her disrespectful behavior. Not that anyone scrupled him in method or in motive. Truth be told, they were rather proud he'd acquitted himself in the manner that he had. It was Cassadine justice delivered by a Cassadine hand, and quite satisfactory to behold. Some of the more visceral among them would later go so far as to say they'd found the incident restorative. Whether or not it could restore him to the throne remained to be seen. All marked the way he marched her straight into the company of the Count; the man who'd brought her into their sphere and had failed, in the body of a yawning year, to instruct her properly - to instill in her the comportment required to maneuver herself gracefully (and irreproachably) through the deceptively sophisticated waters of a Cassadine Deciding. The blame for her misconduct, no matter how authentically unintended, could be laid directly at his feet - which was, ironically, where his brother saw fit to throw her at the end of his contemptuous jaunt. "A bit timid for my taste," he confided in a voice all could hear. "But I've gone a good way toward rectifying that. Spare the crop and you spoil the mount, Stefan. Something to remember." The Prince then turned his back on his bondsman and the woman lying at his feet to accept the praise he was rightfully due. "A chair!" he roared with great exuberance. "My kingdom for a chair! I've had the horse and ridden her to ground. I need another seat!" And they laughed with him. And they cheered him on. And they swiftly brought that seat. Stefan bore the abuse of his brother with smoldering restraint, aware as he was of how the scene would play and what it offered in terms of impact through its thoroughly derogatory tone. Stavros had always had a talent for this; an aptitude with the masses. Whether from assiduous training or genetic disposition, he'd forever been adept at discerning the turn of a mob mentality - immersing himself in its shallow depth; navigating its thick-witted current; mapping the eddies and flows of its chaotically disordered force. He understood, at some primal level, what moved the mania of the multitude and could tap that fount of seditious psychosis seemingly at will. It was a handy skill yet one Stefan could not be bothered to covet, requiring as it did an object of scorn - usually a darkly-damaged soul whose only sin came from finding itself in the wrong place at the wrong time, and was inevitably anointed the symbol of all any man in his right mind should genuinely abhor. Regret had taken the cross this night and Stefan, through association, would be nailed upon it too. The drama served, he could see that. But the cost? The cost was unconscionable. She moved too slowly to recover herself from the spot where the Prince had thrown her; huddled in the wreckage of her copper dress, her breath a tremulous vibrato, her cheeks stained stark with the salt of old tears and running fresh with the new. Her hands had slipped to the back of her gown, their trembling fingers seeking workable purchase of the scraps he'd left behind. She could not erase the ruin, no one could, yet this small act of pride served to sink a splinter into his soul and demanded his address. He began to bend forward to help her from the floor, when a hand pressed his sleeve to call him back. "Stavros has insulted us both. There's no need to make it worse." "How could it be worse?" he demanded derisively, looking her square in the eye. Whatever Laura saw was enough to have her withdraw that hand and allow him to go where he would. He turned once again to Regret to offer his support which, much to his surprise, she firmly waved off. "There is something I have to do, Stefan. And it's best I do it alone." A rebuff was not what he'd expected, yet he bowed to her wish and retreated to his place. She rose like a foal on newborn legs that wobbled with the weight they supported, one arm tucked to the front of her dress to keep the silk from slipping, the other aloft in the air at her side, working to maintain her balance. Once she'd achieved an equilibrium of sorts, she revolved in the direction of the Prince. Her eyes burned bright as they found their mark, her chin thrust high in determination, her free hand gripping the skirt of her gown to lift it from the floor. Small steps at first, but with a growing perseverance, she made her way across the room. Would you look at this, they snickered slyly at the sight of her staggering toward them. The haggard heroine comes to wreak a vengeance on her lord. What could she hope to accomplish here? Did she imagine what he'd stolen in that small salon could actually be retrieved? A smarter woman would have learned by now to take her blessings where she found them. His focus had shifted, it was clear; his attention forsaking the last diversion to launch mercifully into the next. She was finally free of his regard; how was it possible to spurn that gift? Just then someone suggested, it was not clear whom, that perhaps he'd spoiled her brain along with the rest of what she'd "offered." And it was with this air of parasitic contempt that they parted to make a path. The Prince, enthroned in his great oak chair - one leg ranging, the other bent apart, his arms drawn back to brace the imperious cant of his shoulders - welcomed her approach with a rakish grin. He did not speak, simply smiled as she came haltingly into his presence; watching as she dropped her hem to the floor and drew her hand forward to hover over his glass. A brow arched in amusement, daring her to proceed. When she failed in this, likely due to the increasing tremor of her wrist and the bewildering number of breaths she took to steady her resolve, he chose to make this easier, elementary in fact, and swung his cup into position directly beneath the ring. Her thumb, shaking like a thing possessed, managed to catch the wire that triggered this device and the heart snapped open. All that was left to do was pour. It was all that was required. All that now remained. Yet it seemed also to be all her recalcitrant muscles were defiantly unwilling to abide. She whimpered when he took that wrist in his hand; weeping silently as he gripped it tight to twist the heirloom and spill its powder into his glass. She gasped as he tossed her arm aside, his eye trained to the mix he swirled calmly in the cup of his palm. And just as he brought the drink to his lips she motioned for him to stop, to erase this lethal intent and perhaps belatedly negate her own. But the moment was lost and the wine went down in the brace of a single swallow. Before that glass could be set to the table the Contessa, her final strength spent, collapsed senseless to the floor. Argos watched his contemptible cousin call to the Count as if he were a dog and direct him to remove the woman from the hall. Stefan complied, advancing to take Regret in his arms and exit the room without delay. "At least she is free of him now," he murmured absently, staring into his wine. "And her vote was well cast, don't you think?" His padrino laid a hand to his sleeve and tried to find the words to express what, by all God's grace, should not have to be said. Those words would not come. Instead he ambled off, appearing to his godson's eye as a man somehow older, somehow weaker, somehow fragile and futile and finally done with the living of his life. As Argos pondered the irony of this, the frail fingers of the Widow Greco came to grasp him by the neck. He set down his wine and kissed her brow. "I take it this Prince has subdued to the kin's satisfaction?" he inquired, unable to help but look for hope within the countless lines of that weathered face. The widow pulled him close, laying her chin to his shoulder. "Ah, caro mio," she tendered softly in the space beside his ear. "He has done a good deal more than subdue. That beast has actually conquered." She crushed her lips to the side of his cheek while, just beyond his line of sight, low to the height of the neighboring table, the silver head of a carrion crow advanced to the rim of his glass. The Sigh Of Things (44)   Months would be spent in the search for someone who remembered how to sit in judgment… His soul was restless now, he could feel it. Deep inside his chest he could feel it knocking against his heart. Like a child's foot kicking, kicking from a boredom that wasn't really boredom at all but a furious little anger which meant it was in pain. And his heart hurt where his soul kicked it, hurt like a bruise getting bigger and darker and softer 'til he knew, he knew, this was going to be a wound. He couldn't look at the man anymore, this damned old fool anymore, kneeling in the dark on the stone anymore, his finger down his throat for the third time, retching up his wretchedness a third time, and waiting for the penalty, yearning for the penalty…not anymore, he couldn't look at it, no. So he turned away and there was Tessa turning away herself, with her eyes gone weak and he was forced to be a witness to that, damn it. He knocked his head in the direction of the man because she was a woman and had to be good for this, had to be good for this at least. She could tell him with a touch or a word, gentle like a woman could be gentle, that he would not be having what he wanted this night. He would not be given his death this night. Not by the grace of The Hand. The challenge was over and you simply couldn't come, you simply couldn't ask, even in grief, even with vomit puddled at your feet - which would have been enough an hour ago - for The Prince's Hand to deliver a punishment no longer in effect. God had spoken through the blood and it was done. This padrino, if he truly wanted to die, would have to kill himself. Paolo took his restless soul into the house and, keeping to the shadows of the corridors, the staircase, the second floor hall, managed to find his way to the room. Gunter had said she would be standing guard, had overheard the Dowager demand it; demand she watch the Lady through the night. And there she was, his little soldier, his little samurai, his little savior, within that sitting room standing her guard, as had been demanded, outside the Lady's door. He walked right up to her. She almost smiled. Almost smiling 'til her eyes met his and she knew, as any good savior would know, that something was stealing the honor from his soul. She asked, without even speaking a word, she asked for his pain, which was a fine thing. A hard thing. A giving thing. "We are not savages, querida mia. Tell me again how we are not savages tonight." Seven years had passed before he could manage to wrest the reins from her hands. Seven long years filled with contention and egregiously destructive dispute. By the time he'd called her final bluff and taken control of the estate, there was very little left to win - just the shell of an anachronistic empire and this sullenly prideful child she'd raised in the image of her firstborn son. So like Stavros had he been, with the same strut, the same swagger, the same hubristic conception of the world as one great belonging, that Stefan found himself constantly startled straight back into time. Strange, the way that imperious glare from a pair of little boy's eyes could peel apart the years; could make him the second son again, the inconsequent younger brother; the weakling, the witless, the waste. Those first few days found him paralyzed; half man, half grey-ghosted youth still out to impress, to appeal, to befriend the lordling who, it seemed to him, had owned his childhood from start to finish. How many times had he been forced to remind himself Nikolas was his son? A truth that had never been true, just the seed of a scheme she'd left in her wake, yet this was what he'd believed. What he'd been sure of. What had finally convinced him to move beyond those reductive memories and actually advance into parenting his child. This child. Stavros' child. Christ, it was still so hard to say. "My mother is dead." "Who told you this?" Helena had left so much to disprove, having spun for him a web of falsehoods glistening with the dew of her scorn. And here was "Uncle," come like the sun to burn away all those lies. A painful process, and one that had never seemed to end. How much truth do you want, little man? How much can you handle? More than I, we should hope. Why yes, your mother is alive and she has left you. Would you like to hear she is coming back? That she misses you every single day and has promised to return for you the moment she can? The very moment she finds the strength to abandon the rapist she's chosen to love? Would you like to live on that promise, the way that I have, the way that I do, until it squeezes your heart dry in the night and kills your affection for all that is warm and bright and hopeful in life? Or would you simply prefer to leave her in the past? Your father? Why yes, your father is dead. Would it please you to hear he was a rapist as well? That his evils were legion, his cruelties countless, his brutality unmatched by any man alive on the earth today? Would you like to know how he died, chasing after your mother, forcing himself upon her as her lover lay bound and gagged and compelled to watch this horrifying scene unfold? How much would you like to know about the decadent demon who sired you? Or would you prefer to think him good? Wise? Relatively noble? Which perception will serve you best? Nikolas was seven. Choices were made. A price would be paid for that, but later, so much later that it didn't seem to matter at the time. He had either done too much or too little by the boy, he still couldn't decide. In his effort to protect him from every threat posed by his perfidious relations - in truth, every threat that could possibly be posed which, by his own imaginative estimate, had proven as a list to be exhaustive - he had also prevented his perceiving the true nature of the danger he was in. Nikolas had never known the face of his enemies. They had never gotten that close. Was it such a surprise to have him come to question the truth of their existence? Or to suspect that his uncle, through a faithful if misguided paranoia, had thoroughly exaggerated the risk? So many times, in later years, it had seemed a choice between having a living, if oblivious, prince or a dead one equipped with all the facts. In the end, Stefan had surrendered to the vitiating voice of his heart. Nikolas walked the earth unprepared. But he walked it nonetheless. The sound of a door closing down the hall roused him from his reverie. He turned to face the library desk and worked to re-order his thoughts. Two thumbs lifted the screen of the laptop, ten fingers falling to its keys. And there, in his mother's house, upon the conclusion of his brother's Deciding, the steward of the Cassadine Empire bent his mind to the matter of dismantling the plan for his nephew's escape into exile. If I do not open my eyes, I will not be here. That's the trick of consciousness, though. As the mind awakens the senses tag along for the ride. So she can feel the pillow beneath her head and the weight of the blanket that covers her - the tattered silk against her skin, the tug of the clip in her hair, the crust of tears dried to a grainy salt on her cheeks. Her tongue tastes of old red wine and what she thinks is a hint of his kiss, yet this could be an illusion borne of the scent he'd left at her throat, her shoulder, her traitorous wrist. She can detect a conversation in the distance, low and far enough away to be beyond the door of the room she is in. That would be the world. Out there where she wasn't. Out there where she most definitely, most definitely, did not want to be. If I do not rise from this bed, I will never have to know. And this is where she measures the value of ignorance; of ill tidings denied their voice. He could always be alive here in the dark, in this warm sleeve of silence, in the vestige of a dream. She could keep him alive and if no one ever came, if no one ever remembered to come…yet they would. She knew they would. Someone would be sent to fetch her for something - perhaps death, perhaps release - and all of that carefully hoarded unknowing would be stolen away with a single word. Yes, he is dead. No, he is dead. (It was always he was dead.) And attached to this word would be the vilifying look that branded her a coward. A craven. A wilting weakness of a woman who trembled in her bed like a child unwilling to face the day. He would not have respected that, he who had faced far more this night than the prospect of a bit of bad news. If I do not look in the mirror, none of this will be real. The dress shrugs off effortlessly; the underclothes falling in a trail on the carpet leading to the bath. The jeweled pin is pulled from her hair, the cloisonné ring from her finger. Both are tucked in the corner of a drawer with a vow she will never claim them again. The scalding spray of the shower serves to wash away the evidence of every sin; hers, his - the telltale stain of each transgression they'd employed to preserve a prince's power - until all that remains is a memory she knows she will carry for the rest of her life. She is burdened by this image, captive of her crime, haunted by the swirl of poison in a glass. Round and round, round and round, then sunk like a venom to the center of his soul. Forgive me. It was what he wanted. Forgive me. It was what he needed. Forgive me. She will take those words to her grave. If I do not leave this room…what? What will be left? A plain black shift for mourning, black flats for the feet that exit the door and the desperate dream she'd prefer to inhabit. One step forward, then the next, she walks through the common room disregarding Sancia who confers with a man - it doesn't matter who, it doesn't matter now - to move into the hallway toward the light shining from the bottom of the stair. Advancing from a shadow to the balcony ledge, her fingers trace the rail where he stood, where he jumped, where he fell to the fury of those ravening wolves with a relish they would not soon forget. And if this was all that remained of him, that one intemperate gesture, that one moment of impetuous defiance that in any other man would have passed for courage but in him did signal a proof of madness - if this was all he'd left them to recall of the last quintessential Cassadine prince, then he'd seeded his legacy well. Let them have their nightmares, their terrors, their dread; year after year cold-sweating in the dark, tracked by a demon who would never leave them be. As a curse it was just. To her mind it was fitting and rightly done. Empty again, their imperial chamber whose walls had echoed with his laugh. Vacant again, and cold in its cavernous desertion. Tomorrow these thrones would be carted off, these pretentious portraits packed away; the linen boxed, the silver stored, the flowers withered to waste. He was gone and it seemed achingly appropriate that this ritualed Age would go with him. His brother would be pleased. Not in his heart but in that part of his mind where order reigned supreme, Stefan would be satisfied with this. She wandered like a ghost through the vestibule, the dining room, the great room, the salon, and back once more into the hall. She knew no direction and fixed no aim, simply slipped from resonance to resonance while the essence of the evening still idled in the air and could still excite a feeling. This would fade, this evocative effect. The day would come when she'd walk through these places and struggle to remember where he lingered, where she turned, where they danced. And it was just as she acknowledged this sorrowful fact that she heard a door close beyond the stair. Instinct drove her forward, to a shaded corner of the passage leading to the morning room. "Eta sir'yozna?" asked a voice she recognized as that of Helena Cassadine. "Da," asserted the man. "Och'yen. Zryeniye? Patyeryani." "Skol'ka vryemya?" "Ksazhilyeniyu, ya ni magu vam pamoch," the man responded vehemently. Her voice lowered to spit a threat, her hand clawing at his arm. He bristled at the touch and pulled away, the black bag he carried betraying the jostle of the instruments held inside. Once he was free he turned to retreat down an adjacent hall. An indignant Helena took chase, leaving the corridor empty again and still with the weight of the hour. A clock ticked too loudly, its seconds pounding inside her head as she absorbed this final truth. It was the confirmation of everything she knew but hadn't been able to fully face. No word was needed anymore, not a yes or a no, he was dead. He was dead; his lifeless body brought to lie behind a door not five yards from where she stood. He was dead - dead because he wasn't in a bed, or on a gurney in an ambulance, or recovering on his yacht - all renegade fantasies she'd kept pacing at the edge of her grief; hopes that were alive and fussed with impatience, wanting to be real. But they were not…he was not…there was nothing there to believe in anymore. Just a body in a back room waiting to be buried or burned or, if his mother were to have her way, bullied back into life. This was the reason for the doctor who himself had no hope. This was the reason Helena could leave his side so easily. Just a corpse now, just a shell. Her firstborn son was dead. Again. An old road for her; she who never knew an end. Regret imagined for a moment she had the choice between seeing him or not. It was a game she played with herself as her heart rushed to build its wall and her mind sealed every crack and crevice to prevent the pain from leaking through. Once those protections were in place she set herself into motion; her right foot taking a step, her left meeting it and moving beyond. There is no one there. No one there. No one to say "Enough!" or "Hello" or "I did this for myself." No one to offer her the difference between a curse and a lamentation. No one to claim she'd been crying, to call her a distraction, to ask if they were friends. She would be alone with this prince, this father, this son, this brother, this thundering consequence of a man and - even though he'd be present - for the first time, for the very first time, there would actually be room for someone else. Damn and damn and damn. Thoughts like this could stop the heart if the sight of him didn't do it for her. She scanned the hallway for witnesses. Assuring herself there were none, she slipped through the door and closed it gently behind her, the latch catching with a satisfying snick. The room was distressingly dark, black as pitch and thick with silence. Her hand quested for a light switch, first on the one side, then on the other; her fingers finding only the uniform stretch of smooth, unbroken wall. Tentative now, she glided forward; her arms extending into the room to feel for a table or a chair she could use to guide her as she hunted for a lamp. Those arms must have been too high, though, because it was her hip that met the cabinet's edge, striking hard enough to send every brass handle tapping against its plate. She grunted softly and from somewhere inside this daunting pit of darkness, harsh in the hollow of an agitated throat, came a corresponding growl. She was not alone. "Poshol ty juda podal'she," it snarled, low and restive as a beast disturbed by an intruder who did not belong. And on the turn of those guttural words she recognized at once that she had stumbled into an encounter for which she was woefully unprepared. "Stavros," she whispered, grasping the edge of the cabinet and using it to back herself against the wall. An ominous quiet pervaded the room, increasing the level of her fear. He could see her, she knew - she could feel his attention fix, narrowing its focus as he gauged the distance between them. So much of her yearned to run to him, weeping and blissfully thankful that his life had been spared. But she had heard too many stories, had been warned too many times. Drunk…brutally cruel…prone to violent rampage. Irrevocably altered. You must promise never to come near me again. There were assessments to be made, a mood to ascertain, a temperature to take prior to making an approach. She needed to consider this. Consider it well. So she would wait. She would wait as long as she could, as long as his humor would allow. "Go. I said go. Otstan' ot menya, Regret. Leave. Leave me alone." She could detect the disappointment threaded through his tone and marked the trouble he took to translate his desire. And yes, there was a certain sadness in the way he said her name. All of this wrapped inside the iron of a threat, yet it was there nonetheless. "You've won," she offered cautiously, testing the waters of his wit. Mocking the obvious had always proven irresistible to him. He snorted derisively. "I've seen it through, yes." A sour observation by the sound of it. "And Argos is…?" "Dead. Dead with pennies on his eyes for Charon," he quipped reproachfully. "Regret, I've asked you to leave." But not demanded it. Not forced it into being. "I thought I'd killed you," she admitted, using the truth to tease his mind away from its self-occupation. "I…I didn't know. No one came to tell me. I've been wandering this house…" "And now you have your answer." Abrupt. Cold in its finality. Negating any affection she might offer or he might be willing to receive. These tears wouldn't help but she couldn't fight them back, they spilled without permission. She swallowed soundly and bit her lip, her breath running shallow as she scrambled for the means to retain her composure. "Do we have to do this in the dark?" Her voice broke at the center of the question, the last of it coming out a plea. "Go. Just go." "I want to see you," she asserted, taking hold of the corner of the cabinet and pushing herself into the room. "The door is to your right. Use it." Weary now. Resigned. Her knee slammed against the back of a chair, her fingers reaching out to grasp the rim of the dining table. Hand by hand she made her way around the circumference of the wood. "I told you I would come for you and I have. I don't care how difficult you make it." "You grow tedious, Regret. This is not an attractive trait." His voice retained its shading of apathy but could not hide the fact that he had moved across the room. "And how would you know? I may wear tedium well. You would have to see it to judge." Her ear cocked for a clue to his movements yet she couldn't distinguish a single one. This was not going to work. He had the advantage, being all too proficient in stealth. Soon he would find the door and be gone. Her search launched in a different direction. "Eye-to-eye," she announced, her hands reaching behind her. "If you're determined to deny me, we will do this eye-to-eye." Her fingertips glided along the wall, met the frame of a painting, more wall, a curtain…it was here, she knew. Just a matter of finding it. "Break with me, Stavros, but do it to my face. Surely there's a pleasure you can take from the pain. Consider it my final gift." Her arm swung out in a broad circle, her elbow colliding with the dome of a linen shade. Finally! Her hands came to curve around the base, her fingers rising up and over the brim until they came to the fretwork of metal. "What are you doing?" Too late. He was too late. "Shedding some light on the situation," she responded as she turned the switch of the lamp and put an end to the darkness once and for all. The sudden flood of illumination was more than her eyes could handle. Her wrist came up to block the glare but she was already stepping forward, already hunting his legs from beneath the line of her palm. There were his trousers, standing by the sideboard in the very place she'd begun this pursuit. Five steps…four…three and two. She rushed headlong into her embrace, burying her face in his chest. Her ear found the beat of his heart, her brow lifting with the crest of his surrendering sigh. "I win," she whispered in a voice that choked with emotion. His arms came gently around her, his chin balanced on the top of her head. "Of course you did. It was impossible to lose." She found this note of concession oddly unexpected and pulled apart to search his face. What she saw caught her breath and began the inevitable breaking of her heart. "As you can see, I've already become a bit tedious myself. We can only hope I will wear it as well." He tried out of habit to find her eye, but gave up the attempt when he recognized it wasn't there and would never be there again. He had to confront this, accept it and move on. "A cane or a dog?" he asked her softly. "Tell me, Regret, what best becomes the blind?" Russian Translation: "Is it serious?" asked a voice she recognized as that of Helena Cassadine. "Yes," asserted the man. "Very much. The eyesight? Lost." "For how long?" "I'm sorry, but I can't help you," the man responded vehemently. …and Stavros' introductory line, "Poshol ty juda podal'she" translates to "Get out of here."       The Sigh Of Things (45)   We fray at the edges of this pilgrimage, bent so often patrons claim us marked. We stain with each offer of sanctuary and fade as we withdraw to find our comfort in the dark. "No." "No." "NO!" This became a challenge - how many times he could say the word and she could hear it and pretend not to know what it meant. No, he didn't want her staying in the room. Good, she didn't want him staying there either. He was firm about this. So was she. No, he wasn't interested in hand-holding. Good, she wasn't interested in holding his hand. He could hold his own hand, she just wanted them to leave. Was there a reason they had to stay? No! Good, then it was certainly time to go. Did he have a destination in mind? Because she was thinking of the yacht. No, now Regret… No he didn't have a destination in mind, or no he wasn't thinking of the yacht? I can see what you're trying to do. Do you really? You see it? Really? Because you told me you were blind, Stavros, and if that was a lie…? No, it's not a lie! Good, because I've roughed you up once tonight and I'd hate to have to do it a second time. That kind of thing gives a girl a reputation. None of this amused him. It wasn't meant to. The true conversation lay beneath the words. He would break with her as he'd been attempting to do since the moment she walked into the room. She should go. He didn't care where. Away. For a long time. Forever, in fact. He had decided they were through. And while a less perceptive mind might have assigned a selfless motive to this - sparing her the burden of his blindness and a life chained to the oppressive reign of a daunting disability - she knew very well it was nothing of the kind. He was afraid, and as a man unfamiliar with fear in any but the most theoretical sense, he had promptly retreated to a safer place. He had taken refuge in his role as Prince and done what any Cassadine prince would do. He'd brought his pride into play. He'd mustered his bravado and bricked it like a barricade around the fortress where he'd housed his dread. And he wasn't coming out, not if he had anything to say about it. Which, of course, she was trying to prove he did not. "Well, I suppose we could wait for your mother. I'm sure she has a room set aside for you. And a servant to see to your every need. How happy she'll be to have us all under her thumb…forgive me, roof." She saw his expression grow harder; his sightless eye narrow, galled by the thought. "All save Stefan, that is. I believe he's already made his escape." Pride was a double-edged sword, after all. If she could simply manage to turn the hilt… "That was a doctor I saw her with, yes? Then it's probably best you remain here under his care. I'm certain she will have him labor day and night, searching for a cure for this condition. She loves you dearly. She would want you well as soon as humanly possible. Your independence is so important to Helena. You shouldn't be forced to rely on anyone, most especially your mother. She who has always had your very best interests at heart. No, Stavros, I think you're right. You shouldn't wander off. You should stay. You should stay right here where they can find you." He was grimacing now with the sour taste of those calculated truths. She saw his hand tighten on the sideboard, its knuckles growing white from the pressure of the grip. She couldn't give him time to think about this; to construct a reasoning, advance an argument. She began to back away in the direction of the door. "I, on the other hand, well…" she countered, watching his head cock to the side as he marked the retreating sound of her voice. "We both know Helena has no love for me. Now that you've won your Deciding and Laura has regained her senses, I find myself in a rather precarious position. I am…well, let's not gild the lily here, Stavros…I've become dispensable. Without your protection, which if I'm not mistaken you've just withdrawn, I am left to my own devices. Best, I think, to slip away while attentions are directed elsewhere." Her questing fingers found the handle of the door, turned the latch and opened it wide. Exiting the room, she stepped sideways down the corridor and pressed herself against a neighboring wall. "Regret." Exasperation at first. Because he hadn't given her leave to go and she wouldn't dream of abandoning him. "Regret?" A second thought. Perhaps a third. Who knew, truly, what this woman was capable of? She shuddered at the sound of him crashing into furniture and the grunt he expelled at his initial failure to find the door. Her need to assist him was overwhelming, yet she fought it with all the strength she had; her eyes screwed shut, her hands balling so fiercely into fists she could feel the nails digging into her palms. He must understand this. He must acknowledge what it was to be alone in the dark with only those final four senses to guide him. He must decide how he wanted to proceed. His head thrust into the hall, his body hurtling after. "Regret," he growled ominously. "Yes?" she replied, adding a note of aggravation to her tone. "What do you want, Stavros? I'm busy at the moment." "Busy with what?" he demanded in outrage, finding her response preposterous. His fingers left the safety of the doorframe to travel down the wall, directing him to where he perceived she stood. "Busy with making me look the fool," he accused indignantly, gathering assurance with the passage of each unimpeded step. "It always has to be about you, doesn't it?" He caught himself short at the proximity of her voice. She was a good deal closer than he'd realized. "Is it so completely outlandish to imagine I might have a problem of my own? If you want to be of help you can tell me how to get out of here. What's the best way? Which route does she leave least guarded?" Given a moment to compose himself and register the fact that she was still here, he began to search for the subtext of this game. As she'd known he would. Damn if that wasn't the tracing of a smile she saw squeezing through the scowl on his face. "The least guarded route? I believe that would be the sea," he imparted resentfully, mocking a measure of conscious thought. "Of course you'd need a boat. You don't have a boat, do you?" He tsked that absence, shaking his head. "Could you borrow a boat? Is there someone you know? Perhaps Stefan. Stefan might be of service here." "Stefan doesn't have a boat," she conceded, sighing disconsolately. "Oh, I imagine he could get one. But he would need time for that." "Time you don't have. I understand. That does present you with a problem. I was blind not to see it from the start." She yielded a grin he didn't need to see. He had her. He knew it. "I could swim," she suggested, trying to maintain a solemn disposition. "I'm a very good swimmer. I'm sure I could make it a mile or two." "Ah, but you're failing to factor in the current." He pulled his fingers from the flat of the wall and politely offered his arm. She wrapped both hands around the sleeve and, beneath some ridiculously foolish talk of tides and moonlight, water temperatures and predatory fish, she allowed him to escort her from the house - ignoring all the while the careless cues she tendered and he, with an equal carelessness, abided to present them with success. Once they reached the patio steps an imaginary sandal she wasn't wearing broke its fragile strap, forcing him to hold her balance as they tackled those flagstones one by one. It was the same with the stairs descending to the beach, where he reproved her mightily for her poor choice in footwear. A spirited discussion ensued on the merits of a man's opinion in the arena of women's fashion - she insisting there were none, he contending that if it weren't for men the women wouldn't go to the bother - which lasted all the way down the jetty to the slip of the waiting launch. And it was there, at the side of this boat, as the pilot brought her over and Stavros let go to climb aboard himself, that everything she'd gained was lost. It must have seemed so familiar to him, his grip of either side of the boarding hatch; the molded ridge of the fiberglass feeling cool and sturdy beneath his palms. The way his weight settled for a second as his instinct brought him balance - one could see him regain the habit of this as he hoisted himself through the cut, off the dock and over the side with an agility born of countlessly similar boardings and disembarkings. Yet he would have known, had he the eyes to see, that the water had a chop tonight; a tiny, tumultuous force come to beat against and below the hull. He would have allowed for that. Made a mindless adjustment. A purely intuitive calculation. But he had no way to know and no voice to tell him, so when he landed on the deck and it met him a good three inches higher than it should with the added displacement of a backward slant, his footing fouled to pitch him forward and sent him crashing to his knees. The pilot, shocked and chagrined by the sight, moved in to assist but Regret waved him off. Such support and the weakness it implied would result in a sudden midnight swim, if the man were lucky. Instead she motioned to the helm and directed him to get underway. The less made of this unfortunate incident, the better. At the sound of the engines roaring to life Stavros cast his arm about, attempting to locate the rail. Once he had it firm in his grasp he rose to stand facing away - confronting the ocean that had bested him and was assuredly snickering in the foamy sleeve of its every cresting wave. He had his sea legs now, she could tell by the way he leaned into the breeze and adjusted with the motion of the deck. He wouldn't be leaving that rail though, whether for fear of another fall or residual fury from the last, and so she went to him. "What did the doctor say?" she queried, coming close enough to have the words heard but resisting the urge to touch him. "What they all say. Nothing," he spat, attempting to marshal his temper. "Possibly soon. Probably never. Time to place your bets." "Well, I bet on you, Your Grace," she announced, crossing behind him to move to the rail. "But then I always put my money on the dark horse. He runs a more interesting race." He grunted contentiously. "I will bankrupt you, Regret. You do realize that, don't you?" Her voice caught an edge in response to his presumption. "The investment is mine to make. I require no advice and will take no counsel. Not even from you." And he let it go. And she let it go. And they stood silent for the rest of the crossing. As they drew alongside the Cassadine yacht and the pilot hitched a line to the mooring, she was more saddened than surprised to find the weight of his hand falling to her shoulder - knowing what this bid for assistance had cost; knowing it the first in a multitude of prices he would pay for the loss of his sight. She made no outward show of that awareness, but was worried he could sense it nonetheless. Fulsome as he found it, he was already testing the scope of his condition; exploring its limits, marking off its boundaries. And as he cataloged those fresh restrictions she knew his perception would be overly-attuned to detect the slightest prick to his dignity. Alert to sympathy, vigilant for pity - she had a grim suspicion he was certain to miss discerning the difference between the two. So when the pilot gave the signal to disembark, she departed the boat immediately, relieved to be in motion and providing a distraction from her manifestly heavy heart. She led him up the gangway and into the ship, keeping to a pace moderate enough for him to follow without feeling the invalid. She'd traveled these corridors twice before, once to meet Stefan and once to find a blouse to replace the one lost in the passion of that powerboat ride. But those visits seemed so very long ago, occurring in another lifetime, and it was hard to recall which direction to take; right or left, forward or aft. She managed to reach the upper deck and the primary hall of staterooms, but could not for the life of her remember which of these doors belonged to him. He must have sensed that hesitation; the hand on her shoulder forcing her to slow, then stop to address the problem. "Just describe the nearest painting," he advised, turning her to face the portside wall. "It's not a painting, it's a sketch. Rodin? La Porte de l'Enfer? Part of it anyway." "The Gates of Hell, alright…" Just then the long, steady tone of a ship's telephone sounded from within one of the cabins. "Timing," he stated somewhat enigmatically. "You can never fault her timing." Stavros took the lead, following the noise to the last door on the left, then opened it and ushered her through. She stepped inside and was able to note the size of his quarters - easily the space of three cabins combined; sitting area, office, a bedroom at the rear - before he shut the door and the room plunged once again into darkness. She was sure it didn't even occur to him to find the switch for the light; dark as the landscape of his world had become. She was also sure that of all the rooms he could have chosen to enter into, this would be the one he could navigate blind. We know those places we sleep by touch, night and nightmare demanding it so. Their positions had reversed. The advantage was his and Regret, suddenly sightless, could only wait on a direction - or a lamp if he remembered to find one. "Mother?...You've called the yacht and I've answered the phone so yes, you may conclude I'm on the yacht…That's not necessary, no…" She could hear his temper rise, his tone growing strident. "I said no…That's not my problem. I've won back your empire; you will give me this night and whatever else I ask for…I will take the tenor of that remark as a side effect of the poison you've ingested. Go to bed now before you say something the powder and the hour will not excuse." The phone fell hard into its cradle. "She's not pleased, I gather?" Her eyes were adjusting to the depth of the darkness. With help from the moonlight the portals offered, she began to discern the larger shapes in the room. She thought she could detect him at the far end of the cabin, his black form listing, angled against the edge of the desk. "She's old, tired and entirely too avaricious. We've given her an inch and she's taking her mile. Or trying to, in any event." She could hear his own exhaustion bound beneath those words and thought it remarkable fatigue had waited this long to fix its hold. "Regret," he enjoined softly. "We need to talk." It was a portentous beginning; a statement grave and concise enough to trigger a silent alarm. There was something meaningful he wanted to say and she wasn't about to confound the moment with a shallow request for a bit of light. Instead she inched forward, avoiding those larger shapes she could perceive and contriving through luck to skirt the small ones, until she arrived at the shadow she imagined him to be. "Say what you need to say, Stavros. I'm listening." She marked his onerous intake of air, then the smooth stream of its release. "I want to thank you," he pronounced, then huffed a cynical breath. "Absurd words. Ridiculous, in fact. I could never understand why people took the trouble to assign them such value. But they do. And perhaps you do, too. So you have every right to hear them. Thank you. I thank you. My family thanks you. The collective Cassadine clan thanks you. Without your presence, your assistance and your willingness to be of service tonight, we could never have accomplished as much as we did. I could not have done this without you. I would not have survived without you. And that is a truth meriting more than any man could possibly inject into the brace of two little words." "A question, Stavros," she interrupted, extending her arm in the direction of his voice. Her hand encountered the wrinkled shirt stretched across his back, the height of it confirming he straddled the corner of the desk. She was behind him. "Why do you say thank you when what you really mean to say is good-bye?" "You understand, then. Good," he declared in weary relief. "On the contrary, I don't understand at all. I simply know this is what you mean to relay. Frankly, I don't think you can make me understand so I advise you not to try." Her fingers spread apart to introduce her palm to the base of a shoulder blade, her hand pressing in a circle; working to soften the muscle underneath. She sensed his head fall forward with the action and its profoundly sedative effect. "You're right, of course. You couldn't understand. How could you fathom any of this? You, who've helped to make the victory complete? It would seem an absolute betrayal of the effort." He sighed as her palm ran the length of his spine, his back arching with the pressure. "It's enough for you to know I will retreat into legend. And to know I won't go quietly." Her free hand joined its partner at his neck, her thumbs uniting to work a knot from the stiffened twine of a tendon. "You're already a legend. I fail to see the difference." "You wouldn't. The difference sits in my mind." He paused for a moment, content to submit to the release of tension at her touch. "I never thought of myself as a legend, except in the sense of the power it conferred. Others believed it. That was useful. But the truth, as ironic as it sounds, is that I always felt far too alive to be constrained by the designation. Not so much anymore. I could accept it now. I will. A sightless man cannot lead this Empire and even if he could, I have no desire to be known as the Blind Prince of the Cassadine." Her arms wound around him and she pressed her brow to the back of his head. "Yet this is what you are. Own it or no, at the moment you stand blind and Prince of the Cassadine. No man can retreat from himself, Stavros. No matter how hard he tries." "Don't." An order and a plea. He took her by the wrist and drew her around to the space between his legs. His hands fell to her hips, fighting the urge to rise from her waist to the bounty of her breasts. A temptation wrapped in a solace ensconced in a weakness he couldn't afford. "Don't attempt to heal me, Regret. You know I prefer the pain." "But why?" she grieved. "Why must you always be stronger, so much stronger than the rest? Set the pain aside." A gruff bark of laughter. "Set it aside? Where? What do you suppose could contain it?" he snapped. "I am son to a mother who beholds in me the key to her every ambition. Brother to a brother who looks upon me as an archaic impediment to the achievement of his fondest dream. Husband to a wife who is not my wife and, to hear her tell it, never wished to be. Funny, I remember that differently. My son? My son thinks me dead and would not be pleased to discover it a lie. Seventeen years are gone from my life that I will never get back - all of this, all of this is pain, yet it is nothing in comparison to the somewhat pedestrian recognition that I have no place to go. There is no one who doesn't need a reason to take me in. There is no circumstance that requires me, no employment that could put me to a proper use. I laid days at the bottom of that bottomless pit and, granted, most of them were spent in recovery of the fall, but a few - more than a few, in fact - were tied to the quandary of assigning a destination. I fell back, Regret. Back to Laura and the misery I knew. I could not see a future. And now? Now I can see nothing at all." His voice had gone dangerously cold with this lengthy recitation, his mania mounting on the back of each incontestable truth. The hands that held her trembled and tightened as he fought to retain his composure. A losing battle it seemed, and she didn't know whether to attribute this reaction to fatigue, poison or the lunacy consistently ascribed to his nature. She could see why he embraced it, though. He must feel in these moments that he'd stopped; that the unremitting fall through his cursed existence had paused for an instant to mark its course - when, in fact, she suspected he was falling harder and faster than before but had simply gone past caring. He was right, there was nothing she could heal in him that he did not desire to be healed. All that was left was to find a way to be true to herself. She took hold of one of those hands and pressed it to her chest so he might feel the beating of her heart. There was no disregarding its rhythm. Even she could sense that pulse drumming in the pocket of his palm. "There is a place for you, Stavros," she contended gently through the darkness. "Here. You can be here for as long as you like. It's a good place, on the whole. Strong. Enduring. Bright. It may not contain all of your pain but it is more than willing, more than ready, more than content to take its part." Shaken by the offer, his many malicious demons for a second grew still and he affirmed in a softly bemused tone of voice, "A stalwart soul with a heart to match?" "Sold as a set, I'm afraid," she acknowledged, leaning in to find his kiss through the thickest part of this shadow. The palm still pressed against her chest offered a resistance. "No. I don't want you to see me like this." "Stavros," she chided in a hush, her mouth arriving at the crest of his ear. "Do you recall turning on a light?" His protest mellowed but refused to relent. "Now is not the time." Her lips fell tender to the lid of one blinded eye, then advanced to the other. "Know this moment," she whispered on the breath between each kiss. "Embrace it. Treasure it. Then move on to the next. It's all God's given us to do." She'd stolen his words and he knew with a conviction shot like a bullet through the center of his brain that, in terms of all he had to steal, she was simply getting started.