by Kitsa

Rated PG-13

What Memories are made of…

The telephone rang at 11 o’clock on a cold December night; the man in the dark fire-lit room picked it up after the first ring. “Yes?”

“Sir, Officer Pezzini was found murdered in an alley off Mott Street about ten minutes ago. I thought you would like to know.”

“Well done. And the family?”

“They will receive notification in about an hour,” he said deferentially.

“Very well.” He hung up the phone and checked his ever-present pocket watch. Just enough time for what needed to be done. He picked up the phone and made a phone call.

“Hello? Do you know what time it is?” the sleepy voice on the other end of the phone asked querulously.

“Yes, I do actually,” the man said mildly.

“Sir I’m sorry,” he said, suddenly awake. “What can I do for you?” The change that came from recognition was instantaneous.

“The boy…you have the medication he was sent with for his nightmares. I want it given to him immediately. He and his belongings are to be sent to the airport, where a chartered plane will meet him. I expect him on that plane within the hour.”

“But, Sir, he is doing fine…There have been no nightmares, and it is only two weeks until the end of term, surely…”

“Surely, you will do as I have asked,” he replied, the threat implicit in his cultured tone. “Now.”

“Of course, Sir,” he said, resignation and not a little fear in his tone. “Is there a message? What shall I tell him?”

“Tell him I require him at home. Tell him she needs him.”

“Who, Sir?”

“That is none of your concern,” he said shortly. “He will understand. Go now, time is very short.” He hung up the phone and began making preparations.

Across the ocean, a disheveled headmaster rose quickly from his warm bed, hurrying to deal with the tasks he had been assigned. After all, Kenneth Irons was not a man to cross, even accidentally.

Ian awoke, confused and groggy, in his own bed at home. He tried to order events in his mind. He was vaguely aware that he had been recalled home early… Suddenly he sat up in the bed, his father’s message creeping up from the drugged slumber he had been in. “She needs you.” His sudden movement startled the dozing housekeeper from her chair beside the bed.

“You’re awake, Master Ian. You were supposed to sleep longer,” she said, surprised to see him up already, she had been told he would probably be unconscious for a few more hours. “Mr. Irons left word that if you woke up, you were to take your medication. I will notify him.”

“I need to see him,” Ian said urgently, showing more emotion than she had seen from him in the last several years. Not surprising he was upset, recalled home suddenly before the end of term with little or no explanation, drugged the whole time, she thought, disapprovingly. But there was no telling him, not if you wanted to keep your place. The housekeeper sighed.

“That is all very well, but you aren’t going to disobey, are you?”

“No, Ma’am…” he said, bringing his voice under control and accepting the pills and water she handed him from the table.

“I will tell him that you are awake,” she said kindly, a little sad to see his mask reemerge.

“Thank you,” he said, his voice almost a perfect copy of Irons’. She turned and fled the room to make her report, and perhaps to shed a few tears for a little boy long gone.

It took Kenneth Irons almost an hour to finish up his business and return home. He entered his son’s room to find him lying groggily in his bed, one of the day staff sitting by his side, neither talking. The young man got to his feet and left quickly. The boy tried to rise at his father’s entrance, but was waved back with a sudden motion. He lay back, too weak to protest.

“Sir, what has happened?” he asked, trying to contain the joy and concern in his voice. He had been growing steadily more uncomfortable as he waited, but did not want to surrender to the sleep the medication would give him, did not want to have to wait any longer than necessary to have his questions answered. Ian knew he would never be sent for like this unless it was very important, and the message the Headmaster had given him had left him deeply concerned, all the more so when he had been drugged under orders. He hated medications or anything else to do with doctors, regardless of what he was told about their necessity.

“There has been a bit of a…change in the situation concerning our lady,” Irons told him quietly, sitting down in the vacant chair beside the bed.

“Is she well?” he asked, trying to hide his distress. He closed his eyes and tried to clear his mind, open up to feel her, but he could not seem to reach the link. He tried again, this time to reach out for his father, but even that effort only netted him his location, which was useless at present.

“Ian, do not try that again,” Irons told him, sharply feeling the slight brush of his son’s mind and knowing immediately what he was attempting to do. “You are not capable at present.”

“I’m sorry, Sir, I was concerned. I do not understand. What is wrong? Why have you had me drugged?” He struggled to sit up, the medication leaving him feeling trapped by his own inability to move. Finally his father took his hand, helping him to sit, a less vulnerable position easing him a little.

“Sara’s Father has been murdered. Because of the sensitivity of the link in the past year, I thought it best to bring you back home, where Doctor Immo can monitor you. Also I did not want you to be…overwhelmed again,” he said it mildly enough, but Ian knew he was referring to the past summer, when his link to his father had made things awkward between them. He lowered his head, looking down at his hands and trying to push those thoughts away. His father sensed his sudden embarrassment and continued on, trying to take his mind off it. “Besides, I thought you would prefer to be here, to watch how she fares. A test, if you will, of her strength. Was I mistaken?”

“I know my duty, Sir. I will do as you bid me,” he said, keeping the excitement firmly out of his voice. “But may I ask a question?” Ian hesitated, his drugged state making it hard to judge his father’s reactions with his usual skill.

“You already have, young Nottingham. Precision in speech is one of your duties to me, I believe. But I will forgive it this time, due to your condition. What do you wish to ask?” he said, a gentle smile playing about his lips.

“Yes, Sir.” He carefully phrased the question, not wishing another reprimand, no matter how slight. “Does this development mean that we may bring the Lady Sara home, now?” Irons was a little startled by both the question and the logic that had led him to ask it. He had always encouraged Ian to think of the next wielder as a sibling, even a member of the family. It should not have surprised him when Ian reached the logical conclusion.

“No, I am afraid not. I believe she is to live with her Aunt’s family.”

“But why, Sir, are we not also her family?”

“No, my son, not yet,” he said kindly, trying to give his son as much reassurance as he was able to. “Not until the time comes for her to fulfill her destiny, and ours. But until then we must be vigilant, especially now, when she is more vulnerable than ever. Do you wish to take part in this little exercise?” He smiled inwardly, knowing exactly what the boy’s response would be.

“If it is your wish, Sir,” he said quietly, yawning. His fight against the medication was loosing ground rapidly.

“Excellent. Sleep now. There will be time for more later, after the Doctor has seen you.”

“Yes, thank you, Sir,” he said as he slumped back down into the bed.

Irons sat there watching him sleep, sunk in his own thoughts, until Renfrew came to remind him of his appointment. He reached out and tousled the boy’s head gently, giving him a last look before he left, sending one of the staff to keep watch while he slept.

In the snowy cemetery, two nearly identical black clad figures stood alone, watching. In the distance a full NYPD funeral was in progress. It was impressive to watch…all the officers in their dress uniforms, the music, the flowers, all the people dressed in black just like them. Ian stood silently, watching the procession, watching Sara where she stood by her Aunt, her face expressionless, closed off from the outside world. Ian shut his eyes and tried to reach out to her, but the shot the doctor had given him had left him unable to. He felt strange being disconnected from the only two people he had ever felt connected to in the first place. He wondered what she was feeling, longed to be able to talk to her, to let her know that he at least would always be there, would never leave her. But he could not, not yet. His father told him that he had to wait until the time was right, and he always knew what was best, for both of them.

Ian stared through the window into the small bedroom watching Sara cry. He had been there in the cold and the dark for over an hour, just watching her, wishing he could help, knowing he could not. This was her test and she needed to pass it alone. Irons had explained that it would give her the strength necessary to handle the ‘blade and her destiny. It fascinated him, all of their emotionalism, all the people crying and talking below, while they sat alone. He knew emotions were to be controlled, to be kept from ruling the mind. It was a part of what made some stronger than others, and the strong always took the weak…predator and prey.

So was that why she seemed so strong to him, because like him, she only released her emotions in private? His father would be proud of her if he knew, but he knew he could not tell him. He was not supposed to be here, not supposed to leave the Estate alone at all. But here he was watching her, and was that not also part of his duty? After all, he had not been specifically forbidden to come, and his father was out for the evening. Soon he would have to leave her, to get back before Irons returned, but he could not tear himself away from the window.

He heard a knock and watched as Sara dried her eyes and put her mask back on before leaving the room. One more thing to do and then back home, he thought. Slipping the window catch easily, he crept silently into the room.

It was after midnight when Ian made his way silently through the darkened house. He was content with what he had achieved this evening, and if he were honest with himself, he would have been forced to admit he was happy. He walked into his room and closed the door quietly behind him.

“Good evening, young Nottingham,” a quiet voice, emotionless and tightly controlled, emerged from the semi-darkness. Ian was startled and stopped for a moment, his heart sinking into his boots, trying to get his thoughts under control through the cold sweat of fear. He walked slowly and carefully to stand behind the chair from which the voice had come. He had thought that he was safe, his father out for one of his long evenings, apparently not.

“Good evening Sir,” he said quietly, placing himself properly by his father’s left hand. He ran quickly through the things that he could say to the questions he knew would follow.

Kenneth Irons sat quietly, trying to calm his own anger and fear. He had come home briefly between his evening’s plans to check on his son and found him missing. He had quickly called and cancelled the rest, leaving a pleasant evening in tatters. He had been waiting about an hour, hoping that his son would come home safely, wanting more than anything to throw his arms around him, hold him close and reassure himself they were both safe. He tried not to think about the others, the friends and family that had left and never returned, people that he had not thought of in a lifetime. He swore that he would never again lose someone, that he would never feel that pain, that loss again. He was torn between his anger and his love, and his admiration at what Ian had accomplished. He took a moment to calm himself, to get his emotions locked down, to present the same calm façade he expected of his son.

“Where have you been tonight?” he asked finally.

“I went to see her, Sir. I wanted to see how she was,” he told his father quietly. “I had no other duties that I was aware of.”

“So you took it upon yourself to leave the Estate and travel across the city alone, at night, without letting anyone know?” he said, an edge in his voice.

He rose and faced Ian in the half-light. “Did you wish to deliberately anger me?” He said, a dangerous edge to his voice. He raised his hand as if to strike, but held himself back with an effort as his son stood firm in front of him, head bowed, making no move. He had never struck Ian in anger before, he would not do so now. Instead he reached out and lifted the boy’s chin towards him. His face was closed off, showing no fear, no defiance.

“No Sir, you were not here and as you had left no instructions…” he trailed off and lowered his eyes, would have lowered his head as well but for his father’s cool hand on his face. He knew he was risking Irons’ anger, his reasoning sounded specious in his own ears. At least he had been impeccable in his actions, in no way violating any specific orders.

Irons raised his hand to his forehead in reaction to the oncoming headache. He had been caught in his own words and he knew it. He would have to be more careful of his instructions in the future. Ian was learning his lessons too fast and too well.

“And did you go in; speak to her?”

“No Sir, you have told me that I may not do so until the time is right,” deliberately misunderstanding the question and its implications.

“And how will you know when the time is right, hmmmm?” he asked him softly, almost playfully, testing him.

“When I have been told to do so by you,” he answered, flicking his eyes up and quickly away. Irons relaxed a little, releasing his son. Maybe he would not be too angry with the boy.

“Very well, but I will amend your orders now, you are not to leave the Estate alone unless I give you permission. Do you understand? And I think that perhaps you should be restricted to the Estate for the remainder of your visit.”

“But, Sir…” he started to protest, looking up suddenly. He did not want to defy his father, but also did not wanting to be kept away from her.

“You dare to question me?” He raised an eyebrow questioningly.

“No Sir, I merely wish to inquire how I am supposed to continue my training?” he said, knowing that he treading dangerous ground, daring his father’s anger, but not willing to lose what time he had.

“You will continue by learning a lesson in obedience,” he said sharply. He returned to the chair and motioned to Ian to sit by his feet, continuing in a softer tone. “Now, tell me precisely how you left the Estate and what you observed. We shall see what you learned this evening,” Ian knelt down beside his father; grateful for the time he was being given, knowing however, that it was a double-edged sword. Irons would not be so careless of his instructions again. The loophole he had found would be closed to him in future. He settled in and began his tale.

Sara Pezzini returned to her new room in her aunt’s house, worn out from grief. She did not want to stay downstairs with the guests any longer than she had to, preferring to mourn alone. On her pillow, she found one white rose and a small scrap of paper. She picked both of them up, wondering who had left them here rather than sending flowers to the funeral. On the paper, in a very clear old fashioned hand were two words, ‘for Sara’. She wondered which of the guests had given it to her, intrigued and a little flattered that someone had remembered her in this madhouse. She slipped the paper into her desk and pulled out a heavy dictionary, pressing the rose between its pages, before turning to prepare for bed.