Standard disclaimers apply; comments to vampwrtr@aol.co,

Quiet Grief

By Vampwrtr

Copyright 1999

for M.I.

The voice mail message played one more time. It hadn't changed. It wasn't

going to change, no matter how many times he listened to it. His friend

was still dead; an immortal no more. LaCroix stabbed the key which erased

the message, and slammed the phone back down into its cradle. It wasn't

going to change.

He stood quite still for a few moments, his lips slightly apart in

disbelief. He felt numb. How many times in his almost two thousand years

had he suffered the loss of one close to him? Ten times? A hundred? It

didn't matter. It wouldn't make this time any easier to take. He closed

his eyes against the onslaught of raw emotions trying to flood him, as if

that would stop them. It did not.

He tried desperately to remember the last time he had seen his old friend,

but he couldn't place it. What was the last thing of which they had

spoken? He couldn't remember. Shell-shocked, he walked into his bedroom,

closing the door behind him. He leaned against the door for a moment,

allowing his head to fall back into the heavy wood. He swallowed hard. A

terrible thing not to remember what your last words might have been, to

someone who had been a friend for so very long.

The Ancient shook his head, took an uneven breath, and walked over to the

desk in his bedroom. He carefully opened the old box which was sitting

there, and extracted a stack of old photographs. He leafed through them

until he found the one for which he searched. A smile touched his lips;

how could it not? He chuckled under his breath at the image. It had been

taken in the late 19th century, and the two of them looked positively

ridiculous in cowboy gear.

His icy blue eyes threatened to rain. He closed them tightly once more, as

he pulled his lips together into a thin line. He leaned his head back. It

just wouldn't do; he had a show to put out, and that was that. People died

all the time, even the ones who weren't supposed to yet.....or ever. He

set the photos back into the box, closed it and walked out of the bedroom.

As he descended the stairs in the back hallway, the pounding music from the

Raven assaulted him. It absolutely grated upon him; he just didn't have

the patience for it, nor the happy gyrating mortals, at the moment. His

well worn mask of indifference was carefully hiding the turmoil behind his

stoic blue eyes. He slipped, unnoticed, into his soundbooth, closing the

door, and thankfully, the noise, behind him.

He sat down at the console and pulled the microphone close to his mouth.

He flipped a switch, and the red on air light sprang into life,

illuminating the booth with its eerie glow. He took a deep breath, closing

his eyes. When he reopened them, they were as still as a clear lake.

"Life and death, mes amis. As natural as the weather, except when it is

not. When death arrives unforeseen, blindsiding its victim and those

around him, it can be quite unsettling. For the very old, death is

sometimes welcomed, like a warm spring rain after a hard winter; while for

the very young, it is something to be feared, and not given much thought.

But what of those it strikes down in an untimely fashion? What then?"

He paused, swallowing hard, "What then......?"

He paused again, trying to stave off the tears that were welling up in his

eyes. He would not give in to it. He could not give in to it. He took a

long uneven breath, trying to steady himself.

"It has been said, that sorrow makes men sincere. I do not think that this

is so, gentle listeners; on the contrary, I think it only serves to make

men weak. A display of grief is sheer madness; it does not serve the

living, and the dead certainly know not of it.

"The loss of a friend or family member, is the loss of a part of one's

self. A few life times of these painful losses, can cause one to wonder

who is truly the better off; the dead, or those who remain behind. Either

way, one can only try and honour the memory of a loved one, by moving

forward. It is the best thing, and the hardest thing; but it is always

truest thing. We cannot condemn ourselves to death eternal, for life is

always the better choice of the two. Or is it?"

He paused yet again. And when he finally spoke, his voice was almost a

whisper.

"An interesting question, my children. Given the choice and the experience

to make an informed decision, which would you choose?"

As he flipped a switch on the console, causing the red light to go out, he

noticed the dark figure in the hallway staring at him. He frowned. He

hadn't sensed her. A sigh escaped him. He would try and avoid her

directness; it was the only choice available to one who was so

uncomfortable sharing his grief.

Janette opened the door to the booth and walked in, closing it behind her.

They stared at each other for a long moment, a silent test of wills being

battled. He wasn't going to budge; nothing new about that.

"I heard about Arelien," she paused, then her voice continued, softer, "I

am sorry. I know you two were close at one time."

LaCroix stood, making himself as 'busy' as possible, "Yes, well, people

die, Janette."

She stared at him, "Yes, mortals die. Our kind usually do not."

He ignored her, and continued to shuffle things around, "Yes, well, it

happens."

"Still, he was an old friend, and it was unexpected. Are you okay?"

"I'm fine."

She moved to stop him from his distracting 'busy work', "LaCroix...."

He glared at her, "No. I will not have it; just....leave me." She stared

at him, unmoving, so he continued, "I told you I was fine."

They held a long look.

"Oh yes, I can see just how 'fine' you are." He glared at her, and she

quickly continued, "I'm going." She turned and then stopped at the door,

looking at him, "But if you need me--"

"--Yes, I know."

The emotion in his voice betrayed his stoic eyes, and he quickly looked

away. Janette went to him and put her hands on either side of his face.

His eyes were slightly moist, but he was fighting to keep a lid on his

sentimentality. Once again, they looked at each other for a long moment.

Gently, he removed her hands and kissed her forehead.

"I'll be all right." She stared at him, so he explained further, "Not

everyone can grieve openly, Janette; it does not mean that one is not

mourning."

"Oui, je connais." She kissed his cheek and walked to the door, "Mon

pere...?"

"Yes?"

"I love you."

The power of her words unraveled him, and he couldn't respond, other than

to nod. Sensing that he could not beare for her to see him like this,

Janette forced herself to walk through the door, closing it behind her.

LaCroix turned his back to the door, as the pent up tears fell hot, down

his cheeks. All he could do for his old friend now was mourn him, and

wonder which of them was truly the lucky one.

fin

9 March 1999