| Subject: Chapter 204 - Part 1 |
Author:
KatherineG.
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Date Posted: Wednesday, October 05, 07:30:18am
In reply to:
KatherineG.
's message, "Dreams in the Dark (203 > )" on Monday, October 03, 07:35:40am
Dreams in the Dark (204/?)
by Katherine Gilbert
Sometimes, life seemed to come at you very quickly; that was definitely the way Michael was feeling at the moment. While his brief honeymoon with Nikita had been sweet in the extreme, they had still been forced to return to the world around them once more; something within him seemed to clench. And the world around them was continuing to go mad.
He had just received another report from Rene, whose work designing and fitting recently seemed to be taking a backseat to his constant attention to the news. As they had all predicted, Germany's attack wasn't ignored for long. Now, England and France--as well as Australia and New Zealand--had met the challenge. The world, once again, was at war.
This fact did not surprise Michael, as much as he wished that things were different--the writing on the wall from the moment of Germany's invasion of its neighbor. And it was clear that it wouldn't end here, these four countries just the beginning. As with the war that they had all called the Great one, the entire earth would soon be littered with the bodies of its victims. This, so soon again, was just the start.
This truth tormented him, as it did so many others--the horror only made more strange by its contrast with his surroundings. While the news reports were full of these events, life in Hollywood remained much the same. On the lot, scenery was put in place, lights adjusted, the extras wandering by like the usual array of lost visitors from some other time and place. While some discussed the world's new madness--mostly those from the countries which were, or soon would be, most affected--others seemed not to notice that anything was different. It was simply another bright, sunshine-streaked day in California. And every movie went on just as it had before.
It was hard not to feel a little dreamlike in these surroundings, then--although that was often a problem here, Michael's sigh deep. The fantasy land which was the usual image of Hollywood--and the decidedly seedier, less idealistic version which happened on the other side of every one-dimensional street facade on the back lot--tended to skew the vision, if not the mind, of its inhabitants. It took outstanding fortitude to be able to keep some memory of a greater reality with all of its surreal influences around you; his breath went deeper. But he had been managing that for quite some time.
He was returning from the designer's department now, from his latest conversation with his friend, as his mind revolved around all these factors. But the truth of Hollywood's influence was only part of his focus--only heightening the strangeness of events; his mind roamed into the past. It had been odd and terrifying enough when the world had gone mad the first time, the attrition of men from his birthplace difficult to ignore. Although he had been too young then to be part of the fight, it had been impossible to overlook its effects--a shudder moving deeper. And thoughts of the battles which would come seemed nearly to swamp the last war's miles of wasteland, trenches, and gas attacks into insignificance.
He was trying to convince himself otherwise, even as he walked, wanted to believe that this war would be quick and simple, the forces of evil easily defeated--but that was the lie every war started with. Boys who were told that they would be home in just a few weeks, boys who were worried that they might not get trained in time to even see any fighting, came back in coffins or in the throes of near-insanity after all they had witnessed for so many years. And those were the ones who *did* come home. So many were simply never heard of again.
He had to close his eyes, trying to pull himself back, knowing this train of thought did him no good at all. In many ways, it wasn't as though these terrible new events actually affected him, on any personal level. Even were America to enter the war--which they would have to do eventually, however long their delay in the last one suggested it might take--no one expected, or possibly even wanted, their stars to enlist. Farm boys were expected to die for their country, not the shining lights of the cinema. Those were considered irreplaceable--until the next one came along. No one was ready to see their favorites' names among the missing and the dead.
He was shaking his head at all of these ideas, his gaze dimly on the pavement, as he made his way toward the set. Even if he didn't share these beliefs, he understood where they came from, couldn't deny that they existed. He would never be asked or expected to serve--would be safe at home with his beloved; his heart ached. But he somehow wondered whether *she* would be safe, without him fighting off these larger forces which threatened them all.
It was difficult, but he tried to dismiss these fears, knew what most of them truly stemmed from--his soul pushing away the dark tide of sorrow which seemed to threaten the world. Still, with so much unrest and violence, it was difficult to entirely block it out, was always an unpleasant presence somewhere in the back of his mind. And, when added to his, far more immediate, fears for Nikita's safety, it aroused his desire to protect, his constant nightmares of her pain; his sigh was quiet. But he had much more imminent threats to concern himself with now.
It was these threats, as well, that he had been wrestling with all weekend--even through the haze of love and pleasure his wife had constantly presented him; his smile emerged, despite himself, remembering these far more enjoyable moments. Despite their fears, they had rarely left each other alone--every moment an excuse to touch and caress. While some of their time had been spent more quietly, much of it had passed in the soft, searing joy of being able to love each other fully, without fear of exposure or consequences. Every second had been precious, was part of his soul--not a single heartbeat of it predictable. Every one of them he would hold in his heart for life.
He couldn't get past these thoughts, didn't want to. Their time together had been wild and possessive, soft and tender, and utterly, almost blisteringly, sating. His wife took him to places inside himself he feared beyond words--or, at least, desperately feared to express--and still left him smiling and awed in their aftermath; his heart beat so warmly. She was a miracle of love. And he would never be able to adore her enough to half make up to her all the joy she so freely gave.
It was impossible not to feel buoyed by these truths, was so hard not to focus on them alone. Even with his million fears, his constant vigilance, his concentration had been sorely lacking at many a point of their honeymoon. There had been so many times when, if there were a single thought left in him, it was only a warm glow of her; his head shook, thoroughly amazed. There was just no way he could ever fully understand her sweet effects.
His lack of comprehension did nothing to diminish his adoration of her, though; she was just such heaven. A small frown emerged. But she was a heaven which too many people wanted to possess--something in him freezing. And he would be damned if he couldn't protect her from all of them now.
He walked on with more determination, needing to reach her, to be near. He had meant this last thought literally, too, had no illusions about where his soul would end up, if he failed her; the cold sensation ran deep. But he wouldn't let that happen. She was his--to protect, to cherish, to satiate, to love; his eyes were burning. *No one* would get away with harming her again.
It was with this intention that he had taken on one other task this weekend, one which had been anything but the pleasure of the others. He had taught his beloved the basics of how to handle a gun, had shown her where his was kept, should she need it. She hadn't had any target practice, of course, and the gun's kick might well knock her down if she ever fired it, but he had tried to prepare her somewhat for the inevitable. As little as either of them had liked it, it was necessary; his heart shuddered. Even if he somehow failed her, he had no intention of seeing her harmed.
He didn't like to think into this possibility, knew Nikita liked it even less. In fact, her entire attitude toward the gun had been one of horror and disgust, although she had fully understood his reasons for teaching her. Still, she was better off with this reaction, his sigh running deep. Maybe, one day, she would be able to keep it without such devastating concerns.
He didn't want to think into these possibilities now, didn't really wish to focus on any of it. Still, there were many reasons for worry. And, while he was happy for the beautiful reprieve the weekend had been, the lack of an attack during it hadn't fully helped them. In many ways, it had been their best guess, the most likely time for their enemies to act; his heart shuddered slightly. Now that it was past . . .
Lord, this was hard to deal with. He didn't like finishing the thought, didn't like knowing that there was no way to be even remotely certain of when the fatal moment might come. After all, without even a guess, they were so very vulnerable; he would have to be on the alert at all times. His heart thumped. But he would just have to be ready for it, if he had any chance of continuing to live.
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