'All around us, it was as if the universe were holding its breath... waiting.
All of life can be broken down into moments of transition or moments of revelation. This had the feeling of both.
G'Quon wrote: "There is a greater darkness than the one we fight. It is the darkness of the soul that has lost its way. The war we fight is not against powers and principalities ? it is against chaos and despair. Greater than the death of flesh is the death of hope, the death of dreams. Against this peril we can never surrender."
The future is all around us, waiting in moments of transition, to be born in moments of revelation.
No one knows the shape of that future, or where it will take us. We know only that it is always born in pain.'
--G'Kar, Babylon 5
Renfield Turnbull was singing to himself.
That would normally be a very mundane thing. Renfield often had, when cooking, drawing, on his morning run.
It had never manifested in quite this form, however.
The man on the bed wore his pajamas, wore his face, and remained mercifully asleep regardless of Renfield's lullaby.
Rightfully, Renfield should have been flying apart, sitting in a chair doing precisely nothing. Everything he'd seen, everything he'd said the night before should have sent him into a terrified, restless need to move. Not now.
He was keenly aware of the gift he'd been unwittingly given. It gave him no time for stir-crazy. No real time for self-recrimination, loathing, for panic and exposure. Though there was nothing he could technically do for this man, he could sing. He could sit sentry by his twin's sleeping form. A clear, simple, defined duty about which he had no need to guess. The terrain was clear. He need only keep in step.
Renfield could very nearly sob with the relief of it.
It was the only thing that didn't surround him in shades of uncertain gray. He knew Ray had been trying to nudge a point home. That seeing Renfield handle his other self with such care was meant to be some sort of lesson, some sort of gate to absolution for something, but Renfield couldn't think about it. That wasn't what this was for. It couldn't be; the gift of this task had been unwitting, and Renfield was determined he would not use the man for his own ends.
His brother did not exist in this realm to lead him to whatever light Ray believed Renfield needed to see. Neither did he exist to provide Renfield with something to protect, to occupy his mind.
The other man had been right. He was not supposed to be here. What came next was beyond Renfield. That he was trusted with any of it was unfathomable. Would this man's heart be broken? A casualty of a war fought within his brother, brought so mercilessly and accidentally to his door far before he was ready?
It wasn't the first time Renfield reflected that he would tear apart the universe to make things right for someone he loved.
He didn't know how. An undefined determination wasn't something Renfield generally found comfortable, but it was with him nonetheless, wider than the scope of simply 'I will protect you.' Even with nothing but an unconscious form and four walls to stare at, there seemed no time to wonder how he could find that fierce protectiveness for someone who was himself. No time, no ability, but not even Renfield could fool himself into thinking the matter would remain out of mind forever.
Something had to give.
Outside the window, snow fell. Inside, there was a strange mix of fragile peace and dreadful uncertainty. It seemed to him as though the universe around them held its breath. Waiting.
One Mountie slept. The other sang, standing sentry between a universe and the twin that didn't belong there.
All of life can be broken down into moments of transition or moments of revelation. This had the feeling of both.
G'Quon wrote: "There is a greater darkness than the one we fight. It is the darkness of the soul that has lost its way. The war we fight is not against powers and principalities ? it is against chaos and despair. Greater than the death of flesh is the death of hope, the death of dreams. Against this peril we can never surrender."
The future is all around us, waiting in moments of transition, to be born in moments of revelation.
No one knows the shape of that future, or where it will take us. We know only that it is always born in pain.'
--G'Kar, Babylon 5
Renfield Turnbull was singing to himself.
That would normally be a very mundane thing. Renfield often had, when cooking, drawing, on his morning run.
It had never manifested in quite this form, however.
The man on the bed wore his pajamas, wore his face, and remained mercifully asleep regardless of Renfield's lullaby.
Rightfully, Renfield should have been flying apart, sitting in a chair doing precisely nothing. Everything he'd seen, everything he'd said the night before should have sent him into a terrified, restless need to move. Not now.
He was keenly aware of the gift he'd been unwittingly given. It gave him no time for stir-crazy. No real time for self-recrimination, loathing, for panic and exposure. Though there was nothing he could technically do for this man, he could sing. He could sit sentry by his twin's sleeping form. A clear, simple, defined duty about which he had no need to guess. The terrain was clear. He need only keep in step.
Renfield could very nearly sob with the relief of it.
It was the only thing that didn't surround him in shades of uncertain gray. He knew Ray had been trying to nudge a point home. That seeing Renfield handle his other self with such care was meant to be some sort of lesson, some sort of gate to absolution for something, but Renfield couldn't think about it. That wasn't what this was for. It couldn't be; the gift of this task had been unwitting, and Renfield was determined he would not use the man for his own ends.
His brother did not exist in this realm to lead him to whatever light Ray believed Renfield needed to see. Neither did he exist to provide Renfield with something to protect, to occupy his mind.
The other man had been right. He was not supposed to be here. What came next was beyond Renfield. That he was trusted with any of it was unfathomable. Would this man's heart be broken? A casualty of a war fought within his brother, brought so mercilessly and accidentally to his door far before he was ready?
It wasn't the first time Renfield reflected that he would tear apart the universe to make things right for someone he loved.
He didn't know how. An undefined determination wasn't something Renfield generally found comfortable, but it was with him nonetheless, wider than the scope of simply 'I will protect you.' Even with nothing but an unconscious form and four walls to stare at, there seemed no time to wonder how he could find that fierce protectiveness for someone who was himself. No time, no ability, but not even Renfield could fool himself into thinking the matter would remain out of mind forever.
Something had to give.
Outside the window, snow fell. Inside, there was a strange mix of fragile peace and dreadful uncertainty. It seemed to him as though the universe around them held its breath. Waiting.
One Mountie slept. The other sang, standing sentry between a universe and the twin that didn't belong there.