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Lacklan · (04-22-2023)

Endgame

~~Saturday, April 15th, 2017~~

Sarah looks at the phone in her hand, anxiety filling her in a way she had not felt in weeks. The feeling of dread, initially pushed away by a cocktail of DRIVE, amphetamines, and liquor, and by the wild lifestyle she had lived with Kenzi in recent weeks, assaulted her like a stake being driven through the heart. Her fingers trembled as she stared at the name calling, a name which had only reason to call.

First Citizen.

Those shaking fingers bring the phone to her head, hand trembling so bad as to make her entire head bob.

“Skeeter?”

“Littul Sistur.” The voice on the other end was a heavy Arkansas accent. Most people had difficulty understanding what the mountain man had to say, but she had understood him from the first day. “Ah’m sawrry to say but Ah has sum bad noos.”

Sarah’s body slumps, her mouth going dry.

“My father...is...is he…?”

She cannot even get the word out of her mouth. The reality of his condition, the inevitability of his cancer, had weighed down on her the last six months since he had told her. Her nightmares of this moment were fresh in her mind.

“Naw, Littul Sistur, not right yet. He’s still alive, Ah reckin, but just burly. He can’t stand up on his own, ner get outta bed, ner even really see good. Ah dun all Ah kin do fer ‘im. And he’s been a’callin fer ye. He needs ye, Littul Sistur. This hur...Ah reckin this hur mat be it.”

Sarah nods, not even coherent enough to realize that he could not see. Luckily, she gives voice to the nod.

“Of course. We...we will be there as soon as possible. We…”

The phone falls out of her hand as her body slumps forward to the ground, landing on her knees. She sees nothing, hears nothing.

“Babe? You okay in there?”

Kenzi walks into the room and sees her Princess on her knees. She runs over to her and drops to her knees before her. She takes Sarah's head in her hands and looks into her red eyes.

“Sar?!”

Sarah looks blankly at her, taking a few moments to realize where she is. Was she on the floor? How did she end up on the floor? She was sitting...

"Got a bad phone call during my vlog. I think Father is dying. We need to go. Now."

Each word delivered in a monotone catches Kenzi's attention better than the words themselves.

"Baby..." She hugs Sarah, kissing her cheek. "...I'll get everything packed, have Frick and Frack get the car."

Kenzi bounds to her feet and runs into the room dedicated to Sarah’s clothing. Sarah does not hear the frantic gathering of clothing and travel belongings, does not hear the slams and curses. Her mind can only fall back to memories of her father. The times they sat back to back, supporting each other. Training together. Reading together. Laughing and dancing. Celebrating birthdays. Shedding a tear on the birthday of her mother. Always together. And now…

“Everything is ready,” says Kenzi, as she comes back into the room. “I let everyone know online that we were heading to Maine and to text me if they need anything. Mel called-”

She notices that Sarah is still kneeling on the floor, still staring. Her face is whiter than anything she has ever seen before, and that was certainly saying something for the albino vampire child. She rushes over to Sarah and lends her a hand, helping her to her feet. She sits her back in the computer chair from which she had initially fell.

“I will get Frick and Frack working on the bags and will take care of transportation. You just...um...sit here? I guess?”

“Good...good…”

Sarah’s voice is as hollow and far gone as her face. Kenzi bites her lip and rubs Sarah’s shoulder, but then does not hesitate. She has Frick and Frack taking everything down to the car in short order, her fingers flashing across her phone to make sure that a plane is available. Being a legitimate star in Hollywood has its perks, at times. Before long, she has thrown one of Sarah’s long coats across her shoulders and was leading her down the elevator and to the waiting car.

Everything was a blur to Sarah for the next several hours. Sights and sounds flew by without recognition. The only reality to her was Kenzi’s hand clutching hers, an anchor of strength against the anxiety and worry which assaulted her. Her body and mind craved a hit of something, whether it be out of a bottle or a vial of red powder up her nose, anything to push away the thoughts going through her head. The images of nightmares living. The thought of the only man who mattered in her life, of the only family member she had ever had, being taken from her. Anything to push those thoughts away.

She does not notice being rushed through security. Does not notice boarding the airplane. Does not feel the take-off or the turbulence during the early-morning flight. Even touching down at Bangor International Airport did not help her focus on anything other than memories of her father. Memories of grand balls and galas. Memories of lessons on how to manipulate and control people. Memories of waiting in the lobby of the hospital during his treatments. Memories of when he told her the truth of his condition, that he only had months to live.

The cold air of her homeland finally brings her back to reality. That famous Maine chill strikes her face and makes her gasp, her body tingling. Red eyes look around to see Kenzi next to her, worry and concern etched on her dark face, along with Frick and Frack carrying their bags. She is outside the airport and heading towards a long black car, the license plate clear in its exempt status. She was home. A man in a black suit, hair cut short to match that of her other two bodyguards, opens the door for her, and she is soon driving away, Kenzi’s hand clutching hers tightly.

The scenery flies by in a bit of a blur as a light rain begins to fall. Part of her mind wanders and giggles about how today’s forecast in Hollywood was all sunshine and not a cloud in the sky. Back in her life of fantasy. Back in her life of love, lust, and wild adventures with Kenzi. But here in reality, here in the darkness of her homeland, it rained with misery. Scenery flashes by. The checkpoint manned by two guards who saluted her, leading into the compound, into Lacklanland. The green grass, a green so bright that no one in California would believe her, the lushness that could only happen in Maine after a cold, snowy winter. Past the lines of houses of people who had followed her father across his career, believing in his message of being God’s Voice. She could see some of them, a few in fields even in the mounting rain, dealing with crops or animals. Past the famous blueberry farm where they produced the brightest and sweetest fruits you could imagine. Down Main Street and all its shops, the spectre of the Manor large and daunting, the spire that was part of Selena’s Square, the gathering place of the Denizens, piercing into the sky.

Out of the car and walking through the garden, Sarah finds it hard to breath. Kenzi clutching her hand, nearly painfully, helps to keep her in the here-and-now. She barely noticed the bowing of peasants on a normal day, and today is even worse: She simply sees dark blobs on the edge of her vision moving somewhat. She has noticed that her guard increased from Frick and Frack to an entire unit, 12 in total. She is not surprised; after all, even in the safety of the Manor, the presence of the Blood Princess and her Consort demanded extra attention. She was proud of her guard, what with their pressed and lined uniforms, their silver pins of rank shining in even the deepest of gloom.

Through doors, across rooms, up stairs. She finally finds them stopped before the door leading to her father’s room. She turned to give instructions to the guard, but Kenzi raises a hand a gives a few signals, silently communicating to them to stay outside the room. When did she start learning the sign language she had created for them? Kenzi was so full of surprises. Kenzi offers her a smile and Sarah tries to return one, but does not think she succeeded. Turning and squeezing Kenzi’s hand, she opens the door.

The stench of death nearly overwhelms her. The dark room is lit by candlelight and the bright glow of medical equipment. The room is silent aside from a gentle hum from the equipment and the steady beep of a heart monitor. She sees Skeeter, the First Citizen, standing to the side of her father’s bed, his dark hair and beard as wild as ever. Getting closer, she sees that they have far more grey than the last time she saw him. And was that a patch over his right eye? Had he lost an eye?!

Her eyes turn to the figure on the bed, a white sheet covering the massive frame of the man she grew up with. She glides over to him, her eyes shining with wetness, as she looks down at him. No mask today, the red and purple burn scars covering every inch of his scalp and face out for all to see, only the black hunk of metal attached to his nose and mouth, wires trailing down to pierce his throat, covering part of his face. That hunk of metal had allowed him to talk in a fashion for the last few months, the cancer attacking every organ viciously, including his vocal chords. She reaches down to touch his face, her delicate porcelain fingers standing out bright against the burns. He was beautiful.

“Sarah?”

His voice is labored, even more so than it always has been. His had always been a strong and deep baritone, a voice that commanded and demanded, but the sickness had taken away so much of that. But he still sounded like an angel to her. She takes her hand and finds one of his.

"I am here, Father. As are my Beloved and the First Citizen."

Her voice sounds hollow to her own ears and her throat hurts. She does not recall speaking any words to anyone since getting Skeeter’s phone call the night before. How did she even get here? Her thoughts are interrupted as her father nods his head slowly.

"I...gave my...life...to my mission. I fought..." His voice trails off, but Sarah squeezes his hand, trying to hold onto him. He continues. "I...I fought for...what was worth...fighting for. Did...did I defeat...the Ashtons?"

The Ashtons? Texas? That was months ago. Did he know where and when he was? Looking into his eyes, she sees that they are milky, cloudy. The blue was hidden behind cataracts.

"Um...Father...you have not fought in months. But you did fight them in December."

"Did...did I win?"

She does not immediately respond. How to tell him? How to tell him how his final battle in the ring came to an end? And what did it matter now? So she settles on that.

"Does it matter?"

He chuckles softly.

"I...I suppose not. But...I did fight...for what mattered...for what was...worth...fighting for, did I not? I...I fought for her."

Sarah can feel her tears break free of her eyes and fall atop her father. “Her.” Nikita. The woman he had learned to love over the last year. Nikita did not return the love, of course, but that did not matter. That he could learn to love again after so long, after her own mother had died the day she was born, had been a wonderful lesson to learn, and had been one of the cornerstones of her own young career: Fight for what mattered.

"Sarah? I...was a...terrible friend. But I...I tried to...to be a good father...please forgive my...failings."

She sobs. She cannot help it. Tears fall freely. She wants to tell him that he was the most amazing father a daughter could ever hope for. He was strong and loving, giving her a side which he never gave the world. He was everything to her. But all she could give him were tears falling onto his face.

"Give...give her my love. Even...even if...she does not want it. Please."

"Of course."

It is all she can croak out, but it seems to be enough.

"Good...good...Light...Light be with you...Sarah."

He closes his eyes. Sarah’s mouth goes dry. The insensate beeping sound of the heart monitor turns to a single long whine.

“Father?”

Silence.

“Father?!”

She is pulled away by unseen hands as men and women in white rush in.

“DADDY?!”

Tears fall like the rain pelting outside as she flails her arms, hands turning to fists, fists connecting solidly with flesh. A male grunt is all she hears as she is taken from the room by Skeeter, her Wolf, Kenzi right behind them. Tears flow like the Penobscot River overflowing as she lays on the ground in the hall outside, Kenzi holding her, Skeeter standing by the door. By the time the man in white comes out, his face dour, to tell her that he was gone, she had no more tears left. It was fitting, part of her mind supposed, a part of her mind that was still aware of her surroundings. After all, there was not enough moisture in the world to give adequate tears for this truth:

Jean-Paul Lacklan had closed his eyes and embraced the Light.

Kenzi would later tell her that she was in shock, but Sarah felt calm as she walked away from that room of death. Felt calm as she brought out her phone to make a call. Kenzi would later tell her that she had paced frantically as she made the call, had said over and again, “please pick up please pick up please pick up please” as the phone rang. But Sarah felt calm as the voice on the other end answered.

“Kid?”

“Yes, Sensei. I have news. He...he…”

When did she end up on the ground? Why was she on her knees? She was crying again? She thought she had run out of tears.

“He is gone, Nikita.”

Kenzi would later tell her that those four words were wailed out, that she had nearly screamed hysterically into the phone, but she felt that they were calm. Collected. Royal, even.

Silence. The silence hurt. Her ears hurt. Her eyes. Her head. It was hard to breathe.

“I...I will be there tonight, dearie.”

Sarah thought she said something after that. Probably had a nice witticism for her trainer and matron figure. But she does not remember much after that. She knows hours went by, knows that the public had been informed, that the Lacklanland flag was being flown at half-mast. She knows that there are meetings to hold over the next few days, meetings to make big decisions. Service to prepare. She is sure she and members of the compound spoke of them. But everything seems in a blur.

She does not remember Nikita entering the compound. She does not remember the raven-haired beauty with the green eyes making the entrance that would leave all but Lacklan family members on their knees, but she was there. The Marchioness Dolore ranked only just below the Lacklan proper, though she loathed the title more than could be imagined, but she had earned it for both the training she had provided Sarah and for the maternal love she had imparted. She does remember seeing that Nikita’s face was more lined than the last time she saw, her eyes more sunken. Her solitude in Canada had difficult, it seemed.

She remembers little of the whirlwind day. At times it seemed like only moments since her vlog had been interrupted by Skeeter, others as if it had been days. But one final feeling and memory lodged itself into her brain for eternity:

As she laid on a couch in the Great Hall, Kenzi by her feet with a hand on her legs, she laid her head on Nikita’s lap, her platinum hair running down her legs, her sensei's hand stroking. She cannot know how long she cried, cannot know how many people she would drown in her tears, but for the death of her father, there would never be enough.

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