Fourteen
4 April, 2000, 60 miles West of Chamdo, Tibet
Haargan walked down the dark corridor, the torch in hand. “Where we are going, you need return to only once,” the monk advised. Logan walked behind him, carrying no torch. He wasn’t sure he could remember how to get here even if he needed to.
At the end of the tunnel was a single, neglected looking door. Haargan placed his torch in the iron clasp on the wall and stood before the door. He waited almost a full minute. “Open,” he said at last, and the wooden door groaned inwards with the sound of rusted iron on iron.
The two walked inside. It was very dark. Logan listened to the sound of the monk’s footsteps until they stopped, he stopped nearby. Logan heard the monk rummaging in his robes as he drew a match and lit it. The room was now thrown into sharp relief. Logan could see they were standing in the center of the circular stone chamber. Before them was a small stone column which rose to waist level. On it was a clay pot, deep and broad, filled with water. Above the pot hung a lamp, which Haargan now lit.
Logan frowned, looking into the pot. The water was positioned in the shadow of the lamp itself and so was dark as a mirror. Logan’s image was reflected back to him with perfect clarity. “This is the Key?” He asked, perhaps a trace of disappointment in his voice.
Haargan picked up on it and reached forward, touching his finger to the surface of the water. As the ripples crossed its surface, a glow began in the depths of the dark pot. Logan watched in awe as the stunning green glow swelled in the water. His breathing slowed as the green moved and pulsed in the pot, dashing back and forth as if it had a life of its own.
“This is the Key,” Haargan replied, satisfied with the conjurer’s reverence.
The pair left the chamber, the lamp still lit. “You will bring it here,” the monk said to the man behind him. “The Key can never leave that room in its current form. We cannot risk it.”
Logan just nodded, still recovering from the beauty he now realized he had been privileged to witness. “I will join the two... seamlessly,” he assured. “In reality they will be one and indistinguishable.”
Haargan nodded. “Excellent. Bring it to us when you have finished. We will give it memories and place it in hiding.”
Logan stopped the monk with a hand to his shoulder. “I can do that,” he frowned. “Why not let me do that?”
Haargan removed the conjurer’s hand from his shoulder, a little gruffly. “You will not,” he said severely. “You will have no knowledge of its whereabouts while the Beast is in search of it. The Order of Dagon has sworn to die for its protection. You have made no such oath. We call on you only because of your skill, not to grant you any special favors.” Haargan turned and continued on down the hall. “Do not dwell on it, my friend,” the monk advised, “regardless of our precautions, we may all be killed when the Beast arrives.”
“Comforting,” Logan squinted, stepping back into the light of the sunlit level.
“You have two more days to finish your work, then you must give it to us.” With nothing more, the monk strode away to his chambers, leaving Logan with his thoughts and his memories.
The girl sat quietly in the rock garden, her simple sackcloth robe showing her bare arms and nothing else below her neck. She stared fixedly at the small tree at the center of the garden, next to the little artesian fountain, her hands folded on her lap.
Logan stood at the great stone archway that led into from the lamasery to the terrace that was the garden. His arms were crossed and he gazed fixedly at her, a troubled crease on his brow.
Whistler moved up beside him, touching the brim of his hat. “She’s a beauty, in’t she?” Logan said nothing as he continued to stare at her. Her light brown hair fell down her back, loose and slightly uneven. Whistler shared Logan’s appreciative gaze for a moment, then put a hand on his shoulder. “I’ve got something you need to do.”
“I don’t owe you anything,” Logan answered quietly. There was no animosity in his voice, just gentle truth.
“Never said you did,” Whistler mirrored the tone, “like I said; you need to do this. It ain’t for me, it ain’t even for the Schmucks That Be. It’s for you.”
Logan turned to face the demon. There was a kind of weary impatience there. This whole garden radiated tranquility, but in Loki there was only exhaustion and a deep, mind-numbing ache. His words were clear and unspoken. You’ll give him to me? The vague, time-altered image of the blonde haired vampire entered his mind. You’d give him to me?
Whistler’s eyes held the small amount of regret he felt. “You need to forget him,” the demon said quietly. A higher volume of voice seemed inappropriate in this place. “And you need to know he’s forgotten about you.”
“He won’t have forgotten,” Logan assured, tiredly. “It’s not everyday one of them kills a Slayer.”
Whistler said nothing for a moment, following Loki’s gaze back into the garden. The girl had moved over to the fountain and now sat near its edge, drawing her hand back and forth through the cold water of the pond at its base. She faced them but never looked up, peering curiously down at the many small fish which darted between her fingertips.
“He’s living it over and over,” Loki muttered, “remembering his glory days as a Slayer-slayer.” The man swallowed. “It kills me to know that. That he’s proud of it.”
Whistler seized him by the elbow. “Then take that away from him. I’ve seen it– your blink.” Logan turned and frowned at him. Whistler squeezed his elbow. “You can take his pride away. Make him forget.”
Logan let out a small sigh. “It’s not enough.” There was a pause and they both turned back to the girl by the fountain.
“Even the biggest waterfall,” Whistler said quietly, “starts with a single drop.”
Logan let this enter his mind; let it cross the plane of consciousness that was turning so slowly it was imperceptible. "Okay," he said tiredly. "Okay, I'll do it."
Whistler gave a small kurt nod. He then looked down at the conjurer's robes. "Not in that you won't."
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