by

Zephyr

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Author's Note: For those of you who read my Writ on Water series, this short story was originally the end of the novel. I hadn't included this ending before as it is sad and a little rough. This story was inspired by a robbery incident in a town I lived in any years ago. A chance incident which took one life and changed many others. I was inspired to post this story today, by the recent, sudden death of a good friend.

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She woke with a start. The sun was already up and Quentin was still asleep. The alarm, she groaned inwardly. He always forgets it after a night like last night....She brushed her hair from her eyes and rolled on her side. He moaned slightly at her movement. She brought her lips to his sleepy face and kissed him lightly. His eyes opened and quickly shut in the streaming sunlight. "Ouch.." he moaned.

She laughed lightly. "C'mon, luv....Time to get up! The alarm didn't go off. You didn't set it. You'll be late.."

He groaned and sat up slowly. She laughed again, watching him. His graying, thick chestnut hair was tousled in disarray. His frowning, sleepy face reminded her of an old bear. He yawned lazily and hearing her laugh, squinted at her. "Don't I look as irresistible as you found me last night?

Her laugh was replaced by a smile. Twenty years ago she had wed him in the garden of Collinwood. Last night had been their anniversary. He was no longer the Immortal. His body had aged normally and he now looked to be in his late 40's. His youthful figure and handsome face had broadened with maturity. His hair was shot with gray and his face lined with experience. But those eyes, she reflected. Those blue eyes still shone as bright and wild as a little boy's. Last night he had looked so handsome in his tuxedo. The shine in his eyes as they danced in the great hall at Collinwood...that same shine came again to his eyes when they returned home. She had barely time to remove her coat before his arms were about her. He had loved her long and hard until she marveled in the passion still possible between them.

She sat with her coffee as he showered. Today was her day `off" from her usual routine. Angelique had developed a talent for scouting antiques and guiding collectors in their acquisitions. Her days included numerous ones on the road. She found it necessary to take some days free now, just to revel in her home and be there when Quentin returned from the school.

How happy he was now, to be running it. It still made her smile to think of her long ago rogue husband now headmaster of the Collinwood New Horizons Academy. His natural instinct for children and his 15 years spent there as teacher, led to the family offering him the post last year. She was proud of him and the school. To think this morning that both the school and her marriage began twenty years ago and now were in full bloom.

He ran in, hastily grabbing a cup of coffee as he fiddled with his tie. She came to him, kissing his coffee-flavored lips and adjusting his collar. He smiled and kissed her quickly in return. "I've got to run, honey....but there's something I need to tell you first."

She smiled into his still sleepy, twinkling eyes. "Yes, dear?"

He pulled her to him again and pressed his lips to her ear. "I love you, Angelique."

She laughed again. Pressing her lips to his ear she whispered in return, "Don't be late, my husband...that is, if twenty years hasn't dimmed your ardor."

He laughed and kissed her hard. Breaking away with a hurried rush, he called back over his shoulder, "Twenty years be damned! I'll be home early!" He stopped. "Listen, I'll be home for lunch, OK? I've got an errand in town and I'll run in after that. Goodbye!"

She waved after him from the window then sat lazily on the old wing-backed chair. Hers would be a long, lazy morning and a lunch with her endearing husband. She smiled contentedly.

The morning passed swiftly as she hunted through antiques sales catalogues and checked her e-mail. Some new orders and some comments on items she had found for others. Enough of business she thought, checking the clock. She slipped on some jeans and hiking shoes and took off for the woods. The summer was growing hot and the shaded forest air felt refreshingly cool. She closed her eyes and imagined Quentin here with her. How he loved these woods he had known as a boy. Once soon after their marriage, they had stopped in a small glen and he had taken her there. She remembered the deep, earthy smell as they lay pressed together in a tangle of meadow grasses.

She smiled at her sudden passionate recollection. What was it with him that still made her respond so? And how close she had been to never knowing this bliss. To never knowing this fascinating man....All those years ago when she gave up her obsession for Barnabas. And now this... A sudden thought came to her. Did Diabolos know long ago where her future lay? No matter. She had known such happiness and with luck there was much more for them both. They were middle-aged now, but in good health. Their future seemed to stretch away into a limitless horizon of happiness.

She entered the cottage with a rush. She would just have time for a shower if she hurried. The hot water washed over her, warming her to her toes. She toweled briskly and threw on a light summer dress and sandals. He would be home soon.

The afternoon pushed on as she grew inpatient. It was after 2:00pm, now. Well after the time she would have normally expected him for lunch. What was it now? Some last minute duty? A child's question leading to a long story? Had he been delayed in town? She sat by the window and shook her head. He was so exasperating sometimes.

He dashed through the music store parking lot, lost in a rush. I've got to hurry, he thought. I'll be late. He clutched a bag in his hand. Inside was the yellowed, original sheet music he planned to give her. The sheet music to "Shadows of the Night." He had wanted to give it to her last night, on their anniversary. He had missed the store's closing yesterday and today he wanted to surprise her at lunch.

His thoughts were interrupted by a disturbing tableau. A couple stood frozen by an open car door. A man was standing with them. He was dressed in dark clothing. A sweatshirt hood partially hid his head. The couple's faces wore looks of shock and fear. The man's arm was pointing at them. Loud words were exchanged.

Quentin sensed something wrong. He clenched the sheet music in one hand, freeing the other and raising it up. "Hey...what's going on, here?"

The man in the hood turned swiftly. Glazed, colorless eyes fixed Quentin's. He heard a woman's voice cry out. "Look out! He's got a knife! He's trying to rob us!"

Quentin lunged wildly at the man's arm. He held it for a moment, feeling his own body reacting with adrenaline. For a few seconds they scuffled as the woman screamed. He felt a sharp, burning pain in his belly, then another. Gasping for breath, he broke off and reeled back. He tried to straighten, but the pain was too much. He suddenly realized her had been stabbed. .He sank to his knees as the hooded man ran off. He felt hands on his shoulders, gently helping him to lie down.

Quentin's face contorted in pain. He lay back in the parking lot, his eyes looking up into the bright blue summer sky. His chest heaved as he fought for consciousness. He tried to form an image of Angelique....I'm sorry he kept thinking...I'm sorry....I didn't want to be late...an ambulance's wail shot through his diminishing awareness. More hands touched him and he felt himself lifted up

When the phone rang, she fought to control her temper. He was so unpredictable! What was it this time? She answered coolly. The words were perfunctory. Cold horror struck her heart. A botched robbery. Quentin at the hospital. Come now....

She found herself at the door of the Old House. Barnabas and Julia stood with questioning eyes. The drive to Collinsport General was so frighteningly long. The controlled chaos of the emergency room unfolded around her like a silent movie. She heard nothing. A dour looking emergency room physician stood huddled with them. Angelique struggled to understand. Quentin was in surgery. His internal organs were badly damaged. His strong heart continued to pump out his blood at an alarming rate. His condition was critical. There could be no certainty he would live.

They sat waiting in a small family room. From time to time, Barnabas' grave, dark eyes would find hers. Her eyes would well over and she would find herself against his shoulder, sobbing freely. Julia paced about, leaving the room from time to time to consult with her colleagues.

The afternoon had long since faded into evening, when word came. He was out of surgery. They had stopped the bleeding. He was still in very critical condition. Shock and loss of blood had sent his system out of control. His kidneys were in danger of shutting down, and his lungs struggled to draw in breath.

She entered the unreal glow of critical care. Life-giving machines pumped and whirred in music of their own. Dials and gauges marked the struggle of his damaged body. An oxygen tube ran from his nose. His eyes were half-closed. Matted, sweaty hair framed his pale, strained face. She took his pale, limp hand in her own and willed life into him. She leaned to kiss his bluish lips. He groaned softly in response, eyes fluttering in an attempt to make sense of his surroundings.

His lips formed to speak, but the tube prevented it. His eyes sought hers in recognition. "Don't try to talk, Quentin...it's OK, my darling...I'm here.." Angelique kissed him again, resting her cheek against his.

He fought for a moment of lucidity. He formed his dry lips in a slight grin. She grabbed his hand and squeezed tightly. For a moment, his efforts lulled her. His blue eyes shone so vividly she thought he might rise and speak. Then the wild heart which had beat so strongly for so many years, gave up at last.

The rest was a blur of fruitless activity. The harsh warning alarms as the sensitive machinery detected his surrender. The countless, bustling white figures struggling to bring back life. The sudden cessation of activity and then the attending physician's calm, final pronouncement, "I'm very sorry, Mrs. Collins...He's gone."

By dawn she was home. She had fended off Barnabas' request she stay at the Old House. She turned down Julia's offer of a sedative. She sat and looked around, trying to drink in everything which kept him close to her. His favorite old sweater tossed casually over a chair. A silver framed photograph of them on Widow's Hill. An old wooden ship model, with faded gilt lettering: "SS Jamison."

She rose and clutched his sweater, taking in the scent of him. Tears welled and fell freely. "Quentin....oh God, my love.....Not like this. Not so suddenly..."

Where was that warm future stretching off into the distance? Where was that man who had lived such a fantastic life only to change hers into a new direction? She wept again for their robbed future. When she could weep no more, she turned to watch the sun rising over Widow's Hill. Such an apt name, she thought. Generations of wives had stood there looking out to sea for long lost sailors. Now her love would come home no more. Quentin the unlikely hero...he hadn't stopped to think, of that she was sure. He uld have acted hotly, jumping in to take action on an impulse. He had lived and loved that way.

The Collinsport Gazette duly noted his heroism in the next edition. The rescued couple were tourists from New York. The perpetrator was a junkie whose unfed habit stirred him to robbery on a chance encounter. Quentin was there only by coincidence. Together, the three carried out a peculiar destiny which left a man who had once slipped through time so effortlessly, lying still in a parking lot as his life's blood pumped out onto the sun-baked asphalt.

For once, the sun shown brightly on a Collinwood funeral. Family, friends, and a ring of grieving students stood by to give him back to the grounds which had bred him. Angelique was at Barnabas' side as the coffin was lowered. She entered the cottage alone again, as she would enter it for many years to come.

She came again to his grave weeks later, when the monument was erected. There among the time-wearied, ivy covered stones, a new alabaster slab shone:

It was Quentin's own chosen epitaph. He was taken with Keats' poetry. He had often compared his past immortality to Keats' short life and death at the age of twenty-five. Though Quentin had lived a long and epic life, he knew his story would never be known to others. Much like Keats, he felt his life would fade like a gentle ripple in a pond. A name writ in water, receding with the tide and washed at last from human memory.

They were both wrong, she thought. Keats' grave in Italy was still visited by the eternal pilgrimages of his admirers. And as for Quentin? As long as the great walls of Collinwood still stood, as long as her own heart held his memory...his life would burn brightly in an afterglow of love, undimmed by the shadows of the night.