Samsara
by KaNd
Pairing: Tom McLaren, Montgomery Wick, others.
Rated: T
Spoilers: Vertical Limit, others.
Summary: Tom may have died on the K2, but this is *not* the end.
Disclaimer: Characters belong to Columbia Pictures. No infringment intended.
Beta: Inky!
★ ★ ★ ★ ★ ★
In a long stretching silver thread his mind left his body. It floated towards the ultramarine ceiling of ice that wasn't dark anymore, and it *looked* down at the once tortured shape that rested under the red and black fury of his murderer's soul. A wave of forgiveness bathed Tom McLaren's mind. Forgiveness for everything and everybody that had been involved in this doomed expedition, leading him to his death - now he knew that his hour had come, and he had known from all eternity.
Remaining conscious of the suffering and rage and violent emotions that poured from the icy grave, he rose through the crystalline coldness, up and up, till he reached the open sky in the splendour of the summits bathed by the sun. He felt a surge of joy and freedom swamping through him.
Now he also knew that his decision to go on with his two partners had been the right one. Had he left them behind him, returning alone to the safety of the base camp, they would have continued alone anyway - to a sure death for both of them. Now Annie would be saved, for *her* hour hadn't rung even if she couldn't be aware of it yet.
Yes, he had chosen the right path. In fact he had chosen this whole incarnation for this very moment - once in his life, a man stands on Kurukshetra battlefield, between the ranks of two armies ready to fight. He must decide between a bad option and an even worse one. This time he had chosen to die to save another life.
Soon, others would have to face a harder and crueller fate.
An explosion of liquid and fire masked the sun for a split second, and his blood was sprayed over the sparkling snow, an enormous incarnation shining under the free blue sky - and Tom felt that the last link to his corpse was gone with it.
The crimson flower reminded him of another death of him - a black raven, bleeding on the white Irish snow, in days that had passed a very, very long time ago. In fact time hadn't the same meaning now, of course. But he remembered the bard stopping over his feathered body. He was clad in his lord's clan tartan, a beautifully carved harp latched to his tired back by rough skin straps, his meagre possessions easily stuffed in the resonance chamber. For a long while, the poet had stared at the jay feathers, the scarlet blood, sharply contrasted against the blinding white snow, whilst the stream of inspiration poured into his very soul and mind - the comparison to Dermot's unearthly beauty born from the dead shape of the bird to the world of tales and music.
Time hadn't the same meaning now and he had lost the count of it whilst lingering in remote memories of faded ages. When Tom's conscience was back on the K2, a party of exhausted climbers was fighting around the hole of darkness opening on the icy pit. He didn't hear the shouts or the laboured breathing of the men and the woman. What he heard were the cries of their pain, what he saw was the bright light of their sufferings, what he felt was the irresistible hope that kept them working on the ropes and shackles.
He already knew the fate of each of them which ones would stay trapped in the never ending cold of the sacred mountain, and which ones would climb down relying on a strength they didn't know they possessed, parted between the relief of being alive and the sorrow of having lost their team mates.
He waited. Wick was penduling on the rope, prisoner of his hatred, a few inches above his nemesis whose dark wrath was rolling over and over, spoiling everything around him, and another few inches under Annie whose unconscious mind shone a peaceful purple.
He waited, even if *waiting* had no signification here. His loving soul surrounded Wick's, attending the inner battle the old man was fighting. The choice seemed simple, but facing his death, the aging climber became aware of the real dilemma. To die was easy, even if he knew he wouldn't *join* his lost wife as he could hope despite all his knowledge of dharma. To kill her murderer was easier still. Too easy, and this wasn't the right solution. Or it was the right solution but for the wrong reason.
Tom was waiting. A sudden awareness striked Wick's consciousness. Forgiveness and understanding overwhelmed his mind and heart, as they had done for Tom a while earlier. Wick raised his knife and silently thanking whatever had enlightened him, he cut the rope, throwing himself and the revolted man down into the darkness.
Another silver filament stretched from the glistening well, accompanying the bruised but living body of Annie rising into the sun in its saving net. Wick's soul joined Tom's with what living men would have called a happy smile.
I understood suddenly... I know. A new red explosion blasted under them, inside the bowels of earth, but this one would remain invisible to eyes of flesh. Only Tom and Wick were the witnesses of the rapidly growing cloud of hate, despair, terror that invaded the cave, before falling down with a horrifying shriek towards unknown depths, restoring the mountain to its rocky peace.
You made the right choice, Wick. Where are you going now?
I think I'm a little tired presently, laughed the old man's soul. This was a long life. And I filled it with so many vengeful thoughts... How stupid! What a waste! But I'm glad I was blessed at the last second.
Tom was looking at the team preparing the climbing down and the final rescue of Annie. He remained fascinated by the big red spot of his body's essence splashed on the pure snow.
The field where I died...
What do you mean, my young friend?
Nothing. A memory that crossed my... 'mind'? Another fight. Another battlefield. Another blood.
So what, McLaren? What are you going to do?
Huh, I chose an easy way this time. My fate was so comfortable to die in order to save somebody else. The laziest one! Yours were far worse. You had to accept to kill somebody to save her.
Yes, and it was nothing compared to the decision of my old friend Garrett. He had to put that weight on the shoulders of one he loved so much.
Tom thought for a while in the resplendent light of the sun, facing the colourful gates that were opening for them, one by one.
I can still do a lot of things. Help others. Learn. I'm not a boddhisattva, but... I'll be back into the samsara. 'See you later!' he added with what could have been a boyish laughter.
-------------------
Tom felt the surrounding walls of flesh crushing him painfully. The tiny body he had elected was suffering hard, but even more painful was to see the stream of his memories fading away at a terrifying speed. The shining summit, Annie, the bard, the Secession battlefield, a thousand other lives, births and deaths were melting in an indiscernible maelstrom, clouding his mind, bringing him back to oblivion, to darkness, to blinding daylight, to...
"Push! Push again, the baby's almost here! Yes!!!"
The surgeon held the giggling and bloody tiny body above her belly for the woman to see. "It's a girl! She's wonderful! Congratulations, my dear!"
Panting, the young woman smiled at her newborn daughter, and turned her sweaty ivory face towards her husband. He was pressing her hand hard enough to break her delicate fingers. His green eyes were filled with tears of joy and stress above the sterile mask. He could only stammered, "Oh April, April, my love, April..."
"Yes, Matthew!"
The End
★ ★ ★ ★ ★ ★
Note of the author - I couldn't tell before about "Lunch with Charles" spoiler - it would have spoiled the story itself!
So, DISCLAIMER #2 Matthew and April belong to Michael Parker, who gave them life. May he be blessed for giving this wonderful opportunity to Nick, by every god you can think of - including those of Nick's Indian ancestors! Namaste
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