Participants:
| Scene Title | All Saints |
|---|---|
| Synopsis | A psychic voyage into the mind of Peter Petrelli brings Gabriel face to face once again with the spirit of Kazimir Volken. |
| Date | October 13, 2009 |
There was a time when Gabriel made a point of staying awake whenever he was rattling around inside a Vanguard owned building. Family, Eileen had called them all, still calls them all even if she doesn't mouth the word anymore, and yet. He hadn't trusted sleep, not for some few months, until he'd become so completely bound in the clockwork mechanisms of the New York cell that not only was it impractical to never shut his eyes or trust those he worked with, it became impossible.
He doesn't think they'll slit his throat anymore. Not yet, anyway. He trusts sleep, even if he doesn't quite trust his ability to get any. Which is why he doesn't bat an eye as he slips the needle into his arm— all the cool kids are doing it— and no, it doesn't glint and glow the telltale blue. Clear, like rainwater.
Abandoning the syringe on the bedside table, Gabriel pushes himself to lie down upon the worn mattress within the attic of the Old Dispensary. Moonlight beams through the window, dims every time a cloud crosses past its cyclops eye, and he turns his back to it. The stolen drug is swift, tips Gabriel's world and like peas rolling off a tilted plate, consciousness slips from his form into what could be dreamless blackness.
But isn't.
He could have the luxury of dreamless sleep, but instead, he holds close an idea. Like a burning hot coal enclosed in a fist, it sears and sizzles with jealousy and anger and hatred, burning bright in the darkness. Peter Petrelli and Kazimir Volken are two names that inspire these things, and so theoretically, the two of them combined could draw him like a moth to flame. It's a haphazard journey, entrenched in telepathy and non-existent astral plane constructed solely for the minds that can wander its paths. He could lose himself.
But doesn't. With all the grace of an angered bull within a china store, Gabriel breaks in.
To the middle of a cemetery.
Pitch black trees rise up at the edges of fog banks, stickbare and gnarled like the kind at an orchard or ones that grow near salt water. Twisted branches grasp for the sky in clawing shapes, blurry and indistinct because of the mist. Headstones are tiny, rounded silhouettes that spread out in staggered procession as far as the eye can see in every direction. Most of them are ancient, crumbling and old, moss-encrusted things that have had their names scored away from them too long ago. Some look like simple slabs of rock with crude shapes etched into them, all alike in the tarlike soot that clings to their damp forms.
The only thing that's different, here, are the monuments. Like all cemetaries, there are monuments to the wealthy, or the powerful, or the famous. Here, the monuments are less obvious things. Each of them tall, ostentatiously capped by a different stone statue of a robed figure in unusual posture or pose. There are only eight that Gabriel can clearly make out, the others stretch back further into the fog.
The closest to him, in his line of movement, depicts a balding man with a trimmed goatee in a long priests' vestments, cradling a lifeless body in his arms. The platform upon which he stands is inscribed with the name "Saint Camillus de Lellis", beneath that on the monument base is etched, "Peter Petrelli," and below his name, just a single date, "2009."
Just beyond this monument, stands another Gabriel can make out. It depicts an elderly man bearing a crown in royal attire with one arm swept over his chest and head dipped in a bow. On the footplate beneath the statue it is inscribed, "Edward the Confessor," and below that a name and a date. "Kazimir Volken, 1914." The other monuments are further away, but somehow— Gabriel's alone here.
Which is, of course, an impossibility. Perhaps in the dimness of his attic, the hair at the nape of Gabriel's neck stands on end, because it certainly does here as well as he casts a look around him, squares his focus on the two headstones with their familiar names. His form, here, is one of detail - from the dirt tracked on the edges of his boots, the loose threads at his sleeves and the loose seam at his shoulder, Gabriel is texture and solidity, his presence written harsh into this world as if he belonged here.
Cobbled together from vanity, and also memory — just not purely his own memory. Looking up from the gravestone, he takes a step, and from where his boot lifts off the grass, the healthy, rain-dotted green has turned a withered, muddy brown.
"Peter?" he calls out, and above, thunder rumbles in time with the call of his voice. Hesitation, for the space of a moment, before thunder clamors and rolls again through cloud as he tries again; "Kazimir?"
Nothing but a sigh of cold wind, and the groaning creak of dead trees answers that call. The wind here is just as damp and cold as a realm autumn day's wind feels, and it's that tactile recognition that seems to make this all the more unsettling.
Each step on the grass takes Gabriel closer to the the next monument. One that depicts a weary looking man with shoulder-length wavy hair bound to a tree with his arms tied behind his back. An arrow pierces his throat, and several more his body and the tree. At his feet, etched in faded lettering in the marble slab it is written, "Saint Sebastian". Below that, on the monument slab itself, is a less familiar name. "Vladimir Volken," and the date, "1898." On reading this name, a chill wind blows through the cemetery, sending a cool mist up one side of Gabriel's face. Squinting through the dampness that beads on his skin, he can see another monument beyond that one.
Older than the others, this monuments depicts a gnarled old man with hair cropped close and short, dressed in a too-loose robe. He braces himself on weak legs against a crooked staff that supports his fragile weight. On the slab at his feet, is written "Saint Dismas." Below this statue, is written the name "Eskandar Singh" and the year "1880."
"What're you doing here?" The call is accusatory, and not the wind. Pale blue eyes glow in the gloom of the fog, pointing out a silhouette slowly fading into view. Rail thin and darkly clad, his black suit tailored with a trim fit and accented shoulders. The familiar ragged line of a scat cuts across his face, giving division to the too-blue eyes. "You're not supposed to be here." It's Peter, outwardly at the very least.
There are other powers better suited for the invasions of dreams, and for that reason, Peter is correct. Gabriel isn't supposed to be here. He can tell in the way he can't feel, or see, or hear anything beyond what is presented, rather than the way in which the dream walkers touch the fabric of these constructed realities and become a part of its weave, understanding each tug and pull.
Each flaw. Gabriel comes to stand still amongst the gravestones, dating back and back and back. "I've come to understand." Minus the ease of split skulls, hacked bone and exposed grey matter.
He lifts a hand, and runs his fingers over the top of the nearest monument, the looming statue of St. Sebastian, befor ehis hawk-gaze settles on the next one that stands erected between he and Peter, or the visages of both men. There's a break in the dream pattern, like a needle slid beneath skin - fitting, but damaging, but unnatural - as a raven descends from from the sky and comes to land atop the staff of St. Dismas. It lets out a low caw, golden eyes— rather than the usual inky black beads of other birds of its skin— focus on Peter.
"I was looking for my gravestone," Gabriel says, pulling his fingers away from that of Vladimir Volken's, inspects the tips for dust and dirt.
Peter's blue eyes stare out icily towards Ganriel, then alight to the raven with the faintest hint of a smile. The fondness fades, brows tense, and Peter allows his focus to settle down on Gabriel again uncertainly. "You don't have one here…" he says quietly, turning to walk down the row of monuments, hands tucked into the pockets of his slacks. "Neither does Richard Santiago," Peter admits with a tilt of his head. "You were… just a vessel, not a host." He pauses next to another monument, turning to look back over his shoulder at Gabriel. "There's a difference, I think."
Beside Peter, rises the statue of a young woman wreathed in vines and blooming roses. Her head is tilted back, wrapped with a loose and folded cloth. Her eyes are closed, a smile spread on her lips of subtle contentment. In one hand, she bears a violin, and in the other, a bow with which to play it. Beneath her sandaled feet on the slab, is etched the name, "Saint Cecilia." Below that identifier, a barely legible name is inscribed; "Marianne d'Beaumont," and below that the date of "1812."
"I've had this dream before, but you've never been in it." Those blue eyes narrow as Peter makes the assertion. "When did you get an ability like that?" Suspicion, now, as Peter's stare drift back up to the raven, thoughtfully. "You seem cumbersome with it. It's not like you."
Stepping, he doesn't quite walk with Peter, simply moves in time as if circling, letting monuments glide between them. Gabriel picks out the names, as if perhaps he could commit them to memory, and the word vessel has him flaring a look towards Peter with eyes of bright amber. No anger, no shock. It's the start he always experiences when things that haven't made sense in a long time— abruptly do. "That's because I didn't take this power," he explains, and overheard, the brewing of a storm only seems to shimmer and flash in intensity with each word uttered into false air. "I was given it. I'm still learning."
There's the sound of wings slicing through the air, as the raven launches off the staff and ducks, weaves too close to the ground for a bird of its size. Never crashes, of course, soaring past Gabriel's shoulder, though he never reacts even when feathers clip fabric. Or, more accurately, pass through it, as if they were made of the same substance.
Behind him, the bird comes to land upon the first witness gravestone, following a train of thought that ends with him asking out loud; "Did I kill him?" The world bends, distorts - a memory that doesn't belong to this dreamscape attempting to push through. A glimmer of a denser forest, of a thin man lying crumpled and bleeding on the broken terrain, of Gabriel's pale hands reaching for him to sap redirect life flow like a dam.
Or a vessel. The graveyard remains solid, intact. Wind ruffles dead leaves that dance and skip against granite, around their feet. "Did I kill Peter?"
"Maybe." It's about as concrete an answer as Gabriel can get, those blue eyes settled on him not as defiantly now. "It's not really as clear as you'd think. I am Peter, but i'm not as well. If you look at the dates, you can start to see why things are the way they are. None of the others," the others, "ever held this— " even he doesn't seem to know, eyes searching the ground for answers. "Whatever this is? No one held it longer than Kazimir, no one. From what I can tell," he looks down the line of monuments, "it's been here longer than a lot of things."
Continuing to walk, Peter's focus turns back up to Gabriel. "Peter was dying anyway, as good as dead. Maybe you gave him a second chance at life, maybe not. Nothing's ever as cut and dry as that is, at least— not here." There's a smirk, "it's never dry here." The next statue finally comes into view, and it's an elaborate one. A great spinning wheel that weaves a whisper thin thread of stone from it dominates the structure, save that the spinning wheel is broken. A woman with swept back, curly hair kneels at the base of the spinning wheel with thread spun around her hands, individual threads woven between her fingers like a cat's cradle.
"They're all in here, in me." Fair eyes narrow slightly, "some of them are louder than others." There's a gesture to the statue of the weaving woman. Peter approaches it, brushing off the front of the monument of moss to reveal a name on its footstone. "Saint Catherine of Alexanderia." Below that, his gloved hand sweeps away moss and dirt covering the name, "Madeline Rouen" and the date "1754."
Standing up straight again, Peter dusts off that glove on his slacks. "She spoke, recently. Some sort've dream… I think they burned her," blue eyes track to Gabriel, "like a witch."
"Maybe." It's about as concrete an answer as Gabriel can get, those blue eyes settled on him not as defiantly now. "It's not really as clear as you'd think. I am Peter, but I'm not as well. If you look at the dates, you can start to see why things are the way they are. None of the others," the others, "ever held this— " even he doesn't seem to know, eyes searching the ground for answers. "Whatever this is? No one held it longer than Kazimir, no one. From what I can tell," he looks down the line of monuments, "it's been here longer than a lot of things."
Continuing to walk, Peter's focus turns back up to Gabriel. "Peter was dying anyway, as good as dead. Maybe you gave him a second chance at life, maybe not. Nothing's ever as cut and dry as that is, at least— not here." There's a smirk, "it's never dry here." The next statue finally comes into view, and it's an elaborate one. A great spinning wheel that weaves a whisper thin thread of stone from it dominates the structure, save that the spinning wheel is broken. A woman with swept back, curly hair kneels at the base of the spinning wheel with thread spun around her hands, individual threads woven between her fingers like a cat's cradle.
"They're all in here, in me." Fair eyes narrow slightly, "some of them are louder than others." There's a gesture to the statue of the weaving woman. Peter approaches it, brushing off the front of the monument of moss to reveal a name on its footstone. "Saint Catherine of Alexandria." Below that, his gloved hand sweeps away moss and dirt covering the name, "Madeline Rouen" and the date "1754."
Standing up straight again, Peter dusts off that glove on his slacks. "She spoke, recently. Some sort've dream… I think they burned her," blue eyes track to Gabriel, "like a witch."
Closer, now, eating up distance in slow steps as his attention is diverted to the statue of Catherine and the broken wheel, a martyr to watch over the martyr. His eyes track along the statue before going down to read the name, coming to stand just a couple of feet from Peter. "And the thing that made her a witch continued. Why." It's a question without inflection, one that doesn't demand answer. Gabriel casts a look back towards the gravestones, then focuses on the glow of Peter's pale eyes.
As Eileen had pointed out, his never had. Brilliant brown instead, and they narrow in something like study and accusation mixed in one. "Dead men and women walking. Memories. That's all you are. I don't think it has to be. I never lost myself."
There's a subtle shake of Peter's head, the way he tiredly closes his eyes is more telling. "It was different for you. Different for Alfonse d'Sanmartin as well." Another unfamiliar name, one that comes with a shrug of Peter's shoulders. "Sometimes, this… ability. When it tries to possess someone, it's the other way around. The vessel takes control, wrestles the beast into submission. Then it's more like a tool, an instrument to be used. I think Alfonse lived in England, sometime in the 1700s. I had a dream about him…" Dark brows crease together in a look of concentration, "he was hung."
Turning his focus up to Gabriel, Peter starts walking again, down that line of statues. "SOmething happened that night, outside of Pinehearst. I don't know if it was because of your ability, because of what this ability is or— " he cuts himself off from rambling, shaking his head again. "It left from you into me, just like it did from Kazimir's father into him." By now, Peter has passed next to another one of the monuments. This one is even older than the last, depicting a broad-shouldered man with long and curly hair pointing a sword to the ground, a heavy cape is draped over his shoulders, and Rennaisance style breastplate armor adorns his body. Both the name of the patron saint and the name of the person below are obscured by moss, only a portion of the date is visible, the last two numbers, "— 03."
"Why are you here?" Peter finally asks, pausing to turn around and look over to Gabriel, head canted to the side just enough to ensure the question isn't a rhetorical one. He'd really like to know.
The raven flies over head, swooping low and arcing up to find a new resting place. Its talons scrabble against granite, wings out to balance until its settled still on the curve of the sword bearer's caped shoulder. The bird's golden eyes seem almost to spin, shining glass beak opening soundless, snapping shut. It gets none of Gabriel's attention, his focus on Peter - or at least, midway up his back until those blue eyes lance back to meet his brown.
"Eileen." It's a simple enough response, voice heavy. "She told me that Kazimir is alive. I needed to know, to know what to do with you. I expected— "
He cuts himself off, steering a look towards the solemn monuments makes shapes across the misty landscape of this dream place. Angles of aggravation set in his jaw, his brow, shoulders rising and falling as he sucks in a breath of cold air, expels it in a finer mist than the rolling fog that obscures their surroundings. "I didn't expect this."
The look on Peter's face says a lot, it paints a picture of anxiety cut in twain by a deep scar. "He is, and he isn't. Like I said, some of the voices in here— they're louder than others." Those blue eyes alight to the raven again, watching its balancing act with amused interest, like seeing an old family pet after a long time gone. "He's strong, in here, loud, vocal. I think you saved his life, in whatever irony that represents." The cold eyes move back to Gabriel, and Peter breathes out a sigh as he looks away to the distant trees and fog.
"You saved his memory, strong emotional fragments of it, in yourself somehow. You replicated the ability, you— a lot of proper coincidences came together to do what's happening right now." Those dark brows of Peter's furrow together, creasing his scar.
"Sometimes, I'm more him than I am me, enough so that I don't even recall what happened, like I fell asleep or blacked out." Blue eyes flick back up to Gabriel, wary now of what the reaction might be. "I'm not sure what he wants, or what he's doing, but sometimes it's a struggle to keep him in check. Other times, I don't even have a chance."
"1914. He's never really been alive again," Gabriel states, with a restless step away, the beginning of pacing, as if physical restless could translate into the dreamworld. Mental restlessness, perhaps. Does his drugged form in the attic shift and turn over? Perhaps. It's only a glimmering connection at the back of his mind, as faint as a silver fishing line but in many ways, unsnappable.
At the notion of saving Kazimir, there is no particular reaction, save for a dulling of acknowledgment in his eyes as he glances up towards the stormy dome of sky above them. "And is he dangerous?"
"Kazimir Volken is always dangerous." Peter's voice is firm in that assertion. "But if you're wondering if he's dangerous to you or Eileen?" There's a shake of his head, and Peter looks down to the ground. "I don't know. I dont' know what he wants, what he's doing, where he goes. I just know there's times where I wake up in a different part of the city, find myself losing an hour or two at a time here and there." A worried look flashes across his features, "I woke up in front of a pay phone once, after hanging it up. I have no idea who I was talking to." Blue eyes narrow, and Peter's head tilts down to stare at his feet.
"So you know about as well as I do…" He doesn't look up this time, "as to whether or not he's dangerous." There's a shift of those eyes, from Peter's feet to Gabriel's, then slowly tracking his way up the taller man's body until eye contact is uneasily made. "And who he's dangerous to."
When eye contact is made, there's nothing particularly predictable about what he meets. Gabriel is not accusatory, or frightened, or avid in adrenaline fueled focus of a predator sizing up its prey. No, Gabriel is weary and thoughtful, as if looking at the next puzzle in a whole row of which he's been trying to solve for a long time. Finally, he lifts an arm in a silent summons; the raven launches itself off the statue, weaves between Peter and the rest of the monuments, and makes to land on Gabriel's arm.
It doesn't, not exactly. As soon as its feet hit his black-clad wrist, it seems to simultaneously vanish, be consumed by, scatter into shadow and become a part of Gabriel, and his arms lowers matter of factly.
"You say he's vocal, in here. Strong. Loud. You've heard his voice. Whether you do it in dreaming, in waking hours, I don't care— find out what he wants."
His words are firm, and grate against the silence like a blade against a rock. Simmering anger that could well be frustration. Removed from hatred. But more importantly, a warning. "Find out what he wants before I decide it's not worth the risk," is added, in case there was a shadow of doubt.
"What I want, might not be what you expect, Gabriel." The very sound is enough to send the hairs rising up on the back of Gabriel's neck. In the moment it takes for him to whip around towards the sound of the voice behind him, the scenery has changed from the cemetery entirely. Gone are the monuments and headstones and Catholic symbolism associated with Peter's own subconsciousness, instead it has been replaced by heavily falling downy snow in the blue-tinted streets of some distant European village. Lights glow yellow in the windows of cottages and taller buildings, monuments and statues and fountains are capped with a fluffy offering of several inches of snow.
Standing there in the middle of the snow-laden courtyard, in a heavy black wool jacket is the gray-haired and blue-eyed form that still haunts the subconscious mind of Gabriel Gray. Held fast in both hands, supporting his weight, the gleam of a silver wolf's head and black lacquered cane shaft disapears down to the tip in the snow.
"It's been too long."
The link between Gabriel's wandering mind and his resting body grows taut, as if perhaps he were ready to yank himself out of this place like a cat escaping a bath. He holds fast, however, his almost casual stance transforming into that of a cornered man, one hand out as if ready to attack and his legs stiff as if ready to run.
Or launch himself forward. His squints through the falling snow, each innocent kiss of ice swirling independent of its replicants to create one of the more destructive forces in the natural world. Bitter cold, dehydration. This isn't the deadly blizzard it could be, but perhaps it kicks up a notch with Gabriel's continued presence. It catches and sparkles in hair, in dark clothing, melts on skin. Peter's slender frame is no where to be seen, or at least, it isn't when Gabriel scopes the place out for him in a dart glancing before focusing intent on the facade of an older gentleman.
"No. Not long enough."
"The outskirts of St.Petersburg is a beautiful place in the winter…" Kazimir doesn't move from where he stands, like a monument himself, hands folded atop his cane. "I think some of my fondest memories of the last few decades are here," there's an incline of his head towards Gabriel, "and I have you to thank for still having them. I'm of the mind, that if you and I hadn't met the way we did, I'd be nothing more than one of those rasping specters in the back of that boy's mind."
Finally, Kazimir begins to walk forward, high footsteps that trudge thorugh the several inches of powdery snowfall. "You came to me, Gabriel, not the other way around." Gray brows go up at the notion, and Kazimir stops a few steps outside of arm's reach, a tired breath drawn in to give texture and reality to this place. His breath is even a warm mist on the cool air. "Why are you looking for me?"
An alarming amount of detail. But all the same, Gabriel slowly relaxes - that guarding hand lowers as Kazimir approaches, the defensive arch in his back smoothing out into proper posture, although to mistake it for true relaxation would be a mistake. It takes willpower not to step back, but Gabriel has plenty of that, when he sets his mind to it.
He still fears this man, and it's something he sees worth in hiding. "Maybe I want to finish things," he says, his voice as hard and cold as the granite statues he'd left behind. Hesitation, before he continues, with a milder tone of voice, "I want to know what you want. What you're doing. To me, you were just a memory, a hallucination. But it's like you're more real than Peter ever was, even if I felt you die on the bridge.
"Eileen thinks you're still alive. I came to see for myself."
"Life is a tricky thing." Kazimir's voice is just as Gabriel remembers it, confident and cool with that rough edge of age. "All I want, Gabriel, is to make amends for what I did to her. Its as simple as that. It's not very often that a man gets to have one final chance to make his peace with the world, and whether I'm alive or dead doesn't make the difference. I'm here and I'm working." Blue eyes narrow slightly, and Gabriel is studied with a thoughtful regard. "You know about mistakes. The time we shared together gave us an uncomfortable insight into one another. I'm looking to make amends for mine, and maybe that's what you're doing too."
The old man looks down, then away and out towards the plaza of St.Petersburg that he had moved away from. A quiet, distant expression haunts his features before he turns to look back again. "There's no coming back from what happened to me, Gabriel. There's no life after death." Blue eyes meet brown again, "but there is penance."
The scenery is beautiful. And strange and alien. And for all of Gabriel's experiences, one could hardly call him worldly, except for one time in Africa. All the same, his focus is on Kazimir and Kazimir only, as the snow comes down, as the landscape remains solid and corporeal around them. He doesn't shiver in the snow, perhaps notably, depsite the lightness of his coat and how exposed his hands and throat are to what would have been a bitter bite of frost.
Eventually, Gabriel points out, "I've trusted you once before." There isn't much he has to say beyond that - memory and man alike, they both know exactly how that ended. For both of them.
Kazimir's slow to nod in agreement to that suggestive sentence. His eyes turn from Gabriel with the rest of his body, offering the invader his back as he adds. "I guess, then, you'll have to trust Eileen." It's a bit of a barb, with Kazimir looking back over his shoulder towards Gabriel. "If she still is willing to trust me, after everything I've done to her…" he looks away, this time out of shame, an expression not becoming of a tired old man. "You'll just have to trust Eileen." It's echoed, a slight change of cadence in his speech as he starts to walk thorugh the snow again, cane leaving a wobbling trail in the white powder.
"She's your responsibility, now, Gabriel." That much is said only when he's out of arm's reach — as if that matters. "I trust you," he offers, suggestively more towards the subject of Eileen. "I hope it won't be misplaced."
Unlike Peter, Gabriel doesn't follow this time — he allows Kazimir the right to walk away, but he doesn't get to walk away with confirmation, agreement, denial. This visage of Gabriel, closed off as it is, gives away nothing as he watches the old man and his trek through the snow impassively and not entirely sure of what he's learned.
But he leaves with more than he started with. The same can not be said for the mind he's invaded. He turns his attention somewhere inwards, to where hallucination and visual memory do not come together in an easy collective reference of snow and statues. The silver thread that keeps him from getting lost is tugged, gripped to, so that he can slip free of this dream with far more silence and respect than which he invaded.