Into That Good Night



Scene Title Into That Good Night
Synopsis Griffin makes his move.
Date December 5, 2011

Pollepel Island, Bannerman's Castle

This is really happening.

There is no going back. There is no fixing this. If he tries, then everything he has worked for — his family — will be wiped away in an instant. Owain, Nadira, baby Marjorie, who isn't even a month old…they'll all be gone if he goes back on this. They won't have a chance at the life they deserve. He doesn't matter in the grand scheme of things — he would face any hardship if it meant giving them a better life. They matter, and he would burn the world down for them if he had to.

And if he gets to live that life with them, that's all the better.

In the cover of darkness, Griffin floats down the second flight of stone stairs, his feet hovering inches above the ground as telepathic hands carry him along. He comes to stop at the reinforced double doors, and a set of keys floats from the pocket of his black jacket. Glowing white eyes cast about as the doors are unlocked, pushed open by those invisible vectors. Then, once more, he is on his way, silently making his way to his destination: the wooden door at the end of the hall.

His breath catches at his throat as he comes to the door, hovering there in silence for a long moment. The balaclava puffs outward as he breathes, invisible hand coming to rest on that door.

This is really happening.

The stolen key turns in the lock, and the door swings open. Inside, the room is not quite as Griffin was told he would find it; there is no verdant garden with blooming lilacs and vibrant blue butterflies, no misting rain waterfalling from the ceiling or moss growing from between the gaps in the stone floor beneath him. It's just a room.

Rain patters against the glass window, only marginally louder than the strained rasping of the woman in the bed. Amtullah is ninety-three years old, and on a medical ventilator. What little power she has left in her bones is focused on shrouding Pollepel Island and its inhabitants from the military's prying eyes. She no longer has the luxury of creating her own personal paradise in the small, cold room her illness confines her to.

Griffin can tell himself that what he's doing is a mercy, in a way. She does not stir when she hears him enter, but he sees her dark brown eyes focused on him as he approaches her bedside.

There is fear in them.

The keys are gently set down upon the ground next to the woman's bed as the man is carried in by the octopus-like tendrils of his vectors, his feet finally touching down on the ground for the first time since he arrived, next to the old woman's bedside. Glowing white eyes fade to green then, the man staring down sadly at the old woman in her bed. Briefly, his gaze tears away to survey the sad reality that is her room, before returning to the frail figure in the bed, and the equipment that she is hooked up to.

Then, he reaches one hand up, lifting the mask up to reveal his face to the woman, creased with frown lines. He doesn't relish this. He doesn't enjoy this. This doesn't make him happy. For the rest of his life, he will live with this guilt. But…he has to do this.

He takes a deep breath, letting it out slowly, before he kneels down beside the old woman's bed. "I'm sorry," he murmurs sadly, staring long and hard at the poor old woman, memorizing her features. All the better to have nightmares about, right? "They have my family, you see," he explains sadly, "And if I don't help them, they'll kill them and me." He takes a deep breath, and his eyes fade from green back to white, glowing gently in the dim lighting.

"But if I do help them…they'll give my family a normal life." The woman will feel a pair of gentle but invisible hands slip beneath her head. "My son, who has lost two mothers now, one while he was hiding in the next room…he will have a chance to heal." The pillow slides out from under her while those tendrils support her, floating into the air above their heads. "My love…my wife, she just had our newborn daughter less than a month ago. She and my baby girl are in Eltingville right now…as it stands, they would be caught up in this horrible war for the rest of their lives." He glances up at the pillow as it drifts closer to the woman's head. "They'll have the chance to live a normal life after this. I won't have to worry that my daughter will have to live through the murder of my wife or I…she'll be able to do something with her life, instead of having it torn to pieces by this war."

He reaches out with his real hand, then, sadness shining in those glowing white eyes, and places his hand over the old woman's hand in a comforting gesture. "I know I'm selfish…but I would do anything for them."

The pillow descends.

Amtullah's bony fingers curl around Griffin's hand as he places it atop hers. Her hips rise half an inch off the mattress as though arching her back might create some distance between the pillow and her nose and mouth, allowing her to draw breath — or scream.

The fabric muffles the old woman's hitching sobs and smothered pleas, which sharply decrease in volume and intensity when Griffin applies more pressure; although her struggles might be feeble, they are not brief.

At some point, Griffin loses track of how long he's been holding Amtullah down, but at least two or three minutes must have elapsed before she finally stops writhing against him.

In silence, the telekinetic watches, holding her hand as his vectors smother her with her own pillow, as gently as he can manage. In silence, Griffin memorizes this moment so that he will never forget what he's done today. Amtullah deserves that, certainly. She deserves to haunt him for the rest of his days for doing this to her. For doing this to the Ferrymen.

When the writhing stops, when he is sure that the old fighter is truly gone, the pillow drifts back under her head, and invisible hands ensure that she looks as though she simply…fell asleep. Griffin leaves her looking peaceful, serene almost, her eyes closed, hands clasped over her chest. For a brief moment, he simply stands over her, one hand reaching out to gently run his fingers over the old woman's forehead. "I'm sorry…"

The balaclava is pulled back down to obscure all but his glowing white eyes, and his feet once again raise above the ground. He lingers for a moment longer, sadly looking over the old woman he just murdered, over the symbol of the entire island that he has just sentenced to a horrible fate. "For all of this, I'm so..,so sorry."

Then, just as silently as he came, Griffin Owain Mihangle leaves Pollepel island to its fate that he has set in motion.

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