Such A Soft September Wind

Alex woke easily, lying naked on a soft bed and feeling fresh air on his face.

He felt no sense of urgency. There was only peace lying on him as lightly as a linen sheet. Sighing, he rolled over and gazed contentedly at the open window. Curtains, cobweb light, floated in the breeze and for a while he was content to simply watch them drift about, caught in their mesmerizing dance.

Finally, when the morning light had almost reached his bed, he swung his legs over the side. Padding on bare feet, he crossed the wooden floor, night cool close to his bed; it grew warmer from the sun as he neared the window.

The scene spread out before him clutched at a part deep inside him, a tender part that hurt to be touched. It had a beauty that made him want to cry and look away because it was too much like love.

There were softly rolling hills, trees and tall grasses, their seed heads waving, and golden rod just beginning to bloom. He could hear birds and smell autumn and the soft, morning sun washed a warmth through him that settled like a lover's arm across his shoulders.

He didn't know how long he stood there, lost in the warmth. There was no sense of time, no urgency, only peace.

Later, when he felt he could carry the warmth with him forever, he turned and gazed upon his room. It was strange and familiar. It felt like home. It felt like a place he had never been. It was cool and dark and forgiving.

He moved into the shadows in the corner of the room.

The mirror stood there in its dark, wood frame. Its surface cool, like a shaded woodland pool.

His image swam there, fish-belly white. It floated to the surface and stared back at him with dark wounds for eyes and between them a darker eye, still.

He raised his hand and watched, as his reflection did the same, to the place on his forehead. His fingertips hovered, but did not touch.

Some things were untouchable.

There were the other scars on leg and arm. Minor players on the battlefield of his body.

He moved his hand to the stump. An older, familiar friend. This he touched and marveled once again at the depth of his loss. It was a cliff he fell from again and again, sickeningly swift and jarringly real.

His image drifted from view like wood smoke and in its place a new image formed. Slowly it grew in focus and detail until the mirror became a window into another room.

Another bedroom filled with morning light. On the bed slept a man, the sheet pulled to his waist, naked chest exposed.

He knew this man.

He wanted to stop the knowing, to stop and turn away and return to the warmth at the window, but he couldn't.

He could only force the breath into his lungs, slowly and quietly.

He did not wish to wake the sleeping man.

He let his eyelids fall, sliding cool over the hot, dryness.

The image faded; the other bedroom disappeared until only his own image wavered before him.

On weakened legs he stumbled to his bed and fell, gratefully, into its soft embrace.

He struggled to find the warmth he had felt earlier. It huddled far inside himself, like a small child. He breathed deeply to open the way for it to return.

As he lay on his bed, the cat entered his window.

He watched as it sat on the sill, front feet neatly placed and covered by its long tail. Black it was. As black as his sins with eyes the color of new leaves.

It dropped to the floor and he lost sight of it until it jumped onto the bed with a soft little body thud by his left knee. He could feel the softness of its sun-warmed fur as it rubbed against his body and made its way purposefully to the scarred end of his stump.

The whiskers tickled, but he didn't twitch. He kept himself as still as a corpse.

The little pink tongue rasped along the mangled flesh, warm and wet and rough. It untied the tight knot of himself as he melted into the mattress.

The cat purred a lullaby spell that lapped its way into his thoughts and lulled them to near sleep. There was only the rasp rasp of the cat's little pink tongue pressing against his flesh, rubbing away the scars.

When he woke the cat was gone and the moon was full and shinning through the window. The white curtains and the white sheets glowed in moon haze.

He moved to the window and thrust his left arm into the moonlight. There in the soft glow was new flesh, tender as the eyelid of a newly hatched chick, and it covered the perfectly formed arm and hand.

He made a fist and watched in awe as the knuckle bones stretched that new skin and the blood vessels were the most exquisite of line drawings.

What a miracle it was and the warmth filled him like never before and he returned to bed with the sound of purring in his ears and the tickle of whiskers against his cheek.

Once again he woke to a beautiful day and went immediately to stand in front of the mirror. There was the image of himself, whole once again, and he touched the flesh with a quiet reverence. The skin was warm and smooth and freshly alive.

He felt the smile form on his face and he looked into his eyes, hoping to see something there of his happiness, to make it real.

And there was the terrible wound that could not be touched.

He closed his eyes tight, tight and shut out the sight.

When he found the courage to open them, the mirror was a window again onto the other room. The man he knew was awake and standing facing him.

He was adjusting his tie.

Alex watched the strong and agile fingers. Fingers that could so easily pull a trigger or knot a tie or push a strand of dark hair into place.

The eyes were a soldiers eyes.

The man Alex knew, but dared not name, slipped a jacket over a crisp shirt, wide shoulders rolled it easily into place, ready to carry the burdens of the day.

Alex turned away before the image faded; he did not want to watch the man walk away.

Fatigued once again he lay on his soft bed.

A rustling caught his attention. He turned his head to see the crow perched on the window sill. It hopped about and cocked its head until one knowing eye looked his way. Blue glinted deep within the blackness of its feathers.

As easy as a breath it caught flight and flapped once, twice to his bed. It caught sight of the fresh scar on his leg, an ugly red wound.

The bird's beak opened and out came a sound so loud and raucous that it made him jump, as if he had been shot. In through the window leapt the cat. It bounded onto the bed and made itself comfortable on the pillow above Alex's head. He felt the warmth of the soft little body pressing against him. A purring thrummed through him to the soles of his feet.

The crow pecked at the wound on his leg, as delicate and precise as a surgeon's knife. It pulled away the long strings of pain and swallowed them down like worms.

He let his eyelids close and listened to the cat's lullaby.

He awoke in moonlight and shadows. Delicately, hesitantly he explored with both hands the surface of his skin. Fingertips reached for familiar scars and found only smoothness. He rolled onto his feet and made his way to the shimmering mirror.

There he saw himself made as new and he rejoiced.

He reached out to touch his reflection and the surface of the mirror shifted and rippled like water, chasing away his image.

The man he knew was sitting at a desk, his jacket removed and his tie loosened. There was a glass with amber liquid beside his hand. He was holding a black and white image of a young man who was smiling into the camera.

Alex remembered that day.

He reached out, wanting to touch, but watched instead as the man fumbled inside a drawer and drew out a gun. It fit his hand easily but seemed too heavy to hold. He let it drop, nudged it away and raised the glass to his lips instead.

The man pushed the empty glass towards the gun and let his head fall heavily into his hands. His fingertips pressed harder into his flesh until they were claws and then they were fists pounding onto the desktop, shaking the glass and the gun.

The pain in his eyes was untouchable.

Alex turned away. He fled into the soft embrace of his bed.

The morning light came warm into his room. It glinted off the snake coiled on his window sill. A milky jade green with eyes burning gold in the sun. Its tiny head angled out and down, the long body following as it moved to the floor, up his bed and soft as a dream over the sheets.

He felt the cool smoothness of its muscles rippling, sliding against the flesh of his belly and up his chest to pool in the hollow of his throat. The black tongue darted and tickled against his ear.

The little snake spoke to him and taught him the language of trees and animals, of mountains and rivers. It spoke to him of secrets that were mysteries no longer.

Finally, he could speak the name of the man in the mirror. The man he knew.

He formed the word in his mind and let his lips set it free. His voice vibrated against the little snake and its tongue flicked furiously against his ear. He smiled and gazed upon the soft sunshine of the September day.

Each time he looked into the mirror, the snake coiled close against his ear, the cat rubbed against his ankles and the crow perched atop the frame, its head cocked and eye knowing.

He saw the man he loved many times, as countless as the stars on a chilly autumn night,until finally the man's journey was over.

Alex stood at the window, his face turned to the soft wind and then there was a presence at his back, so warm.

He knew.

The arm settled across his shoulders, pressing warmth inside of him, closing the door to all the cold corners, forever. He turned and looked up into a soldier's eyes, so soft their regard, as soft as the September wind.

Tonight there must be people who are getting what they want.
I let my oars fall into the water.
Good for them. Good for them, getting what they want.

The night is so still that I forget to breathe.
The dark air is getting colder. Birds are leaving.

Tonight there are people getting just what they need.

The air is so still that it seems to stop my heart.
I remember you in a black and white photograph
taken this time of some year. You were leaning against a half-shed tree,
standing in the leaves the tree had lost.

When I finally exhale it takes forever to be over.

Tonight, there are people who are so happy,
that they have forgotten to worry about tomorrow.

Somewhere, people have entirely forgotten about tomorrow.
My hand trails in the water.
I should not have dropped those oars. Such a soft wind.

'September,' by Jennifer Michael Hecht from The Next Ancient World (Tupelo Press)

Author's Notes: This story may be classified as a 'death of character' story; however, I would just like to say that Chris Carter already killed Alex Krycek. I've put him back together and given him the man he loves; so, I don't really think of this as the 'typical' death fic.