![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
xp_dominion posting in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png){kind=small}
xp_logsAs he picks up the mask, Garrison is tempted with what he truly wants.
As Garrison plucked the mask from the flames, a voice resonated in his head; warm and understanding...
"Imagine having done enough and being able to finally rest."
It was a nice cemetery as cemeteries went. As Kane walked between the lines of headstones, he strained to look over the tree cover, relatively sure that it was the one on the hill near the Kingsway. They used to pass it on the way to Tom’s Dairy Freeze in the summer for sundaes. But his grandparents and his mother had been buried in Prospect Cemetery up at St. Clairs. Something to do with his great-grandfather, he dimly remembered.
Still, it was a pleasant enough autumn day. Just enough chill to bite at the edges of his long coat as each stride took him further and further down the lines of graves. He wasn’t exactly sure what this play was. Did he secretly desire a future as a custodian or gardener? Or grave robbing? He wasn’t sure he knew enough Shakespeare in order to pull that one off.
At the end of the row he stopped and took a seat at the bench. He was where he was supposed to be and he had to admit, it was a slick move. Olivier might be a pure distilled bastard, but he was smart and he knew where to dig in the hooks.
“You know, I buried my mother two months before I joined the X-Men.” He said aloud, seemingly to no one. “Cancer. Thought she beat it the year before but it came back, twice as bad. Funnily enough, I’m sure that’s when Vikks decided she was going to be a doctor, because she was so fucking angry at it. Punching cancer in the throat is a hell of a motivating factor.”
He leaned forward, putting his hands together loosely, staring off to one side. “Marie and Logan had come to the funeral and afterwards, Logan found me in High Park. Just… sitting. Looking out over Grenadier Pond. I don’t even remember what I was thinking. Or if I was thinking. It was like a giant hand had clamped down over me and I couldn’t do anything.”
Kane reached into his coat, pulling out the flask that he was somehow sure would be there. He took a healthy slug. “He brought the booze, and while we sat drinking… illegally, Inspector Kane, he asked me if I knew how to howl. Dumb right? But he kept pushing me and with enough rye, I did. Soft at first. Then louder. And louder. Each time, that fucking grip got a little looser. Until both of us were standing there, howling at the top of our damn lungs.”
He screwed the top back on. “After that, the tears finally came and I learned to live with the pain. He taught me that pain can’t be avoided. You have to face it. Handle it. Come out the other side, because otherwise, it just stays there waiting for you one day.”
“There was a saying he had-” Kane smirked. “I said it was from some Sonny Chiba film but actually, it’s from some turn of the century letter to Japanese naval troops. Duty is heavier than a mountain; death is lighter than a feather. I didn’t really get it. I mean, death is final. What is heavier than that?”
“But now… now, it makes a lot more sense.” Garrison was about to put the flask away and then thought better of it, taking another generous glup first. “Because I have to face the consequences of all this. I don’t know what they are, but you can’t wrap yourself in the kind of darkness I did and just shed it like an old t-shirt without repercussions. The hard part is sticking around.”
He stood up and took two steps over to a headstone. With a deliberate gesture, he upended the flask over the grass, pouring out the liquor. “I did this impossibly hard thing because it was my duty. I’m not going to abandon the rest of my duty now because it would be easier. Or nicer.” He dropped the flask on the ground. “So, you can end this farce now. It’s done.”
He turned and walked away from the headstone. In neat Century Schoolbook font, it read ‘GARRISON JOHNATHAN KANE - Beloved husband of Adrienne Frost-Kane - 1982-2070’ Every step he took, the cemetery around him faded in paces, disappearing like mist before the rising sun.
In moments, he was back in the room, staring at the mask in his hands. With almost gentle care, he snapped it carefully in half and set it down, like a remembrance of a path untaken and now lost to him forever.
As Garrison plucked the mask from the flames, a voice resonated in his head; warm and understanding...
"Imagine having done enough and being able to finally rest."
It was a nice cemetery as cemeteries went. As Kane walked between the lines of headstones, he strained to look over the tree cover, relatively sure that it was the one on the hill near the Kingsway. They used to pass it on the way to Tom’s Dairy Freeze in the summer for sundaes. But his grandparents and his mother had been buried in Prospect Cemetery up at St. Clairs. Something to do with his great-grandfather, he dimly remembered.
Still, it was a pleasant enough autumn day. Just enough chill to bite at the edges of his long coat as each stride took him further and further down the lines of graves. He wasn’t exactly sure what this play was. Did he secretly desire a future as a custodian or gardener? Or grave robbing? He wasn’t sure he knew enough Shakespeare in order to pull that one off.
At the end of the row he stopped and took a seat at the bench. He was where he was supposed to be and he had to admit, it was a slick move. Olivier might be a pure distilled bastard, but he was smart and he knew where to dig in the hooks.
“You know, I buried my mother two months before I joined the X-Men.” He said aloud, seemingly to no one. “Cancer. Thought she beat it the year before but it came back, twice as bad. Funnily enough, I’m sure that’s when Vikks decided she was going to be a doctor, because she was so fucking angry at it. Punching cancer in the throat is a hell of a motivating factor.”
He leaned forward, putting his hands together loosely, staring off to one side. “Marie and Logan had come to the funeral and afterwards, Logan found me in High Park. Just… sitting. Looking out over Grenadier Pond. I don’t even remember what I was thinking. Or if I was thinking. It was like a giant hand had clamped down over me and I couldn’t do anything.”
Kane reached into his coat, pulling out the flask that he was somehow sure would be there. He took a healthy slug. “He brought the booze, and while we sat drinking… illegally, Inspector Kane, he asked me if I knew how to howl. Dumb right? But he kept pushing me and with enough rye, I did. Soft at first. Then louder. And louder. Each time, that fucking grip got a little looser. Until both of us were standing there, howling at the top of our damn lungs.”
He screwed the top back on. “After that, the tears finally came and I learned to live with the pain. He taught me that pain can’t be avoided. You have to face it. Handle it. Come out the other side, because otherwise, it just stays there waiting for you one day.”
“There was a saying he had-” Kane smirked. “I said it was from some Sonny Chiba film but actually, it’s from some turn of the century letter to Japanese naval troops. Duty is heavier than a mountain; death is lighter than a feather. I didn’t really get it. I mean, death is final. What is heavier than that?”
“But now… now, it makes a lot more sense.” Garrison was about to put the flask away and then thought better of it, taking another generous glup first. “Because I have to face the consequences of all this. I don’t know what they are, but you can’t wrap yourself in the kind of darkness I did and just shed it like an old t-shirt without repercussions. The hard part is sticking around.”
He stood up and took two steps over to a headstone. With a deliberate gesture, he upended the flask over the grass, pouring out the liquor. “I did this impossibly hard thing because it was my duty. I’m not going to abandon the rest of my duty now because it would be easier. Or nicer.” He dropped the flask on the ground. “So, you can end this farce now. It’s done.”
He turned and walked away from the headstone. In neat Century Schoolbook font, it read ‘GARRISON JOHNATHAN KANE - Beloved husband of Adrienne Frost-Kane - 1982-2070’ Every step he took, the cemetery around him faded in paces, disappearing like mist before the rising sun.
In moments, he was back in the room, staring at the mask in his hands. With almost gentle care, he snapped it carefully in half and set it down, like a remembrance of a path untaken and now lost to him forever.
