12-01-2013, 10:38 AM
The silence stretched on but for the steady breathing of the three men at the table. Jon pounded away at the commands on his Wallet without a trace of what he was doing. Ömer appeared settled in, but shifted impatiently every few minutes.
Jensen looked between the two until his mind had wandered across everything which filled the past few days. Since meeting John, his life fell out from under him: an avalanche of events that carried him powerlessly along.
He didn't mind so much. His promise had been solemn: he was willing, but somewhere in the building he assumed sat Jessika, the most uncommonly kind woman he'd ever known. Despite all he'd done to her, Malachi and Gabriel, she came to his rescue with barely an accusation. If not a slap to the cheek. Eh, well, no Southern Lady worth her salt could go long without dealing a good swing now and then.
A swelling of force broke Jensen of the trance. When he lifted his face from the inward toils of his conscience, his long gaze swept across the humming of strands written in light. 'Don't speak of your ability', it read. He blinked, and a frown tempered with confusion veiled his fragile expression.
Ömer was not oblivious to the exchange: not everything that passed between Jon and Jensen was invisible. The lawyer was already tuned to his work once more, but Jensen continued to stare contemplation at the space where the message had hovered, simultaneously contemplating its beauty and meaning. Although Jensen did as requested, Ömer's suspicious rose.
Jon's proposal eventually came, and it sat quite well with Jensen, whose relief flooded his expression with gratitude. Ömer of course signed the addendum, which was followed with Jensen's curvaceous signature. He hadn't been more excited to pen his name since autographing his first Best Seller.
"I would prefer to keep a low profile, gentlemen. Please."
His request was pleading, but not only for his sake. "For Jessika's sake."
He turned to Ömer and explained the unusual circumstances that kept him and Ms. Thrice apart; thankfully, she'd never taken Jensen's name for her own. She had an estate and campaign to manage. Not to mention bearing the guilt of withholding the truth from their sons. Malk and Gabe would be young men now, but still too young to understand the shame that sent their father running and the duty that kept him away. And it wasn't exactly the best message to teach young men: to flee responsibility rather than remorse. That, and, Jensen wanted them as far away from Moscow as humanly possible. He'd send them to Antartica if he could.
Ömer nodded his understanding, but he already held himself different than he had before. His eyes were more narrowed. His questions more weighty. His contemplation of the answers more profound.
"...and the old woman turned the corner..."
Jensen continued describing how he feared for her welfare when the gang of boys trailed after her. Only the arrival of Jessika's cab stopped him following.
He described shoving Jessika indoors and dashing headfirst in search of survivors after the first young man escaped the gunfire. The alley was darker than it ought to have been, and filled with the quiet noise of gulping hunger, he relayed. Jensen's fear surfaced briefly, shown in a tight shiver, but he continued the tale in detail.
He hadn't been able to see, he told them, but he eventually recognized shapes, and when he approached, the woman turned on him with lightning speed, clamped onto his arm, which Jensen now stretched out to show thin red bands of coming bruises from her grip, and how she then attacked him. Ömer sat forward in his seat, holding Jensen's gaze fierce as the grip of the old woman had on his wrist and willing him to continue. Not a second of the story so much as flickered his expression with surprise.
Jensen was about to relate how she screeched in pain and jumped away when Ömer interrupted, "How did you frighten her away?"
He shook his head in disbelief, ignoring Jon. "She would have been furious and strong. Far more capable of harming you than you her. How did you escape?"
Jensen's answer fell flat, choking back the lie he was tempted to create. He turned uncertain toward Jon. If he didn't speak quickly, he knew the lawyer would lie for him, but the deceit would still sting conviction. Romans 7 sprang to mind. 'For I know that nothing good dwells in me, that is, in my flesh; for the willing is present in me, but the doing of the good is not. For the good that I want, I do not do, but I practice the very evil that I do not want.'
He sighed. "Light, my friend,"
and said soberly though perhaps cryptically. Light of YHWH. To Jon he begged silent apology, but there was no other way.
Sickening epiphany flashed across Ömer, whose chair scratched across the floor at his sudden rising. He looked between Jon and Jensen, then to the space which occupied the prisoner's attention so many minutes ago. His mouth formed a word, and though the whisper was too soft for Jensen to hear, a chill ran down his spine nonetheless.
Jensen looked between the two until his mind had wandered across everything which filled the past few days. Since meeting John, his life fell out from under him: an avalanche of events that carried him powerlessly along.
He didn't mind so much. His promise had been solemn: he was willing, but somewhere in the building he assumed sat Jessika, the most uncommonly kind woman he'd ever known. Despite all he'd done to her, Malachi and Gabriel, she came to his rescue with barely an accusation. If not a slap to the cheek. Eh, well, no Southern Lady worth her salt could go long without dealing a good swing now and then.
A swelling of force broke Jensen of the trance. When he lifted his face from the inward toils of his conscience, his long gaze swept across the humming of strands written in light. 'Don't speak of your ability', it read. He blinked, and a frown tempered with confusion veiled his fragile expression.
Ömer was not oblivious to the exchange: not everything that passed between Jon and Jensen was invisible. The lawyer was already tuned to his work once more, but Jensen continued to stare contemplation at the space where the message had hovered, simultaneously contemplating its beauty and meaning. Although Jensen did as requested, Ömer's suspicious rose.
Jon's proposal eventually came, and it sat quite well with Jensen, whose relief flooded his expression with gratitude. Ömer of course signed the addendum, which was followed with Jensen's curvaceous signature. He hadn't been more excited to pen his name since autographing his first Best Seller.
"I would prefer to keep a low profile, gentlemen. Please."
His request was pleading, but not only for his sake. "For Jessika's sake."
He turned to Ömer and explained the unusual circumstances that kept him and Ms. Thrice apart; thankfully, she'd never taken Jensen's name for her own. She had an estate and campaign to manage. Not to mention bearing the guilt of withholding the truth from their sons. Malk and Gabe would be young men now, but still too young to understand the shame that sent their father running and the duty that kept him away. And it wasn't exactly the best message to teach young men: to flee responsibility rather than remorse. That, and, Jensen wanted them as far away from Moscow as humanly possible. He'd send them to Antartica if he could.
Ömer nodded his understanding, but he already held himself different than he had before. His eyes were more narrowed. His questions more weighty. His contemplation of the answers more profound.
"...and the old woman turned the corner..."
Jensen continued describing how he feared for her welfare when the gang of boys trailed after her. Only the arrival of Jessika's cab stopped him following.
He described shoving Jessika indoors and dashing headfirst in search of survivors after the first young man escaped the gunfire. The alley was darker than it ought to have been, and filled with the quiet noise of gulping hunger, he relayed. Jensen's fear surfaced briefly, shown in a tight shiver, but he continued the tale in detail.
He hadn't been able to see, he told them, but he eventually recognized shapes, and when he approached, the woman turned on him with lightning speed, clamped onto his arm, which Jensen now stretched out to show thin red bands of coming bruises from her grip, and how she then attacked him. Ömer sat forward in his seat, holding Jensen's gaze fierce as the grip of the old woman had on his wrist and willing him to continue. Not a second of the story so much as flickered his expression with surprise.
Jensen was about to relate how she screeched in pain and jumped away when Ömer interrupted, "How did you frighten her away?"
He shook his head in disbelief, ignoring Jon. "She would have been furious and strong. Far more capable of harming you than you her. How did you escape?"
Jensen's answer fell flat, choking back the lie he was tempted to create. He turned uncertain toward Jon. If he didn't speak quickly, he knew the lawyer would lie for him, but the deceit would still sting conviction. Romans 7 sprang to mind. 'For I know that nothing good dwells in me, that is, in my flesh; for the willing is present in me, but the doing of the good is not. For the good that I want, I do not do, but I practice the very evil that I do not want.'
He sighed. "Light, my friend,"
and said soberly though perhaps cryptically. Light of YHWH. To Jon he begged silent apology, but there was no other way.
Sickening epiphany flashed across Ömer, whose chair scratched across the floor at his sudden rising. He looked between Jon and Jensen, then to the space which occupied the prisoner's attention so many minutes ago. His mouth formed a word, and though the whisper was too soft for Jensen to hear, a chill ran down his spine nonetheless.