Goodbye, Papa

[LUDMILA ILYUKHIN]

2008 November 2

Another average morning. Ludmila had woken up and gone to the mirror, gathering her silvery hair into a bun and keeping it in place with her comb as she always did. Once she'd taken on her human appearance, she'd washed, got dressed and headed off to the cafeteria for breakfast. Clean and neat, she'd made her way to the cafeteria and had taken her usual breakfast: coffee with a splash of milk, three croissants and a small pot of honey. She also picked up a copy of the local paper, which was freely distributed at the cafeteria. Where most agents had their breakfast in groups, discussing every day trifles or work related worries, Ludmila sat alone, drinking her coffee and eating her croissants in silence. She would read through the entire paper, skipping the sports section since American Football and other such things did not interest her, and then put it neatly down on the table, finish her breakfast, and leave.

Today however, was different. The man in charge of mail distribution entered the cafeteria and handed out the usual loads of envelopes to the agents present. Ludmila raised an eyebrow when she saw the mail man approach her. A letter? For her?

"Miss Ilyukhin? This just arrived."

He handed her a letter, which she took. It had Russian stamps on it. Could it be from her father? She neatly opened the envelope and extracted the letter within, expecting to find some comforting words from her old father. She raised her cup of coffee to her lips and took a sip as she read, and this was when her cold and distant countenance suddenly changed, as if something had delivered a hammer blow to an unstable wall. She froze, and she slowly spat her coffee back into her cup. She then blinked, set her cup down on the table, and read again. The second blow to the wall came, as her hands clenched down on the piece of paper, ruffling it. Her lips trembled, and her eyes seemed filled with confusion.

And finally it came. Realisation finally hit her like an artillery shell, and a single tear ran down her cheek. She stood up, almost knocking the table over, and she ran from the cafeteria. As she ran she started to cry, and she did not stop running till she reached the closest abode she could reach: the library. She entered the library and slammed the door behind her before staggering over to a seat, which she never reached. A tidal wave of despair and grief crashed down on her, and she fell to her knees, clasping the letter to her heart.

"No...no...", she mumbled. "It's impossible..."

But she couldn't deny the truth. Her father was dead. The man who had given her her freedom and had raised her like his own daughter had passed away. Ludmila took one final, ragged gasp of air before breaking into a long, heart-rending wail of grief that echoed through the library. Ludmila usually managed to control her violent emotions, but the storm the letter had whipped up in her was uncontrollable and impossible to deny, so it raged chaotically. As her cry died out, she fell into strangled sobbing. As she cried, her distraught mind brought back the memory of the witch she had consulted so many centuries ago, and her cryptic warning.

"Are you sure, my child? Even with a human appearance, you will never truly be human. Your kin will shun you as a traitor to your own race, and humans will treat you as a stranger. All those you love die before you, and when your time finally comes, my child, you will be alone..."

[WARREN SORROW]

Warren, having taking a particular fancy with the librarian, a fiery red head with the classic librarian look and attitude. The situation was akin to that of a mouse in the face of the a snake. A very hungry snake.

He had been spending quite a bit of time in the library thanks to that fact, and was currently residing in the section meant for voodoo, hoodoo, and all other backwater magics, correcting what he could, and writing in cliffnotes under what he couldnt. Idiots always mess up the details, you throw in a bit too much of that, and you'd turn your whole body to the size of an ameoba. Which was actually good fun, for a few minutes. He was sitting, very laid back in a tipped chair, balancing the chair on its back legs as he stretched and rested his legs on a table. He was going mad with a blue pen, scratching out whole sections and writing in new ones when the wail hit.

The chair fell back, he rolled into a book case, said book case fell ontop of him, it was all a bloody mess. "WHAT IN NAME OF THE SISTERS BAD EYE WAS THAT??!" Problem was, he already partially knew. His friends had set themselves up all over the library, throwing books at people or flipping pages, making general mayhem, and all now circulated around the female, crying her eyes out. They decided as a group to help and did what they could, entered her shadow and began sifting through her memories. One had gone back to Warren to make a report.

The shadows then pushed the happier memories to the top of the metaphorical pile, using all the power they could in a day to show the better days of her adoptive father.

[LUDMILA ILYUKHIN]

Ludmila didn't even feel the interference of Warren's shadow friends. In a way, Warren had been right about cold women having fiery hearts, although Ludmila's heart was more like a firestorm than anything else. She experienced emotions far more intensely than a human, and thus her grief was abysmal, a black deluge that choked out everything. Ludmila felt like she was falling through empty space, away from warmth and safety and into nothingness.

Ludmila cried till she had no tears left to cry. By then, her grief had receded like a wave. Sniffing, her face red from crying, and her eyes filled with a dead kind of despair, Ludmila stood up and slumped into the chair she had failed to reach earlier. As she sat, she searched for her letter, which had fallen onto the carpeted floor was badly crumpled. She uncrumpled it and read it again, albeit more calmly this time. Antonov, her father, had died of a stroke and she had to go back to Russia to attend the reading of the dead man's will.

She drew a shuddering breath and put the letter down again. This meant she'd be meeting the rest of her father family. His sister, a pro-czarist, had fled Russia after the revolution and had settled in Germany. She had never met that side of her father's biological family, but from what she'd observed, there was no love lost between them. Suddenly, Ludmila noticed that someone was standing nearby, she looked up and recognised Warren.

"Oh, Warren", she said, embarrassment apparent in her voice. "Did I bother you?"

[WARREN SORROW]

He dusted off his vest, shirt, and pants as he walked over to Mila, paying special care to each article of clothing. He bent down next to Mila, placing his hand on her shoulder. "Of course you weren't ma chere." he said softly, trying to smile but it wasn't working so well. "I'm truly sorry Mila. If there is anything i can do, don't hesitate to ask. Me and my friends are here." He said warmly, as his friends passed from her shadow to his. "You've had quite the life, you have. And I doubt he'd want you to sit around mopin' in some library. So come on, let's get you up." he placed the hand that was on her shoulder underneath her arm, lifting her to her feet.

"Is there anything I can get you?" He asked as he walked her over to the nearest table and sat her back down on a chair.

[LUDMILA ILYUKHIN]

"He's gone", murmured Ludmila. Her eyes still had the same dead look to them. "And I wasn't even there to see him off."

Slumped in her chair, crossing her arms on the table, she stared at the book shelf behind Warren. Her usually perfectly ordered hair was awry, and she looked drained of all energy. She remembered the day when her father, accompanied by other communist officials, had broken into the Winter Palace's secret basement. She had been in complete darkness for days, and the beam of their electric torches had been like a beacon of hope in eternal obscurity. After that, she'd been taken out of her tank, and the man who would later adopt her as his daughter, had lead her into the outside world and to freedom.

"I was nothing before papa came along. Just a volatile and ignorant creature. He taught me everything I know. He taught me how to read and write, he taught me how to speak French and English...he gave me freedom. And now he's gone."

Life to Ludmila was a long and difficult path, a path she had never been meant to take in the first place. Neither human nor a member of the magical world, and under fire from both sides. A long cycle of abuse and privations. She had few things to hold on to except for her life spent in the USSR and her father, both of which had been taken away now. Now she had nothing save for her memorabilia, her possessions and her work.

"I have to go back to Russia. For the will", she said after a long silence. "It will be hard, but nothing in life is...is...easy...not for...for me."

Ludmila started to cry again, but her tears were more subdued this time around.

"I want something to drink", she said. "Vodka, whisky. Something strong, I don't care."

[WARREN SORROW]

He placed his hat onto her head, covering her bedraggled hair and crying eyes. Then he crouched next to the chair, becoming eye level with the woman. "Life is hard. Dying is hard. You'll only find most peace in the afterlife. That's something I was taught a long while ago. And you know, I don't doubt that your pappy is already at peace, watching over his real daughter, and wanting her to come out of this stronger." he raised his hand, and placed his index finger against her forehead. "That'd be you, missy. You've been through tougher things on a daily basis then most humans will ever see in their life. You won't be getting any booze, not in this state. But you will recieve other things. Nothin' meant by that, by the way. Now watch."

He produced a darkly coloured hankerchief from his vest pocket, dangling it by one corner. Then he stared at his right thumb, which was held down by his index finger. He flicked it up, causing a few sparks to shoot out, dieing out on the carpet. His tongue stuck out of the corner of his mouth out of habit, he tried again. Nothin' but sparks. "This part's always tricky. Come on now, blastit thumb." he tried again, and the sparks shot out onto his sleave, catching it albaze! He stood and began backing up, like he was trying to escape the fire. He slapped at the fire with the hankerchief, which also caught fire, and he fell back into the bookshelf, tumbling the whole thing over and him with it. Then suddenly, a poof of white smoke shot up from the mess. And an arm popped up, holding a large bouquet of red roses. Warren sat up, holding the bouquet and smiling an honest smile, like he'd done nothing wrong in his attempt. "Oh shit!" he muttered as the hand holding the flowers still had a thumb that was currently on fire. He switched hands and popped his thumb into his mouth, smothering the blaze and smiling around his thumb.

[LUDMILA ILYUKHIN]

Ludmila looked up and saw the roses Warren had seemingly pulled out of nowhere. They were red, the dark kind of red she liked the best. She smiled, and her eyes lit up a little.

"Oh Warren. I love red roses...", she said, taking the bouquet from him. "Now you know I find you annoying most of the time, but I think you deserve this."

Ludmila reached out and gave Warren something she seldom gave to people: a genuine, heartfelt hug. She even kissed him on the forehead, a gesture that would leave any man with his head spinning. After this gesture of gratitude and affection, Ludmila withdrew and looked at the letter again. All she felt now was dread. How would Antonov's family react to her? And what would the will entail?

"I still have to go to Russia though", she said, her voice heavy. "It's going to be hard. I know it."

[WARREN SORROW]

He just hugged her back, very surprised at the gesture in general. Then the kiss on his forehead, which felt even stranger coming from her. He couldn't help but have the thought 'There's hope yet.' pop into his head. But he crushed that thought rather quickly. Now was not the time for such things.

"It's never going to be easy, you said it yourself. You'll get through it though, and come back here. And I can do some more magic tricks for ya." He said softly, placing his hand on her shoulder. "Worse comes to worse, his other kin act like they got a bug up their buns and you can laugh it off." He said with his signature smile, although just a bit more friendly this time.

[LUDMILA ILYUKHIN]

"Yes...", said Ludmila. Her father didn't actually own much save for his dacha and his garden. Why worry about the will? Maybe she was just scared of meeting Antonov's sister's descendants, which was understandable considering the political stances Antonov and his sister had adopted back in 1917. The Bolshevik and the Czarist. No wonder Antonov and his sister hated each other. But Antonov's sister had died in 1976. Could her descendants still bear the same grudge as their ancestor did? It seemed unlikely.

And then it dawned on her. How old was her father when he'd died? Back in 1917 he was in his late thirties. As she was incredibly long-lived, Ludmila tended to lose track of the age humans could attain. Her father was 38 in 1917, so that would mean...

Ludmila's eyes widened. Her father had reached the age of 129! Did humans even reach such an age? It seemed very improbable, even impossible. Something seemed very out of place here, and Ludmila's grief was suddenly supplanted by something else: burning curiosity.

"Papa was 129", she said thoughtfully. "Do humans even live this long?"

Come to think of it, her father had not seemed to age normally. At age 70 he still looked like he was in his fifties. How did he reach such a great age?

[WARREN SORROW]

Well, if it gets her mind off of his death. Then why not help along the curiosity. He mentally shrugged it off.

"Well, not especially. I've known a few cases, but they were witches. Soooo, not entirely human. Who knows though, maybe he was special like us. Maybe he had more in common with you then you've thought??" he hinted. Hopefully that'd keep her mind rolling along the 'path'

[LUDMILA ILYUKHIN]

Novvie mah boy, I absolve thee of posting responsibility in this thread

"Papa was not a sorcerer", said Ludmila, more to herself than Warren. Again the feeling that there was something much more important hidden beneath it all came to her. She stood up and walked briskly off towards the library's exit.

"Thank you, Warren", said Ludmila before leaving. "Thanks for the roses. I need to go see Manning. I'll be away for several days, maybe a week."

And with that, she left the library.

Two days later:

The flight back to Russia had been hectic. Aeroflot had no free seats on any of its flights to Moscow, so Ludmila had instead opted for British Airways. And even then the plane had been grounded for two hours due to technical difficulties. She had arrived at the airport at 5 am Russian time, and had spent the rest of the night (and morning) in a cheap hotel, where her sleep was disturbed by the sounds of a particularly amorous couple staying in the room next to hers.

Having slept only four hours, Ludmila arrived at the lawyer's office looking bedraggled and exhausted. Evidently, she was the last to arrive, and was welcomed by disapproving and almost hateful stares from those assembled. Antonov's sister's descendants.


"Dobri dien", said Ludmila in a neutral voice before going to sit down next to a young woman with dark hair and green eyes. Nobody spoke to her, except for the woman sitting next to her who introduced herself as Helga, the grand-daughter of Antonovs sister. After a while, the lawyer finally arrived carrying a brown envelope. Ludmila remained neutral while the others eyed the envelope expectantly. It seemed like her father had been right about his sister's family: a rapacious, reactionary mob. Helga seemed to be an exception though.

The lawyer sat down behind his desk and cleared his throat.

"As you all know, we are assembled today in order to read Antonov Petrovich Ilyukhin's testament. As the executor of said testament, it is in my power to break its content to the decedent's relatives."

The lawyer opened the envelope and took a surprisingly white sheet of paper out of it. Ludmila could see some handwriting on the other side of the sheet of paper. The lawyer then began to read:

"I, Antonov Petrovich Ilyukhin bequeath all my personal property, which is contained in my home at 11 Dostoevsky Lane, to my daughter Ludmila Antonova Ilyukhin. As for the money I may have accumulated, it shall be donated to charity organisations."

Ludmila remained silent, but she could feel the tension building around her. An elderly man and woman gave her looks so murderous that Ludmila would have been sent home in an urn had eyes been able to shoot lightning. The elderly man stood up and spoke aloud, in a voice where anger and indignation were both present.

"-This will cannot be valid!", he said. "Miss Ludmila Ilyukhin is not Antonov's true daughter!"

"-But sir, the testament was examined in court and declared to be valid. Miss Ludmila Ilyukhin is mister Antonov Ilyukhin's legally adopted daughter, and is thus considered perfectly eligible for inheriting his property."

"-This is outrageous!", spluttered the elderly man. His wife, livid with anger, turned to Ludmila and shouted:

"-Your communist filth poisoned the mind of Antonov. You are a thief! A whore! A-"

The one-sided exchange continued for another fifteen minutes before the enraged family members left, vowing to take the case before a judge. Helga, obviously embarrassed by her family's behaviour, apologised to Ludmila before hastily leaving the room. Ludmila was the last remaining person in the room other than her father's lawyer, who looked very weary indeed.

"-Charming", said Ludmila after a lengthy silence.

"-Oh, it happens more often than you think", said the lawyer with a tired smile. "Don't worry though, they won't be able to invalidate the testament. And here are the keys to your father's property. I suppose you've been there before?"

"-Many times", said Ludmila with a small smile. She took the keys, bid the lawyer goodbye, and left the building.

----------------------------------------

Her father dacha looked the same as always. Surrounded by trees, with a large garden (a good part of which was devoted to cultivating vegetables), an old Zaporzhets car parked in the garage and Ludmila's Minsk motorbike. The woman her father had employed to take care of the garden and the rest of the property was finishing digging up the potatoes from the vegetable patch as Ludmila opened the gate.

"Oh! Ludmila!", said the gardener. "I haven't seen you round here for a long time."

"-Oh you know, work and all that", said Ludmila tiredly.

"-I'm so sorry about your father. He was a very good man. I'm going to miss him", said the gardener sadly. Ludmila fought back her tears as she looked at the familiar house before her. So familiar, but so empty now that her father was gone.

"He lived to a great age though", said the gardener as she grabbed the bag full of freshly dug up potatoes.

"-That he did...", said Ludmila. Slowly she made her way up to the front door, hesitating slightly before turning the key in the lock and pushing the old wooden door open. Everything inside was in perfect order. She had a jolt of sadness as she saw her father's coat and boots nearby, in the exact same place as they had always been. Beyond the small entrance corridor was the living room. The fireplace was cold an empty but still constituted the only source of heat for the house. Her father's chair was also there, empty and facing the fireplace.

Atop the mantelpiece was a collection of small trinkets and pictures. Bullet casings from the war, a few statuettes, and framed photographs. Ludmila picked up one such picture, which was placed at the centre of the mantelpiece. It was in colour and showed Ludmila and her father sitting on folding chairs in the garden. Her father was wearing his silly white sun hat. Summer '76, one of the best summers Ludmila had ever had. Looking at the picture only made her sad, so she put it back down and walked away to look around the rest of the house.

There was nothing extraordinary. The dacha looked the same as ever. Ludmila's Minsk was a little dustier than when she'd left, but was still in the same place. However, the Rusalka felt she was missing something. As she looked around her father's study, she suddenly noticed that his desk's drawer was locked. She'd never bothered about what went on in her father's study, but now her curiosity was aroused. She noticed that, amongst the keys her father's lawyer had given to her, was a smaller, older key that she had never seen before (she had her own keys).

She put the key in the lock, was was surprised to see that it worked. Ludmila unlocked the drawer and slowly pulled it open, expecting to find nothing but old paperwork. However, she was even more surprised to find a small wooden box. She took it out of the drawer and set it upon the desk before opening it. She jumped when she saw the contents: a cross. A Christian cross. However, the pain she usually experienced when looking at such a symbol never came, and she cautiously examined the object with more attention. It was obviously made of solid gold, and was inlaid with what appeared to be rubies. The cross' shape was also rather unusual, and Ludmila recognised it as a Cross of Lorraine. Why did her father own this thing? He'd never been a Christian.

Underneath the cross was a note. Ludmila took the note from underneath the cross and read it:

Dear Ludmila.

Even though you were far older than I was when I found you, I still consider you as my daughter. You are the child I never had, and brought me much pride and happiness while you lived with me. Now I feel that my time upon this earth is running short, so I believe that it is time for you to receive this artefact. If you are reading this note, it means that I am no more, and that you are burning with unanswered questions.

First of all, how did I live to such an old age? This cross was given to me in 1914 by a French professor, Henry du Pontier. It is the True Cross of Lorraine, an artefact associated with Joan of Arc. This cross can prolong the life of its owner as well as protect him against harmful magic and illness. If you are reading this, this cross is now yours to keep. Do not sell it, or give it away, for it is a very important artefact and the only true heirloom I can give you. Take good care of it, and it will take good care of you.

Your father, Antonov Petrovich Ilyukhin.

Ludmila very cautiously picked up the golden cross, expecting it to burn or hurt her in some way. To her astonishment, nothing happened, and the hand-sized cross remained cool in her palm. She brought it closer to her eyes to examine it in detail, and she saw a few inscriptions in Latin. As soon as her eyes settled on the inscriptions, she had a flash, or a vision of sorts. She saw a sword encrusted with rust, lying atop a stone sarcophagus in some dark and cold room. As quickly as it happened, the vision then vanished, and Ludmila found herself blinking at the cross.

“I need sleep”, she said to herself, putting the cross back into its box. It was getting dark outside, and Ludmila had only slept for four hours. She left the study and went into her own room, which was clean and ordered. Not even bothering to undress, she fell onto her bed, and within a few minutes she was asleep. That night she dreamt of strange, but somehow familiar things: a woman in armour leading warriors to battle. A city under siege. And finally, Ludmila herself tied to a stake atop a burning pyre of wood. Ludmila awoke screaming as the flames engulfed her. Terrified, confused and still feeling the horrendous bite of the flames, Ludmila fumbled for her mobile phone. It was 4 am. She looked at her skin and saw no burns whatsoever. Unable to sleep, she got out of bed and went to the kitchen to make herself some tea before going into the living room and lighting a fire. She sat in her father’s chair till dawn, staring morosely into the flames.

Four days later she left her father’s dacha, bade good bye to the caretaker, and headed to the airport to catch her flight back to the United States. With her she took the strange cross, a few pictures and her old Red Army uniform. As she waited for the plane to take off, she wondered what she would do with the dacha. Keep it or sell it? Selling it seemed to be the best move, but the dacha also had a very strong sentimental value to her. And what of the Cross? She’d keep it with her medals, as it was too big to be worn as jewellery. As the plane took off and flew into the skies, Ludmila felt her eyes flutter, and soon she was asleep.

End of Thread

[THE STAFF]

Closed by the request of topic starter Basil.
Originally closed on: 2011 March 22, by The Staff