Strangers
Try as she might, she can't say at what point she first became aware of his presence.
It wasn't as she staggered weakly through the dark, snow covered city, shuddering with exhaustion, clutching at walls for support and clinging stubbornly onto that strange weapon.
It wasn't earlier, in Paris, though she knows now that he had been there all along, watching her, one shadow among many.
It wasn't later, as she dropped, spent, to the floor of an abandoned bus shelter - going down in the world, Lara, at least that metro carriage had four sides to it - wrapping her bruised arms around her aching torso in a useless attempt to conserve heat. At that point she felt utterly alone, and she was probably right.
Of course, at that point she still believed him to be dead.
She hadn't actually seen a moment of death, or a body, though returning she had searched long and hard, wanting, needing to know. But finally she had had to accept defeat (though it filled her, as it always did, with a sullen fury) and leave, dispatching guards along the way as casually and with as little regret as if she had been kicking leaves from her path.
It wasn't until Prague and the depths of that dank fortress that they had exchanged words; that she had pointed her guns at him, as mistrustful as only she knew how - not that he had been the slightest bit fazed by her threatening posture - before he had told her, shown her, who he really was, and what: the last survivor, heir to an age old legacy of blood.
He can do things she can't, but that's nothing new. Though she knew his face by then, he had been a complete stranger to her, but not she to him. When they talked, he called her by name.
She has become skilled at hiding in shadows herself. She waits until night falls again to make her way to the airport, glad of her own foresight as her fingers curled around a false passport in her pocket, retained because you never knew when you might need such a thing, especially when you were a wanted woman. Because she knows where she has to go next. No matter if he's dead or alive, she intends to see this thing through, because if she doesn't, then sooner or later someone like herself, ignoring the warnings, will go down there and wake things better left sleeping; or best of all, dead.
He had surprised her, and these days she dislikes surprises intensely. He had approached stealthily and she'd never heard him coming, he'd taken her weapon from her with an ease that made her rage, and then she'd looked into those penetrating blue eyes and thought, simply, Who are you?
If she had been thrown into this, forced by the indifferent hand of fate, then he had had a very specific purpose in mind. He had wanted the Alchemist gone, and he had got his wish.
She moves stealthily, her eyes gleaming in the darkness. And the feeling is insidious, it comes on her so gradually that she never stops, never turns around and draws her gun - an irrational reaction, all things considered, but one born out of long habit. By the time she reaches her destination, she knows, with a certainty unlinked to any of the five senses, that she isn't alone.
As she crosses the tarmac towards the shining white metal bird, a jolt of awareness shakes her, and she halts and turns, slowly, brown eyes narrowed to search the shadows while the icy wind numbs her fingers and face.
She can't see a thing. This doesn't surprise her in the slightest, nor is it remotely reassuring.
What is she looking for, anyway? For a few moments she hadn't known if his face was really his, if indeed any of those faces that had been shown to her were real, images coming and going in the blink of an eye while she looked on, disbelieving, the world going bright with shock.
She waits, but he doesn't reveal himself. He has an agenda, obviously. But so does she, and soon she moves forward again.
For a few moments she had not been certain whether he was enemy or friend. Now she knows.
The aircraft's bright, sterile interior is a different world to the one she has inhabited for the last few days, a world of blood and shadows. She settles into her seat with a slight groan, feeling her bruises. She has been awake and on the move for too long, and though she fights to stay alert, the warmth and the quiet hum of the air conditioning are making her drowsy. Her head lolls to one side, and her eyes have just started to close, when-
"Miss?" - a fresh faced stewardess stands beside her seat, smiling, holding out something flat and white. She takes it, and the woman melts away. Even before she opens it, she's sure that it comes from him.
She is right.
Inside the plain envelope is a single sheet of paper, a few lines of writing.
Lara,
We'll meet again very soon.
It is simply signed "K".
A/N: Is it Kurtis Lara's thinking about? Don't be so sure…