Permission is hereby given to archive at the Ftp site and www.fkfanfic.com 

This is the first story I've posted on the fkfic-l, though my previous, and 
humble attempts at fiction can be found at www.fkfanfic.com or my webpage.(see 
sig. at end of story)
Disclaimers: The usual I guess. None of these fine characters belong to me, but 
as always they belong to TPTB.
This little piece was brought on by my countries annual ANZAC day. It's our day 
of memorial to those who have served and died in battle. 
ANZAC stands for - Australia and New Zealand Army Corps. Just in case you 
wondered.<g> 
I would also like to give many, many thanks, and great big bearhugs to my 
wonderful beta-readers, Sarah Baker, Barb Vainio, Amie LaRouche and an extra 
squeeze to Nancy Taylor. Thanks guys, you've been real troopers!

 Any and all comments to Knightraven@clear.net.nz

Lest We Forget     01/02
By Kylie Coleman-Tucker

They shall not grow old,
As those who are left grow old.
Age shall not weary them 
Nor the years condemn.
At the going down of the sun
And in the morning,
We will remember them.
(Traditional)

Night fell once again, and the clatter of the mortals going about their daily 
lives gradually faded. He pulled the heavy blackout curtains back into place, 
mindfully joining the seams to keep the lamplight from leaking into the darkened 
streets. He grimaced at the irony that now he was having to keep the light 
within, rather than without, but he did not wish to bring attention to his home 
from the night watchman, nor the predatorial eye of a German pilot. 

The bombing of London had increased yet again, though not quite to the scale of 
the Blitz in '41, but close enough to greatly increase the risk of his kind 
becoming an unfortunate victim of the falling bombs. However, the risk aside, 
the chaos reigning about them with such intoxicating splendour, made for easy, 
and most delicious, pickings.

Sighing, he knew it wasn't to last. The war had intensified with the Americans 
now involved, and any fit and able man not in uniform was drawing increased, and 
most unwanted attention to himself. So, in his own best interests, he now wore a 
tailored uniform of the British Allied Forces, taking what amusement he could 
from the ranks of British officers, as they engaged in the petty mortal games of 
England's aristocratic elite.

A lamp flared to life behind him, lighting the brass insignia across his 
shoulders.
"Do not worry so, mon pere. I am sure he is well."
He turned to his daughter and gave her an encouraging smile. Her need for his 
reassurance was evident in the nervous flitter he felt along the bloodbond he 
shared  with his eternal family.
"Indeed, my dear, I am sure he is." But he was not sure, not sure at all. He was 
aware Nicholas had left the resistance in France, to which he had fled after 
that torrid affair with that young ruffian, Daniel, and promptly signed up with 
the British Army. 

His son had come to bid Janette farewell, on his final leave, before being 
shipped back across the Channel and into battle...or so he had been told. It had 
been through his network of contacts within the War Department that he had 
discovered his son had indeed joined the British ranks, however it was not as a 
simple soldier, no. Nicholas had apparently given his immortal services to the 
elite SAS brigade. His faultless German and night-time reconnaissance skills had 
made him highly sought after. The perfect soldier to send inside enemy 
territory. Basically, his son was a spy.

Even without this information Lacroix had ridiculed him, laughed with chilling 
mirth at his son's need to go off and risk his own life, all in the name of his 
miss-guided loyalty, his duty. He would sacrifice his immortal life! The very 
life he himself had given him! All to save the very life's blood he had fed from 
for over 700 years! The hypocrisy of it all!

But as he had spoken those bitter words of discontent, he had seen the sordid 
logic in saving the mortal lives of their sole source of nourishment, even if 
was from their own naive stupidity. 
Turning from the window, he moved to stand before the fireplace, resting a hand 
against the mantelpiece as he stared into the flames.

He had, with good cause, feared for his son's safety. These new weapons of war, 
were quite capable of cutting down men, both mortal and not, with the ease of a 
hand brushing away a feather. 

He had not wished Nicholas to go, but he had not known how to speak his true 
mind. It would have meant admitting his fear, even his love for his son. But he 
was a product of an age when to show, even to one's own children, any 
vulnerability, and that was how he saw love, was to be judged by others as a 
weakness, and was to be exploited accordingly, and he, Lucien Lacroix...was 
never weak.

Instead he had spoken harshly of his son's torn loyalty to his family, 
Community, and the inevitable painful outcome of becoming involved with the 
mortal world and their tedious little wars. But as usual, his words had fallen 
upon deaf ears.
He berated himself for his own derisive words which probably only served to 
drive Nicholas into battle solely to escape his overbearing father.

His son was a warrior, an experienced soldier trained in many forms of battle, 
but just as the last war had changed the rules of engagement, so to had this new 
war. Its wanton destruction was on a scale he had not seen in all his years. A 
hundred men could be killed in a single blow, and if the rumours coming from his 
sources in the United States were to be believed, the level of mass destruction 
would only get worse.

It helped very little - to be honest it was cause for great concern - that he 
had lost contact with Nicholas, now going on two weeks, and try as he might, 
with all his ancient and formidable power, he could not feel his son within him. 
Coupled with the abrupt halt of his frequent letters to Janette, he had begun to 
worry.

The only source of hope and indecision he had as to the fate of his son, was in 
the unusual manner his mental link with Nicholas had been severed. There had 
been no pain, no sudden cry, no fear -- no emotion at all. He had simply gone. A 
lightswitch flicking off. Nothing. He should have felt something, but he had 
not, so he held onto the grim hope that his immortal son was still just 
that...immortal. 
Shaking the morbid thoughts from his mind he announced sharply as he spun from 
the window,
"Come Janette, let us hunt." With long strides he led his daughter from the 
parlour and out into the damp streets of East London.

With invidious dearth of speed, another two weeks passed, and still there was no 
sign or word from Nicholas. 
Sitting before the fireplace, his favourite wingback chair gracefully holding 
his aristocratic form, he searched his mind yet again for any indication of his 
son's whereabouts. He stared intently into the naked flames, taking no notice of 
his daughter's sigh as she finally tired of his silence and retired to her room.

They had chosen not to hunt tonight, instead taking nourishment from a bottled 
sample his trusted acquaintance, Felix Twist, had thoughtfully given him to try. 
It was palatable, but only just. Perhaps if it was cut with wine it would prove 
more to his liking. It may indeed prove to be a valuable food source in times of 
need. But, for now, it would have to do, for to venture out onto the streets 
after the air-raid sirens had wailed their mournful cry, was too dangerous now, 
even for them. The all-clear would not sound until morning.

The last few hurried footsteps sounded in the street, as mortals scurried home 
to their loved ones before the bombs fell and drove them apart. 
 One pair of feet came to an abrupt halt, then continued up his own footpath to 
the house. 

Lacroix waited patiently until the mortal rapped against the door before rising 
from his chair. He took his time walking out into the hall and up to the front 
entrance. Through the glass he could see it was a man in uniform, but other than 
that...
He cautiously opened the door. A mortal, not quite old enough to sign up, was 
standing patiently waiting.
"Mr. Lucien Lacroix?" he asked formally. The youthful features were stoic, yet 
the ancient could see a quiet compassion in the boys eyes.
"Yes."
"Telegram, sir." The boy told him quietly as he held out his hand and pushed a 
yellow envelope toward him. 
Lacroix stilled, the hair on his neck rising as his eyes met the piece of paper. 
He knew the colour well enough, several neighbours had received the same such 
telegram. 
Focused solely on the envelope, Lacroix slowly took the message from him. The 
boy wisely did not wait for a reply, and disappeared quickly into the dim 
evening light.

He stood in the open doorway for several moments, carefully holding and staring 
at the envelope in his hands.
"Lacroix?" Janette's voice behind him drew his attention to her, and he turned 
and moved back inside. Closing the door, he became still once again. His 
daughter stood at the foot of the stairs, her eyes wide with guarded 
anticipation, the length of the hallway between them. He dropped his gaze back 
down to the yellow envelope in his hands.
"We..." he had to clear his throat. "We have a telegram," he told her, unable to 
raise his eyes.
"Have you read it?" she asked him softly.
"Non." His voice a whisper.
The envelope was adorned in simple black type. He brushed his thumb over the 
crest of the War Department on the upper left hand corner. He slowly turned it 
over and broke the seal, the white paper inside, crisp and fresh. He hesitated 
before pulling it out and cautiously unfolding it. He forced his eyes to focus 
on the black ink upon the  page. 
He did not move. He couldn't.
"Lacroix? What does it say -- is it Nicolas?" Janette's strained voice broke 
through to him. Slowly he nodded, unable to draw his eyes away from the words. 
They were so final.  He read them aloud for her, though his voice seemed distant 
even to his own ears.

"On behalf of Her Majesty's Armed Forces, I regret to inform you of the death of 
your son, Lt. Nicholas deBrabant, Special Armed Services, whom was killed in 
action, on the 25th day of April, 1944. May he rest in Peace. Yours sincerely 
Col. Hemmingway, SAS, 5th Division." 

"But they are wrong!" Janette stared at her sires still form. He remained 
silent. Her wide, disbelieving eyes begging him to say that it was all just a 
terrible mistake, that Nicholas was fine, that he would be coming home...but he 
did not.
"I do not know." His voice trailed off as he heard his daughter break into quiet 
tears, and fall to sit on the bottom stair. His throat tightened in a fashion it 
had not known for seven hundred years. The walls of the hallway, and his 
daughter's sobs, seemed to merge into a distant background, as his own silent 
grief made to force itself from the part of him he had tried so valiantly to 
keep buried, deep within his stoic exterior. He clutched the telegram in his 
hand and silently walked past his daughter, and up the two flights of stairs to 
the upper floor, the very core of his being concentrating on every step it took 
to reach the safety of his room.

She watched through her tears as his face became ashen and as devoid of emotion 
as
she had ever seen him.
 His eyes were kept to the ground as he brushed past her and climbed the stairs. 
He disappeared into his bedroom, softly closing the door behind him. He would 
not grieve in front of her, this she knew.

He did not come out for the remainder of the night, and still his door was 
sealed the next. On the third she heard him leave the house before she had even 
risen from her bed. 

Still in her night-gown, Janette crossed the hall and gently opened her father's  
bedroom door. It was as it always was, immaculate, functional, yet elegant. The 
dresser under the window was bare, but for a single item. The telegram, creased, 
yet once again flattened, as he must have gently stroked the worst of the damage 
out with his hands. She lifted the telegram, seeing the words for the first 
time, but that was not what held her attention. It was the solitary dried splash 
of red marring the milk-white surface, which captured her gaze. It was smudged 
in an obvious attempt to wipe it away. 
Carefully folding the paper and returning it to the envelope it had arrived in, 
she took it from the room and into her own, carefully selecting a box in which 
to safely place it.

Sitting once again in his chair, the fire dancing before him gave him no warmth. 
An open book lay on his lap, its pages idly turned yet unseen all day.  He knew 
he was distancing himself from his daughter, but he was also aware she 
understood why it was so. He could not share his grief with her, it was not his 
way. He barely shared it with himself. Sighing quietly he let his gaze drift 
once again into the flames.

As was now his evening ritual, he listened to the familiar last-minute 
pedestrians hurrying to their homes. The bombs would fall soon. He didn't care, 
let them all burn. 

His eyes flew open as again someone paused and made their way to his front door. 
He frowned, the footstep familiar. He felt something...someone. Lacroix 
straightened in his chair, then rose, as he let his tightly guarded shields fall 
and concentrated on the tingling sensation rising up from the base of his spine 
to explode into his mind.
"Nicholas," he breathed. A key turned in the lock and the front door was pushed 
open. He listened, stunned into stillness, as Janette flew down the stairs.

"Nicolas!!" she screamed, and flung herself at him. "We were told you were 
killed!" She sobbed from his shoulder, as they clutched each other tightly.
"It was a mistake Janette, a mistake. I was trapped in Poland. My tags were 
found on someone else...I tried to get home before..." his words trailed off as 
her hold on him increased.

Nick lifted his head from his sister's hair, in order to meet his father's gaze 
as he felt the familiar presence of his sire watching them from the living room 
door. They stared at each other, Nick desperately trying to find some kind of 
emotion in his father's face, but he was as unreadable ever. Was he glad to see 
him? Could he care less if he was still hiding underground, in the middle of a 
war zone?
"I see you have had enough of your mortal meanderings, Nicholas." He finally 
spoke, his tone clipped and impassive. 
Nick exhaled forcefully and glanced away. Apparently not.

Lacroix found himself having to place a restraining hand against the doorframe 
to impede against his reaching forward and clutching his son fiercely.
He saw the disdain rise in the boy's eyes at his cold remark, and it pained him.
 After all these years, did his son still not realise that he must look deeper 
to hear what he was truly saying? Mentally sighing, he cast his eyes to inspect 
the man before him. 

His son was worn, though his uniform was obviously new and his hair freshly cut 
short in the military fashion. His eyes were ringed with the weariness brought 
on by the harshness of battle. But he was here, standing tall and strong in his 
hallway. Alive.

Janette released her hold on Nicholas and turned to Lacroix. Damn him. Why could 
he not just say what he felt, if only this once.
"Come, let us retire to the parlour. The fire is lit," she said, to distract the 
men from each other, taking Nicolas' dufflecoat and cap to hang from a coathook 
in the hall. This done she took his hand and led him into the cosy room, pushing 
him into a chair beside the fire.

Lacroix slowly  followed behind, and watched as his daughter removed his son's 
boots, and generally began to fuss over him. His continued silence was a result 
of his distrust in his own voice to hold steady if he were to speak again. 

Finally, as his children began to talk comfortably between themselves, he 
slipped from the room. Quickly ascending the stairs to his room, he closed his 
door quietly and leant back against it, his head falling back and his eyes 
closing. His brow furrowed as a hand absently stroked his chest, where he was 
certain his heart was about to burst. He breathed deeply, willing himself to 
calm before he shamed himself yet again. Why was this effecting him so?! He had 
never truly believed his son dead, had he? No, but there had been enough doubt 
none the less to wreak havoc upon his cold heart.

He gently pushed away from the door and moved to stand before the window, the 
drapes open, in the darkened room. His eyes closed once again as he rejoiced in 
the ethereal sound of his children's rich voices. He smiled as a flitter of 
masculine laughter rippled to his ear.

He had been standing so lost in thought as he stared out into the star-lit sky, 
that he had not heard the door open, nor felt her presence until her hand fell 
softly upon his shoulder. He sighed at her touch. The bombs were silent tonight.
"He is asleep?" he whispered, his only acknowledgement.
"Oui." Janette gazed Lacroix's profile, watching his jaw muscle ripple as he 
continued to stare out the chill-frosted window. Why must he hide himself so? 
She sighed silently yet again. Without a word she moved in front of him and 
encircled him in her arms, laying her cheek against his chest, holding him 
tightly. She was a little surprised as his own arms engulfed her firmly, and 
held her close, resting his chin upon her head. What surprised her most was the 
hour in which they stayed together, until finally she left him tucked into his 
bed, soundly sleeping.

With her men taken care of, she returned to her own room. Crouching down, she 
pulled the small wooden box out from under the bed. Opening it she drew out the 
telegram and stroked it as she recalled the past few weeks and hours. Brushing 
the stray tear away from her cheek, she returned the envelope to its box. 
Perhaps one day she would give it to Nicolas. But until then, she would obey her 
father and remain silent on the matter. Her sire had never inquired about the 
telegram  vanishing from his quarters, and she never volunteered information on 
the subject. Sighing, brushing the dust from her hands, she rose and made to 
prepare herself for bed. Dawn.

End part 1


Part 02/02 - disclaimers etc, in part 01.

Lest We Forget    
By Kylie Coleman-Tucker                  


Weeks later, Nick had ridiculed his sire when he had returned home one evening 
attired in the uniform of a British General. Apparently Lacroix was moving up in 
the world. He had harshly thrown the older man's very words back into his 
glaring face. Nick had strongly doubted his sires stated reasons for suddenly 
joining the war proper. He believed Lacroix was out for one thing, and one thing 
only, and that was to control him, to interfere in his life. But no more! 

It hadn't been too long before he had left again. The moment his mandatory 
medical leave had concluded, Nick gladly joined up with the first division he 
could be safely reassigned too, taking into account his particular need to 
operate under the protection of the night. 

Sometime later, it hadn't surprised him to learn of Lacroix's direct involvement 
in the planning of the battle of Normandy. The 'big push' had been successful, 
and had heralded a major turning point in the war with Germany.
 What had thoroughly confused him though, was that on his return from France, 
almost a year later, to his sire's home in London, Lacroix had failed for once 
to throw the expected insults and barbs at his son's involvement in the mundane 
liberation of the region of Europe his son had once called home. 

It had been a surprisingly easy visit. Their banter had been kept to a minimum, 
and for the first time in over fifty years they had parted under what could only 
be described as friendly circumstances. A few months later the war had 
officially ended, and Nick had found himself once again on the shores of 
America, in his endless attempt to find his own way in his immortal life.

 It was a year later, with Nick having settled in Montana, working as a 
Journalist, did Lacroix suddenly appear in his office one evening. 
Nick, with later regret, had automatically slipped into his defensive role, 
assuming the worst, that his sire had come for him once again and would force 
him to leave his life here. But after he had vehemently demanded what he was 
doing there. His sire had said nothing, just glanced at the floor, before 
meeting his stubborn glare with a blazing one of his own. Then silently he had 
turned on his heel and disappeared as abruptly as he had arrived.
Nick had stared after him, frowning in confusion, his anger abating quickly at 
the unusual reaction from the man. He had even followed after him, but once 
outside, he knew his sire was gone. 
As he stood peering up and down the dimly lit street, it dawned on him that 
perhaps Lacroix may have just come by to see him, nothing more...and he had run 
him off. He hadn't even given him the chance to say hello.

>>>>

- 1996 - Toronto

Nick sat on the floor in the storage area of his loft. He had been going through 
a few of his boxes, sorting out nic nacs to donate to the annual police charity 
auction, when he had stumbled across a small wooden box. He hadn't recognised it 
as his, and obviously curious, he had opened it. It had contained a few 
treasures which he knew to be Janette's. Amongst the ageing keepsakes he'd found 
a faded yellow envelope.

He now held the tear-stained telegram in his fingers. He had ascertained with a 
single breath the unique origin of the bloody smear marring it's surface. It was 
a scent he knew well. Lacroix.

Why had his sire been so aloof and callous during that time? Lacroix had been 
almost vicious whenever they had spoken. It had seemed a little odd, even then. 
Eventually he had left again in an attempt to avoid his father's cold and 
constant recriminations to his, so called, 'tedious morality'.

Now, many things fell into place for him concerning those last few years of the 
war, including Lacroix's sudden increased involvement with the British. It 
hadn't been solely to avoid drawing unwanted attention to himself. It had been 
revenge. His sire had waged his own personal war against those who had dared to 
harm his family. 

The conversations he later had with Janette, concerning the loss of contact they 
had all seemed to experience during his covert mission to Poland, had revealed 
the adverse effects the coming nuclear age would have on their kind. Aside from 
the initial blast from an atom bomb, it seemed the radiation generated, had a 
lesser, if not just as disconcerting, effect on their mental abilities. 
His being inside a top-secret nuclear testing facility for over a month, had led 
him to believe the high levels of radiation contaminating the area had 
attributed to damping his mental link to his family. 

He had become dangerously trapped in the enemy area, as airraids by the British 
and Americans had increased the already paranoid suspicions around the 
installation. He had been forced to abandon his identification tags and uniform 
early on in his, initially simple 'in and out' mission, especially once he had 
realised the importance of his discovery of the weapons testing at the remote 
target. He knew he would have to gather and extract what information he could 
before returning to Allied territory. Entering the facility under the guise of a 
German physicist, had been his only and best chance of leaving Poland alive. 
Unfortunately for Janette, and now it seemed Lacroix, the body he had left his 
belongings with had been found, and the tags returned to the war department, 
much sooner than he had anticipated.

Wiping his own tears away, Nick carefully folded the paper back into its 
envelope. He and Lacroix had made some shaky amends over the past year, and this 
discovery only made to strengthen what they had so far built. He only wished 
Janette was here to bear witness to the first real hiatus in their little family 
feud in over a hundred years.  Rising to his feet, Nick smiled and tucked the 
envelope into his shirt pocket.

Lacroix was sitting at the bar, looking over his play-list for the evening, 
taking the opportunity to savour the pre-opening silence. He glanced toward the 
main entrance as he felt the unexpected presence of his son.
Raising his glass to his lips, he took a sip of the soothing bloodwine moments 
before the door blew open and Nicholas walked in, accompanied by a gust of 
winter wind. His son always did have a certain flare for the dramatic. He reined 
in a smile and waited patiently as the blonde man, his hair wild from the winter 
wind, made his way across the sparse expanse toward him.
"Nicholas. To what do I owe the pleasure?" He was a little more than surprised 
when his son's only response was a warm smile. Lacroix turned slowly on his 
stool to face him, and watched with raised eyebrow as Nicholas reached into his 
coat pocket and pulled out an envelope. 

It took a moment for him to recognise it. His eyebrow falling as he stared at 
the faded yellow paper.  The telegram had an unseemly effect on his vocal cords, 
and he found himself at a rare loss for words. He had thought it destroyed. 

He slowly reached up and took it from the younger vampire's grasp, his eyes 
fixed firmly to the parchment, just as they had done that first fateful night. 
His son's soft whisper drew his attention back to the present.
"You should have said something." 

In the silence which followed, his son turned and left. But as the door closed 
behind him, Lacroix wearily replied.
"I did, Nicholas...I did." He carefully held the envelope in his fingers, and 
slid from the stool. With wineglass in hand, he quietly disappeared into his 
office.

Outside Nick stood frozen in place, half turned to re-enter the club as he 
stared in wonderment at the closed door. He had heard. 
 Nick remained still for several minutes, until finally he sighed and shook his 
head.
"Yes, Lacroix, I guess you did." And with another heavy sigh he added.  "It's a 
shame I wasn't listening."  Nick gave the door a final glance before turning 
back toward his car. 
Flicking his collar up against the uncomfortable wind, he trudged through the 
gathering snow, to continue his search for redemption, as homicide detective for 
the good city of Toronto.


Finis.