A library in Queens, still open yet for an hour or so. There, at the counter, is the man Lamont saw going nuts in the street a couple weeks back. Lindon leans there, reading a book and more or less leaving people to their own devices. He normally doesn't work with the public, but since he missed a swath of work a couple weeks ago, he's making up for it. By dealing with people. God, just fire him already. The late hour means just about everyone but Lindon has gone home and most patrons have already left.
*
Poor Lindon. There's that guy again, and making no secret whatsoever of his scrutiny. Even in the quiet of a library, Lamont's a pool of deliberate stillness, remote as a mountainside. In repose, he's got those lines of weary and faint melancholy, the gray eyes patient.
*
Lindon glances up from his book, sees the one person here, that the person isn't stealing anything, and he drops his attention back to the pages. Then, slowly, he looks back up. That face. He tries to place it. He flips through the Rolodex that is his mind, but he's not in any of the easily accessible encyclopedic stacks. His own memory - the part of him that's him - struggles to come up with something. The flash of the face. A voice asking Lindon if he's okay. Did it happen? Was it a dream? Finally, after staring a little too long, he asks, "Can I help you?"
*
"I'm pleased to see you're doing well," There's something weirdly accentless about his voice. It's kind of too careful, too polished, as if he were a radio announcer or one of that fading old school of theatrical actors. He comes forward at a soundless glide, a feline tread that's at odds with the somewhat old-fashioned tailoring. But there's a tiny smile caught in the corner of his lips, at least. No evident malice.
*
Lindon's brow knits. That look comes too easily and leaves to much of a furrow in its wake for a face that young. The frown is going to age him, too, if he's not careful. "I'm pleased to be doing well," he replies. He almost remembers. The details are right there! But his memory of the madness has faded along with the knowledge that came with it. The details get lost in the shuffle save for a glimpse or two. "So we met when I wasn't doing so great."
*
Lamont inclines his head, and says, slowly, "Yes. You were rather confused. I got a cab for you. I didn't realize you worked here." He feels older than he is - he's a hale early forties, with the kind of bone structure that resists age. But something about his manner…
*
Lindon might be in his thirties, early to late depending on his expression. When he's staring with vague suspicion, older, but when he glances aside with a twinge of guilt, much younger. "Thanks," he says. "Not many folks would do that for someone having a bad day." Sure that's what he'll call it. With a weak laugh, he adds, "If they would, I'd have already been home."
*
Lindon, the unfortunate, has sparked Lamont's curiosity. And not a lot of the stuff in New York makes him curious, now. "I….well, yes. IT's an uncharitable age," he allows. "….forgive me for prying, but….these incidents of confusion, are they a recent development?"
*
Lindon returns his regard to Lamont. It's a heavy gaze with the weight of more than ages behind it. Slathered over that, a veneer or weariness. The doctors haven't found anything wrong with me," he says. He exhales through his nostrils and adds, quieter, "A little while, I guess."
*
"I don't think your problem is medical," he offers. He's got this way of standing still that's unnerving. It gives him a bizarrely weightless quality. "I'm not a doctor, not in that sense, but…"
*
Lindon shifts a little, not hard to unnerve. "But you know what what's not medically wrong," he says slowly." He looks at the book he was reading. It's about astrophysics. He closes it, a gloom hovering over him as he says, "and you're going to make me some kind of offer I can't refuse."
*
Lamont lifts those long hands. "No," he says, almost gently. "No. You have me mistaken for someone else. I suspect…if it is what I think, I might be able to help. Or at least help you understand it. But I require or want nothing from you. Once upon a time, someone helped me out of a sickness of soul, a kindness I was very far from deserving. That person is long beyond any help I can ever offer in return, but….if I can do something for *you*, it'd be in their honor."
*
"It's like a cancer," Lindon says in a low tone. There's no one else in the library now, just the pair of them. He chews the inside of his lip, looks Lamont ever, then says, "Fine, before you ask, I can't control it. It's not just there on tap whenever you want. Stress, torture, magic, none of those work, so…" He shrugs a shoulder. "I need to lock up, but we can talk and walk."
*
Every gesture is graceful, practiced, but….with that carefully staged quality to it. As if he'd played a role so long he can't abandon it….or relied on it for control. "I understand," he says, voice still dry.
*
Lindon gets his hat and coat, then comes around from behind the counter. "Just this way," he says, and he leads Lamont out. It's a simpler time. No alarms to set, no security cameras. Just locking up on his way out. He glances sidelong at Lamont. "So what's your name."
*
"Lamont Cranston," he says, simply. No expectation that Lindon will know it - the days when that was a name to conjure with in New York's high society are long, long past. But the cut of the clothes says 'money', as does that poise.
*
The name rattles around in his head. He's heard it before. Not read, heard. "You introduced yourself before," he says. "And unless I was gibbering at you in Sumerian, you know I'm Lindon Mills." He awkwardly offers his hand to shake. There's poise in him as well, as of one well off if not filthy rich. Even though he otherwise carries himself like a week-old suit in the rain. "It's nice to meet you. Again."
*
Now there's a genuine smile, faintly sheepish. "Ah, good," he says, "I was a little afraid you might not recall." But he takes that hand and shakes it firmly - his own's warm, dry, a little bony, as if he were a bit too thin for his height.
*
Deduced," Lindon says with a small thin-lipped smile. His handshake is firm through intent to makeup for weakness. He doesn't eat enough, or sleep enough, and he's not exactly the very model of exercise and health. Pith, he could fill out that tall frame and be quite a presence if he wanted to. He releases Lamont's hand and turns to walk up the street, either assuming he'll be followed or not bothered either way. "What did I say? That made you realize I'm not sick?"
*
"In your confusion, you mentioned a certain number of very rare texts. And even quoted from them. Which should be, in some cases….impossible. One of which is a book which has only three extant copies in *this* world…..I own one, and know the owners of the other two. I doubt you've ever seen it in the flesh….but you know it," he explains, softly.
*
Lindon grimaces. "I need to find way to lock myself in when that happens," he says. He frowns. That face is going to stick like that if he's not careful. "It would have to be a sophisticated enough lock to keep me in while still being capable of letting me out again when I come back to my senses. My essential ability to turn a key doesn't get compromised." He looks this way and that on the corner, having had enough of walking into traffic. "If it makes you feel any better, I have no idea what book you're talking about, what it i I said, and anything I might have written down is gone."
*
Lamont's lips thin out. "De Umbrarum Regni Novem Portis," he says, and it's somewhere between a whisper and a sigh. "Of the Nine Doors of the Kingdom of Shadows," he translates, after a beat.
*
Lindon shudders at the words. It's an involuntary thing and, from the perplexed look on his features, an unexpected one. "Yeah, I don't know that one so much. It didn't make it to my notes, either." He offers a little smile. "No harm done. You don't have to give me the routine about keeping quiet. I couldn't make a peep if I wanted to."
*
There's that mild, restrained surprise in his face. "I hadn't intended to," he says, clearly put on a back foot. "Routine?"
*
Lindon stops at the next streetlight, and he turns to look at Lamont. He laughs quietly and says, "You're not going to scare me into keeping my mouth shut? That's a new one. No, the last guy was nice. He was all right. No threats, he just took all the notes, and good riddance to them. You know people don't like it when their secrets get told."
*
The angle of the light is not kind - highlighting the cadaverous starkness of the bones, the lines at mouth and eyes that are not those of good nature. There's a funny tilt to his head, as he looks back at Lindon, an almost lupine extension of neck and jaw. "No," he says. "No threats. With what would I threaten you? And….I don't think you can access the secrets I'd really die to protect."
*
"I hope not," Lindon says. The light turns, and he crosses the street with a surplus of caution, perhaps to make up for all those other times. Or this is just who he is. Careful, controlled. "You shouldn't die to protect anything. Not when someone can just…" He snaps his fingers. "Poof, there it is."
*
He nods, gravely, keeping in step with Lindon with ease. Long legs, those. "Indeed. That easy, is it?" he asks, with a questioning lilt in his voice.
*
Lindon snorts and says, "Depends on your definition of easy. It comes when it comes, goes when it goes. You never know when or what it's going to be, and it's like someone put my brain in a blender. Other than that, though? It's a snap." He's not taking a direct route home, and he's making sure people are around. Just in case.
*
Lamont sighs, softly. "Like a seizure." It might be commiseration. Hard to tell. That profile's like a hatchet, limned in light from the street lamp.
*
Lindon tilts his head, finding himself curious despite his policy on curiosity. "You're not like me are you?" he asks in a tone wrapped up in equal parts pity and hope. "Is that why you know what it is and what it's like?"
*
He hesitates, at that. And that iron composure slips, soemwhat. "Not….not exactly," he says, haltingly. "But I suspect something similar. I've been overwhelmed, at times. Knowledge hard for the human brain to hold."
*
Lindon nods as the hope kind of wanders off. "You were asking too many questions to have an exactly similar experience," he says. He glances toward a bar coming up on their street. "Do you want to drink?" he asks. Just something in the way the man hesitates, it rings familiar, and Lindon knows what he would want just then.
*
Then he laughs, softly. And it's chilling. Quietly, not a maniacal cackle, but there's an edge there…. "Yes," he says, as if to shut himself up before things get out of hand and he sounds like a mad scientist.
*
Lindon pauses at the laughter, but, well. He already asked. "All… right." He looks around. Witnesses? He need witnesses! Phew, there are people outside and, once he opens the door to the bar and looks in, he sees there are more people in there. "After you," he says."
*
Lamont proceeds Lindon in without hesitation. Looking almost grateful for the other people, in his turn.
*
Lindon shoots Lamont more side-eye. No one can do side-eye like Lindon. "What're you drinking? We'll get a bottle," he says. He makes his way to the bar, standing out a bit more academic than the rest. This place isn't exactly blue collar, but the people here tonight definitely work for a living.
*
"Whatever's best," he says, with unthinking arrogance. It's that tilt to the head, the way he carries himself. "I favor wine. Sound good?"
*
"Wine," Lindon echoes. "I was thinking whiskey." The solution is, of course, to get a bottle of wine and one for whiskey. They can each get what they want, and twice as much. He orders a table red and a bottle of Irish Whiskey. Apparently he's got the money on him to blow on booze. Once alcohol is acquired, he says, "Over there." A booth in the corner near the back door. In case he has to run. He puts his back to the wall when he sits, too.
*
His companion seats himself with decorum, but his eyes are glinting. And now long has it been since Mr. Tall, DArk, and Restrained has gotten really drunk with someone else….on earthly liquors?
*
Lindon puts Lamont's wine and glass before him, then he pours himself a half-glass of whiskey. "So you…" Pause. Think. He smiles, pointedly polite and not quite reaching those quick, searching eyes. "So what do you do?" he asks. "When you're not rescuing strangers having a bad day?"
*
For the first time, there's a gleam of real, genuine humor. "I inherited money. Technically, idle rich. Mostly been a traveller….though I've been a pilot. That's more an avocation…."
*
"Nice work if you can get it," Lindon says, and he raises his glass to that. "We have more and more in common, though I'd say idly well-off." He takes a drink. "And working, but it's to pass the time. Do you have a plane?" There it is, small talk. He remembers this.
*
"I do. A little one." Oh, like that's so much more humble. "Do you like flying?" It's the first hint of real humanity he's shown, this spark of passion.
*
Lindon shakes his head slowly. "I'm not adverse to it," he says. "Statistically speaking, it's safe. It doesn't give me any particular thrill, though. Not unless it's bringing me from somewhere else to here." He glances down at his glass,, then half-smiles. "I take it you're a fan."
*
There's something almost luxurious in his voice, a hint of sensuality heretofore unglimpsed, as he quotes, "I have slipped the surly bonds of earth…" Clearly, he is. "Nothing like it."
*
Lindon pauses upon a sip as he watches Lamont. He swallows, then proceeds to take a stiff drink. He shudders at the burn and coughs a little, then pours himself another splash. "I imagine it's different when you're the one in control of the thing."
*
"Exactly," he says, after a judicious sip of his wine. "I don't care much for commercial flight. I….learned on biplanes, which as close to being Icarus as one may come in this world."
*
"Including his fate," Lindon says with a quiet laugh. "Those things were so unsafe. Then again, they didn't have the technology we have today. Once you understand how they stay up in the air, it does remove a bit of the mystery." He takes another drink, smaller this time. "And fear."
*
The vin de table seems to please him, for he t akes a larger sip. "They were. Terribly so. But….the connection was more elemental. Perhaps I'm merely romanticizing the past, but…."
*
"The past has a lot to recommend it," Lindon says, like a true creature of regret. Still, the whiskey and the company seem to be loosening him up a bit. There's no great difference, just a shift from wariness to interest. Listening to the words, not looking for a slip up. "Do you ever get up there these days?"
*
"Not recently. I've been away for a while," he says, on a sigh. "But soon, I hope. I have a plane but….it's been so long, I need to really do a full maintenance cycle. That'll take a bit."
*
"If you're doing it by the books," Lindon agrees. "It's not the kind of thing you want to half-ass." He slows down his drinking. Just sipping, now. "What model?"
*
Something old, by the name of it. Lamont's apparently not in love with the new and the shiny.
*
Lindon nods, a spark of recognition in his eyes. "They didn't make many of those in that year," he says. "But the design isn't one they've ever really improved on since. For that kind of plane." They just started making different kinds of planes. He shakes his head. "Good luck with it. I don't know if you could get me up on one of those things."
*
Lamont's lips curl in a smile. "No?" he asks, and there's a teasing lilt to his voice. But he doesn't dare Lindon. Not yet. No frightening this little oddity with barnstorming.
*
The teasing tone is enough to make Lindon at least think about it. "I don't know, maybe after a few more of these." He gestures with his glass. Then he tops himself off a little bit. Drunk by the rotating 'just a little left.' "Living in New York is all the excitement I think I'm cut out for."
*
"It's certainly enough for most," he allows. And he's not teasing. "It's been long. But I look forward to living here again. It's home."
*
Lindon tilts his head curiously. "Which part are you from?" he asks. "Queens is nice. I can't imagine wanting to leave, but these days I'm not thinking very far ahead, anyway."
*
Lamont licks his lips, takes another sip of the wine. "Uptown," he says, simply. The really old money. "And I agree. Queens is a good part of the city to live in."
*
"The library's real understanding," he says quietly, dropping his dark gaze to his glass. "I think they know something's up, but they don't ask as long as the work gets done." And when it comes to nitpicky little details regarding filing and cataloging, there is none better.
*
"Indeed," he says, and there's that cool sympathy back in his voice. "I imagine it's pleasant work, if not exciting."
*
"It's steady," Lindon says, "and it's taking care of books." And there, his features soften. Books. "It's kind of like having an extension of my own collection without having to move to a bigger apartment." He smiles weakly, and he swishes the whiskey in his glass.
*
Lamont touches the back of Lindon's hand. It's an odd gesture, as if he'd call attention to something….or were testing his solidity. Is he haunted by visions of his own?
*
Lindon's gaze darts to Lamont, alert again if not outright paranoid, and he musters up a reprise of that weak smile. "Sorry, I don't talk to people a lot. Not just to talk. It's usually work or, you know, 'get in the car.'"
*
He withdraws it, without either flinching or ceremony. "Nor do I," he says, quietly. "IT's been a long time since I was…sociable with anyone."
*
Lindon nods to himself, then asks, "So what's your excuse? I mean if you didn't end up with this big knowledge bomb going off in your brain… Why else do people fall out of society?"
*
"What you had thrust upon you…..I let curiosity lead me to a version of," he says, in that slow voice. "And I went places where most mortals could not follow, and was kept there for a while. I was glad to find that time hadn't passed differently. That my identity still existed…"
*
"I imagine that was helpful," Lindon says, his tone low-throated from the whiskey. "I can't imagine coming back and finding out I'm just gone." He swallows, then lets out a shaky breath. "It's funny, before this, if you'd have asked me what I'd do for knowledge, I would've told you anything, and I would've meant it, or thought I did."
*
"There's always a price too great to pay," he allows, in that dusty voice. "So I've found."
*
"Yeah, that's the first thing I learned," he says with a mirthless laugh, shaking his head. He pours himself another bit of whiskey. "So what are you looking for? Not knowledge, not power. Not from me, anyway."
*
It's a question that needs considering. "Rest, I think. And an opportunity to good…and in a way that's unique to both of us. I can't say I'm the best qualified in the city to help you, but…I know that I can. And those i would suggest as better than myself….I am out of touch with."
*
"Doing good," Lindon thinks about this. "Wait, both of us?" He smiles awkwardly. "You're thinking of me?" That part seems to surprise him. He shakes his head. "You don't know what's wrong with me. I mean not what's going to happen. It's a nice thought, but there's no help for where I'm going."
*
"You don't know that," Lamont's voice is assured. "There are techniques that can help you carve out stability and order."
*
"It's the visions," Lindon insists. "They make me lose my mind, and every time a little less of me comes back. What's gone is just… gone." He gestures vaguely. "It's eventually going to take me so far I don't come back. I don't know what's going to happen then. I think I'll just be a gibbering wreck."
*
Lamont's voice is low, insistent. "It doesn't have to happen. There are ways to compartmentalize. To make your mind a citadel of organized chambers, not chaos."
*
"Meditation helps," Lindon admits. "It staves off the worst of it, helps me come back faster once I can wrap my head around what's going on, but it's just stuff the mortal mind wasn't made to handle. It shoves its way in, and that shove other stuff out." He takes a deep breath, letting it out. Calming himself. God knows what kind of panic he'd be prone to without the breathing. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't just say no like that. It's just hard to hold out hope, you know?"
*
"I understand. You're in hard place, no denying," he says, softly. "But it is not hopeless. I promise you."
*
Lindon looks into his glass. "Do you think you can help me? Or is this largely theoretical? What I've got in my head tells me it's an inevitability, but magic rewrites reality all the time." But he doesn't trust workers of magic. He sighs quietly and pours more whiskey into his glass. His eyes are glassy and unfocused. If he doesn't slow down, he's going to be sloshed.
*
"I do," Lamont insists, leaning back. And there's something fierce, stony, in the gray eyes. "I know what it's like to be overwhelmed with knowledge. So much so t hat one's mind is not one's own."
*
Lindon looks up to Lamont. He smiles crookedly, without much mirth, "You do? If I'm not the only one with this 'gift,' maybe I can just get rid of it. Let someone else be The Archive." The smiles fades, though he continues to study Lamont's face. "If you can find a way, I'll let you try."
*
"I don't know that I can make it be someone else. But….I'm betting there is a way to contain it. So it's a well you can drink from, not a flood that sweeps you away," he says, finishing the last of his wine.
*
"Do you have any idea of how you're going to approach it?" He starts to take another drink of his whiskey, then he sets the glass down. He'll be staggering as it is. "I still can't figure out why you want to help me."
*
He's still, for a while, contemplating the dregs in the glass. "I have both….altruistic and selfish reasons," he says, as one fingertip draws an idle circle, looking up from beneath his brows. "There is an ancient technique, not particularly magical in nature itself, of building a house of memory. Known to both the medieval church, and in certain philosophies of the Far East. We can create a mental structure for you - to defend what is yours and yours alone, and to organize and direct what comes to you. With actual magic and hypnotic technique, we can bulwark it. My selfish reason - if you are what I suspect, you will be an invaluable library, and I would hope and request, for I have no way to require, that you would give me access. The more altruistic - because when I was young and foolish and dabbled with powers I should not have done, I was saved….and not only saved, but redirected"
*
"You want to be the one who has the Archive," Lindon says quietly. He takes a deep breath, a nice, calming one. "I'll have to think about it. What you're asking, it's a commitment. It ties me to you, and I don't know you very well. You helped me get home when I was out of my mind, that's a point in your favor." Then the alcohol starts to speak. "It's lonely, you know? I can't relate to normal people anymore. I don't talk to my sister anymore when I can avoid it. I keep forgetting her name, but I don't forget the way she looks at her poor, crazy brother who refuses to get help."
*
"I want to be one who has access to the Archive," he corrects, lifting that slender figure. "To be in your good graces. I will not attempt to restrict you in any way. I've no interest in a useful slave. None at all. What I will teach you….I believe you will be able to use it on your own. I will hold no sword over your head." Then his expression softens somewhat, from that hieratic stillness. "I do know," he says, softly. "Knowledge can be an immense burden….and to have that coming to you, will you or not…"
*
Lindon closes his eyes. A useful slave. "I'm coming to grips with the fact that most people in the know are going to see me as an object, not a man. They don't say it. You can see it in their face." He rubs at his forehead, squinting as he thinks. "It's a tempting offer," he admits. "I'll let you walk me home. You'll know where I live, and I'll think about it."
*
Lamont hesitates for a beat, lips parted. "That's a possibility," he says, and his tone is flat. "A distinct one. I am offering. There will come those who will not offer, they will take. You deserve better. And I won't claim to be the biggest fish in that pool, far from it. I have allies I can consult, though. You will not be alone."
*
The biggest fish in the pool is the one who gets the most attention, and then I do by proxy," Lindon shakes his head. Nope, not interested in that. "I could use a friend," he grudgingly admits. He sighs, then pushes the bottle away. "Let me show you where I live, and I'll give you my number. If it doesn't work out, I'll move."
*
He lays that long hand over his heart. It's another of those gestures that should look stagey, but somehow….no. "I will not give your address to anyone without your permission. Nor will I trouble you there, if you deny me entry."
*
Lindon regards Lamont for a long time. Those grey eyes are rather nice to look at, a drunken thought in passing. He nods a little. "All right, let's go." He gets to his feet, and he caps the bottle. Into his coat pocket it goes. Hey, he bought it, it's his. "You're different," he says. "It tells on your face say you're sincere."
*
HE would be handsome in a very severe way, if he didn't have that worn and dusty air. As if the middle-aged features were just a mask on something ancient and crumbling. "I'm not much of a liar on my own," he allows, low and hoarse. "I can force belief, if I work at it. Make you think what I want. But….like I said, I don't want a slave. I don't even want an ally who comes to me from fear. I've had enough of being fearsome."
*
Lindon would be handsome too if he weren't so wasted. Depleted. Too thin, features too sallow, and no spark in those deep brown eyes. But he could be good-looking if he could just catch a break. "It's not you I'm afraid of," he says. Come on, let's go."
*
A nod from him - bill and tip are generous, but this isn't somewhere he expects to be again, any time soon. "Good," he says, and there's something mild, pleased, in that note.
*
Lindon heads for the back door they chose to sit near, and he holds it open for Lamont. "I'm not far from here. Just up the block and down the street to the left. He heads out of the parking lot, assuming Lamont will follow. His gait is unsteady, so he walks very, very carefully. "I don't usually drink this much."
*
Lamont moves close - the offer to be used as a support is subtle, but clear. "I can tell," he says, all dry humor. "I've got aspirin on me, if you want something to stave off the hangover."
*
Lindon cautiously lays a hand on Lamont's arm. "I think I could use some aspirin," he says. "I had this tea, but I ran out. It was good for the headaches."
It's not a long walk. Up the block and down the street to the left. It's a bland tenement with bland apartments in a bland part of town. The kind of place no one goes unless they live there. Lindon leads the way up to a second floor apartment.
Inside, there are books. Books everywhere. Shelves line all the walls save half of one, and it looks like it's had a fresh coat of eggshell paint that doesn't quite match the old eggshell. There's a couch, a chair, a television, and a desk that's so covered with books there's barely any room to use it.
*
He seems a little more human there. Something about the setting, the way there'sthat suggestion of a smile playing at the corners of his lips. "Thank you," he says, as he picks up one, looks at it.
*
It's a text on modern astrophysics, well-thumbed. There are many theories, but also quite a bit of technical knowledge. And notes in the margins disproving a few things here and there. Lindon goes to the kitchen and put on coffee. "Sorry for the mess. I don't expect visitors too often."
*
Lamont opens it, thumbs through it….and for a moment, he's got the absorbed look of a man trying to resist the lure of a book. Then he glances up, and grins - crooked, uneven, but neither cynical nor unedged. There is warmth in there somewhere. "It's entirely understandable. You're a busy man." Lamont….he has staff.
*
"Heh, not really," Lindon says. "I just feel more comfortable at home, curled up with a book, or writing." There are journals amidst the books as well, many of them filled to every page. "I get absorbed in it. I've been thinking about space travel lately. I think it's possible."
And so they talk away the night over coffee. Between the two of them, there's no shortage of interesting topics. At some point, phone numbers are exchanged. Eventually, Lindon falls asleep on the couch, a little more sober than he was before.