Archive of Our Own

The taxi died with a shudder, steam rising from its hood like the breath of an angry dragon.

Roy Laughton had been sitting in his own car, pulled over into a side road, to wait out the worst of the current bout of rain. He doubted he could be seen from another car on the main road, not in this downpour and in the dark. He'd watched the taxi approach his position; no doubt it was taking a tourist to the airport, possibly to leave on the plane due to come in from Hong Kong.

Of course, if the monsoon cooperated, there would be a substantial delay to the departing flight. The wise thing for him to do would have been to keep driving before he was seen. He was running late already, and his men would be waiting with the ambulance. They wouldn't move without him, and time was running out.

But Roy Laughton had felt frozen in place since that taxi had entered his field of vision. He'd known this day would come, but he hadn't been sure he would be able to tell. Now that the moment was here, he had no doubts left. Nearly fifteen hundred years of waiting, and it seemed what he had waited for was a broken down Colombo taxi, defeated by the monsoons and the forces of fate.

It was no use. He couldn't go on without knowing. He started his engine just as the taxi's passenger opened the back door and emerged. As Roy passed the taxi, the man was already standing in front of the car, peering under the raised bonnet with a torch in his hand and rain dripping off the brim of his hat.

The driver, getting drenched under an umbrella which provided scanty shelter for one, let alone two, stood helplessly at his side.

Roy pulled up in front of the taxi. He stepped out, holding an umbrella over his head, and walked back towards the car with a mix of dread and anticipation. Who would it be?

Even in the pouring rain, someone stopping who might aid in getting the ancient taxi back on the road got the traveller's attention, and he turned to face Roy.

Light coat over an English tailored suit. Tall and slim with a touch of grey at the temples. Large, sad eyes which had seen too much... in this life, or did they remember? Roy would know those eyes anywhere, and as the man turned his head to briefly address the driver, there was something in the angle of the jaw and in the way the left eyebrow arched slightly higher than the right; Roy's fingers faltered around his umbrella handle. He nearly dropped it before he could regain his grip. He fought not to let his steps falter as well.

He knew the sound of that man's footsteps. He had heard it in the halls of the rock palace as he'd run to join the war council. He had felt its vibrations in the sand at the ocean's edge, running towards him. He knew that man's voice, carrying weight when addressing the soldiers and washing over him in the tender indigo shadows of the night.

The Englishman met his eyes and smiled. Without recognition, Roy realised. Just a polite smile for a stranger emerging from the mists of the monsoon to offer help. But in that smile, there was something for Roy, like the warmth and comfort of returning to one's childhood home.

Getting control over his voice, Roy called out, 'You seem to be in trouble. Perhaps I can help.'

The Englishman's features were tight. It was clear he was fighting to suppress his frustration. 'I would appreciate it. My transport seems to have given out. This damn rain—'

'Are you going to the airport?' Roy asked.

'I am.' The man smiled ruefully. 'I hope.' He held out his hand. 'I'm James Hannaker.'

'Mr Hannaker.' Roy fixed the name in his mind so he wouldn't be tempted to use another. 'My name's Laughton. Roy Laughton.' With some trepidation, Roy took the offered hand and held it.

They stood in the rain like that for three seconds. Three seconds which contained a man dying with his own sword at his throat and another man standing ten feet away, watching with dead eyes and in silence. They let go of each other's hands at the same instant.

'I—' the Englishman began. He stopped and swallowed hard. Something shifted behind his eyes. 'Do I… know you?'

Roy could have laughed, or cried. He remembered the feel of silk robes, the taste of metal in his mouth, the way power tasted when it was wielded by another man — one whom he had trusted. 'No,' he lied softly. 'Not yet.'

'I'm afraid I shall… I shall miss my plane,' stammered Hannaker. He didn't sound certain how he felt about the possibility.

'Well, let's have a look at that engine,' said Roy, with a lightness he didn't feel. 'If there's nothing I can do, I'll turn around and give you a lift.'

'I'd be grateful.'

'Let me see what the trouble is.' Roy stepped up beside Hannaker and stooped over the engine. 'Would you like to hold the torch for me?' The feeble light was aimed without focus. 'Over there, Mr Hannaker.' The light swept sideways by a few inches. 'Hmm… The distributor leads are wet. You're just visiting our beautiful country, Mr Hannaker?'

'Not even that.'

'Just in transit?' Roy swallowed. 'Pity.'

The light angled sharply.

'Could you hold the torch steady, please?'

'Sorry,' Hannaker murmured. 'Is that better?'

'Much. That seems okay. Battery's all right. You know, it might simply be those distributor leads. The bonnet leaks like a colander.'

'I was beginning to suspect it.'

Roy suppressed a smile. 'I'll just wipe them off.' He took the rag the driver passed to him. 'Hmm… it might or might not work. Let's see. Driver, start her up.'

Hannaker watched the driver get back behind the wheel. He was distracted.

Roy, making a snap decision, tugged two of the leads loose entirely, stood back, and closed the bonnet with finality.

Naturally, the car failed to start.

Hannaker swore under his breath.

Roy shrugged apologetically. 'Why don't I drive you to the airport, Mr Hannaker?'

'I would appeciate it,' the Englishman said. He seemed to suddenly realise he was getting absolutely drenched. 'I'm afraid I shall ruin your car seats.'

'So shall I,' Roy said lightly. He smiled, even while he thought about how the man had ruined him once. And yet… when he decided they would not make it to the airport, it was not vengeance in his mind. He told the taxi driver to stay with his car; he would send out a mechanic.

They drove nearly two miles in utter silence. The rain came down so heavily that Roy was certain Hannaker couldn't possibly be aware they were not en route to the airport. Roy knew just where the monsoon would cause the Bolgoda River to burst its banks, flooding nearby roads, and he made sure to take one of those roads.

When they came to the washed-out section he had expected, he sighed. 'Ah, that's the end of the road, I'm afraid.'

'You mean we can't get to the airport?' Hannaker sounded tired, his nerves frayed.

'Not tonight, certainly. I'm afraid you'll miss your flight, Mr Hannaker.' Silently, Roy added, Though you would be pleased to know you have saved many lives.

'Could you drop me off at a hotel, Mr Laughton, or a resthouse? Anything will do.' Hannaker had barely finished speaking before he sneezed heartily. 'Good Lord.'

Roy glanced at him as he began to turn the car. 'I doubt we'll find something comfortable this late in the evening, and you want to, at least, be comfortable if you're coming down with a chill. You know, you really should have waited inside your taxi while I checked the engine.'

Hannaker frowned at Roy. 'I'm not as fragile as that.'

Roy smiled. 'Of course not, but you've been travelling, probably losing sleep and keeping irregular hours. Are you used to our sort of climate?'

'Not exactly, no,' Hannaker admitted.

'There you go. It's easy to get ill, under those circumstances. Will you allow me to offer you the hospitality of my home?' Roy asked. 'It isn't far, and you'll at least be comfortable and dry until we can organise another flight for you. You're heading back to London, I assume?'

'Yes. I work for the British Board of Trade. I'm an aircraft accident investigator.'

Roy hoped Hannaker would put the swerving of the car down to the wet road, rather than the driver's momentary shock. What a delicious sense of irony fate possessed!

Hannaker looked at him searchingly. 'I don't wish to inconvenience you even further, Mr Laughton. You've gone out of your way—'

'Not at all,' Roy assured him quickly. 'It would be my pleasure to have you as my guest. I live quite a solitary life, outside my work. I own a radio factory, by the way. In my private life, I tend to keep to myself, but I'd enjoy your company.'

'Well, in that case, I accept gratefully.'

'Marvellous.' Roy drove down the road towards home, wondering whether he would regret his rather drastic change of plans.

'But Master Roy, the gold!' Ayah said in an accusatory fashion. 'The weather has been perfect this evening to carry out your plans.'

'Never mind the gold,' Roy said, steering his old nurse well out of his guest's hearing. 'There'll be more gold shipments from Hong Kong and more heavy rain. Our guest is rather unique and far more important.'

'Who is this man?' asked Ayah.

Roy smiled wistfully. 'Migara.'

Ayah took a step back. 'Migara!' She clutched Roy's arm. 'How can you bring him here? How can you trust him? He betrayed you!'

Roy sighed. 'Yes, he betrayed me, but he also loved me once, and I loved him. And I need to know why he betrayed me.'

Ayah looked at him as though she thought him mad. 'Does he remember? Anything?'

'He remembers me, but he doesn't yet know why.'

Ayah looked worried. 'Will you tell him?'

Roy gave a short laugh. 'Of course not. He would think me mad, but he will remember... in time.'

The door of the guest room stood ajar, and Roy peered through the narrow gap.

The Englishman had bathed and was wearing one of Roy's dressing gowns; sage green silk, which suited him very well. He stood at the window in the faint circle of lamp light and stared out into the night and at the torrents of rain pouring off the roof. Suddenly, he sneezed and tied the gown more tightly around himself.

Roy took a step inside, and the other at once turned, on the alert. Roy wondered why he was so nervous and tried not to read anything into it. 'Do you have everything you need, Mr Hannaker?'

'Yes, thank you. I do appreciate your hospitality, Mr Laughton. I—' Hannaker shivered noticeably.

Roy frowned. 'You really have caught a chill. Would you like some tea? Another blanket on the bed?'

'I'm fine, really.' Hannaker smiled weakly. He looked notably worse than he had earlier on.

Roy felt an unaccustomed stab of sympathy. He wasn't used to caring about anyone's well-being. He hadn't cared… in a very long time. 'Well, if you're sure.'

'I am.'

'My room is next door,' Roy told him. 'If you do need anything.'

Again, Hannaker looked at him in that slightly bewildered way from earlier. 'I wish I could work out why you seem so familiar.'

Something stirred in Roy's chest. 'I imagine it will come to you.'

'Perhaps.' Hannaker rubbed his forehead.

'You're tired. Let me wish you a good night.'

'Good night, Mr Laughton.'

Roy left the room and closed the door behind himself. He returned to his own room and prepared for bed, then paced up and down, the silk of his dressing gown rustling as he attempted to wear his body out so his mind would still. It was a losing battle, of course.

Migara was in the next room, almost close enough to hear his breath and touch him, to ask why…

A groan of distress got Roy's attention around two o'clock in the morning, and he flew from his room and opened the door to the guest room.

Hannaker… Migara lay in the centre of the bed, sheets in disarray and tangled around his legs. He hadn't taken off the dressing gown before lying down, nor had he extinguished the lamp. He'd probably been too tired.

Then the slack mouth moved and the man spoke in his sleep, and not in English. Roy moved nearer, heart beating hard. The refined voice spoke, continuously — not Sinhala or Tamil, and not even Pali, but something older. Fragments of words formed and then a name Roy recognised all too well, for it had been his own.

'I didn't want you to lose, Kashyapa,' Hannaker whispered in a language no one should know anymore; Roy did. 'I wanted you to stop killing. To stop hoarding and grasping.'

Roy sank down on the edge of the bed and touched a silk-clad arm. His eyes closed and, in his mind, he saw flashbacks of a battlefield clearing, smoke rising, a body falling... his own body. And Migara, watching him fall with eyes from which all hope had fled, but not all love.

Outside, the monsoon held its breath, the rains hanging suspended over a reunion for which Roy had waited fifteen hundred years.

He sat in the dark for an hour, with his hand on Migara's arm. Another hour passed while he counted his own heartbeats and aligned them with Migara's unconsciously. Why had he returned? Why now? The very night he had been about to… kill, and to grasp, once again. Nothing was coincidental when it came to karma. Back then, Migara's words had killed him, had left him isolated from his soldiers. Was it too much to hope that he'd come back to give him another chance? Roy knew Kashyapa's love, his love, had been possessive, though Migara had never minded that. Not until it had become absolute — the love of a man who had his own father entombed alive to keep a throne. And then he had built Sigiriya — a pleasure palace, a golden cage for his possessions, a monument to his hoarding and grasping. Roy remembered dying with the taste of betrayal in his mouth, much more bitter than the taste of his own blood. His own greed had caused him to betray Migara and the tenderness which had existed between them. Yes, the betrayal had been his, not Migara's.

Sitting beside his friend and lover again, touching him, Roy's chest ached with regret. His throat felt tight, but he needed no voice to make a silent vow, to himself and to Migara. This time, Migara would become his only treasure… if Migara chose to stay with him. He would offer his home, hospitality, comfort and all the overwhelming tenderness fifteen centuries haven't managed to dull.

Would Migara stay? Roy knew himself to be scheming. He would be tempted to make the monsoon his accomplice, to use flooded roads, cancelled flights, and every little delay he could devise, because he had not become the wealthy owner of Ceylon's most modern factory by chance, no more than he had once become a king by chance.

But it was to this that Migara had returned, and it could mean only that he was given a second chance. And he would not waste it.

As if aware of Roy's thoughts and decision, a deep sigh spilled from Hannaker's mouth. Roy's eyes rested on the parted lips and he leaned forward. He stopped and raised his hand to touch Hannaker's mouth with his fingertips, very briefly and as lightly as a butterfly. Then he drew back and pressed those same fingertips to his own lips.

It took another hour before he rose and stooped over Migara to undo the belt of the dressing gown and draw the sheets over him to make him more comfortable. Only then could he tear himself away and return to his own room.

They had breakfast together on the terrace the next morning. The rains had ceased, for the time being, and a weak morning sun hung low in the heavens and glinted on the wet flower beds.

'I had the strangest dreams last night,' Hannaker said tentatively.

'Oh?' Roy, a slice of toast halfway to his mouth, looked at him. 'Did you not sleep well?'

Hannaker met his eyes. 'I'm not sure how to answer that. The bed was very comfortable, but I woke up feeling hot and exhausted, as if I'd travelled thousands of miles during the course of the night.'

'Or perhaps hundreds of years,' Roy murmured.

'What?' Hannaker looked suddenly alert.

Roy smiled. 'Forgive me, Mr Hannaker. Don't take me too seriously. Here in Ceylon, we only ever have one foot solidly in the real world.'

'Perhaps.' Hannaker looked at Roy searchingly. 'The odd thing is, my dreams seemed to be taking place in another time. I suspect I must have had a mild fever. It would explain…' He lowered his eyes. 'Much.'

Roy's first instinct was to offer explanations. His second instinct was to grasp at the admission of a fever to coax Hannaker into staying to recuperate. He fought them both.

'Mr Hannaker, if it fits in with your plans, I would be very pleased to extend my hospitality until you feel more like yourself again.' It wasn't easy not to smile at the irony of his words.

'I don't wish to impose,' said Hannaker carefully.

Roy sensed acquiescence in the non-committal statement, but he would not demand it. He also sensed that, perhaps, Hannaker had nothing much to return to in England. Those sad, haunted eyes looked at him with something like hope. 'It would be no imposition, I assure you,' he said. 'I ask only one thing - that you call me Roy.'

'If you'll call me James.' Hannaker looked actually relieved. His tense shoulders sank a little, and the tight lines around his eyes and mouth smoothed visibly. 'I can't explain it,' he said softly, 'at least, not right now. Yesterday, I wanted only to catch my connection back to London with as little delay as possible.'

Roy nodded. 'Ceylon may have cast its spell on you.'

'Maybe.' James held his eyes. He seemed to be searching for something, possibly only answers to a mystery. Very softly, he said, 'I would, very much, like to stay a little longer, if I may.'

Roy smiled. He reached out and gently squeezed James' wrist on the table, letting go before the beat of his pulse would become too compelling. His own voice was soft too when he said, 'Then I would like you to stay.'

James returned his smile with genuine delight and, to Roy, no bar of gold had a shine that could compare.