After I made a big deal about filling a request for a story in which nobody dies, I received a challenge to do a story in which *everybody* was dead. This is it. Even though everyone in the FK universe has died by the time this happens, not everyone makes an appearance.

This isn't necessarily a sequel to any previous story of mine. I thought of it as a post- "Last Knight" story, but you can deny "Last Knight" (or all of Season Three for that matter) if you prefer, as long as you accept the premise that Nick died at LaCroix' hands.

The title is French, and would translate not as "Detour" but as "Turn in the Road."

By mortal reckoning, this takes place a couple of thousand years or so in the future.

Détour
By Mary Combs

The boy stood in the middle of the road, motionless, sun glinting on his close-cropped, light-brown hair. A passerby -- if there had been any -- would have guessed his age to be 12 or 13. The fair skin and blue eyes spoke of a European heritage. His clothing -- a loose, short-sleeved tunic and breeches of white linen -- would have been suitable in many times and places......

The highway stretched out in front of him, beaten earth as solid as asphalt, smooth and wide enough to accommodate two carriages (or two tractor-trailers, for that matter), but with no trace of wheel ruts or tire-treads. Here and there a footprint showed in the fine dust that powdered its surface.

It rose in a long, steady curve to his right, through unfenced fields with thick woods beyond them on both sides, to the crest of a hill. In the far distance, dim through the shimmering haze, he could see snowcapped mountains -- higher than the Himalayas -- reaching to the sky.

To his left, a faint, narrow track led away from the road, up a steep, grassy slope, where it disappeared in a grove of pine trees.

There were no signposts. They weren't needed. He knew what waited at the end of the path, just as he knew what waited at the end of the road.

He dreaded it.

He yearned for it.

He had paused like this before, hundreds -- no, thousands -- of times. And every time, he had made the choice to go on. If he turned now and kept walking up that hill, nothing would stand in his way, but sooner or later, days or weeks or months or years ahead, the road would lead him back to this place, gently, inexorably, eternally.

Until he faced his greatest fear.

No, not his greatest fear. This was not a place where anything but truth was tolerated, and he recoiled from the lie instantly. Just as this was only a prelude to the Meeting that waited him at the end of the journey, his present dread was only a shadow of a greater Fear.

His palms were sweating, and he absentmindedly rubbed them dry on his tunic. It was high summer, the air warm, the shade promising. For a moment, he gave himself over to the sensation of the sun on his skin, the sounds of small creatures moving in the grass, the buzz of cicadas, the scent of unfamiliar flowers. He heard the piercing cry of a hawk and, shading his eyes against the brilliant blue glare, looked up to see the shapes of birds swooping high in the sky -- birds and ... other things.

He lowered his gaze and stood very still, back ramrod straight, staring down the road. He had no bag, no purse, no burden to weigh him down or to comfort him. He had tried in the beginning to take things with him -- a hastily crafted weapon or tool, a notched stick or some other crude attempt to mark the passage of time. But come morning, they would be gone, quietly removed, as a parent might put away forbidden toys in the nighttime.

The clothes on his back -- they were all that stayed with him. Everything he needed was provided, in season: food and water; a cloak and shoes in cold weather. Sometimes he found them waiting, placed for him by invisible hands, as if he were living in one of the old tales. But more often they came from the all-too-visible hands of others, from fellow travelers on the road or those who dwelled in this place.

In the early days, he had refused the gifts, going unsheltered or hungry in defiance. The kindness had been more far bitter to him than the cold......

He had less pride, now.

Time to face it. Time to face him.

He trudged slowly up the path, into the shade of the trees, walking through sweet-scented fallen needles, soft and prickly at once against his bare feet. The pines formed a dark archway, framing the brightness at the end of the allée.

He heard a man's voice, speaking in low tones. The answer came not in human speech, but as a soft whinny. He heard the sound of hooves beating against the turf. There was a sudden yelp and a thud, and a burst of laughter.

He emerged from the shadows, blinking against the glare, to find himself standing on the crest of a grassy hill. Behind him, the woods concealed the road below. Ahead and to his left rose more hills, steep and green, cresting like waves against the side of a huge mountain. He was suddenly and vividly reminded of his first sight of the Alps.

He hadn't seen the mountain from the road. Perhaps his walk through the trees had taken him closer to the range. He knew all too well that time and distance were no longer fixed quantities. A small part of his mind toyed briefly with the question, and then all his attention was focused on the creatures before him.

The horse was magnificent, a mighty stallion, black without a trace of white, save for a blaze on its forehead like a star. No bridle or saddle had ever marred the gleaming surface of that coat. He was gently nudging the man, who lay spread-eagled in the grass, still laughing.

A huge black dog lolled in the sun a few yards away, panting contentedly.

The man propped himself up on his elbows, shaking his head, then scrambled to his feet, his back toward the boy. He was fair, his blond hair almost gold in the sun. He too, was clad in white linen, a loose shirt with full sleeves, rolled to the elbows, and either breeches or trousers rolled to the knee -- it was difficult to see. He wore no boots or stockings and the boy shivered for a moment at the sight of unprotected feet next to the massive hooves.

They seemed to be engaged in some conversation beyond his understanding. The horse whickered softly, the man laughed again, and the hound barked, as if joining in a joke.

The horse saw him first.

The stallion lifted his head, scenting the intruder, then arched his neck to get a better look. The boy stood still under the gaze of that gleaming black eye, and the man turned to see what had attracted his companion's attention. As recognition lit his face, the horse tossed his head and -- pausing for a moment to nuzzle the man's neck affectionately -- gave a snort of what could only be described as disdain, wheeled and cantered off through the meadow.

Fighting down the impulse to turn and run, the boy took a deep breath and came a step or two closer. The other lifted his hand as if to reach out to him, and the boy winced and stopped. Seeing his discomfort, the man slowly pulled back his hand, stilling his cry of welcome, letting his eager grin fade to a faint smile.

Unsmiling, the boy looked up into the man's face as if searching for something.

An observer -- and there was more than one -- might have supposed them to be father and son, meeting awkwardly after a long separation or a quarrel.

A low growl broke the silence. The dog had come to stand close beside the man, staring at the boy defiantly. His teeth were not bared, but the deep sound of warning resonated through the earth itself. Fear washed through the boy, fear that had nothing to do with powerful jaws and rending teeth.

Fear of being sent away.

The man looked down in surprise. "Raleigh," he said gently, resting his hand lightly on the dark shoulder. "Please." The dog stopped growling and approached the boy, who stood quite still. They stared at each other until the blue eyes dropped in shame before the brown. Raleigh gave a woofly canine sound of dismissal and strolled regally into a patch of shade, not deigning a backward glance.

"I'm sorry about that."

With some difficulty, the boy raised his eyes to the man's face. "He has every reason to......disapprove of me." He spoke with a quiet, excruciating formality.

There was an awkward silence.

"We've been hoping you'd come," the man said, almost shyly.

"We? Oh, of course.....Natalie."

"Do you want to come up to the house? She'd like to see you. Really..." he added, in response to a raised eyebrow and a skeptical look.

"No, no." A deep blush stained the boy's cheeks. "No — thank you. I'm not... No."

Silence again.

"I mean it, you know. I am very glad to see you."

Blue eyes met blue, and the boy stared in wonder as the man's face was suffused with light. He bore it as long as he could, until he was forced to avert his eyes. Then the intolerable brightness vanished, leaving only the once-familiar sight of Nicholas' apologetic smile.

"Sorry."

"Don't apologize. You.... 'You cannot deny what you are.' "

"No. But I don't have to...."

"Rub my nose in it? Perhaps not. And perhaps that is precisely the point?"

Nick shook his head. "I don't know the answer to that. The road is different for everyone.... But we all have to walk it," he added.

"Walk it?" a ghost of Lucien LaCroix' ironic smile flickered on the young face. "I know you, Nicholas. You ran it. Every step of the way."

Nick colored slightly and shrugged, laughing softly at himself. "Well, not *every* step."

"For a long time, I thought that I took the first step on that road the night I killed you."

"And now?"

"I've begun to wonder if it started the night I chose you."

Nick smiled, gently. "It's very possible..... but I'm not the One who can answer that."

"No." The boy glanced back over his shoulder, toward the waiting road and the inevitable meeting still to come. "Can you.... Can you tell me anything of... Janette?"

"I can tell you that she's well and that she's happy." The joy in Nick's voice was like a living thing.

The boy looked down at his clenched hands and spoke in the faintest of whispers. "And..... Divia?"

This time, face and voice were grave. "She's not... here..." Nick started to say more, but stopped.

The boy gave him an ironic look. "... 'yet.' That *is* what you were going to say, isn't it Nicholas? She's not here, yet. You are indeed, the eternal optimist. But then, you may be right. After all, I'm here." His face paled at the memory. "And I almost said 'No.' I almost turned away. And if I had...."

"No one gets to know what *would have* happened, my friend, not even here," Nick said calmly. "The past can be redeemed, but it can't be undone."

The boy nodded, then lifted his chin and took a military stance, as if gathering the shreds of his dignity around him. "I've put this off long enough." He paused for a moment, then closed his eyes. "I had a speech prepared. And rehearsed. Now it's gone....... I'm sorry." He took a deep breath and paused, searching for more to say.... "I'm sorry.... Forgive me. That's a rather poor apology from someone who used to pride himself on his eloquence. That seems to be something else I've lost along the way."

He looked up into the eyes of the man with whom he had struggled for so long. His victim. His pawn. His pupil. His child. His savior. And instead of the righteous anger he had every reason to expect, he saw only affection, understanding, and good will. The light he had tried to smother, come fully into its own.

Nick fidgeted, wanting nothing more than to reach out and touch him, to close the gap at last. But with the differences between them now, that once-comforting gesture was, for the moment, impossible. All he had to offer was a reassuring smile.

"I forgave you long ago, Lucien. So did she...... Why don't you stay here awhile. With us? I know she'd want it, too," Nick added, catching the doubtful look on the other's face. "Come up to the house with me. You'll see."

"No. Not yet. I can't..... It's... It's... this..." he looked down at himself. "It's... embarrassing." He sighed. "I imagine it's supposed to be a lesson in humility."

"I can think of another reason for it."

"And that would be...?".

"When was the last time in your life that you remember being truly happy? Not triumphant or exultant, but happy -- and no one paid a price for that happiness?"

The blue eyes focused on a great distance. "The summer before my uncle died. My 13th summer -- the last before I put on my manly gown. My father let me spend two months with my cousins....

"....My mother's brother was a kind and generous man. It was his undoing. He understood nothing of politics.... He died that winter. My tutor told me that my father had had him poisoned. He expected me to approve....." the bleak expression in his face and voice faded, replaced by a warm smile.

"But that summer was golden, like something out of myth and legend. We swam and fished and built palaces in the sand. My uncle scolded us when we stole fruit from the orchard and nursed us himself when we paid for it with monstrous bellyaches...... I had forgotten." His voice trailed off and he looked up at the smiling face above him. "I see..." he whispered.

"Speaking of swimming," Nick said. " There's a rather nice lake on the other side of that hill.... I'll race you," he added, eyes twinkling.

There was a brief answering glimmer, quickly suppressed. "You have me at a disadvantage, Nicholas," Lucius deadpanned, pointedly scanning the other's 6-foot frame.

Nick chuckled. "I think I can do something about that," He closed his eyes briefly, screwing up his face in concentration. His form shimmered, and Lucius suddenly found himself nose to nose with a tow-haired boy with an unmistakably familiar grin. They stared at each other for a long beat, then suddenly broke and ran whooping and hollering for the lake, scattering their clothes behind them as they went, with Raleigh in hot pursuit......

"Meow!" Sydney called from his perch in the window.

"What's up, Sid?" Natalie replied, putting aside her instrument. "Oh my," she said, leaning on the sill and laughing at the sight below. "If it isn't Tom and Huck......."

"Meurp?" Sydney brushed against her shoulder.

"Certainly not," she said. "Far be it from me to intrude."

Sydney offered his chin to be scritched and Natalie obliged.. "I don't know how it is with cats, Sid, but for boys that age, 'girrrrls' (she gave the word the drawn-out burr with undertones of disgust) are definitely 'de trop' "

Sydney cast a skeptical glance toward the water, where there seemed to be a belly-flopping contest in progress. "Mmmmurrh?"

"Oh yes they *are,* right at this moment, and I wouldn't dream of spoiling the fun. Besides," she added, stretching out on the windowseat and gathering the cat into her lap, "sometimes it's even more fun to watch."

Epilogue

Night had fallen, the moon was high, and Natalie was just starting to doze off when she heard a light step behind her. She rolled over in bed and smiled through the white gauze curtains at the fair-haired boy standing in the moonlight. She propped herself up on one elbow "So, what have the two of you been up to?"

Nick shrugged noncommitally. "You know. Stuff." Then he winked at her.

"Did you get any supper?"

"Oh, we went on a foraging expedition....." She chuckled and he grinned, catching the thought.

"Is he going to stay?"

"Yes, until the road calls him again."

"Where...?"

"He said he'd rather sleep outside. He hates to miss the sunrise." Nick laughed softly.

"Hmmmmm.... Where have I heard that before?"

"Raleigh's taken him under his wing.... so to speak. He'll be fine." There was a catch in his voice, an undertone of awed gratitude. "There was a time when I would have said it was impossible."

She nodded, understanding. "That he would choose the light."

Nick turned a radiant smile on her, sharing a joy that needed no words.

"Tell me, are you planning on coming to bed like that?" She raised an eyebrow.

"No," Nick laughed again and stretched back to his grownup self. Shedding his clothes, he lifted the curtains and slid into bed beside her.

"Not that you weren't absolutely adorable at that age, but still...." she put her arms around his neck and kissed him soundly.

"Mmmm," he murmured. "What's that old song? 'Kisses sweeter than wine'.... "

"Not wine exactly," she said, licking her lips experimentally. "What's this I taste? No, don't tell me," she kissed him again, thoroughly. "Mmmm, yes, peaches. Ripe peaches...."

Finis

Nat's instrument may be anything you choose, from an electron microscope to a violin.
de trop = extra, not wanted, as in "a third wheel"