a_sloane

Ah, the lessons of the past. Few taste as bitter, and as sweet, and of course we do not truly learn from them; the mere act of looking back changes the past to our liking, or serves as a instrument of punishment. Sometimes this applies to the same series of events. Take Jack; he spent nearly twenty years telling himself that every moment he shared with his wife was a false and superficial thing, coldly calculated on her part, and that he was a fool; and then, upon meeting the woman in question again, promptly renewed his schoolboy crush and saw in every word and gesture she made evidence of her genuine unlimited affection and the bond between them.

(Of course, the truth lies somewhere in between, but then Jack, like his daughter, is fond of extremes.)

But we were not talking about Jack, or Irina. I, naturally, am as guilty of forming the past to my desires when looking at it. If I drew a lesson from it, though, and believe me, I am a man who spent many years looking for patterns, indeed entranced by their mystery, it was that I invariably cause damage to the people I care about most, especially if they happen to return my affection. To paraphrase a somewhat overrated poet, I have a rendez-vous with death, but she tends to take others in my place. My late wife, Emily, would still be with us if she had not chosen to come with me, twice, when denouncing me and fleeing from my side would have kept her safe. And my daughter, Nadia…

But I cannot speak of Nadia as dead. She woke. I have seen it; I have witnessed it. It happened. I can happen again. It must. Shortly after I first encountered my daughter, my beautiful, adult daughter of whose existence I had no idea until a man centuries dead revealed it to me, she called me a man of faith. She did not mean it as a compliment; I, fool that I was, hurt her for an aim that ultimately proved as elusive and as hollow as all my ambitions were. And yet, it is true. My faith may never have lain in religion, and it stopped being in my country many years ago, but it has sustained me for a long time, and now it is nearly all I have left. Nadia must recover. Her destiny is not fulfilled. She must live.

And yet I believe in free will as well. Rambaldi might have predicted that the Passenger and the Chosen One would fight, and one would kill the other, and I have seen it come true with my own eyes, thanks to Elena and her poison. Nadia would have killed Sydney that day. She would not have wanted it; she was driven insane by what would never have existed if not for Elena. If not for me. But she would have succeeded. Sydney loved her sister, and that made her lose the fight with a Nadia who was no longer herself. I saw them, I saw the prophecy in the process of being fulfilled, and suddenly I understood, for the first time, that it did not change anything. And I shot my daughter, never loving her more than at that moment.

One shot. One shot for Nadia, at my hand, and one for Emily, fired by Dixon who meant to kill me. Yes, the pattern is certainly obvious.

There is another thing I have learned from my past, though: there are two people who are immune to this pattern. And that is yet another reason to love Jack and Sydney Bristow. I have harmed both, to be sure, and they have harmed me, but they remain splendidly indestructible. This is undoubtedly due to the fact that Sydney hates me, and Jack… well. Let us just say Jack has mixed feelings. Jack, in that endearing naiveté he unites with the most cunning mind I know, once asked me why I would save his life. In fact, he asked me this twice. I should think the answer is obvious, especially to Jack with his obsession about Irina.

Harmful as it might be, I do need someone to love. And who better than the people I know capable of destroying me, instead of the reverse?

That, indeed, might be the last and best lesson.