Alexander's Gift

Prologue

"Is it Alexander Soter?"

The question hung in the air like the thick, black smoke from a fire that everyone who saw or smelled knew instinctively, and yet who without exception feigned uncertainty as if to protect from that slight chance of being wrong. Everyone always seemed so afraid of being caught in error that the very word 'wrong' was treated as strictly taboo. People so fearful of public shame must have only their reputation left to uphold, and they must either be very dishonest or very incompetent. So, the thing such people were really afraid of was someone finding out which of the two they were.

The grand door leading from the outside to the grand foyer of the grand house opened and closed only four times that evening, and it seemed to all who were there that night a rather peculiar injustice; for it really was a grand, black door curved at the top, having been engraved intricately with the astounding story of the man who held the world on his shoulders, so that one almost felt an obligation for more people to see it. It felt rather like taking away the applause from a performer who really and truly deserved the applause, or the sense of importance from someone important- the only problem with the logic being that a door did not have a self-referential sense of importance.

The first time the door opened, it revealed a tall man whose stature and gait were the first things readily noticeable because they were so distinctive. With arms hanging loosely at his sides, a cigarette dangling lazily from between his teeth, and those not quite full strides, it seemed almost like he was trying to conserve his energy. But when one finally focused on his face, it was discovered that it wasn't true. It suddenly became laughably obvious that this man simply had no need to move any quicker- the face was seemingly that of a man who knew no worry, no trouble, and had felt none of the cruelty of life. He moved as if this was his kingdom, and he was the king.

The door opened again not a minute later by a man whose height and demeanor were less than extraordinary, but whose face made all else disappear. It was distinctively masculine, yet tinged with an air of feminine dignity, pleading the innocence of a child who has not yet left his mother's arms, but brimming with the darkness of a soldier who has seen a man's head blown off. The only thing one could say for certain about that face was that it was purely and breathtakingly handsome.

Yet there was something unusual about this man that made him more than just another Cary Grant or Rudolph Valentino- rather than being innocently oblivious of his birthright or sickeningly machismo about it, this man was acutely aware of how a few strands of his jet black hair fell into his wide, pleading eyes- bright blue eyes that could only ever belong to someone very dishonest or very honest- of the wide, harshly angled jaw and soft, delicate lips. But he was aware of all these things in the way Helen of Troy unashamedly was- who saw her beauty, knew it could launch a thousand ships, and used it to do just that. And for some reason, the shock of such an unusual mixture justified his beauty. Perhaps even justified the man.

Five more minutes passed before the grand door was eased open again by a man in a brightly colored, finely tailored suit and a hardened face not at all convincing to the others, let alone to himself. He stood tall and walked with an air of self-importance that clothed a spirit trying desperately to convince itself it was important. He passed through the entryway self-assuredly and then stopped for a moment at the sight of the first two men sitting next to each other in the  marble-slated foyer that seemed entirely personal and indifferent at the same time. He searched their faces, hoping for some sign of confusion or weakness so he might not feel so alone and disingenuous. His shoulders dropped when nothing incriminating was found, and then the mask of self assurance appeared on his face once again. He crossed the foyer in several long strides and ended up sitting a few seats away from the second man, who had not glanced his way once this whole time.

As the three men waited, for what they didn't know, a heavy silence filled the room so thickly they felt like they were breathing in water. Abruptly the door opened for the last time, and the sigh of relief was unanimous until they heard two sets of footsteps: one heavy and dull like their own, and the second a much sharper sound- the click of a woman's high heel against marble. The three men straightened in their seats even before the woman rounded the corner. They had not expected a woman. There wasn't a particularly good reason for their surprise, it just seemed natural that whoever came next would be a man.

When the two new visitors entered the foyer hand in hand, the seated men all rose instinctively with the exaggerated sense of gallantry only displayed for a beautiful woman. However, the taut muscles and slight widening of eyes only belied meaning in the first man, whose casual demeanor had been electrified by the glimmer of recognition.

One didn't have to search long to practically see the hands of time turning back. Back to simpler times, one would hope. Back to the time when a young man met a lovely, starry-eyed girl, and they fell in love. Unfortunately, neither of the two were true. The hands of time settled on the year 1945, exactly ten years ago. The time when a lonely young man met a forbidden girl, and all hell broke loose.