: Pushing Daisies and Angel belong to people that are not me.
***I'll do this last thing for you, for us...but then I'm out, and you won't find me in the alley afterwards. Hell, you won't find me at all. Do me a favor. Don't try. ~Lorne
It had been 3 weeks, 5 days, 7 hours, and 38 minutes since Krevlornswath of the Deathwok Clan had shot and killed a man in cold blood. A man who, whatever else he might have been, was a talented singer and guitarist.
As he drove by fields upon fields of undiversified wildflowers in his yellow rental car, the Pylean empath pondered what had happened to propel him so far off his path...his destined life path. Not the road that he was driving on. Because even possessing powers of precognition as he did, Lorne never would have guessed that when a gorgeous on-again off-again evil vampire swaggered into his nightclub to butcher Barry Manilow, thus declaring himself to be a champion of the powers-that-be, it would lead to this
Murder. Exile. A cramp in his leg from days of non-stop driving.
He wasn't sure if his butt hurt as a consequence of sitting for such an extended period of time, or if it was a symptom of his aching heart, which was in the same general location.
Lorne wasn't a guy who killed people: not even the pesky, evil sort. Killing came with a price, one he wasn't equipped to pay. That was the whole reason he'd left Pylea behind in the first place: death, murder, conquest...to execute, they required certainty. Absolutes.
As The Host, he had seen into the minds and hearts, read the auras, the pasts, presents, and futures, of an innumerable smorgasbord of beings, and he knew there was no such thing as absolutes, no black-and-white clear cut dichotomies of good and evil. Real life (at least in this dimension) wasn't an old Hollywood talkie, and with good reason, because how boring would that be?
There were a multitude of sounds, individual voices, tones...and so many shades, variations of hue in colors in the world. Auras were like rainbows: there were no true categories; each color bled into the next, and Lorne appreciated every single one of them. Until a month ago.
He had seen Lindsey's soul, read his destiny, the purpose of his life, on more than one occasion, and so he knew the ex-lawyer was capable of goodness, of love. He had known that it wasn't Lindsey's time to die.
Yet Lorne had shot him, anyway. For no better reason than because The Boss thought it would make things simpler. But it hadn't: at least, not for the empath. There was a dark spot in his aura now, an unnatural one, and it was spreading.
He knew it would require more than knocking back a few Sea Breezes and singing Aretha Franklin songs to brighten it up again. What he needed was a sign. Preferably a large neon one with letters flashing Redemption of the non-violent variety this way
, but he'd take what he could get. The problem with signs
, Lorne mused, too lost in his thoughts to notice he had just passed one which read: Coeur d'Coeurs, (Heart of Hearts)
...was you didn't see them unless you already knew what to look for.