My Tombraider Legend/Underworld Fan Fiction Story: Aftermath and Picture I Drew

One of the things I really like about Tombraider is that it has branched out into many creative avenues.  This is gratifying particularly because it is a defense against the arguments that video games promote aggression and destroy the imagination.  Of course, not all video games have branched out in the same way as Tombraider.  Perhaps Tombraider attracts creative people to begin with (and here people thought gamers were only interested in looking at Lara's boobs!).  Tombraider has fans that are into paper sculpting, costume making for cos-play, fan fiction, fan drawings, and making their own video game levels.  In addition, many fans are interested in the archaeology and myths behind Tombraider.  Of course, there are gamers that are into the violence and into Lara's boobies...but most things attract a low brow audience too.
My favorite Tombraider game is Legend.  This was my first exposure to the world of Lara Croft, and it was also the second video game I had ever played.  I had, as a child, played Pac-man and Donkey Kong, at the arcade.  However, I was blown away by how far video games had come when I saw that opening scene in Legend where Lara was climbing up that cliff.  I loved the plot line and character interaction.
The picture and short story had been created for two different contests.  I didn't win either one, but I was proud of my entries.  I was particularly proud of the short story, for it is often difficult for me to write a story about a pre-existing plot line that was not my own.  I can make my own stories from scratch, but I have a hard time writing fan fiction.  I think part of the problem is that I have a hard time conforming to the author's apparent ideas of that world.
The picture is called Sad Reflections.  It shows cut scenes from both Legend and Underworld.  It is a summary of the plot line.  At the right, you see the family in happier times.  The left side depicts the catastrophe that rips Lara's world apart--the disappearance of Lara's mother, and Lara learning her fate.
The short story Aftermath essentially depicts the same thing.  It jumps between the past and present, dealing with the events that occurred after Amelia's disappearance and the events following the conclusion of Underworld.

AFTERMATH

By Jessica Gray

Present Day

Lara stirred restlessly in her bed and stared up at the ceiling.  She was altogether too familiar with that sight.  She refused to have an alarm clock ticking noisily beside her bed—refused to have any clock in her room to remind her of how many sleepless nights she passed.  Winston was her alarm clock when she needed one.  However, she couldn’t escape the grandfather clock’s booming chimes that counted the hours in the Great Hall, which echoed down the corridors to her room.

I need to have that thing silenced, she thought.  She recalled reading Great Expectations in her youth and remembered thinking what a crazy old bat Miss Havisham had been to stop her clocks, to avoid the sun, to wear the same outfit every day, and to keep moldy food rotting on the table—and all because of a man.  She still thought Miss Havisham was crazy, but she could comprehend why someone would want to silence the clocks.  The incessant ticking somehow triggered painful memories, particularly in the dead of night.  Clocks mocked you about your failures, things done that could never be undone—and though time ticked away and pushed you to face your mortality, it also reminded you of how long you would have to live with your regrets and heartbreak.

Lara turned over onto her side.  Her hand reached under her pillow to caress the cold handles of her pistols.  Maybe she would silence the grandfather clock permanently herself.  She imagined Winston’s reaction.  He was used to her bouts of random violence that usually resulted in bullets being fired inside the house.  It inevitably lead to some property damage.  However, he would be upset about the destruction of a family heirloom that had been in the Croft family since the turn of the century.

She sighed and turned onto her back again.  It was funny.  During her travels, she had often slept in very uncomfortable circumstances.  She had slept in musty tombs, breathing in dust and stale air, often in danger of the structure collapsing and burying her alive.  She had slept precariously perched on small ledges on cliffs and above pools of molten lava.  She had slept on the cold hard ground under bridges, with only cardboard and rotten wood to block the wind, and always in danger of being accosted by the shady characters who lurked there or by an inquisitive policeman.  She had slept in bare cells under the gaze of leering guards, breathing in the foul stench coming from the dirty toilet.  She had slept in tropical rainforests that bred exotic illnesses that had taken out many British aristocrats.  Her sleeping bag would get drenched by the rains and mud, and sometimes she felt something slithering up her legs.  Then there were the bugs, who could always find their way inside to bite her.  In icy climates, a draft would manage to sneak into an opening and travel up her spine.

Yet, she always slept like a baby during her travels.  She could awake alert within seconds, guns at the ready to answer any perceived threat—but when her head hit the pillow, she slept like the dead.

When she was in her comfortable, warm bed at home—surrounded by luxury—she usually couldn’t sleep.  It had been this way for years.  Not always.  There had been a time when her bed was an invitation for sweet dreams, the dreams of a little girl who had everything she could want and was loved.

Lara blinked, trying to drive away the memory of her father telling her mythological stories or tales from his travels while she lay against her mother’s shoulder.  She would fight to keep her heavy lids open long enough to hear the end of the story.  She could smell her mother’s perfume, the scent of gardenias.

Lara kicked off the last of her covers, which had kept a lasting hold on her ankles.  She shook her head, trying to shake free of the memory—the memory of a time when she knew security and when her life was whole.

She put on her slippers and padded softly down the hall towards the gym.  In the Great Hall, the grandfather clock ticked loudly, as ominous of a presence as Poe’s raven.  Her back stiffened as she passed the study.  There was no light, and the door was closed.  Yet, she heard something.  It sounded like a man sobbing.

She tiptoed to the door and gently cracked it open….

*   *   *   *   *

Three months after the plane crash in the Himalayas

Everyone remarked about the dark bags under ten year old Lara’s eyes.  Poor child, they would say as they shook their heads and tisked.

She had fought with Miss Grey, her governess, about leaving the lights on when she went to bed.  Miss Grey believed that was why Lara couldn’t sleep anymore…but she was wrong.  It was true she did fall asleep when it was dark, but then she was plagued by nightmares of the plane crash and of her mother’s disappearance in a flash of light.  Lara would scream as she felt her heart being ripped apart, the memory of her mother’s scent and gentle kiss torn from her forever.

In the light, she couldn’t sleep, but it was easier to face the situation.  Three months ago, she had been in a plane crash.  Her mother was dead.  Her father kept searching for his wife, believing she was alive somewhere.

“Just because she disappeared, Lara,” he had told her, his hand putting slight pressure on her shoulder, “does not mean that she is dead.”

Lara, though, refused to entertain this possibility.  She felt her father couldn’t handle his wife’s loss and was in denial.  She both pitied and resented him for it.  The plane crash had left her an orphan, not just motherless.  She knew her father still loved her, of course.  However, his entire focus was on trailing after her mother’s ghost.  His chair was often vacant at dinner.  When she entered the study, he would shoo her out.  He didn’t want her moving his papers, and he wanted to protect her from false hope.  Even when he was physically present, he wasn’t there.  His eyes were glazed and distant.  He didn’t listen to what others said around him.

Lara felt lonely.  Only Winston kept her from feeling totally isolated.  Even her parents’ friends had stopped visiting them.  Of course, her father no longer entertained, but Lara thought they would have at least paid a courtesy call to check up on them.

She sometimes saw them in town when she went with Winston on his errands.  When she would address them, they pulled away like she had leprosy.  They were civil, and yet their politeness hurt more than a snub would have.  She knew they didn’t want her around them.  She got to the point where she avoided them, and they—if they could help it—did the same thing.

Their behavior troubled her.  She couldn’t put her finger on it.  It wasn’t just their abandonment but their reaction to the whole thing.  Lara would spend her sleepless night trying to pinpoint her unease, and always she would remember what she had overheard from Lord Beckinsale’s servant.  The woman had pointed at Lara and said to the maid beside her, “That there is Lara Croft, the daughter of Amelia Croft—you know, the one that supposedly died in a plane crash.”

The emphasis of that statement perplexed her.  When she would give up on trying to answer that question, another one arose.  It was accompanied by a nagging fear—did her father blame her?  Is that why he ignored her?

He never said he did, but why did he turn away from her when she needed him most?

Lara got out of bed, careful to do it quietly.  Miss Grey was a light sleeper and kept a vigilant ear out for her charge.

She decided that a nice, refreshing dip in the swimming pool would be a welcome diversion.  She would let herself drift to the bottom and hold her breath until she couldn’t anymore.

The grandfather clocked tolled, as if tattling on her for being out of bed.  When the last of the chimes died away, Lara heard her father sobbing.  The door to the study was ajar, and a small stream of light peered through the door.

Lara cautiously approached and looked in.  Her father was sitting down, his back to her, his head in his hands.  His shoulders quivered with his sobs.

“Father?”

He started.  As he turned, his heel slipped on some papers on the floor.  He saved himself from falling.  It gave him an excuse to compose himself and dry his tears.

“Oh, Lara,” he sniffed, then coughed, “What are you doing out of bed at this hour, child?”

Lara entered, drawing closer.  She went to embrace him, but his sharp cry stopped her.  She had almost upset a pile of papers.

“Careful, Lara! Those papers are important! I don’t want them to get lost.”

“Yes, father.”  She had pulled back her hands.

“Well, what is it then?”

“I…I heard you crying.  Are you all right?”

“I wasn’t….Yes, I am all right.  I was just disappointed.  I thought I had a good lead, but it was another dead end.”

Lara didn’t say anything, not surprised.  There was an awkward pause.  Then he sniffed and sighed, “We are going to find her,” then more softly, he repeated, “We will find her…and we will bring her home.”

Lara could not stop her facial muscles from expressing the skepticism she did not say aloud, “Yes, father.”

“Well, go to bed, Lara.  You need your sleep.”

“Yes, father.”

*   *   *   *   *

Present Day

The study was dark and empty.  There was nothing here but memories.  She looked around in the darkness.  Her eyes rested on the chair her father had spent most nights in after her mother’s disappearance.  The cushion still retained an imprint of his sitting form, and sometimes she could still smell his cologne and sweat on the back.

But she didn’t come in here often.  She remembered how the study had been perpetually littered with papers when her father was alive.  He ordered the servants, even Winston, not to enter and clean it.  He was so fearful that his chaotic order would be destroyed.  He had even barred Lara from visiting him.

After he had died, Lara had asked Winston to clean up the study.  She had told him to just burn the papers.  Winston had wisely saved and organized them, and they had contained vital information she had needed much later.

The side of her mouth turned up in a slight smile.  She remembered Winston’s reaction when he had found what he had at first mistook for a rock—and then realized that it was a moldy croissant.  Her father had become just as bad as Miss Havisham.

The thought made her smile turn into a pained grimace.  She turned and shut the door behind her.  If only she could shut the door on her memories as easily.

*   *   *   *   *

Present Day

The gym echoed with Lara’s grunts as she jabbed the punching bag.  The sweat pouring down her face fooled her mind into believing that all the moisture came from her pores.  There were, though, tears trailing down her face as well as perspiration.

Feeling heady, she allowed herself to collapse on a nearby mat.  The lights on the ceiling spun and blurred.  As her breath slowed, she allowed her eyes to close.  Exhaustion allowed denied sleep to come, but it also allowed her memories to intrude.

*   *   *   *   *

Two years after the Himalayan plane crash

“Oh, Lara! Not again!”

Two years had passed, and twelve year old Lara had sprouted.  She had always been active, but athletics helped her deal with her emotional pain.  She used the churning inside to feed her muscles into performing gymnastic feats.  As a result, the baby fat had melted away to be replaced by hard muscle.

She was physically developing in other ways, much to her consternation.  She wanted to become an adult, of course, though she didn’t want to become the lady Miss Danvers had tried to force her to become.  She was horrified, though, by how her breasts kept increasing in size.  She had tried taping them down, hoping it would discourage their growth.  All that happened was that she fainted because she couldn’t breathe.

“Can’t I get them chopped off?” she had asked Winston.

Winston had coughed and shuffled in discomfiture, then replied that he thought that was a tad drastic, “Our bodies go through embarrassing stages, Lara…but we tend to appreciate…ah…the outcome…later.”

Winston prided himself on being not only a butler but a confidante to the Croft family.  Still, he sometimes wished that there was a female presence that Lara trusted that she could go to with some of the questions he found awkward to answer.  Lara, though, seemed to have a problem forming new relationships since her mother’s disappearance, despite her loneliness.  Though she missed her mother terribly, she also tended to act particularly hostile towards women.

When her father had sent her away to boarding school, the headmistress Miss Danvers and several of the teachers had tried to take the motherless girl under their wing.  Lara had stubbornly refused their friendship.  So when she started her period, it was Winston that she called because she feared she was bleeding internally.  And Winston had to give another embarrassing explanation while being stared at intently by the cook and the sniggering scullery maid.

When he had hung up the phone on that conversation, he had recalled some advice a well-known child psychologist had once written in his book, “The most important thing, parents—whatever you do, don’t die.  Your children will never forgive you.”

Lara had become an angry young girl whose foul mouth and fists got her into repeated trouble.  She also ran away quite often.  Miss Danvers had tried to be patient and understanding, knowing Lara’s story.  Though her hand often itched to use the cane, she had tried other methods of discipline.  However, Lara was becoming more out of control.

Part of it was due to her precocious physical development.  Aside from the hormones, her breasts were being noticed by her peers—girls and boys—as well as some older men.  It caused everyone to treat her even more strangely than they had been since her mother’s death.

The stares of older men made her uncomfortable and frightened her.  She knew they wanted something from her.  She didn’t know exactly what, only that she didn’t want to give it to them.  The girls started spreading rumors that she was a slut.  The boys, who had used to tease her for being a tomboy now gladly tackled her so they could cop a feel or give her a painful pinch.

However, Lara finally had found out why people were acting so strangely about her mother’s death.

She had been a loner at the school.  She often spent her free hours roaming the grounds.  Her upper body strength allowed her to climb to an alcove hidden in some large stones that decorated the property.  The other students tended to prefer the gardens, and so usually Lara was left alone—which was just the way she liked it.

One day, though, a group of girls had intruded upon her sanctuary.  They did not realize that she was there, and so she became privy about what was being said behind her back.

Lara’s cheeks burned with anger and humiliation as she discovered she was the topic of the group’s conversation.  First, they discussed how gross she was with her big boobs.  She looked like the Hunchback of Notre Dame.  They talked about all the boys that snuck into the dormitory at night to see her.  Some of them were poor and from the bad side of the tracks.  They often smelled and had no teeth.

“I don’t know why Miss Danvers hasn’t expelled her already,” Patricia Longsworth-Darthmonde said, who was the main instigator of the vicious rumors.  Patricia had been jealous of the attention that the headmistress had been paying to Lara.  The product of two important society families, which bestowed upon her a hyphenated surname, Patricia was used to a lot of attention.  She became Lara’s tormentor, but her verbal attacks worsened when Lara also was the object of her father’s attention when he had visited Patricia.  Lara personally had found the man’s interest creepy, which made Patricia’s envy even more annoying.

“They feel sorry for her,” a girl named Irene replied.  Irene had been friendly to Lara at the beginning of the year, but when Patricia had allowed her to join the popular clique, Irene had cut her association with the outcast out of social survival.  She actually liked Lara better than her new friends—but if you weren’t part of the popular group, you were victimized by them.  Irene wasn’t strong enough to be a rebel like Lara.

“It isn’t like she is the only one who has a mother who has died,” another girl complained, “or even the only one who has lost someone in a plane crash.”

“”That isn’t what really happened,” Patricia leaned forward, relishing in a new attack, “Her father murdered her mother.”

The other girls gasped.

“No, he didn’t!” Irene protested, “I mean, I don’t know if she died in the plane crash—but she did die in the Himalayas.  I heard a story that she actually survived the plane crash, but she died when she got lost in the snow while looking for help.  In any case, it was just a horrible accident.  It wasn’t murder.”

“That is the story he told to cover it up,” Patricia flipped her hair, “I heard my parents talking about it.  They said that Amelia Croft was never in the Himalayas.  They said that Mr. Croft murdered his wife.  They said that Lara witnessed the whole thing, and she went crazy.  She convinced herself that her mother died in a plane crash because she couldn’t handle the fact that her father had killed her mother.  He had her help him chop up the body and bury the body parts all around Croft Manor.”

The other girls ewwed in disgust.

Patricia’s voice dropped down to a whisper, “They say that Amelia Croft haunts Croft Manor.  On cold nights, the servants claim they hear Amelia’s arm scratching behind the wall, trying to claw its way out.  Her arm wishes to reunite with the other body parts so it can have its revenge against her husband.”

Patricia suddenly grabbed a wide-eyed Irene, who screamed in terror.  The other girls screamed in response, then laughed.

A volcano of emotion bubbled in Lara’s gut as she listened to the story.  At the conclusion, it erupted into rage.  Lara fell on Patricia Longsworth-Darthmonde and began hitting her with her fists.  The other girls squealed in terror and ran away.  Patricia tried to follow them, but Lara refused to relinquish her.

By the time the teachers had got to them, Patricia had lost consciousness.  Lara screamed senselessly and had to be held down by three teachers.  Patricia’s nose was bloodied and both eyes were black.  Several teeth had been knocked loose from her cut lip.  Most of her face was bruised.  She had a broken jaw and a concussion.

Miss Danvers was no longer sympathetic.  Lara was immediately expelled, and Patricia’s father brought a lawsuit against the Crofts.

On the return trip home with a silent Winston, Lara had reflected on the story Patricia had told.  She didn’t think Patricia had conceived it on her own, though the girl was mean-spirited enough.  However, Lara had heard some strange comments since her mother’s disappearance.   She realized that the reason why people had reacted the way they did is because they hadn’t believed the explanation about Amelia’s disappearance.  They believed her father had killed her mother.

Lara could not see how anyone could possibly believe that when prior to this happening, everyone had always commented on what a devoted couple the Crofts were.  It was rare in high society.

Perhaps it was sour grapes.  It wasn’t uncommon for the wealthy to fly in their own planes, and of course there had been accidents in the past that had taken lives.

What troubled them, though, was the fact that her body was never recovered.  There were also conflicting stories.  At first, Mr. Croft had claimed that his wife had searched for help and had gotten lost in a snowstorm.  Another story was that the plane had torn apart before impact, and she had been sucked out and lost.

Another thing they had a hard time believing was how Lara had survived the supposed trek down the treacherous Himalayas.  It was a difficult accomplishment to believe of a ten year old girl when skilled mountain climbers often lost their lives on those same mountains.  Lara had also been inadequately clothed, without supplies, without food, and had no idea where she was going.

Many people believe there had been no trip to Nepal, and that Amelia Croft had never left home.  The mental and physical deterioration they had observed in Mr. Croft only justified their opinions.  He had once been what he liked to say “pleasantly plump.”  His irregular eating habits and constant worry had made him sinewy.  His hair had grown out and was often unkempt.  He had grown an equally unruly beard.  His hair had streaks of white.  He often went without bathing and wore the same clothes for days on end.  His eyes were sunken and hollow, often blood-shot.  They burned with an intense fire and had a certain wildness in them.  He had acquired several nervous tics, and he often muttered to himself.

He acted like a madman.  Even Lara could not dispute this as he paced before her in agitation.

Then there was the incident where he had given a lecture and revealed that he believed that the legend of Atlantis was real—that an evolved race of beings, who possibly had come from another planet had been responsible for building the pyramids and had possibly created humans.  He believed they were the source of all ancient legends.  He begged for the other historians to help him in his quest, telling them that his wife had been lost when she had unwittingly activated one of their artifacts, which he believed transported her somewhere.

Of course, nobody believed him.

“Lord Croft has lost his bloody mind,” they had said.  Some felt sorry for him, but most dismissed him in derision.  Lord Croft had murdered his wife and chopped her up, then he went mad with regret.  Or maybe he had gone crazy first, and that was why he had killed her.

This destroyed whatever social standing they had left.  Whatever doubt there had been in their favor had disappeared.  It was a good thing that Lara never cared about becoming a society lady, for no one wanted to marry a duchess who had an insane father that had chopped up her mother and scattered her remains around the grounds like some demented Easter bunny.

“You have got to stop getting into fights, Lara!” her father stopped abruptly before her, his voice pleading.  He got on his knees and placed his hands on her shoulders, “I know it has been difficult-”

“Everybody thinks you killed mother.”

He slowly nodded, then said quietly, “I know.  They think I’m a lunatic, and some of my behavior admittedly gives them reason to believe that.  It is painful that all our friends have quitted us and believe horrible things…but Lara, you can’t go around assaulting people because they believe bad things or say hurtful things about you.  We are not barbarians.”

Lara was not inclined to agree with him.  If people were so civilized, they wouldn’t condemn her father on circumstantial evidence.

“It is going to be all right.”

Lara rolled her eyes.

“I know I’ve said this before, but you have to believe me! We are going to find her, I promise you! We’ll bring her home, and everyone will learn the truth.”

“Father, she’s dead!” Lara cried, “Why can’t you accept that?”

The hands loosened on her shoulders, and his eyes became distant, “You believe she is dead on as little evidence as people believe that I killed her.”

He walked away.

*   *   *   *   *

Present Day

Lara gasped, sitting up abruptly.  She sighed, putting her hand to her head.  Outside, the sun had risen, and the birds were singing merrily.

“Another bad night?” Winston’s voice startled her.  She looked up to see him framing the entrance.

“Yeah.”

Winston normally never disturbed her in the gym.  Nobody did.  It was too dangerous.  She did not use safety nets, and a break in her concentration could have resulted in a deadly fall.

There had only been one other time when she had found him standing in the entrance.  That was the day he told her that there had been a tragic accident, and her father was dead.

Lara had perfected by then a mask that hid her emotions.  It was so successful that many people believed her incapable of feeling anything.  The only person who saw Lara behind her mask was Winston, and that was why she felt comfortable sobbing in his arms until she fell asleep.  He carried her to her room and put her to bed.  Then he went to change his shirt, which had gotten quite wet.

Her father had been excited when he had found someone who had believed his ideas about Atlantis.  More importantly, Jacqueline Natla had uncovered some interesting artifacts that seemed to prove their theory.  However, she wanted more solid proof before they revealed their discovery to the world.  This would protect them from ridicule as well as from those who would believe them and wish to possess the knowledge for themselves.

The last several years, Lara rarely saw her father.  Yet, he wrote to her frequently.  He never talked much about what he was doing, but he kept repeating the same empty promise, “We are much closer to finding your mother.”

The last four months before his death, she had noticed that his letters had gotten more guarded.  She had wondered if he hadn’t had a falling out with Natla.

Lara had inherited her parents’ love for archaeology.  Through studying the ancient past, she could revisit a happier time in her childhood.

Though she believed her mother was dead, she had wondered about the dais that had destroyed her.  Lara didn’t believe her father’s ideas about Atlantis were crazy.  The dais has obviously been built by an advanced culture, and she could even believe they had come from another galaxy.

She felt guilty when her father had died.  She had believed that he had abandoned her, but was she the one that had abandoned him?  She regretted for not being more supportive.

As a form of repentance, she started pursuing his studies.  She abandoned it for a while after the disaster at Paraiso.  She had been a green archaeology student then, and the brush with the supernatural entity that had killed all her friends had cowed her.

However, she continued to develop her skills and became accustomed to the supernatural as she became a more experienced Tombraider.  When Anaya presented her with another lead, she felt ready to pursue the mystery that had destroyed her family.

She had felt awful when she discovered that Amanda hadn’t died at Paraiso.  Her guilt took a leave of absence when she discovered that it had been Amanda’s voice her mother had heard saying to pull out the sword.  It was easier to shift the blame onto Amanda for something that she had blamed herself for years for.

Yet, as time went on, her anger thawed.  She had abandoned Amanda at Paraiso.  Amanda had unintentionally been responsible for Amelia’s disappearance.  Amanda never understood Lara’s reasons for not rescuing her at Paraiso.  Lara had to admit she couldn’t blame her.  After all, she had held a grudge against Von Croy for years when she thought he had abandoned her in Egypt.

When she realized it was possible that her mother might indeed still be alive, her feelings were mixed.  Part of her was ecstatic.  Yet, it was painful too.  She felt like she had betrayed both her parents:  her father for not believing in him, and her mother for giving up hope that she could have survived.  It had been easier to believe she was dead than to go through life not knowing.

*   *   *   *   *

Nine years after the Himalayan plane crash

“Amanda is very nice,” Anaya said as she and Lara had their tea in Anaya’s room, “but I’m surprised she is someone that would be a friend of yours.”

Lara smiled, “What type of friends do you expect me to have?  Are you even the sort that you would imagine as my friend?”

“That’s different,” Anaya grinned, “you need me.”

Lara groaned.  Anaya was right.  Lara needed her to help her through mathematics.

Lara was still a loner, but she did keep on friendly terms with some of her classmates.  Still, she could see why people were surprised that she and Amanda had become the best of friends.

Amanda was very innocent, very credulous.  She was full of enthusiasm and rather hyper.  People laughed at her, though not unkindly because she was very sweet and child-like.  Still, she believed in impossible things that she read in her occult books.

“She’s comforting,” Lara finally said.

Anaya’s eyebrows arched.  She had a hard time seeing how jittery Amanda could be comforting.  It was something that Lara wouldn’t be able to explain until many years later.

She remembered their first meeting.  Amanda had tripped and had fallen into Lara, accidentally grabbing a soft mound on Lara’s chest, which had caused the girl to turn beet red and stutter an apology.  Though this incident was memorable in itself, it had been the whiff of gardenias that had flooded Lara’s nostrils as the girl had righted herself that had caught her attention.  It was like a tap on the shoulder from her past that said, “I am always with you.”

Lara had buried the memories of her mother so successfully that she had forgotten the association with her perfume.

*   *   *   *   *

Helheim

She had prepared herself for the fact that her mother might have still died.  She did believe it was possible she had survived, but there was still no saying that she had.  Even if she had, there was no saying that Amelia hadn’t died in the years that followed.

Lara had also prepared herself that her mother might have become bitter, believing she had been abandoned.  She also prepared herself that she might never know what her mother’s fate had been.

When she saw her mother standing at the edge of the walkway, the little girl in her wanted to run up to her and throw her arms around her.  At that angle, she couldn’t see her mother clearly.  Her Tombraider instincts had restrained those of her inner child.  She didn’t trust Natla not to play some trick or to have poisoned her mother’s mind against her.  She had approached her cautiously, calling out to her.

For all the possibilities she had considered, she had never imagined the one that wound up being the reality—her mother had become a thrall.

She stared in horror as her mother turned and faced her, revealing the rotting flesh on the damaged side of her body.  The creature tottered towards her, and Lara’s heart wrenched when her mother’s perfume wafted to her nose—the comforting smell of gardenias with the dreadful smell of decaying flesh.

Her instincts took over as her fingers repeatedly pulled the triggers of her pistols, filling the creature up with lead until the horror fell off the ledge.

*   *   *   *   *

Returning home from Helheim

In the peaceful quiet of the Himalayan Mountains, Lara had plenty of time to think about what had happened.  Her hopes that her mother was still alive had been crushed painfully, and she was relieved that her father had never lived long enough to meet with this disappointment.

Sometimes she asked herself, “Did I do the right thing?”

A part of her had never given much thought about the thralls.  She realized that the armies of Romans and King Arthur’s men who had gone seeking what was on the other side of the looking glass had met the same grisly fate.  It was the remains of those armies that she had fought while uncovering the mystery of what had happened to her mother.  It had been easier, though, to view the thralls as supernatural creatures than zombies who had once been real people.  In the past, there probably had been other children like her, whose parent had disappeared in a flash of light.  Maybe more fortunate than her, those children never knew what their fathers had become—a creature that was neither living nor dead.

Thralls, though, sometimes exhibited human characteristics that worried Lara’s concepts about how much of the original person’s thought process remained.  Most thralls seemed mindless.

Still, there had been a few….She remembered a thrall who had seemed so delighted at finding a carton of cigarettes that had been left behind by Amanda’s men.  The thrall had remained perched on the platform it had been guarding.  It hadn’t bothered going after Lara while she remained on the lower level, searching for the key that unlocked the door that the thrall was guarding.  It had watched her calmly while it smoked the cigarettes.

She remembered having a fit of the giggles when she thought, “Well, I guess it doesn’t have to worry about lung cancer.”

When she had alighted on its perch, the thrall had gotten up.  It took one last luxurious drag on the cigarette before it attacked her.

It seems a kind thing to destroy these creatures, to end their miserable existence.  Yet, it tormented Lara to wonder if a part of her mother’s consciousness had survived.  She recalled that the creature had looked like it was reaching out towards her.  Of course, it could have been planning on killing her.  However, she wondered if it had actually wanted to embrace her…that some memory of Lara had survived.  Would her mother understand why she had shot her, would thank her for releasing her?  Or would she think Lara had done it out of spite?

Those were the thoughts that would keep her up at night in the months to come.

*   *   *   *   *

Present Day

“I’m going to Kenya,” Lara announced as Winston entered her room.  She was packing her bags.

He looked at her closely but said nothing.  He was used to her abrupt plans.  He picked up her dirty clothes that never seem to make it into the hamper.

“I’ll make the necessary preparations,” he finally said.

She sighed and closed her eyes.  She pictured rolling plains with zebras, elephants, and lions.  Tomorrow she would be sleeping under the stars in a tent.  Her mind would be focused on hunting down a legendary amulet.

And if her mind drifted to her family at all, it would dwell on the pleasant memories of her childhood…a time before the wild expression had entered her father’s eyes, and he was still pleasantly plump.  A time when the flesh of her mother was living and warm, and she smelled of gardenias whenever she gently kissed Lara’s forehead.