The Despairing Posture of His Fall - Part V

Part I here.
Part II here.
Part III here.
Part IV here.

The Despairing Posture of his Fall
by
driftglass

Part V

...
Unbidden, that scrap of verse came to me and I had to ask, “Was it me?” Oh God, could your plan be so malign as to shape me towards an end this perverse? Was it I who sent him down another road? Had my apparition at that moment pushed him, somehow, to become the man I hated?

I had plotted carefully to take my time and exercise my plan over many snowbound nights. Now, in a fury I cannot describe other than demoniacal, I resolved to accomplish it all before dawn.

I threw myself into the next step.

Hurriedly I changed into the shapeless, workingman’s clothing of the period, thankfully not very different from my own. I tidied up my appearance and it was then I noticed blood flowing rather freely from my nose. A handkerchief and a bit of snow snatched from outside put an end to that. I stuffed the chemicals I had selected for my task deep into my vest, and then transferred from the pockets of my modern clothes into the pockets of my vintage wear the little bit of gold coinage I had managed to collect. I slipped my knife into my boot and began to work on the machine.

This time I was perfectly precise in my calculations and landed exactly where and when I intended. As further insurance against accident, I set the return mechanism to five hours: whatever strait I may find myself in, this would afford me ample time to succeed in my mission, should I find him, and an automatic means of escape should I, for some unforeseeable reason, be unable to activate the emergency return mechanism.

He would be forty, just on the verge of his greatest work, and traveling alone.

He would disappear for several days to visit Baltimore and walk again down the streets he had shared with his beloved wife. He would move anonymously through the places of his past and reflect on his life and here, historians agree, is where he took the first, tiny steps towards cleansing his hag-ridden soul.

Except I knew precisely where he would be.

I caught up with him at a tavern where he sat quietly, alone, in a corner. I knew he did not want to be recognized so I slipped up to his table.

I told him that I was a great admirer and asked if I might have the honor of buying my favorite author a drink. He did not object. We sipped our ales and after some initial shyness (which I did not expect), I began to speak with equal parts passion and eloquence of both his poetry and his prose. He was impressed and flattered, and after a time, and several drinks, we moved on to another tavern.

He noticed en route that I had begun bleeding again and made a fuss of it, suggesting that we make an appointment for some other time, although he allowed as how he did enjoy such grand conversation.

Knowing of his terrible fear of blood, especially of consumption, I explained that I had recently been in a scrape and had been bleeding at the nose for a day or two. He still expressed concern.

“Enough. The cough is a mere nothing,” I said, improvising quickly, alluding to one of his own works with a sly smile while holding my nose firmly and tilting my head back. “It will not kill me. I shall not die of a cough.”
...