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Here Comes a Candle
Part 3
a Gundam Wing Faerie Tale
by Krista Perry
Notes: 2+H, TWT (Timeline? What Timeline?), Alt. Universe,
violence, lime, disturbing themes, less-than-pure language
~*~
"Here comes a candle to light you to bed
And here comes a chopper to chop off your head."
- A bedtime nursery rhyme
~*~
Sharon gasped as the wet, freezing, long-haired boy
collapsed against her in an unconscious heap. The protective
instinct that flowed through her overrode her immediate suspicion
at his unusual appearance, and she scooped him up into her arms,
wincing as the icy water that drenched him soaked her as well.
As she lifted him, she couldn't believe how light he was. He was
so slight of frame that, were it not for the chill weight of his
sopping hair and clothes, she doubted he would weigh more than
six or seven stone.
Curiouser and curiouser...
She looked down at his pale, young face -- appalled at how
she could feel the cold coming off him in waves -- and took quick
note that his ears were not in the least bit pointed, though that
would hardly matter if her suspicions were correct. Disguises
and glamours were common amongst the fey folk, if the legends
were true.
But that was half the problem, wasn't it? She didn't know
which legends were true, and which ones weren't. Too much time
had passed, and too much knowledge had been lost.
But no matter *what* this boy was, he was in trouble, and
she couldn't just shove him back out into the storm without
knowing the truth. That he was still shivering was a good sign,
all things considering. For one thing, it meant that he might be
human, and if that was the case, it also meant that his
hypothermia wasn't so severe that he would die from it... yet.
On the other hand, the whole thing might just be an
elaborate trick -- a ploy to get past the defenses of the local
order of druids, on the eve before the Winter Solstice sealing
ritual...
*Tis the season to be paranoid,* she thought.
The boy moaned, shivering convulsively in her arms, and her
indecisiveness galvanized into resolve.
"Agnes," she called over to the tavern owner, a plump,
elderly woman who stood behind the bar, a half-filled pint
hanging forgotten in her hand. "The spare room--"
"By all means, love," the woman said, as she peered at the
trembling figure huddled in Sharon's arms. "And there are dry
towels in the bathroom cupboards, and warm blankets in the linen
closet." She clucked her tongue. "Why, the poor thing's
practically blue, out in this bitter weather and soaked to the
skin! I'll make some of my special soup--"
"Hot coco," Sharon said. "He'll need something warm and
sweet, with calories, to bring up his core temperature. But if
you could add some of your special ingredients..."
Agnes grinned and winked. "I'm on it, love. We'll have the
poor thing fixed up in a jiffy."
Sharon nodded gratefully, and headed for the narrow wooden
staircase in the corner of the pub. Neville followed her
closely, his face creased with worry. As the high druid, he
*should* be worried, she thought, and she was glad that he
apparently shared her suspicions.
It wasn't every day, after all, that a strange, fey-looking
boy appeared out of the night, with silent Fox Fire flashing
amidst the storm not an hour before. Aside from the boy's
slender build, and his impossibly long hair, the memory of his
large, violet eyes wouldn't leave her. Though his eyes were now
closed, thick lashes dark against his pale skin, and his thin,
shivering body was solid in her arms, he still seemed...
ethereal.
And all this, with the foreboding premonitions of days past,
and Winter Solstice only a day away...
"I don't suppose you have any cold-forged iron on you, do
you?" she whispered to Neville as she trudged up the stairs with
her burden. "Just in case this is a trap?"
"Sorry, left all my cold-forged iron in my other pants," he
muttered back.
"Damn."
"What can I say? This crap wasn't supposed to start
happening until tomorrow night."
Sharon glanced at him. "Weren't we supposed to keep it from
happening all together?"
Neville sighed.
At the top of the stairs was the spare room that Agnes kept
in her apartment above the pub as a place for recovery on the
very rare occasion when she misjudged a patron's tolerance for
alcohol. Rather than allowing them to drive home, or even
stumble their way on foot, she insisted that they sleep it off in
the comfort of her own spare bedroom, which she kept decorated in
classic Victorian.
Neville opened the door. Sharon sidled her way in, then
carefully placed the shivering, wet boy on the bed. She turned,
only to find Neville already there again, shoving a handful of
Agnes's large fluffy white towels into her hand.
"Have you looked?" he asked.
"Just a second," she said. And as she turned back to the
boy, wrapping a towel around his head and squeezing the moisture
out of the thick locks, she peered into his blue-tinged face and
looked, not with her eyes, but with her Sight...
... and gasped.
"What do you see?" asked Neville, at her shoulder. His red
beard still dripped with sleet, just from the brief effort of
closing the door against the storm, and his gray eyes were
serious and apprehensive. "Is he..?"
"No," said Sharon. "He's human. But... he's been Touched."
"Bloody hell." Neville stepped back and pressed his thumb
and forefinger against the bridge of his nose. "Okay. Are you
absolutely sure?"
"I'm just going from what I see, and what the book says
about it," Sharon said. "And that's what it looks like to me.
If you don't believe me, why don't you see for yourself?"
"Because I'm trying to save up my energy for tomorrow
night," Neville replied. "And, from the look of things, I'm
going to need every last scrap of it, if we've already got
Touched children showing up on our doorstep, and Solstice still
over a day away."
"Yes, of course" Sharon agreed, apologetic. "Sorry."
"How bad is it?"
"I don't know. Bad." Sharon's mouth pinched in a severe
frown as she worked to dry the boy off as much as possible,
focusing on wringing the water from the hair that remained in his
thick braid. Most of his hair had come loose in the storm, and
spread about him like a curtain of wet silk. She had never seen
anyone with such long hair, and of such a rich color and
texture... In spite of his black jeans and leather jacket, he
already half-looked like a thing of Faerie. It was no wonder he
had been Touched.
"From what I could see," she continued, "it could be
madness, it could be a claiming, it could be a curse... I can't
tell, really. The Good Folk haven't been around for over two
thousand years, and the book generalizes a lot, so you can't
expect me to do a detailed analysis of their handiwork. We
barely know what we're dealing with here as it is." She sighed
in frustration, and threw her soaked towel onto the floor.
"Anyway, we can worry about that later. Touched or not, he's
human, and he's going to freeze to death at this rate. Here,
help me get his clothes off."
Neville nodded. "Right. Then, once he's back on his feet,
maybe he can give us some answers about what's happening, so we
can know more of what it is we're up against."
Sharon reached behind the boy, and lifted him up by his
shoulders, then held him gently by the back of his head and neck,
so that Neville could remove the leather jacket.
As she did, the shivering boy groaned and stirred, his eyes
blinking open groggily.
"H... Hilde?" he whispered, struggling to sit up on his own.
"Shh." Sharon grabbed a dry towel and carefully wiped the
icy water dripping from his hair into face. "You're safe. We're
going to help you, so just relax."
"There... was a big b-black d-dog..." His eyes were
unfocused, and his words slurred slightly.
"A dog?" Neville asked.
To Sharon's surprise, the boy grinned and laughed a little,
even as he shivered. "A dog f-from Hell. Huge. B-big as a damn
horse w-with t-teeth like knives and r-red eyes that glowed in
the f-freakin' d-dark."
Sharon exchanged an alarmed glance with Neville.
They both knew the legends of the Barghest, the Black Dog.
The legends that said that anyone who saw the Dog would die soon
after the encounter. And the boy had just described the monster
perfectly.
"What happened?" Neville asked, feigning calm as he pulled
off the boy's black leather jacket -- and then froze, staring
wide-eyed at the gun resting comfortably in the shoulder holster
against the boy's side. Sharon saw it too, and blinked, stunned.
"I sh-shot it." The shivering boy laughed again, and it
wasn't a healthy sound. "S-sent it b-back to Hell. S'what I do.
S-send 'em all back t-t-to Hell."
"Um. That's... good," Sharon said hesitantly, suddenly
afraid for more than one reason. The kid was Touched, he had
seen a Barghest, and he was freezing to death. On top of that,
he carried a gun, and now, a rather frightening gleam lit his
unfocused eyes. She knew she had to get him out of his wet
clothes, but the task had just become dangerous. She looked up
at Neville, and saw the same thoughts in his expression.
She would have to handle this carefully. "Are you cold?"
she asked.
Blank violet eyes turned in her direction, even as the boy's
shivering intensified, as if the reminder alone made it worse.
His voice sounded small and lost for a moment, as he curled in on
himself. "I... n-need to make a ph-phone c-call."
That was the second time he'd said that, in the midst of his
hypothermia-induced delirium. At least, she hoped it was the
hypothermia talking, and not a madness induced by the touch of
Faerie. Hypothermia she could deal with. "You can make a phone
call," she said, as gently as possible. "But first you have to
let me help you. You have to let me get your wet clothes off, so
that you can get dry and warm, okay?"
When he didn't respond, she reached out slowly, towards the
holster that would have to come off before his red t-shirt. She
touched his shoulder--
--and found herself staring down the barrel of the pistol
that had been in the holster a moment before. The boy's eyes
were wild as he pushed himself away from her on the bed with his
legs, while pointing the gun at her with trembling arms. "Y-
you're n-not Hilde," he snarled, his teeth still chattering.
"Shit," swore Neville, startled at how fast the boy was, and
he stumbled back a step before tripping and falling on his rump.
Sharon found that her hands were instinctively in the air in a
surrendering posture, and that her mouth had gone bone dry.
"Wh-who are you?" he demanded. "Where th-the hell am I?"
"Wait," she said, with a calm she didn't feel as she tried
to force some moisture into her mouth. "I... I'm not going to
hurt you. My name is Sharon Shea, and that's Neville Winston."
Names had power, she knew, and if she gave the boy their names,
it would create trust where there was none. "We just want to
help you. Right, Neville?"
"Right," said Neville, from his awkward position on the
floor. "Sharon and I want to help." He knew the importance of
using names as well.
Uncertainty flickered in the boy's fevered eyes, but the gun
remained remarkably steady, for all that he was shaking like a
leaf. "Are y-you w-with OZ?"
Sharon suppressed the panicked urge to look over at Neville.
If this kid was an OZ soldier, they were in deep trouble. The
last thing they needed was to attract the military's attention to
themselves, especially at this crucial point in time.
"No," said Neville, who hadn't moved since he'd fallen to
the floor. "We're not with OZ. We are just civilians. But we
want to help you."
"I d-don't need y-your help," the boy responded stubbornly,
but the wild gleam was fading, and he seemed a bit more lucid.
"I j-just need to u-use the ph-phone and g-get out of-h-here."
"Listen," Sharon said, as reasonably as possible. "You were
out in the storm. You have severe hypothermia, and if we don't
get you warmed up and raise your core temperature, you could die.
Let us take care of you, and you can use the phone later, okay?"
Her words seemed to reach him. His eyes cleared a little,
and the trembling arms that held the gun lowered slightly.
"Y-you're n-not w-with OZ?" he asked.
"No," said Neville. "We are not with OZ." After a moment,
he added, "We don't have anything to do with them."
Sharon was surprised that Neville would say such a thing,
until she saw wariness warring with relief in the boy's
expression.
So, Neville had guessed it. The boy wasn't an OZ soldier
after all, but part of the Rebellion.
"How d-do I know y-you're n-not lying?" he asked.
"You don't," she said. "You'll just have to trust us."
And with that, he looked directly into her face. His
blue-violet eyes, though still glazed with illness, pierced her
with their intensity. But, she noticed to her relief, there was
no madness in them.
After a long moment of burning scrutiny, the boy lowered the
gun. "Ok-kay then," he said, "I w-will." And then, all the
tension seemed to drain out of him, and he sagged limply against
the wall. Still shivering, he offered her a weak, apologetic
grin. "I f-feel l-like shit anyway."
Sharon laughed in spite of herself. The sudden release of
tension left her feeling light-headed, and slightly off-balance.
She wanted to ask him if he remembered talking about the
Black Dog, since he seemed to be much more lucid after his little
adrenaline rush. Instead, she said, "You're an excellent judge
of character."
The boy snorted, but was too exhausted to make another
reply. It seemed as though, having decided that he was not among
enemies, the fight-or-flight instinct had left him. She hoped
that wouldn't mean he would slip back into the semi-delirious
state that had gripped him earlier. But he had spent precious
heat and energy, and was once again struggling to stay conscious.
He didn't even protest when she reached over and removed his
shoulder holster, and then pulled his sopping red t-shirt off
over his head.
He was wearing a small gold crucifix on a chain underneath
the shirt. She raised an eyebrow at it.
"Christian?" she asked.
"N-not really," he muttered, as another violent shiver
wracked his slender frame. "It's a... m-memento."
Which was too bad, she thought. She wasn't Christian, but
faith of any kind was a good weapon. And in her experience,
symbols of faith were effective tools at warding off the
otherworldly only in as much as the wearer had faith in the
symbol. Still, she couldn't help but notice, as she removed the
cross from around his neck, how he tracked it with anxious eyes
as she put it carefully on the night stand next to the bed.
It was only went she went to unzip his jeans that he stopped
her with a shaking hand.
"Uh..." he said, holding her wrist. From the flustered look
on his face, she half expected him to blush, had his freezing
body been capable of it.
Sharon found his embarrassment terribly cute. Now that he
wasn't waving a gun in her face, she found the boy amazingly
likable, in a little-brother sort of way. "Sorry," she said,
business-like, to cover the smile tugging at her mouth, "but it's
all got to go."
The boy rolled his eyes. "J-jeeze, can't a g-guy have
s-some p-privacy?" he moaned.
"Not if the guy is on the verge of freezing to death. And
I'd let you do it yourself, if you could, but you're not supposed
to be moving at all. At least not until your core temperature
rises, and you've already wasted heat and energy with your little
firearm fiasco."
He scowled, but fortunately had enough sense to realize she
was only being practical. He collapsed back onto the bed, and
stuck his tongue out at her. "F-fine, strip away." He closed
his eyes, too weary to argue further. After a moment, he said,
"S-sorry about th-that, b-by the way."
He was apologizing for the gun, she realized, and not the
tongue. "I'm just glad you didn't shoot."
"W-well," he said, without opening his eyes. Another
violent tremor shook him. "You guys d-don't feel l-like OZ."
Sharon looked over at Neville, who had been strangely silent
for a while. "Give me a hand here, would you?" she asked. "Get
his shoes off, so I can take off his pants."
The shivering boy in the bed snorted a weak laugh. "T-there
are so m-many good c-comebacks t-to that, I c-can't pick one."
"Hush, you." Sharon again stifled a smile, as she tugged
the wet jeans down around the boy's hips, to reveal a pair of
simple black boxer shorts, as Neville pulled the shoes off his
feet. "You don't know me well enough to be saying such things."
"So says the w-woman t-taking off my pants," he quipped
back.
That clinched it. She liked the kid. Anyone who could joke
while on the verge of freezing to death was in good with her.
She glanced at Neville, and saw a smile hiding in his beard.
Once the pants were off, she covered him up with a blanket
to preserve his modesty before reaching under and snagging his
boxers. A moment later, the shorts were in her hand. "There,
that wasn't so bad, was it?"
The boy still had his eyes closed, and he looked too pale,
but he grinned a little. "Real p-professional. J-just l-like a
hospital nurse."
And Sharon wondered briefly, as she piled warm, dry blankets
on top of him, what had happened to him before to put him in a
hospital.
"Here," she said when she was through, handing the boy's
shorts to a perplexed-looking Neville. "These need to get
dried."
Neville raised an eyebrow. He already had the boy's
dripping pants, shirt and jacket draped over his arm. "Since
when did I become your maid?" he protested mildly.
Before she could respond with an adequate comeback, Agnes
bustled into the room, carrying a steaming pot in one hand, and
an empty mug and a bag of marshmallows in the other.
"Here we go," Agnes sang cheerfully, going over to sit down
on the side of the bed and setting her haul on the night stand.
The boy cracked open one eye to look at her, but he didn't
look like he was up to doing much more than that.
"Oh, love, you look terrible," she cried. Agnes was in her
element as she reached over and propped up the surprised boy,
stuffing pillows and blankets behind him. "Look at you, all
trembly and blue-lipped. Poor duck!" She impulsively kissed him
on the forehead, then gasped. "Land sakes, you're an icicle!
Why, one more hour in that weather, and I dare say we would have
found you frozen to the ground in the morning. Not to worry,
though, I've got just the thing to warm you right up from the
inside out. My *extra special* hot coco!" She winked broadly at
Sharon, and grinned.
Sharon grinned back, mostly because of the boy's reaction to
the whirlwind of motherly energy that was Agnes. Both of his
eyes were wide open now, and he regarded Agnes with a strange
mixture of amusement and trepidation. A moment latter, Agnes
held a mug of hot chocolate to his lips.
"Drink up, dearie. Not a moment to waste, if we're going to
get you back on your feet again!"
The boy sipped cautiously, casting a rather anxious glance
over at Sharon over the rim of the mug.
"This is Agnes Peabody," Sharon informed him. "Don't worry,
you're in good hands." Agnes was not only an excellent barkeep,
she was also the best potions mistress in the whole of Britain.
She had no doubt the boy would make a full recovery, after
drinking enough of Agnes's special coco.
"Sharon, love, would you tend the bar while I mind this
young one? Neville, you just leave those clothes on the chair,
I'll take care of them. And don't either of you worry none, I'll
keep you appraised of this one's progress."
Sharon was about to protest that she wanted to stay as well,
but Neville touched her elbow and nodded to the door. She looked
back at the boy, who was watching her. "I'll be back later to
check on you, okay?"
He nodded over his mug of coco.
Once they were in the hall with the door closed firmly
behind them, Neville held something out to her in his palm that
looked like a small, black golf ball.
"What's that?" Sharon asked.
"A grenade, if I'm not mistaken," Neville said. "It was in
his jacket pocket, along with several more of the same, and a few
extra clips of ammunition." He sighed, and ran his free hand
through his thinning hair. "The kid's a bloody terrorist,
Sharon."
Sharon crossed her arms over her chest. "Thanks for the
bulletin, but I figured that one out after he pulled a gun on me.
And if you asked me, a terrorist is better than an OZ soldier any
day. So what's the problem?"
"The problem is that if OZ finds him here, the ritual
tomorrow is as good as sunk."
Sharon's eyes narrowed. "What are you suggesting? That we
throw him out, on the off chance that OZ might find him?"
Neville sighed in exasperation. "I'm not suggesting any
such thing. I'm just saying that we can't afford to let anything
interfere. It may already be too late."
"Oh please." Sharon frowned severely. "You think I don't
know that? You think I don't know what's at stake here? The kid
is *Touched,* Neville. As in, by *Faerie.* Which means that
he's either going to go insane, or worse. On top of that, he's
been stalked by a freaking *Barghest,* which is as good as a
signed, sealed death warrant, according to the book." Sharon
threw her arms up in a gesture of frustration. "We were all
worried about what might happen if the seal was broken. Well,
now we don't have to wonder, do we? Now we've got the concrete
evidence that something is trying to break through. We're
druids, Neville. Guardians of the seal. It was our job to keep
something like this from happening, and we blew it, and that kid
in there is the one who is going to pay for our mistake, unless
we figure out some way to help him."
"I agree completely," Neville said.
Sharon exhaled sharply in surprise, the wind taken out of
her rant. "You do?"
"Of course. I think that it is of upmost import that we
protect the boy as best we can, since we failed to prevent his
current problems."
Sharon blinked. "Then why...?"
Neville shook his head. "He's a terrorist, Sharon. He's on
a mission of some kind, or at least he was, until he got detoured
here. He's fighting the war, and that means that as soon as he
is capable of getting up and leaving, he's going to do just that.
If you think for one moment that he's going to just sit back and
let us keep him here to protect him from some threat he doesn't
even believe in --"
"But he *does* believe," Sharon protested. "He himself said
that he saw the Barghest."
"And he's already dismissed it as some sort of nightmare, or
part of the delirium of his hypothermia. You saw how his
demeanor changed. Demon dogs were the furthest thing from his
mind by the time we left that room."
Sharon was silent, biting her lip. "You're right," she said
at last. "Damn. Why do you always have to be right?"
"Hey," Neville said, chuckling. "That's *my* line."
Sharon punched him in the shoulder.
"Ow."
"That didn't hurt, you big baby." Sharon's smile faded, and
she sighed. "We're going to have to explain things to him."
"Even if, by some amazing chance, he believes, do you think
that will stop him from leaving?"
"Probably not," she admitted. "But I like the kid. I have
to try." She sighed again. "Come on, we'd better head
downstairs before Agnes has our heads on a platter for not
tending to her patrons, like she asked."
"She asked?" said Neville, in mock surprise.
Sharon shook her head and laughed as they walked down the
stairs together.
She spent the rest of the evening standing behind the bar
and serving drinks to rowdy druids, while trying desperately to
think of the best way to convince the boy to stay.
~*~
Duo eyed the bottom of his empty mug morosely, then held it
out to Agnes with hands that, to his amazement, no longer shook
with cold. Whatever she had put in that coco was powerful stuff.
It had been less than an hour since his first cup, and he was
already feeling worlds better. Giving the elderly woman his best
puppy-eyed stare, he said, in a falsetto voice with a phoney
British accent, "Please, sir, may I have some more?"
Agnes laughed delightedly at his Oliver impression, and
ruffled his nearly-dry hair. "Aren't you just the sweetest
thing? Of course, love, have as much as you want."
Duo couldn't help grinning as she poured him another cup.
He liked this old lady. Everything about her just screamed
"grandmother." He'd never had a grandmother that he could
remember, but Agnes fit the bill of everything he thought a
grandmother should be.
There are people in the war that you fight, he thought, and
people in the war that you fight *for.* Agnes had just made the
top of his personal list for the latter.
Sipping his hot chocolate, he winced a little as he burned
his tongue again. He found it a bit odd that the rich concoction
was still as piping hot as when Agnes first brought it in, but he
wasn't about to question small blessings. It was probably one of
those self-heating pots or something. Amazing.
But not more amazing than Agnes herself. In the hour that
she'd spent doting on him, she had not only made good on her
promise to warm him up from the inside out with her special coco,
but she had proven herself a highly entertaining
conversationalist. Duo was pleasantly surprised to discover
someone who talk *his* ear off for a change. She had also made
sure his clothes were put in the dryer, including his leather
jacket which, after that sleet storm, was a total loss anyway.
He had, of course, emptied the pockets before relinquishing
it back into Agnes's care, and had noticed that one of his
grenades was missing.
No surprise there. He *thought* Neville had been looking at
him strangely, even after he had put the gun away. The strange
thing was, while his natural suspicion was telling him that he
was in danger of being exposed by these people, and that Neville
might turn him over to OZ, his gut feeling told him differently.
His gut was telling him, against all reason, that he was safe
here.
Or maybe that was just the hot chocolate.
It didn't matter either way, actually. He was grateful for
the help, but he didn't have a choice. If he stayed, not only
would he be further endangering himself and the mission, he would
also be endangering everyone else here. So he had to leave
tonight. He had to contact Heero and let him know that
Deathscythe was down, and that he needed backup to destroy the OZ
base as soon as possible.
*Deathscythe isn't down.*
And that was another thing, he thought. The way Deathscythe
had just stopped working was just too weird. There had to be
something he had missed. He was sure that, once he got back,
he'd be able to figure out what the problem was, and get his
Gundam up and running again.
*That's it. You can fix it. You can fly the great beast
again.*
That's right. He could fix anything that went wrong with
Deathscythe. What in the world had he been thinking, leaving
Deathscythe in the first place? It must have been the crash. He
probably hadn't been thinking straight.
*You have to go back.*
He had to get back to Deathscythe. He never should have
left his Gundam, laid bare and vulnerable to the enemy out on the
flatlands. That much was clear to him now.
Clear... crystal clear... crystal.... He could hear
crystals chiming; a single pure, high note ringing in his ears...
His head ached suddenly. He clenched his teeth, fighting
the feeling back. He couldn't let a little headache get in the
way of going back. If OZ captured Deathscythe and made it so
that he couldn't fly again, it was the end.
*The end of what?* a small, drowning part of him wondered.
The ringing in his ears was getting louder; almost painful, and
he closed his eyes. *What.... what am I...*
The thought struggled weakly, not even fully comprehending
the danger it was in, before a sea of silver fire washed over his
mind, submerging his sudden confusion, and filling him with
bright conviction. He stiffened slightly under the power of the
realization, and opened his eyes
He had to fly Deathscythe again. As soon as possible. That
single thought filled him until he could think of nothing else.
He would fly Deathscythe, and break everything and anything
that got in his way into little pieces.
*It's what I do, after all.*
Ethereal voices filled his mind, but they were natural; they
had always been there, hadn't they? They whispered and laughed
and hissed, congratulating him on his wise decision. A small,
half smile turned up the edge of Duo's slack mouth.
As soon as Agnes left him alone, he was out of there, and
nothing was going to stop him.
Not the storm, that had put him in this sick bed in the
first place.
Not the sharp, fearful memory of blood red eyes gleaming in
the night mist, nor the steaming breath against his face, full of
the stench of rotting corpses, that haunted him every time he
closed his eyes.
Nor even the half-remembered dream of a Lady's silver-white
touch, burning across his skin, and searing through his soul...
...the sound of her voice calling to him... summoning him to
her side...
"Did you hear something?" Agnes said, pausing abruptly in
her neverending patter. She tilted her head to once side, a
slight frown dampening her usual smile, as her eyes strayed to
the window, where the frozen sleet pounded against the window
pane. "Just now?"
Duo shrugged. "Nothing unusual."
"How odd, I could have sworn..." Agnes shook her head. "Ah
well, that's what happens when you get to be my age. You start
hearin' all sorts of things that aren't there." She smiled at
him again. "More coco, love?"
Duo handed his mug to her. The smile he returned didn't
quite reach his eyes. Behind his eyes, the sea of silver voices
shimmered and ebbed in a tide of gleaming moonlight.
"No thank you," he said. "I think I'm finished."
~*~
To be continued.
Feedback, onegai? ^_^
Krista
kperry@aros.net
http://www.akane.org/fanfiction/