Author's Note: This tale begins a year and a half after "Trigun Maximum" manga's final page in "Last Bullet." Primarily "manga-verse," for example: the events in the anime episode "Living Through" never happened.
I tried to keep spoilers to a minimum, yet this tale does contain a few. You have been warned! :)
Disclaimer: I don't own Trigun / Vash. He belongs to Mr. Yasuhiro Nightow. I only borrow, with respect.
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Rescue
Year 116, month 7 day 12
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Both suns had set. The multicolored glory of their last rays was quickly fading from the sky. The moons were rising and shedding a gentler light over our desert world: No Man's Land.
My daughter and I began our usual evening journey to our village's power Plant, enjoying the last traces of the fading display in the sky as we walked. We took our usual route, bypassing busy streets, so that we might quietly enjoy each other's company... or at least, so I always tell her. She's still so young. Some burdens I'm reluctant to share with her. There is time. I can tell her those things as she grows older.
One of my daily jobs is to clean up around the power Plant, after the work crews have gone home for the night. The task is more pleasant with my daughter's company. Since Shyla grew big enough to help, she is always happy to assist me.
We greeted the girl in the glass bubble, and told her of the little things that brightened our day. I did that even before the troubles two years ago, that proved Plant beings are people, too. Greeting her had always seemed like the only polite thing to do. We finished in two hours, as is usual since Shyla grew big enough to help me efficiently.
We began our homeward journey, enjoying the pleasant coolness of the night. I had a sudden impulse to extend our usual walk home, and enjoy the outdoors a little longer. "Shall we walk around the outer edges of town tonight, dear? We've not done that for some time, and this evening all is pleasantly mild."
"Oh yes, let's do that," she said enthusiastically, smiling at me.
I smiled in return. She always seems to like my ideas. I sometimes wonder if I influence her too much. I do not want to hold her back from attaining her full potential, whatever that may be. Perhaps, in time, she'll learn to think more for herself.
I caught myself admiring the soft light from the various moons shining in Shyla's blonde hair, instead of enjoying the landscape. There is little to see out there except the barren desert, or the night sky. While the night sky has its beauties and wonders, my daughter is a dearer joy and delight. I can never get enough of drinking in the sight of her.
Adopted daughter, I reminded myself, yet that fact does not change in the slightest all the love my heart holds for her. I know deep down in my soul that one day she will need to leave this small village, to see what else this world might hold for her. I dread that day.
Not wanting to stare at her, and thereby make her worry that I might be troubled, I looked out over the desert without really paying attention to what I was seeing. I blinked, suddenly thinking that I had imagined seeing something unusual.
I looked again. No, it was not a speck of dust in my eye. Nor did it still seem to be mere imagination or a trick of the moonlight. My footsteps slowed, and I looked yet again.
My daughter paused beside me, searched my face, and then looked in the direction I was looking. "Something's out there," she said, confirming that she also saw what I did.
"Shall we go see what it is?" I asked.
"Of course!" she answered, smiling and linking her arm in mine.
Our small village is remote enough that, aside from the annual sand-steamer visit almost two months ago, very few venture this direction. We are many hundreds of iles from the nearest moderately-sized town, and at least two hundred iles from the nearest busy sand steamer route... If it was a lost traveler out there, that poor soul might be in dire need.
We went cautiously, for not all surprises upon the desert are safe to venture near. Briefly, I considered returning home to get my gun. But my first suspicion proved correct, and there was no immediate danger to either of us.
A tall, lean man had collapsed face-down in the sand. He might have seen the buildings, and feared it was either a deserted town or else a mirage, before his strength gave out.
I gently turned him over, and brushed back the dark shoulder-length hair that covered his face. Seeing that youthful face in the moonlight, I revised my opinion. He could scarcely be much older than his early twenties. He was overdue for a shave, and his cracked lips suggested that he may have run out of water. I checked his canteen and found that it was empty.
Thankfully, the lad was still breathing. "We should take him home while he recovers," I said. "He can rest undisturbed in that small room across the hall from ours."
Shyla quickly agreed. She lifted his bag and canteen, slung both straps over her shoulder, and then helped me to lift him. Though my daughter is very young, she's tall for her age – in fact, she's only two hands' breadths shy of being as tall as I am – and she has much more strength than I do, at age 74. She put her hands under his arms and around his chest, while I held his knees. I found a hat beside him in the sand, so I put that in his lap.
Together we carefully carried him to the café where we work, and then began to carry him up both flights of stairs. The middle floor had rooms for a handful of boarders. The top floor, aside from the small additional compartment in one gable of the roof, and storage areas in other gables, was where Shyla and I lived.
His hat fell off his lap as we climbed the stairs, but neither of us would let go of him to tend that just then. The hat could wait, and be retrieved later. We continued carrying him up the stairs to the spare bedroom.
In my apron pocket, I found the key for the small room where we had chosen to place him, and opened the door. We laid him on the bed as gently as we could.
I was again thankful that I habitually kept this small room tidy and ready for an occupant.
This room occasionally housed convalescents, who needed a quiet place to stay when they were not yet well enough to return home, yet no longer ill enough to need one of the few beds in the clinic.
Most times, the occupant of my small room would be a woman who had recently given birth. When someone had complications in childbirth, that left her too weak to tend both her baby and her house, she would rest in there for a few days until she regained her strength. I would feed her, and help in any other way I could, until she was strong enough to go home.
Tonight, the one in need was different. He appeared to be little more than a child. His shoulders had broadened enough to suggest that he was a man, and no longer a boy. However, his youthful face suggested to me that his wide shoulders were probably a recent change.
Yet this poor youth was so weak that he had been unable to reach the town, when he ought to be near his peak of vitality. He'd probably run out of other supplies than water, if the way his clothes hung on his body was any indication.
"Shyla, dear," I said, "would you please bring me a tall candle, and some clean cloths? He may be injured, and need bandaging."
I didn't want the harsh brightness of the electric light, but the gentler glow of a candle. This was partly to avoid startling him into wakefulness before he was ready to awaken, and partly to leave a gentle light burning through the night. I planned to check on him a few times, and I wanted some light available if he woke on his own.
She hurried off to gather all that I'd requested. I removed his tattered cape, his gloves and his footwear. This action uncovered brutal scars upon one of his hands and both feet. Those cruel scars shone pale and clear, in the bright moonlight that came through the window by the bed.
As I adjusted his body to a more natural resting position, I noticed that his left arm felt too hard. In fact, that arm felt as if it must be made of wood or metal instead of the firm flesh of an active or hard-working person that I could feel through his threadbare clothes everywhere else that I touched him.
I pulled the stool closer to the bed, so I might sit on it and still easily reach him to take care of him. I had worked in the café all day, and my feet were tired.
Shyla returned with a tall, thick candle on a sturdy holder. She lit it and set it on the bedside table near the wall. She had not forgotten my request for bandages, and placed those on the table closer to the bed and within easy reach of my hand.
"Thank you sweetie," I said gratefully. "Could you also get a bucket of water from the well? He likely needs clean water as much he needs rest, just now. We can turn the water on in his sink, and run it until it comes clear, later." While those things are all true, I also wanted her away while I undressed him to check for injuries. I didn't know what I might find, and the scars I had already uncovered were somewhat alarming.
Besides, if he didn't have anything on under his pants, better that an old lady like me be alone while tending him. No need to embarrass him further after waking, if he should learn that a young girl had also seen so much of his body.
"I'll go fill our biggest bucket," she answered readily, and was off to tend that errand.
I reached into his bag for a clean shirt and pants, and found what I sought just inside its mouth. I laid those garments over the bed's headboard. Then I pushed his bag away toward the clothes cupboard, thereby making space for a bucket of water to rest on the floor within easy reach when Shyla brought it. I began easing him out of his dirty sweat-soaked shirt, and was greatly relieved that I had sent Shyla away.
The poor lad's body is almost entirely covered with cruel scars, some suggesting very severe injuries in his past. None seem very recent, but there are so many! My guess about his left arm proved correct; it is a replacement, and not his natural limb.
I wondered if he might have sought our remote village to escape from whomever had hurt him so badly. I tried to move more quickly, without being any less gentle. I hoped to finish checking him over, and re-dressing him, before Shyla returned.
He was long and lean, with proportionally broader shoulders and firm muscles even though he had lost more weight than he should. He reminded me poignantly of my late husband – many years ago, when he had been young. If I ever had a son or grandson, he might look very much like this youth who was lying so scarred and helpless on the narrow bed in front of me.
The lad's body showed some signs indicating that he'd been under-fed for a while, even though his muscles were still firm and clearly defined. His ribs and shoulder bones showed through too prominently. My heart began to ache for him, and reach out toward him, as a mother's heart reaches out toward her own son.
I found no fresh injuries in need of bandaging. He only had several bruises and minor scrapes on his forearms and knees, as if he'd stumbled and fallen multiple times before he collapsed where we found him. There was no sign of blood on his undergarment, so I left that alone.
I gently re-dressed him as quickly as I could, putting on his pants first and then a shirt. I laid him flat on the bed again, to fasten his clothing into place. I'd just finished pulling his shirt closed over his chest, to cover his worst scars, when Shyla returned with the water.
"Thank you very much," I said, and smiled at her; she smiled back. "Now would you please get me a glass, to help trickle some water into his mouth?"
"Certainly," she said, still smiling, and was quickly on her way to find the required item while I buttoned his shirt. I moved to the foot of the bed, and gently pulled at his ankles to straighten his body. Lying in a crooked position could be uncomfortable, and cause muscle aches that he didn't need. He likely had plenty of aches from his journey and his falls already, without me being careless and adding more.
His mouth was slightly open, so as soon as I sat on the stool again I dipped my fingers into the water and let a few drops fall past his cracked lips into his mouth.
He did not react.
Though still breathing, his breaths were very shallow. I knew that meant he was in a bad way, and found myself praying that he would not die as I dipped my fingers into the water again.
His numerous scars told me that he has endured much already. I fervently wished him some time for peace and joy in his life.
Shyla returned with the glass. "Thank you again," I said, as she put it on the table.
I gently lifted him, supporting his head and shoulders with one arm while holding the glass of water in my other hand. I trickled a little water into his mouth, set the glass back on the table, and then massaged his throat until he swallowed. In this manner, bit by bit, I slowly and patiently got the whole glassful of water into him. I heard Shyla's steps leave and return as I worked.
I eased him flat again, and began washing his face with the clean cloths Shyla had brought me to use for bandages. The moonlight had not deceived me.
His long, narrow face was pleasantly youthful, though overdue for a shave. That face seemed painfully young and innocent, especially when attached to a body covered with such terrible scars... his chin-whiskers, which fail to create a full beard, also seemed to say that he was too young for so much pain.
His face showed the ravages of exhaustion, with dark smudges under his eyes and his cheeks looking too hollow.
Aside from a small freckle near the outer corner of his left eye, and a scraped place on his right cheek, his face was unblemished. A small silvery loop was attached to his left earlobe.
My attention was briefly distracted by a very few paler hairs shining on top of the right side of his head. There were perhaps four or five of them. The rest of his hair was as black as a moonless midnight. An unusual thing, but sometimes a hard knock on the head could cause hair to lose its color. If he woke, as I hoped he would, one day I might ask him about his hair.
After gently washing his face and hands, I refilled the glass of water. Again, I carefully lifted his head and shoulders and trickled the water little by little into his mouth. The last time, he swallowed it on his own - without my needing to rub his throat. I nearly dropped him from surprise and relief.
I gently lowered him onto the bed until he lay flat again, and pulled a sheet over his body up to his chest, and then arranged his arms on top of the sheet into positions that I hoped would be comfortable for him. I spread a thin blanket over him, from his toes to his waist. "Let's let him rest for now," I said.
I had been so busy tending the youth that I'd not looked closely at Shyla for several minutes. I turned and saw her young face contorted in anxiety, with tears streaming down her cheeks. She was holding his hat with both of her hands.
"What is it, dearest?" I asked, reaching for her. She was a tender-hearted child, but not usually to the point of tears. "I think he shall recover, since he swallowed for himself that last time."
I gently disengaged his hat from her grip, and hung it on a hook.
"I hope you're right," Shyla said, "But he's in so much pain."
I felt my brows draw together in mingled concern and concentration. Shyla tended to be unusually perceptive. "Is he injured?" I asked. "I looked, but I could not find anything that needed bandaging."
"Not that kind of pain," she said softly.
"Perhaps he lost friends or family during all that trouble two years ago," I suggested. "He may still be grieving."
"Perhaps," she said. "Yes, it is like that kind of pain. But his is somehow... more... in fact, much more… than most people have."
"Hopefully, he will wake in a day or two," I said. "Then we can learn if we may help that to heal, also."
"Oh, thank you, mother!" she said, and briefly wept on my shoulder as I held her. I didn't see his dirty clothes, so Shyla must have taken them when she retrieved his hat. We left his room, closed the door softly, and then crossed the hall to our own rooms.
"He's different," Shyla said softly, thoughtfully, as we closed our own door behind us.
"Different?" I said nervously. Different could be good or bad. "Can you tell me how?"
I began walking toward the tiny kitchen built into our dwelling rooms. That boy was going to need more than plain water, if he was ever going to recover. My girl followed me, and watched as I poured some water into a small kettle, and added a short strip of Thomas meat and salt to make a broth for him.
"I don't know," she said uncertainly. "He just feels different from anybody else I've ever met. I can feel his emotions much more strongly than I do for most people, or I could for a moment when he swallowed. Then, suddenly, I felt almost nothing at all from him even though I could still smell his sadness."
"Does he feel angry, like he might want to hurt someone?" I asked cautiously.
"No," she said immediately. There was a ring of confidence in her voice, and no trace of doubt. "He feels gentle, and sad, and in pain. But not angry."
"Well, he may stay here and we shall try to help him heal all we can," I said, "as long as he behaves himself."
We read only one chapter of the book we had been reading aloud together, since tending the youth had taken up most of the evening. That was enough time for the broth to simmer. I set it aside to let it cool enough to drink.
I unbraided and brushed out Shyla's hair, as usual. We hugged each other goodnight, and then parted to our separate bedrooms. As I prepared for sleep, my thoughts again turned to our unexpected guest.
I hoped that his face, and Shyla's perceptions, held truth. I hoped that he had not grown twisted inside from the injuries that left so many scars on his outside. Such tragedies had been known to happen. I did not wish that tragedy for the youth across the hall.
I went to our kitchen and poured half the broth into a mug for him. I crossed the hall again, and trickled first the mug of broth, and then another glass of water into him.
Satisfied, I returned to my own room and offered up another prayer for him before I slept.