Metaphor

Hellboy stepped carefully through the darkened corridors, over broken slabs slick with blood and through the detritus of a behemoth's insides. The thick tread of his size fifteens gained purchase despite the glistening frost underfoot, keeping him upright while the red hand he kept at her elbow did the same for Liz.

Liz.

She was tense at his side, the muscles in her arm tightening and the set of her jaw hard in a way that was from more than just the cold.

Liz was dead.

Liz had been dead.

And now she was here, real and breathing, living, just barely warm in the cold Russian air. He could feel the heat of her in his hand, searing to the point of pain. In death her body had been so cold, so frozen, that even the barest warmth now felt like the very fires of Hell.

Not that he could know what that was like, right? A few more seconds and the entire world would have known the heat of those flames. A few more seconds, that was all. The cross still burned in his hand, a distant tingle across his palm, the same palm that pressed so flush to Liz's skin and kept her upright because the floor was still so slippy. And, dear God, for her he would have done it. For her he would have become the Ogdru Jahad incarnate and lain waste to the world to keep her alive.

What a monster that would have made him. What a demon.

What a son.

And when the gates of Hell opened and the world was torn asunder would there have been a Heaven left for Trevor Broom?

Liz squirmed in his grip, the rough red fingers pressing into bruises that hadn't been there a moment ago. She looked at him with those dark, sad eyes and smiled. Hellboy gestured uselessly.

"The floor's..."

"Slippy. I know."

He relaxed his grip but did not let go. He had to hold on to keep her upright.

He had to hold on.

Liz glanced at the towering demon out of the corner of her eye, down to the now gentle grip on her arm and back to the darkened corridor. Hellboy's voice, when it came, rumbled against the stone. Somehow it sounded warm.

"You okay back there, boy scout? Floor's slippy."

Myers answered in the affirmative though his voice sounded weak. Liz didn't dare turn to look, couldn't bear to see the raw burns on his arms and face, the burns she had caused. And there was the blood running from his hairline, his cheek, his nose, his lips, and the scrapes and sores on his knuckles and wrists. It was all so bright and dark against the white of his skin. Liz's stomach twisted. She had died and come back and didn't have a scratch to show for it. The guilt came unbidden.

"Not long now, Myers," she offered softly, eyes focused on the darkness ahead.

She barely caught his mumbled reply and pressed on.

With eyes straining to focus on the glimpse of pale shoulders, well clear of the bloodied tail and the train of a makeshift dress, Myers struggled along.

His shoulder scraped along the black stone of the corridor's wall, the floor was slippy after all, slick with blood that might have been his and the insides of the creature birthed by Rasputin. The soles of his shoes had melted in the intense heat of Liz's anguish and now slid through the gore on uneven ground. The damp, pockmarked wall was his crutch and so blessed cold against the itch and burn of his arm. He stopped to press against it, the relief so great it felt like pain. But why was the wall so slick against his cheek? And the slickness was so warm. And the pain that was relief seemed sharper than before. Something seemed to shoot through his bones, and then the cold spread everywhere.

Eyes he didn't know had been closed opened and that glimpse of bare shoulder was higher than before. Ah, the floor, glistening with frost and wet with blood and gore. He must have slipped. It was good that Hellboy held onto Liz. Wouldn't want her to fall too.

Everything was so slippy after all.

So wet and slick and warm. And it burned in his arms and face, throbbing in his head. The corridor tilted on its axis and he must have slipped again because Ilsa couldn't have hit him that hard. He'd helped, hadn't he? Thrown the rosary to Hellboy and they'd walked out of there and talked. And he'd thought they talked but it was so difficult to remember.

The blur of red and glimpse of pristine white were somehow closer - when had he closed his eyes again? - and somehow lower. But, of course, the floor was so slippy. Hellboy should have been more careful than to bring Liz down with him. She was alive now and had to be careful.

He wanted to help her up, tried to move, struggled because he couldn't. Were the chains still on his wrists? There was cold on his back - the pillar - and heat on his face - Hellboy - and pain everywhere. He needed to help. He had to get the rosary. If he could just reach-

"Myers? Myers."

Liz? Her voice sounded so small, so distant.

"Come on, Myers."

Hellboy's voice was warm, rumbling. And there was warmth everywhere. Where was the cold? Oh, they were walking and he'd slipped. He must have stood up because the cold on his back was gone but it was strange because he couldn't feel his legs beneath him. That was a worry because his soles had been melted and the floor was shining with gore.

"C-careful, Liz... slippy..."

"We know."

When the nerves had bested him in short order, Manning had hurried desperately out of the darkened ruins of Rasputin's mausoleum with the shadow of it all chasing along behind. He'd slipped and stumbled and ran and all but fallen into the soft, crisp white blanket of snow that greeted him outside. The sudden brightness had hurt his eyes and his lungs had burned so badly that it made it hard to breathe. But he'd been outside, free, safe, and he had never felt so relieved in all his life.

When he could open his eyes again and the ache in his chest had become manageable, he had staggered over to the truck still sitting idly outside the gates of Sebastian Plackba No.16. The cab was just barely warmer than outside and just barely more comfortable. He had radioed for assistance and then sat, shaking and miserable, and more worried than he would ever admit.

He watched the entrance to the mausoleum almost unblinking. It remained dark and painfully vacant, a scattering of leaves from the parapet or the elegant dive of a bird the only movement for what seemed like an age. His hands were tingling inside the thermal gloves he had found on the passenger seat, cheeks burning with cold. He knew he couldn't afford to stay much longer, knew he couldn't leave either.

There was a familiar pain in his chest, a twinge he'd felt a hundred times before. The muscles in his shoulders tightened and his neck seemed painfully taut. Where were they? Where was Hellboy? Surely he had found Sherman and Myers by now. And how hard could it be to stop Rasputin, who was surely mortal? It was difficult to imagine what could possibly be taking so long. And just when had his faith in Hellboy become so great and unshakeable?

It was the cold, it must be. It was playing with his mind. There was nothing to say that any time had passed at all. Between the worry and the cold and the waiting he couldn't accurately guess how much time had lapsed since he had run at full tilt into the waiting snow. He couldn't guess, but it just felt so long.

And surely the backup should have arrived by now? The units were waiting a scant distance away but he couldn't hear anything, no tires, no rotary blades, nothing at all except the chilling silence of the graveyard.

And... something. Something heavy, distant. There it was again. He was out of the cab and through the gates before he was even aware that he had moved. His brain seemed to catch up as the thudding grew louder and it could have been anything approaching. Short, small bursts of air blossomed in front of his lips, heart leaping dangerously and he took a cautious step backwards. He could duck behind one of the tombstones, keep his head down and his breathing shallow. And what were clearly now footsteps, the heavy slap of a boot echoing in the stone tomb, were suddenly so recognizable and welcome.

"Hellboy."

As if in answer, the great red behemoth finally ducked through the crooked, open doors and looked at the world as if for the first time.

Manning moved to greet him but pulled up short at the sight of the peculiar tableau before him. Liz was at Hellboy's side, smiling with blue lips and shivering in little more than a sheet wrapped awkwardly around her. And in Hellboy's arms, cradled gently, was a bloodied and burned Agent Myers. He blinked distractedly, barely conscious, and Manning had never realised before just how small he was.

"Hey."

His eyes rose once again to Hellboy's face, a face slick with blood and something he couldn't, wouldn't, place. His eyes were dark and his horns looked off but his grin was as bright and alive as it'd ever been.

"You're alive."

Manning barely recognised his own voice, the relief in it so think and pure. Hellboy rose a challenging eyebrow.

"What, you were doubting me?"

Another grin and there was no answer to that.

"You got him?"

"All of him."

"All?"

That didn't make sense. Then again, it probably did.

"And..."

Manning gestured uselessly at Liz and the groggy, bleeding Myers and he couldn't seem to think anymore. He shook his head and motioned towards the truck. At least it was warm and they could rest for a moment, take a look at Myers' wounds and wait for backup to arrive. And then they could leave and never come back. Hellboy seemed to agree, nodding in a surprisingly acquiescing manner without quip or complaint, and herded the group to the well-worn slabs that led them through the gates.

It was only then that Manning noticed Myers' socked feet dangling over Hellboy's arm. He looked down to see two black leather shoes poke out from under the hem of the makeshift dress, the soles flattened and melted and all too clumsy on dainty feet. The frost and ice glistened in the near-dark and he found himself reaching for Liz's arm. There was heat and surprise and he realised Hellboy's hand was at her elbow also. Liz looked at him, along the chain of arms that connected them all, and smiled. Manning's look was unreadable but still he turned away before anyone could see. With his free hand he gestured vaguely at the ground as if it held all the answers.

"The floor," he sighed, holding on a fraction tighter. "It's slippy."