Post-manga, some spoilers. I do not own Trigun / Vash: he belongs to Mr. Yasuhiro Nightow.

Lyrics are from: "He Ain't Heavy... He's My Brother" The song was written by Bobby Scott and Bob Russell circa 1969.

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The Journey Begins

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The road is long

With many a winding turn

That leads us to who knows where

Who knows where?

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Year 0134 month 5 day 11

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The suns approached their zenith, shedding their merciless hot rays upon the desert sands.

Vash's eyes roamed over the trackless wastes as he walked. For most of his life, this had been the only home he'd known. This space between places, the vast desolation where only sandworms and the occasional sand steamer roamed – it seeped into his soul. It was a place where anyone could lose himself.

The emptiness reached out to embrace him, as it had so many times before. Perhaps that was why he had unconsciously underestimated his water needs on so many occasions, including eighteen years ago. Perhaps some part of him had wanted to truly become lost, forever.

Although there had been numerous times when he had almost wished for death, times when his pain became unbearable, he'd never again actively sought it. Not since Rem prevented it, all those years ago, shortly after he'd learned about Tessla.

He fully embraced Rem's objection to suicide. Seeing so many die, over the course of sixteen decades, had taught him how precious life is. If he could preserve a life, any life, he would.

The only life he valued less than others was his own. However, he would not put an end to it himself, no matter how much he was hurting. If there is life after death, he didn't want to face Rem if he had failed her so completely.

He admitted to himself that he had flirted with death, a few times, when he was feeling utterly overwhelmed. Wolfwood had been correct about that. Sometimes he did take risks that need not have been quite so risky. There had been times when he should have been a little more cautious, or better prepared.

He would try to do better from now on, to honor both of them.

From the day that Rem died, his known destiny had been clear: to honor her final requests. She had plainly asked him to take care of Knives. Her sacrifice had also asked him to take care of ordinary humans. They had needed his protection, especially from Knives and his carefully cultivated band of assassins.

When he let himself think on it, he was still surprised that he had survived that last battle against Knives. He nearly hadn't. The reason he'd survived was even more difficult to grasp. It seemed so unreal. Why? What caused him to do that?

He wondered, again, what had become of his brother. The wanted posters had not been recalled, so no body had been found. Yet Vash had not sensed Knives, nor heard his thoughts, since waking after that fight.

Has Knives also been hiding, living as a human under a different name? Or had he died so far out in the desert that his corpse remained undiscovered?

Vash wasn't sure which he hoped was true.

He would always love his brother.

However, his brother might not have changed enough. If he lived, Knives might attempt the destruction of humanity again. He could not use Plant power again, since that path had been forever barred to him. Unfortunately, Plant power was not the only path to any of Knives' oft-stated goals.

Vash paused atop a sand dune, guiltily realizing that he'd forgotten to shorten his strides while lost in thought. He listened as his companion's footsteps approached. He felt Shyla's warm affection wrap around his soul. It eased some of the ache.

Answering warmth welled up within him, and spilled over. He briefly turned his face to his right, and bent his neck just a little, to smile at her.

She looked up to see his face, and responded to his smile with a smile of her own.

The top of her head was roughly even with his collarbones. Wisps of the girl's medium-blonde hair had escaped her braid, and drifted about her face. Her forehead was wide, though her cheeks sloped gently toward a narrow chin. Her narrow nose turned up at the end. Her wide eyes were a pale grey-green hazel.

She was slightly flushed from walking longer and more quickly than was usual for her.

He was grateful to her for caring about him and for believing in him. He returned his gaze to the desert in front of them.

Shyla represented today's destiny. The fulfillment of a promise made 14 years ago, to her mothers, was the reason they were out in the desert.

"Take care of her, and get her somewhere that she will be safe," each had asked of him. "Somewhere that she can learn her full potential, and grow to fulfill it."

Her mothers, both human and Plant, were correct. A young Plant girl should not be left alone among ignorant ordinary humans. She would need his help to reach a safe, peaceful place where she could grow. He could do this. He knew exactly where to take her.

He would not look beyond that task, not until after it was tended. She would sense it, and worry about him.

Thanks to Shyla and her human mother, his soul had healed enough that he no longer dreaded living. He simply did not know how he would go about it, after this girl was safe.

If Wolfwood were here, he'd likely hurl an insult or three at him followed by a wisecrack or two that would somehow contain a subtle suggestion. That suggestion might be wisdom, or it might be foolishness, but it would give him a place to begin.

Vash missed that not-so-priestly priest. Wolfwood, whose life had been cut short so cruelly. The guilt of that failure engulfed him.

Gentle fingers touched his arm. "N—Vash?" she said. He could feel the depth of her concern in both her voice and her emotions.

He turned his face to look at her again. "I was just missing a friend of mine, who died," he said softly. "I miss him like we both miss your mother."

"You don't feel so guilty when you miss Naomi," she said. She looked up at him with the innocent eyes of a child.

Damn. He would have to guard himself more carefully.

Being out on the desert again, with no nearby destination, old habits had resurfaced. Walking among the dunes was a good time for thinking, as there were fewer distractions than when among people.

Thought, however, could stir emotion. Even though he kept all of his emotions tightly contained, one who was physically nearby could still detect faint traces. Or, especially if she was downwind, she could detect changes in his scent brought on by emotion.

He was wide open to one who could sense what he felt, when she was this close and paying attention to him. Bless the girl; it seemed as if she was always paying attention to him. She seemed to think he was important enough for such attentiveness.

He leaned over enough to briefly and gently kiss her forehead.

Shyla had been too sheltered, he realized as he straightened and looked back toward the horizon ahead of them. He should have helped her to prepare better.

At age 22, she should not be so extremely childlike. Oh, she should still look like a human child of about 10 or 11 years. That was normal for a Plant of her age. However, she should not be nearly as ignorant as a human child of less than half her years.

He had not wanted their quiet life with her human mother to end. He'd put off efforts to prepare, both her and himself, for too long. Abruptly, there had been no more time.

Part of the problem was his own inexperience with other people, he realized. That was something he should have thought to study, and found ways to compensate for and correct.

He'd spent most of his long life, of necessity, isolated and alone. He knew how to protect. He had little idea how to teach a child to grow into an adult reasonably able to protect herself.

The immediate challenge, however, was finding an honest answer to her implied question. He needed to find an answer that would not wound her needlessly. How could he help her to understand, and still be gentle about it?

He was not guiltless. He had failed Wolfwood. He was nearly as responsible for his friend's death as those who had attacked him with murderous intent.

"I..." he began, but stopped. He felt uncertain how to proceed. He looked at her, and considered again just how much to tell her, and what words he should use.

"He was killed, Shyla," he said at last. "He was killed by people who hated me. If he had not been my friend, he might still be alive."

He looked away from her, bowing his head and accepting the pain those words evoked.

He heard her bag drop and felt her hug his arm. Shyla always approached him from the side or from behind, as her human mother had taught by example. He briefly wondered if it ever occurred to her to hug someone from in front.

"He chose to be your friend," she said. "I'm sure that whatever life he had was better for that, than if he'd never known you."

Vash blinked back tears, and patted her hands. She believed in him as innocently and completely as she loved him. He could not help but expect that both of those things would change, when she began to truly understand who and what he was. Perhaps that was another reason he'd procrastinated. He would miss this, in her.

He'd never realized how much he ached for that kind of love, until he received it. He had known unconditional love like that from Rem, but never since … until now. Losing it again would hurt. He might never have the joy of experiencing such love another time.

When they set out earlier this morning, Shyla had asked to know all about him. At that time, he had only smiled at her and offered an ambiguous response.

Suddenly he had an inspiration. He paused, mulling it over and examining it from all sides. He must not act on impulse, not with something this important.

He felt her curiosity, and her patience. He knew that she sensed his internal struggle, but she would not press him. Again, he was grateful to her.

He continued pondering, refining the idea and choosing how best to put it into practice, one step at a time. He examined his idea from all angles again, but found no fault with the plan. He even knew precisely where to begin.

"Shyla," he said softly, "I would like to give you a gift."

She stood quietly beside him, her arms wrapped around his right arm, her head leaning against his shoulder. She was intensely curious, yet trusting and patient.

"It is something we can do because we are not ordinary humans," he said. "If you want it, I can give you a gift of memories. You have shared your mother with me. I would like to share my mother with you."

He sensed her delight at his offer, and smiled. "I can share the memories so that they will be like looking through a window at other people," he continued, "or I can share them so that you will look through my eyes, and experience each moment as I did."

"Please, let me see them through your eyes," she said with gentle eagerness, "and not through a window."

He'd half-expected that answer. He smiled at her again. "Best we sit down," he said. "I will need a little time to prepare."

She nodded, and released his arm.

They sat, facing each other.

He held out his right hand, and she took it. He closed his eyes, and concentrated. He carefully duplicated all of his earliest memories, stopping just before he and Knives learned about Tessla. He separated the copies, gathering them together at the front of his mind, where he would open a way for her to come in.

Without opening his eyes, he explained to her what she would need to do. He no longer had the power to stretch his consciousness enough to temporarily place a part of himself into her mind, as he had done when he pleaded the cause of humanity with the fusion of Plant consciousnesses. He could still lower some of his mental barriers enough to allow part of her to come in, though.

From her responses, Shyla understood what she needed to do. He opened his eyes, released her hand, and shifted to a kneeling position.

She adjusted her position likewise.

He gently reached out and laid his hands on either side of her face. He leaned forward, touching his forehead to hers. Then he closed his eyes again.

He felt her hands come to rest on either side of his own face, like a caress. He lowered the necessary barriers, and called to her with his mind.

She came, her gentle presence hesitating at the barrier, as if uncertain if she truly ought to proceed. He felt his face form a smile as he beckoned to her again.

Her soul entered his mind so gently, so respectfully, that she did not feel at all like an intrusion.

In his mind, she appeared to be made entirely of very pale blue or turquoise light. Her soul's shape matched her childlike body. Like a clear glass filled with water when the sunlight shines full upon it, there was a brighter sparkle where her skin would be. A lesser glow showed inside her soul-skin. Her eyes shone slightly brighter than anything else. Her long hair showed as unbound strands of the same light, floating on some ethereal breeze.

There was no clothing in soul-form. This was the main reason why he held the memory package directly in front of his hips. She wasn't looking there, though, he saw with relief. She was looking at his face, with the same gentle expression that he often saw when she looked toward him in the physical realm.

He relaxed a little, smiling and welcoming her, without ceasing to concentrate. He slowly extended the memories he had prepared for her. She extended her arms, and he put the memory package into her hands.

He felt her acceptance as she drew the package toward her own ethereal body. She closed her eyes, and held it against her chest.

He watched as she took his memories in. The package slowly merged into her soul form. For the space of a few heartbeats, a brighter glow showed where the package had been, and then that extra glow began to fade. Soon, she appeared as she had before. She opened her eyes, and smiled at him.

He wondered how he appeared to her.

(After you are comfortable with these), he thought to her, (if you want more, then I can give you more.)

Her delight at that prospect settled any question of "if" quite thoroughly. She thanked him, still looking only at his face, and retreated back into herself as gently as she had come. He allowed his mental barriers to snap back into their usual places.

He released her face, and gently disengaged his own. Sitting back on his heels, still holding her hands, he considered her reaction.

Her eyes remained closed, and he could feel that she was beginning to experience his memories. She was smiling. She moved through his memories more swiftly than he had lived them, which was not surprising.

Thought moves faster than life, after all.

So far, so good, he thought. He would begin with only happy memories, fortifying her with those, regardless of when they came chronologically in his life.

Slowly, he would begin to let her learn from his own experiences. Eventually, he would have to share difficult and even painful memories. Some of those he might only offer in "through a window" view.

He would not share everything. Some things hurt too much, and would wound her.

However, as long as she wanted more, he would share more until it was enough. Even so, what he had to share might be more than she expected. It might be more than she wanted, before she stopped asking.

She was young and inexperienced. Naïve and trusting, she believed and imagined only good in him.

While he was not eager to injure that belief, he could not permit her to remain so unaware of the harsher realities of life. If he did, he would be failing in his promise to protect her.

He knew she was strong. He wondered how long it would be before she stopped asking for more of his memories. He guessed that might come farther into the difficult times of his life than he would find comfortable.

Even with that awareness, he could think of no better way to teach her.

Suddenly it occurred to him that she might not stop asking at all. Ever. If that happened, where should he stop?

That thought gave him a great deal to ponder, as the suns pursued their slow trek toward the evening horizon.