Note from teh G-girl:

I'm in love with Carl. And David Wenham. So sue me.

Anyway, this is a fic that occurs during Van Helsing and Carl's return from Romania. They run into more magic, more adventures. . . and two girls, one a young woman and the other a young lady, (not a romance fic) and discover a secret burried deep in the Carpathians. This is also not a slash fic (which I do not write) and is not a Mary Sue. It is almost a "self-insertion" as one of the girl characters (whom you'll meet in later chapters) is loosely based on myself.

So, I hope you enjoy my first attempt at Van Helsing fiction. I'm worried that Van Helsing is not quite IC, but I also believe that underneath all his mysterious bravado, he really does care about Carl, if only because the poor friar is his only friend.

Disclaimer: I own nothing! Much to my dismay!

Enjoy:

Angels in the Mountain

Carl still couldn't believe they were lost, in the middle of nowhere, in the middle of Europe, in the middle of January. Snow and trees were everywhere, and it was the coldest experience he could ever remember having. Van Helsing, if he did mind the bitter mornings, sleeping in snow banks, and cold food (they could only light a fire when they could find fresh timber, which was hard, and even then it was always short-lived,) never showed it. His ever-unchanging nonchalant choice of words and blank face were always present.

'Well, he may be an angel, but I'm a man, dammit! I can't keep going like this, it'll be the death of me.'

Although in truth he felt that having lived through the whole incident with Dracula, he could take anything anyone anywhere cared to toss at him.

He didn't quite realize who wrong he was.

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"If we keep going . . . West we should eventually end up in Yugoslavia, from there to Croatia, and then to Italy. Easy as slaying a necromancer," Van Helsing muttered half to himself, half to Carl, who was trudging behind him, half asleep. The previous night's thunderstorm had more than caused for a restless night. Van Helsing noticed and almost smirked in amusement. 'Poor Carl,' he thought to himself.

"Or, monk, I could leave you here to walk in circles as I sneak off and walk to Rome myself," he added quietly, wondering if the muttering would be noticed.

"What?" asked Carl, blinking as he slowly turned his head. Van Helsing would have frowned if he thought it worth the effort. Carl was always on the spot whenever Gabriel referred to him as anything other than "friar." Come to think of it, Carl had been rather quiet and closed of late, which was unusual, because normally the monk couldn't stop talking. Perhaps the ordeal with Dracula had been too much for him.

"Nothing."

"Oh. All right then . . . " Carl trailed off, slightly confused. One minute he was walking, or was he? He couldn't really remember. It seemed like for a few seconds, he had stopped existing. Everything just wasn't. He found that upon returning to the real world he had a terrible headache, making it hard to think. And here Van Helsing was probably trying to talk to him. Was it important? It might have been. It could have been about their current predicament, or perhaps he was just trying to make friendly conversation, which seemed unlikely. No, he didn't want to think about it. Thinking was turning out to be relatively painful.

After a short but tedious look about the landscape, Gabriel was able to determine that they were in fact going in circles, and that West was actually to their right. He quickly changed direction and began a quick marching pace. Carl had been rather pale when he'd looked, and it would probably be better for them both to spend the night in a decent bed. Out of the cold, the rain, and the snow –

"Snow?" he asked aloud, looking up. The little flakes were falling delicately yet abundantly from the sky. Yes, a real house with a real roof and a real fire was sounding rather ideal at this point.

What had at first appeared to be a slight and harmless snowfall had quickly transformed into a full-blown massive snowstorm. Both men had trudged for hours in the pouring sleet, heads bowed against it, the only thing they could think of being one foot in front of the other. Well, at least that was what Van Helsing was concentrating on.

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Carl couldn't see two inches in front of his nose, not that he felt like looking up. Everything was so cold, the wind driving against him from all four directions. His head was pounding horribly with the force of the gale, his entire body numb. Everything was swimming in and out of focus, and his throat felt warm and raw. Nothing seemed to have an up or down, and he was suddenly overwhelmed by an extreme sense of vertigo. The white snow that had been the ground was now suddenly a wall on his right. And everything was growing sort of misty, black around the edges.

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It was a good thing Van Helsing had turned to make sure Carl was still there when he did, or the poor friar might have been lost in the Romanian highlands forever. He had planned to try to shout above the gale to communicate his thoughts about finding shelter. But when he turned, there was no billowing abbey cloak; just empty space. His head tilted down to see the man lying in the snow, deathly still. He appeared to be only half conscious, at the most.

'This day keeps getting worse and worse. My luck must be wearing thin.'

He knelt down in the snow and slipped one arm under Carl's head, the other under his knees; it would have been easier to throw the monk over his back, but he couldn't risk him going into hypothermia; it was better to hold him close and pray to God that his body heat would be enough to warm the man. As he lifted himself up off the ground, taking Carl with him, the friar gave a small, week groan before blinking his eyes open.

"What?" he mumbled, teeth chattering.

"It's all right, Carl. I'm just going to find shelter. Don't try to talk," Gabriel muttered quickly, but Carl's eyes had already rolled back into his head, his body subconsciously trying to huddle against Van Helsing's, seeking warmth. To Gabriel, he almost looked like a small child, alone, frightened, and ill.

And with that last thought, Gabriel took off at a brisk run, towards a clump of trees, hoping to find a small overhang or something that would allow him to light a fire and tend to Carl.

A small cave was all he asked, but a large one was twice as good. Ducking in through the entrance, Gabriel was pleased to find that it was quite deep, and headed all the way to the back, far away from the entrance and the howling winds. His satisfaction continued to find that it was much warmer in the cave than it had been outside. Gently placing Carl down with his back against a cave wall, he quickly unrolled one of the bed roles and added a blanket for comfort, before returning to his companion.

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Carl had felt the sudden rise in temperature. It was extremely nice, because he felt as if he'd never be warm again. He'd felt himself bumping along . . . was he floating? He didn't think it would be so jostling. He wanted to open his eyes, but they were pasted shut. The bumping stopped and he felt his body being set upright against a wall. The source of warmth that he'd felt but never really thought about left, and he tried to huddle in on himself, feeling deathly ill and not a little scared. Where was Van Helsing? Had he been kidnapped by wild mountain people? If his mind had been more lucid, the idea would have seemed ridiculous, but now, it didn't seem far from possible.

A shadow fell across his body, and he forced his eyelids to unstick. A figure was kneeling in front of him, with a wide cloak and funny looking hat. Everything was blurry.

"Carl?" it asked. The wild mountain people knew his name? How? He wanted to say something back, because the voice sounded a little comforting, deep and gentle, but when he tried he felt a considerable amount of pain at the dry wind rushing over his cracked throat.

"Don't talk. Can you hear me? Nod, or blink," the voice said, and it sounded a bit concerned. Was something wrong? He nodded, or, again, tried to. His head slumped forward as he closed his eyes and he didn't have the energy to bring it up again.

A warm hand (oh, bless this wild mountain person!) was pressed against his cold cheek. It felt so soothing and so wonderful and he felt so sick and so terrified that for all his dignity (or what was left of it) he couldn't stop the little pools of salt that trickled out from underneath his eyelids.

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"Oh, Carl," Van Helsing muttered, watching the tears drip silently to the dirt floor. He felt bad for the poor monk, he truly did. He took the man's face in his hands and tilted it up towards him. He was flushed, and his skin felt like it was on fire. He waited for the blonde man to open his eyes again, which eventually he did, staring at the angel with a bleariness that suggested he wasn't quite all there. He opened his mouth to try to communicate some incoherent thought, but ended up whimpering in pain, and turning his head away, eyes closed tight against the little light coming from the fire Van Helsing had managed to ignite.

Van Helsing watched him for a minute. Carl looked as vulnerable as a child, utterly miserable with his current condition. It took him a moment to notice Carl's shivering body, and the dripping wet garb of an abbey monk. He cursed himself silently, and went to the packs to fetch a new robe for his friend.

He rummaged through Carl's pack in despair. How like the absentminded friar to pack parchment and pen, but not more than one other change of cloths! Van Helsing was not a vain man; but he did know the importance of clothing, and that sometimes you had to bring extra along with you, in case of bloodstains and under cover work. So he went through his own things and managed to dig up a shirt and some trousers that looked as if they would not be too big for the thin man. He also found a large poncho traded to him while spending time in the southern part of America, hunting a chupacabra. He then proceeded back to Carl, who had not moved.

Van Helsing carefully began to strip him of his sackcloth robe, until he was down to nothing but his undergarments. These too, however, were soaked, and would have to be removed. As Van Helsing (much to his disgrace) went about his task, he noticed how unbearably skinny his comrade was. He supposed under the bulk of his robe (and much of that bulk was weaponry and various devises concealed by the brown fabric) even an observant onlooker would be able to turn a blind eye to Carl's thinness. And there were five deep scars running down the length of his back, crossing diagonally in what looked to be a pattern, long since closed but forever visible. Van Helsing briefly wondered what sort of life Carl could have led prior to The Left Hand of God.

He draped the large cotton t-shirt over the man's slim shoulders quickly, and then pulled the trousers on, slipping Carl's boots back on over them, and then the heavy coat to top it all off. He watched Carl shiver for a moment. He then pulled the poor man into his lap, rubbing the monk's arms to get the warmth circulating back into them. He felt Carl's shivering grow more violent, but he did not cease, rubbing now his back and enfolding him in his arms. Eventually, the man quieted, breathing deeply and evenly in a fitful slumber, such as it was. Van Helsing watched the blonde man, with his long pale face and grim mouth, his figure limp in the angel's arms. He felt almost like an older brother, trying to protect his little brother from some unknown evil that he could not help him fight. He propped Carl's head against his shoulder and prepared to wait out the night.