Recurrere
Parts: 1/1
Rating: PG
Summary: The journey back is a long one for the friar and the Knight.
Notes: My first Van Helsing fic. All comments appreciated.

He kneels on the soggy bank, free hand wrapped around the slender trunk of the young willow beside him for support, and leans out over the edge of the small lake. The water is crystal-clear, bubbling in from a small creek at the far end; on this side, it's nearly still. Clouds and lowering sunlight nestle in its depths; the early evening has a thin grey overcast to it, but compared to the skies they've walked beneath lately, it feels like a kind of morning.

He can feel the moisture creeping in through his robes to leave a vague dampness on his knees; at least his travel boots are waterproof. The ground is spongy and chill, and at any other time he would complain. But the soil here is not cold and barren and hard as ice, and so he holds his tongue.

From thirty yards behind him comes the faint clink of blades, metal scraping against metal. He does not turn. He knows that sound by now: it is that of weaponry being tended, not brandished; it is a nightly ritual. For all that items in his arsenal often come back battered or smashed or not at all, he sees now – if he had ever, in moments of midnight frustration, doubted it – that it was not for want of care. Weapons are death, but weapons are also life, and the hunter knows this as well as anyone should.

The setting sun to his right makes him squint. They should have ridden until nightfall, but the past two days' journey to the sea has been one of too much urgency. They are now headed inland again, sea and urgency long silent hours behind them, and perhaps it is not too much to ask that they stop, for once, with a little time to spare.

He dips the smaller of their two cooking pots into the water, breaking the slightly-shimmering surface, and brings it up full. It slops over, freezing moisture instantly soaking through to his thighs. Cursing under his breath at the unsteadiness of his hand, he brushes at the few drops still beaded on the rough wool; it's a futile gesture as the material has already wicked up most of it, but he has to at least make the attempt, if only on principle.

He sure hopes Van Helsing has got that fire going.

He tips the top inch of water back into the lake, adding ripples to ripples. After all, he still has to carry that pot back. Sore muscles, maddeningly unused to riding even after a week of saddle time, start to stiffen under the clinging wetness. He really should get up.

He stays where he is.

He doubts he will be missed, for a small while, at least. Van Helsing has done little else but ride hard and ride fast, although today, ever since last rites, he has varied his routine by sometimes turning to stare into the sky behind them. He himself has done little else but try to keep up.

At least there'll be a reasonable dinner. Two rabbits, shot last night at around three in the morning (as far as he could estimate; being abruptly wakened by gunfire tended to disorient one) and kept fresh by the winter air, wait back at the camp. There won't be much – they were scrawny for the season to begin with, and if he notices that the number and size of bullet holes in the meat seem almost vindictively excessive for small game such as these, he has not said anything. Perhaps they were particularly aggressive rabbits.

Particularly aggressive, half-starved rabbits. He fights down a shudder.

It's all right. He wouldn't be able to eat much, anyway. His empty stomach insists otherwise, but he ignores it.

He pulls off one half-glove, because every self-respecting scientist knows the value of experimentation. Scooping up a bit of water in his palm, he brings it to his lips. It sits, cold and clean, on his tongue, a welcome refreshment after almost an entire day of travel.

And it goes down like a silver stake. He nearly chokes, muffles it in his sleeve as best he can.

Hardly an auspicious beginning; still, he'd rather attempt it here rather than in front of company. He's fairly sure he's parched, so he might as well have another go at it. This time, he takes a more cautious sip. Winces, but manages to swallow anyway.

He should not, he knows, waste the remaining half-hour or so of visible light. The crossbow needs looking at: the string could use a refitting, and he's seen the way the stock digs too deeply into Van Helsing's shoulder, not that the hunter has so much as grunted about it. He doesn't, he muses around another careful mouthful of water, have the tools here to properly fix the balance, but any small length of cloth from their packs, folded and bound around the stock, should make an acceptable padding. Not an elegant solution, but he's lacking a forge just now.

The lake is calm again, the ripples having dispersed. He leans out over the smooth surface a second time, fingering the fastenings of his cloak. In a sudden burst of morbid curiosity, he begins to undo the clasps. It has been four days, after all; and though the lingering pain whenever he tries to swallow is a constant reminder, he has not once actually seen the marks himself. He has made doubly sure that no one else has seen them, either.

The remnants of daylight are fading, but in the pool, the wide band of bruises stands out livid, purples and reds and blues an unfashionable addition to the drab browns of his habit and the paleness of his flesh. Gingerly, he probes them with a fingertip; they're in fact slightly worse than he has pictured. The smell of water makes him shudder; his body remembers being drenched, remembers being slammed back against the unyielding iron grate, remembers losing the desperate struggle for air. Bright colours like these have no place in the somber halls of the Vatican. Although he might, he thinks half-hysterically, now rival Jinette's crimson robes for sheer vibrant spectacle –

'Carl?'

He starts badly, forgetting the supporting willow and nearly slipping forward on the slick bank, but a hand catches his right shoulder. He pulls back quickly, shaking off the assistance, fumbling his cloak into some semblance of order.

'Sorry,' he mutters – he's missed the hunter's approach; but then again, he's pretty sure he's hardly the first to do so. 'Lost track of time there for a minute.'

Van Helsing is crouched beside him, much too close. Carl curls his fingers around the handle of the pot, begins to climb to his feet. 'I'll get the cooking started,' he says, but it's too late; Van Helsing is staring at him, freezing him mid-movement.

'What the hell – ' Van Helsing growls, but Carl can see the realization dawning in the set of his shoulders before the second syllable; the rest is just convention.

'It's nothing,' he says, and that response has never worked in the past, nor does it start working now. He tugs defensively at his collar.

Van Helsing swiftly reaches out to stop him, and Carl flinches back. A small pot mostly-full of lake water is a poor weapon against a trained Knight, but he'll use it if he has to, see if he doesn't.

Van Helsing, however, has already halted. 'I…' he begins, and then closes his mouth instead and gestures mutely at Carl's neck.

He doesn't even pretend to misunderstand. 'Really. It's nothing.'

But the other man is reaching out again, refusing as always to be deterred, and Carl grits his teeth. It's only the fact that Van Helsing is moving slowly, so slowly like a man crossing a bridge of crumbling stones, that keeps Carl from bolting. His collar is pulled aside, the coarse weave of the cloth rasping across his nerves, and he wonders absently that he hasn't noticed that before.

Van Helsing doesn't react to what he sees, as far as Carl can tell, although he thinks that perhaps the man's jaw clenches a little more. The hunter's features are in shadow, his head haloed golden by the setting sun behind him, defende nos ab hostibus, and Carl shifts his gaze away.

Fingers brush over his throat, their warmth a surprise in contrast to the frigid twilight air, and Carl's grip tightens around the handle of the pot. There is, however, almost no pressure against his skin; the light touch does not even aggravate the bruises.

'Why didn't you tell me?' Van Helsing's voice is deep with bridled fury, his body fairly bristling with it. Carl tenses, the iron handle digging into his palm, but no hint of the other man's anger finds its way to the hand at his throat.

He manages a half-hearted shrug. He says, 'It wasn't…it's already done. It's only a matter of waiting until they go away.' It is true, but he also doesn't say: I didn't think we needed any more reminders. You've had enough grief on your hands with Anna, and I...well...I wanted to be able to sleep at night.

A nudge beneath his jaw gently turns his head to the right, and the touch drifts down the side of his neck, stopping where he knows a vivid purple thumbprint makes its darkest stamp against the rest of the bruising. He stares out across the clearing to where the small flicker of flame indicates the site of their camp. There isn't much to say about it, really. The marks will heal in time; until then, they speak well enough for themselves – almost too well.

'I'm sorry,' Van Helsing murmurs, so low that he nearly misses it.

That brings Carl's eyes back to the man beside him. Even in the rapidly-failing light, he can see Van Helsing's expression harden again.

'You were right,' he continues, not so softly now, and his hand falls away, triggering a shiver in Carl as the chill air rushes in greedily to replace it. Van Helsing's voice is harsh. 'You're not a field man. This won't happen again. I should have argued with Jinette, but I thought…just once, I thought a mission that I didn't have to tackle by my – '

He cuts off the rest of his own words, rising abruptly to his feet. 'I'll talk to Jinette,' he says, and his tone brooks no objections. 'This won't happen again.'

Carl watches him as he returns to camp, and lets out the breath he hasn't known he was holding.

If he has discovered one thing on this journey, he thinks, it's that mirrors can be dangerous things, more so than he has realized. Sometimes, you can look into one bespelled by an age-old curse, and step through it into an icy Hell. Sometimes, you can look into one in a simple pool of water, and be starkly reminded of the moment when you learned that the world has more ways of turning upside-down that you'd ever imagined.

And sometimes, you can look into one in the eyes of the man before you, and see – if only for an instant – your own misery and loneliness reflected back in a way that makes your gut ache, and your heart want to stop.

Quietly, he gathers up his robes and the evening's supply of fresh water, and follows the Knight back to the fireside.