Disclaimer: I don't own Trigun / Vash. He belongs to Mr. Yasuhiro Nightow. I only borrow, with respect.
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Rescued One
Year 116, month 7 day 13
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Predawn light began to spread across the desert and into his window.
His eyelids fluttered and opened just a little at first, and then a bit wider. He looked at the unknown room surrounding him, seen clearly courtesy of the flickering light provided by a candle.
The room was small and plain, but clean. It had a window in the wall beside his bed.
Looking clockwise, he saw a table beside the head of his bed. The flickering candle, some clean-smelling cloths, and an empty drinking glass all sat on that table. A bucket of water was on the floor beside and halfway under the table, almost against his bed. The table and the bed's headboard covered most of the width of that wall.
The length of the bed mostly matched the length of the windowed wall.
A tall cupboard stood near the foot of his bed. He could see the top of his bag, indicating that it was sitting on the floor by that cupboard although half behind the end of the bed. The bed's footboard and the cupboard mostly filled the width of the third wall.
Just beyond the cupboard, on the room's fourth wall, there was an open door. He could see through that doorway into a tiny room containing a sink and a toilet. Another door, closed, filled most of the other half of that wall. Beside the closed door were some hooks, where his hat was hanging. Aside from a stool beside the bed where he lay, that was all he could see.
At first, the unfamiliar surroundings left him confused. When he tried to move, and felt weakness, aches and bruises in his body, his memories of recent events began to return.
His mind wandered back farther, to a year and a half ago, when he'd run from Mesa Probe Church after being sheltered there for 6 months.
He'd promised to disappear, and he'd done his best.
His red coat was folded at the very bottom of his bag, with his body armor and silver revolver just above it. Wolfwood's repaired sunglasses were nestled against his gun, where they would be most likely to remain intact. His old sunglasses rested against them, to protect them even more. From there, he'd filled his bag with ordinary traveling supplies. He'd bought a wide-brimmed hat and sunglasses, in common styles worn by many ordinary people.
He left word for his friends from the Seeds ship village that he meant to vanish, possibly for several years, without contact. His message had also asked that they not seek him.
Then he'd moved around from one place to another. He did enough of that to be reasonably certain that nobody who might recognize him was on his trail... friend or foe.
Those precautions also gave his hair time to grow longer. He used temporary dyes to color his hair differently, as he moved from place to place. Disguised thus, he had revisited the apple tree that grew near Mesa Probe Church to get seeds from its fruit. He wanted to plant another apple tree wherever he finally lived. As far as he knew, none had seen him.
Though it made his heart ache, he did not visit Carlito and his father while he was there.
By that time, he had already studied several newer maps of No Man's Land to see where the survivors had begun to gather and rebuild. He selected a comparatively small and remote village well north of most steamer routes. Its population included about 700 adults and around 150 children.
It was large enough for a stranger to attract little notice, yet small and remote enough that it probably would not have law enforcement officers who watched the "wanted" posters very closely.
His plan had been to visit the village rarely, while he lived LOHAS-style out in the wilderness nearby. It would be a lonely life, with few distractions from the loneliness, but at least that way nobody else would be endangered by any overly zealous bounty hunters.
While he could live LOHAS-style equally well within the town, his presence there might endanger the townsfolk. For that reason, it seemed better to dwell alone out in the wilderness instead.
He'd done his best to prepare his heart for such a solitary existence, but he did not anticipate the prospect with any relish. He did not expect to enjoy being so isolated. Yet he could not imagine any less-lonely alternative that protected others equally well.
After several months of moving about, and never spending more than a few weeks in a single place, he'd bought a ticket on a sand steamer going in a different direction from the location of his chosen village.
Two days into the trip, he had washed the dye out of his hair. This had been immediately followed by a jump off that sand steamer, early in a night shift, so that none would know when he'd gone. There had been many long lonely iles of walking across the desert with only the suns, moons and stars to guide him.
He remembered feeling the heat on his face, the grit of sand in the winds, and the slow process of his body's strength wearing down. He recalled the stench of his own sweat.
He remembered stumbling and falling repeatedly. He would barely manage to catch himself on hands and knees, or else on elbows and knees. He had pushed himself up, and continued walking until he stumbled again. His head had gradually grown too heavy to hold upright, and then, finally, the ground had abruptly rolled up and hit him in the face.
He'd been far too weary to get up at that time. It was growing dark, so he'd hoped to rest during the cooler night hours... and try to move again in the morning. Since he'd been looking down at the sands while he walked, concentrating on putting one foot in front of the other, he had not seen if he was anywhere near to the village he sought.
Since someone had found him and brought him to this room, he must have been close.
He'd passed out while scolding himself for miscalculating how much food and water he would need to get through the desert. He should have had enough supplies, but severe sandstorms had forced him to stop and wait more often than he'd expected. Knives' activities with the cointegration must have altered some of the planet's weather patterns.
He was weary of walking, and weary of loneliness. He wasn't sure if he had the strength to isolate himself so thoroughly again. Yet he saw no other possible choice that would protect everyone better than to put himself through that pain.
The soft voices of an old woman and a girl... had those been a dream? Were they the ones who found him and brought him here?
If so, there was something... something about that girl... it tugged at his senses. He was too weary to grasp what it was. As he tried to wake his mind enough to understand, he heard a step outside the door.
Hearing the door to his room begin to open, he closed his weary eyes again. He thought from the sound of the footsteps that it was the older woman. He heard the rustle of her skirts, and the stool at his bedside creaked slightly as she sat on it (probably too softly for an ordinary human to hear).
He heard her set something on the table, followed by the sound of something dipping into the water bucket.
He felt her easing her arm under his neck and shoulders, to lift him up just enough to trickle water into his mouth again.
He stayed limp, mutely accepting her gentle ministrations. At least his body had absorbed enough moisture that he no longer needed a throat massage to help him swallow the water.
He could smell broth, and that was the next thing she slowly trickled into his mouth. He could tell that it was very salty, but right now that tasted good. He knew his body would need salt replenishment almost as badly as liquid, so he had no objection. The broth was followed by still more water.
"Ah, good," she said, as she eased him back down onto the bed. "That went in easier than last night's." Her voice was very soft, nearly a whisper. He heard her move as she set the glass down, but she did not yet get up from the stool.
He barely avoided flinching from surprise when he felt her fingers gently stroking his hair. She still spoke almost in a whisper, as if thinking aloud. "I can scarcely imagine what you must have been through, that could possibly have caused such terrible scars. We'll do our best to take care of you now, and help you heal – both body and soul."
"I wonder," she continued after a brief pause, still gently smoothing his hair with her fingertips, "which tells the truer tale. Are you a gentle soul, as something in your face suggests, or have you been forced to become hard, as your scars suggest? It could be so good for my sweet girl to have a brother, if you are kind-hearted and wished to stay with us."
She sighed.
"I suppose time will tell," she concluded. "Please, get better. Don't die. That would break my girl's heart… and possibly my own, also."
Her voice, her words, and the way she touched him as she tended him; all of those things left no doubt in his mind. This was indeed the elder of the two ladies, whose voices he had heard in the night when he was barely half awake and thought he might be dreaming.
This older lady reminded him of Lina's grandmother. The thought of that pair, also an older woman and younger girl, made his heart ache more. It hurt that he could not return to them, for fear of bringing danger to them. He was a wanted and a hunted man.
It was far safer, for everyone, if he was in a place where nobody had ever known him – and where nobody who had ever known him was likely to come, he reminded himself. He hoped no danger would come to anyone in this remote village because of him. Sand steamers only came here once a year, so he should be able to avoid them without much difficulty. That alone should evade most opportunities for trouble.
"Nearly time to begin breakfast," she said, still in that very soft voice that suggested her thoughts might be spilling out of her lips of their own accord.
"There's still a little time left, though. I'll try to rest a bit, before the day truly begins." Her fingers withdrew from his hair. "I'll check on you again before long."
He heard the stool creak, her skirt rustle, her steps move to the door, the candle blown out, the door softly opened and closed, and then her steps moved away from the other side of the door. She was gone, for now. He knew that, in time, she would be back as she had promised.
He lay still, and slowly opened his eyes for the second time.
From her words, this old lady was willing to accept him as a member of her family... if he proved himself. He'd always wanted to live quietly. Especially since staying with Lina and her grandmother, he'd also wanted to belong to a family.
Suddenly, here was an old lady he'd not even met yet, and she was offering him a home. He wanted to cry at the thought of such kindness extended to him, but he was too dehydrated for tears.
Would she cast him out, if she learned who and what he was? It would be safer for everyone if he didn't tell her, though. She couldn't forget to guard a secret that she didn't know.
He would need a new name for himself. He could not use Eriks again, since someone might recognize it. He shouldn't use any of the names he had gone through during the last year and a half, to avoid creating a trail that could lead here. He must think of something new and inconsequential, something that would blend in...
He fell asleep, still pondering the choice of a new name.
…
When he felt aware of himself again, it was from hearing the door to his room opening. The old lady had returned, to pour more water into him. He felt weak and dizzy from hunger, now that he was a little less parched.
As she lifted him, he opened his eyes and looked at her. Her oval face was framed by silvery grey hair with a very few brown strands mingled in. Most of her hair was pulled back into a bun, though several errant wisps fell around her face and wrapped around the frame of her glasses. She wore a simple grayish dress, with a pinafore-style apron over it. Her dark eyes, and her facial expression, were both very gentle.
Her scent and emotional echoes were also encouraging. Compassion seemed dominant.
She blinked when she saw his eyes open, but continued bringing the glass of water to his mouth without pause.
"Good morning," she said, more in the manner that she had spoken the night before when the girl was with her than when she may have been thinking aloud. "It's good to see you awake. We were worried that we might not get to meet you." She smiled at him, a warm and welcoming smile.
His mouth and throat still felt dry, so he drank a few gulps before attempting to speak.
"Thank you," he said weakly, and smiled in return. It made his face hurt a little, since he had scraped one cheek nearly raw when he fell into the sand.
"Oh, I'd expect that anyone else in their right mind would have done exactly the same, if they had found you instead," she said negligently.
"No," he said softly. "Some would, but not all."
Her gentle eyes looked sad, but she did not contradict him. She suddenly smelled sad, too. "Well, perhaps not in other places," she conceded. "I hope that everyone here is too civilized to do otherwise."
He wanted to say something else, to thank her again so that she'd know that he really meant it. But then he caught a familiar aroma that drove all other thoughts from his mind. Was he delirious? It had to be impossible, didn't it? Because he thought he smelled...
"Doughnuts?"
"Yes," she said, and smiled. She smelled pleased. "We work in the café downstairs, and my daughter is busy frying this morning's doughnuts for the customers." She tipped the glass up to his mouth again, and he drank more water gratefully. "I don't suppose you'd be up to eating any? My girl is a good cook, if I do say so myself. She makes very fine doughnuts."
"Please," he said, as soon as she stopped pouring water into his mouth. He wanted to get up and go down, to get some doughnuts for himself. Unfortunately, at the moment, he couldn't even sit up without help.
"I'll bring you a few," she promised as she eased him back onto the bed. "Not too many at first, since we don't want to dry you out again. By the way, my name's Naomi Jones."
She extended her right hand, and he managed to lift his own right hand just enough for her to grab it and shake hands. "Pleased to meet you," she said, smiling again. She was thoughtful enough to lower his hand so that it wouldn't fall far when she let go.
As he smiled at her again, he felt himself sinking back into unconsciousness. His eyelids began to drop over his eyes, ignoring all of his efforts to keep them open.
"That's right," she said gently. "You rest, and the doughnuts will soon be here on your table and waiting for you. Then you can have some when ever you are ready for them."
"Thank you," he whispered as he felt himself sink into sleep again.
