Disclaimer: I claim no rights to the characters or the places mentioned in the story. All that is Disney's is Disney's, and all that is mine is mine. This disclaimer holds true for all chapters posted, or to be posted of this story. I am not making money with this story; I am dirt poor, so don't sue me. I also take no claim to the song lyrics. Those belong to the producers, the artists, the composers, the record label, the writers, and the genius that is not my own. I am not making money off of it or any part of this story, no infringement is intended, so don't sue me.

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A/N: Yeah, so, I got mono or else this chapter would have been up a lot faster. No I didn't kiss anyone, thank you. This is it, you guys. I am actually really sad that I am almost done with this story, but I already killed Frost, so what the heck, right? Then I'll move back to Blind Spot and hopefully finish that – sometime. Maybe before December so then I will have finished it before a whole year had passed…. Yeah. Right. Sure…. Anyway, on with the story.

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Warning: This chapter is rated PG for general angst, and suicidal undertones.

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Chapter 17: Finally Free

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//The life that you took was mine,

We can't be happy all the time.

Out of sight but your haunt my mind,

I need a remedy to kill the pain…//

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It was cold. Unseasonably so as the month of April was near gone, and May fast approaching. The brisk zephyrs blew threw the unchanging city. The stone buildings as unfeeling as the cobblestone streets they stood upon, the city was a monument to prestige and prosperity. That would never change. The city itself never changed, the people within it, however, did.

The cemetery was quite. Empty in the late afternoon as those who had home to return to did so with haste. A boy with his gray cap pulled low over his steely eyes slipped over the gate, making sure that no one was watching him. Silently he stole across the familiar grassy terrain, cutting his course to the place he had visited religiously, but secretly. The trademark cane knocked against his shins as he went to the heart of the graveyard, the trees and shrubbery unusual for the city boy.

Though the cemetery was far outside of Brooklyn, over the bride, and even past Manhattan, he went nearly every day to the place they had seen fit to lay her. The place where they lay all of the runaway and the unknown nobodies with no one to claim or care for them. That is where they put Frost, along with all of the other orphans of the city. A piece of government owned ground and as Spot approached the place where she lay, his pace slowed from a brisk walk.

The unembellished grave had no tombstone as the maps of the cemetery keeper marked out all of the plots in use. There was a large tree with its branches making a large overhang, shading the plot where they had laid her. The grass didn't yet grow back over the hard packed ground. The mound was cracked and hard, as it had been unseasonably dry. The last precipitation had come that fateful night as it had melded into day, lasting long into the next night, covering everything in a deadly layer of ice as the cold night air had frozen it.

Spot remembered it all too well.

The blood had washed from his clothes as he lay prostrate in the rain, unable to will himself to stand and face the dawn like a man. Hanging around his neck remained the single gold cross, its ruby red center glinting in the late afternoon light as the days seemed to stretch out longer than before and the even didn't settle upon them with near the speed and readiness that it once had. The grass that was around the cemetery was dead and brown with the cold and the lack of moisture. No signs of spring were appearing as they normally would.

Climbing into the tree that was by her final resting-place, Spot looked down upon the grave. More than once he had slept in that tree as he watched her grave like some divine protector. The gash on his arm had scabbed over nicely, and infection had not settled within it as Emily, the lodging house owner's daughter had assisted him in the repair of his wound. The cold he had received from the long night and rain bound dawn hadn't kept him from selling papers, though it had hindered his recovery. Only recently had he noted that nearly all of the symptoms had completely left. The physical abuses and afflictions had nearly disappeared but the emotional scars would last for an eternity.

A week ago at the leader's summit, he had returned the objects that were left in the handkerchief possessed by the only non-attending member, the Stanton Island leader. That object had been released to a girl that he had seen passing in the street. A complete and total stranger had received something that held much past and much meaning that they would never know, but Spot was beyond caring. While part of him wanted to cling to every last reminder of the girl, another wanted to purge anything and everything of her essence and manner from his memory. The turmoil filled relationship between the Brooklyn leader and the hapless renegade wanderer had been terminated far before the time he desired as he looked down upon the hardened earth. A bitter twist it was and he felt the familiar hurt and anger surge through him.

She had been such an unresolved character of secrets and lies, and for as much as he had known about her, he had, in reality, known very little. He hadn't even known her full name, much less anything that was truly important. The cross he bore around his neck now was a perfect example of what hate and greed could accomplish. Two bodies now lay in this cemetery, unmarked except for the hard mound of earth. He remembered the attempt at humor even in her demise, her caustic reminder that she hadn't seen the Vaudeville. There were many things that she would never get to do now, all because of the small cross he carried with him now as a reminder of her and her untimely death.

It wasn't fair at all.

Though he had slew her brother, avenging her and the years of pain she must have suffered. The accomplishment seemed worthless now as all he could do was sit and stare at her grave. There was something very sobering about the fact that he simply couldn't do anything about the fact that she had died or the fact that she wasn't coming back. It would have been better if she had gone to Chicago, then he knew that there was at least a chance, no matter how small, that he would be reunited with her in this life. Now, however, there was no promise as such as he could still remember the vibrant crimson of her lifeblood staining his clothes and saturating the New York streets. Having become acclimated to a life and position of power, he hated the feeling of being out of control, and that was exactly what he was.

It wasn't fair.

Fairness was another thing that he wasn't akin to. Life on the streets had taught him that nothing was fair and nothing ever would be fair as he looked at his bleak atmosphere. The gray overcast sky told of little light and less hope as the thick cloud coverage hid the sun's brilliant rays from the earth's face. The traditional greening of the countryside hadn't arrived on schedule, as the world looked every bit as cold and miserable as it had one week past. The snow had disappeared as had the frost, simply leaving the cold hard earth and all of its bitter wonders. Even the weather wasn't fair, winter cutting into spring's splendor. Just once he wanted it to be fair.

A biting wind stung his cheeks as he sat on his perch, mulling over the same thoughts again and again. How if he had been slightly faster, slightly better, slightly smarter, slightly kinder, slightly more yielding, slightly less stubborn, slightly wittier, slightly more expressive, slightly more tactful, slightly stronger, slightly better than he was, he might have been able to save her. Again and again, the possibilities played over in his mind. His inner demons torturing him with all of the might-have-beens and could-have-beens that brought forth an undecoded rage within him. He hadn't been able to save her he hadn't been able to help her. He couldn't even tell her that he loved her. What a coward, what an incredible coward he was.

"I love yous," he whispered now, looking down at the hard still earth, his words catching on the wind and sweeping away through the field of death.

Jumping down from his position in the tree, he grasped the gold tipped cane and the golden cross around his neck. With one final look at the hard packed earth he headed back for Brooklyn, resolved never to return to this place again.

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//But can you save me?

Come on and save me.

If you could save me,

Would you save me…?//

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Outsider looked out the window of the lodging house. Dusk had fallen into twilight as evening pressed forth with the unexplained but expected rhythm of a day gone by. Thousands of stars glittered in the sky but were hidden by a thick cloud overlay as Outsider was withdrawn from the group. The paper in his pocket burned with an unexpected guilt as found it harder and harder each day to bring it forth and return it to the boy who was the rightful owner. Spot.

The crumpled note was now a constant reminder of the fateful night that had taken place so many weeks ago. Nearly a month had passed and Outsider had noticed the change in their leader, but none of the others seemed to have noted the fact that he was abnormally withdrawn and solemn. This, however, was a good thing as the majority simply was told that Frost had left for Chicago and no one had asked any other questions. Perhaps that was a good thing. Outsider was the only one that knew that Frost was dead, besides Spot, who had felt obligated to tell his second in command exactly what had happened, even if Spot hadn't known that Outsider had come in direction contact with Luke.

It was a tangled web of events, that night. One where everything seemed terribly destined as a girl had avoided her fate too long. No one mortal knew the entirety of the situation, no one ever would, but they knew the total of the equation added up to the loss of a girl who's fire and spirit had challenged them all, freezing them cold at the same time.

The thoughtful reverie of the Brooklyn's second was interrupted as the dark haired boy entered the main bunkroom. His hair uncovered as the result of the loss of his hat that night, the purchase of a new one would most likely not occur for another few weeks. The note seared at his flesh through the thin cloth of his pants pocket, and gauging by Brooklyn's expression, he wasn't in the best of moods, but it was now or never.

"Spot," he called across the room in greeting to the somber leader and Spot's crystalline eyes were brought up to his. He didn't speak, but asked what Outsider wanted with his eyes. A dark pain hidden behind their blue depths that was still very fresh and real and Outsider swallowed hard, his mouth suddenly very dry. "Can I'se talk ta you?" he asked, forcing his voice out of his suddenly very tight trachea. Spot simply turned back out the door and walked into the hall where none of the newsies stayed, due to the unwanted chill that was vanquished by the fire in the other room.

"Whot?" Spot asked once they were alone. The light and warmth from the other room very much gone as the door had been such, vanquishing whatever glimpse of a warmer atmosphere or comfort Outsider might have had. Though taller than the Brooklyn leader by a few inches, Outsider could feel the intense currents flowing from the small boy. Though there was a chill in the unheated air, it seemed intensified by Spot's demeanor. There was no turning back now and Outsider dove his hand into his pocket and extended the extracted crumpled wad to Spot.

"Heah," he said as Spot eyed it suspiciously, but keeping the icy façade that he had mastered so well. "Dis is youahs," Spot took the note and glared at his companion. "I took it tha night Frost ran," he explained hastily.

"An' yous just now givin' it ta me?" Spot's voice was a salty low and Outside wasn't sure how to read his intonation.

"Yeah," Outsider shifted uncomfortably from foot to foot, unsure of how to respond to the breaking of the news. There was a deafening silence and Outsider's eyes stayed connected with Spot's as he found it impossible to withdraw them. There was an almost unperceivable alteration in the back of his swirling orbs, before his fist shot out like a cobra and came hard across Outsider's jaw. His head snapped back and there was a sharp copper bite of blood on his tongue. A haze of red flashed across his vision and he felt the automatic street instinct to respond to the blow, but was brought readily back to earth as he saw Spot walking calmly back out of the hallway and down the stairs to exit the building. He had deserved that blow and he knew it.

The salty tang of the blood stayed as he licked his lip, feeling the split in the chapped flesh. Placing a hand to the place where he had been struck, Outsider worked his jaw carefully, knowing full well that he had deserved every bit of the pain and probably more. Stealing something from a fellow newsie, especially the leader, could be punished by much more than a single blow. Knowing it was pointless to go after Spot and futile to stand in the cold, dreary hall, Outsider returned to the warmth of the bunkroom and the inviting company of friends.

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//This feeling inside me,

Finally found my love,

I'm finally free,

No longer torn in two…//

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Spot had stormed down the stairs, knowing full and well what the note was and debating whether or not to read it. The lodging house owner's dark haired daughter, Emily was downstairs when he arrived at the bottom and she looked at him curiously with her peculiar green eyes. Her dark hair pulled back into a long braid down her back as she stood behind the front desk, organizing and cleaning, as was her custom. Through his rage and upset, he remembered the fact that she was a lady and a girl that had helped him on occasion, and nodded politely. Her cheeks flushed at this and hurriedly ducked her head to the papers with which she was fumbling. Spot shrugged the event off as he opened the door into the night, the paper burning in his hand much as the golden cross, burned around his neck.

He wasn't exactly sure where he was going, but he was going to get there. The mind, which controlled Brooklyn, wandered dangerously to endless possibilities of escape, or refuge. There were no concrete options as he felt the aching addiction of nicotine calling to him. With his free hand he began to rummage through his pockets, attempting to find what he needed for his fix. The match and smoke were found in good time as he continued to walk, placing the butt of his addiction between his lips. Striking the match against a building he lit the cigarette, extinguishing the match, he took a long deep breath of the intoxicating smoke. He just wanted to forget.

He wanted to forget what he cared so much and what had made him feel so intensely. He wanted to forget the harsh words and the fights that had left his blood burned and his heart pounding. He wanted to forget the way she tasted and the way her thin frame felt pressed flush against his. He wanted to forget the fact that he loved her, but there was always something to make him remember. The cross around his neck was a kind of self-inflicted torture as his feet took the familiar path to the bridge that held so many memories.

The dark bridge was lifeless and cold as the heart inside of Spot as he stood in the dim lamplight wondering if he truly wanted to read the note that Frost had left him. He could light it on fire with his cigarette or perhaps just throw it over the edge of the bridge. Her memory was like a ghost, constantly haunting him, his heart being the host to the taunting apparition. His soul ached with the desire to simply hurl him over the edge and be rid of all of the conflicting feelings and wants.

The wind picked up once more, ruffling his hair with its invisible fingers and tossing his frozen breath to the skies. This breeze wasn't as cutting or chilling as the one at the cemetery, it was almost warm, almost speaking of the hope of times yet to come. Unwittingly, Spot felt hot tears spring into his eyes as he staggered out further onto the bridge, the city night illuminated only by the flickering street lamps.

He was tired, so very tired. Tired of fighting feelings that he didn't want to have, tired of knowing that he was only too human. Tired of having those he cared about leave him, betray him, tired of being strong for others. Tired of failing because he hadn't even tried, and tired of knowing that he really had little control over anything. He was tired of carrying around memories that wouldn't die and tired of feeling empty. For a time, when she was with him, even when they were fighting, Frost had made him feel whole. She had challenged him, brought back that spark of fire, the fight that had kept him going for so long, the spark that had been beaten out of him in the Refuge.

The soft breeze blew around him, cutting through his clothes to his bare skin, raising goose flesh upon his body, making him tremble. He didn't know where to go, he didn't know where to stay. He wanted to stay, yet he wanted to leave. Maybe Frost had the right idea by deserting them all at the train station. Just take what little money he had in his pocket and go as far as he possibly could, just to get out of this God forsaken place. He wanted it all but had absolutely no way to even dream about all of his desires.

So as he stood in the flickering light of the lamp, sweet suicide calling him, his cigarette rapidly disintegrating in his lips, he looked at the crumpled wad of paper in his fist. It would be so easy to simply toss it over the bridge, to somehow mock Frost for leaving him before he wanted her to. To somehow smite her and her hurt her the way the she had hurt him. To degrade her wishes and mock her in her grave, to let her know that she had no control over him. He wanted to destroy the note, sending it to the bottom of the East River along with the necklace that had caused all of this turmoil.

But he couldn't.

She still held his heart. She still had the control over him that he cursed with all the black in his soul. So with a heavy conscious and the taste of self-loathing so present in his mind, he opened the crumpled note, and focused his tired, glassy eyes upon the script.

Dear Spot,

I left tonight and I'm not coming back. My train will be halfway to Chicago by the time you get this letter. You won't be seeing me again, which probably is a good thing to you, but I will think of you and Brooklyn ever day, dream of you every night. Your ribs should be healed in about a week or so, your hand in about three.

I wish I had the time to explain everything to you, but I don't. There is someone here that can. Do you remember that night where I was with a girl on the streets and you confronted me about her? It seems that was forever ago, but you have to find her. She is a barmaid from Queens that I befriended in my time there. Go to the bar named 'The Red' and ask for Cecile. Show her my cross necklace from the pouch that was with this letter, she will tell you everything she knows.

I am very sorry Spot, I just wish things could have been different between us. I'm letting you go.

I love you Spot Conlon.

Yours truly,

Lois

His mind was a blank. His heart raced and his mouth was dry, the words seemed to swim together on the page except for the one fated phrase. I love you. It rang out again and again in his mind, and in the whisper of the wind he could almost imagine that it was her fingers running through his hair, her voice whispering those words into his ear canal. She loved him, she had loved him, she had loved him and he had been too stupid to see. A mix of hate and joy churned within him as he wadded the note into a tight ball in his fist. He was torn between shouting for the happiness the confession had made or hurling the fateful paper over the bridge in rage for the untimeliness of the proclamation.

It came that he did neither, but looked up at the sky. A patch of clouds had cleared, showing a few twinkling stars as they shone like ice crystals on the navy backdrop. They winked and glittered above him as if they were trying to cheer his heavy spirit. Closing his eyes, he took in a deep breath, trying to calm the raging feelings that were tearing at him. The injustice of it all came sweeping over him once more with renewed vigor as he thought of all the times he had stood on this bridge with Frost and how she would never stand there with him again. Again the breeze blew, teasing his hair, tickling his skin, and he shut his eyes, willing the pain to leave him.

If he tried hard enough, the gentle zephyr almost felt like her lips pressed against his and he let out a strangled sigh. Opening his eyes, reality came crashing back around him with all the soft kindness of a boulder. Allowing his head to droop, he looked at his clenched fist where the short note was held captive, and he felt a sudden and strange conflicting peace. Another soft breeze played over his stoic form, and he looked back up at the exposed patch of heaven. The feeling of being very small and lost in the universe faded into a surreal oneness that made his breath catch in his throat. It was as though she was there with him, and perhaps in a way, she was. He could feel her.

I love you.

The words were no longer a torment, a curse. They were balms to the still seeping wound on his soul. The zephyrs seemed to be using their soft breaths to fan the spark that was somehow left beneath the ashes of his spirit. He couldn't describe it, or explain how it suddenly occurred, but in the confusion and loose condition of the situation, Spot felt calm. The pain was still very real, the hurt was something that would never completely leave, but somehow, it wasn't a crushing oppressive weight anymore.

I love you.

The wind seemed to carry her voice to his ears and he shook his head suddenly. Breaking himself from the grasp of the soulful reverie.

I'm letting you go, let me go.

He heard the words as clear as day whispered to him and the hairs on the back of his neck stood erect. He didn't want to let go, he didn't want to forget. Let go. The words came again and he turned to see that he was still so very much alone. He didn't want to let go, but he knew there was nothing left to hold. Let go. It came once more and he stared up at a single pristine star, shimmering as ice within the sky, and then it was gone. The turmoil within him simply vanished and he could almost feel the warmth siphoning through his veins. Let go. The words were now an encouragement as he shut his eyes and breathed deeply. With a deep sigh, he opened the blue diamonds and felt his shoulders relax. Flicking the butt of his cigarette over the edge of the bridge he simply stood there.

She wanted him to let her go. She wanted him to go on with his life. Just as she had challenged him in life, she now challenged him from death, asking him to do what very well could have been impossible. He didn't want to, and he knew that, but he also knew that she was right. In life, she had been willing to let him go if only to save him from the fate she had received so untimely. If she had been so willing to sacrifice, he too would rise to the occasion.

The single star winking and sparkling in the night sky seemed to offer silent encouragement and a small smile tugged at the corners of his full lips. The first genuine smile he had offered since the time that she had passed. With his free hand he gripped the necklace that lay on his chest and felt his spirit rise to the challenge. It wouldn't be easy to move on, but he knew it was what she wanted, it was what he must do. So as he stood under the night sky, in simple, silent reverie, he knew that she loved him, and that somehow, she knew he loved her as well.

The spark that had been dormant for so long now was beginning to kindle something within him that he had forgotten. The will to live, the want to be alive. As she had given him a challenge in life, she gave him life in death. To live the life that she now would never get to fulfill. In the night, he knew. In the darkness, he found the light.

And as he stood under the night sky, staring at the single exposed patch of heaven, watching the winking stars, Spot smiled.

He was free.

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A/N: Okay, so yes, there is an epilogue coming up soon, but this the real, final chapter. It is just kind of resolving the last bits of loose ends and giving our hero as happy an ending as one can get out of this kind of angst. Yeah. I really want to get at least 90 reviews! So come on and help me out here! I know this was a stupid, corny, awful chapter, but I want reviews! Tell me what sucks about my writing!

Frenchy DeWolfe: I'm glad you enjoyed it. It was a very draining chapter for me, but I am glad you enjoyed it. Yeah, that is what I am supposed to do as an author right? Make stories that people can enjoy? Yeah, well, Yeah…. Thank you so much for your support. It is done, I can't believe it….

Ireland O'Reily: HOW DID YOU KNOW SHE WAS GOING TO DIE? Are you Miss. Cleo? Yeah, well, thanks for the emotional support. Ha, ha. YOU are my support group! Ha, ha. Right…. Anyway, I have finished it. It is done. This thing that has been going on forever is done. Complete. Totally and utterly finished. And I think that I am pretty happy with it. I will have to go back through and work on the continuity with revisions and such, but right now, I am really happy that it is done. Thank you a ton, I really do love and appreciate you. :: hugs ::

Umm…: I'm sorry I killed her! I didn't want to, trust me! I really hope that this epilogue helped ease the pain a bit, but yeah. Blind Spot is the sequel to this story. This is the first of a trilogy. Blind Spot is the second, and the third is yet to be seen. So you should go read it and leave me lots of reviews. ^_^ Thank you for your support and your review. Sorry I made you cry.

Caitie: Aw, you love my story? Thank you. Yeah, I killed her, I am evil. Well now this story is done and you can go and read Blind Spot, which I personally like, a lot more plot-wise then this one. It is finished, it is done. Thank you.

:: Does the review dance :: COME ON! Ha, ha. Sorry, I'm sick. I am weird when I am sick.