With Sands, and the current events, El had lost much of his restlessness, his will to kill, to avenge, even his desire to always be on the move. He was now happy with staying hidden, ducking around corners, spending every day and every night with Sands, without fear of being discovered. He felt a certain responsibility for the other man, owing in much, no doubt, to having cared for him in his helpless state, but also to a fleeting feeling that was at the same time unfamiliar, and the most familiar feeling in the world. It reminded him of lying in his childhood bed, listening to his brother's stories, feeling like the world was his and that he would go to any lengths to protect it, to prevent any harm from coming to him or those he held dear.
But as he was soon to find out, everything was not within his control. Returning to the hotel room late one night, El was startled at the emptiness of it. Sands was nowhere to be seen, and knowing he never ventured far away from the room on his own, El searched the premises for his friend, but came up emptyhanded. Upon re-entering the room, something fell against him from behind the door, and his quick reflexes caught it before it hit the ground. With one hand, he held it out to the light. It was the white cane, speckled with irregular spots that to the untrained eye could easily be mistaken for rust; but El knew the sight of blood far too well to be fooled. Throwing it aside, he ran from the room, and out into the quiet street.
The moon was shining brightly, illuminating the otherwise dark road, its silver light reflected in the knives and guns of several men, forming an impenetrable ring at some distance from him. Something stirred suddenly, and a man stepped out from within the group, one hand firmly closed around a straining neck, the other wielding El's shotgun, the one he always left behind with Sands, for protection. The Mariachi took a step forward, but stopped dead in his tracks at the soft click of the safety.
"Not so fast."
El watched helplessly as the two men approached him; Sands, stumbling, head bent forward, muzzle of the gun held firmly against the left side of his neck. He stood, motionless, unarmed, eyes straining to see in the darkness. Finally, his friend and his assailant were close enough for him to barely be able to make out their features, and as Sands raised his head, El couldn't keep a gasp of horror from escaping his lips.
The bandages had been ripped off, the freshly healed sockets mutilated by God knew what, and he was bleeding profusely, face even paler than usual. His frail body shivered in the chill of the night, and El felt an uncontrollable rage rising within him. His clenched fists shook, as he helplessly watched his friend writhing in agony as the cool wind touched the newly torn open flesh.
"What the hell do you want?"
"You."
"Then take me, and let him go. He has done nothing to you."
The man pursed his lips. He seemed to be contemplating El's proposal, turning it over, examining it in his head for a very long time. Finally, appearing to have made up his mind, he leaned forward to softly whisper something into Sands' barely conscious ear. The he looked straight back at El again, gun wiggling slightly in his hand, as if to tease him.
"...No."
El woke at the loud, reverberating bang, which continued echoing in his skull until he forced it out by repeating Sands' last words, whispering them over and over again, into the darkness.
"Don't worry...I'll come back for you."
After the men had left, El knelt to the ground, clutching the barely alive body tightly, picking him up; slowly, stumbling under his weight, Sands bleeding helplessly in his arms, they made their way to the hospital.
But as he was soon to find out, everything was not within his control. Returning to the hotel room late one night, El was startled at the emptiness of it. Sands was nowhere to be seen, and knowing he never ventured far away from the room on his own, El searched the premises for his friend, but came up emptyhanded. Upon re-entering the room, something fell against him from behind the door, and his quick reflexes caught it before it hit the ground. With one hand, he held it out to the light. It was the white cane, speckled with irregular spots that to the untrained eye could easily be mistaken for rust; but El knew the sight of blood far too well to be fooled. Throwing it aside, he ran from the room, and out into the quiet street.
The moon was shining brightly, illuminating the otherwise dark road, its silver light reflected in the knives and guns of several men, forming an impenetrable ring at some distance from him. Something stirred suddenly, and a man stepped out from within the group, one hand firmly closed around a straining neck, the other wielding El's shotgun, the one he always left behind with Sands, for protection. The Mariachi took a step forward, but stopped dead in his tracks at the soft click of the safety.
"Not so fast."
El watched helplessly as the two men approached him; Sands, stumbling, head bent forward, muzzle of the gun held firmly against the left side of his neck. He stood, motionless, unarmed, eyes straining to see in the darkness. Finally, his friend and his assailant were close enough for him to barely be able to make out their features, and as Sands raised his head, El couldn't keep a gasp of horror from escaping his lips.
The bandages had been ripped off, the freshly healed sockets mutilated by God knew what, and he was bleeding profusely, face even paler than usual. His frail body shivered in the chill of the night, and El felt an uncontrollable rage rising within him. His clenched fists shook, as he helplessly watched his friend writhing in agony as the cool wind touched the newly torn open flesh.
"What the hell do you want?"
"You."
"Then take me, and let him go. He has done nothing to you."
The man pursed his lips. He seemed to be contemplating El's proposal, turning it over, examining it in his head for a very long time. Finally, appearing to have made up his mind, he leaned forward to softly whisper something into Sands' barely conscious ear. The he looked straight back at El again, gun wiggling slightly in his hand, as if to tease him.
"...No."
El woke at the loud, reverberating bang, which continued echoing in his skull until he forced it out by repeating Sands' last words, whispering them over and over again, into the darkness.
"Don't worry...I'll come back for you."
After the men had left, El knelt to the ground, clutching the barely alive body tightly, picking him up; slowly, stumbling under his weight, Sands bleeding helplessly in his arms, they made their way to the hospital.