It Could Be Worse (3rd Season)
Episode 8: Pure
By Sulia Serafine
[A Protector of the Small fanfic set in an alternate universe; all credit goes to Tamora Pierce. I'm broke, so you can't sue me. Any other copyrighted things that don't belong to me in here in fact belong to other very businesslike people. Could you believe that? I guess that's why I'm broke.
BAD LANGUAGE (I. E. cursing, swearing…)! E-mail me at silverwlng@aol.com okay? And you know the drill: titles or subjects of emails are fanfiction.net, s.serafine, or icbw.
IMPORTANT NOTE: I'm still accepting people into the mailing list. That means you'll be told when the next episode is posted, as well as other tidbits of information about the series whenever I put them online. ALSO: Every now and then, as a pledge, I'll send everyone bonus material, such as drawings of ICBW characters and little random facts about ICBW.
Rating of this episode: Let's say… R… mostly for Joren and Neal's potty mouths. They're basically at each other's throats. They're both so grumpy by this time that neither of them is holding back with the profanity.
~~
The air was still, as if each molecule Neal breathed was actually a tiny fragment of ice. He closed his eyes and allowed himself to doze off. The figure in the sleeping bag probably wouldn't move anytime soon. Light peaked out from the slit of the tent flap. He had forgotten to zip it up all the way, but since the heat sentries were still in place, there was no immediate need to do so.
It had been two full days since the "wolf" attack. Neal had heard that such creatures roamed the colder regions of the earth, but he had never really expected to meet one, let alone a dozen. If it hadn't been for Shinkokami, he might have been mauled to death.
Not exactly one of the nicer ways to go.
Everyone in the camp had sustained only minor injuries. Neal and Joren had been the worst off. Unlike Neal, however, Joren's body seemed to be healing itself at a far accelerated rate than his partner's. By the time Joren would awake, there would be perhaps only faint traces of bruising. Neal was not nearly so lucky.
He couldn't understand how Joren had come to possess such resilience. But then again, there wasn't much about Joren that he understood anyway. He had grown very used to seeing mysteries appear right before his eyes, related to this impassive towheaded man. Nothing could spook him now.
He assured the crew and the guide, Imrah, that there was no need to turn back. They restlessly waited for Joren to awake. And luckily, that morning, as Neal was keeping watch over his partner, Joren opened his eyes.
The pupils surrounded by pale blue shrank in response to the light filtering through the tent material. He screwed his eyes shut and turned his head away. One hand stiffly pressed itself against the sleeping bag, pushing Joren up into a sitting position. The other hand swiftly flew to his head, touching the new white bandage wound around his "bump".
Despite having gained full consciousness in a matter of seconds, he looked down at his body straight away as if he couldn't differentiate the blur of colors in his vision. He kicked furiously at the sleeping bag, trying to free his legs. His face lifted again so that he faced Neal with a menacing expression. "Why are my feet and knees wet?"
Neal lifted his head warily and yawned. The early morning sun was also too bright for his eyes. He rubbed his eyelids and pointed to the tent opening. "You woke up not too long ago and crawled your way just outside the tent. We don't know why, but you certainly scared the crap out of us."
The events of earlier came rushing back to Joren. He had been quite feverish then. Luckily they had dragged him back inside the tent or else he would have caught pneumonia lying there in the snow with very few layers on. Joren grimaced and straightened his back. His strength also flowed back into his body. He pulled his legs toward his body and folded them semi-lotus style, his hands resting on his knees.
"Did I…" he began, fully knowing what he had done, yet uncertain of what they knew. "Did I say anything?"
Neal displayed the same pained impression that Joren did. He wasn't sure if he wanted to let Joren know how insane the blonde had appeared. "Well, yeah. You did say something." He coughed. "But we didn't understand it. You yelled it so… loudly that we couldn't make heads or tails of it."
A lie. Joren might have yelled so vociferously that Neal's ears had rung with the sound of it, but the older man knew exactly what Joren had screamed for… or should he say whom? It stumped him. Why Keladry? Had the former operative dreamt of her? If he had, the dream must have really been a nightmare. There was no explanation for the anguish he had heard in Joren's voice early that morning.
Neal drew his knees toward his chest to allow Joren more room to move. "We've lost two days. Luckily, we're near to where we think the plane went down. How soon can you be up and about?"
Though his father was Dr. Baird, he didn't want to make assumptions about the stamina of other people—especially cases such as Joren. Neal suspected that the search party could continue right away, but he didn't want to believe it. Joren's health was too perplexing.
"I'm ready right now. Just give me a second to dress and pack. We can make the crash site in a couple of days," Joren said, his voice indicating that he was back in professional mode. He began going through his discarded pack bag for more layers of thermal designed clothing.
"Are you sure you'll be okay?"
Joren shot another glare at him. He yanked a tight fitting black turtleneck over his head and wrestled to adjust it over his body. "Yes, I'm fine." He reached for a pair of suitable waterproof gloves. "Get the rest of the camp packed. We'll leave in fifteen minutes."
Of course, Neal thought sarcastically. I'm an idiot for thinking that he of all people would take it easy. He rolled his eyes. There was no use fighting what Joren wanted to do. It simply wasn't done, especially not by Neal. As much as he wanted to go against his partner's decisions, he continued to think of Keladry and her brothers.
"They deserve a proper burial… there's so much love in their family. They deserve it," he muttered as he exited the tent in a low crouch.
Pretending not to have heard, Joren touched the bandage around his head. It was stiff and new. They had probably replaced it early that morning when he had stumbled out of his tent. He began unwinding it from his head, tugging at it impatiently. When it lay in a heap in his lap, the former operative gingerly touched the spot on his crown that seemed most tender. There was not even a bump, just a slight ghost of pain.
He thought of his last visit to a hospital and shuddered. It would continue to haunt him for the rest of his days. Death wanted Joren so badly, but at the rate of his healing, it seemed as if he would never meet his Grim Reaper.
Speaking of depressing things, why did he have such a dream? Why were both Keladry and his son in it? It made no sense. He almost hated himself at that moment.
"When don't I hate myself?" he said morbidly. He smiled bitterly.
When he was fully dressed and packed, Neal unzipped the flap of the tent and stuck his head through. "We're ready and waiting. Imrah says it should only be a day if we get a good pace. Think you're up to it?"
"Of course I am. Don't ask such a stupid question," Joren barked. He hefted his pack onto his shoulders and followed the older man out of the tent. The sudden exposure to the cold air sent the smallest of shivers up his spine, but he betrayed no emotion on his face to what he was feeling. "I have to collapse the tent. After that, we need to talk."
Neal nodded. He had expected as much. The other porters and Imrah were waiting around patiently, perched on rocks and their packs as if they were watching a show. He tipped over his pack on the ground and also sat on it, exhaling deeply.
When Joren was done, he faced Neal and beckoned him to get up and approach.
"What? Need help carrying the tent kit?"
The blond biker scrutinized Neal's physical appearance from head to toe. "Are you injured?"
Neal was taken aback. He floundered for words. "Uh, no!" Was Joren truly concerned? "Just a few minor scrapes and bruises. Nothing that I can't shake off."
Perhaps the blow to the head had jogged something nice in Joren's head. Perhaps from now on, his partner would be a more considerate person. The millions of possibilities made their way through Neal's mind. He had a hard time believing it, but the expression on Joren's face actually looked sincere.
And to think, I thought he would be mad for tackling him and nearly killing him…
"What about your face? Does that hurt?" Joren asked.
Neal frowned slightly. "Um, no. Perfectly fine."
"Good."
And with that, Joren drew back his arm and exploded forward, punching Neal soundly across the cheekbone so much that the struck man was propelled backwards. He landed on his butt in the snow, head reeling. He pressed a gloved hand to his cheek and winced in obvious pain.
He moaned. His eyes fluttered as he looked up at Joren's sneering face. "Damn my gullibility. I should have seen that one coming."
"You deserved it," Joren spat. Despite the frightened faces of the rest of their search party, Joren leaned over and pulled Neal up by the neck of his parka. He growled threateningly. "If you ever pull a stunt like that again, I will personally see to it that one more casualty is added to the crash list!"
Neal nodded. He swallowed hard. "Totally understood." When Joren let go, he stood up again and brushed himself off. "I have to explain the full story though. Stone, didn't you see that girl? She was dressed in furs, but I'm sure you knew that she was human! Don't you understand? I couldn't let you kill—"
"Oh, I understand," Joren snapped, cutting him off. "I understand that you've been thinking with your crotch rather than your brain. I suppose there's only enough blood in your body to operate one at a time."
Neal bristled. "Now that's not fair! It wasn't like that!"
"I don't care. Just make sure you put this team first, not her," Joren warned. "We're on a mission or haven't you noticed? We have no time for crazy girls running in the wild."
Seeing that Neal was too angry and speechless to continue their argument further, Joren picked up his things and whistled to Imrah. The other men and women quickly got up on their feet and fell into line. Neal cursed fluidly, letting one word follow after another. He grudgingly went to the back of the line, glaring at his partner at the front.
Neal didn't hate discriminately. There were no specific reasons why he loathed Joren. He had repeated to himself many times before that his hate was, indeed, very general. Everything about the bastard pissed Neal off.
Of course, mentally whining about it wouldn't do any good. He fell in sync with the march up the slope, simply glad to be on the move again. The rhythm would take his mind off a lot of things. Right foot forward, left foot forward. Step over the rock. Don't slide in the snow.
The snow… While waiting for Joren to awake, Neal had observed weather patterns in the mountain range. One of the women he had hired owned a device that was a link to the International Climate and Weather Bureau. She also possessed a knack at navigating around in bad weather. Hopefully, they wouldn't need to put those skills to use. As far as they could tell, the snowstorms blew through the western part of the mountain territory, where they had departed less than a week ago.
The hapless troupe trekked across the massive mountains for two more days—delayed from their initial good pace because Imrah decided such rigorous traveling would wear down the inexperienced DJPF officers. Joren had wanted to press forward even more assiduously, but the rest of the hired hands seemed to agree with the elder guide. He had no choice but to follow the will of the group or lose their respect.
As a child, he had always gazed upon the rock giants from afar and wondered: What would it be like to stand atop of one? How high did it go? Joren had asked his father once, how high was the tallest mountain. And in response, his father had suddenly assumed a misty-eyed look, as if he were seeing some ghost from the past. Then he had told Joren that the highest mountain touched Heaven and that people lived on this mountain. They were angels.
"A mountain… where you could lie down at the summit, look above at the sky, and watch it ripple like the sea," he repeated from memory.
Imrah spared him a glance. The wise man smiled and nodded. "Ah, so you know some old wives' tales, too, eh?"
Joren blinked. He snapped out of his trance and nodded. Somehow, he didn't feel uncomfortable explaining private matters to him. "It was something my father told me. We lived in Gala."
"Stories like those don't spread that far," he hummed thoughtfully. "Your father must have been in these places once."
"I wouldn't know," Joren confessed, hoping that that particular detail wasn't pressed further.
The guide nodded sagely. "Such is the case for legends that become part of reality once more." He chuckled in earnest. "I'm sure you deeply cared for him. Do you know the story that goes along with your father's description?"
"No," he replied tersely. "And I'm not sure I want to hear it." As astute as Imrah was, Joren did not like showing off all things that were sheltered in his privacy. Memories of his father—dark hair and strong square chin—made him mournful inside. It didn't feel right to bare everything to a stranger, as empathetic as he might be.
Despite Joren's aversion to the story, the elder continued. His hands made small gestures that meant nothing, a twirling of fingers in the air as if he were swirling invisible paints that colored the clouds. The sky had become so clear and pale that it was difficult to see where it ended on the horizon and where the ground began. He pointed distractedly toward it.
"Perhaps it will be better if you listen anyway. You might remember something you never knew."
Joren frowned. "How is that possible?"
"Just listen," the guide hushed. He began swirling one hand in the air again, beckoning the words to rise up out of his chest. "The Yamani people are an older people than many think. Their ancestors were willful. They climbed every mountain they saw as if it were merely a mound one would step over. They did not like the idea of obstacles that they could not pass.
"Once, long ago, a brave man climbed many mountains and crossed this wilderness, until he reached the largest of them all, Enishijirou." Here Imrah paused, as if to give silent reverence to the name. Joren chose to mask his contempt for the name. It was not something he wanted to be reminded of. The guide continued. "The brave man climbed this great mountain. Surely he would have died if the Goddess had not taken pity on him. She had scattered grass sanctuaries across the mountains, where the goats and the rams and the sheep would graze. He would live off these places as She wished.
"And so She favored him that he might see what no outsider had seen in hundreds of years."
Joren tensed. The thought of gods and favoritism reminded him of Enishi, singling Joren out above all others. Wasn't it enough torture to hear that a mountain bore a similar name?
"He reached the summit," Imrah exhaled deeply. "This place in the clouds where the mighty lords of the winds could sit themselves down for rest and drink. And in the valley deep, deep below, this brave man favored by the gods gazed upon the most magnificent of cities."
"City? In the mountains?" Joren echoed incredulously.
"Yes! A city made of marble and granite, trimmed in gold and silver, bedecked with every jewel imaginable…" Imrah trailed off.
His listener snorted. "Sounds like Thief Boy's version of heaven."
"It could very well be likened to heaven. They say that this city is inhabited by the reincarnated souls of those once in heaven who wished to see their mortal world again," Imrah explained. "It is heaven on earth. Angels freely walk there."
The image of angels with their large voluminous wings temporarily awed Joren so that he did not speak again in irreverent manners. Imrah smiled when he noticed that his audience had found a moment of peace, the way a proud grandfather enjoys the silence of a house empty of its very successful children.
"Yes, my young friend. Angels. Perhaps they lifted your missing plane to the city of Enishijirou. Maybe they rest right now in Paradise."
The blonde scowled. "Do not repeat such idiocies to me! I know they're dead. I'm here to bring their remains back home for burial. They'd have to be extremely lucky to have their emergency supplies last this long." He clenched his fists. "And you know what? I don't believe in luck anymore."
~~
It was near dusk when Neal suggested that they settle down for the night. Joren demanded that they cross one more ridge before doing so. The sun in the distance melted the sky into a blend of orange, red, and finally purple. It was melted gold, a stretched blanket over their heads. Neal consoled himself by thinking of how much better the view of the sunset would be a little further up. It was all he could do to keep his mind off his hatred for Joren and a certain mysterious "wild girl".
Neal didn't understand why he was so obsessed with her. Perhaps it was a silly infatuation, a schoolboy's crush. It had to have been! Simply because he had never met anyone quite like her before, he had become completely fixated on a girl he hardly knew.
"She saved my life. That's enough for any man like me to get on his knees and beg like a puppy."
The man walking in front of him glanced over his shoulder uneasily. It was the same porter who had played hackie sack with him. "Mithran courting rituals are strange…"
Neal blushed beet red and spoke very little after that. They continued on their way over the ridge. Their path became steeper. Many were forced to lean forward a bit and seek handholds and footholds in the rock to continue forward.
At the front of the group, Joren had become so preoccupied with memories of his father and speculations on the legend of Enishijirou that he nearly tripped over a rock at the very top of the ridge. He checked his balance without anyone else noticing his blunder. Imrah tapped his shoulder.
"What is it?" he grumbled, shaking snow from the top of his boot.
"Look."
Joren did as he was ordered and gasped. Forgetting that he was still angry with Neal—as people are apt to be when nearly falling to their deaths—he shouted down to his partner. The older officer groaned, not understanding a thing the blonde was saying.
"Quiet, Stone!" he hissed loudly, obviously having not forgotten his annoyance. "Do you want to cause an avalanche?"
A raised middle finger was his immediate answer.
"Just get your pansy ass up here, NEALAN!" Joren ground out the last word mockingly. He impatiently beckoned for him to pass the others. Neal muttered a curse to himself. He blurted out pardons as he made his way up to the spot. The other men and women gave him a helping hand on his way up.
When he was finally pushed forward to the top, he took a deep breath and held his arms out in a show of bravado. "Okay, okay. Pansy ass is here! Now what's so impor—" His mouth dropped open. He whistled. "Well… fuck me…"
"I'd rather not," Joren replied derisively, though his voice still maintained the same tone of shock that his partner had. He pointed ahead of them. " 'Thar she blows', Queenscove. Let's check it out."
The plane, a light plane initially meant for short distance transport, was lying on its belly on the ridge, half covered by ice. This side had a more gradual decline, until it dropped into a something resembling a small trench and a dozen different rocky paths to choose from. The plane itself was scraped all along its sides, one wing only half there while the other's aileron was dangling by its end. The landing gear had broken off in pieces as the plane had slid ungracefully to a stop. The hatch door was even wide open, yet barely connected.
Joren could see no sign of life. But he couldn't see a sign of death either. The two DJPF officers cautiously approached, as if facing a dangerous animal baring its razor sharp teeth. Imrah and the others stood their distance, politely, knowing that these were matters not to be touched by their hands.
The two men carefully walked a full circle around the plane. They jogged quickly across on the more downward side. It wouldn't surprise them if the plane continued to slide down the ridge into the trench below. And they certainly didn't feel like being crushed to death.
"The main cabin is intact. A few windows are cracked, but it's mostly okay," Neal observed. He followed Joren who was inspecting the open door to the plane and carefully peering inside. "Anything in there?"
Joren's brow creased. "Nothing. No bodies, no equipment… nothing. The only things inside are the seats and the snow."
Neal gulped. "Do you think they're alive?"
Both men drew their heads out of the opening and took a survey of the surrounding land. It was obvious to the both of them that there was no place to go. And even if the missing men had their supplies and their heating equipment, how long would those things have lasted out in the wilderness?
"Okay," Joren said loudly. "We camp here, on the higher side of the plane. In the morning, the supplies will be split so that everyone but Imrah, Queenscove, and me have spared as much as possible. You others will make the trip back to the village and restock there. You've been paid already. Just go home." He took a deep breath. "The rest of us will take up the spared supplies and packs and continue by ourselves."
The headman of the crew balked. "Sir, I don't think that it is wise to continue any further."
"Hey, you heard the man!" Neal said. He glanced at Joren, surprised at his own willingness to stick with the foolish idea. "Imrah will guide us. We'll be fine. We have a radio to contact the trading post in case something happens."
The headmen shook his head. He reluctantly gave orders to the rest of the crew to pitch their tents and make camp. The heat sentries were set around the perimeter of the camp and a small fire built at the center.
The sunset came and went more quickly than Neal anticipated. He missed it. Though slightly disappointed, he reasoned it was just as good that they'd found the plane. He felt more at ease now than he had been in days, despite the fact that the real journey had just begun.
While rations and water were being handed out, Neal worked up the courage to approach Joren for a request. The other man was sitting with his elbows propped up on his knees. He'd found a small piece of the plane's wheel big enough for him to sit on and had used it to his advantage. Neal just let himself crouch.
"What is it?" Joren asked impassively, staring at a point above the flames.
Neal shrugged. "I thought it might be a good idea to contact the others and tell them how our search is going. We haven't communicated with them in a while, like we should have."
"Go ahead, then," he replied, barely concerned. If Neal had asked him if it was okay to do a crazy naked dance around the fire, Joren probably wouldn't have noticed and still given his consent. Wondering if this was true, Neal spoke it aloud.
"Whatever. Fine with me."
Sighing, Neal stood up and began to create a message on his pager. It was brief, stating that they were fine and had found an empty plane. He sent the message, hoping that it would reach Cleon, who he knew always checked his pager. Keladry still had the aggravating habit of not noticing her pager's signals or beeps right away.
He was suddenly surprised to see random characters and garbled text appear on the tiny screen on his wrist pager. He tried to clear it, but the pager continued to scroll strange symbols across the little screen. Then the pager began to emit a series of beeps with no specific pattern.
"What the… Argh! Cheap little piece of crap!" he exclaimed.
Joren stood up. "What is it?"
"My pager is going on the fritz!"
"Just like you to break your toys," the blond biker growled. He examined the state of Neal's pager and frowned. He pulled back his sleeve to study his own pager. His eyebrows arched slightly in mild surprise. "Mine's doing it, too."
The headman overheard them. He quickly ordered the others to check their electronic equipment, especially the radio. Anxious replies from all the tents revealed that their communication equipment was also showing the same malfunctions.
Imrah approached the two officers. "I think perhaps that we should turn back."
Joren gritted his teeth. "No way. This is just some… some influx of the magnetic field around us. That's all. We three will continue in the morning. The heat sentries still work and we still now how to find our way back with that map you've been making."
"Are you sure?"
"Yes, I'm sure! Old man, stop questioning me!" Joren warned. He huffed angrily, turned heel, and marched into his tent. Neal sighed. He offered an apologetic smile to the guide, muttered something about womanly mood swings, and also entered his tent.
Inside his tent, Joren laid himself down on his sleeping bag. He was slightly hungry, but did not want to exit his tent to get the rations. He took a sip of water from his own canteen and spread himself out flat on the bottom of the tent. He closed his eyes and quelled his bad mood by thinking of more positive, comforting things.
He secretly wished Keladry were there with him. She would have been the one to bravely say that their search was over and beg Joren to come home. She would have chosen his safety over the discovery of her brothers.
He did miss her. Joren couldn't lie to himself about that anymore. If his dream was any indication, he was going quite crazy without her. He would have paid a hundred Nobles to feel her hands glide over the plane of his stomach or massage his tense shoulders. It didn't matter what kind of man you were. Every man enjoyed that sort of attention.
Even just feeling the press of her soft lips against his, just once, would be enough to satiate him at this point. Her smile, her face, her breathy voice whispering in his ear… Joren groaned and turned onto his stomach, his cheek pressed against the sleeping bag. He opened his eyes and glared at the side of his tent.
"Geh. No use getting all hot and bothered when the closest DJPF officer isn't her but Queenscove." He shuddered. His mind recalled having thoughtlessly approved of Neal performing a naked ballet around the campfire.
Joren turned his face downward and groaned again. If I ever need to vomit, I know exactly what to think of.
Deciding to take a quick nap, he was very disgusted at himself to discover that he dreamt of every DJPF officer he had ever met, Keladry excluded, dancing around a fire with tutus on… shaking their butts rather gratuitously in his face.
Kill me now.
~~
Author's note: Yay! Joren and Neal back again! I felt so much better writing about them again. I suppose my mind is just more compatible to writing their personalities. Will those two ever get along? If they did, it wouldn't be nearly as much fun!
I don't really have any announcements at the moment. The next episode is going to feature a funny episode for all you Cleon and Faleron fans. Keladry get to discard her sad mood for a few hours, too!
See ya next time!