Disclaimer: Wouldn't it be great if I owned Trigun?

Chapter Thirty-Seven: Taking Responsibility

The silence was thick as ice and hot as the flames of hell twixt the plants. Between the lovers a gaze was shared; one of absolute loathing and hatred for the other, a gaze of disbelief, misunderstanding, that was completely end utterly equal and level to the gaze of the other. The broom-haired man who stood by silently stared in awestruck disbelief at the scene unfolding before his wide-stretched aqua eyes. His hands twitched at his sides, his fingers digging ferociously into the flesh of his hands to ensure that he wasn't in some horrible nightmare. But, alas, he found that he was well awake and this scene of betrayal and bloodshed couldn't be left behind simply by opening his eyes and shutting it away in the darkest recesses of his mind, only to haunt him in his darkest hours as so many other things did.

The chestnut-haired woman, who stood so valiantly before her maniacal lover and met his gaze with fiery defiance blazing within, trembled; trembled at the confrontation that had been inevitable, yet one that she dreaded with the whole of her eternal being. Her eyes were wide with fear and horror at what had just happened, her mind grappling with the idea that had just been presented to her; her senses flooded with anger, guilt and hurt were now bombarded with this tidal wave of icy cold numbness that was this fear. Fear that such as she had never known before; fear that enshrouded her mind like a thick, impenetrable fog, settling itself around her mind and her senses. She tried to push her fear away, now was not the time to dwell inside a self-constructed prison, but it eluded her like icy pebbles of sand that slipped effortlessly through her fingers and still remained at her feet, numbing them and sending the empty cold feeling flowing through her veins and slowing her thought and sense of reality. The fear was near overwhelming to the point where the room spun dizzily before her eyes, making her fight to keep her balance. Yet it was so hard to stand against this fear that presented itself to her and consumed her like a hungry lion would a gazelle.

And yet this was in no way what the ice-eyed man who stood opposite her felt. His mind grappled instead with a grim sense of disbelief, cold and gray beneath the well-lit corridor; yet well at home within his dark mind. His fingers twitched involuntarily, clenching and unclenching themselves without his consent; fighting the sense of fear that ebbed at his mind like the tide, rising steadily higher and higher until it would come crashing down upon him and flood his mind in a watery barrage of misunderstanding, disbelief and, the emotion that terrified him more than death itself: fear. He would not allow himself to succumb to a manipulative emotion such as this; an emotion that, the circumstances allowing, was completely acceptable. Yet he was Millions Knives, and he feared nothing. Tears welled at the corners of his icy eyes, reminding the woman staring into them of a piece of ice beneath the noonday sunlight: watery and brilliant. They ebbed at his lids; moistening his raven lashes into a deep ebony as they spilled over the soft flesh beneath his eyes and trickled slowly down the apples of his cheeks, flushed against the pallor of his surrounding skin. His colt shook in his hand, still pressed against her skull. None of them spoke; none of them sure what had happened.

A small teardrop of blood, crimson and glittering beneath the sunlight, fell to the floor.

It began as a small trickle, a few drops spilling carefully to the tiles as though afraid to unleash the tidal wave within. But those precious few droplets had cracked the dam, and a cascade of blood began to pour from the wound like a waterfall from the mouth of a cavern. The hole was small, yet the bullet had sliced easily through the flesh as a hot knife cuts through butter. It bubbled ferociously, large air bubbles forming and popping, sounding like warm, sickeningly wet burps as a puddle began to form between the two plants, lapping gently at their boots as ripples that were caused by the blood cascading from the wound. A hand moved to the wound in disbelief, probing the hole gently with a forefinger before withdrawing it with a sharp gasp. Yes, the hole in them was real and yes, they were bleeding. It was true that it was their blood falling to the floor in a puddle, tainting the air with a biting, metallic smell. Hands grasped at the wound, trying to cover it and vainly trying to stop the blood from gushing so quickly out. Yet it was of no use; the wound did not heal beneath their touch and the blood did not stop pouring at their will; they were not that divine beings that they could stop their own fast-approaching death. A high cry laced with pain accompanied the dark, wet sound of the dripping blood as two fingers probed into the wound and withdrew the bullet, covered in small bits of flesh and drenched in blood. Their eyes narrowed in on it, barely able to believe that it had been inside them, causing them such pain and suffering; concluding that it was nearly laughable, that a small piece of metal such as this could cause someone like them to feel such pain. And yet they cried, and a cry of rage erupted from their trembling lips:

"You shot me!" The voice was laced with disbelief and pure and undaunted rage.

"Yes Knives, I did"

Her voice was like ice, reflecting the color of his polar eyes in her tone. Her eyes were narrow, glazed and cunningly concealing the woe gnawing away at her due to her actions. She could barely conceive her actions; could hardly understand what she had just done. Was the bullet lying so solemnly on the floor in the ever-growing lake of blood what she had just thrust so violently into Knives' stomach? Had it been her hand that had pressed so rashly against the trigger and harmed the man she loved? Was it possible…? Yes, the metallic, sickeningly ripe scent of blood tainting the air spoke the words that she dreaded: yes, her hand had brought suffering to the man she loved.

Knives' throat made a strange inhuman gurgle and trickles of blood began to fall from his quivering lips "why Rhianne….?" He gasped, his voice weak and thin beneath the blanket of pain smothering him. Tears pricked the corners of Rhianne's eyes, threatening to spill over as she watched his gaze travel up to her face, relaying pain that she could only begin to imagine. It was too much to bear. She turned her head back to Vash and nodded in the direction of the door and the plant responded by promptly stepping around his brother and trying to open the door.

"Rhianne" he stated uncertainly "the door isn't opening" Knives chuckled, a gurgle interrupting halfway through and a he spat out a small amount of blood "I barricaded the door Vash. Did you really think I'd allow you two to leave so easily?"Rhianne sighed and reached for the button, laying her palm against it for a moment and closing her eyes. Perhaps a few seconds came to pas before the door opened with a beep and a small hiss. She motioned for Vash to step outside and stepped back to Knives, who was still on his knees in her ever-growing puddle of crimson blood.

His chin rested against his chest; his face downcast and his eyes averted hers as she drew his chin upwards and towards her face, her fingertips tainted with the blood that trickled slowly from his quivering lips. "Knives" she said gently "look at me" yet his eyes, shining with tears, refused to meet hers. Her thumb, soft as the petal of a rose at midnight, traced his jaw slowly, feeling the muscles beneath his paling skin twitching at the pain from the wound she had inflicted upon him. Her nails glided softly against the shuddering skin of his face, feeling the muscles moving and twitching beneath the thin layer of his skin which now bordered upon the shade of a clean night's snowfall. His eyes refused to meet hers; though her aqua pools sought fervently to create a bridge twixt them; a link with which to commence, perhaps to ease her own pain. Yet when she caught a glimpse of his eyes, a flash so quickly averted that the polar ice seemed silver beneath the light, it chilled her to the core; as though she stood upon one of the icy polar planes his eyes mirrored so perfectly and not in the warm, albeit rather hot corridor that smelt of drying blood and sand. The coldness in his eyes was near unbearable, his indifference to the woman before him stung like a blade of ice digging into the soft flesh of her heart. She was chilled by his discomfort, his anger, his hatred for them, and, above all else, she was terrified of Knives' fear.

She could sense it; it hung about him like a mist or cloud of too-strong perfume. And it stunk. His fear was a putrid stench, even when not available to her sense of smell, she could smell it. Not by means of her nose, though it sat no more than five inches from his face; the smell blossomed like a rotting flower in her mind; and, even though she had never smelt such pure terror throughout the length of her life, she still could smell it; a scent triggered by her brain that made her insides quiver. He was afraid of her, she realized. And she was taken aback for a moment, stunned by the realization that this man, who, perhaps, had never felt fear before in his life, was afraid of her. She knew this was a thing to marvel at; to hold dear to her when her actions caught up with her and he unleashed his undaunted fury upon her: that Knives had been afraid of her. She knew that this would only last, perhaps, until the end of the day; before fear sunk quietly away and an even greater foe crept into his mind, one that opposed a much greater challenge to her than it's predecessor: rage. Even now she could feel it building; the white-hot rage burning at the back of his mind, licking at his nerves and making him hate her. This, this emotion she feared more than fear itself. She could overcome fear, use it to better her situation. And, she knew, so could Knives. But for now she was content to wallow in the occasion that fate had dealt her: Knives was afraid of her. He had never been afraid of her before, and, she knew, would never be afraid of her again. Or at least, she mused, not this blind terrified state in which he sat now. He had been mildly afraid of her since he had met her, she realized. Though it was not at her that his fears were directed, though they were associated with her. Knives was afraid of himself; afraid that his feelings-that he could not deny even from himself anymore- would hinder his genocide plans. He knew that both she and Vash disagreed with his beliefs, and feared that their combined influences would eventually halt his plans. This was why he did not want them to leave; for Rhianne had already seen too much, perhaps already become too attached to his planet to allow him to create his Eden for her.

"Are you that afraid of me, Knives?" she asked quietly, finally forcing his eyes to meet with hers as she spoke "that afraid that you try to lock me up in here, try to keep me away from the outside world because you know I disagree with your beliefs, and wish to make sure you never succeed? The great conqueror Napoleon Bonaparte once said 'The people to fear are not those who disagree with you, but those who disagree with you and are too cowardly to let you know.' Vash and I have both made our opinions clear, so why do you still fear us?"

Knives' pale, pain-stricken face twisted into a scowl "I fear no one" he snarled at her.

"Then maybe it's time you did" she stated quietly, nodding in the direction of the still-bleeding wound. Knives remained silent, his eyes tearing away from hers and staring at the puddle of blood still creeping slowly along the floor.

"…Because I only chose not to kill you Knives" Rhianne finished, pulling his lips to hers. The flesh tasted brittle and metallic, coarse due to the drying blood. Hers were soft against it; like rubbing silk against sandpaper. It was a movement as quick as lightning, her lips lingered upon his for perhaps a second before she tore herself away before Knives fell to the floor, unconscious. She stood slowly, steadying herself against the wall with both hands, trying to fight off the urge to imitate the blonde man behind her and fall to the floor and sleep until she regained her strength. She inched steadily along the wall; the door, which was no more than a foot away, seemed incomprehensibly far away. But she persevered, and her hand fell heavily against the button, and the door opened with a beep and a hiss; and Rhianne tumbled out into the sand at Vash's feet.

She stood up unsteadily before him as he bombarded her with questions, smiling a little. She stated in a near-laughing tone; one that was filled with heaviness due to fatigue and the smile that lingered upon her lips as she fell heavily to the ground, unconscious.