Disclaimer: 40 times I've had to say this: I do not own Trigun.

Chapter Forty: He Arises

A/N: Well here I am again, asking you all to review. You see, I know that people say that you shouldn't write simply for reviews (and I don't!) But they ARE very encouraging and would shorten the time between updates significantly. I want to thank all of you who have reviewed, and encourage those of you that haven't to please R&R!! Thanks a mil! LL

His pulse pounded in his head, his blood coursed swiftly through his veins, and he dimly became aware of the light shining in his eyes. He moved an arm heavily over his eyes in an attempt to shield himself from the light, groaning in annoyance at being brought out of his deep slumber at such a trivial thing as this. His clenched his eyes firmly shut, trying in vain to go back to sleep. Yet he could not, be it the dry slimy texture in his mouth, or the throbbing at his temples, Knives' body simply refused to sleep again. Sighing heavily and grumbling incomprehensibly through his dry mouth about the unfairness of such things, he tumbled onto his stomach and lay there for a moment, feeling completely and utterly exhausted. He folded his arms beneath his face and buried it into his arms, smelling the fabric and his own perspiration and something else he didn't recognize for a moment. Then the metallic scent of dried blood reached his nostrils, and his eyes flew open with a start as the events previous to his nap crashed down upon him. He had been shot; Rhianne had shot him and he had bled. He had bled and he had thought he would die. And yet here he was. Why, he wondered as he brought himself to his knees, bracing his weight on his open palms upon the floor as one hand explored his gut, searching for the wound that would lead to his death.

Yet he found nothing.

He felt the torn fabric that the bullet had torn through, he felt the blood that clotted the fabric and clung to his skin, yet could feel no wound from where the blood had poured. He felt a slight bump, a scar, where the wound had once been, but naught more. He licked his lips in apprehension, and felt the blood upon them. It tasted brittle and metallic, stinging his tongue. Yet another flavor clung to his lips, that of the woman who had dealt him his wound; and he remembered the feeling of her lips pressed against his as he slumped forward into her arms as she caught him. He remembered the small jolt that had rocked through him at her touch and her mental words as she tore herself away from him and he slipped into the darkness of sleep:

I'm sorry it had to be this way Knives…

The words were tainted with pain and sadness, remorse and guilt. So much so that a sob escaped Knives' lips as he hauled himself heavily to his feet. He bit his lip ferociously, angered by that pitiful sound coming from his own mouth. He lurched heavily against the wall, the weight of his body seemingly too much for his legs to handle. He shuddered as he fell against it, his shoulder hitting the metal hard as his hands grappled for something to hold him up, yet he felt nothing. There were no cords running helter-skelter down the wall like in the plants he had seen, waiting to be ripped out of their place and torn apart to ensure the malfunctioning of his sisters. He rolled onto his back against the wall, resting his head against the cool metal wall.

He sighed and closed his eyes, contemplating his options. He could stay here and leave them to roam his planet however they pleased, or he could go after them and give that bitch what she deserved. His mind weighed the two options as he closed his eyes and felt the sunlight bathe him in warmth. He shook his head in frustration, opening his eyes and staring sullenly at his feet with icy eyes that unwillingly brimmed with tears. The light danced in his vision and a brilliant flash of white slashed through the colors like a knife parting flesh. Drawing up a bloodstained hand to shield his eyes he saw the object that had caught the light like the current catches a flitting, dancing fish. His gun lay on the blood-splattered floor at his feet.

He blinked at it for a moment, not quite sure that it was there at all. He yearned to reach out and touch it, to grasp it and ensure it was real. He would have thought she'd have taken it with her to ensure he caused her no more trouble. Yet, he thought wryly, she probably knew by now that he could be handful anywise, gun or no. It pleased him greatly to think this, as he very much liked having control over her. She claimed to be more powerful than he (a feat that had yet to be proven, he smiled wryly) yet he still held a grasp on her mind because she was still afraid of him and the consequences his actions might have, and he relished it.

Relinquishing his balance on the wall, he toppled to a pile on the floor, though still smiling. Bringing himself painfully to his knees, he reached forward and grasped it beneath his fingers, feeling the cool, familiar metal beneath his fingers. His finger found the trigger, and he pushed the gun closer to himself, so that the barrel was aimed at his forehead. He closed his eyes, floating listlessly in the ocean of pain whose waves crashed down upon him again and again; closed his eyes against the incessant throbbing at his temples; closed his eyes against a reality he wished never to face. Vash had left him again, abandoning him once more. And with him had gone Rhianne, the leader of their escape, who had also left him again. He squeezed his eyes tightly, wishing to be rid of these complications and go back to living in the quiet solitude that suited him so well. Yet he knew that he could not. To live without Vash, well, that was acceptable. He had lived without his brother for years and had never found it to be a difficult thing to do. It was true that he craved his brother's presence and wished he hadn't have left him, yet he knew how irresponsible his sibling's way of thinking was, and knew that he would one day bring him into the light. Yet she was a different matter altogether. He felt as though he was being pulled in two different directions. One side of him longed for her, craved her presence and yearned for her touch. Yet the other despised her rebellious nature: that she blatantly refused to submit to his will and to follow him into Eden.

He opened his eyes and stared down the barrel of the gun; could see the black bullet glimmering like onyx inside it's ebony casing. All I have to do is pull the trigger… he thought darkly. No, it was not suicide that ebbed at the back of his mind, but killing her and putting an end to the complications that muddled his life ad his plans and rocked the very foundation of his beliefs. One bullet was all it would take, he thought murderously, still staring at the gun before his eyes. All he had to do was point the gun between those damnably familiar aqua eyes of hers and pull the trigger. It was that simple….wasn't it? He had already been faced with that choice before, yet had backed down away from the chance like a coward. Like Vash… he thought, and spat upon the floor in spite of himself, the clear liquid tainted lightly crimson as it hit the floor.

He growled as he saw the blood as it shimmered upon the floor, like crimson-tainted liquid crystal. That was his blood there, and she had dared to spill it. Who was she to think-to assume- that she could spill Millions Knives' blood and not suffer the consequences, he demanded aloud as he jerked painfully again to his feet. He clutched the colt tightly in his hand, steadying himself on his unsure feet as the blood rushed to his feet, leaving him dizzier and more unstable on his feet than before, small black dots danced in his vision as he extended his free hand out before him to try and balance himself out, taking a bolt step forward and nearly pitching to the spinning floor as he did so. He closed his eyes and inhaled deeply, thinking that he was Millions Knives, the Future Eradicator of Mankind, and he would not be stopped simply by a dizzy spell; he would overcome and he would conquer.

"I will get her" he sneered to the empty air as he staggered again forward "I will get her and I will have my way with her and I will make that little bitch pay for humiliating me so. She is no better than them, those worthless pieces of filth that serve only to amuse me until I have no use for them anymore. That is all she is to me: a toy. I will use her as I see fit and despose of her when the time comes."

Yes, supposed a small voice at the back of his mind, that sounded like a very logical idea; to use her and abuse her and then dispose of her like the trash she was. Yet there was a flaw in his plan; in his plan that seemed so obvious and so foolproof and so inexplicably simplistic, and it was this: that he could deny it all he wanted; swear upon his kin, living and dead a thousand times over, insist until his dying day or the day that his little planet finally got too close to it's suns and fried like an egg on a hot sidewalk, but he loved her. But, reasoned his larger voice- the dominant voice that he followed in all his decisions and trusted more than the small weak voice that pleaded against most of what he did- love was for the weak, and he was by no stretch of the imagination weak. No, he was a plant and a superior being and would not dabble in such simple humanistic things such as 'love'. He was bigger than that, better than that and would not be drawn down to the same level as them; the ones he detested to the core of his being.

Yet, try as he might, he still struggled with his emotions.

"I will get to her and I will kill her and that will be the end of it" he stated ferociously as his fist pounded heavily against the lit panel, and the door slid open before him, revealing to his icy eyes the desert sands that whipped across the rolling, never-ending dunes. "Yes, that is what I will do. I will shoot her between those eyes that look damnably like his and I will take care of my meddlesome brother and that will be the end of all my problems and I will come back here and I will be alone finally alone yes alone…" he babbled, jumbling the words and cutting them short with fits of laughter that echoed out into the hot desert air. He smiled, ignoring the sand that whipped against him and the wind that howled in his ears, threatening to storm.

"…and I will be alone" he said in a dark, final tone before heading off over the dunes, leaving behind him the thought that gnawed like a hungry animal at his mind:

Could he truly be happy being alone?

Or more specifically:

Could he truly be happy without her?