Chapter 6…My modem still doesn't seem to like me very much, so I am afraid, Iamawriter1, that my computer has not fully recovered but I should be back on normal terms with it by the end of the week. Hurrah! Now, without further delay, chapter six…
Disclaimer: No, I still own none of the characters in this fic.
Utterly forsaken, no longer could he feel the perpetual warmth that had ever surrounded him. He realised then that it would never return; he would never be allowed back into Heaven. For the first time in his existence, he was truly alone. On the snow covered ground he knelt, his face buried in his hands as he wept.
Heero started when the first snowflake settled on the back of his neck and it took a measure of willpower to refrain from shouting at the other boy who had uttered a surprised chuckle. Hastily, he began dismantling his saxophone, wiping fast-melting flakes from the metal before placing the pieces in their case.
'I have to get back to my… flat' he stated carefully, looking at Trowa. He had heard several Londoners use the word "apartment", but felt he ought to humour his new friend. Friend? He considered this - it was a curious possibility.
'Will you be coming here again?' Trowa inquired hopefully, though he tried to keep his tone neutral.
'Perhaps' though he doubted it. Today had been unsettling, and the ease with which Heero had found himself talking to this stranger, even about matters of which he had denied himself thought for years, made him wary. He was caught between a desire to stay and see what could become of this "friendship" - which was startlingly contrary to his training - and the impulse to run and never return. Could he trust this individual who had so easily breached all his carefully laid defences?
Trowa stood as Heero did, snow melting in his hair & beginning to drip off the end of his fringe.
'See you'. The boys shook hands brusquely, and with an awkward smile Heero strode away.
Trowa remained standing, staring after him, until even the gentle, rhythmic thud of the black case against the other boy's left leg had faded. Finally, he sat again, resting his head back against the rowan with a sigh and staring up at the flurry of whiteness descending between the bare branches.
When the snow began to fall Catherine knew she should stop, but she was so close to her goal. She was in London; all she needed to do was find the restaurant Trowa had mentioned in his letter - perhaps he would still be working, even. Her visibility was impaired, but at least the roads had already been salted, so the snow wouldn't stick to build in her path.
'You'll want to be careful in this weather, lass'. Startled by the voice, she glanced back, but was unable to see the speaker through the snow-filled darkness.
Reflecting on the incident later, she might decide that she wouldn't have seen the patch of black ice anyway. But there was no time for idle thoughts as her bike spun out of control & she lost her grip on the handlebars.
Quatre walked alone through empty, evening streets. From the houses - over-adorned with garish lights and festive decorations - floated the voices of families; children's laughter and parents' fevered preparations for the days to come. An inflatable snowman menaced from the roof of one house, and in the garden of another a tabby kitten pounced on the shifting pools of light cast by a fibre-optic tree.
Quatre paused to watch, and the multitude of tiny points of light made him think of the stars. Unconsciously, he tilted his head back to regard the night sky, ignoring the snow which settled on his upturned face. He sighed with regret; one could rarely see the stars from London. And as he gazed he began to wish he could lose himself in that blackness; become safe in oblivion.
Then, through the darkness and silencing snow, he heard a scream.
Unable to free herself from the runaway bike, Catherine was dragged along the icy tarmac, struggling to keep her head away from the ground as she felt the skin being stripped from her unprotected legs. The rock salt on the road buried itself in the open wounds, adding to the searing pain, and the rough surface of the road continued to bite deeper into the raw flesh.
Though her legs were burning, her fingers were becoming numb with the cold, and slowly she began to lose her hold on the side of the bike - the only thing keeping the rest of her body elevated from the tarmac. Pain in her face told her she'd brought it too close to the tyre, and then a sudden impact caused her to lose her grip entirely.
She was flung fully to the ground as the bike spun to a stop, falling onto her chest. She heard something snap, but couldn't work out what. Every nerve in her body roared with pain, and she was aware of blood trickling steadily from her face & back. The roar of the engine had ceased, but still she was being deafened by some piercing, relentless sound.
As she gave way to merciful darkness, she realised it was her own screaming.
Heero saw the motorbike go careening past him and found himself running after it even before he had properly registered the event. As he drew nearer he was surprised to see that the rider was a girl not more than two or three years older than himself.
From the waist up she was quite pretty, with thick brown curls framing her too-pale features, and but for the shallowness of her breathing, one might have thought she was asleep. But from somewhere above the hemline of her short skirt, her body was a ruin.
It was difficult to distinguish the shape of the girl's torn and bloody legs from the redness of the still-falling snow. She had lost one black shoe; the other was scuffed and the buckle broken. Her lace-trimmed socks had soaked as red as the snow.
A blonde-haired boy dressed in blue and white rushed over, presumably from a neighbouring street. Seeing Heero, he stopped suddenly, a strange expression passing across his face. He seemed about to speak when a loud female voice sounded from somewhere behind him.
'Oh, Lord, I'll get some blankets. Has anyone called an ambulance?' Appearing through the snow, an elderly gentleman nodded an affirmation, waving a mobile phone at her.
Another, younger man in a business suit appeared from somewhere to kneel beside the girl, finding, in the outer pocket of her rucksack, a battered, brown leather wallet. Flicking it open, he studied a laminated card bearing a smiling photo of the girl's face.
'Catherine Bloom' he announced after a moment. Both Quatre and Heero glanced at him in surprise.
Catherine? Heero quickly dismissed the idea, yet he couldn't help staring at the girl as he helped the suited man move the motorbike from her body, searching her face for similarities.
Quatre's surprise was of a different nature; he realised suddenly that none of these people, stopping in the road, late on a winter's evening, knew the girl, not the tall Nina Simone look-alike dutifully patrolling the corner on the lookout for oncoming traffic, nor the young man soaking his fine linen suit in the melting, salted ice of the road, nor even Heero who had just gouged his hand on the twisted metal of the bike.
Life to these mortals, even that of a stranger, was so precious; it's the greatest thing they have, he reflected, and they have never known anything more. He had, and he had lost it. Suddenly, again, he felt so very alone; these humans knew not how it felt to be forsaken.
:You are not forsaken, Quatre, simply free: Not a voice, but a thought, a warm breath of suggestion straight into his mind. :You are free to win your Lord's favour as the mortals may, simply by being the kind, compassionate being you have so often shown yourself to be:
'Hey, kid' Quatre found himself staring at the sky, 'when you hit Earth again, give us a hand with these blankets.' He knelt quickly to assist the woman, a petite creature whose powerful voice belied her stature, carefully lifting the injured girl's legs, smiling quietly at the woman's exclamations of 'Oh, Lord' as she used blue linen blankets to staunch the bleeding, her tight black curls bobbing frantically.
Then, at last, a siren's wail began to grow through the night.
Perfect. Duo grinned, watching from the shadows as the ambulance crew gently lifted the body of the girl onto a stretcher which they carried to the ambulance, the linen blankets, made purple with blood, trailing a line of dark drips in the snow of the pavement.
A gaunt-looking man insisted Heero go with them to a hospital whilst Quatre, who had recognised the girl immediately, explained to the stretcher bearers that Catherine was the sister of a dear friend of his.
Duo listened long enough to ascertain that the ambulance was bound for the Royal London Hospital, before sprinting off to a place he had already visited once that day.
I believe the tale is almost complete. Chaz, Daniel, yes I am teasing you about your flat/apartment argument; after all, you did request a reference to yourselves. Thank you for reading. Rose