"Did you just feel that?" Zelgadis whispered. He felt tense all of a sudden. He crouched down defensively, clutching the child's remains to his chest. Quivering wings extended of their own volition, preparing for a fight or flight response. Things had become askew in some terrible way.
Amelia just shook her head, not in disagreement, but expressing her own confusion at what had just happened. "It was . . ." she ventured, quickly trailing off with a puzzled shake of her head.
However, Zelgadis understood what she wanted to say—their bond was helpful in that aspect at least. He chewed his lower lip thoughtfully; her thoughts had been remarkably accurate.
As soon as he'd touched the young girl's remains, the world had . . . rippled. It wasn't so much an earthquake, although the walls of the rift had vibrated, shaking lumps of clay loose. No, it was more of a sensation that something enormous and immobile had finally shifted after a very long time—the beginnings of an avalanche.
His brow furrowed in worry, Zelgadis glanced down at the bundle of bones he carried. What exactly were they getting themselves into here? She'd obviously been dead for a while—years, to be sure. But still, he had the strange impression that her death was still relevant in some way.
"Marco," Amelia said, snapping Zelgadis out of his trance—he'd been staring into the dead girl's empty eye sockets. "We have to find Marco now," she said once she had his attention.
Zelgadis shook his head. They didn't have anything to go on in their hunt for Marco. Who knew where he was after what happened last night? They didn't have the first idea of where he'd be, or even if he was alive.
"He's alive," Amelia said with an emphatic nod. "I know he is. And he's looking for Sarah." She said no more, but the implication was clear: The girl they'd just found was indeed Sarah.
Curious. Zelgadis didn't necessarily agree with her, but at this point he would have searched for Marco on his own. The girl was important and if she really was Sarah, she was of particular interest to Marco, based on his—Amelia's—memories.
Amelia smiled at him gratefully.
"Not t' burst your bubble or nothin', boss, but before we do that, 'ow are we gonna get outta 'ere?" Jillas was eyeing the steep clay walls with some trepidation, apparently recalling his last attempt at escape.
A smug grin split Zelgadis's face, revealing his fangs. "That's the easy part," he boasted. "Here, hold this." He thrust the bundle into the werefox's hands, took him under an arm, and wrapped the other around Amelia's waist. He crouched and said, "Watch."
A tornado of leaves—then they were airborne.
Jillas yowled in terror and clapped a hand over his eye. He almost forgot about his precious cargo, but clamped it tightly to his chest a moment later. "'Eaven 'elp me," he whined. "Foxes weren't made t' fly!"
Amelia's reaction was entirely different. She laughed excitedly, her eyes sparkling with unbridled enthusiasm. "Oh wow!" she exclaimed. "We're so high up!" She gasped in surprise and reverently whispered, "It's beautiful . . ."
There was no arguing with her assessment. The sun, just rising over the hills in the distance, painted the forest and village below in vivid orange hues. It was quite a sight to see.
Zelgadis winced in pain as the light caressed his alabaster skin. He felt a sick feeling in his stomach when he saw Amelia mimicking his expression. What had he done to her? A haunting image came to him—Amelia skulking in the shadows, shunning the light, and losing everything that made her good and loving.
Luckily—well, in a way—Zelgadis didn't get to ponder those thoughts for very long. A nagging bit of unrest from Amelia drew his attention. "What?" he asked, noticing that her smile wasn't quite so genuine anymore; it was frozen to her face.
"Oh, it's nothing really," Amelia said nervously. "It's just that, um, well . . . don't you think . . . I mean, aren't we a bit too . . . um . . ." she stammered, throwing worried glances downwards.
Feeling a sick lurch in his stomach, Zelgadis followed her gaze with his own. The treetops were a good thirty or forty feet below—the rift they'd leapt out of looked like a hairline crack from that height.
How had this happened? Zelgadis closed his eyes and shook his head. He hadn't jumped this high. It had to be a mistake. He peeked out again. Nope, they were still up in the air. Huh, how about that? He favored Amelia with a stupid grin, inviting her to share in the joke.
The look Amelia gave him indicated in no uncertain terms that she didn't find it funny at all.
Then, they began to fall.
"Do something!" Amelia yelped as they picked up speed.
Zelgadis couldn't believe what he'd just heard. "Do something?!" he repeated incredulously, yelling to be heard over Jillas' yowling, "Well, I'm open to suggestions!" He tried to think, but the combination of noise, the wind in his face, and the panicking people he carried were all terribly distracting.
Amelia's jaw dropped. "F-Fly!" she sputtered after a moment. She flapped her arms in pantomime of a bird and repeated, "Fly, Mister Zelgadis!"
"Fly?!" Zelgadis laughed for a moment, before noting that Amelia wasn't laughing with him. "Oh, you were serious?" He shook his head, amazed at the acrobat's outlandish idea. "Amelia, to fly, I'd need . . ." He trailed off, realizing how utterly stupid he must sound. "Well," he said defensively, spreading his wings, "I'm not really used to this yet."
To say that their landing was smooth would be a lie; they still ended up hitting the trees below and, in all honesty, an ostrich could have flown better. But, in his defense, they did all survive with a minimum number of injuries.
Zelgadis somehow got hung up near the top of the tree, mostly due to his wings catching on innumerable branches. The tears in the leathery appendages healed almost instantly.
Amelia managed to catch herself about halfway down and would later walk away from the crash with a slight limp and a skinned elbow. Nothing too serious.
Jillas, sadly, made it all the way to the ground where he came to rest none too gently in a patch of briars. He couldn't have been hurt too badly however; it took a pretty healthy set of lungs to howl at the volume that he was. That, and he was thrashing about far too much to be dead or disabled.
"M' eye! Bless me, 'm blind!" Jillas wailed at the top of his lungs for a moment before falling silent.
"Mister Jillas?" Amelia called out. When he didn't immediately answer, she yelled, "Mister Jillas, why won't you answer me?!"
"Not t' worry, Miss Amelia . . . um, it grew back." Jillas laughed embarrassedly as his head popped out of the brush. The fur under his good eye was matted with gore, giving the illusion that he was weeping blood. But, he seemed to be okay and in better spirits now that he was on the ground again.
Zelgadis quickly turned his attention to Amelia. She was only human and if she'd been injured in the fall, it'd be a far more serious thing. Was she . . .?
Amelia sensed his worry and gave him the thumbs up and a reassuring smile. She was fine then.
There wasn't time for relief though. He was too busy addressing the fourth member of their group. "You did this, didn't you?" Zelgadis quietly hissed to the demon residing in the back of his mind. "I couldn't have jumped that high. Somehow, you did something with my wings . . ."
A cruel—yet quite amused—chuckle echoed through his head in response.
"Grandma, could you boil some water for me?"
"Of course, Gourry. What for?"
Gourry produced the envelope that Luna had given him earlier—Lina's medicine. "This is for Lina," he explained, tapping the corner of the envelope on the tabletop. "She needs to drink some boiling water and then eat this."
Grandma shook her head in amusement. "Gourry, I think you want to mix this up in boiling water, don't you? Miss Lina would probably protest the idea of drinking a cup of scalding hot water."
Gourry thought about that for a second. "Yeah, you're probably right."
A few moments later, the pleasant odor of mint filled the air. Whatever Luna's remedy was, it had a refreshing scent. Everyone in the room seemed to perk up a little, smiling a bit more and going about their business with more enthusiasm.
A content smile upon his face, Gourry turned his attention back to breakfast. Sometimes, it's good to be alive, he thought as he eyed his plate. Lina looked like she was on the mend, his parents had finally gotten home, and most importantly, he was about to undertake the extremely enviable task of demolishing a stack of pancakes so large that it made his belly ache to look at it. Still, he meant to lay that stack low, no matter what.
Everything felt so right. Dad was regaling them with the 'exciting' story of his buying trip. Grandma was bustling about, boiling water for coffee and Lina's remedy, flipping pancakes in Mom's absence, and commenting on Dad's story when she wasn't preoccupied with the first two activities.
Grandma clucked her tongue in disapproval as she poured Dad a cup of coffee. "My word! Three gold pieces for a bolt of Sairaagian silk, you say? Goren, that's highway robbery if I ever heard it. Honestly, how do these people sleep at night?"
Dad grinned good-naturedly; this was a complaint he'd heard plenty of times before. "I keep telling you, Auntie, you're just old fashioned. Living in the past, don't you know!" He elbowed her in the ribs playfully, almost causing her to spill his coffee.
Sighing in resignation, but wearing a smile, Grandma said, "That may be so, but that doesn't mean you should throw money away like that. You know, a fool and his money—"
"—are soon parted," Dad finished. "But three gold pieces for a bolt is a steal. Prices have never been lower! I wager it's because of the competition between Sairaag and Zefielia—big silk market in Zefielia, you know."
Gourry automatically grunted in response; it was all he could manage at the moment as he was trying to force an entire pancake down his throat at once. It was his sixth in ten minutes and he was a bit startled to note that he wasn't feeling the least bit sated yet.
"What about it, m' boy?" Dad clapped Gourry on the back, almost making the younger man choke. He didn't even seem to notice. "Your grandma tells me that you've been living in Sairaag for the last few months. Best thing for a young man your age! The big city! The people, the sights, the shops!" Being born and raised a merchant, his eyes glinted at this last part. "I expect you've worked with silk before, haven't you? There must be a huge demand in the warehouses for strong backs, huh?"
Chewing his food quite slowly (for it was difficult to eat and think at the same time) Gourry mulled over his father's question, wearing a bemused expression on his face. There was something a little off about it . . . if he could only figure out what it was.
He vaguely recalled something about silk and Sairaag. Really stretching his brain, he even managed to remember that silk, in fact, had almost killed Sairaag's economy a few years back. Um, it was something . . . something about . . . about losing a lot of business to Zefielia? Yes, that was it. He'd bet his last pancake on it.
"M' boy," Dad said with a look of mock seriousness on his face, "you're goin' to break somethin' in your head, if you think much harder. What's botherin' you?"
Gourry glanced up at his father and said, "Um, I think that . . ." Whatever reply he had in mind died on his lips. He uttered a strangled cry of anguish and leapt to his feet, his hand flying instinctively to the hilt of the Sword of Light. In doing so, he upset his chair and knocked his plate from the table. It hit the hardwood floor and loudly shattered; he didn't even notice.
His father. There was something horribly wrong with his dad. He was resting his elbows on the table. Before Gourry's eyes, small circular indentions appeared on large man's forearms; it looked as if invisible hands were kneading the flesh. There was a popping sound and blood flew; the indentations had given way to bloody holes. Twisting and pulling, and then, a large chunk of Dad's arm flew across the room.
"Dad!" Gourry yelled, glancing around uselessly in an attempt to find his father's attacker. He felt ill; the pale glint of bone was visible in the ragged wound on his arm.
"Something wrong, m' boy?" Dad asked, apparently oblivious to the fact that he was now bleeding profusely.
In the next instant, the marks appeared again, this time on Dad's neck, face, and chest. It was as if his invisible attacker had found his first effort amusing and had invited friends to join in the fun.
"Gourry, what's wrong?" came Grandma's voice from Gourry's side.
A sickly sweet smell assailed Gourry's nostrils and he fought a brief battle with his stomach to keep his breakfast down. It was a familiar scent—working in the SCG involved more than arresting criminals. He'd rescued a woman from a burning building once. She'd been badly scorched and later died. He never forgot that scent—the smell of burning flesh; and now, here it was again in the most unlikely of places.
Not wanting to, but unable to resist, Gourry slowly turned his head to look at his grandmother. He groaned in despair at what he saw.
Grandma stood next to him as if nothing were wrong, and yet her entire body was ablaze. Except, that wasn't quite right; hair twisted, burned, and disappeared, skin blistered and blackened, milky white eyes shriveled up in their sockets . . . but there was no fire. She was spontaneously combusting without the combustion.
There was the familiar squeak of the bedroom door opening and Mom's irritated voice said, "What's all the commotion out here?"
Gourry staggered back, slamming into the table and knocking two more plates onto the floor. There was a loud yelp as Dad's coffee spilled in his lap.
"M-M-Mom . . ." Gourry stammered. Her face . . . Her face was . . .
Then, mercifully, Lina was there. Lina was shoving Mom aside without so much as an apology. Lina was running towards him.
Relief gave way to dread as Lina closed the distance between them. When would it happen to her? He remembered the events two nights ago. Any minute now, her stomach would unhinge, spilling her intestines. Would he be able to hear the snap as her head was twisted from her shoulders? He flung his arms up to cover his face. He couldn't look at her. This was hell. She was about to fall apart; he could feel it . . .
But, Lina stayed marvelously intact. She wormed her way under his defenses and leapt up to embrace him with such eagerness that the top of her head slammed into his jaw; he tasted copper in his mouth. She'd made him bite his tongue. It didn't matter though. She was saying something—trying to say something, in any case. He couldn't hear her though. Someone was screaming.
A moment later, he realized it was him.
Marco paused, his pursuit of a rabbit momentarily forgotten. The frightened hare took the opportunity to sprint into a nearby bush; he didn't even notice.
With a confused look on his face, he glanced around at the surrounding trees. There was something out there, something he couldn't quite put his finger on . . .
Without warning, the wind picked up and enveloped him within a whirlwind of leaves. Which was really strange. Why should there be dead leaves in the middle of summer? Maybe a few, but there shouldn't have been anything like what he was seeing. And the breeze was so cold, too . . .
As the wind died down, Marco's hand shot to his forehead and he grimaced. The headache had come out of nowhere, so intense that it felt as if his head had split open. He dropped to his knees, groaning in pain. He'd never felt anything like it before and prayed for the agony to end. Heck, even dying would be better than living with the pain.
Done. Marco stood shakily, his eyes glistening with tears. The pain was totally gone, without leaving so much as a hint of discomfort in its wake. The strange thing, he noted as he swiped at his eyes with his sleeve, was that the leaves were gone too.
Most people would have found the phenomenon strange; Marco didn't even question it. Instead, he woodenly turned and marched off in a new direction. He'd planned to meet Sarah at the pond, but something more pressing beckoned to him, drawing him in a totally new direction.
Marco hurried along the path that—although he didn't know it—would lead him to a cave where he would meet his end and awaken something horrible.
He was several hours ahead of schedule.
"Gourry?! Gourry, look at me!" Lina was terrified. Not so much by the circumstances they were in—although Ceiphied knew that there were many places she'd rather be than a room full of ghosts. No, it was Gourry's reaction that scared her.
His face was impossibly pale and slick with sweat. Blond hair was plastered to his forehead, and his eyes darted about the room, seemingly unable to focus on anything. He looked as if he'd gone quite mad. She'd never seen him scared before and the way he looked now was . . . well, it hurt to see him like this.
"L-L-L . . ."
He stammered for a moment, and Lina thought that he was trying to say her name. Her stomach lurched when she saw his hand tighten around the hilt of the Sword of Light. Gourry was hurting terribly and, being a warrior, he was about to defend himself in the only way he knew how.
"L-L-Light . . ."
"Gourry, don't do it!" Lina seized his sword hand and tried to pry his fingers from around the hilt. It was impossible. His knuckles were white with exertion as he continued to draw with agonizing slowness.
"L-Light come f-f-f . . ."
Not knowing what else to do, she dug in with her meager fingernails. "Let it go!" she hissed, drawing blood with her effort, but not accomplishing much else.
"Light come f-for . . ."
He's going to do it, Lina's panicked mind screamed. In addition to the fact that he apparently meant to "kill" everyone in the room, she was also in the extremely unenviable position of being between him and his tormentors; she didn't fancy the idea of being split in half on the drawing cut.
Out of ideas, Lina drew her hand back, muttered a quick, "Sorry, Gourry," and delivered a clumsy uppercut to his chin. Not too hard—Ceiphied knew she hadn't wanted to do it and held back—but hard enough to get his attention. He staggered and, thankfully, loosed his grip on the sword.
Lina felt like crying herself when Gourry finally got his wits enough to look at her. His expression was full of confusion and anguish. The world—everything that he cared about—had crumbled over the span of a few minutes. His family was falling apart in front of him and the woman he loved had just struck him in the face for the second time in two minutes.
"I'm sorry, Gourry, I didn't want to, but I had to do it." She quickly took his hands in her own—better to keep them occupied in case he got any ideas again—and squeezed them reassuringly. Okay, she was still in one piece and it looked as if whatever fight he'd had in him was gone. That was a small victory.
Her heart hammered in her chest, but she managed to lower her voice to what she hoped was a soothing tone. "You with me, Gourry?" she asked, somehow managing a smile for him despite their circumstances. She didn't think that she'd ever felt less like smiling in her life.
Gourry was looking around at his family again, his mouth hanging open. That was bad. She had to get him out of there. He wasn't going to improve as long as they were still leering at him.
"Gourry?" Lina said, displaying an amazing amount of patience. The average victim of the supernatural would have gotten a snarl and a terse, "Get out of here," out of her. "Gourry," she repeated more insistently, "Gourry, don't look at them. Look at me."
Recognition flickered in Gourry's blue eyes much to her relief. She held his gaze as her mind raced, struggling to think of something to get them out of this—something . . . The bedroom, she thought triumphantly.
"Gourry, do you want to sit down for a bit? Get away from things?" She nodded at him, willing him to nod in return. It was a good plan—get him away from these people and give her a moment to catch her breath. In all honesty, it was probably the most brilliant idea she'd ever come up with.
It was in that moment, when things seemed as if they might turn out all right . . . well, all right was a stretch, but there was still the possibility of salvaging something. In any case, disaster struck.
Gourry's family decided to interfere.
A charred and withered hand came down on Gourry's forearm and the swordsman shrieked in terror. It was a horrible hopeless sound and Lina winced wanting to cover her ears. She didn't dare though. Somehow, she knew that breaking physical contact with Gourry would make things worse. Gritting her teeth, she held on to his hands tenaciously, praying that Aqua would have enough sense to back off. Gods, couldn't the woman tell that she was upsetting him?
Unfortunately, Aqua apparently took that as an indication that she should start talking. "Gourry? What's the . . ."
With sudden fury, Lina slapped Aqua's hand off Gourry's arm. "What the hell is the matter with you?! Get. Back!" she snarled, reaching for a sword that wasn't currently at her side; it was currently sitting in a pile with the rest of her belongings in the bedroom. Even if she had been armed, she couldn't have done much; Gourry had stepped forward and seized her with such fervor that she was having trouble breathing, much less room to swing a sword.
It was impossible to tell if Aqua was offended or surprised by Lina's actions. Her face was almost entirely gone; a blackened skull with empty eye sockets leered at her. "Miss Lina!" she said, somehow managing to speak without a tongue, "What on earth are you doing? You're obviously upsetting . . ."
"I'm not upsetting anyone!" Lina yelled. "You people," she said, pointing to the assembled ghosts, "back off! Right now!"
Aqua seemed to get the hint: this was her cue to get the hell away from Gourry and leave him to Lina. After what felt like an eternity, she finally took a step back—took a second step and moved out of touching distance. "I . . . I don't understand," she said with a helpless shrug. "What's wrong with . . ."
Lina glared daggers at the burned woman. A vein throbbed in her temple as she fought to keep her cool. What part of "back off and shut up" didn't Aqua understand?! She expected the old woman to be smarter than this. When Gourry starts freaking out in the kitchen and threatening to cut everyone in the room to ribbons, you stay out of the way and let her do her work, damn it!
"Ease up, Gourry. It's okay. Just . . . Just ease up, okay?" Lina quietly pleaded as she struggled to catch her breath. Gourry was desperately clinging to her; she was the only thing keeping him sane in an insane world. She prayed that nobody else would step in and further agitate the poor guy. She couldn't take much more of this.
She was tired: tired of shouting at these people, tired of running around in the dark, tired of the beatings, tired of being hungry, and by the Flare Dragon, she was tired of having to be the strong one! Things had been so much simpler when she'd been alone. She didn't have enough in her to support herself, a man struggling with demons—both mental and real, a hero-worshipping kid whose kindness outweighed her sense of self-preservation, and a stupid swordsman who had made the mistake of falling for her and—damn him—taking her down with him.
Her shoulders slumped despite her best effort to maintain a strong look and she heard Gourry whimper; even in his current state he was aware enough to know that something was wrong with her. She could barely hear him though, or anything else for that matter. Her head was pounding again, the blood roaring in her ears and threatening to drown out everything else.
Whatever malignancy was within her had stirred, as if sensing her moment of weakness. Her knees turned to jelly and she was no longer supporting Gourry; she was leaning on him. No, she thought to herself, you don't have time to be selfish right now, Lina Inverse. Gourry needs you. Drop dead on your own time.
She dug deep, struggling to find the strength to support herself again. Her knees wobbled precariously before straightening. Thank goodness. She laid her cheek against Gourry's chest and whispered, "Are you ready to go sit down? Please?" It wasn't even for his benefit anymore. Not totally, at least. She felt like she could sleep for a week.
Shaking her head determinedly—there'd be time for rest later—she looked up at Gourry's face and frowned. He was still glancing around at his family. It'd be far better if he didn't. "Gourry," she whispered in a pleading tone, "please come with me." Moving slowly, so as not to frighten him, she worked an arm free of his grasp and reached up to scratch his chin playfully. "Down here, Jellyfish," she said, forcing a smile that she didn't feel in the least. It helped though. When he looked down at her, she could feel his viselike grip loosen ever so slightly and he looked a bit calmer.
Brushing his hair from his face, she whispered, "Okay? Ready to go?" She took a step back, hinting that he was to follow. In what was the first good thing to happen that day, he consented to be led across the kitchen. She couldn't do a thing for him while these people were looming over them.
It must have been a strange sight—Gourry and Lina locked in a tight embrace, neither of them willing to release the other as they made their way towards the bedroom. They moved slowly, she leading with her back while he followed blindly. She had the chilling notion that he would have followed her off a cliff without a second thought.
"Lina, is there anything I can . . ." Lily started.
"Just leave us alone," Lina interjected tiredly. Her spirit sank. She didn't have it in her to hold another conversation at the moment.
Gourry looked up at the sound of his mother's voice and whimpered. It wasn't hard to see why. The left side of her face was almost gone, the flesh slapping wetly against bone every time she moved. The sky blue dress she'd been wearing was ruined, now almost black with gore; blood pooled on the floor at her feet.
Lina winced in pain as Gourry's fingers dug painfully into the small of her back. She felt his hot breath on the top of her head; he was using her as a shield again.
"Are you sure?" Lily ventured, "I can . . ."
Lina quickly shushed Lily with an insistent wave of her hand. "Look, I don't mean to be a bitch, but . . . just . . . just leave us alone for a few minutes, okay? This isn't a good time right now."
Then, they were done. There was one more frightening moment where Lina almost slipped in Lily's blood, but aside from that, they were free. It couldn't have taken more than two minutes to coax Gourry into following her, but it felt like an eternity.
A moment later, the bedroom door closed behind them, cutting them off from Gourry's family, Lina finally gave out. Her knees buckled and she let herself sink to the floor, taking Gourry down with her. She thought that nothing short of removing his arms would have gotten him off of her in that moment. She'd become his security blanket.
The world swam about Lina and she thought, not for the first time, that this was shaping up to be a positively crappy day. Between starvation, exhaustion, finding out that Luna was still alive and now this . . . well, she was stretched to the breaking point. And she'd get no respite for the foreseeable future. The hard part was just starting.
Gourry. Poor Gourry.
Lina squeezed him as tightly as she could, curling his long blond hair about her fingers. She opened her mouth several times to speak, but always found herself at a loss for words. What could she say to him to even begin to console him? Everything she considered felt incredibly stupid and trite in the face of what he'd just gone through.
Amazingly enough, it was Gourry who broke the silence. "D-D-D . . ."
"That's right, Gourry," Lina whispered. Somehow, hearing him stammer was worse than his silence. It served to drive home just how shaken he was. "They're dead. They've been dead for a very long time."
Gourry swallowed hard and nodded. "D-Dead. But . . . h-how . . . why . . . I don't . . ."
Lina felt a wave of relief wash over her. He understood, at least. That was a good sign. She began to detach herself from him. She wasn't even trying to get away from him really. She just wanted a bit of space to think. That proved to be a big mistake.
"NO!!!" Gourry shrieked, frightening Lina half to death. He tightened his grip on her to the point that she really couldn't breathe.
"Ow . . ." she wheezed. "Gourry . . . can't breathe . . ."
"I-I'm not letting go," he whimpered into her hair. Then, whatever dam had been holding Gourry in check broke. "They're dead. They're all dead. Mom, Dad, Grandma . . . I saw them. A-And I saw you. You were dead . . . they stabbed you . . . You were dead . . . You're all dead!!" He began to weep loudly, shaking her much smaller body with each violent sob. Somehow, he still had enough wind to repeat, "You're all dead," several more times.
Finally, Lina gave in herself, unable to resist the hurt and betrayal in his voice; he thought he was alone, that she'd left him and was no more alive than the people who waited just outside the door. She wanted to tell him that she was still with him—that he wasn't alone—but instead found herself sharing in his grief.
Amelia winced every time she took a step, having twisted her ankle on the way down from the treetop. She wasn't going to let Mister Zelgadis see that though. She'd gotten hurt because she hadn't practiced her tumbling in so long. It should have been an easy thing—catching herself on a limb—but she'd been sloppy.
Thinking of tumbling segued into thoughts of her family back home and she felt a pang of nostalgia. What was happening back at the circus? She hadn't thought of them in so long; there hadn't been time to, really. Was Uncle Christopher taking care of himself? He had a bad back and had a tendency to overwork himself unless she was there to restrain him. Alfred—her poor cousin who'd been traumatized by Hellmaster—how was he doing? Had Zanafar's vision gotten any better? She was sure that they were worried about her. She'd left to go to the gala with Zelgadis and had never returned. Most of all, she hoped that they were all right. Just because she was in trouble with the church didn't mean that they would be too . . . right?
She felt pressure on her shoulder and turned to see Zelgadis' clawed hand resting there. It was strange. His hands had been normal before, a little pale, but human in all aspects. Now his fingers had elongated and were tipped with wicked looking talons made of some highly reflective dark substance. She wondered at that—the wings, the claws, the fangs, where was it going to end?
Taking a calculated risk, Amelia patted his hand affectionately. He didn't pull away—probably because she hadn't felt any fear or revulsion towards him. Why would she though? Even if he looked a bit different, he was still Mister Zelgadis. Realizing that he could probably hear what she was thinking, she chuckled embarrassedly and smiled at him.
Studying his face for a moment, she finally asked, "Can you?"
Zelgadis raised an inquisitive eyebrow. "Can I what?"
"Read my mind."
Scowling thoughtfully for a moment, Zelgadis finally shook his head. "No, I don't think so."
"But you knew . . ."
". . .about the things you were thinking?"
"Yeah, that!" Amelia paused for a second, before exclaiming, "Hey, you knew what I was going to say there too!" She grinned at him and playfully elbowed him in the ribs. "Are you sure you can't read my mind, Mister Zelgadis?"
Her efforts elicited a quiet chuckle from Zelgadis. She tried to remember the last time he'd laughed. Had he ever laughed around her? He should, she concluded, it's a lot nicer than a frown.
"It's not quite like that, despite what Jillas seems to think." He shot the foxman—who seemed quite interested in their conversation—a sardonic look. "This is new to me too, but I think . . ."
Amelia nodded in sympathy as she experienced his confusion. There was something dancing around in his head—an idea—more of a feeling, really—considered, dismissed, and considered again. Finally, not wanting him to fret over it anymore, she said what he was considering. "You think it's an emotional thing?"
Zelgadis eyed her for a moment before nodding. "Yeah. And you just did it too, by the way."
"I did?" Amelia muttered quizzically. "I did!" she repeated, utterly shocked by her own ability. She clapped a hand over her mouth in case any more of his thoughts tried to slip out. Just like before, she'd said something that he'd been thinking without even knowing it.
Surprise gave way to a smile as she realized that Zelgadis was still looking at her. "Are you . . .?" she asked, noting the way that his shoulders were shaking. Feigning irritation, she said, "I can't believe you! You're terrible, Mister Zelgadis!"
Zelgadis hastily shook his head to indicate that he wasn't laughing at her, but with her. It was the only response he could manage as he struggled to curb his mirth. He tried to hide it behind his hand, tried to affect a stern demeanor, and finally just went with it. His laughter echoed through the trees, making Amelia all the happier which in turn, made him happier.
After a few minutes of symbiotic laughter, Amelia and Zelgadis finally managed to bring themselves down to a level of normalcy.
"How do we do that?" Amelia asked, wiping tears of mirth from her eyes. "If it's just feelings, why could you tell that I was thinking about Jillas before? And my father . . .?"
"This is just a theory, but I think it's because of how specific your feelings are," Zelgadis said with a shrug. "You feel a very specific way about Jillas and a different way about your father. It's not so much mind reading as . . . educated guessing. And I just have better guesses because I know your memories. You get it too though, it seems. You just don't really have as much information to go on."
Amelia got the sense that he was relieved at that last bit, as if he'd said a mental "Thank Ceiphied" about her comparative ignorance. It really wasn't fair though. She wanted to know what he was thinking too!
"You know," he interjected. "You just don't know as much."
"Ooh, is that what it is?" Amelia muttered thoughtfully. Mutual feelings . . . She guessed that it made sense. It'd explain some of the things they'd done. Their laughing just now, the anger and resentment they'd felt towards one another before, the kiss . . .
Amelia stole a look at Zelgadis's face, her face flushed with embarrassment. His expression was stony, as if he'd switched off his emotions somehow. Maybe he was just trying to hide his feelings? She didn't really know how to access it, but she concentrated, struggling to sense his emotions. Nothing. He was thinking on too many different subjects at once for her to get any particular sense.
"Well, which way now?" he loudly asked, surprising Amelia out of her thoughts.
Scratching her head in confusion, Amelia muttered without much conviction, "Um, I think he was that way?" pointing towards a path that veered off to the right. They'd agreed without even conferring that Marco would probably be where she found him yesterday, if the pattern held true.
It was only after they were off again that she realized that Zelgadis should have known which way to go. Didn't he say that he had access to her memories? If he'd checked, he could have known where she'd seen Marco. Had he asked her to distract her? Why? What was he trying to keep from her?
Staring at his back, she willed him to turn around and look at her. He stubbornly refused. She sighed in irritation and considered the fact that she was quickly becoming better acquainted with the back of his head than his face. Still, he couldn't hide forever and she made a mental note to ask him about that kiss later. It wasn't really something she wanted to discuss in front of Jillas anyway.
"They . . . They're gone, aren't they?"
Lina had finally gotten a bit of space between herself and Gourry. They sat next to one another in the corner of the bedroom closest to the door. Neither of them had felt ambitious enough to go any farther into the room.
"Yeah, that's right, Gourry," Lina quietly said. She fetched a deep sigh and added, "They've been gone for a long time, now." By this point, it felt as if someone were striking her skull with a hammer in time with her pulse. The world throbbed sickeningly and she closed her eyes to compose herself.
It didn't really help. Whatever was wrong with her seemed to increase in intensity when she tried to catch her breath. It felt as if someone had stabbed her in the stomach and was slowly twisting the knife. She bit down on her lower lip to stifle a cry of pain. When would it end? This was worse than last night. At least then she had the good sense to pass out.
"How did it happen?"
Lina was all but hyperventilating by that point and spoke in a hiss through clenched teeth. "Well . . . it's . . . complicated and I . . . I don't think . . . you'd understand. Oh . . . Oh Ceiphied . . ." Her hands folded over her belly, she crumpled onto her side. She savored the feeling of the cool floor against her cheek; it was so much nicer to focus on that—on anything really—than what was going on inside of her.
Then she saw it: the bed. The sunlight pouring through the window illuminated it—made it almost seem to glow. She eyed it covetously and thought that she'd never seen anything more comfortable.
"Lina, please tell me."
"Well," Lina grunted as she leaned heavily on the wall, "it happened about five years ago . . . in the summer, if I had to guess." Sweat plastered her hair to her face as she made her way back up to a sitting position. Her stomach protested the move with a new stab of pain; she sent it a mental command to shut the hell up.
God, why don't these people have a table, a chair, or something? She'd never seen such sparse furnishings. The bed—the glorious bed, she corrected herself—a nightstand, and a dresser. Nothing at all within reach to prop herself up on.
Gourry had said something.
"W-What was that?" she asked, dragging herself to her feet, inch by agonizing inch, with her fingernails. She wasted a bit of energy to glance at Gourry. If she needed any proof that he was still out of it, here it was; he was still sitting cross-legged with his back to the door, staring down at his hands. He didn't even notice that she was suffering.
"Well," Gourry said, not looking up, "how did it happen?"
Lina looked at the bed, calculating the distance between her and the mattress. Her goal was to get at least half her body up there. After all, her legs didn't really need to be comfortable, right? Just her head and her torso if she could manage. Her poor aching body. About eight feet, she realized glumly. There's no way I can make that. Still, nothing ventured, nothing gained, right?
"Do you remember what happened the other night?" she asked, bracing herself against the wall. If she shoved hard enough, she might make it. "The night those things attacked the village?"
"When you died?"
Gourry's words sent a chill down her spine. "Gourry, we didn't die. We're not dead." Under her breath she added, "Although, that's not looking half bad at the moment."
"You promise?"
Lina chuckled mirthlessly. "Yeah, I promise."
"Are they going to come back?"
Gourry's question went unanswered as Lina was currently making an attempt at the bed. Pushing off from the wall, she made a bizarre half-jump, half-stagger across the room. Her legs didn't seem to want to obey her wishes and she tripped over her feet halfway. Just to put the final touch on her failure, she managed to strike her head on the bed frame before hitting the floor.
Her hand flew to her mouth and she bit down on her thumb to stifle her agonized scream. If she screamed, they'd come and, even though they wouldn't mean to, they'd hurt Gourry again. She maintained her silence, but that was little comfort as she flopped around on the floor like a fish out of water. Her fingers clutched at her injured skull, her nails leaving red marks on her forehead as she attempted to dig the pain out. If she'd thought that her head ached before, it was positively shrieking at her now, matching the torment she was feeling in her stomach.
Finally, her wild bucking slowed—not out of relief, but just because she couldn't keep it up anymore. She curled up in a fetal position and cried silently, her trembling shoulders the only indication that she was distressed. She didn't want to hurt anymore!
Footsteps. And then Lina was gently lifted from the floor and a moment later felt herself sinking into the softness of the bed. She rolled onto her side and curled up into as tight a ball as she could. The warm fabric against her face was a wonderful sensation and she almost drifted off right there, miserable or no. Exhaustion was a remarkable sleep aid.
She shifted a bit as Gourry lay down behind her and rested his chin on her shoulder. "Are they going to come back?" he asked again. There was something hard in his voice and Lina got the sense that he wouldn't really mind if the restless dead returned. In fact, he'd probably relish the chance to kill them again.
"I don't think so . . ." she replied with a shake of her head. "Something's changed now. Otherwise, we wouldn't be seeing . . ." Blackness surrounded her for an instant. "W-What was I saying?" she asked sleepily.
"The dead things," he gently prodded. "You fell asleep, Lina."
"Right," she mumbled. "Um, what? Oh yeah . . . I don't think they're coming back because something's . . . changed or . . . something. Otherwise, your family wouldn't look like . . . I'm sorry you saw that, by the way . . . but . . . where was I? Oh yeah." She laced her fingers together and tugged them apart, saying, "Everything's coming apart at the seams, you know. It was . . . was working fine . . . it's kinda like a reflection in water. It looks real until . . . um . . . hold on a sec." She yawned loudly and seized his arm and draped it over her. "Sorry, it's just that . . . oh yeah . . . it's real until you touch it . . . and see the . . . truth . . ." she trailed off, unable to even think straight anymore.
She wanted to stay up with him, to comfort him if she could, but as she gazed out from under half lidded eyes, all she could think was that it wouldn't hurt for him to cope with it himself for awhile. It was a crass and selfish idea, but at the moment, it made a lot of sense. Was it really so wrong of her to think of herself a bit? She'd suffered too. In any case, she wasn't going to beat herself up over it at the moment. She didn't have the strength to.
"They're not . . . coming back . . . Gourry . . ." Forcing out those last reassuring words with the final remnants of her strength, Lina eagerly plunged into a dreamless slumber.
Marco moved unerringly towards his goal; he could smell the mold, hear hollow dripping, taste water that was bitter and cold as ice, feel the cool air on his skin, and—most of all—could see the darkness. It was like a shroud had been pulled over his normal vision. If he hadn't known better, he would have said that it was late afternoon instead of morning; it was that dark.
He plunged carelessly through a patch of briars. Barbs greedily hooked his clothes and snagged his skin, leaving innumerable scratches. He was dimly aware of thorns plunging deep into his palms as he impatiently pulled them out of the way. That wasn't really important though. What mattered was finding out what the heck was going on. He was being an idiot, but he'd feel a lot better once he knew that the cave he was imagining wasn't . . .
Real. There it was, just as he'd visualized. A small opening, no larger than a rabbit hole at first glance. No way would he fit down there, unless . . . He wore a look of disbelief on his face as he dropped to all fours. Yes, this was it. He yanked weeds from the mouth of the hole, revealing that it was much larger than first glance. He shook his head irritably, trying to shake the nagging feeling that he'd done this many times before. His eyes widened and he mumbled, "Holy cow," under his breath.
There was the sickening sense that he'd been led here; people didn't just imagine places and then find them, after all. There was something here—some secretthat was both terrifying and tantalizing all at once. He could turn back now and for a moment, he seriously considered it. Instead, he found himself redoubling his efforts; fear of losing his nerve drove him to work faster and he scrabbled at a pile of small stones, widening his point of entry.
Finally, he thrust himself forward, plunging into the cool darkness without a second thought. Hand over hand, he dragged himself downwards at a dangerous speed. He couldn't see and there was no telling what lay before him. If he'd been a little less rattled, he would have taken it more slowly, feeling things out.
Except, there was no reason to slow down. Somehow, he knew that there was a drop-off just ahead, maybe another two feet at the most . . . If he slowed, he'd turn back and he didn't want to turn back. He couldn't turn back now.
He felt only relief as he plunged over the edge, knowing that this was right—that he was going to see it through to the end. There was no turning back now. The somewhat graceless landing dampened his spirits a bit though. The wind was driven out of him and icy water soaked him to the bone.
"Jeez!" he yelped leaping to his feet and hugging himself tightly. Rubbing his arms to coax a bit of warmth back into the flesh, he thought, so, what now? He looked up at the faint light high overhead. Great. Even if he wanted to get out—and he had to admit that he was starting to feel pretty stupid for coming down here—that didn't really seem to be a viable option.
He fetched a deep sigh; what would Sarah say if she knew what he'd gotten himself into? "Marco, you big stupid head," he whispered—both in answer to the question and agreement with the sentiment—as he carefully maneuvered over to the wall, stepping over slippery rocks and hidden crevasses. Nope, he realized when he touched the wall; there was no getting out that way. The stone was slick and didn't seem to have any handholds anyway. Grimacing in distaste, Marco quickly wiped his hand off on his pants leg. Mud, moss—whatever it was, it clung to his skin avariciously and the sensation was . . . yucky.
Well, this is just great. Why in the heck had he come down here anyway? The odds of anyone stumbling onto him were slim at best.
Something hissed in the dark and he whirled around. "Sarah?" he called without much hope. The idea of Sarah had led him down here, but he knew that whatever was out there wasn't her. He squinted, straining to see farther than the dim light would allow. A shadow stirred among other shadows; something was moving towards him.
Suddenly he was seized by fear. He remembered this—remembered the hot pain in his belly and the sick sense of loss as his innards had tumbled out. These things had killed him before. Marco turned and ran back towards the wall. Miraculously, he managed to do so without injuring himself. His fingers scrabbled against the stone, hopelessly seeking some purchase where there was none.
He heard splashing and more hissing behind him now; whatever he'd awoken was moving towards him. He didn't dare turn to look. Instead he fought even, tearing a fingernail on a crack in the wall; he didn't even notice.
Then, miraculously, a woman's voice drifted down from the opening high above. "Marco?"
Marco felt his heart leap into his throat. "I'm here!" he shouted at the top of his lungs. "I'm down here!" He waved his arms frantically as if that would be of some assistance in the dark. "Hurry! There's something coming!"
There were words from the surface, loud and indistinct and Marco had the sense that whoever was up there was arguing about something. About the best way to get him out, he hoped.
"Don't worry, Marco, I'm coming!" Whoever was with the girl didn't agree with her plan apparently; Marco could hear more frantic voices from up above. Why were they talking when he needed to be rescued?
Then it hit him: she probably didn't know what she was getting into. Marco started to shout that what the girl was about to do was a very bad idea, but it was too late. A figure blocked out the light above for a moment, just as he had done, and then she plunged into the darkness with a yelp of surprise.
Without thinking, Marco leapt forward to catch her. He didn't know why; maybe he was doing it to make up for failing to help Sarah. Maybe he was just stupid. The girl was more mature than Sarah—that much was for certain. He'd be lucky not to break something when she landed on him.
More mature is right, he realized as she fell into his arms. Her breasts momentarily smothered him and he couldn't shake the suspicion that he'd done this before—he just couldn't remember when. The sense of déjà vu was overpowering, but contrary to remembering how he'd fallen into this darkness, what he was feeling now was decidedly pleasant. Amelia, he excitedly thought, her name is Ame-.
Then pleasure and knowledge was driven violently from his skull; Amelia had driven him to the floor and he'd painfully cracked the back of his head against a submerged rock and gotten soaked again. Such things were the rewards for chivalry, it seemed.
"That wasn't so bad," Amelia remarked to nobody in particular. She quickly hopped off her juvenile savior and looked around curiously.
"Speak for yourself," Marco groaned as he sat up. He gingerly touched the back of his head and hissed in pain; he'd have quite a knot there tomorrow morning. Assuming he'd get to see tomorrow morning, of course. Remembering his pursuers, he whipped his head around, ignoring the new spike of pain.
Gone. Whatever had been stalking him from the shadows was gone. Or at least, he hoped so.
"Amelia?!" a rough voice called from above, "Amelia, are you all right?!" There was a great deal of concern in the tone and Marco instinctively knew that this was the boyfriend who might not be a boyfriend who might want to . . . eat her? He shook his head dubiously. Maybe he was going nuts. It was the only way to explain this.
Amelia cupped her hands around her mouth and bellowed at the top of her lungs, "I'm fine, Mister Zelgadis! I found Marco too!"
"He . . . He's not that far away." Marco winced and clapped his hands over his ears. Her echoes weren't doing much for his headache. "You don't have to yell quite so loud you know."
"Oh. Right," Amelia sheepishly replied.
She turned to face Marco, and that clinched it: despite the gloom he recognized her. He remembered the dark hair, the figure, and the brightly colored clothes—those of a circus performer.
"Are you okay?" she asked sweetly. "I was worried about you. I thought you might be in trouble after what happened last night with that vampire."
"V-Vampire," Marco repeated shakily. He knew that what she said was true. He'd been out in the dark, searching for Sarah last night and they'd come across the woman in white—Luna, she'd called herself. She'd . . . bitten him? He'd gotten away from her . . . because she was fighting her sister?—yes, he remembered her mentioning that the other woman was her sister—then, he was lying in the forest and . . . and he'd been shaking . . . it was so cold . . . it'd been a warm night, but he'd been freezing. And then, he'd . . . died?
He shook his head in vehement denial. That didn't make any sense! He wasn't dead! Sarah hadn't even been missing last night! He remembered saying goodnight, the promise to meet today (or was it yesterday?), and watching her go home.
No, that's not right either! He slammed his fist against a nearby wall out of frustration. He hadn't even survived to see last night! He'd come down here, been hurt—twisted his ankle, he remembered—and then . . . yes! A look of mingled horror and triumph on his face, he hastily moved past Amelia to the base of the wall. This was the most familiar memory—the one that felt the most right, and he knew . . .
Struggling to suppress a shudder, he extended his hands into the darkness. For just an instant, he entertained the hope that he'd been wrong. There was nothing here—he was going to touch the wall in a few seconds—he wasn't . . .
His fingertips brushed against smooth hardness and he bit back a scream. He'd found what he was looking for: a roundish shape that might have been just another rock, but he knew better. He traced the form with his fingertips: the round dome, the angular sides, and the twin circular holes in the front.
Behind him, he heard Amelia gasp and whisper, "Ceiphied save us." She'd just seen, then. But, how had she seen what he couldn't?
Choking back a sob, Marco dragged his hands downward, following the contours until they came to a point—continued on. There was nothing for an instant and then his hands came to rest on damp fabric. He gripped it compulsively—felt it rip under his fingers. His breath was coming in short gasps, but he forced himself to calm down—loosen his grip. He didn't want to tear it.
He moved down a bit more until he found what he was looking for: a small bulge in the fabric. A pocket. His pocket. He slipped his hand in, fished around, and withdrew a bit of string bearing a button, a tiny woodcarving of a swan (he could feel the point of one wing poke his palm), and a smooth stone with an "s" carved into it. He'd spent an hour carefully etching that letter into the stone. His mother thought that there'd been something wrong with him as quiet as he'd been.
As if he needed proof, here was the bracelet he'd made for Sarah. He'd meant to give it to her today or yesterday, or whenever it was. Automatically, he reached into his own shirt pocket—drew out the same bracelet. It was all true then. But, if he was dead, how did he know Amelia?
His voice thick with grief, he asked, "Your name is Amelia, right?"
"You remembered," she said in a kind voice. She knelt next to him and put an arm around his shoulders.
"What are you? Are . . . Are you an angel?"
"An angel?" Amelia repeated in surprise.
Marco nodded. "I remember that you're very kind. And I've met you several times. You always tried to help me find Sarah, didn't you? You didn't even know me, but you helped anyway. No normal stranger would have done that for me, so you must be from Heaven."
Amelia smiled. "You're a good person, Marco. I wanted to help you, because it was the right thing to do."
Marco eyed her thoughtfully. She seemed to sparkle in the darkness, but he couldn't be sure if that was because she was divine or because he was crying. "Did I touch your chest?" he asked, recalling the familiarity of her curves.
"Excuse me?!"
"What'd he just say?!" the rough voice echoed.
"Nothing, Mister Zelgadis!" Amelia yelped. "Oh dear, I hope he doesn't look that one up . . ." she whispered to herself.
"Look that one up?" Marco repeated numbly.
"It's a long story."
Marco nodded as if he understood. There was only one question left then. Weighing the twin bracelets in his hands, he asked, "Amelia, did . . . did we find her?"
Amelia paused for a moment, not really knowing how to answer. Finally, she willed herself to nod.
"Yes . . . Yes, we did."
Next Chapter: Marco's vision ends and the world comes crashing down around Lina and her friends.
Notes: I promise that I mean to update this story more than once a month! I've been working on it nonstop almost immediately after posting 39. At one point, this chapter was a daunting 40 pages. Thankfully, cooler heads prevailed and I didn't post the mess as it stood. Which brings me to the good news: the second half of 40 has actually become 41, which means that with any luck, we'll be having two weeks of back to back chapters. Remember when I used to do that?
Speaking of the past, I was shocked to see that Eternal Twilight has resided on for an entire year now. Happy birthday, ET! I don't remember planning out a story that was 300 pages long and counting, but it must have been rolling around somewhere up in my head.
Thanks go out to Ichiban Victory and Kaitrin for reading this mess more times than I can count and to Sami for being a bottomless well of enthusiasm with a talent for inspiring me when I feel that I'd rather shoot myself than write.
Reviewer Response:
Ichiban, I'd have let you read this chapter again one last time before I posted, but I've got a splitting headache and don't fancy the idea of hanging around all night. But, I'm sure you'll let me know if there are any lingering mistakes.
Shadowsonic, thanks for the wonderful praise! We'll find out why Luna's the way she is a little further down the road and I'd totally forgotten about the bandit calling Amelia an acrobat! Any girl that is obsessively drawn to making a spectacle of herself at the highest altitude possible qualifies as an acrobat in my book!
Patience, Kaitrin! We're getting into the A/Zness a bit more now. It's just a matter of timing, you know.
Otaku girl, I'm not gonna bite your head off if you send me an e-mail, you know. I do consider myself to be kinda sorta a nice guy. Very interesting story, by the way! Aside from the fact that you were sick, I enjoyed it immensely.
Yeah, I remember you, Muffles! You make very cool AMVs! Copy Rezo, you say? Can't have a copy while the original's still alive and kicking, right?
Thank you, Miss Gabriev! To answer your queries: yes, I probably do read more Stephen King than is healthy, The Stand is probably my favorite novel of his along with IT, and, yep, I saw The Village and had the whole thing figured out in the first hour.
Samantha and Brenda, Gourry's had it rough, but things are going to get even worse before they get better. And of course I torture the cast! It wouldn't make for a very interesting story if they sat around drinking tea and discussing the weather, would it?
Until (hopefully) next week! Thanks for reading!