Cloaks whipping about from force of wind, two figures sat huddled close together in the late-day suns. Their packs settled into the sand behind them, canteens clinking together lazily.

A blur could be seen in the distance, slowly approaching as the sunlight dimmed. Through the dull roar of wind, she could hear the huffing breath of toma, the crunch of sand beneath rubber wheels. Vanessa ran her gloved hand across Knives' back supportively. Her chest was tight with dread.

The cart neared, to such a distance that she assumed he, too, could hear its presence. It slowed, it turned, it stopped just a few feet before them, and its driver stepped down. The two cloaked figures stood and approached.

"Good afternoon, Simon," Vanessa greeted somberly, trying to bow to him the same as he did to her, reminded of the habits of some back on Earth. "What news do you bring today?"

He removed his cap and clutched it to his chest. His face down, he was shaking slightly. Pulling a few folded pages from his pouch, he held them out to her meekly. As he watched her hands work to unfurl the complexly folded notes, his own hands went to fidget behind his back. "Nobody's read it yet. Not a soul, I swear." He sounded very afraid.

Pulling the pages tight and flat up into her hood, the wind whipping the edges, she skimmed the notes, heart skipping beats. She pushed the pages in Knives' direction, letting him snatch them away eagerly, and ran to the cart, leaping into the back of it.

He read over the first few lines several times, his mind resistant to absorb it. The cancer had spread; that was why she'd been sick. The people had given her things to numb the pain, but she'd weakened and had spent the past two months laying in wait, to die. Callisto bid her farewell in this letter.

Simon dropped into the sand before him, wrapping his arms around his knees. "I swore not to say anything," he murmured miserably. "I didn't know what to do; I thought you'd want to lay her to rest yourselves…"

Vanessa was crouched and still in the cart bed.

A waft of slight decay met his nose.

"Well?" Knives called out impatiently.

"It's her," Vanessa confirmed grimly, head popping up, tugging the edge of her hood away so that he could see her face. "There are obvious tumors, they look to be into the lungs and heart. She died not two days ago."

Simon nodded, a tear rolling down his cheek. He swiveled to face her. "I'm so sorry."

"She said she had the flu," Vanessa muttered to herself, climbing slowly down from the cart. "She wouldn't let me…If I'd known-"

"No," Knives interrupted sharply, hand covering his face. "She didn't want a cure. She didn't want our help," he corrected, referring to the letter.

Vanessa thought she heard his voice crack, but the howling wind filled her ears and marred her piqued hearing. She went to his side and cautiously lifted her hands to his hood. "Knives, I'm sorry."

Simon flinched. He'd met Knives over ten years ago, and would always be afraid of his ominous presence. For the duration of Callisto's illness, he'd dreaded seeing Knives receive the bad news, dreaded the possibility of facing the man's rage.

"Take her back, bury her in the garden," Knives demanded, turning his back on the human.

Vanessa drew her arms back into her cloak and waited for Simon to stand. "Thank you, Simon. Have a safe journey; see you here next month." Finally, turning, she followed Knives over a sand dune and listened to the rustle of the cart as it pulled back from whence it came.

"She belongs in the garden. With the humans," Knives was saying to her, voice raised to hear over the winds. He handed her the pages, turned over.

There was more written on the back of the last page, that she hadn't noticed. She shuffled ahead quickly, straining to read this last bit.

"'I get to live like a human and die like a human,'" he quoted. "'I am really happy.'"

Sniffling, she looked up into his hood, to see his eyes brimming with tears. But he was smiling, softly. What Callisto was saying – she knew he didn't agree and he couldn't relate, but she'd made this choice for herself. He understood.

They trudged off into the night towards the nearest plant complex, as always, to retire to rooms they'd slept in many trips before, to eat preserves and foodstuffs Simon had brought them many times before, to grieve for the fallen plant, and to find solace in each other arms again.

As everyone came to know and respect, the angels saved the humans.

The shack that had been the walking angels' home was painstakingly repaired, finally, from the explosions of the scouts. It became something of a shrine, housing a library of hundreds of handwritten texts in soft-bound notebooks, chronicling the building of it and the needs and lives of cats, insects, plants, and toma. Pages had been torn out, and based on context these seemed to have been pages about the plant angels themselves, justifiably removed, lest any of the current human inhabitants become stained with the sin of knowing such things.

The only entryway to the garden had been through the shrine, but the residents were quick to build several other entrances to use, some closer to the housing they'd built outside it. Some of the residents spent the day gardening, and the rest built – they built houses, sheds, barns, extensions onto the garden, and repaired existing structures. Carefully, gradually, the garden doubled, tripled. Whether fresh or preserved, there was always a great surplus of food to be sent to the distant settlement. The giant carts left filled with foodstuffs and returned populated with slaves. Seedlings and cats were sent off to the settlement on occasion, and rumor had it that a few successful gardens were growing there.

In this mutual exchange, two distant and separate – albeit symbiotic – populations of humans arose. Settlement folk sometimes dared to journey for a tour of the garden, but often were too superstitious to enter the place. In the garden, slaves became free, and over time came to view their angels as more benevolent than frightening. Children were told stories of the angel He and angel She whom the prophet Simon communicated with. They were told to be good, because He and She might be watching.

Taking the form of a human woman, She allowed herself to become a slave to see how humans lived, and saw the plight of mankind's slaves. The angel He grew the garden from His blood and tears, and the animals and bugs within were brought to life from feathers.

He and She were angels who loved humans enough to reward them with this gift, although mankind deserved none until the afterlife. They were beautiful and tall and thin and light and blonde and Their eyes were like water. This they simply knew, though they would never see for themselves; not in life.

THE END

Please watch for my next story, a 'prequel' of sorts, to be titled

UGLY PLANT IN A BIG WORLD

Though I must warn you, it will be almost entirely an original story. Not the usual Trigun fanfare, but it should be interesting to anyone who enjoyed these stories.

THANKS FOR READING!