Dislcaimer: Thunderbirds is the property of Gerry and Sylvia Anderson, as well as Carlton and Universal. No profit is intended to be made from this story; it is for entertainment purposes only. No copyright infringement is intended, and none should be inferred. All original characters are the property of the author. This story should not be used or copied without the expressed written consent of the author.

A/N: Remember to check my author profile page (just click on my user name) for extended author notes and review responses! I will also be sending the author notes as review replies to all users who left me a signed review. A huge thank-you goes out to Ariel D for beta reading this chapter. Without her, it would not have happened.

Blood is Thicker Than Water: Part III
Restitution
May 2019

Dedicated to everyone who has found the strength to carry on after a fall – and to those who are no longer with us, who were never given the chance to try.

It all happened so quickly that he barely had time to ponder the implications. The first sign of the coming change came with the sudden sensation of visible light. After spending an unfathomable amount of time in shear blackness, the addition of a dull red glow to his sensory experience was extraordinary. Then came the feelings, as the watery void that he floated in slowly faded away to be replaced by the gentle and comforting feel of cotton.

Finally came the sound, so abrupt with its entrance that he was startled out of whatever landscape it was that had taken hold of his mind. The murkiness vanished, to be replaced by a crisp quietness that had a startling clarity to it, though no specific sound could be heard. All lingering feelings of the surreal world disappeared, leaving behind only the calmer and more reasonable land that he knew as reality.

The light was the sun filtering through his eyelids, he realised with a start. And the cotton material had the feeling of bed sheets.

As his mind reawakened, Gordon Tracy fought back a wave of intense drowsiness and forced his eyelids to open. An intense wave of white light caught him in the face, blinding him and causing him to close his eyes in pain. After finally waking, even the mild surroundings of the real world seemed harsh to him, overloading his senses and making him almost wish that he were back asleep.

Asleep? He hadn't been asleep . . . the lingering feeling of paralysis that ran through his body, the telltale signs of medication and anaesthetic, was familiar enough that he recognised it almost immediately. But with that recognition, and the awakening of another portion of his body, came a more painful recognition.

When he weighed the amount of painkiller that had to be in his body with the dull and piercing throb that pervaded most of his body parts, he came to realise just how injured he really was. How, he didn't know. That part of his mind was still foggy. The piece that held the past and the memories of how he had arrived in the room had not yet awakened.

Still unsure of where he was, Gordon opened his eyes and second time and squinted into the light, giving the retina time to adjust to the sudden increase in brilliance. Ever so slowly the light began to dim, and he was able to make out various shapes in the room. White dominated as a colour, explaining why everything was so bright, though there were dark splotches as well at various points around the room.

Then his eyes fell onto the bed that he was lying on. The white linen smelled of bleach, and the inexplicable tubing that ran across the surface . . .

A hospital. He was in a hospital.

A groan escaped Gordon's lips, the air digging into and burning his throat, and he noticed for the first time the oxygen mask fitted to his face. As his senses returned even stronger, he became aware of the other intrusions – the IV tubes in both arms, the odd sensation of cloth against the top of his head, the pain in his chest every time he took a breath.

But the most horrific thing of all, even more so than all of the other accumulated injuries and equipment additions, was the dawning realisation that he couldn't feel anything below the level of his stomach. His lower abdomen, his legs – there was nothing there. No feeling, no hint of existence on any level. It was not the absence of tissue caused by the mind-altering effects of heavy medications. It was something more disturbing than that.

Moaning loudly, and taking no notice of the shapes that suddenly jumped about and rushed to the bed, Gordon tried desperately to bring about any form of sensation to his lower half. He wanted to move, wanted so dearly to wiggle his toes, but he wasn't even able to tell where his toes were.

His next move, to try and sit up to see better, was a mistake. The attempt to shift his body sent a wave of pain through his chest that nearly doubled him over where he lay. A thousand burning needles dug into his body, cutting at him from every direction, including the portion of his mind that still lay dormant.

The brutal effect was enough to break the barrier that held back what remained of his unconscious mind. Suddenly, the memories of everything past – including the previous night – came flooding forward as if finally released from a waterway. With them came a sickening pain as he remembered what he had done to himself, and an even greater and more devastating feeling as he remembered and realised what he had done to three other individuals.

Overcome with the revelation, Gordon clenched his eyes shut and let a raw and animalistic scream escape his lips. He had no words for what he felt. He couldn't explain the pain that coursed through his body and his mind. And he knew that he would never be able to eliminate the horror that was rising in his chest, the horror that spoke of the consequences of his own actions and the repercussions that those actions had had on the rest of the world.

It would have been better, he thought fiercely as the tears came and burned his eyes, had the memories never returned. He hadn't escaped death by any means. No, hell was real, and very tangible.

Hell was what he had to deal with nowin the realm of the living.

After so many hours of waiting, Jeff Tracy was caught unprepared for the moment when his son finally awoke. It happened so quickly. The boy's eyes opened groggily, blinked a few times, and then widened with a horror that was unknown to anyone else in the room. It was the oxygen mask muffled scream, though, that truly shook Jeff to the bone. It would have been inhumane to expect Gordon to not react to his situation, but the blood-curdling moan that pierced the air was almost unbearable to listen to.

Moving to the bedside, Jeff grabbed hold of Gordon's hand and squeezed it tight in his, taking care not to disrupt any of the tubing or tape that clung to the skin. A million emotions rushed through his body; relief that his son was awake, fear for his son's sanity, anger at his son's actions, and so many others that he couldn't even begin to identify.

It was Scott's steady hand on Jeff's own shoulder that brought the man out of his state of confusion. One step at a time, Jeff thought, taking strength from the warm clasp, saying the words over and over again in his mind until they stayed there. It would do no good to lash out illogically, especially when Gordon seemed to be past the point of conversation. Deal with things one step at a time.

"Gordon." Kneeling down, Jeff bent in close to his son's head, feeling Gordon's pain in his own stomach as the boy cringed in agony from trying to move again. His fingers dug into Jeff's hand on one side, and the soft white linen of the bed on the other. "Gordon. Try to stay still."

The words hung in the air, and the only response was the dull beep of the various monitors in the room. Glancing up to Scott, Jeff found no answer there either, only a deep and reassuring trust for whatever he chose to do.

"Gordon. Try to calm down."

It was only then that, purely by accident, he noticed the lack of movement near the end of the bed. While the sheets around the young man's chest were rumpled by straining limbs, the linen near his feet remained unmoved, essentially untouched since the nurses had first placed him into the bed. Realisation struck, and Jeff felt his own eyes widening with horror. The doctors had warned them, of course, but he had hoped all the same . . .

Ever so quietly, a collective breath was drawn in the room as four other sets of eyes slowly came to rest on the same thing. It was all Jeff could do to keep a distinctly audible noise from leaving his lips. He couldn't. None of them could. One thing he had learned as a father, over countless years and countless situations, was that those who were not in trouble had to remain strong. Lucy had taught him that. International Rescue had taught him that.

His sons had taught him that.

With that thought, John's words echoed again in his mind: "Sitting around stewing will only make things worse, and someone down there needs to keep a clear head."

A clear head. Gordon had enough to deal with on his own. He didn't need to worry about the rest of his family.

"Gordon." There, that was better. The tone was calmer, more in control. "If you don't keep still, you'll hurt yourself."

The words worked like magic. The twitching of the redhead's limbs gradually slowed. His breathing became more regular, and soon the only remaining motion in his entire body was the alternating waves of fear and pain that flooded across his face and permeated his eyes.

"Dad?" The words came out as a cracked whisper, but they may as well have been shouted for the reaction that they caused. The other boys quickly leapt into action from where they stood, taking places around the bed so that they could hear better.

"I'm here," Jeff acknowledged, keeping Gordon's hand tight in his. "You're in the hospital." In the background, a door slammed against the wall as a nurse came in. They had obviously been monitoring the boy's brain waves and were able to see when he finally regained consciousness.

Shoes on tile echoed as the nurse approached the bedside. She came to a stop a good distance from the actual bed, respectfully remaining back until the family was finished. In her arms she carried a carefully stapled booklet of papers, legal work that likely needed to be finished.

A long and shuddering breath racked the redhead's body. "I know. I know that." His voice began to break as he spoke, once again showing signs of the clear stress that had been present moments earlier. "Oh God."

As hard as he tried, Jeff was unable to find the words needed to respond to such a comment. He had thought that it would be easier this time. Gordon was alive, after all. He would continue to live.

But looking at his son, his face pale as the sheets on the bed, Jeff knew then that there was no difference. Beads of sweat ran down the boy's cheeks like water. One of his own was suffering, and he couldn't bear to see that.

That realisation made his next thought all the harder to accept. Jeff truly didn't know how much Gordon remembered from the previous night. He obviously saw something in his mind, some scathing memory of the incident, for that reflected clearly in his eyes. The older man had seen, had dealt, with enough trauma victims to see the symptoms clearly.

But there was no way that Gordon could know the entire truth of what happened. Sometime he was going to have to find out, and when he did . . . Could he really justify causing his son more pain than he already had?

In the end, Jeff did not end up making the choice. Strangely enough, as if reading his father's mind, Gordon made the decision for him.

"Are they . . ." Unable to finish the sentence, Gordon closed his eyes tightly, moisture rimming the edges.

Jeff didn't ask who 'they' were. For Gordon at the moment there was only one reality – the reality of the water that he had left, and the people that he had left behind. There was the truth of the incident, the truth that he already knew, and the confirmation of that truth that he had now asked to be given.

Sparing his father from answering, Scott replied in the cold voice of a professional, "The other three people involved died at the scene. WASP divers were able to pull you from the wreck before your air ran out."

From somewhere behind Jeff's back, Virgil cleared his throat uneasily and said nothing.

"The doctors gave you a seventy-five percent chance of regaining consciousness," Scott continued, "so you've beaten the hard part."

The hard part, Jeff thought incredulously, marvelling at how concise his son could be in such difficult situations. The words were so hollow. Anyone could see that the difficult part would not be the physical recovery but the emotional one.

If Gordon heard his brother's words, he showed no sign. He simply lay on the bed, his eyes closed, his hands occasionally grasping at the blankets in the direction of his legs. He seemed lost once again in a dream world, even past the point of feeling the pain.

Jeff understood that feeling. Morphine could remove physical discomforts, but the human mind could also reach a point when it simply could not comprehend or handle any more emotions. At that point, the human consciousness would withdraw to a point that no one else could reach or touch. Jeff had been there himself, once. He had been leaning on the edge of a bed, as he was now, and had been completely unable to understand what he saw in front of him. It had not been denial then. No, it had been something rawer and more obvious:

There had simply been too much to handle.

A feeling of helplessness washed through him again, and Jeff gently reached a hand to stroke his son's face. He understood what Gordon was going through; he had been there himself, once. They all had to a certain extent. He could explain it to him, reassure him, and tell him that things would be all right . . .

Looking down at his son, who was now so obviously lost in his grief that it made Jeff sick, he also remembered that the words of others meant little when a person was burdened so deeply with pain. Before a hand could be extended, before a pair of eyes could see the fingers and take the hand in theirs, something else had to happen first.

"We're here," he whispered, strengthened with the knowledge that his son could hear him, and saddened that his son could not respond. "We'll be here with you until you wake up again. I have to go and fill out some paperwork, but I'll be back right away."

There was nothing more to be done. The next move, the critical move, was up to Gordon alone. Somehow he had to weigh his thoughts in his mind, decide which of them was important, and throw the rest to the side.

Letting go of his son's hand was the hardest thing that Jeff Tracy had ever done in his life. Nine years ago, when he had let go of Lucy's hand, even amidst the pain and the blooming denial, he had known that she was gone. There had been nothing left to do except let go.

"Hang in there."

But Gordon . . . no matter how much pain he was in, no matter how devastated he was both physically and mentally . . .

He was still alive. That was something to hold onto.

Somehow, inadvertently, Virgil found himself alone in the hospital room. He knew where the rest of his family was, of course. His father was busy filling out the admittance papers, which had been neglected and blind-eyed by the hospital staff since Gordon's admittance. Scott was off in a washroom somewhere – from what Virgil had been told – and was trying to communicate with John. Alan and Fermat were trying to find a cafeteria in the hopes that they could bring some lunch to the room by the time that everyone else returned.

So he sat at the bedside, unsure of what else to do, yet unable to do anything but sit and watch his brother.

Virgil absently reached a hand to ruffle Gordon's hair, then remembered the bandage that covered most of the teen's scalp. There were bandages everywhere, really. White gauze covered the wounds, hiding the crimson colour of blood . . . but also hiding the burning orange locks that was Gordon's trademark. Just as the hair was gone, so was the fiery disposition that normally accompanied it.

He slept so soundly, Virgil thought in dismay. He had shared a room with Gordon ever since the younger boy had been born, and he knew how his brother slept. He slept the same way that he lived – high-strung, tense, and with boundless energy. That was not what Virgil saw when he looked towards the bed. The shallow breaths, the complete lack of movement of the limbs – if he hadn't known that his brother was drugged, then he would have been sure that he was dead.

That thought smacked Virgil right in the face. Gordon was far from being all right, for although the doctor's had guaranteed his survival after he had awoken the first time, there was no denying the other more subtle damage that had been caused by the crash. His brother was obviously experiencing a kind of pain that Virgil had never felt himself – that born of guilt. That, at least according to the doctors, was what was causing the comatose state that Gordon was in. There was no way of knowing when he would wake up again, just as there was no longer any way of knowing what was going on inside the boy's mind.

It was funny, thinking about the entire incident after seeing his brother scream in agony from the mental trauma of it all. He had been so angry at first, so disappointed with Gordon that he had done something so completely stupid. And even though he had been immensely worried during the flight to Florida, a part of him had wanted to someone tell his brother what he had done wrong.

And now, thinking back to the screams and the horror that they had sent down his spine, Virgil was willing to give up anything to protect his brother from the memories that were eating at him from the inside. Punishment? He had been a fool to think that Gordon would get away without paying some kind of restitution. If Gordon was even half the person that Virgil knew he was, then there was no way he could continue to live and not be ashamed at his actions.

There might even be a court case from the incident. Virgil didn't know what was happening on the legal front, but there was always the possibility that one of the other three families would sue for damages. Even if it hadn't entirely been Gordon's fault, there was still the possibility.

Yet, when weighed side by side, would that even come close to the pain that Gordon's own conscience was causing him?

"We saw the video tape," he whispered, feeling awkward speaking when Gordon was asleep, but wondering all the same if his brother could actually hear him. "John pulled the file from the marina. We saw everything."

The teen lay unmoving, his eyes closed.

It wasn't hard to continue. The words poured from his mouth, and Virgil didn't care who heard them, or who happened to hear them other than his brother. It was Gordon who needed it.

"Sometimes you do the stupidest things. I don't know why you do them. When I would shut up and take the blows, you would jump in and fight back. Know what? I'm proud of you." Shaking his head, Virgil looked inside for some strength to continue. "In your own way, you were fighting for us. When all the rest of us would have let that guy run over us, you stood strong. You didn't give in. I don't know what happened on the water, but I saw what happened in that building, and I'm not angry at you."

A monitor beeped quietly in the background.

"I can't be. I just can't be. I think you did what was right. Maybe that's because you're my brother, and I-" His voice broke, and Virgil quickly wiped at his face with his sleeve. The anger building in his chest was not aimed at his brother, but at himself for not being able to say what needed to be said.

"I love you. I don't care what happened back there. Whatever it was, it's in the past. I just want you to be all right. I want you to be here, now, in the present." He took his brother's hand in his, and leaned down so that his forehead just brushed the sheets that covered the teen's waist. "I guess I blame myself for this. I should have told you this a long time ago. We all should have. If I'd been a good brother, I would have told you how I feel about your attitude. We all should have; there are so many times that we should have stopped you, so many times we should have talked to you. But we didn't.

"We were worried about you, but we didn't say anything because we wanted to leave it all up to you. We took it for granted that you were all right. But if you'd known how we felt, what we thought, then maybe you could have walked away from that guy. You had to go it alone there, and I'm so sorry that you had to. I saw it in the way you stood up to that guy. You stood up for us, like it was your duty. Like you were the only one in the world who could do that. You didn't turn to us for help. You couldn't turn to us. You had to do it alone, because you didn't know what we felt because we'd never told you. You were in that situation because you were the only one there who knew the truth about us. About our family.

"Maybe we took that for granted too. We just expected you to cope . . . and you did - on your own. And because of that, because you tried to do the right thing, because you tried to not get in a fight and tarnish our reputation, you made a mistake. I can't pretend that I know how you're feeling. I can't even pretend that I want to know how you're feeling, because no one should have to experience that. I guess all that I can do now is sit here and say I'm sorry. I guess I'm just too late with all of this."

Taking a deep breath, he continued. "This may not make you feel better. I doubt anything could. But those other three people – they made the same choice that you did. They knew the risks. And if any of them were still alive now, and you were dead, I think they'd be feeling the same way. I don't have an answer to that. I don't know why you survived and they didn't. You'd think I would after dealing with that so much at work. But I don't."

When no answer came, Virgil let his head fall onto his brother's body. The linen was soft against his cheeks, and the tears on his face quickly fell and bled into the fabric. It had been a long time since he had cried so openly. There had been times, of course, when he had broken an arm, or had fallen from a tree . . . but then there had been the one other time when the tears had truly mattered. Then, another member of the family had suffered.

"I'm so sorry," he stammered into the cloth. The exhaustion of the day was beginning to weigh heavily on him, and he didn't even try to sit back up. "I wish you'd just wake up again. I know you think you made a mistake. Maybe you did. You're human. But don't make another one. This is about hurting people, and if you don't at least try and wake up – you're gonna be hurting me. You hear that?" He tightened his grip on his brother's hand. "You want a reason for living? If you don't, then there's going to be at least five other people that are going to hurt just as much as you are right now. We love you, and if you love us, then do what's right. I know it's gonna be hard. I know what happened to you. You're not just hurting because of those other people. But if you try, if you give us the chance to help, we can help you get through it."

The last words were a plea.

"Don't give up because it hurts. I'm not trying to convince you that it doesn't, because it's gonna hurt bad. But you're too strong for that. If you give up now, then everything that you did back at that marina is useless. When people make mistakes they're supposed to learn from them. Well, you've got to keep going. Hold up your head." It hurt so much to say the words that normally came from Gordon's own mouth. "If the world hits you, give it the finger and keep going." The words caught in his throat. "If you fall down, if you can't walk anymore, then take someone's hand and pull yourself up. Don't listen to what anyone else tells you. If they say it's impossible, it's not. Anything is possible."

Don't listen to them.

"Make one more sacrifice. Listen to me. I'm sorry. And I want to do this one more time. I want to do it right."

Virgil waited to hear his brother's voice, the lilting tone filled with laughter that always seemed to find something funny in the world. He waited to hear anything, really. It didn't even have to be a sound. It could have been a feeling, a movement, or some sort of psychic shout for help.

As it became apparent that there would be no answer, the truth of the matter slowly began to settle in. His mind suddenly lost in a fog, Virgil sat up from the bed and took his head in his hands. Either Gordon hadn't heard a word that he had said, or he hadn't cared.

Maybe that was it. Maybe he just didn't care. Maybe Virgil's own thoughts had been right - that he had never offered any direct support to Gordon, had never thought it necessary, and now the results of that choice were lying there before him on stark white bedding.

As quickly as the fog had come it vanished, as every part of Virgil that loved his brother refused to give up.

"Damn it!" The words exploded from his mouth, half a shout and half a sob, and Virgil clenched his jaw. "Gordon!" He was not leaving the room until something happened. "Gordon!"

He had almost abandoned his brother again. He couldn't let that happen.

"Gordon!"

As he brought his arm down hard onto the bed, his body shaking in frustration and grief, he did not notice at first the subtle shifting under the sheets. He didn't notice as the hand that he had held mere moments earlier slowly grasped his forearm in its fingers.

It was the voice that woke him, the hoarse and broken but unmistakably familiar voice that somewhat sardonically remarked, "Cripes, you could wake the dead with that racket."

Snapping around to stare at his brother, Virgil was startled to see Gordon quite awake. His eyes were open again, and from somewhere within the redness of the rims and the bloodshot veins there lay there a tiny twinkle of life. It was nearly lost amongst the hollow pools, amidst the pain that was still so raw and fresh on his face . . . but it was there.

"You're getting my sheets wet."

A smile breaking onto his face amidst the tears, Virgil felt as though he was soaring in the heavens. The words were the sweetest sound that he'd ever heard, more beautiful than any piece of music he could ever hope to touch in his lifetime. "You never give up, do you?"

Shaking his head, Gordon squeezed his brother's arm again and said nothing. He tried several times to speak, twice opening his mouth, only to find his words stifled by the sobs that had begun to escape from between his lips.

There was, once again, no need to speak the words. Not because of the bond that the two shared as brothers, though Virgil knew as he looked at his brother that the connection had never disappeared. It was because the words had already been said and did not need to be repeated. Whether Gordon himself understood the situation, had come to grips with it, Virgil did not know; but he felt overjoyed to know that his pleas had not fallen on deaf ears and that his brother would not be leaving him.

The two simply stared at each other, Gordon's hand still on his brother's arm, Virgil's face still dripping with the tears that he had unintentionally shed. Somehow, during the silent exchange, one thing became very clear to the older boy. Gordon would never mention the situation to anyone; there was no question about it. No matter what happened, no matter what troubles and trials he went through in the coming months, it would remain a private issue.

Virgil had no intention of doing so either. As he sat at the bedside, looking deep into his brother's eyes, he knew that he would never be able to speak about it to Gordon again, let alone the rest of his brothers. It was a moment that would stay between the two of them alone - and if anyone asked why Gordon had finally woken up, what had caused him to finally return to consciousness, the answer would be because he had chosen to.

Love was strong, and it was that bond – that fear of loosing each other – that had likely kept Gordon from making the ultimate mistake.

"I was so worried, Gord," Virgil finally managed to spit out. "So worried . . ."

The fingers tightened their hold reassuringly on his arm. "If it makes you feel any better," he gasped softly, "I hurt too much to have any hope in hell of falling asleep. So if you don't mind, think you could give the nurse a buzz and see if she could hook me up with another container of morphine?"

The closer that Virgil studied his brother's face, the more he came to realise that the teen was indeed in a great deal of pain. The initial danger might be gone, Virgil knew, but the after shocks had already begun to settle in. Mumbling, "Sure," in a somewhat absent manner, Virgil made no move to stand up and continued to sit and stare at his brother. It was so wonderful to see him awake, and he didn't want to leave for fear of coming back to see his brother asleep again. "Promise you'll stay awake?"

"Of course." Gordon replied, then cringed as the action put stress on his lungs. He winced several times, the reflection of injury on his face increasing, until the sensation passed. "This really hurts." The pained expression on his face deepened as a thought flashed across his eyes. "Where's Dad?"

"Dealing with stuff." That was true, as far as Virgil knew. "Same with Scott and Alan."

The teen tilted his head ever so slightly. "Man," he finally decided hoarsely, "I made a mess of things."

Shaking his head, Virgil argued, "No you didn't. We all did. Now let's forget about that and focus on what's happening now."

As much as Virgil hated to prey on his brother's weaknesses, he had anticipated and hoped for the reaction that his words received. As Gordon's brother, he couldn't bring himself to be angry at the teen. But there was restitution to be had, and there was no escaping the consequences of the actions that Gordon had taken. Even if what he had done was, from an open-minded viewpoint, understandable, it did not excuse it.

"Well I'm gonna fix it," the other boy snapped quietly. A look of slowly returning fire burned in his eyes. "I screwed up, so I'm gonna make it better . . ."

His words trailed off as the reality of the situation slowly sank in. Just as quickly as the fire had appeared, it disappeared in a cloud of smoke, leaving behind the scarred and lost visage of someone who was truly lost. "No. No." Biting his lip to stifle back another sob, he let go of Virgil's arm and let his hand fall softly to the bed. "That's what got me in trouble," he finally continued thickly, the words full of regret. "I-" He shook his head, a wave of emotions pooling in his eyes with the returning tears. "I killed three people." The words barely left his mouth before his upper body jumped with the force of a quickly drawn breath. "I couldn't leave it alone. I thought . . ." A quiet gasp escaped his lips. Sobbing, he continued, "I thought I was right. I didn't want to fight him. I thought it would be better that way, Virg. I didn't mean for this to happen."

Virgil couldn't argue with the words. He truly had no more advice left to offer on the issue. It was something that Gordon was going to have to work out on his own. But it was obvious that it would not be easy. He could see it in the way that his brother moved, in the way that he cried with his eyes open, staring up towards the ceiling with the look of a child who was lost.

All through his life Gordon had been able to survive by trusting his own wits. When he hadn't been able to laugh, he had yelled, and when he hadn't yelled, he had fought. What could he do now, though, when there was no way to chuckle off his worries?

What could he do, when the spirit that had always kept him going was responsible for the entire mess?

"Gordon . . ." Unable to form any meaningful words, Virgil let the matter slide. He wanted to say something, anything, that would make things better . . . but words wouldn't do it. Not now, at least, when the pain was so fresh. Perhaps later, when Gordon needed to talk about it, he could be there for him. But it was not the time for that.

Not yet.

"What time is it?" The question slid off the other boy's tongue absently.

"One o'clock in the afternoon. Why?" The answer hit Virgil before Gordon ever answered, and he drew back in anger at himself for not realising what his brother was talking about. One o'clock was the time when Gordon was supposed to race.

For all Virgil could tell, Gordon looked as though he had been knocked down for the final time. Slowly, gradually, the sobs reduced to occasional gasps, and the tears lessened. Realisation was beginning to settle in. It was plain on his brother's face. The pained expression did not lessen, but the violent denial with which he had at first responded was giving way to an exhausted look of surrender.

The doctors had robbed the boy of the ginger hair that was his trademark. But he had no one to blame for the loss of the fire within him but himself. There was no antidote for that. No cure in existence could bring back the dead.

"I was really stupid. I was so stupid."

The look that passed across his brother's face was hauntingly familiar; it was a look that Virgil had seen before, on the faces of those whom he rescued on a near daily basis. There was something unique about the eyes of a young man, still a child, really, who had seen something that was past his understanding. Traumatic events seemed to be able to transform an innocent and naïve face into the hardened and enlightened one of an adult.

And now he saw that exact same thing on his own brother's face. For all of the horror that the accident had caused, it had brought about one possibly good turn, one chance at growth, that nothing in the entire world had ever been able to cause in the young man before. It was the thing that, had he possessed it mere hours earlier, might have allowed him to avoid the entire incident.

"So stupid . . ." Gordon repeated softly.

But it's too late now, Virgil remarked silently. What will it do to you now?

What, indeed.

"I'm going to go get the nurse," the older boy finally offered quietly. Standing up from his seat, he pulled his arm away from the bed where it had rested in close comfort next to Gordon's. "I'll be back as soon as I can, okay?"

"Okay."

It was time for the healing to start, Virgil thought as he closed the door to the room carefully behind him. What Gordon had tried to do on his own, what he had tried to escape from by running away from the memories, still had to happen. It was already happening. For Gordon had found the strength to realise that he couldn't run from his problems, and that he would have to face, with whatever soul he had left, the memories of the dead. The part of his brother that was good and pure understood its sin, and had come back to atone for it, no matter the pain that it would bring.

"Maybe I can't give you the answers," he whispered absently as he made his way down the corridor. "But at least I tried."

That, perhaps, was the most important thing of all. This time they would be there for Gordon. For if the teen could show the courage to survive through the trials that were likely ahead of him, to admit to his wrongs and persevere for the sake of his family, then that family would stand beside him.

For when, Virgil wondered sadly, things became difficult, when his family tried to go it alone and caused disaster, they found it in themselves to come together and overcome any mountain that lay ahead of them. They had all had trials over the years, had had hard times and trying times that had taken them to the very limits of their endurance.

But if Gordon were truly a Tracy, then, a tiny part of Virgil's mind screamed in hope, he would do what every other member of his family had always done.

Through the horror and the loss, through the anger and the confusion, he would find a way to pull through.

The funerals took place three days later, two in Iowa, one in Oregon. The service for Simon Towers was especially emotional, as the family of the deceased laid their young man to rest, his silver medal placed gently onto his chest. The Competition Committee had ruled that, pending a further hearing, the accident had been just that – an accident, though perhaps one born of a lack of character and judgement – and that there would be no stripping of medals from the two involved who bore them.

There was no need to strip medals. To see the pain on the faces of their loved ones was more than enough punishment, and one far harsher than could be gained through the taking of hunks of metal.

One went to his grave a champion, having known no different in life.

A young man watched as his competitor was put to rest, listening as the eulogy was delivered, and seeing, from a hospital bed, how foolish the two champions had both been.

"Simon was a loyal and devoted son to us. He was always there for his family, and he wanted so badly to become something more than the rest of us had ever been. He didn't let his rural upbringings stop him from pursuing his dream. He didn't let forty-hour workweeks mixed with swimming practice stop him from being the best. To the rest of the nation, he was for a brief moment one of their champions. For us, his family, he was that small town boy from Iowa who made his dream come true. And we are thankful that he knew nothing else, for he went to Heaven, God keep him, as a winner."

And the young man wept, as he saw a reflection of himself in the dead.

The second went to her grave as a lover, having known no different in life.

The young man continued to watch as the girl was laid to rest in her grave, her face cold, her eyes never opening again to look at the one whom she had accidentally died for.

"Melissa was the greatest daughter that a man could ask for. If she ever came across as cold, it was only because she saved the warmth of her spirit for her family. She loved life, and loved her family. Our baby girl was not afraid to stand up for what she believed in. She never stood down from a challenge. And we know that, in Heaven, she will be one of God's most trusted angels, and that she will carry His will to the people in the same way that she carried herself in life: without question, and with much love."

And the young man wept again, when he saw what he had unintentionally done to a family and a girl that should never have been involved.

The third was buried on the coast, near the water that he cherished so much, without a medal to wear upon his chest, having known no different in life.

The young man, his closest friend, watched from a hospital bed, unable to hold back the tears as his friend was put to rest when he could not be there.

"Jason loved life. He loved to party, he loved to spend time with his friends – and he loved to live. He didn't care if he never won a single prize in his life. It was the journey that mattered to Jason, and he was determined to make that journey the best it could be for himself and others. In leaving us now, I can only pray that he is leaving us for an eternal adventure greater than anything he could have on this Earth. You're in God's hands now, son. Maybe you can bring a little spark of excitement to Heaven's Gates."

And the young man found himself devoid of tears, for they were useless and did nothing to ease the pain.

In three consecutive days of mourning, the young man found himself turning inward. He looked to his own heart, and – with the pain and guilt that he had bore since the accident – wrote the eulogy that would go unspoken at a funeral that would not take place.

Gordon was a boy who refused to be put down by the world. Even in the worst times, he always had a smile on his face. When the rest of us were sad, he would joke around and make us happy. And when things were left unsaid, he said them, for no one else had the spirit to break the silence. He was kicked an awful lot by the world, but he refused to fall. Even when his mother died he refused to give up. He found in himself a strength that no other individual could give him.

But then he took for granted what he had. He still kept fighting, of course. He fought for his family, whom he loved so dearly that he was afraid to loose them. More than that, though, he fought for himself, for the part of him that knew nothing else. He fought when he needed to be silent. He fought battles that should have been left alone.

Gordon carved a name for himself in the world. He never quit.

And he never knew when to give up.

He climbed into a boat to protect his family's name. In doing that, he showed exactly why his family had come to be thought of as arrogant. God rest you, Son. You made a mistake because you knew nothing better. But now you have no reason to fight. The world isn't out to get you anymore, Gordon. You can rest in peace now.

And the young man refused to let the eulogy become a reality, for the imagined pain in his father's voice as he read the words was more than he could bear. For the sake of that voice, for the sake of his family, he had to continue. It was his restitution. He already knew that – he had known it since his brother, the brother whom he loved with all of his soul, had smacked him about the head with his words and made that fact clear to him.

He had to try and rekindle in himself the spark of determination that had been put out by the waters of the sea.

He had to, if in Jason Hurk's memory alone, someday find within him a laugh that wanted to escape his lips.

But there was not just his family to look to. The world had been robbed of the three special people, who had given a facet of themselves to those around them. And if they weren't there to spread their gift, then perhaps he would have to. He had done that once, a lifetime ago when boats weren't burning in the Atlantic Ocean. He had possessed what they had once possessed and had squandered that with the selfish pride of a boy who had been too naïve to see his error.

And perhaps, a lifetime in the future, he would be able to find those feelings again. For those three individuals, the new dead, had given him their gifts and their burdens to replace what he had lost. And perhaps, if he could use them to instil within himself the life that he had had before, and if he could learn from what he saw in the past so that he would not err again in the future . . .

Perhaps . . . just perhaps . . . their deaths would not be in vain.

TBC in Part IV, "Recovery"