Okay. I like cliffies. Sorry. Enjoy chapter 4.
Chapter 4: Ratigan
Slender fingers danced across the strings, drawing a soothing melody delicately forth. The shimmering harpstrings sparkled in the candlelight of the new underground lair, their elemental notes the only sounds to be heard, save for two patterns of breathing. One was calm and measured, matching its flow to the path of the hands over the instrument. The other was strained and gasping as its owner fought his way through fevered dreamings, sweating profusely as his body struggled desperately to heal the wounds done to it. Once in a while, a moan would escape, and the hands would pause in their dance, before renewing their efforts. The strange drama continued through the night, as the injured mouse continued his tormented struggles for wholeness, and his enemy played to sooth him from his nightmares, with claws that had so recently torn the life from the one who had threatened him. Ratigan's vigil never wavered, to the wonder and suspicion of his followers.
Basil swam back to the world of light and wakefullness, dragging his battered mind back to consciousness despite its frantic murmurings. He hurt. His whole body ached, save his left leg, which simply didn't seem to exist. He couldn't feel it at all, as if a void had been attached to him in its place. This was worrisome, but not so much as the nagging sense that he'd forgotten something very important. He breathed deep, striving for a meditative pause through which to regroup his scattered memories. He forced himself to calm, to breathe, to think. And, slowly, it came back to him.
He jerked upwards with a gasp as the memory of Ratigan's return, his kill, and his kidnapping of Basil returned. The sudden movement jostled his injured leg, and feeling returned to the limb with a vengance, knocking him back as the wave of agony hit. His breath hitched, stars of light burst in his eyes, and he crumpled backwards onto the bed with a cry.
"Awake at last, I see," Ratigan chuckled from the side. Basil was too caught in the struggle to breathe to reply. A moment later, hands clasped his shoulders, pulling him upright, and smoothed his back until his airways cleared and he was no longer in imminent danger of expiring from asphyxiation. He coughed weakly, feeling his lungs sing in protest. Blinking rapidly, he turned his head and looked flush into Ratigan's eyes, fear and confusion evident.
"You're ... You're ..." He couldn't finish the sentance, which was ridiculous. He sounded imbecilic, unable even to frame a coherent thought. But he was undone by this sudden resurrection of his old rival, undone by the realisation that he had actually missed the foul creature when he'd been gone, a sentiment he'd clouded with the examination of this new crime. Now that Ratigan was miraculously here again, the unheeded feeling struck vengefully home. He'd needed Ratigan, needed the other's wit and cunning, needed the intellectual and moral stimulation of pitting himself against this fierce adversary. He'd missed Ratigan.
"Alive? Good of you to notice, Basil old chum," the criminal sneered. "Back from the grave to which you so nearly sent me. What luck, eh? I survived, and thanks to me, now so have you. Welcome back to the land of the living, Basil. Welcome to my humble abode." He gestured expansively, and for the first time Basil took in his surroundings. He lay on a luxurious bed, in a richly appointed room, decorated with Ratigan's usual pretentious style. In one corner, a glittering stock of riches was stowed, showing how quickly the criminal had moved to recoup his losses. In another, a golden harp stood, silvery strings vibrating softly in a draught. The sight of the instrument awoke some fractured rememberings, of gentle music that eased his tormented dreams, but that was ridiculous. There was no way Ratigan would have been so considerate. It was simply a feverdream.
"Nice lodgings, old chum," he murmured. "Looks like your old lair, only smaller."
Ratigan shifted beside him, a leer on his face. "Of course, Basil. Why mess with a good thing? But what you see isn't always what you get. My new 'lair', as you charmingly put it, is quite a bit bigger than the old. What you're seeing is merely my private chamber. I've moved on to bigger and better things. Torn loose in the chaos left in my wake, the riches of a whole underworld practically fell into my hands, once that measley little nuisance, Crustworth, was taken care of. He was the only one with the audacity to cling to a claim on my city. He even dared to take you, my nemesis, for himself. I'm afraid I couldn't allow that. He really had to die."
Basil stared in consternation, digesting these new facts, and their implications. "I'm ... flattered. That you hold me in such esteem as to kill a mouse for daring to deny you the chance to kill me. May I ask what possessed you to keep me in your private chambers? Awfully generous of you, I'm sure."
Ratigan laughed. "Oh, awfully indeed. I haven't slept a wink since you arrived. As to why I keep you here ..." He sobered, glaring at Basil in such an intense, almost possessive, manner that chills shot through the detective. "You will not die from wounds he gave you. You are mine, mine to kill, and when I beat you it will be a fair match. I won't tolerate to win because you are weakened by that upstart's attack. So you will heal, here, where I can keep an eye on you, and when you are fit we will see which of us is greatest. Anything less is unworthy."
"Unworthy ..." Basil whispered. "Unworthy of what?"
"Unworthy of my time and effort," Ratigan clarified. "We have been years in this battle of ours, and every time one of us looks like winning, the fates throw a spanner in the works, and the battle continues. It would be an ill ending to such a fine conflict for you to allow yourself to be killed by some homocidal petty criminal. It lessens both of us. So you will heal, and we will continue this until its proper ending. Understood?" Basil nodded, not daring to object for the fierce light in the other's eyes.
A loud knock on the door shattered the stillness of the moment. Ratigan swung himself up and strode angrily to the door, jerking it open so that the lizard on the other side almost fell headfirst into the room. "Yes?" Ratigan purred maliciously. "This had better be good, Matthew." The lizard gulped and scrambled into some semblance of a salute.
"Sir! Um... The lads were just ... Well, we was wonderin' when we get to spit the detective, sir? Only it seems a bit ... weird ... that we're sorta ... helpin' 'im, y'see? When do we get to kill 'im? Sir ..." He tapered off, backing away as Ratigan growled low in his throat. "Sir?" The criminal overlord advanced slowly and threateningly. "Sir?" Matthew squeaked. Ratigan swept the unfortunate spokeslizard up by his collar, carrying him out beyond the door, and out of Basil's view. But not out of earshot.
"So," he purred. "You would question my judgement? My command?" A pause, in which Basil quessed several thugs were desperately shaking their heads. "Well, let me make things clear for you, my friends," Ratigan continued. There was a thud. He'd thrown Matthew. "You will be doing nothing to the detective. He is mine to deal with, however I see fit. You will not question me. You will not touch what's mine. Or you will have succeeded in upsetting me. And you know what happens when someone upsets me, don't you?" Silence. They'd be nodding frantically. "Good."
Ratigan strode back into the bedchamber, slamming the door behind him. Basil shrank back against the bed, suddenly afraid. Who knew what the unstable criminal would do in this temper? And Basil was injured already, and pretty much helpless with someone who bore him a serious grudge. Ratigan looked at him for a long moment, an unidentifiable expression on his face, then strode towards the bed. Basil swallowed. What now?
So? How'd that chappie go? R&R? Just so's I know how I'm doin'. Thanks, y'all!
