Chapter 54

Ecclesiastes 4: 9-10

Two are better than one; because they have a good reward for their labour.

For if they fall, the one will lift up his fellow: but woe to him that is alone when he falleth; for he hath not another to help him up.

- The Bible

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Wide-eyed, Twig stared at the girl, trembling in a way that had nothing to do with the cold and the rain. No one, not even he, had been able to get in that cage to sit with his friend. How could she? And who was she? She was small, ragged, and so pale, and shouldn't, couldn't be there! It made his hair stand up in a way he couldn't explain or understand.

But she was helping Harper, so he stayed quiet and watched. Crouched next to the open grate of their barrack, he stared out into the night through the pouring sheets of rain, almost afraid. All the other slaves were asleep, but the whole night he had sat there in silent vigil, watching over his friend, and praying with every fiber of his heart that he would make it, that Harper would stay alive.

And then the rain had started, and Twig's heart broke. He didn't need Peter or Dakin to tell him that was bad; he didn't need to be told that was as good as a death sentence for Harper. Helpless tears coursed down his cheeks, matching the rain falling just beyond the iron bars, as he watched Harper slowly sink onto the muddy ground and stop moving.

Then she came from…somewhere. But…how? How did she get in, and where did she come from? And why did looking at her make him feel so…odd? Like he was seeing something he wasn't supposed to?

Twig shuddered and pulled his knees tighter to his chest, hiding in the shadows. She might be helping, but she scared him, and more than ever, he wished Harper was there to hold him the best he could and tell him stories about Jack, not out there in the rain – dying – watched over by strange, pale, little girls.

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"Little slave… Little slave are you alive?"

The words slowly filtered into Harper's weary brain like sand creeping in with the tide, gradually filling it and asking for his attention. He wasn't dead, and he wasn't asleep, but he had been very, very far away somehow; so far away it took him several minutes to notice the boot toeing him less than gently in the side.

"The slave doctor tells me you have a pulse, so I know you're alive. Come on, wakie-wakie little slave…"

Not asleep, Harper thought thickly, but he didn't say it or make any attempt to move. He was so cold he was almost warm, the agony of his wounds a distant echo right now. He knew he hadn't slept during the night and it seemed he should be dead, given that he'd quickly lost the fight to keep moving, but for some strange reason it felt as though he'd spent the night talking to someone.

"Slave!" the voice said more forcefully, right next to his head. Reluctantly, Harper dragged his eyes open, that small movement taking every bit of his concentration. For several moments he was preoccupied, wondering why it was so dark.

"I expected you to be dead," the speaker continued. Adoniram – Harper's brain supplied the name once it finished solving the mystery of the darkness. "But, I suppose today is your lucky day."

Hands came out of nowhere to grasp the chains on Harper's wrists and around his neck. They hauled him to a sitting position, and suddenly he really, really didn't feel lucky. His whole body woke up and screamed at him in a blaze of agonizing pain, but the only thing that made it past his lips was a limp moan.

"I received word this morning that Commander Gaius Felix himself is coming to inspect the camp next month, and he has specifically requested to see how you, his favorite little slave, are doing. I imagine he has something special planned for the reunion. So, until that day, you get to live."

The last word was said with a sneer, making it clear he hardly considered Harper worthy of such a great gift.

"My lord," Harper heard a timid voice say through the haze of agony. "If you want him to survive, he'll need at the very least some medical attention and a few days rest. Please, let me take him to the hospital barrack."

"No. You may give him minimal treatment; I do want him alive, but he stays in his barrack. I want the others to see him; see what happens when you disobey, and see my mercy towards him anyway."

"Someone will need to stay with him then, my lord."

Harper had started shivering uncontrollably, his body finally trying to fight back, but he was still only vaguely aware that his life and fate were being decided around him. The chain attached to his collar was tugging him back to the ground, choking him, but he didn't have the strength or energy to move.

"I… I…can stay with him, Master. Please?"

Nothing, however, could have prevented Harper from recognizing Twig's shaky voice, and his heart caught at the thought of the courage it took that little boy to come forward and make that request. He fought to stop his chattering teeth and listen despite the great pain he was in.

"I'll give the Kludge three days, no more. Now, get him out of my sight." Adoniram nudged him disgustedly with his boot one last time then turned away. "And the rest of you worthless mules, get to the mines!" he bellowed across the camp.

Harper listened to the stomp of feet recede as he sat shaking and shivering in a puddle on the muddy ground and knew the Nietzschean captain and his squad of goons were gone. Then, surprisingly gentle hands were suddenly touching his neck and shoulders, steadying him.

"Sh, slave." He recognized Marcus's voice in his ear this time. "I'm not here to hurt you. I'm just going to release you from your leash." He was too week and in pain to resist, even if Marcus had been intent on hurting him. He closed his eyes and simply endured, and suddenly the pressure pulling on his collar was gone and the chain fell away.

"Come on, Mr. Harper," he heard Doctor Kesler say sadly, joining Marcus at his side. "Let's go put you back together yet again."

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Harper cracked open an eyelid, blinking blearily. The deep pain in his back and his hand had started to creep into his sleep a while ago and it finally became too great to ignore. Once his eyes were open, he remained completely still, feeling out his surroundings and situation. He was lying on his stomach on a blanket spread across his meager pile of straw, his arms resting gently on either side of his head, the chain connecting them arranged carefully to be out of the way as much as possible. His head was propped up slightly on something soft, and he might still be hurting a whole lot, but he also had the warm rather disconnected feeling that told him he was buried in blankets and souped up on drugs.

"Hello, young man."

Harper didn't bother turning his head but he did focus his hearing on the gentle voice of Dr. Kesler coming from right next to him.

"What time?" he managed to whisper.

"It's dark. The others will be coming from the mines soon," the slave doctor told him. "And when they do, I have to leave."

"Why?"

"I have other patients who need my help, and I'm subject to curfew as well. I would stay if I could, but Adoniram has decreed that, despite the fact that you are by far my most injured patient, I have to go," the man said bitterly. "I'll check on you when I can, though."

Harper accepted the explanation, knowing the doctor had no more control of his life and actions than he did himself. "Twig?" the tired engineer asked next. In response Harper felt a small hand gently grip his good one, squeezing tightly.

"Adoniram reluctantly allowed him to stay. He's been assisting me, and I've taught him how to administer the few drugs I've been given permission to use. He'll be allowed to remain at your side for the duration of your recovery."

Harper spared a thought at the absurdity that he was in a place where medical care was entrusted to an eleven year old, but then he remembered he was lucky to be getting any at all.

"Pain meds?"

Doc Barty sighed. "Not so much."

It was the answer Harper had expected. "S'okay," he whispered, closing his eyes. There really was no point in keeping them open. "Better to not have them at all than to have them taken away."

"I slipped in a few. Won't do much, but they might dent the pain enough for you to sleep these first few days. And I'm allowed to give you fluids and sugars, which your starved body is in great need of, as well as a few large doses of antibiotics. Hopefully we can keep your wounds from becoming infected, at least for now. Letting you regain a little strength before your body has to fight additional battles is crucial."

Harper listened to the doctor's words dully. Infection now or later, it didn't really make a lot of difference in the long run, no matter how the doc tried to give him a bright side. Especially knowing they were only allowing the man to fix him up in anticipation of a visit from Felix. That did little to inspire thoughts of a long, healthy life. What mattered to him at the moment was the fact that he was dry and somehow not freezing anymore. "Warm now…" he whispered.

"Yes, I finally managed to dry you off and bring your body temperature up, which wasn't easy. You can thank Marcus for the mountain of blankets you're currently residing under. Enjoy them while they last as I'm sure they won't be here forever." Harper noted the doctor's voice was sad again. He sounded sad a lot. "I cleaned your back, but there really isn't anything else I can do for it. You're going to have horrible scars."

"Already did, so it doesn't matter," Harper said without emotion.

"I have it covered loosely in bandages to protect it from infection and keep these dirty blankets from touching it, but who knows how long we'll be allowed to keep it that way," Doc Barty continued, having a much harder time keeping the emotion out of his voice. "Adoniram tends to enjoy showing off his handiwork."

"Yeah," Harper murmured tiredly. "I noticed."

"You have an IV running from your right hand to a bag hanging from the barrack wall. Don't move around or you'll pull it out or knock the bag down. I hope you don't mind, but I also took the opportunity to examine your crushed hand while you were out. I'm sorry, Mr. Harper, but it's beyond anything I can do now. It's badly damaged, but healed incorrectly too much for me to try and splint it. I wrapped it tightly; maybe that will give you a little relief from the pain."

"Thanks, Doc," Harper said quietly. He still wasn't entirely sure he wanted all this help, knowing it would be much easier to just give up and let death come, but then he remembered Twig's fervent pleas and knew he couldn't do that. No matter what was to come in the future, he owed it to the little boy to hang on and fight for as long as he was able. "How long do I get?" he asked the doctor. "On sick leave, I mean."

"Three days," Bartholomew sighed. "Not nearly enough, but better than nothing I guess." The shrill whistle that signaled the end of the slaves' workday sounded at that moment, cutting off whatever else he might have added. "I've got to go now, but Twig has promised to look after you, and the others will be in for the night as well."

"'K."

"Take care, Mr. Harper," the old man said fervently, and then he was gone.

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When the stone-faced, unsympathetic guard led him up the dungeon stairs and into the main portion of the building, Dylan nearly screamed as the light from all the lamps hit his tender eyes. He threw his bound arms up as tears coursed down his cheeks, but the guard just bellowed at him to keep moving. He stumbled blindly after the Nietzschean and when they finally exited out into the dark of night it was a blessed relief. Wiping his eyes on the backs of his filthy, ragged sleeves, Dylan hurried to keep up. The long exile in his tiny cell had left him cramped and stiff and starved, unable to move without hobbling and wavering like a broken, old man.

Strange how it had also left him feeling like he was just that; broken and old, very old.

The compound was empty of slaves; the deep silence telling Dylan that curfew had come and gone hours ago. Crossing it sent chills up his spine, like walking through a graveyard. It was almost a relief when his sullen guard stopped in front of Barrack 6B and unlocked the grate, pulling it aside enough for him to enter. He passed the guard without comment and limped gratefully into what now passed as his home.

"Dylan!"

Two spindly little arms were squeezing the air out of his lungs before he really had time to blink. Twig's face was buried in his shirt and he was whispering things the captain couldn't even make out. All he could hear was the almost hysterical quality of the child's voice.

"Hey, kiddo," he soothed, gently rubbing his back. "It's all right. They didn't hurt me and I'm back now."

"Wish that were true for both of ya."

Dylan turned around at Peter's quiet voice. He found the man propped wearily against the wall of the barrack in the corner by his and Harper's pile of straw. Peter looked as if he'd been sitting watch for something but dozed off lightly before Dylan entered and woke him up.

"Welcome back, mate," Peter said with a shallow smile. "I'm afraid we ain't done so well while you were gone." He looked sadly toward their pile of straw and Dylan followed his gaze.

There, pale as milk and unmoving, buried under a mound of dirty, tattered blankets so that only his head, hands, and bare, lacerated shoulders showed, was Harper.

His breath caught in his throat and he gently disentangled himself from Twig enough that he could move to the engineer's side.

"What happened?" he asked numbly.

"Thought we'd lost 'im," Peter answered wearily. "Just sorta gave up one day, refused ta go on. Adoniram 'ad 'im whipped. Worst whipping I've ever seen, an' then staked 'im out all day and night in the rain and cold. The only reason 'e's alive now is that the monster changed 'is mind and ordered 'im fixed up again."

"I told him he couldn't die," Twig whispered, sitting next to the young man and taking his hand. He started to say something, then paused as if changing his mind. "I got mad at him and said he had to fight," he finished instead.

A gamma of emotions ranging from overwhelming guilt for not being there to blinding rage assaulted Dylan all at once, leaving him unsure of whether he should break down and cry, or scream and throw things at the walls. Finally, he decided neither would help him or Harper and remained silent, staring at his young friend with dangerously moist eyes.

Hesitantly, he reached out and pulled the blankets down, exposing a very large, lose collection of bandages covering the boy's entire back and shoulders, already stained brown with dried blood. Not wanting to see again, Twig looked away, tears rolling down his cheeks, but Dylan knew he had to know. Ever so gently, he eased the bandages up and peeled them back, then fought the urge to gag. Compassion and sorrow stronger than almost anything he'd ever felt for his friend surged through him.

"Oh, Harper…" he breathed, replacing the bandages and hanging his head. And to think while Harper was enduring that he'd been complaining about a little cramped solitary confinement. With trembling hands he tucked the blankets back around his friend.

"We've been taking turns sitting with 'im," Peter spoke up solemnly, motioning to where Dakin was sleeping a few feet away from Harper. "'E's getting better, sleeping a lot, and Twig's been making sure 'e gets the few meds the doc is allowed to give 'im. In fact, the kid ain't left 'is side all day."

Dylan looked gratefully at the little boy who had come to mean so much to him, a child who had never really had the chance to be a little boy. He knew Twig adored and loved Harper like a father and that Harper had come to see the little boy as his own, and Dylan didn't want to get in the way of that. Still, he was very grateful Twig let him share in that, looked to him for love and friendship as well. And he was immensely thankful the boy had been there for Harper when he couldn't be. He opened his mouth to thank him but with his eyes finally adjusted to the light of the barrack, he noticed something about his small friend that made his already broken heart sink a little more.

"What happened?" he asked instead, reaching out and gently tilting Twig's face to the side so the minimal light exposed the two massive bruises on the child's face, one across his cheek and the other surrounding his left eye. He also noticed for the first time that there was a cut high on the boy's forehead.

Twig ducked his head, but Peter jumped in to answer for him, anger flashing across his own face as he did. "Got that at dinner time," he growled darkly. "Raced out when the whistle blew with both 'is dishes and Seamus's, 'oping to be first in line and get food for both of 'em. Guards didn't really see it that way. Took Marcus stepping in and virtually decreeing that Seamus was allowed to eat before the guards would let 'im go."

It was minor compared to Harper's situation, but it was still one more failure to add to his list, one more slap in the face telling him he couldn't keep his people safe anymore. Somehow, it hurt just as bad. Sighing deeply, he just pulled the little boy into a small hug. "I'm sorry," he whispered. Twig leaned into him, soaking up the gesture of love. They sat that way for a long time, drawing comfort from the presence of the other.

The feel of his friend's arms around him was pure comfort to Twig, despite the awkwardness of the always present chains. He leaned into the embrace, letting all the grief and worry and stress of the last week drain out of him for a moment. Dylan was back and he could be the grown-up now so that Twig didn't have to. He could stop worrying so much. He considered telling his friend about the strange little girl he'd seen last night helping Harper, but now it was over, it felt silly to worry about something like that. Besides, maybe he'd just dreamed it all up. It didn't matter anyway. Now that Dylan was back, everything would be all right, Harper would be okay. For right now he was just going to let the captain hold him.

"Why don't you get some sleep?" Dylan said over Twig's head to Peter after a while. "A week or so in a five by five cell didn't give me much to do other than sleep. I'm fine to watch them for the rest of the night."

Peter nodded, wishing he could help more but knowing his exhausted, over-worked body needed the rest. He moved next to Dakin and was almost instantly asleep. Dylan wanted to suggest Twig get some rest as well, knowing the child was exhausted, but the boy was still clinging rather desperately to him and he doubted the advice would be heard, let alone obeyed just yet. He thought of the beating the child had endured just hours ago and held him tighter, his guilt spiking again. Then a groan from Harper brought Dylan's attention back to his stricken friend, and he shoved his feelings of inadequacy aside to deal with later.

"Twig?" the young man asked thickly, sounding lost, vulnerable, and very, very small as his blind eyes blinked open slightly. "Anyone there?"

"Twig's right here, Mr. Harper. And so am I," Dylan answered for them both, his throat catching.

There was stunned silence for a moment and then in an almost desperate voice, "Dylan?"

The captain gulped deeply. "Yeah, Harper. Right here, in the flesh," he assured him, reaching out with chained hands to gently touch the young man's arm. He heard what almost sounded like a sob.

"I thought you weren't coming back. Thought they'd killed you."

"Nah," the captain answered, trying to keep the tears that were leaking out of his eyes from being heard in his voice. "Takes more than a few Ubers to get the best of Dylan Hunt," he joked, sensing the boy needed it.

There was silence for a while then Harper spoke again. "Simon died." The grief was palpable in his voice as he said it, countering Dylan's assurances and asking how he could be sure the captain wouldn't die on him as well.

The news struck Dylan hard and he dropped his eyes. He'd liked and respected the Wayist and would miss him deeply. But more than that, he was again overcome with guilt that he hadn't been there, that Harper, and Twig, had been forced to go through that alone.

"I'm sorry," he said with true grief. "But I didn't, Harper. I'm right here, and I'm not going anywhere again."

A little whimper escaped Harper's lips and he closed his eyes, tears still squeezing out from beneath them. "I…I… It hurts, Dylan," he whispered brokenly after a moment. "I don't think I can do this again…"

"Well, that's why you have me and Twig here, and Peter and Dakin. You might think you can't, but I know you can. I've seen you do it before, and I'm gonna sit right here and help you do it again."

"And I can help you, too, Harper!" Twig spoke up, his voice pleading again. "The Doctor showed me how."

"See. With your own personal cheering section and Doctor Twig, you'll be better in no time."

Harper gave a tiny, world-weary smile that didn't really reach any of the rest of his face. At a loss for what else to say, Dylan was struck with sudden inspiration. He reached to his neck and pulled something out from under his shirt, slipping it off over his head.

"Here, Harper," he said softly, opening the boy's good hand and slipping the object gently inside it. "I want you to hold this. I was once told by a very reliable source that this is a powerful good luck charm, not to mention a very important reminder of love and hope."

Harper's breath hitched and he carefully squeezed his hand tightly shut around his rabbit's foot, his face crumbling as emotions raced across it.

"You can do this, Harper," Dylan spoke fervently, fully aware of the magnitude of what he was asking. "You have to."

"'K," the engineer whispered softly. "I'll try. For you and Twig."

Dylan could tell he was too weak and tired for much more conversation, sleep already pulling at him, but he fought it for a moment more. "Not leaving? Be around when I wake up?" the young man begged, vulnerability heavy in his voice. It tore Dylan's heart.

"I'm not going anywhere, Mr. Harper," he assured his engineer, knowing the boy wasn't talking about leaving for the normal day-to-day grind of the mines. "I won't let them take me away again."

Harper nodded, finally letting his face relax and quickly drifted off, still clutching the rabbit's foot in his sleep like a drowning man clinging to a life-preserver. Eventually, Twig's little head found its way to the captain's lap and the boy followed Harper off to sleep, but Dylan stayed awake, sitting silent and worried vigil over his friends.