[Stroke of Luck - Garbage]
~~~~

It was stranger than anything Wolfwood could remember - his body seemed lighter than air as he moved, and even the perpetual weight of his cross punisher was easy to bear, soft and motionless on his shoulders.  Beneath him the earth seemed to roll away like a spool of thread bouncing across the floor, leaving nothing but a long trail of thin color - the path before him -  and then a jumbled smear at the end of his vision - the horizon, though it was foggy and faint blue-green, too difficult to make out.   Wolfwood was walking, walking, had been walking for a thousand days and nights, looking for something that he couldn't remember that was hidden in the depths of the golden fields and winding amber-lined path.  Something *very* important.

And he wasn't alone, not by a long shot.

The whole time *she* had been there, pacing beside him with easy, small steps fitting her height, her loose clothes behind her in the nonexistant wind, brushing and tickling her ears and neck as they moved together.  She was smaller than the priest, scarcely making his shoulder height, though she seemed to emit an aura of power, of control and knowledge that only came with the very old, very gifted, or very cursed.   Every so often the woman had asked him something or commented softly in an almost musical tone of voice, but Wolfwood tended to ignore those little remarks as they did not often catch and hold his attention, concentrating his mind instead on his search rather than soft pieces of wisdom.  They filtered past his ears and caught away on the wind as surely as if they had been physical touches, brushing past Wolfwood's cloth-wrapped cross and coming to rest amongst the rustling grass.

She reminded him a little of Vash, in some ways, little naunces and moments that he instantly compared to his blonde haired friend almost subconciously.   The girl never seemed to pause in her absolute aura of cheerfulness, never seemed to get enough of the rolling landscape, fields of shimmering gold that surrounded them.  Not  only that, but her eyes were full of expression, full of emotions that Wolfwood hesitated to identify, simply because they seemed to unbearably pure for any labels whatsoever.   Eyes like a child's.  Eyes like *his*.

Tall, waving grass licked at Wolfwood's kneecaps as he waded onwards, his expression somewhat disdainful of the greenery - it simply got in the way.  Frivolous.   Muttering a curse he reached into his jacket pocket and grimaced, surprised to find no cigarette there.

"Hey, pretty lady," he asked the girl at his side, "Got a cigarette?"

The woman blinked back at him with soulful brown eyes, eyes that enveloped him slowly and drew him closer without even realizing he was moving.  They were warm and friendly, very unlike Vash's in that respect - his eyes exuded a feeling of jaded strength mingled with innocence treasured beyond all else.  His eyes were cool and liquid, hers were brown and chestnut colored, homely eyes that made one want to talk to her, to confess one's secrets to someone who would listen and understand.  For a moment they stood eye to eye as these thoughts raced through Wolfwood's mind quicker than he could comprehend, then the female broke away, a small smile on her face as if she had heard his response to her probing look and was well pleased by it.  "I'm sorry sir, I don't smoke."

"Yer probably too young anyway," Wolfwood sighed in regret and slicked his sweaty hair back from his forehead.  That was a lie and he knew it, but somehow around this girl he felt the need to justify his actions - more than the simple ones, like searching for a smoke.  She was a lot like the voice that plucked at his heartstrings when another murder was commited by his errant hands, a sort of subconcious peanut gallery.  It both annoyed and gratified Wolfwood that he was still human enough to feel emotions such as guilt or shame, and she seemed to bring that frustrated paradox out even more until it was gaping and obvious, a wound in his mental armor and shield of pride.  "Ah, well."

"Sir, what are you looking for?" the young woman asked at last, smoothing down the folds of her long white shirt.  Wolfwood wasn't surprised by this question at all - in fact, he got the feeling that she had been dancing around it for quite some time, though he could not recall the questions she had been asking before.  Only that she had been there, and had been asking things he would rather not answer, or even didn't understand himself...  "You've been pushing on for hours and hours through these fields as if you knew where you are going."

"Don't ask me," Wolfwood shrugged and smirked for a moment, taking comfort in the old, familier way he greeted the questions.  The silky golden waves all around them parted and shimmered, tickling his skin through the cloth of his midnight hued suit, like a thousand feathers on the back of a rare avian.  The girl tilted her head artistically and watched him, studying his expression with startling gentleness for someone who was being almost-mocked by the response he had issued.  Clearing his throat, the priest continued, somewhat lamely as his reasoning faltered under her gaze.  "It just seems like the right direction, that's all."

"Why are you walking so quickly if you're lost?"

He paused in midstep and glanced at her again from beneath scraggily bangs, mildly surprised at the continued thought.  This was the first time she had pursued a line of questioning since they had started on their way together - or at least, he thought it was.  He couldn't quite remember the little details like that, only the important things, like that they were walking, and that she had warm mahogony eyes.  "Well," he reasoned thoughtfully as he continued moving, "the faster I walk, the sooner I'll be found."

"You may be walking for a very long time," the girl sounded strangely sad, and Wolfwood turned his head, wondering if he should comfort her.  No, he decided, she was following him.  He didn't have to offer her anything.  "But if you know you're lost, why don't you know what you're looking for?"

"Not sure," Wolfwood shrugged slightly, his suit crinkling crisply over muscular shoulders.   "I just think I should keep moving."

"Tell me what you see," the woman breathed, excitement in her voice.  Anticipation, and Wolfwood was surrounding with the warm notion that his response meant the world to her.  As if she had been waiting *ever* so long just to hear him speak -

"I see...... gold," he said thoughtfully.  "Lots of gold.  Spun out softly, soft and smooth."

"What else?"

"The sky is pale like the skin of a peach, just after sunset - or maybe before?  Yes, the sky is the color of the dying sun, with soft pink at the edges."  The woman took him by the hand and Wolfwood squeezed it contentedly.  "Yanno, the color of a rose's underbelly... that sort of shade.  The horizon is smudgy gray-aqua, fuzzy to see but promises more than one can imagine."

"What does it remind you of?"

"Angels," Wolfwood responded immediately, and then thought about his answer, surprised.  "Well...yeah.  Angels."

"Why?"

"Because of him, I think," Wolfwood trailed away and bit his lip, concerned that he had let too much slip.  "I mean-"

"Do you think he's an angel?  How well do you know him?    Do you understand what's made him who he is, what's sculpted the man you seem to love?"

She already knew how he felt - Wolfwood wasn't surprised, in fact, he was strangely relaxed as she led him away from the thin path they had been following, through the virgin fields without hesitation.  "I know he has a past.  But I think that really, the past doesn't matter too much.  Only the present, only this moment, and maybe the next or the next, if you want to stay alive.  There's nothing you can do about the past, and trying to right something that's already happened is silly."

"He doesn't believe that, you know."

"I know.  Where are you taking me?"  Wolfwood asked softly, squeezing her hand in the peach-light.

"I'll show you to him."

~~~~
It's falling down and all around me, falling
You say that you'll be there to catch me
Or will you only try to trap me
These are the rules I make
Our chains were meant to break
You'll never change me

Here comes the cold again
I feel it closing in
You're falling down and all around me, falling
~~~~

Wolfwood awoke with a start, the hair on the back of his neck standing up as the dream left him quickly, washing away like water beneath the hot sun.  The priest rubbed his eyes for a moment, disoriented by his shady surroundings, and blinked twice before remembering what had happened, where he was, and the general situation he was in.  In seconds the soft warmth the dream had left him with had syphoned away until he could barely remember what it had been about - something golden and warm, but nothing else.  The priest closed his eyes and struggled to recall the details of his night.

Sand worms, Vash -

Why had he bothered to wake up at all?

The priest paused a moment and let his breath hiss between his teeth as he rubbed the kinks out of the back of his neck.  He had searched for hours when he had landed on the floor of the canyon, without success.  **I must have fallen asleep,** he decided mournfully as he squinted in the darkness, trying to adress his injuries.  All of his energy - or rather, adrenaline - seemed to have slipped away with his dream, leaving the priest painfully aware of each and ever stitch in his body.

Left arm, battered and bleeding from the worm's attack, hands rubbed raw and in some place fleshless or blistered by the agonizing climb down the wall of the cliff, eyes swollen and skin caked in filth....  Wolfwood took stock of his injuries and didn't feel much better - whatever hadn't been rubbed away or sliced open protested any movement with vehement stabs of agony in his shoulders and neck.

He had never felt so alone in his life.

**Where is he?** the priest grunted softly and let his head fall back against the stone behind him.  He had been searching for so long...weaving through the bulky stones while desperately examining every corner, anything for a trace of life - what if he never found Vash?  What if he was dead?  What if the priest's next step brought him to the painful realization that while inhuman, Vash was still mortal, and could be snuffed out like any other soul...

Wouldn't that be ironic, if all Knives' careful ploys came to naught at the hands of a giant monstrous worm?   The priest shook his head dismally and wished he hadn't considered that possibility at all, for now that they had been reawakened the doubts in his mind began swirling up and around like a cloud of dust, endless and persistant.

The only thing more spooky than being attacked by sandworms while sleeping peacefully is searching through the abandonded base of a thick chasm in the dead of night, as Wolfwood discovered again once his body was willing reanimated itself.  As the priest clung tiredly to his cross punisher and began moving across the stone-strewn floor, his heart began to sink within his chest until it was barely beating, and them man had to hoarsely suck in each unwilling breath.  It was as if the very air was pressing down on him, the silence unbearable and unbroken save for the pounding and thundering of his heart within his chest, a grim reminder of mortality that resounded only in his mind.

It was like a graveyard there beneath the towering walls, stones broken and scattered like jagged white bone in the foggy dim moonlight, crunching underfoot and reducing visability to mere feet before Wolfwood's peaked nose.  The priest shifted uncomfortably and clenched his raw hands tightly, ignoring the sharp pain as his eyes chased away another shadow, followed it away and gave up as his gaze was swallowed again by the night, revealing nothing.

Somewhere among these stones he would find Vash, either alive and nursing a wound or two, or dead as anything.  And if he was gone, what could Wolfwood do?  Return to Legato and Knives for his punishment?  Like it or not he was not only leading Vash, he was protecting him from the gang the two had hired to scar the man further.  The job had been uninteresting until his heart had become involved, and now it was damned deadly, even without situations like this one being thrown into the mix.

"Vash?" Wolfwood called as loudly as he could, listening to his voice bounce back with mild surprise at the echoing tone.  It sounded strained, tired, full of fear and pain - or was that just his imagination?  Maybe he always sounded like this...

Nicholas D. Wolfwood stepped around another boulder and waited for an answer.  He had climbed straight down, so Vash should be around here somewhere - but where?  And how intact?  If the blonde had hit one of the stones on the ground his neck would surely be broken, but if he had landed between them, he wouldn't be much better off, perhaps trapped or worse.  What's more, Wolfwood wouldn't be able to see him until he was right on top of the gunman...

"He's probably fine," the priest muttered, trying to sound brave for his own sake.  If he let the little tremors that were threatening to emerge into his voice, he would have to hear them, and that would break his resolve.

Minutes crept past, dragging onwards in glum tempo, each one bringing Wolfwood a breath closer to absolute despair.  He combed through the stones that towered over his head, searching for anything in the darkness, any sign, scrap of cloth -

And he saw it, wedged between two stones, glittering in the darkness - the gun.  Wolfwood reached out with trembling fingers and tugged the chunk of metal free, letting the cool curves rest in the palm of his hand as he raised it from the ground.  **Vash's...**  he was close, then.  The gun wouldn't fall that far from it's owner!

With a grunt, Wolfwood heaved himself up against the stone nearest him, scrambling up the dark surface.  At the top he balanced slightly and squinted, peering through the ever present gloom.

There, poking out from behind the stone to his left was something suspicious, and Wolfwood immediately leapt down from his perch and stalked over to it, pacing nervously until he could recognize what it was.  Pale, strangely visible, palm-up in the night - a hand -

Wolfwood found himself moaning softly in denial, a single syllable bursting and pounding in his brain.  **No.  No.  Nononononono-**  "Vash?"  The priest moved through the gap between stones and bit his lip sharply to keep from crying out in dismay as the scene unfolded before him.

Vash lay on his stomach, completely still, his eyes closed and facing skyward while his body lay sprawled between the stones on either side, an exotic animal captured in a thin net.  His neck had been completely twisted until it was almost unrecognizable mass of flesh, his chin cradled in the soft red-spattered white of his cotton shirt.  One arm lay at an odd angle - the right one - and his legs seemed to be coated in thin, bloody scrapes.  There was a gash in his head just above the left eye, matted with bloody blonde and sticky dirt, leaking trails of crimson down the contours of his face.

The world stopped.

There were no tears.  There was no admition of love, or repressed admission, and at the same time there was no denial, no lying to himself.  Nicholas D. Wolfwood swallowed back the bile in his throat and shakily lowered himeself to his knees, reaching out to touch Vash's cheek gently.  When no response came, he felt his breath catch in the back of his throat, unwilling or perhaps unable to exhale, he slowly lowered his head and caught it in his wide palms, sitting for a moment.

Vash.

Death was something Wolfwood was strangely accustomed to, he had been more than just a casual aqquaintence of the condition over the years of his life.  It had long ago ceased to carry the desperate, undeniable pain that it had once held to the man and had instead been replaced with a sort of inevitable acceptance - because life was hell, and all things died, and to regret or deny was to carry a load to your grave, so why bother?  But this - man - before him, this beautiful, inhuman man, who's eyes held the world and who's breath brought the suns back into Wolfwood's life....for him to die...

Impossible.  He was timeless.  He was immortal.  He was Vash.

He was dead.

Wolfwod wasn't sure when he began rocking and seeking some trace of comfort in his own arms, or when his soft, choked noises began, dying on his lips and starting up again in an endless wave of sound.  He wasn't sure where his body ceased and the stone below appeared, so cold was his skin, so still was his heart, so dry were his tearless eyes.  How could the one beautiful thing he had discovered on this mudball be taken away so quickly?  Target or friend, object of lust or honest to God soulmate - whatever Vash had been was not important.  Who he had been - with his smiling eyes, upturned lips, infinite laughter bubbling forth - that was what mattered, wasn't it?  You were supposed to cherish the memories - but all Wolfwood could feel was utter frustration, utter mortality, utter lonliness-  That was what echoed and reverberated in Wolfwood's skull until is was so loud and undeniable that he screamed to rid his mind of it, and once he had screamed and screamed and screamed, he felt so ill that he had to turn to one side and throw up across the gray-black stones.

When he opened his stormy eyes again, Wolfwood's despairing gaze rested for a moment on Vash's upturned hand, then the gun in his own grasp, tracing and redefining the curvature of metal in his palm.  If he ran from this body and this life, Legato and Knives would catch up with him.  If he stayed, he would starve to death or die of simple heartbreak - that was, if the worms didn't get him first.  There was nothing to say, nothing to confess-

Nicholas D. Wolfwood placed the gun against his temple and took a deep, hitching breath.

"Hey....Nick..."

His eyes snapped open.

"Cut it out," Vash whispered, lips barely moving in the inky, dirty darkness, his voice almost unrecognizable with pain and blood and dirt, though it was undoubtedly his.  "I hate suicide...most of all."
 

~~~~
Stroke of luck or gift from God?
Hand of fate or devil's claws?
From below or saints above?
You come to me now
Don't ask me why
Don't even try

Stroke of luck or gift from God?
Hand of fate or devil's claws?
From below or saints above?
You came to me now
Here comes the cold again
I feel it closing in
It's falling down all around me, falling

Falling...falling...falling...falling...falling...falling...falling...falling...
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