(alleluia)
"A few gray federales say
They could have had him any day
They only let him go so wrong
Out of kindness, I suppose..."
--Townes Van Zandt
He stands over his brother, holding the gun. It's over; or it will be soon enough. Just one more shot.
His mind needlessly reminds him of one of the old stories, one of the ones they read together, him over Knives's shoulder as they scrolled down the screen with their typically preternatural speed. A brother murdered a brother out of spite; that's pretty much all he remembers. Or at least, all he remembers right now.
He wonders what Knives made of that story. He knows what he did.
They used to sleep curled up on their sides, facing each other. Forehead to forehead, breath soft on each other's cheek. That was before the strangeness began; before their conversations stopped and he began to surprise looks on his brother's face that he did not understand, and that he could never begin to. That was before Knives first came to bed walking with a sort of a limp, and would not say what was wrong. Knives slept with his back turned that night, and, helpless, he had spooned around his brother's back and clung to him, trying not to listen to the roaring in his ears, the voice that said it was all sliding, sliding, squeezing like water between his fingers, drawing closer to the day when he would wake up and everything he had would be gone.
He has woken in the night, in the years since, imagining that he still feels that catpaw of breath on his skin; thinking, in the heartbeat's space before he opens his eyes, that when he does they will find a pair too like, and too unlike, his own. And he has not known whether to raise his gun, or his defenseless hand.
Knives's lips move. They are soundless; he has no breath to speak. The bullets in his body have stolen it. But he is heard, anyway.
His finger tightens on the trigger.
"I..." he hears himself reply.
I...
*
When he searches for the answer, it is just there; ready, and easy as breath.
"I want to live."
And saying it is freedom. Yes. That is what he wants; hasn't it always been?
There is no reason for it to be this way. Certainly, he had thought... but he must have been wrong, hadn't he? He's been wrong many times before. Wolfwood... Wolfwood would have been the first to point it out. It was just a mistake, that's all.
He feels light. Like he has never been so free. Not meant to be; not meant to be after all. Things can change. People can change. Rem...
His finger relaxes, and then his whole hand. He doesn't even notice when the gun falls. Bare seconds later, his coat follows. He doesn't need either of them anymore.
The twin suns seem gentler as he binds Knives's wounds; smiling down, rather than beating. He smiles back, feeling as though he could breathe in the blue of the sky. There's no way of knowing if the bindings will hold him for the whole trip... but that's almost the point, isn't it? It always has been. Not knowing.
Never knowing.
His brother's weight, on his shoulder, is slight. So odd that he should turn out to be the larger one.
Blue sky, and the last miles home, to those who wait...
*
I can imagine it the other way; what would happen. If I just let it go like this. The image is very clear in my mind. It's very nice to think of, somehow. Soothing, like a guitar at dusk.
Like a camera recorded it. I see myself walking back across the desert, with him slung over my shoulder. Blue sky, and the last miles home, under the heat-haze of falling afternoon. Then let it go. Switch to a shot straight up, of the suns beating over the town through a haze of water. A figure forms, on the horizon. Fade to black.
Fade to black.
My hand shakes a little, and it's hard to hold on to the gun. Or maybe it's just hard to hold on.
I can see it so clearly; that's the problem.
*
Basic physics state that for every action, there is an equal, but opposite, reaction. What most people don't realize is that a law of this sort applies to many things. Balance is all... and it's balance, is all.
It's true for stories, too. There is never just one. Every story is two stories: the one that didn't happen, and the one that did.
This is the one that did.
*
I've heard people say it's funny, the things you think at moments like this. If there were other moments like this. But I don't think it's very funny at all. Maybe I'm thinking the wrong things.
Action and reaction. If you can remember that, you can understand quite a lot. A bullet fires from a gun, and the gun kicks backward, as if it could return a little of what will be done at the other end...
Yes, this is the one that did.
But I guess that doesn't have to mean it's the one that should have.
*
Sometimes, in her dreams, he comes back.
She supposes that's silly. When somebody tells you, "Don't even think it, of course he'll be back," well, it's easy enough to tell what'll happen. It's the law of stories, or maybe of jinxes. There is something in the nature of faith that destroys.
Things are quiet, these days. Every hour is just as long and hot as the others. The world doesn't seem to be ending, which she guesses means something; or maybe she just wishes it does. Though she would have thought she was beyond that by now.
In the evenings she's alone, and she watches the sun go down by the window. She knows they say she's waiting; but that's ridiculous, romantic stuff. Waiting at the window for the rest of her life. Who has time for that? There are better things to be done.
Sometimes, in her dreams, he comes back.
Usually in the dream it is midday, under the heat of the suns; sometimes it's that same day, when they broke through to the water underground. It spills down from the sky, like rain, that mystical being most of them only know from stories, and the celebration seems eternal... and then there is a shadow on the horizon, taking shape. A body on his shoulder, that is of course alive; it's him, after all.
Him.
And she can feel her heart leaping around in her chest in a way she would never admit to, as she recognizes, and understands...
...Or something like that. It's all nonsense, anyway. People have to live in the real world. That's how they survive.
Sometimes, in her dreams...
Nobody hears her crying at night, in her chair by the window, in the hours long after the moon has gone down, and that's because she doesn't. And if they do hear something, well, it isn't her, of course; just the sighing of the wind outside, maybe, through the empty streets of the town that has somehow become home. There are rational explanations for everything, and they are much better than some made-up romantic tripe that nobody reasonable would ever be able to believe.
You have to be practical about these things.
Nobody can live in dreams.
*
the desert's quiet and Cleveland's cold
so the story ends, we're told...
Now I lay me down to sleep; I pray the Lord my soul to keep.
"Does it work?" "I don't know. The rest is up to us."
Blue sky and the last miles home... but like mirages on pavement, they shimmer if you look too hard. They disappear.
breathe. breathe. breathe.
This is the one that did.
*
I...
You saw the problem with the other one, didn't you? It was too easy. Too cheap. It didn't keep the promises that had been made. And I guess some people could forgive that, if it made them happy... but I'm not some people. That's the one thing I'd never be, not in a million years.
What do you want? is what Knives says, or means to say. Vash, what do you want?
This is the one that did.
I think about that for a while. A long while, it feels like, though it could just be all the standing out under the sun. Or it could be him. Time passes slower with someone on the other end of your gun. I know.
"I don't know, Knives," I finally tell him. It's the only thing I can think of that's even sort of fair, the one that's closest to entirely honest. Saying it is almost like freedom. "I don't know, anymore."
I can feel the tears coming again, and I just let them come... though really, I'm more tired than sad. I've been tired for so long, when I think about it. I feel like I can barely stand up anymore. This isn't like the first time at all; his eyes don't accuse me of anything, long over that desperate chorus of but you were supposed to love me that undid everything. He looks more confused than anything else. I don't blame him. I feel pretty confused myself.
I do, I don't hear him say. But I don't have to. I know.
I rub the back of my bare hand across my eyes, and I don't care when the glasses jar up and off and strike the sand. All of a sudden it seems like they belong to someone else. Someone who wouldn't be standing here bleeding, holding a gun on his dying brother and crying. Crying like it was just something that hurt. Someone different.
"Yeah, Knives," I say, and my voice sounds small and bruised. "I know you do."
I fire one more time. Dull, flat crack; like a slap, only harder. It's not so bad this time, the second time. I imagine if I did it again, it would just get easier. Easier and easier, until it stopped being anything at all.
Bleeding?
Oh. Right. He shot me.
The other story forgot about that pretty quick, huh?
Two in the shoulders, two in the legs. Have I gone on with worse before? Suddenly I can't remember. Maybe... but adrenaline can do a lot for you, and I can feel it running out of me now in a steady stream. Somehow, there's always been someone to pick me up, after it was all over; I guess I just never thought to question it, not until now when it's not there anymore. I could laugh at myself. One last stupid mistake.
I don't feel much like laughing, though.
The gun is starting to feel heavy, and I let it drop. While I'm still thinking about it, I take off the coat, too -- and it's hard, harder than it's ever been before, my arms seem so tired. I let it fall beside the gun. I don't need either of them anymore.
The sand crashes into my knees before I realize I'm falling. Then my hands. There's an awful lot of blood on the ground, but I don't know whose it is, and it's just as well. It could be anyone's, couldn't it?
I guess I could just stand up again, but I'm so tired.
Tired.
So I let my arms stop shaking, and lie down on my side in the dust. A little harder than I meant to, maybe. But it's all right. Lying down is better, anyway. I look at the sky, and I listen to my breath. In and out.
I'm so tired that I don't even know where I get the strength to reach out, to curl my arm around Knives's still shoulder and pull it towards me, and settle him on his side with his face turned to mine. It doesn't seem to matter. Not much does, actually, except doing it. That seems very important. But somehow I manage it, and we lie like that, face to face. I put my forehead against his, and settle my arms around him; and then I don't feel much like moving anymore.
He looks calm. Peaceful. I feel better, seeing that. Like he did when we were small, before everything; down to the closed eyes, the look of rest. The only thing that's wrong is that I can't feel his breath. But I imagine I will soon enough.
It's a little while later before I realize I'm smiling. I guess maybe it's kind of funny after all.
Funny, for one thing, how I feel so light.
*
Spiral the camera up, slowly pan out. Straight overhead angle, with them in the center, curled up together almost fetally. Flash to two infants and their drifting umbilical cords, still growing, being shaped.
Music, maybe, or just silence. Pan out, slowly revolving, until they are indistinguishable from the rest of the desert. The sand begins to blow over them, covering their bodies. Black and white, like yin and yang. Let the shot be so heavy with symbolism that nobody cares what it means. Let them be covered.
Pull back, and slowly, turn the view up to the sky. The two suns, amid cumulus swirls. Like an action and reaction. Two of everything.
Fade, gradually, to black.
*
Almost like I've never been so free.