A strong, physical pain prevented him from getting up - he wasn't feeling paralyzed as well as so intensely hurting that his body simply wouldn't obey him.
"Motherfucker," he called out, "fucking asshole! What do you know about it?"
A slap to his face made him see stars in the darkness. The cold came crashing down on him, the pain and the sorrow, the hurting so strong that his body spasmed and convulsed, and he threw up.
"Pathetic. Just really pathetic, Yuy." A strong light shone directly into Heero's eyes and he squinted. A cloth was pressed roughly to his chin and mouth, wiping off the last residue of his vomit. "Get up. Get up, before you dishonor yourself even more."
Finally, he rose. Aching, his joints protesting, his head heavy, his heart… his heart broken. It took ages, a lifetime, to get up into a standing position again and Heero's breath came in harsh, irregular pants. Shaking and trembling, he turned his head towards the one who had spoken.
"Chang," was all he said.
"At least you have the decency to recognize me." Chang Wufei looked sternly at him, ebony eyes unfathomed deep and dark. He had a hand on Heero's shoulder, but he hadn't register the touch; he didn't notice it until Wufei withdrew his hand. Behind him, just at the bottom of the stairs, were two other men standing. Sherpas. "I won't offer you any apologies, Yuy. Your behavior, though understandable, was shameful."
"Well, I'm sorry," Heero took a step away from him, "we're not all unemotional, unmoving robots like you. I just saw the one I loved crashing through ice, falling to his dea-"
"Spare me your cheap sympathies," Wufei said and adjusted the straps of his backpack. "I saw my wife die in front of my eyes. Don't talk easily about pain you don't know others have suffered, Yuy."
The silence was deafening. "I didn't know that," Heero finally said.
"Exactly." Wufei heaved a sigh and when he looked up at Heero again, he showed compassion for the first time. "I do offer you my apologies for not making it in time. I saw…or rather, heard Maxwell going through the ice."
"I…" Heero felt his knees buckle, it took all of his willpower to remain standing.
"Sit down," Wufei said, not unfriendly. "You're not showing weakness now, Yuy. Sit down, before you keel over."
Heero sat down on his backpack, avoiding the icy, cold ground. He looked at his hands, his fingers shaking, his entire body trembling. Wufei sat down next to him, imitating his position on the backpack. He didn't say a word, leaving it to Heero to gather his bearing and allowing him the time to do so.
"What are you doing here?" Heero's voice was soft, not reflecting the violent shaking of his body; he just wanted to hear the other talk, to concentrate on something else but the rapid beating of his heart, that awful repetitive thought in his mind: Duo can't be dead, Duo can't be dead, Duo can't be dead…
"I got a few messages," Wufei answered. He kept a close eye on Heero. "I was at Chengdu to meet up with you according to plan. When you didn't show up, I contacted Howard, but he hadn't received any news from you yet." He shifted his position and made a hand sign to the sherpas, who huddled together at the bottom of the stairs with a typical tea churn to drink their beloved beverage. They obediently turned their backs and started talking softly to each other, but Heero doubted they could overhear him and Wufei talking anyway. Wufei didn't pay attention to the sherpas and stared at Heero again. "Then I saw a Chinese broadcast that an unidentified enemy plane had been taken down above the Himalayas."
"God," Heero sighed, "so that's how they brought the news?"
"They didn't know." Wufei shook his head. "I'm not proud to say it, but especially at the borders, Chinese officials can be bought. Even if you had tried to ask permission to enter Tibetan airspace, they would've denied it if the Fiamma Nera had waved enough bills around."
"You know about the Fiamma Nera?"
"Howard was very thorough in his briefing, and after you both didn't show up, I took the freedom to investigate the whole matter myself. I'll get to the Bartoli family later. I tried to get more information when I saw the newscast, as it was mentioned that it was a small, private plane with 'tourists deviating from their course'. Local authorities reported that they had tried to establish contact with the plane, blah blah, but decided to take it down when no answer was received."
Heero could remember how he had tried to contact traffic control, just before the first missile had ruptured the Cessna. He shivered violently. The trembling slowly ebbed away, but he wasn't calming down yet. His mind was racing. He didn't have time to listen to Wufei's story. Duo. Oh God, Duo.
"My private investigation was successful, of course," Wufei continued. "I found someone willing to cooperate, and the paperwork was easy to find. A jet registered to Bartoli had been given full permission to enter Tibetan and Chinese airspace, and wasn't entered into the grid. It was a huge risk they took, but apparently the presence of the Fiamma Nera plane has been masked well. Your flight plan was easy to find as well, as you had filed it to obtain permits. A Cessna Citation X, tagged and all, they followed you all the way, every mile after another."
"What about Bartoli himself?"
Wufei nodded. "He was in Chengdu when I investigated. I met some of his men." He tapped on the handle of his katana, stuck safely in his backpack. "However, I was unable to keep track of him." He looked sour. "Bartoli vanished from one moment to another, and I had no idea where he went to, so I decided to travel after you. One call to Winner, and he provided me with all the equipment I needed. I had already hired the sherpas."
It had been their original plan to meet up in Chengdu and travel together, guided by the sherpas, to the Nyingchi prefecture where Noventa's trail had ended. Now everything had changed - for the worse.
"Duo," Heero could only say his name, voice broken.
"I'll spare you my hasty trek through the Himalayas," Wufei said dryly. "Nor will I bother you with the Barkhang monk I encountered, who was willing to speak of you after I mentioned your names."
"Tsering?"
"The old man wouldn't give me his name," Wufei said grumpily. "Chinese and Tibetans don't mix well. He mentioned something about your ears, though. What happened to them?"
"Thubten," Heero answered.
"What?"
"That was his name. Thubten. He nursed me back to health after the accident with the Cessna…"
"I won't pry for details yet, we've got work to do." Wufei got up, jogging briskly in place to get his blood circulation going again. "Get up, Yuy, you're going to get frozen stuck if you sit any longer."
"What work? Didn't you see Duo crash down, all through the ice?"
"That's why I said we've got work to do." Wufei kicked at his backpack, and Heero could see the strong ropes on top. "I told you that Winner provided me with everything I needed. We have all the materials we need to rescue Maxwell."
"That's too much optimism, even for you," Heero snorted, but deep down in his heart he wanted nothing more to believe that Duo was still alive. It just couldn't be that the only person in his life that meant so much to him was lying down, breathlessly, eyes glazed… even the mental image was too cruel to bear.
"I'm not saying otherwise until I've seen his corpse with my own eyes." Wufei said something to the sherpas, who quickly finished their tea and got up. "We've got the manpower and the material. We go after Maxwell."
"And the sword?"
"If both the sword and Maxwell are down there, he's going to get his hands faster on it than us." Wufei wasn't to be deterred. "I don't like to give anyone false hope, Yuy. But I've seen him getting possessed by Shinigami and survive it. That's why I only will believe he's dead when I see his corpse. And whatever is down there, Khans, swords, tombs - it won't be a dead Duo Maxwell. Let's go."
Warmth, oh heavenly warmth. He moaned a little, trying to feel and experience more of that warmth. It had to be an open fire place. He adored the fire place in the living room at Maxwell Manor, the one that was most used by his family. His mother would knit fluffy, woolen scarves for her sons who thought they were too big and ugly and refused to wear them in public, but hugged them close at home if only to sniff the scent of their mother's tender perfume. His father would sit in his armchair, talking about whatever that interested him, his topics usually lingering around historical events and their reflection into the past, and if the boys weren't listening, his wife would - her "Yes, my dear" would interrupt his monologue every now and then.
Jeeves Wilson, Hillary's father, would keep an eye on the open fire so that it would be nice and comfortable in the living room, and enter every now and then to provide the family with coffee or tea. He would pretend not to notice the rowdy youngest Maxwell son, who tried to trip him, or scare him, or make funny faces at him, and he would pretend not to notice the awkward, bookish, eldest Maxwell son though he send him a warm smile, acknowledging the boy.
Paintings on the wall, soft cello music in the background, the clacking of the knitting needles, the warm, baritone voice of his father, calling his name whenever he was mischievous… Duo, he would say, Duo, stop what you're doing and listen to me… listen to me… listen to me… can you hear my voice? Please Duo, just listen to me. I'm so sorry…
His eyes went wide open and Duo gasped so loudly for breath that he choked, his body unable to process the sudden movement. Looking to his left, he saw his father's face - that kind, yet stern face filled with love for his son. The lines in his face were of age, not of worries or concerns, the receding dark brown hair, slightly graying, was so familiar that Duo wanted to reach for it and stroke the strands, just to feel his father again and smell his spicy, cognac and cinnamon scent.
The first detail that confused him was the color of his father's eyes. They were supposed to be brown, but he was staring right into sad, light blue eyes, with such a melancholic, downtrodden expression that the sadness was almost tangible. Duo gasped again, his mind trying to piece the puzzles together. The grey, almost white hair.. the smaller lips, the pronounced cheekbones. This wasn't his father. This was…
"Marshall Noventa," Duo said and then pain hit him. With all his might he suppressed a loud roar of pain and he lunged forward, locating his right leg, coated in blood.
"I'm afraid you have broken it," Noventa spoke, his voice just as sad as the expression on his face. "But concerning the incredible damage you could've sustained, you should praise yourself fortunate."
"You… how did you get here?" Duo was appalled. The elder man put the washcloth, stained crimson red, in a bowl with lukewarm water. He rinsed it, his movements slow, his lips drawn into a tight line.
"I brought him here." The voice was unfamiliar, and with a sharp movement, while hissing in pain, Duo turned towards the source of the sound. A man stood a few meters away from him, all dressed in black. His overcoat was long enough to reach past the knees, and he was wearing a black fascia with a blood red edge, sporting the insignia of the Fiamma Nera near the bottom. His face was a ghostly white, showing all the marks of a man in his mid-fifties, lines and wrinkles harsh and sharp. The shadows cast by the dim light didn't favor his face, carving his features with straight edges that almost made a caricature out of himself.
"Bartoli," Duo said.
The man didn't confirm or deny, but the smirk on his face told Duo more than enough. "Duo Maxwell," he retorted. "You have the very nasty habit of not dying when I want you to. You even defy high altitudes and jumping out of a shredded airplane on a collision course. I must bow to such survival skills, such will to live, but you'll understand why I won't."
"Is this the moment that you'll hold an hour long speech about how you want to take revenge on Noventa for your father's death, that you grew up all alone, that you feel incredibly justified by bringing him here and holding me and him prisoner, and do whatever the hell you're planning, just because you're a sniveling asshole with too much money and time on his hands?"
Bartoli barked a short laugh. "I'll leave it to Noventa to catch up with you," he said. "If he wants to talk, that is. I believe my friend is feeling rather ashamed."
"Friend?" Duo's voice dropped, just like the temperature, to below zero. Noventa had flinched as both had spoken, but refused to say something.
"I'm only interested in the sword." Bartoli spoke with an accent, but he was easy to follow. "It's a fascinating artifact."
"You want eternal youth," Duo said, not bothering to hide the disdain in his voice. "And rule the Earth while you're at it?"
"So sad that you're so blasé at such a young age." Bartoli shook his head. "It's not up to me, signore Maxwell, to explain any of my intentions. I suggest you'd spend some quality time with il mio amico, my friend Noventa."
He turned on his heels abruptly, leaving the scene and all but dissolving into the shadows so fast that Duo had to blink. Angry, he focused his attention on Noventa who was still rinsing the cloth in the now cold water.
"What the hell are you doing?"
"You're injured." Noventa didn't look at him. "I'm not a doctor, Duo."
"That's mister Maxwell to you," Duo said, shifting his position and gritting his teeth. Yeah, his right leg was pretty much broken, but he was alive. The pants leg was shredded, the white fabric had turned red, but the rest of his clothing was damp, yet intact. "What are you doing with Bartoli? Are you in cahoots?"
"I never wished it would end like this," Noventa said, voice grim.
"End? End?"
"Do you think Bartoli is going to keep us alive?"
"What is going on?" Duo repeated. "Tell me, Noventa. Don't lie to me!"
"I have never lied to you," Noventa said, bristling. Just as fast as his anger flared up, it was gone again. "I…just didn't tell you the entire story."
Duo calmed down as well. His energy was low, and his right leg wasn't the only limb hurting. It was hard to keep himself up, propped on both his elbows. He felt slightly dizzy, and he was cold; it dawned to him that Noventa wasn't wearing any protective clothes. "Marshall…"
Silence. The man pushed the dish with water and the cloth to the side, and stared into nothingness. He was sitting on a camping stool, and in front of him was a foldable table. Apart from the dish, it held an oil lamp, a book with torn and smudgy pages, a pen and a piece of paper.
"Gianni didn't die from hypothermia, right?" Duo didn't need to check his holsters to know that his Uzis and all the ammunition were gone. He had nothing to fear from Noventa and he didn't feel threatened. "He didn't freeze to death. You killed him, didn't you?"
"I… I suppose I did," Noventa said. He put his hands, folded together, in his lap. His cane was leaning against the small stool, the only visible sign of physical frailty. "I suppose I did, mister Maxwell."
"Look, it wasn't my intention to attack you like that," Duo apologized. "I was just taken aback by Bartoli and all. I'm not feeling well, and to see the man who caused such grief…"
"You're looking at the wrong man," Noventa interrupted him. "I am the man who caused such grief. You have it all wrong, Duo. I'm the murderer. I'm the thief. I'm the criminal here."
"Marshall…"
"I will kill myself," Noventa said, feverishly, "if that will help her survive."
It dawned to Duo. "Sylvia," he said. Noventa looked up at him, tears in his eyes.
"I saw the love between you two," the elder man breathed, voice hitching. "So I knew you would understand. You know how far you would go to protect the one you love."
"Endless far," Duo whispered.
"So did I." Noventa was barely audible. "I went so far I went over the abyss and ended up straight in hell." He narrowed his eyes, face determined. "I would do it all over again in a heartbeat."
Chapter 11 | Chapter 13 |