[a/n: I just feel the a/n is obligatory this time. Hi.]
"Vash," Knives said to me early the next morning. His voice sounded on the verge of urgent, but more just demanding.
"Mmblrgh," I mumbled, still mostly asleep.
"Vash, get up," he pressed further. He nudged my shoulder gently with one heel.
"Is groundsel nice, mother?" I slurred. (Actually, I may or may not have said that. Knives claims I did.)
"Vash, your spiderlings are dying," Knives snapped.
"Sure, Knives," I grunted. "Just like that time I told you the coffee maker exploded..."
"The coffee maker DID explode. You put gunpowder in it."
"Well, whose idea was it to keep the coffee grounds next to the gunpowder anyway? It was five AM..." I said, slowly waking up
This time Knives' voice contained no hint of patience. "Vash. Get up. NOW."
I knew that tone all too well. He was serious. I scrambled to look at him, little flurries of sand flying up everywhere.
He stared down at me sternly, holding one child in each arm and looking almost protective. Arachne was curled up against him, a pained expression on her pale face and her black hair clinging to her sweaty forehead. Kiven's breathing was rapid and deep, and he lay unconscious in Knives' left arm.
"Oh no..." I whispered. Knives nodded to me as I got to my feet.
"It's the dehydration. We shouldn't have let them run around like that yesterday," he said, only the slightest reproach in his voice. He had said "we," meaning that he took at least partial responsibility. Even though it wasn't his fault. Sometimes I forget that under the deranged homicidal Knives, there's my brother Knives.
I stepped up to him and took Arachne from his arm. She fussed a little but leaned her head against my chest and sniffled. Knives wordlessly shifted Kiven to balance his weight better.
"It's another full day on foot to Little Iowa, isn't it?" I mused, giving Knives a pleading look. Right now, I knew that he was better equipped to handle things than I was.
"If we carry them both and don't stop, we can probably cut it down to ten or eleven hours," he offered. "But don't get your hopes up."
He was also painfully realistic. "We have to hurry. They'll die otherwise," I said hurriedly, and immediately realized that Knives would rather they died than carry them all the way to Little Iowa. But it was too late to take it back, and so I prepared to try to talk him down and beg him to help.
"I know," was all he said as he began walking.
It was reaching noon. The two suns, Alpha and Omega, had reached their opposing angles and so we were beat down on from both sides. I knew that this was the time of day the people sat inside, hiding from the unbearable heat, drinking anything cold and doing nothing. I sheltered Arachne as much as I could with my arms and trudged silently on.
Knives walked ahead of me, back straight, untiring. Kiven lay unmoving in his arms. The extreme heat from those bitter suns seemed not to affect Knives at all. He even made how different he was from humans clear when he was walking.
The suns rule the people of this planet. That's probably why they call them Alpha and Omega. Beginning and Ending. The suns are the be-all and end-all, the first and the last. Our lives revolve around the suns. When they each hit their complementary zeniths, life pauses until they move on. And, I thought as I held Arachne's feverish, miserable form, if we don't obey them and hide from their terrible heat for the hour they reign supreme, the consequences are dire...
I let this train of thought drift away and caught hold of one that had been bothering me. Knives was acting so oddly. I didn't object, of course – don't look a gift horse in the mouth – but I was puzzled. I had said they were bound to die – and all he said was "I know." He was trying to prevent their deaths. I didn't understand.
In hindsight, what I did next could have been disastrous and made him rebel and try to abandon the children, but at the time, my curiosity was eating me. I matched my stride to his and walked beside Knives.
"Why are you doing this?" I asked quietly, watching him out of the corner of my eye.
"Because if I don't, you'll do it on your own. We went through this already." He walked looking straight ahead.
"But if you let me do it alone, I'd be slowed down too much and they'd die," I said as if it were a debate point, with no strong emotion behind it.
"That's why I'm not letting you do it alone," he responded, carefully filling his voice with patronizing patience. To add to it, he amended, "You will notice that you are carrying one child, not two."
I hesitated, letting the silence build as I chose my words.
"I would think... that you would be happy to see them die." I deliberately avoided his gaze.
"Because they are spiders?"
"Humans," I said emphatically.
"I realize that they are useless creatures, and their kind is bent on destroying the world," he began, but without any twinge of hatred to his tone. "But..." His own pause to articulate spanned a long period, exactly how long I'm not sure. It may have been minutes, even seconds, but it felt like hours.
"But?" I prompted, impatient.
"But... these two are not yet..." He struggled to express himself. "They are not yet corrupted. They have not become the killers, the destroyers, the scum that eats and consumes and gives nothing back, only takes and destroys. They are..." he fought again for words. "...Innocent."
"Yes," I half-whispered, looking down at Arachne clinging to me. "They haven't hurt anyone."
"And so they will get their chance," Knives proclaimed, an almost forced determination behind the words. His sarcasm flooded home to his acidic tongue as he said, "Everyone deserves a chance to catch a butterfly. We'll let them spin their webs."
I nodded, ignoring the half-amused nastiness.
A long silence fell between us. We weren't saying anything or thinking to each other, but we didn't need to. We were communicating in ways beyond even telepathic words.
"Vash," Knives said after a while, making my head snap up. He was staring at the ground now. I cocked my head to one side to listen. He seemed conflicted, something Knives never was.
"I talked to the girl the other night," he said, like a confession of a horrible crime.
I wasn't sure what he was trying to convey with this. "Oh?"
"Yes. I spoke to her for a while. She is a very... giving creature." He sounded like he was apologizing.
I nodded, holding her a little closer. "She's not a bad kid. Neither of them are."
Knives nodded shortly and silently. After another long pause, he made a small noise that indicated he had something to say.
"What is it?" I encouraged, my voice lower than I had expected.
His tone embarrassedly formal, he began, "Well, in light of recent... discoveries I have made..." He trailed, about to dismiss the matter and not say anything at all. But then that would be like giving up, and Knives never gave up.
"In light of recent discoveries and close contact with these children," he began again, newly determined, "I have decided that it is possible – just possible, not definite – that humans are not ALL as... despicable as I had originally deemed them." He gave a small huff of completion and waited for me to celebrate.
I knew that I had to be calm about this and not superior, otherwise he'd take it right back. "That's great, Knives."
"Yes, well." He said it in his short, conversation-ending way.
And for a long time, I walked on smiling.
"Vash," Knives said to me early the next morning. His voice sounded on the verge of urgent, but more just demanding.
"Mmblrgh," I mumbled, still mostly asleep.
"Vash, get up," he pressed further. He nudged my shoulder gently with one heel.
"Is groundsel nice, mother?" I slurred. (Actually, I may or may not have said that. Knives claims I did.)
"Vash, your spiderlings are dying," Knives snapped.
"Sure, Knives," I grunted. "Just like that time I told you the coffee maker exploded..."
"The coffee maker DID explode. You put gunpowder in it."
"Well, whose idea was it to keep the coffee grounds next to the gunpowder anyway? It was five AM..." I said, slowly waking up
This time Knives' voice contained no hint of patience. "Vash. Get up. NOW."
I knew that tone all too well. He was serious. I scrambled to look at him, little flurries of sand flying up everywhere.
He stared down at me sternly, holding one child in each arm and looking almost protective. Arachne was curled up against him, a pained expression on her pale face and her black hair clinging to her sweaty forehead. Kiven's breathing was rapid and deep, and he lay unconscious in Knives' left arm.
"Oh no..." I whispered. Knives nodded to me as I got to my feet.
"It's the dehydration. We shouldn't have let them run around like that yesterday," he said, only the slightest reproach in his voice. He had said "we," meaning that he took at least partial responsibility. Even though it wasn't his fault. Sometimes I forget that under the deranged homicidal Knives, there's my brother Knives.
I stepped up to him and took Arachne from his arm. She fussed a little but leaned her head against my chest and sniffled. Knives wordlessly shifted Kiven to balance his weight better.
"It's another full day on foot to Little Iowa, isn't it?" I mused, giving Knives a pleading look. Right now, I knew that he was better equipped to handle things than I was.
"If we carry them both and don't stop, we can probably cut it down to ten or eleven hours," he offered. "But don't get your hopes up."
He was also painfully realistic. "We have to hurry. They'll die otherwise," I said hurriedly, and immediately realized that Knives would rather they died than carry them all the way to Little Iowa. But it was too late to take it back, and so I prepared to try to talk him down and beg him to help.
"I know," was all he said as he began walking.
It was reaching noon. The two suns, Alpha and Omega, had reached their opposing angles and so we were beat down on from both sides. I knew that this was the time of day the people sat inside, hiding from the unbearable heat, drinking anything cold and doing nothing. I sheltered Arachne as much as I could with my arms and trudged silently on.
Knives walked ahead of me, back straight, untiring. Kiven lay unmoving in his arms. The extreme heat from those bitter suns seemed not to affect Knives at all. He even made how different he was from humans clear when he was walking.
The suns rule the people of this planet. That's probably why they call them Alpha and Omega. Beginning and Ending. The suns are the be-all and end-all, the first and the last. Our lives revolve around the suns. When they each hit their complementary zeniths, life pauses until they move on. And, I thought as I held Arachne's feverish, miserable form, if we don't obey them and hide from their terrible heat for the hour they reign supreme, the consequences are dire...
I let this train of thought drift away and caught hold of one that had been bothering me. Knives was acting so oddly. I didn't object, of course – don't look a gift horse in the mouth – but I was puzzled. I had said they were bound to die – and all he said was "I know." He was trying to prevent their deaths. I didn't understand.
In hindsight, what I did next could have been disastrous and made him rebel and try to abandon the children, but at the time, my curiosity was eating me. I matched my stride to his and walked beside Knives.
"Why are you doing this?" I asked quietly, watching him out of the corner of my eye.
"Because if I don't, you'll do it on your own. We went through this already." He walked looking straight ahead.
"But if you let me do it alone, I'd be slowed down too much and they'd die," I said as if it were a debate point, with no strong emotion behind it.
"That's why I'm not letting you do it alone," he responded, carefully filling his voice with patronizing patience. To add to it, he amended, "You will notice that you are carrying one child, not two."
I hesitated, letting the silence build as I chose my words.
"I would think... that you would be happy to see them die." I deliberately avoided his gaze.
"Because they are spiders?"
"Humans," I said emphatically.
"I realize that they are useless creatures, and their kind is bent on destroying the world," he began, but without any twinge of hatred to his tone. "But..." His own pause to articulate spanned a long period, exactly how long I'm not sure. It may have been minutes, even seconds, but it felt like hours.
"But?" I prompted, impatient.
"But... these two are not yet..." He struggled to express himself. "They are not yet corrupted. They have not become the killers, the destroyers, the scum that eats and consumes and gives nothing back, only takes and destroys. They are..." he fought again for words. "...Innocent."
"Yes," I half-whispered, looking down at Arachne clinging to me. "They haven't hurt anyone."
"And so they will get their chance," Knives proclaimed, an almost forced determination behind the words. His sarcasm flooded home to his acidic tongue as he said, "Everyone deserves a chance to catch a butterfly. We'll let them spin their webs."
I nodded, ignoring the half-amused nastiness.
A long silence fell between us. We weren't saying anything or thinking to each other, but we didn't need to. We were communicating in ways beyond even telepathic words.
"Vash," Knives said after a while, making my head snap up. He was staring at the ground now. I cocked my head to one side to listen. He seemed conflicted, something Knives never was.
"I talked to the girl the other night," he said, like a confession of a horrible crime.
I wasn't sure what he was trying to convey with this. "Oh?"
"Yes. I spoke to her for a while. She is a very... giving creature." He sounded like he was apologizing.
I nodded, holding her a little closer. "She's not a bad kid. Neither of them are."
Knives nodded shortly and silently. After another long pause, he made a small noise that indicated he had something to say.
"What is it?" I encouraged, my voice lower than I had expected.
His tone embarrassedly formal, he began, "Well, in light of recent... discoveries I have made..." He trailed, about to dismiss the matter and not say anything at all. But then that would be like giving up, and Knives never gave up.
"In light of recent discoveries and close contact with these children," he began again, newly determined, "I have decided that it is possible – just possible, not definite – that humans are not ALL as... despicable as I had originally deemed them." He gave a small huff of completion and waited for me to celebrate.
I knew that I had to be calm about this and not superior, otherwise he'd take it right back. "That's great, Knives."
"Yes, well." He said it in his short, conversation-ending way.
And for a long time, I walked on smiling.