somewhere i have never travelled, gladly beyond
any experience,your eyes have their silence:
in your most frail gesture are things which enclose me,
or which i cannot touch because they are too near
your slightest look will easily unclose me
though i have closed myself as fingers,
you open always petal by petal myself as Spring opens
(touching skilfully,mysteriously)her first rose
or if your wish be to close me, i and
my life will shut very beautifully ,suddenly,
as when the heart of this flower imagines
the snow carefully everywhere descending;
nothing which we are to perceive in this world equals
the power of your intense fragility:whose texture
compels me with the color of its countries,
rendering death and forever with each breathing
(i do not know what it is about you that closes
and opens;only something in me understands
the voice of your eyes is deeper than all roses)
nobody,not even the rain,has such small hands
--- e.e. cummings
*
They were nearby, the sense offenders. He could feel them hiding in the rubble and upset of the burned-out corridors: ten, twelve, possibly as many as twenty. He smelled something sharp and unpleasant – the smell of fear, perhaps. Preston said that fear had a scent. Partridge hadn't believed him before, but he did now. He was so close.
He crept down the night-black hall, deftly avoiding a charred pile of trash. Something skittered ahead of him, too big to be a scavenging animal. He aimed and took a step forward. The floor gave way, and he plummeted down into nothingness. There was an agonizing flare of pain in his ankle, then blessed oblivion.
*
"You're awake, aren't you?"
Partridge opened his eyes to blackness. He flinched, then understood the cause; there was some dark, odorous material covering his head, like a hood. There was a wad of cloth in his mouth, and what felt like tape over that. When he tried to free his mouth, he realized that his hands were tied behind him. He was upright, bound to a chair. His legs were taped at thigh, knee, and calf. His ankle throbbed.
"If you promise not to yell, I'll take the gag out. I doubt anyone would hear you anyway." The voice was male, soft and slightly graveled.
Partridge nodded. A hand pulled the hood from his head. He blinked against the light, but it was dim enough to focus after only a moment. He stared up at his captor, rapidly categorizing him, memorizing the essential details.
Caucasian male, lean build. Five feet, ten inches. Shoulder-length brown hair. Blue-grey eyes. Clean-shaven, cleft chin, scar on upper lip. Dark, loose-fitting clothing, brown boots.
"Hold still. I'll try not to hurt you." Strong fingers, deliberately tempered into gentleness, grasped his chin and tugged away the tape, then eased the wadded rag from Partridge's mouth. "Sorry about that. The patrols were too close by. We couldn't risk them hearing you."
Partridge licked dry lips and swallowed. "How long have I been here?"
"A few hours. What's your name, cleric?"
"My name's none of your business." A surprising rush of anger flooded through Partridge, followed by a sharp stab of anxiety. "It's been more than a few hours, hasn't it?"
"Maybe." The man smiled. "Why, are you starting to feel afraid?"
"Afraid of you? Hardly. You'll be swept up in no time, and then all you'll have to worry about is the furnaces." Partridge twisted his hands, but they were taped together too tightly. They'd probably destroyed his Prozium vials. Raw panic surged through him. He stepped on it. "Listen to me. If you let me go, I can arrange for rehabilitation."
"I didn't think clerics bargained." The man sat on a steel-framed bed topped by a dirty mattress and ragged blanket. That and the chair were the only furniture in the room. "You must be scared."
"Let me go." Partridge surged against the tape holding him to the chair, and his ankle flared in agony. He fell back with a cry.
"We splinted the ankle as best we could." The man stood up. His eyes were cold. "You look a little feverish. Sorry we couldn't give you painkillers, but they're sort of hard to get nowadays." He moved to the door. "I'll be back later. I wouldn't advise trying to get free, cleric. You won't get far. There's a man outside this door with a gun – yours, as it happens. He's not trained the way you are, but he can make a hole in a slow-moving target."
"You'll pay for this," Partridge promised hoarsely.
"Yeah, no doubt. So long."
Partridge struggled again, stopping only when the pain threatened to overwhelm him. He bit his lip and squeezed his eyes shut.
There are effective techniques to combat unwelcome emotion should a Cleric be forcibly deprived of Prozium. Use these meditations to center oneself and clear one's thoughts, to make conscious choices instead of falling into dangerous and habitual reaction. Begin by stilling the body and gradually relaxing each muscle, starting with the fingertips. See the body within the mind's eye, calming fragment by fragment, and repeat the following mantra: I transcend fear. I transcend anger. I transcend joy –
"Wait!" Stinging sweat trickled into Partridge's eyes. "What are you going to do with me?"
The man paused at the door. "I'm not sure yet. We can't seem to agree on that." He was eerily calm.
"Give me my Prozium, at least."
"There's nothing like a junkie," the man said with a soft, raspy chuckle. "Sorry, cleric. We smashed your capsules first thing. Don't worry. It's not so bad, feeling things." He frowned, then shook his head and left abruptly.
Partridge gritted his teeth and tried to drag the chair toward the door. It moved a few inches, then refused to budge further. He snarled.
I transcend fear. I transcend anger.
He struggled harder and accidentally banged his ankle against the chair leg. He moaned and fought to stay conscious through a molten spike of agony, and failed.
*
He was lying on his back. Something cool and wet swabbed his brow. A spoon was put to his lips, and he swallowed gratefully, eagerly. It was like being a child again, before
Avoid all memories that stir thoughts or trouble your mind.
The water trickled through him, easing his parched throat. There had been a stream near his house, and the water was icy-cold, the clearest water
Keep your focus on the moment and do not be diverted by the emotions of others.
The fingertips on his cheek were roughly textured, work-roughened.
"Please –"
"Shh. It'll be okay."
Somehow, he believed it. He let himself sink again.
*
The pain was excruciating. He heard voices, far off, through a deep and dark tunnel.
---It's infected. He'll die if we don't help him.
---Then let him die! How many deaths has he caused? We have to move camp because of him, and now you want to play nursemaid. Unbelievable.
---I'll go and get the meds myself.
---And get caught? For a fucking cleric? 'Father' doesn't even bargain for captured clerics. You're crazy.
---I'm not going to let him die.
Do not allow yourself to be moved by what sense offenders call compassion. It is a ploy to gain power.
He went under again.
*
He shook uncontrollably. Sweat poured off his body in rivers. He clung to the hands that bathed him, the arms that cradled his shoulders. Every offender he'd dispatched crowded round him, soundlessly, with hollow, staring eyes, endlessly accusing. Men, women, children, the elderly, the sick. Murderer.
"Shh. Hold still."
A metallic sting pierced his skin, but the eyes still stared. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry. Help me. Please help me."
"Shh. Shh. It's okay." The rough fingertips grazed his mouth. "Listen to this. Listen." The voice became softer, a reverent whisper.
somewhere i have never travelled, gladly beyond
any experience, your eyes have their silence:
in your most frail gesture are things which enclose me,
or which i cannot touch because they are too near
"I didn't mean to...."
Murderer.
"No!"
The hand stroked his brow, soothing him with its tenderness, its
Do not allow yourself to be moved by what sense offenders call compassion. It is a ploy to gain power.
compassion.
your slightest look will easily unclose me
though i have closed myself as fingers,
you open always petal by petal myself as Spring opens
(touching skillfully, mysteriously)her first rose
Blue-grey eyes held his, easing his fear, eradicating the dead stares of the others.
He drifted, salt tears drying on gaunt cheeks.
*
Light; air. His head ached.
"Cleric. Cleric, wake up."
He blinked away sleep. "What is it?" He looked around. Still outside Libria. A city of charred remains and drifting smoke. He was lying on the ground, fully dressed. His ankle still ached, but the worst of the searing pain had gone, and with it, the fever.
"Time for me to go."
He cringed. Fear for his life: a new thing. Why should his life be so precious? "You're going to kill me?"
The man crouched down beside him and grasped one of his hands. He smiled. "Nowhere near as small."
"What?"
"Never mind." The man took Partridge's hands and quickly bound them together with rough cord, then pulled them over his head and tied the end of the cord to a rusted chain-link fence. "Your friends will find you soon enough."
Partridge stared at the face that was now as familiar as his own, the eyes that had watched him so anxiously. How long? Days? Weeks? "Why didn't you kill me?"
"I don't know. Maybe I should have." The man rose to his feet. His entire body was eloquent of exhaustion. "I don't know. I've got to go."
"Wait! You can't –"
"I know." The man gave him another weary smile. "You're feeling everything now, and it's frightening. But I don't have the time or energy to sort it out with you, and I can't trust you enough to keep you with us. Sorry."
"You saved my life."
"I'm stupid like that sometimes." The man glanced up at the distant sound of a siren. "They're coming." He took a step backward, then hesitated. He pulled a battered paperback from his dirty jacket and opened it. He tore out a page and folded it in half. He leaned down and tucked the folded paper into Partridge's coat pocket. "You want to repay me? Read that before you take your next Prozium dose."
"What is it?"
"You'll see." The sirens drew closer. "Well…take care." The man backed away.
"Errol!" Partridge flushed. "My name's Errol Partridge."
"So long, Errol Partridge." The man raised a hand, then disappeared into the drifting smoke.
*
He was perfectly calm as they rushed him to Med. Once inside, he asked for his dose; he was able to administer it on his own. They gave him the vial.
Alone in the cubicle, he withdrew the folded paper and read it.
Then read it again.
*
He'd always been a skilled hunter; he'd been rewarded for his aptitude by the Vice-Consul himself. He'd filled long trenches with his quarries, his ruthless efficiency. He prowled close to the ground, waiting in silence. It had been hours. No matter. He would wait as long as it took.
Finally, at long last, there was a noise; a lean figure emerging from the shattered husk of a single dwelling.
Partridge rose to his feet.
The man froze.
"Don't move," Partridge said softly.
The man raised his hands, looking wounded and helpless. "I guess I shouldn't be surprised."
Partridge took a step forward, then another. He lifted his own hands, free of weapons.
Surprise and wariness flowered across the man's face – a lovely face for all its careworn anxiety. How would it look happy, in repose, in ecstasy? "I don't understand."
"I remember now."
"Remember what?" The man's forehead laddered into a frown.
"I begged for help, and you saved me." Partridge took a deep breath, and spoke softly.
nothing which we are to perceive in this world equals
the power of your intense fragility: whose texture
compels me with the color of its countries,
rendering death and forever with each breathing
The man lowered his hands. "You read it."
"You saved me once," Partridge whispered. He peeled off his gloves and held out his hands, pleading.
The man moved close, noiselessly, and clasped Partridge's hand. "I'm glad you came back, Errol."
As the gentle fingers stroked his cheek, a sweet, electric, unnamed thrill coursed through Partridge's veins.
Summary: Partridge meets a sense offender
Rated: PG-13
Categories: Crossovers Pairing: Errol Partridge/Viggo
Warnings: NoneChallenges:
Series: NoneChapters: 1 Completed: Yes
Word count: 2090 Read: 1216
Published: 13 Nov 2010 Updated: 13 Nov 2010