Post by Eurydice on May 1, 2008 23:40:11 GMT -5
((Written as a Christmas present for Kevin. (I'm a nice, morbid girlfriend) Re-posted here at his request. Haven't looked at it since December, so it may need editing.))
He’d long since given up on maintaining the feeling in his fingers. He could see them moving-- slightly-- sort of-- and that was enough, really.
Numb digits curved along the trigger; strong hands and arms stretched along the contours of the rifle, delicate as a lover’s touch, if only because they had long since stiffened into that position. And Will strongly suspected that if he kept his eye to the scope much longer, that, too, would freeze to the spot.
The snow had started tentatively perhaps an hour into his stakeout and had turned to an unrelenting sleet sometime thereafter, although he was no longer sure of when that had been, except for an eternity ago. He couldn’t risk a fire, of course, but he’d had to tough it out before, just as he’d doubtlessly have to do again.
He did not know how long ago that eternity had been. Between then and now, most of his coat, scarf, hat, gloves, shirt, trousers, and socks, as well as anything not waterproofed, had been permeated entirely by sleet and ice, soaking and freezing in rapid succession. Occasionally, he had flexed his fist, trying to crack and shake off some of the frozen water. He could not remember, though, when the last time was that it had been worth the effort to do so.
Hypothermia had undoubtedly set in, although he was unable to pinpoint when that had happened. It was something he’d managed to avoid for close to ten years, but he still recognized the cold blanket of blank indifference settling around his mind as the snow settled around his body.
The one thing he had kept clear in his mind the whole time, hypothermia-ridden and frost-bitten as he was as he stared down the scope, was his target to be. Yevgeny Dichter, age twenty-nine, 1.79 meters in height, brown hair, blue eyes. Dichter was, if rumors were to be believed, blackmailing close to a third of Parliament on behalf of some Russian syndicate or other. A small strike squad had been sent out to deal with the syndicate, but the government had worried that without his backing, Dichter might just keep his blackmail files and sell them off to the highest bidder.
Why the man deemed it necessary to pass through this god-forsaken place, exactly, was still a mystery.
Will twitched and shook himself awake as he became aware that his head was being pillowed by the frozen ground.
He kept drifting off like that. He was not prepared to say how many times it had been. Scribbling in his makeshift journal had kept him occupied and awake, until his fingers had grown to stiff to hold the pen. Mental number games and ciphers had substituted until he could no longer think coherently. Now, a dull, passing interest in the snowcapped crags around him and the particulars of his target to be were the only things holding his attention.
His employers had given him a week’s time span in which Dichter was likely to pass through. From those seven days, Will had pared it down to the three day period that best corresponded with what they knew of Dichter’s travel plans, and after that, it was all a matter of waiting.
And waiting.
And waiting.
Painstakingly slow, he forced his arms to prop up his body, positioned his eye at the scope once more. Climbing up here to his cliff-top vantage point, however long ago that had been, he had ripped clean through the left cuff of his coat and shirt, and the patch of exposed skin beneath it had blossomed into a parti-colored blotch in protest. Stupid of him, not to have noticed the tear sooner. He would have kicked himself, had he been inclined to move.
Weariness and apathy still hung heavily over him as he checked himself for functionality. His face prickled fiercely, but he could feel it, at least, and that was good. His feet were a lost cause, for now, but he’d worry about that when he had to stand up. His eyelids hadn’t frozen together. Not yet, anyway. Fingers were still moving, although he was having some trouble seeing them, through the snowfall and the thick curtain of fog that he hadn’t remembered forming over his rocky look-out.
Will’s brow furrowed in puzzlement. When had the dense fog swept over him?
Ah. Not fog. He was half-asleep, face-down in the snow again. Stupid, stupid.
Aching limbs propped him up to the scope once more.
His glassy gaze swept the valley below for the umpteenth time, and for a moment, Will felt his heart freeze, not of the unearthly cold, but at the sight of several mounds in the snow for which he could not account. There was no waking wildlife for miles; he’d taken in every sizable boulder and ditch on the ground below him. And there were now four dark forms, coated in snow, that had not been there when last he looked.
Will forced his eyes to blink, lashes icy, sticking to each other, and he could barely see the dark forms anymore; nor could he clearly see the ruts and drag marks in the snow behind them, trailing away to the west as far as his eyes would show him.
At least two of the mounds-- if they were really there-- were small enough to be bodies. A third was slightly larger, and the fourth could easily be some sort of upturned vehicle.
He blinked again and could barely see the dim outlines at all.
Ammunition. He could check the gun, see if he had fired. Shaking, clumsy fingers pawed uselessly for a good five minutes before he realized that the gun was not going to yield him anything.
Had he done it? Made the kill, and then drifted off long enough for the blizzard to bury the evidence?
Some last spark of indignation and frustration clawed at him from within. He had to know, had to get a clear view. One hand firmly clenched on the rifle, he reached out and dragged himself forward, and again, and once more, wrenching himself forward in fractional increments, desperate to get close enough to see. A playful wind hurled the snowfall into his eyes as they strained against the distance and obstruction.
The ground beneath him abruptly gave way. A caustic curse wrenched itself from Will’s throat as he plummeted, his left hand still clamped on his weapon while his right hand dangled and flailed uselessly until it hit the solid ledge several meters below with a harsh crack that cut to the bone and should have registered as more painful. Inertia more than instinct made him roll with the landing, sending him tumbling to the edge of the cliff shelf. With a gentle tug, gravity started pulling him the rest of the way over the rim.
He remembered this stretch of the rock from his hike up. There would be at least twenty meters between this shelf and the next hope of firm purchase.
In one swift arc, Will hurled the rifle to safety against the back of the ledge and, with his only good hand now free, clamped down on the cliff, anchoring himself with the force of a vice. Snow and gravel fell past him, getting in his mouth, eyes, hair. He ignored them. Pain hit as his left arm wrenched back and took his full weight. He ignored that as well. His cramped and bruised legs screamed in protest, but he forced them to paw against the rock until they found purchase, ignoring the impact as they slammed against the angle of the drop and scissored their way to a secure hold, until finally, he could claw his way to safety. Bent and exhausted, he crawled towards the back of the shelf where he huddled, cradling his splintered arm which was throbbing, despite the all-numbing cold.
Lungful after lungful, he gasped in, the cold air searing through him.
There was blood on his fingertips and palms where the cliff face had ripped through his gloves, blood on his thighs and calves where they had struck the edge of the shelf.
He forced himself up; with a shaking hand, he slowly set the snipers’ rifle down and lowered himself back to fix his eye to the scope.
Whatever shapes he thought he had seen, there were none visible now.
They’d been there. He was sure of it.
A wave of nausea was seeping through him, powered by the fall and furthered by the pain, and Will could no longer convince himself that it was worth staying in any sort of alert and upright position. Snow and wet earth pressed his cheek as he slid down, clutching his right arm, cracked and crushed, against his chest, trying to focus through the cold and pain.
It had been some time since he had felt this helpless.
He lay there like that for some time, the dregs of any personal heat he had maintained draining into the dirt, stone, and ice beneath him, too tired to care.
Maybe he hadn’t seen the shapes in the snow. And even if he had, it didn’t necessarily mean that any of them disguised the fallen body of his mark. Whatever they were or might have been, the snowfall had blanketed them near completely, just as it blanketed him now. It was so easy to just lie back and let the cold and white close in around him.
No. Focus. Yevgeny Dichter, age twenty-nine. Will was here and now, and he still had a job to do.
But he felt so heavy, so much of him sunk in snow and mud and helplessness. His leaden limbs would no longer obey his half-hearted commands, and he began to wonder if his eyes were open only because they had frozen that way (He could not remember when he had blinked last).
He thought on his fellow covert agents, sold out to suit the government’s convenience, and wondered if he had been leaked faulty information.
He twitched slightly, too weak to shiver, even.
He should not have been able to feel anything at that point, but somehow, he had the inexplicable sensation of easy warmth, comforting hands. The shock of it dawned on him slowly, spreading that feeling of relief and release through him. Involuntarily rolling onto his back (the snow racing at him in white lines bright against the dark gray skies), he looked up for the source of warmth.
Johanna was there, kneeling by him, running slender, nimble fingers through his ice-coated hair. Her smile, sometimes cruel, sometimes casual, bore the grace of an angel.
Will opened his mouth to speak-- exultant, unhappy, he did not know-- but the inhalation caught in his chest. Snowflakes came to rest on his lips before melting on what little warmth was left in his breath.
“Jo?” he wheezed.
The woman nodded once.
Stars danced as his vision blurred with tears that he could not feel as they froze to his face. All the words he’d wished he’d said to her, that last evening before she’d gone off to die, all the conversations he hadn’t come up with until after the funeral, all the lost moments that he’d imagined capturing after they’d buried the memory of her along with her body-- all left him, and all he could do was look up at her, his mentor, sometime hero, the friend he’d failed to protect, and he could say nothing.
“I missed you so much,” he gasped, finally.
With feather-light touch, she stroked his hair. “I’m sorry, Will. It was what I had to do at the time.” He felt her gaze slowly sweep over him, lying broken and bleeding in the snow, her smile slowly melting into sad resignation. “And this… this isn’t the end I’d wanted for you.”
He managed a weak, panting laugh. “I’m with you on that.”
Comforting hands on his shoulder again, warmth spreading down through his chest. “I’m proud of you.”
Tears stung his eyes again before lancing across his numb cheeks. “Did I do it? Dichter? Is he…” He broke off, coughing feebly.
The yellow-haired angel chuckled, and it truly was Jo’s laugh, low and earnest. “Doesn’t matter now, luv. Shh…”
It did matter, though-- he had to know, had to find out somehow. Jo was here, and she’d have to know, somehow; she always knew something beyond what the rest of them did, and he had to make her understand that he needed to know.
But even that conviction was rapidly sinking under the blanket of uncertainty and unconcern. There was a quiet in him, simple, plainly peaceful. He exhaled quietly, eyes unfocused on the dizzying blur of white that fell towards him, as if from another world.
From nowhere, a memory danced before him-- a young boy dressed in a set of mismatched rags, carefully filching a meat pie from a stall in a marketplace, basking in triumph as he withdrew unnoticed and unobstructed to enjoy his trophy in private, taking the thing down in swift fistfuls, basking in the warm glow of the highest success he needed.
A whole lifetime ago, that had been.
Warm lips gently brushed his forehead. “Always that boy, you’ll be,” Jo murmured lightly. “Forever and always and never again. Hush now, Will. We’re going home.”
Winter, 1891
He’d long since given up on maintaining the feeling in his fingers. He could see them moving-- slightly-- sort of-- and that was enough, really.
Numb digits curved along the trigger; strong hands and arms stretched along the contours of the rifle, delicate as a lover’s touch, if only because they had long since stiffened into that position. And Will strongly suspected that if he kept his eye to the scope much longer, that, too, would freeze to the spot.
The snow had started tentatively perhaps an hour into his stakeout and had turned to an unrelenting sleet sometime thereafter, although he was no longer sure of when that had been, except for an eternity ago. He couldn’t risk a fire, of course, but he’d had to tough it out before, just as he’d doubtlessly have to do again.
He did not know how long ago that eternity had been. Between then and now, most of his coat, scarf, hat, gloves, shirt, trousers, and socks, as well as anything not waterproofed, had been permeated entirely by sleet and ice, soaking and freezing in rapid succession. Occasionally, he had flexed his fist, trying to crack and shake off some of the frozen water. He could not remember, though, when the last time was that it had been worth the effort to do so.
Hypothermia had undoubtedly set in, although he was unable to pinpoint when that had happened. It was something he’d managed to avoid for close to ten years, but he still recognized the cold blanket of blank indifference settling around his mind as the snow settled around his body.
The one thing he had kept clear in his mind the whole time, hypothermia-ridden and frost-bitten as he was as he stared down the scope, was his target to be. Yevgeny Dichter, age twenty-nine, 1.79 meters in height, brown hair, blue eyes. Dichter was, if rumors were to be believed, blackmailing close to a third of Parliament on behalf of some Russian syndicate or other. A small strike squad had been sent out to deal with the syndicate, but the government had worried that without his backing, Dichter might just keep his blackmail files and sell them off to the highest bidder.
Why the man deemed it necessary to pass through this god-forsaken place, exactly, was still a mystery.
Will twitched and shook himself awake as he became aware that his head was being pillowed by the frozen ground.
He kept drifting off like that. He was not prepared to say how many times it had been. Scribbling in his makeshift journal had kept him occupied and awake, until his fingers had grown to stiff to hold the pen. Mental number games and ciphers had substituted until he could no longer think coherently. Now, a dull, passing interest in the snowcapped crags around him and the particulars of his target to be were the only things holding his attention.
His employers had given him a week’s time span in which Dichter was likely to pass through. From those seven days, Will had pared it down to the three day period that best corresponded with what they knew of Dichter’s travel plans, and after that, it was all a matter of waiting.
And waiting.
And waiting.
Painstakingly slow, he forced his arms to prop up his body, positioned his eye at the scope once more. Climbing up here to his cliff-top vantage point, however long ago that had been, he had ripped clean through the left cuff of his coat and shirt, and the patch of exposed skin beneath it had blossomed into a parti-colored blotch in protest. Stupid of him, not to have noticed the tear sooner. He would have kicked himself, had he been inclined to move.
Weariness and apathy still hung heavily over him as he checked himself for functionality. His face prickled fiercely, but he could feel it, at least, and that was good. His feet were a lost cause, for now, but he’d worry about that when he had to stand up. His eyelids hadn’t frozen together. Not yet, anyway. Fingers were still moving, although he was having some trouble seeing them, through the snowfall and the thick curtain of fog that he hadn’t remembered forming over his rocky look-out.
Will’s brow furrowed in puzzlement. When had the dense fog swept over him?
Ah. Not fog. He was half-asleep, face-down in the snow again. Stupid, stupid.
Aching limbs propped him up to the scope once more.
His glassy gaze swept the valley below for the umpteenth time, and for a moment, Will felt his heart freeze, not of the unearthly cold, but at the sight of several mounds in the snow for which he could not account. There was no waking wildlife for miles; he’d taken in every sizable boulder and ditch on the ground below him. And there were now four dark forms, coated in snow, that had not been there when last he looked.
Will forced his eyes to blink, lashes icy, sticking to each other, and he could barely see the dark forms anymore; nor could he clearly see the ruts and drag marks in the snow behind them, trailing away to the west as far as his eyes would show him.
At least two of the mounds-- if they were really there-- were small enough to be bodies. A third was slightly larger, and the fourth could easily be some sort of upturned vehicle.
He blinked again and could barely see the dim outlines at all.
Ammunition. He could check the gun, see if he had fired. Shaking, clumsy fingers pawed uselessly for a good five minutes before he realized that the gun was not going to yield him anything.
Had he done it? Made the kill, and then drifted off long enough for the blizzard to bury the evidence?
Some last spark of indignation and frustration clawed at him from within. He had to know, had to get a clear view. One hand firmly clenched on the rifle, he reached out and dragged himself forward, and again, and once more, wrenching himself forward in fractional increments, desperate to get close enough to see. A playful wind hurled the snowfall into his eyes as they strained against the distance and obstruction.
The ground beneath him abruptly gave way. A caustic curse wrenched itself from Will’s throat as he plummeted, his left hand still clamped on his weapon while his right hand dangled and flailed uselessly until it hit the solid ledge several meters below with a harsh crack that cut to the bone and should have registered as more painful. Inertia more than instinct made him roll with the landing, sending him tumbling to the edge of the cliff shelf. With a gentle tug, gravity started pulling him the rest of the way over the rim.
He remembered this stretch of the rock from his hike up. There would be at least twenty meters between this shelf and the next hope of firm purchase.
In one swift arc, Will hurled the rifle to safety against the back of the ledge and, with his only good hand now free, clamped down on the cliff, anchoring himself with the force of a vice. Snow and gravel fell past him, getting in his mouth, eyes, hair. He ignored them. Pain hit as his left arm wrenched back and took his full weight. He ignored that as well. His cramped and bruised legs screamed in protest, but he forced them to paw against the rock until they found purchase, ignoring the impact as they slammed against the angle of the drop and scissored their way to a secure hold, until finally, he could claw his way to safety. Bent and exhausted, he crawled towards the back of the shelf where he huddled, cradling his splintered arm which was throbbing, despite the all-numbing cold.
Lungful after lungful, he gasped in, the cold air searing through him.
There was blood on his fingertips and palms where the cliff face had ripped through his gloves, blood on his thighs and calves where they had struck the edge of the shelf.
He forced himself up; with a shaking hand, he slowly set the snipers’ rifle down and lowered himself back to fix his eye to the scope.
Whatever shapes he thought he had seen, there were none visible now.
They’d been there. He was sure of it.
A wave of nausea was seeping through him, powered by the fall and furthered by the pain, and Will could no longer convince himself that it was worth staying in any sort of alert and upright position. Snow and wet earth pressed his cheek as he slid down, clutching his right arm, cracked and crushed, against his chest, trying to focus through the cold and pain.
It had been some time since he had felt this helpless.
He lay there like that for some time, the dregs of any personal heat he had maintained draining into the dirt, stone, and ice beneath him, too tired to care.
Maybe he hadn’t seen the shapes in the snow. And even if he had, it didn’t necessarily mean that any of them disguised the fallen body of his mark. Whatever they were or might have been, the snowfall had blanketed them near completely, just as it blanketed him now. It was so easy to just lie back and let the cold and white close in around him.
No. Focus. Yevgeny Dichter, age twenty-nine. Will was here and now, and he still had a job to do.
But he felt so heavy, so much of him sunk in snow and mud and helplessness. His leaden limbs would no longer obey his half-hearted commands, and he began to wonder if his eyes were open only because they had frozen that way (He could not remember when he had blinked last).
He thought on his fellow covert agents, sold out to suit the government’s convenience, and wondered if he had been leaked faulty information.
He twitched slightly, too weak to shiver, even.
He should not have been able to feel anything at that point, but somehow, he had the inexplicable sensation of easy warmth, comforting hands. The shock of it dawned on him slowly, spreading that feeling of relief and release through him. Involuntarily rolling onto his back (the snow racing at him in white lines bright against the dark gray skies), he looked up for the source of warmth.
Johanna was there, kneeling by him, running slender, nimble fingers through his ice-coated hair. Her smile, sometimes cruel, sometimes casual, bore the grace of an angel.
Will opened his mouth to speak-- exultant, unhappy, he did not know-- but the inhalation caught in his chest. Snowflakes came to rest on his lips before melting on what little warmth was left in his breath.
“Jo?” he wheezed.
The woman nodded once.
Stars danced as his vision blurred with tears that he could not feel as they froze to his face. All the words he’d wished he’d said to her, that last evening before she’d gone off to die, all the conversations he hadn’t come up with until after the funeral, all the lost moments that he’d imagined capturing after they’d buried the memory of her along with her body-- all left him, and all he could do was look up at her, his mentor, sometime hero, the friend he’d failed to protect, and he could say nothing.
“I missed you so much,” he gasped, finally.
With feather-light touch, she stroked his hair. “I’m sorry, Will. It was what I had to do at the time.” He felt her gaze slowly sweep over him, lying broken and bleeding in the snow, her smile slowly melting into sad resignation. “And this… this isn’t the end I’d wanted for you.”
He managed a weak, panting laugh. “I’m with you on that.”
Comforting hands on his shoulder again, warmth spreading down through his chest. “I’m proud of you.”
Tears stung his eyes again before lancing across his numb cheeks. “Did I do it? Dichter? Is he…” He broke off, coughing feebly.
The yellow-haired angel chuckled, and it truly was Jo’s laugh, low and earnest. “Doesn’t matter now, luv. Shh…”
It did matter, though-- he had to know, had to find out somehow. Jo was here, and she’d have to know, somehow; she always knew something beyond what the rest of them did, and he had to make her understand that he needed to know.
But even that conviction was rapidly sinking under the blanket of uncertainty and unconcern. There was a quiet in him, simple, plainly peaceful. He exhaled quietly, eyes unfocused on the dizzying blur of white that fell towards him, as if from another world.
From nowhere, a memory danced before him-- a young boy dressed in a set of mismatched rags, carefully filching a meat pie from a stall in a marketplace, basking in triumph as he withdrew unnoticed and unobstructed to enjoy his trophy in private, taking the thing down in swift fistfuls, basking in the warm glow of the highest success he needed.
A whole lifetime ago, that had been.
Warm lips gently brushed his forehead. “Always that boy, you’ll be,” Jo murmured lightly. “Forever and always and never again. Hush now, Will. We’re going home.”