Union: Chapter 8

I want to sleep the dream of the apples, to withdraw from the tumult of cemeteries.

-Gacela of the Dark Death,by Federico Garcia Lorca

“Catherine, you’re having a nightmare.”

She was trying to rise to Vincent’s soft but insistent voice before she seemed to realize she had escaped.

Vincent had been sleeping before her dreams awoke him. He had placed a long cot next to her, not willing to leave the hospital chamber but so achingly tired, the sleepless, searching nights finally catching him. She had moved to the very edge of her own bed, as if sensing his presence. She curled around their child, still wary it seemed, still trying to keep the baby safe. For long moments Vincent watched her, contemplating the miracle, before exhaustion finally took him.

Vincent had thought he was dreaming of light, of day, but he experienced a vulnerability, a susceptibility so unfamiliar, even the light had never caused him this much dread.  At once he realized it must be her dream, the fears her own. He never realized such a difference could exist between her psyche and his, but then he had never carried a life within him either.

“Vincent?” Catherine scanned the room disoriented, still half in dream, but slowly the sound of the ringing pipes, the underlying smell of the Tunnels, candle wax, dust, cool damp and time, eased her. She was with Vincent, and the Man couldn’t hurt her here. She had made sure he could never hurt them again.

Vincent helped her to sit at the side of the bed, and at this point she needed all the help she could muster. She hated this room - the hospital chamber, the small beds and metal tools - too many bad memories, too much death, blood and recrimination, and a reminder that she wasn’t whole, that she couldn’t control her reactions. Poor Eric, all she could remember of the child’s homecoming hug was his confusion when he encountered her swollen belly, then black. She was not “in control” of herself. A woman should be “in control.” It was a bred in belief of an East Side girl.

She rubbed her face with her hands, trying to let go of the dream…for herself, for the baby, and for Vincent’s sake. “How long have I been asleep?” She saw that another bed was pulled close to hers. He must have been resting, and she awoke him with her nightmare. She knew her agitation distressed him and their son. She placed her hands on her belly and felt the baby kick to remind her awake together was better than alone within.

“A day through, it is morning now.”

Vincent kneeled in front of her, taking her hands. “What did you dream, Catherine?”

“I….” Not knowing where to begin. It was easy to recall the dream. Her dreams played like living movies inside her mind, so real since becoming pregnant - too real. “I was in the park, I think. It was daytime, but it was…quiet. I was in a field surrounded by trees on a clear day. The sun was so bright and hot, I felt like it was burning me, reflecting from my body. It was just...too much light.” She still felt the searing sun, and the light radiating from her skin.

“Then these men were there, and I couldn’t get away from them. I don’t know who they were, but they held me down, and I knew...I knew I was going to have the baby, and I was terrified because this monster, like a dragon almost, appeared, but it was Him. I couldn’t scream. I think that was the worst part. I knew, just over the hill, just behind the trees, there was help if I could only call out for it, but I tried and tried, and...nothing.  I had no voice and He came close, waiting for our baby to be born.  He was going to take it, and...and then you woke me up.”   She shook her head, trying to shake off the vision of open jaws and a thousand teeth.

“I can feel your dream, Catherine,” he told her.  “I can sense the images on the edge of my mind, the heat of the sun, your fear of captivity...” teeth like swords reflecting the blinding light in a gaping maw, “almost like a faint taste on my tongue.”

“I’m sorry,” she said as she placed her hand on his cheek.  Did she cause him worry?  She already felt dependent on him, too dependent.  There were many things she would share with him.  This was one she wished he had no part of.

“No!” He cradled her hand upon his cheek.  “I feel...blessed...that I am bound to you again.  Since its return, the Bond we share seems stronger than before; it is welcome, no matter where it leads.  After so many days and nights without you...” He could not finish describing the hell of groundlessness and loss the last months had become.

“It is stronger for me, as well.  I feel it too...your presence in my heart....” She sighed.  “I need it,” a fact, “but I worry....”

He studied her again.  She seemed a shade more open to him than before, but she was still wrapped within herself, a tangled string.

“What is it, Catherine?  You know you can tell me anything.”

Could she tell him?  Would it hurt him, the truth of her pain which she knew must be so small, dwarfed compared to the torment she had caused him?

Calling from her tower cell, the taunting voice haunted her even here. “You didn’t keep his baby safe - all your risks, all your stupid mistakes.  He will hate you for them.”

“I’m sorry,” she began. “I don’t want to burden you,” she whispered.

I don’t want you to hate me.

“Please, Catherine.” Vincent spoke with a need, an earnestness she had rarely heard before.  He stood, walked away a few feet and then turned to her. Would he keep walking if she told him how unstable captivity had made her, the ordeal that she knew he would blame himself for?  He had turned from her in the past, when the truth was too much for him to bear.  She could take his anger, his sadness, but not his distance.

“I...I’m not sorry that He’s dead, Vincent,” she began, trying to find a balance she did not feel.  “He hurt me, he hurt our....” She couldn’t finish that. “But I feel...I feel cut off from myself, like part of me was born and died in that building, in that office, and that part , the part that’s lost, keeps me from being here…with you...I feel....” She tried to find the words.

“Inhuman.”

She looked at him, shocked he would speak so bluntly, so openly.  In the past, a truth like this, it would have sent him so far from her.

He went on, “You feel the human measure fading, and that truer portion is laid bare for the world to see.  Nothing can fully touch the images of the killing, the pain, and nothing will wash away the stain of it, even when you know the person you killed deserved death.  Part of you wishes there was another way, but the other half rejoices in your dark power, and glories in what you’ve done.”

“Yes...,”   she whispered.

“I have felt this,” he answered.

“Yes...” - astonished that he was so understanding, astonished that he was brave enough to say the words -  “and I put you through that! I forced you to save me.  We did good together, I know, but you have killed for me, so many times, and it nearly destroyed you, Vincent.  How can you love me...after I made you...after I....”

...after I put myself, and our child, in danger, and then killed out of anger, yes, but, also, out of shame.  The words remained unuttered, her fear of losing him too great to speak aloud.

He sat next to her on the little bed.  “For you, Catherine,” he took her hand in his, he stroked it, and she wondered if he was trying to rub away the violence she had committed, “...for our child, I would do so again.”

These were not empty words meant to appease her.  Catherine’s return, their child’s life, had codified an identity within his heart.  He felt no guilt, no sadness even, for what he had been forced to do to get her back.  He would keep them safe.  He was their protector, the lover, the father, and he would be that until the end of his days.

He went on, despite her anguish.  She needed to know.  “Your dream wasn’t wrong, Catherine.  The man that held you was a monster.  You killed a monster.” Slowly the anger rose in Vincent’s voice.  “I knew from your reaction to him, from what he said, and from what my own senses told me, he was wrong...as Paracelsus was wrong, twisted within his own world on his own truths.  He was everything malevolent, selfish….”

He paused, hoping his words reached her.

“You and I have killed with our hands; we share that pain.” He stroked her hand again. “For that, I am sorry.”  He stopped and looked her in the eyes. “But Catherine, know this: he was already dead, from the moment he took you....”

In a low, fierce growl, he spoke with his hatred, “The only thing that you did was save him from me.”

For a moment she would not move, ingesting his words, but then her head fell slowly to his shoulder and she let her tears fall.  He was adamant she had done nothing wrong, and a small part of her was assuaged by his words and by his love, but a part of her that still bled with shame, bled on.

“For you,” she echoed, past the knot of pain and guilt living at the bottom of her throat, “I would do so again.”

He sighed.  They would own this, together.  He twined their hands, his claws and her fingers intermingled, woven as one.  They were so different, he had always thought, but that was before....

“We do what we must, Catherine, for each other; we always have, and now…Catherine, this is what mothers and fathers do...” he whispered to her, trying to touch the disgrace he knew she felt, but he still could not touch.

“…we kill the monsters.”

[Painting at the beginning of chapter - The Great Red Dragon and the Woman clothed with the Sun , by William Blake, National Gallery of Art, Washington, D.C.]

Union: Chapter 9

“There's more beauty in truth, even if it is dreadful beauty.”

― John Steinbeck, East of Eden

Vincent felt Catherine begin to pacify, her quiet tears fading like an echo.  He had placed his arm around her and let the sadness move through her, without words. Her need at that moment was to give voice to her grief, not to try to assuage it.  It wouldn’t be the last time.  The sadness would take her again, he knew that, but the knots around her heart loosed a fraction.  It was all he could ask.

Catherine rubbed her eyes, looked up at Vincent and gave him a wan smile.  She was quiet, for the moment, just happy to be with him, the smell of him surrounding her, leather and cotton and wool, and what was uniquely him, spicy, welcoming.  It was a powerful anodyne.  It always had been, since the first moment she remembered waking to the dark with his voice and his scent her only anchors.

The Bond was stronger now than it had ever been. Her calming was easing him too, she could feel it, but with her pain subsiding, his root anxieties became plainer, a rough layer underneath his love.  Now more settled, she could sense the underlying unease in him, one they had not broached. Courage and care would be needed to allay his concerns.  She felt the deficit of one and the lack of time for the other.

“Vincent,” she asked, sniffing the last of the tears away, “can you feel the baby the way you feel me?”

He breathed out an enigmatic sigh.  His eyes squinted as he tested the depths. “Yes,” he placed his hand on his ribs under his heart, “here,...beneath my perception of you, a heartbeat, a flutter...as a moth carefully held in your hands.”

She smiled, nodding. “I can feel it too, his feelings, just like that….”  He watched the wistful smile float over her tired face as she, too, went within to feel, to remember. “When I first heard his heart, it reminded me of tiny hoof beats,” she said with wonder. “His heartbeat is so fast....”  Her joy at the memory, despite his knowledge of when and where she must have heard their child’s heart, felt like a warm breeze of spring when still expecting winter’s breath.  In her spirit’s survival he found a source of reverence and yet another of respect.

He was puzzled though. “It is extraordinary, that you are bound to him as well. But, Catherine, how do you know it’s a boy, your connection with him? I cannot tell this.  Is it mother’s intuition?”

She chuckled. “I doubt I have much of that.” Catherine thought back on how she found out about the baby.  Until the nurse at the hospital told her, the idea of a baby never even crossed her mind.  She should have realized that it was a possibility.  For months prior to Paracelsus’ last attack on them it had haunted her, the craving for Vincent, for all of him, and all that it might bring, a life together...a child, and his unspoken denial of all possibility. The unbearable need had brought her to the edge of desperation more than once, no matter how much she tried to stop it, no matter how she attempted to be patient.  Her want had grown despite the walls that Vincent and others - Father, Elliot, the world - had tried to place between them.  It survived Paracelsus, grew stronger - almost a fever to rival Vincent’s own by the time of his illness.  Their mutual need had progressed to where they could not stand still any longer, they could not stay as they were, no matter how much part of him begged to stay safely within the boundaries of a platonic love.  The other part of him wanted her, coveted every part of her, body, heart and soul.  She felt it, his dangerous, perfect love.  It pulled them, despite all protestations, in the face of every obstacle. It obliterated all ideas of past and future to create a ravenous now.

The Cave had been the fulfillment of her most powerful desire, but also her greatest fear.  He had died.  She could feel his soul’s retreat, as truly as he had felt her own when he called her back from the black water.  His death would have been the end of her life.  It was her greatest nightmare, to be alone, without him.  It was unendurable.

In that cavern everything they were had lain in balance, and she was not going to give him up, despite his wishes.   She pulled him back with her desire.  It was the only part of herself she had not given him, and only because he silently begged her not to.  The joining had been swift, only a taste of what they could have, but he had given her what she wanted: Him, blessedly alive.  Her prayers, said within his name, shouted in her mind, released in her kisses, had been answered by the universe.

The closeness of his death and his forgetting of her had thrust that time of heaven and hell, and all its possible consequences, to a land of dreams. Sometimes, in the darkest moments in the tower, after the injections and the sickness and the shouting and the slipping, she wondered if all of Vincent had been a dream, and she had wanted him a dream.  She needed to forget, to protect all the people of the Tunnels and Vincent most of all, yet the baby’s growing consciousness and her traitor love denied her even her good intentions.

“The man who held me, he would ask about you, ask me about who the father of His son was.”

He...Isn’t...Yours!  Let me go!

“It must have been terrible,” and another reason to hate him.

Catherine would not drown in the feeling, not now.  She felt strong, defiant. “It was.  I wanted to scream, all the time.”

“Scream if you want to, Ms. Chandler. No one will hear you.  No one will care.”

“I wanted to shout about how you would find us, about what type of man you were, how much better you were than all of them, but I didn’t.”       

“Where is he, Ms. Chandler?  I can end this.  Tell me.  Where is your lover?”

 “Most of the time, I tried not even to think of you.  I had to keep you safe.”

I will keep you safe, Vincent.  I will keep our dream safe. I won’t cry out.  I will stop calling for you, even in my mind.  I will forget you...I will forget me...so you will live.…

Injection after injection, question after question, promise after promise, I am nothing, I am no one... I am nothing, I am no one….

That time was over.  She was Catherine again - Vincent’s Catherine, as Mouse would say.  Vincent would help her remember, give her the power to remember herself.

She laughed at the pain.  “I had to keep silent, all the time.  Do you know how hard that is for a lawyer?”  He laughed too.  They could still laugh.  She loved everything about this man.  She loved who she was with him.

She went on, “I thought his belief, that the baby was a boy, might just be wishful thinking.  I’m sure that’s what he wanted, a son to give his empire, but there were tests.”  She shook her head as if in protest.  “They had so many scans and tests.  It felt like every day they had invented a new one, another prod, another poke, the vampires coming to take my blood....They never talked to me about the baby, about anything, really, no matter how much I begged and pleaded.  They hardly looked at me….” I wasn’t real to them, and I became unreal to myself.  What had He told them about her?  Was it disgust, or guilt, or fear of the Man that caused them to utterly disregard her?  From their faces and their silence, she could not tell.

I am nothing, I am no one….

She was fading again, but she stopped herself, thinking of their child.  She sat up taller, despite her burden. “I could see him sometimes, our baby.  I got very good at reading all those ultrasound pictures.  I am ninety to ninety-five percent sure we really do have a little boy, or...,” smiling, “...a little girl with a very small third arm.”

He should have smiled at that, but he didn’t, and Catherine was now certain she knew why.  He got up, and started pacing away from her.  Other than the scrape of his boots on the bare earth, they were silent, listening to sounds of pipes and trains for a moment.  Did she have the strength to say it, even if it hurt him, even if it could drive him away back to his aloneness for the safety of his soul?  There was so much they needed to talk about….so much they needed to face together, and they didn’t have much time.

“You’re afraid that I’ll die giving birth to this child.”  The true words reverberated in the silence.  She could feel them pulse through them both, striking a deep place within him, loosing something deep.

He stopped pacing; defeat took his strength; he sagged.  He did not look at her. “Yes.” Then he turned back to face her, completely exposed, arms open, “...and if I brought this to you?  If I, in my weakness, am the means of your death….”

“I can’t believe that, Vincent.  I was there.”  She stood from her seat on the cot, thinking of her words carefully as she slowly rose.

“Vincent, you have never given me anything but love and safety and healing.  You have given me so many gifts - your love the most amazing of them - but even if it were so, even if I died,” he flinched at her words, “then this is the death I chose.”

She was shaking, and she was strong.  She was nature itself, sublime, as beautiful and as terrible as a sea crashing over him.

“I could have stopped this; I could have, easily,” she placed her arms around the child growing in her, “but this was a part of you I couldn’t let go of.  It was selfish.  I took a part of you without your knowledge, without your consent.  I took the risk.  I was selfish.” She looked down to her child, and then back up into his eyes. “I am sorry, but I could not part with it.”

There was so much tenderness in her words, for him, for what they had created through loving one another.  It almost took his voice.  “The child kept you alive in that dark place...I know this; I feel his life within you, and I am grateful...but, if you should die, Catherine,” tears nearly overtaking him, “it will also be the day I die.”

She looked at her heart’s desire, with his feelings so open to her.  She would not be as open with him, and that saddened her. He did not understand, not yet, but, “There is a truth beyond knowledge...,” he had told her once, and she kept it close to her.   Is this what every mother knows, but keeps secret?  Did her own mother?  She let her love for Vincent and their child encircle it within her heart.  It beat troubled, yet resolute.

No.  You will live.   If our child lives, you have to.

She answered with the only truth she could to give him.  “If you had died in that cave, I would have died with you,” her voice low, strong with conviction.

He took her hands and pulled her in, enveloping her.

“‘The wheel is come full circle.’”* He said it quietly, into her hair, when she was encircled within his arms.

She smiled into his chest at his reference.  “I guess Shakespeare really did know everything.”

He loosened his embrace to look at her, his amazing equivalent, his chosen, his own.  “And we are on the same boat adrift in a sea of troubles,” he continued as he pulled back to gaze at her, brushing her long hair from her face.  She adored his intimate, familiar touch. “You are my life...,” he began, and added, almost in astonishment at her claiming of him in turn, “and I am yours.”

She nodded, afraid her voice would be gone if she tried to speak.

He haltingly drew close to her, lowering his face to her as if drawn by gravity, so slow, but certain, like a drop of water poised to inevitably fall.  Then his lips touched hers, she pressed herself into him, and he was lost to the reality of her.  She opened herself, opened her mouth, asking for him, and he answered, testing, then dancing with her, her tongue running along his sharp teeth, courting the danger, accepting it, accepting him, inflaming him further.

Starved for Vincent, for everything he was, Catherine drew her hands up and through his hair, pulling him as close as she could, given her current state. He wrapped his arms around her, bringing her against him. He felt her call, and gave back all the love she had given to him; it multiplied in the giving.  Like a dam broken, they kissed passionately, lips burning fire everywhere they touched - jaw, throat - almost losing themselves.  It was only their location and her present needs which kept them from taking kisses any further.  He lowered his head, gasping as she kissed his eyes, his forehead - a blessing - and then she gradually stilled, content to just breathe with him.

They stood that way for a moment longer, so grateful to have it.  He gathered himself with an unspoken promise that they would have time, they would be together, but now....

He took her hand and slowly kissed it, ready to lead her out of the hospital chamber.

“Where are we going?” she asked, smiling quizzically, although, in truth, she was happy to be leaving this room, and wherever they ended up would be fine as long as he was with her.

“Well, you need to use the...,” he couldn’t quite get past his reserve to speak the words.

“Yes, I do,” she laughed, astonished. “You could feel that?”

He nodded.

“Oh, Vincent, you are in for some stormy seas stuck in this tub with me. You may truly be the first father to ever really experience childbirth.”

He smiled a rueful smile, leading her to where she needed to go. “You could almost feel sorry for me.”

“Yeah,...almost.” She smiled.

*Shakespeare -King Lear Act 5, scene 3

Union: Chapter 10

This Chapter is Rated R for sexual situations

I bring you with reverent hands
The books of my numberless dreams

-William Butler Yeats, “A Poet to His Beloved”

“Why don’t you take Catherine to one of the warm springs,” Mary suggested as they sat together around Father’s counsel table.

So innocent an idea; for Catherine’s discomforts, Vincent was sure Mary meant.  So she can bathe was what Mary wanted, he was certain, innocent and yet...being alone with Catherine, in that place, and where that could lead, felt both dangerous and inevitable.

After waking from her nightmare, to her dream – Vincent with her, finally, hers - Vincent and Catherine’s morning had been spent in each other’s company, although not alone.  Mary and Father had found them early and kept with them, attempting to draw Catherine out of herself, assuring her, assessing her.  Vincent understood
Catherine’s contradictory annoyance and appreciation for them.  No one else came.  Mary and Father had clearly put the word out to keep the other Tunnel dwellers away, but they themselves would not leave.  They were Vincent and Catherine’s constant chaperones.

It wasn’t helping.

What had started as a single candle flame, sparked by Vincent’s confession and Catherine’s convictions, and most of all by their claiming of their mutual fate, quickly had grown into a conflagration.  They had built this pyre together, year upon year, throwing on it their desires, piling them high until what they had created was too large to even hope to control.

Not a small part of Vincent took comfort in the elders’ presence, but the other half chafed, wishing them gone, wishing only for her, and he knew Catherine felt the same, anxious in every sense.  So, throughout the morning, they took what they could get, either her arm wound around his, or he would encircle her waist, or guide her with his open hand upon her back; some part of them touched.

Vincent found he could not part from Catherine willingly.  Father had asked him to do so, for a few moments only, leaving her to Mary’s care.  They were barely a room’s breath away from one other, Father hoping, in vain, it soon became clear, to ask Vincent about a pressing repair in the eastern tunnels, but Vincent, try as he might to keep his mind on task, could not forget how close she was.  Catherine at the same time was speaking to Mary quietly, so quietly he couldn’t hear their conversation.  His eyes told him she was questioning Mary about something important; her lips spoke, but her gaze didn’t leave the floor.  What his heart discerned from her felt like anticipation…like hope.   And when Catherine had looked up, when their eyes had met, the need flared again, raging.

She must be close, his entire being demanded, the smell of her, the feel of her, as needed as air.

The chains of their former life, those that had held them apart for so long, were falling away, or found to be made of nothing but smoke, broken with a word or a look.  Catherine, his destroyer of certainties and boundaries, had a shattered one by simply being alive, and another without intention, and with every intention, by showing him her back as she changed gowns that morning – it lay bare and unmarred by him, open to him.

From their first moment together, love and protection had held sway over his emotions, but the new truth of how bound they were, the dreadful, beautiful truth that they were each other’s fully, had loosed a pulse previously suppressed by danger and damage.  The stirrings between them, dark and glorious, drew them, pulled them together.  It was a new type of chain.  Even now, sitting at the table in Father’s chamber, sharing a small meal of bread, cheese and what was left of the fall fruit, he could barely keep the fever in check.  He shuddered with the need to touch her everywhere, anywhere.  He steeled himself to be content with just her hand, held on his leg, covered by his own.

Just before Mary’s suggestion, Catherine had recounted the story of the last months, all of it.  She had confirmed Vincent’s memories of the tiny cave within the earth where she had bartered with Death for his existence, courted the edge of the abyss, and had brought another soul back with her.  By all rights he should have felt embarrassed at least at the recounting, but seeing her, alive and beautiful, all disgrace gave way to her strength.  He felt pride, and gratitude...and the echo of her desire, once again, for him.

Catherine had continued her story, her regret plain when she told them of waiting to tell them of her pregnancy.  He felt such desperate guilt from her as she spoke of John Moreno’s betrayal, of the investigation and the book, and where it was now.  This was a part of the tangle of emotions he perceived within her, the self-reproach.  Why? He had wished to reassure her, but before he could think of what to say, Father had urged her to continue.  She did, with a brief telling of her captivity, and underneath the words Vincent had heard what she did not say aloud, of the torment of months, the days upon days of aloneness.  She spoke of her captor’s death in the most surface of terms.

“I killed him,” she had said simply. “He can’t hurt us anymore.”

Father had looked to Mary, perhaps for reassurance that Catherine was strong enough to question, but he could not be put off, Vincent knew, Father’s natural fear for his son’s safety always his foremost motivation.  “But, my dear,” Father had fretted, leaning into her, his hand pressed over her free one, the other still safely held in Vincent’s care.  “What about records? You said he had cameras, tapes, maybe medical reports...."

“Perhaps I could try to search....” Vincent began.

He had barely spoken before she stopped him, her eyes wide, her fear evident to all.  “No!  You can’t go anywhere near that building! What if the guards are there, the police…Please, Vincent, we’ll find another way.”

Father had looked to his son, wanting to discuss it further, but her insistence had cut off all debate.  They had sat in uneasy silence until Mary’s suggestion.

Now, with the echo of Mary’s offer lingering in the air – take her to one of the warm springs…take her - they were faced with the freedom that privacy could bring.  Could he accept it, accept them as something they had never been previously to each other?  He knew he could curb the desire if he had to, for her, for her safety; he had so many times in the past, the denial of it felt almost like sanctuary, a familiar escape, but if she said yes….

But Catherine said nothing.  Instead, she only turned to him with a gaze that indeed asked for him to recognize their new selves.  She wanted them, she wanted him, and in that moment he found his answer and his courage in her eyes.  He had no words, at least none he would give her now, just a look of earnest and intimate promise meant only for her.  He rose from the table, turned and stood over her.  Her eyes still locked on his, the current between them racing and powerful, then he helped her off the bench.  They took their leave, briefly, with barely a mumble, and headed off in the direction of his chamber.

They walked in silence, still close to one another, but now not touching for fear of the fire taking over.  She walked in front of him, graceful despite the child she carried, but then she stopped, just for a moment, uncertain where he wished her to go.  She looked back over her shoulder, her hair a cascade of brown and gold in the torchlight, and he was nearly undone - by her beauty, by her gaze, needful and only for him.  He was about to reach for her when he heard others coming towards them from the opposite direction.  He seized her arm, gently but firmly, and placed her into a hidden alcove a few steps away, his body towering over hers, hiding her in the shadows, away from the light.  She was his, all of him required it.  The fierceness in him, now horrifically close to the surface, claimed her.  Vincent feared what would happen if forced to share her, even in friendly conversation.  He waited, wary, and the voices passed. Cullen? Kim? Rebecca? He could only care with the smallest part of him.  Catherine looked up from her hidden place under his protective body.

“Catherine?”- one last question within her name.  Could this be safe for her?  Could she stop him, please, if it wasn’t?

She reached for his head and brought him to her, and he was again lost.  He kissed her hungrily and felt her matching hunger.  Yes, she said without words. She would be his, again, now.

He drew away only to take her hand and stride as quickly as he thought she could on their present course.  He stopped her with a look that demanded stillness, just outside his chambers.  He let go of her hand reluctantly and tried, as calmly as he could while still feeling her desire’s blue flame arching to him, to gather what they needed…a lantern, soap, towels, clothes...and then, reaching for her as he brushed past, grabbed her hand again.   He led her to the warm spring nearest to his chamber.  He had never taken her here; fear of what it suggested had precluded it.  How much would he show her if he could, in the months and years from now, if only they had the time. She had given him time, time to remember, time to love her as he had desperately wanted.  His only dream now, to return that gift.

When he placed the lantern on the sand down the long curving hall outside the entrance of the cavern that was this warm spring’s home, she was perplexed.  Didn’t they need it?  But when he drew her into the large cave, she saw the natural light from somewhere high above, and he whispered, low and soft, answering her unspoken question, “For privacy.”  Why hadn’t she known that signal?  Had they truly never needed it before?

This place, she realized, was why they were all so clean despite the dust and hard work that went into daily living Below.  She had always wondered, with the want of precious fuel, how they supplied hot water for bathing, and he showed her.  It was a beautiful cavern of golden light, arches of stone and mineral, shadows and hollows.  Here there was grace and beauty that could only be held secretly in the heart when existing in the world Above.  Here cool stone, variegated with age and a myriad of substances conveyed by dripping water, created a natural cathedral.  Here all things seemed magically possible.

He led her towards an outcropping where the stone dipped into a shallow well and then dropped off, taking the wash water away.  Next to it sat a large enameled metal pitcher, a wood bucket, and a stone bench.  He placed their supplies next to them on the low bench and helped her sit.  He bent to her and unlaced her boots with an ease that belied the nervous energy she felt from him.  He pulled them off and then his deft and warm hands removed her stockings.  She should be cold, she marveled, but the currents here, all the currents, were all the warmth she could wish.

He helped her stand and began to unlace her homespun dress. The gentle scrape of his claws, the fur on the tops his fingers rubbing her skin, were almost too much to bear.  This was the dream she had caged in her heart for so long.  She looked down so she would try not to devour him again.  She felt his intentions.  He wanted her to feel clean first.  He wanted to wash away all the hurt and violence, before….

Vincent gently, reverently, opened her dress, parting each side with his hands over her pale shoulders, and carefully pulled it down her body, trapping her arms just above her breasts, seductively framing her shoulders and neck.  He left it a moment so he could experience a sight he had dreamed of, then carefully pulled the dress over the swell of her breasts, over her rounded abdomen, and let it fall.  She was naked underneath, and exquisite.  “The nakedness of woman is the work of God,” he recalled the line of Blake.  Blake was one of her favorite poets, and now, without the bitterness of unfulfilled dreams, could be his as well.  He would understand, with more than academic knowledge what it was to truly belong to a woman, and it was because of her.  He wanted to roar with love and victory.

She felt his joy, his triumph, and smiled at the gift that she could give and take from him, with him.

He studied her as he would not allow himself before, and she blushed under his gaze.  Her breasts were fuller, the tips darker, her body lusher, different from what he remembered, from what he imagined, but no less beautiful. He ran his palm slowly down her arm until he took her hand and gently led her to the shallow well where they washed.

He filled the pitcher and bucket with the warm water.  She watched him, his grace, his powerful movements now muted, precise in serving her.  She watched him watching her, the current still gnawing between them.

With a light touch of his fingers, he asked her to tip her head back.  He poured the water over her hair and began to clean it, soaping his hands and then gathering it and pulling through with his claws.  It was sensual and it was healing, feeling his claws moving through her hair, gently grazing her scalp.  He repeated his ministrations starting at her crown, then down her neck, pressing in with the pads of his fingers.   Months of tension eased underneath them.  He moved to her shoulders and arms and across the top of her collar bones, tracing them, gently sweeping over her bones with his claws, with a press and a light scrape.

Vincent hesitated, as a man who has been starved for food might hesitate at a banquet placed before him.  With infinite care, he lifted her breasts.  The tips hardened immediately in his palms.  To her, this was months of barely being touched erasing under his beautiful hands.  To him, it was exquisite torture.  He didn’t stay long there; the heat they created would override his good intentions.

More soap and he ran his hands over her belly, a crisscross of attention, over and around and across.  For a moment she felt a flare of anger, not at her, but for her, but then he slowed, eased down, breathing out the discord until he was simply caressing her abdomen again.  This is ours, he would have said if he could; no one should have touched you but those you asked.  His words, however, were lost in the feel of her skin.  She bent to him and kissed him for his intent, and while they kissed, just while they kissed, he placed his hand at the juncture of her thighs, over her, protecting, claiming.  She liquefied instantly into his hand, her legs weakening, but in the space it took for her to gasp at his assurance, he was down her legs.  He supported her there, clutching her as he washed her ankles and feet.  Finally, he traveled up the back of her body, over her rounded cheeks, and stopped at the expanse of her back.  He pressed his hands there, moving apart her worn muscles as he bathed her.

His touch was the most perfect thing she had ever known. How did he know what she needed?  No other man had treated her like this.  She stood amazed at his already thorough knowledge of her.  She felt the cord between them, his need vibrating like a harp’s strings, and realized…how could he not?  They were so much more open to each other now.  She felt his eyes all over her, learning her, loving her.  He rinsed her with pitcher and bucket, and she felt baptized, born again as his own.  It was his sacrament for her, a sacred thing, that he trusted her, trusted himself with her, a benediction.

She looked over her shoulder at him. “You’re getting wet,” she said low, not chiding.  Whether it was her words or it was the time he had already chosen, he started to remove his sweater and then his shirt, and then the rest of his clothes.  He had never done this while she watched, at least, that she could recall; their first time together was so urgent, she hardy remembered, as much as she had wanted to.  She was awed by how deftly he could undo the barriers between them.  She watched him out of the corner of her eye, aware of, and solicitous to his shyness with her.  He in turn looked to her so he would not lose his nerve.

Watching her was reward and penance.  She was a Botticelli’s Venus and Madonna all at once, a bringer of desire and life.  His hunger pushed him, her acceptance pulled him, and soon he was as naked as she and he was leading her down the carved steps into the spring itself.

Once they were both in the water, he gestured for her to swim freely.  She moved, not quite walking, not quite floating, into the deeper water, warmth and weightlessness easing her physical burden and building her desire.  She was free in all senses, free to be her.  He had given her freedom.  She could let go.

It was the beginning of bliss.

She turned to him, her hair slick against her head.  She took his work-roughened hand and placed it on her belly.  He molded around the curve of it.  Under his deft fingers he could feel movement, limbs, life.

“It’s you,” she whispered to him.  “It’s you, inside me.”

He was within her, and she wanted him there.  Knowing that he had been able to love her without pain or violence allowed him to love her now.  He caressed her a moment longer, and then slowly his fingers followed the swell of her belly, then over the curve of her hip, down, and then, moving around her to her back, he stroked his knuckles up and down her spine, causing the most beautiful, sparkling sensation that she ever experienced.  He could feel the ghost of his touch through her.  It was such a gift.

“I remember,” Vincent whispered into her ear. Her loving words reminded him, and he realized he had never told her.

She looked over her shoulder at him.  “You...,” she began.

“I remember,” he whispered, so close to her scar he could almost taste it on his lips. He slowly ran his knuckles again down her back, to her hips, sending more chills through her.  He felt her desire, the ache only he could fill, and her trust - more gifts.

“I remember everything…. I remember, ‘Yours....’”

The word echoed through her as he kissed her cheek, her neck.  It echoed as he took her with him to the side of the pool, as his hand moved up her thigh to her center and, with exquisite care, brushed his finger against her.

Catherine reached out to the wall to steady herself; she could hear herself make a sound between a keen and a sigh and could feel his reaction to it.  As he kept his hand there, unmoving, just holding, feeling her need build, as she allowed herself to finally let go, he could feel her word.

Yours. 

He felt her shatter from just his barest touch, and he knew what she had said was true: she was his, and she would know his answer.

Low, a growl, meant only for her, “Yours, Catherine….”  His words echoed all around her as he carefully pulled her leg up to a natural ledge in the water, as he gently held her hips, drew her body impossibly closer to his, and as he with infinite adoration entered her.

Bliss.

Union: Chapter 11

PG for very mild sexual references

“Love is not affectionate feeling, but a steady wish for the loved person's ultimate good as far as it can be obtained.”

― C.S. Lewis

After

Vincent had left Catherine in his chamber to get them some food with the most perfect ache at her core, gentle tightenings in her belly, but also with a panic slowly rising - the good and the bad always for them, it seemed.  Catherine tried to release the agitation, to stop it, telling herself, He will be back, he will come back, but her heart pounded a deafening rhythm within her body.

I can’t completely rely on him.  I have to get over this.  It isn’t who I am, dammit!  This isn’t who I want to be to him! Doesn’t he have enough to deal with?  Why should he have to endure my fears, my pain….

She moved towards the warmth of the brazier on his small table, trying to towel-dry her damp hair.  She drew within herself, breathing, focusing on the child within.

Vincent stepped into the doorway, tray in hand, but she didn’t notice him.  She stood almost transfixed, slowly drying her hair, staring into the flame, searching.  She remained lost within her thoughts until he placed the meal of Brunswick stew, bread, and tea on the table.  Heartbeat to heartbeat, something changed.  She had found a resolution, he could feel it in her, see it in her eyes when she looked up from the small stove, eyes that both thanked him but now held new questions.

Vincent moved the chair so she could sit, but also so he could watch her from his seat on the bed.  He now walked there and perched, half-sitting, half-standing, bowl in hand, bread within.

How many meals had they shared?  Not enough, he had told himself, faced with a kitchen full of choices.  He realized he didn’t know what she liked with any certainty, and choosing had proved even more complicated by her pregnancy, how it might affect her tastes.  What would she want?  He could only resolve to return to the kitchen again if the stew didn’t appeal to her.  He had to get back.  Her agitation was palpable, pushing through his thoughts, becoming his own.

A smile thanked him and for a few moments they ate in silence.  It was not a contented quiet, only a resolved one.

Finally she softly spoke. “Vincent?”

“Hmmm....”

“Why...why did you...what I mean is...why have you stopped fighting me?  Over us...being together, I mean.”

He lowered his bowl, also trying to find the right words.  After a moment, he simply stated, “I believe, now.”

She required more than that.  She asked him to go on with her eyes.

“I understand who you are, better...than before...” - his eyes motioned to the child within her.  “You have survived everything,” may she keep on surviving, “everything, including me.  I knew you said you loved me, that you were not afraid of…us…, but until you brought me out of my illness, until you walked into that cavern....” He sighed.  He wasn’t explaining it right. “It’s the difference between reading a novel when you are young and being told the meaning, and then with knowledge and experience, revisiting it and truly comprehending the essence in the words.  You told me we had no limits, but I could not quite believe.  Now, I understand who we are, together, the significance of it.”

“I think, I said that there are always limits in life, Vincent,” she corrected him, “but, I would take you and your life, and it’s limits over any man in the entire world, especially if you…umm…make love in such a ‘limitless’ way all the time. ”  She was embarrassed to say the words, but she wanted him to know how amazing he was, especially in an area he had so little experience.

He hesitated in response, clearly abashed. “Well, I…I took you at your word, that it would be all right to...make love to you.”

“Mmmm, I did wonder that myself, if it would be safe,” she explained, “but Mary said it would be all right, good even,” she finished before taking another bite, trying to hide her smile.

Vincent nearly choked. “Mary?  She told you...you asked her...”

“Mmmm,” Catherine assented.  “Mary encouraged it.”

Why don’t you take Catherine to one of the warm springs.

“But.…” He remembered and nothing would come out.  She had, once again, left him speechless.

Catherine couldn’t help but laugh at his consternation.  “Oh, Vincent, you can never underestimate two things: What women will talk about, and the…umm…drive of a woman in love with you.”

He laughed at her gentle admonishment and finished his stew.  He would certainly need his strength for her.

***

They finished their meal, and had taken time to discuss how to get a message Above.  Catherine was back to thinking, her eyes focused on the steady flame of the brazier, her fingers trying to ease through her lightly damp hair.

“Do you have a brush, Vincent?”

“Of course,” he answered, stepping to a drawer in the corner.  She wanted more than that; he could feel an inquisitiveness about her, but he would wait until she told him, or showed him.  It was a dance, them together, he realized, asking, leading, but also learning to move together, seeking where they should go, and trusting her to lead their life at times.  It was hard, against his instinct to let go of control.

“Do you dance?” she had asked him last winter.

Yes, Catherine.  For you, I will.

Father had sent them word through a very excited Kipper.  There would be a council tonight about her staying in the Tunnels.  They had never discussed it.  Father had assumed, correctly in this case, but it seemed they should have had some sort of formal asking.  They had gone so slowly, with such care, for so long. This new pace of life was akin to holding on to the top of the speeding subway car.

He stood before her, the brush in his outstretched hand, waiting for her to take it.  She looked up into his eyes.

“Brush my hair?” she asked, almost reticent.

He could feel her leading him somewhere.  The dance had begun.

He said nothing, but moved behind the chair and lifted a lock in his fingers.  He started at the end, but after months of growth, broken strands and little care, he encountered a snarl almost immediately.  Her discomfort stopped his hands. He nearly dropped the brush.

“Vincent,” she looked up at him, with the slightest hint of amusement shining in her voice, “you have to hurt me a little, or we aren’t going to get anywhere.”

He hesitated, but she preceded him, leading him down a path he did not recognize.  He would try to follow.

He lifted the lock again and slowly stroked down, teasing out the knots.  It hurt.  He tried the next, holding the lock higher, tight within his fist, than brushing, hoping to save her from any discomfort, but there were just too many snarls, especially underneath, where he could not stop the pulling.  His hand was shaking.  It wasn’t the pain, of course, that troubled him.  He daily ripped brushes through his own hair, but causing her pain…. Why was she asking him to do this?

“Vincent?” She didn’t turn to look at him this time, but seemed to be studying her lap.  “Can you shut down our bond so this won’t hurt you as much?  It will help.  You can do what needs to be done.”

It took him the briefest moment to understand what she was asking, but when he did he threw the brush across the table in complete rejection of her request - the spoken and unspoken.

“No, Catherine!”  Vincent’s anger could not be curtailed, and it radiated through her.  He could see it almost broke her confidence, but the baby kicked her, her hand immediately stroking their son’s sheltered body, and her conviction renewed.

She didn’t see him, her eyes only forward.  “Vincent, I need you to be able to shut it off.  It has to be done.”

He turned and crouched in front of her so she was forced to look at him.  “Don’t ask this of me.  I will take any pain.  Catherine, don’t ask me to walk in that grey world again.  I cannot endure losing you....” His voice fell to a whisper, his body shaking against the onslaught of her entreaty.

She took his hand into her lap, trying to comfort him, trying to make him understand. “Vincent, I am right here.”  She squeezed, showing him her reality.  “I won’t be lost!  I am here with you.  I know you’re scared, but I don’t plan on leaving you...or our son.”

“You have asked me to share everything, Catherine, all my pain, with you.  Please don’t ask this of me,” he whispered.

You cannot endure this alone.  I won’t let you.

She frowned.  She lifted her chin and gazed straight into his eyes.  Her expression could almost be called cold if he didn’t feel the love behind it.  He wondered if she knew how she appeared when sure of her course: like an angel, but a fearful one.  “This is what I ask of you, Vincent.”  She would not budge on this, but then her expression softened.  “Please, do this, for me.”

He stood, retrieved the brush from the far end of the table, and brought it back to her hair.  It took him almost an hour, but he was able to learn to shut her out of his heart, to shut out her pain, if need be.

When he was finished, he was shaking once more, his strength at its limit.

He placed the brush on the table and walked away.  He would not look at her.  Catherine almost cried at what she had done to him, would do to him, and without their connection he had no idea the anguish, the turbulence this caused her, the confusion of her emotions.  He couldn’t know how desperately sad it made her to push him away like this, but it had to be done, didn’t it?

“Vincent, I’m sorry....”

He opened the corner drawer the brush had come from, placed it there once more, and pulled out a small silver hand mirror.  A tiny crack marred the corner, tarnish had blackened the scroll work, but in all other ways, it was serviceable, lovely even.  He allowed himself this mirror at least, she thought.  There had to be a story wrapped within its whirls of darkened silver, hidden as it was, like a guilty treasure, but this was no time to ask him.  He brought it to her, and this time she would take what he offered.

He placed the mirror face down on the table for her, but before he could move, she grabbed his hand with both of hers.  “Please, Vincent, please understand....”

Before she could go on he stopped her words with a kiss on the tresses that had caused him such turmoil.  Like a warm rush of air, she could feel him return to her heart, and she knew he could sense her again.  They were open to one another.  Without words he forgave her and told her he understood.

“I have to talk with Father...about tonight,” he said into her hair.

She nodded, accepting.  He gathered his sweater as she picked up the mirror from the table.  She held it up to herself to see what he had wrought.

“Oh, Vincent,” she called him before he could go.  He turned to her and she smiled in her now too-familiar sad way.  “See what beauty can come from a little pain.”

He kissed her again before he left.

Union: Chapter 12

“Our doubts are traitors,
and make us lose the good we oft might win,
by fearing to attempt.”
― William Shakespeare, Measure for Measure

She had tried so hard to stop.  She knew he was rushing back from talking with Father, rushing back to her, because of her.  She could hear him running in the corridor, anticipate his approach in her heart, but she couldn’t stop.  Every time she did, it only made the panic worse.

“Catherine?”

She had been walking, pacing.  She was nervous, and in her nervous state she was counting steps again – ten steps one way, fifteen the other.  Counting had been one of the only things she could do in the tower, counting the buildings - on a clear day she could see fifty-three - the windows, the clouds, the footsteps across her room.  It helped a little to keep the ghosts at bay.  Feral dogs of memory and uncertainty bit close to each footfall, of course, just out of the reach of her pacing.  Only when Vincent was near did they cower, but, to her humiliation, their chase renewed as soon as he was out of her sight.

It felt like weakness.  It felt like failure.

“What’s wrong?”  Out of breath, he questioned her.  For the second time that day she had fallen into agitation and dread when he was not with her, and for the briefest moment he could discern what haunted her - the sadness, the fears, disappointment, and guilt - but then she gathered them in, pages he was not allowed to read, and crammed them deep down as far as she could.

“Nothing, Vincent.  I’m fine.”

“Catherine you are...” distraught, troubled…

…and lying to me.   “Please tell me.”

“Vincent, I know that you can feel….” She didn’t finish.  She exhaled and dropped her head as she pulled herself in tight.  She looked back into his eyes, determined.  “I can handle it, Vincent…I can fight it.”  She was fighting, but as Boadicea against the Legions, running and battling the memories that tormented her, even here.  She would soon be overrun.

Her “protector”?  His deeper thoughts mocked him.  How can you “protect” her from this?  The fear, the shame, the panic nearly courses through her blood, and she won’t even allow you to see it, much less help purge it.

“Please…” she begged, “this is about us tonight,” it can’t be about me.  “We have to get going,” she reminded him.

He wanted to tell her damn with the meeting.   He wanted to hold her, shake her, compel her to give up her secret heart, but a perverse courage arising from frustration filled him, and he knew it wasn’t his own.  She wouldn’t speak of it, not now.

This is only postponed, he promised and warned himself.  With the barest resigned acceptance he capitulated to her logic and let her lead them again.

He tried to let go of his own frustration with his breath. “Are you ready, then?” he asked.

She smiled, trying to tame him, hiding everything she could behind it. “I think so, but it’s going to take me a little more time to get there than it used to,” she joked.

“Don’t worry,” he said as he extended his hand to her. “I doubt they can start without us.”  She took his proffered hand, and allowed him to lead her to the Council chamber.

Catherine took stock of Vincent with all her senses and found a nervousness that rivaled her own; it didn’t surprise her in the least.  She thought he might feel this way, had worried on it in his absence.  She had tried to tell him they were in this together, but he might not see it that way.  This Council wasn’t just about her or their child.  It was a test of his entire life.  This was his community and his home, the people he had grown up with, had loved and been loved by, his family. This meeting was as much about his illness as her staying, a test whether they accepted him and, at least in his mind, forgave him his nature.  It was his differences, and her love of them, that were on trial here.  Could they accept him and everything he was, his fierceness, his ability to kill, his “Otherness,” and call him a man, able to father a child?

She placed her arm in his as they walked at her pace. “You’re worried,” she told him.

“Is it that plain?” his low voice asked her, and his unasked question, Would it be evident to everyone?

“Well, you know, I cheat,” she smiled; Evident only to me.

“Ah, yes...the lawyer,” he quipped.

She chuckled at his little joke, his very little joke.  Like his touches, they were getting a little less formal, and it cheered her.

It took him a minute to find any more words.  His uncharitable self was still angry for her withholding and therefore did not want to discuss this, quid pro quo, but his logical half understood why she was fighting alone.  She wanted this Council; she wanted to be ready…whatever happened, whatever came.  Every other feeling was simply inconvenient now, but could they afford to wait to confront these demons?  He couldn’t know, and when in doubt, he fell back to his core.  “I love you.  You know that,” almost a question.

“Of course I do, Vincent.” She smiled her enigmatic smile, joy shining though her words, tramping down any discord. “And I’ll tell you a secret,” she whispered loudly. “So does everyone else.  It’s kind of hard to miss.” She ran a light hand over her abdomen.  No more hiding.

“Yes.” He breathed out a short laugh, but then apprehension stole any mirth. “Catherine, what if...? What if they are afraid?  What if they cannot accept...” he began, but could not speak the words.

She found it difficult to believe that he harbored such fears - he was so loved here - but she also knew he was waging war against a lifetime of doubt.  And it was true, there were those that might not understand, would not understand; it had happened in the past.  The darkness had concealed him, kept him safe, both of them safe, but their love could not be hidden now.  They were easy targets.

Catherine answered him gravely, “They should be afraid, but not of you, Vincent.  Most of the men that abducted me are still up there,” she answered, completely sidestepping his worries, mostly because they were almost certainly unfounded, and also, well, she was a lawyer.  Redirection was, literally, her job, and her own fears too close not to give some voice.  “They could try to track me…us here.  I never wanted to endanger the Tunnels this way.  I would rather find someplace else to hide than see this place threatened....”

“And you know that I will never leave you,” he answered her, not breaking their stride, as if this was so elemental there was no need mark the statement. “I cannot.”

“I know,” she said, letting her head fall to rest on his arm.  “I never imagined you might have to make a choice.”

He dropped his gaze to the woman who placed herself on his arm and in his care. “But it would be the life I chose, Catherine.”

“Touché,” she acceded with a sad, ironic smile, “but it’s not the choice they made.  They exist, in part, because of you.  They love you, all of you, Vincent.  You are integral to them.”

“And so are you, Catherine. You will see.  Come,” he pulled her a bit, their goal almost in sight, “they’ll wish to start soon.”

Only they had started.  As they rounded a corner, the couple could hear Father’s cultured, clear voice explaining to the Tunnel dwellers what Catherine had told him earlier that day.

“...the man who kidnapped her was the head of a vast crime syndicate.   He had taken Catherine to discover what she knew of his operations.  However, when he found she was carrying Vincent’s child, he wanted the baby for his own.”

There were angry shouts from the crowd for the man that had threatened Vincent’s child, and it was a crowd, taking up every free space the chamber offered.  Catherine had never seen so many Tunnel dwellers.  A quarter of them she barely recognized, and another quarter she didn’t recognize at all.  It was a much larger group than she had ever imagined.

Father went on, “He is dead now, killed when Catherine and Vincent escaped him, but that does not mean that his evil cannot still reach us.  Catherine’s own boss was a part of his operation.”

“You mean Maxwell?” Out of the crowd came the disbelieving and angry voice of Sammy, the sandwich maker and sometimes courier that had brought her messages at the office.

“Ah,...no...Samuel,” Father answered him, “the head District Attorney, John Moreno.”

Catherine flinched at his name.  His betrayal still hurt, even after so many months.  She imagined Moreno had his reasons for giving her up to a madman, maybe even ones that allowed him to sleep at night, but his duplicity undermined her spirit almost as much as her imprisonment. His betrayal called into question everything she had done since she had joined the D.A. and, in turn, the danger and anxiety she had put Vincent through.  She knew she and Vincent had done good, saved people, but what if that good was overshadowed by the corruption?  Moreno’s name tasted like ashes in her mouth.

Father continued, directing his comments to the rest of the community, “...which underscores the severity of this situation. This man who took Catherine could have had hundreds on his payroll.  He boasted that he controlled judges, police.... It is not yet safe for Catherine to take her place Above again, and if she is traced here,” he opened his arms in a helpless gesture, “it may not be safe for any of us.”

There were murmurs and some grave faces.  Catherine could see that some wished she hadn’t brought this trouble to them.  She wished that too.

“However,” Father, in a voice that spoke with ceremony and tradition, continued, “for a person to be brought into our community, a vote must be taken.  This must be a decision we all make.”

“Father,” Catherine interrupted before ceremony could take over, “may I speak?”

“Of course....” A little taken aback, he]yielded the floor to her.

She left Vincent’s side and walked forward.  She was quiet for a moment, dropping her gaze to the floor, and then looking up, trying to speak her heart, as Father had once suggested to Lena.  “I never wanted to put any of you in danger, but I fear I have.  This man that I was investigating was a very powerful and dangerous criminal.  I found that out too late, and it cost me a great deal.”  She looked down again, the weight of her sadness and worry a physical thing.  Unconsciously she brought her hand over the curve of her belly.  “I don’t know if, or how, he can threaten you now, but I do not want his evil to touch you here in this place of safety.  I would rather try to find another place to hide than to bring harm to any of you.”

Father was dumbfounded, and a gasps and “No’s!” could be heard in the hall.  Vincent had never discussed this possibility with him.

“Catherine,” Jamie called.  She stood on one of the spiral stairs.  She spoke loudly, so all could hear, but she directed her words to the woman below.  “We take care of our own here, and...well...that’s… I’m sorry, but that’s just stupid.  You’ve been a part of us for a long time.  You helped whenever we asked.  We searched for you, just like Vincent, because you’re important to us.  I’ll fight if I have to, for you, and Vincent, and your baby.  You need to stay here with us.   There is no better place for you Above.  Your home is here.”

Mouse, who stood behind the fierce young woman, patted her on the back in approval.  Many assents from around the chamber followed her speech.  Catherine was humbled; her idea of leaving them seemed naive now.  Jamie was right.  There was no better place for them.  These people would never give up Vincent or his child, and in turn, they would never give her up.

“Thank you, Jamie,” Father said, hitching himself over to Catherine and placing his arm around her, unconsciously comforting.  She was grateful for the support. “I know many of you feel this way, and have echoed Jamie’s sentiment to me in the last few days.  However, we need to vote, man, woman, and child; all those in favor of Catherine being taken fully into our Community, raise your hand.”

Every hand in the hall went up.

Father was moved by the deep affection his community had for his son, by their acceptance of him and his chosen love.  John and his mercenary ideas seemed so far away from them now.  “Then it is unanimous, as I knew it would be,” he said to Catherine, and embraced her around her shoulders as a way of welcome.

“And now, we must discuss security...,” Father continued, and released her to Vincent’s care.

Vincent had held back until then. It was true, the outcome was usually set before any assembly.  These meetings were merely a last chance to examine motive, attitude, and obedience to the high standards that made life in the Tunnels possible.  Few who were brought for a vote were turned away, but few were accepted without any question.

Vincent’s intellect, his power, his very nature had always been celebrated, glorified
even, within the councils, but that was also isolating.  Unknowingly, his family respected his “otherness” and the objectivity that stemmed from his singularity. This day, they showed he was something different to them, not the counselor or, as in Father’s estimation, “the truest and the strongest” voice.  Today, all he was to them was a man asking for his beloved’s sanctuary.  When Father gently guided her back to his protection, he took her hand and kissed it for the sheer, blessed ordinariness that she brought to his life.

The meeting went on with talk of more sentries, more false ends, rock falls, and shoring up entrances, especially near the 39^th and 6th and the other routes near the midtown area.  Mouse had ideas, only some of which were outrageous and cost prohibitive, but soon plans were agreed on and the meeting was over.

The Tunnel dwellers took their leave of Catherine and Vincent with congratulations and hugs.   An impromptu receiving line formed.  Pascal mutely embraced her and rapped Vincent on the arm before taking his leave.  Jamie wanted to apologize for her harsh words, but Catherine wouldn’t hear it, and Mouse greeted her with, “Catherine, wow, look different!”  He was immediately slapped on the head by Jamie and pulled away to where she would undoubtedly have a few words for him.  William promised Catherine special cakes and Olivia teas to help with the pregnancy.  Lena brought over little Cathy, although the baby, cranky from an upset sleep schedule, did not seem in the mood for reunions.  Lena promised to bring her the clothes that the baby had outgrown as she whisked the crying child away.  Mary had just begun to talk to Vincent and Catherine about the birth when Catherine asked to excuse herself for a moment.  Vincent worried that after so many months, all the attention might be too much, but he stayed silent as he watched her walk haltingly up the stairs at the edge of the hall, following a group of children getting ready to leave for bed.

“Eric?” Catherine called into the group.  In the midst of a din of children, the little boy turned to her.  He was still so small to her eyes.  She worried that the early neglect he suffered had stunted him, despite the attention he enjoyed now.  His glasses were much too large for his face; when…if…she got a semblance of her old life back, she would try to get him some new ones.  She tilted her head and asked, “Can I speak with you?”

He shyly moved away from the crowd towards her as she, in turn, slowly walked to the pack.   Many people in the hall stopped to listen, but that was beyond Catherine and Eric’s notice.  For a moment he studied her, his face reflecting half hope, half apprehension, but quickly concern for her overruled all.  He was such a loving child, despite his terrible young life.  Her decision to bring him and Ellie to the Tunnels had cost him his sister, but she prayed he would be saved.

“Catherine, are you okay now?” he asked.  Clearly the way she had reacted to his welcome-home greeting still worried him, as she knew it would.

She didn’t know how to answer.  He deserved truth, all children did, as much truth as adults could stand to give. “No,” she told him.  “But,” she added with a small smile and a voice just above a whisper, “I think I’m better than I was.”

She opened her arms to him - a request - and he rushed headlong to them, offering all his love and trust.  She gathered him close, and he placed his cheek next to where the child grew under her heart, and they stayed there, enjoying a moment hard-won for each.  They held each other, unaware of the smiles and a few tears that were being shed around them, but then, in surprise, he broke away.

“Hey!  The baby kicked me!”

Catherine laughed, and all the children flocked around her.  Vincent could hear Samantha’s excited voice. “Can I feel too!”  Geoffrey who followed Samantha in all things, crowded in as well.  Marvin, Maria, and Zach weren’t far behind, along with half a dozen other children, cooing and gathering around Catherine.  Vincent was relieved that she seemed supported by their attention rather than overwhelmed.

While Catherine was engaged with the group, Vincent sought out Sammy to give him the note that Catherine and he had decided upon that afternoon.  He prayed their faith was well-placed.   Just as he was finishing his request, he heard a rush into the chamber.

“Jacob!” The call echoed through the hall.  Peter appeared, dressed in his work suit, pulling off his fall jacket, papers held aloft in a gesture of victory. “I need to talk to you and Vincent and Catherine.  Mary, you come too.” He beckoned them into Father’s private chamber.

Catherine extricated herself from the children’s loving touches and grazes on her belly and carefully made her way down the stairs, each step onto the metal grates a lesson in faith.  She couldn’t see her feet.  She could only pray nothing had changed since she walked up them, and with as much confidence as she could muster, she made her way down towards Father’s private chambers on the other side of the hall.

Peter was placing papers down on a worn desk as she entered the room, followed closely by Vincent.  As soon as Peter finished his frenetic organizing, he turned to them.

“As you know, Jacob, I took a sample of Catherine’s blood back to the hospital for a type and screen, just to confirm what I had in my records.  I was going to bring down some blood to have on hand for after the birth, just as a precaution,” he explained.  He turned to Father. “But Jacob, it all reacted.”

Father was stunned.

“What does this mean?” Vincent asked, concern already coloring his voice.  Catherine didn’t even have to feel it through their connection.  She knew the tone well enough.

“What it means, Vincent,” Peter explained, “is that according to my records, Cathy‘s blood type is A positive, but her blood isn’t compatible with A anymore - in fact, not even with O negative.  It shouldn’t react, but it does.  It’s almost unprecedented.”

“And probably too close to the birth to even attempt an autologous donation,” Father concluded from the information revealed.  Downcast, he opened his glasses so he could look at the papers.

Catherine had never understood why the doctor had wanted so much of her blood during her captivity.  Now it was becoming clear.

Vincent turned from Peter, from all of them.

“There’s more though,” Peter went on. “Take a look at these, Jacob.”  Father picked up the printouts.  “I took what blood I had left to my friend at Columbia.”

Father looked up in dismay.  Peter put up his hands, trying to soften his friend’s fears. “Don’t worry, she owes me, and she knows how to keep a secret.  I helped her get her lab there.  She did some more sophisticated tests, absolutely hush-hush, I promise, Jacob.”

“I don’t understand.  What do these all mean?” Mary waved at the papers on the table and in Father’s hands.

Peter turned to Catherine. “Catherine, it’s incredible.  Your blood is completely unique.  It shouldn’t be possible.”

Catherine believed she could grasp the rudiments of what Peter was claiming, but it didn’t matter.  Didn’t he see that?  Her baby mattered.  Vincent mattered.  More to the point, Vincent’s quickly rising temper mattered, and Peter’s long-winded explanation wasn’t helping.

Peter went on, oblivious to her and Vincent’s distress. “You should either be dead or have lost the baby by now, but you haven’t.”

This wasn’t getting better.  Dismay and shock were multiplying Vincent’s growing rage.

“Peter.” Catherine tried to be calm, but the radiating energy, the angry heat coming from Vincent, made that almost impossible.  Didn’t any of them notice?  “Your physician is showing.”  She exhaled an exasperated sigh.  “Just tell us what it means.”

“In cases where fetal cells mix with the mother’s blood it can kill the mother, in rare cases...” Again, he wasn’t making this better, Catherine thought.  “...but more often, it can set off a reaction in the mother’s immune system to fight the intruder cells.  The mother makes antigen D that can attack and kill the fetus. It does look like you mingled blood at one time, maybe when you were abducted, but...”

The black and blood-red emotion that rose from Vincent paralyzed her.  Peter didn’t even recognize it when he gently grabbed her arm in his enthusiasm.  “...and this is the amazing part, your body didn’t fight the baby’s blood, it changed to accommodate it!”

Vincent’s hand slammed down on the table, nearly smashing it in two, causing papers to fly up and some to scatter off the surface.  Catherine had known the outburst was coming, she had felt it build until it had nowhere else to go but through his body, but she still startled with the rest of them.

This was all he needed, a reminder of his differentness, proof of what his love could do to her.  This was a hundred steps back for them.

“Vincent, this is good news,” Peter tried to console him. “I can only guess this means her body wants to have your child.”

“And yet there is no possibility of a transfusion should she need it!” he yelled at the doctor, arms wide with incredulity.  He looked at Peter, mystified. “You are amazed by this, but all I can fear are...possibilities....” And with that pronouncement, he barged past them all and out of Father’s chamber.

Catherine couldn’t even think of going after him.  She knew...she felt, he didn’t want that.

He was angry at her, and at himself, always.

It was her greatest fear realized, and she felt herself vanishing again under the weight of it.   He had left her, despite his promises, and she was to blame for his leaving.

Her blood had betrayed him.

Click here for Part Four...