SCARS
Teri

We are spinning our own fates,
good and evil, and never to be undone.
Every smallest stroke of virtue or of vice
leaves its never so little scar...

William James
(The Principles of Psychology)

---

Chapter One

"It’s beautiful, Vincent"

Catherine glanced about the vast cavern, wide-eyed with amazement. He’d never taken her so deep into his world before, and the hall now surrounding them stunned her with its raw magnificence. They had been walking for hours, to the best of her knowledge south and down. She’d tried to keep track, playing a little game with herself as they walked, and guessed they were somewhere near Chinatown by now, though that seemed of little significance given the depths they’d traversed during the last hour. The space before her was huge; she could tell that by sound alone, Vincent’s lantern illuminating only a small portion of the area surrounding them. The rushing sound grew stronger as they walked and she suddenly wondered if they could be at the very south end of Manhattan, near the pier, perhaps even beneath the shallowest edges of the water. The path turned to the left and Vincent pulled her back gently, drawing her against the far wall.

"You must be careful here, Catherine. The water is just ahead, and the way can be treacherous. Stay close to me."

"Are we near the harbor? Is that the sound I hear?"

"Yes and no. The water ahead flows from the harbor."

At that moment the dull rushing became a loud roar and Catherine gasped in astonishment as the path abruptly ended some ten feet before them in a shear drop-off that extended far beyond the reaches of their lantern. Vincent held her back with one arm across her chest, the lamp in his other hand held high. A small, involuntary gasp escaped her, the touch of his arm upon her breast distracting her entirely from the thunderous sounds just ahead. Her wandering attention was refocused, however, when Vincent scanned the lantern from left to right, the surging waters now in sight at the far end of the cavern. They fell in fathomless depths before them and disappeared beneath layer upon layer of rock and stone. The sight was something out of a fairybook, magical and illusive, despite the pounding power so evident at its source. Catherine stood frozen, speechless.

"It goes far below, Catherine. You would not find it again without a day’s walk down."

She finally found her voice. "Is this the river you told me about a few months ago? The nameless river you visit when you need time alone?"

Catherine hesitated over that last word, loathe to bring up those times of uncertainty between them now, when everything seemed to be going so smoothly.

Vincent, too, paused over his thoughts, attempting to lighten the memory of that last, self-imposed separation from her several months back. When he had finally returned, they’d met at the park, her gift of a first edition Tennyson overshadowed by the sudden intrusion of an otherworldly presence. Catherine could still find no tidy spot in her life or thoughts where Kristopher fit comfortably, but Vincent had no problem with the magic his existence implied. Kristopher’s painting of them hung in his chamber now, on the wall across from the foot of his bed.

Unbeknownst to the other, in their mind’s eye, each viewed that same image, the picture of them standing together, Vincent’s hold upon her both tender and fiercely possessive. Despite Catherine’s doubts and questions over Kristopher and his gift to them, she was inordinately pleased by its presence in that telling spot. Vincent’s voice broke through her reverie, his tones low and soft, yet clear to her.

"This is its source, yes."

They had decided to walk the outer regions today and had packed a picnic lunch. The decision to show Catherine this place had been quite unplanned. She was enjoying the day so thoroughly, Vincent felt it clearly; the time alone with him in his world filling her with a contentment and joy that had been missing since his illness.

Her worry had been endless then, fatigue and tension a constant companion. She had split her time between her office during the day and his world below at night, spending every free moment caring for him. It was only during this last week that Vincent had begun to sense a lessening of the tension within her, though he had felt fine now for weeks. She’d come down early today and they had slipped off before any claims could be made upon them, determined to have this day to themselves. They had been walking for over three hours now, but the time had flown by, a lazy contentment filling them both at this extended time alone. Before he’d known it they’d arrived in this region and then he couldn’t resist sharing the unique pleasure of the river with her; anxious to watch her response to it.

They stood quietly for several long moments, immersed in the sound and fury before them. Catherine felt that power vibrating through her, the smooth stone floor beneath their feet sending minute tremors upward where they began to surge and build within. The sensation was amazing and she suddenly realized that it wasn’t just physical; the bond itself seemed to be responding to that force, its normal low hum, so often below her sensory threshold, building to a pulsating rhythm whose presence was undeniable. The surging sensations were suddenly there, and growing so rapidly that neither had a chance to respond with any logical thought.

Vincent had experienced the wildly intense physical euphoria this place inspired, but never like this. It had never entered his mind that the river’s power could in any way effect the seemingly immutable nature of their bond. The rushing roar of the river mixed with the pulsing stream of their bond to throb through them with a mighty force that was overwhelming. His arms reached out to pull her close and hold her tight, that response irresistible and inevitable to him. The sensations coursed through them, leaving their muscles loosely weak with pleasure. Their senses were turned inward now, experiencing it all through the bond. Time seemed to be frozen -- they had no sense of it at all.

But in the next few seconds a series of events unfolded with a rapidity that astonished him whenever he looked back on this day. Later, he would review each tumultuous sensation in a tortuous slow motion, trying over and over again to change the course of those terrible minutes, but the outcome was always the same.

That fate unfolded now without hesitation. The rumbling beneath their feet grew and a sudden jolt threw them apart. Their eyes flew open with stunned disbelief, the withdrawal from the bond abrupt and complete. They were standing a mere five feet apart when it happened; the ground split open between them and the section Catherine stood on fell away, a jagged, new cliff face instantly formed.

"Vincent!" she screamed.

Their eyes met and held even as she fell. Vincent reacted instinctively, throwing himself to the ground and reaching for her frantically with an anguished roar. His fingers caught one flailing wrist and he stared down at her across the length of their two arms, the chasm beneath her feet disappearing into the distance.

"Vincent."

It was a whisper now, as much sensed through their bond as heard.

"Hold on, Catherine. I won’t let you go. Never!"

There was nothing to hold onto himself, his position precariously weak, but Vincent wouldn’t let her go, not without him. He slid forward until his upper chest extended over the edge, his other hand now reaching down to clasp her hand more securely.

Catherine stayed as still as she possibly could, trying hard not to disturb the mental and physical control he needed now to save them both. Death was certainly beneath her, but she wouldn’t look there, instead focusing completely on his blue eyes above. He held her with them as surely as he held her with the strength of his hands.

"Your other hand, Catherine. Reach up to me, slowly."

She did as he asked, trying to stay as steady as possible, never breaking the gaze that held her safe. Finally he held her by both wrists and began to pull upward using the strength of his upper body alone, his powerful thigh muscles tensed to hold them both in place upon that smooth piece of rock which was now their only salvation. It seemed to take forever, but finally she reached the rock ledge. Vincent’s stillness ended then. He pulled her up and over and threw himself backward against the far wall, clutching her tightly to him.

The steady power that had defined him a moment ago was gone now, his body trembling uncontrollably as he held her tight, crooning her name over and over again. Catherine’s hands gripped him fiercely, holding herself against him as if she would never let him go. She was turned in toward him, her face buried in the curve of his throat, a keening whimper vibrating against his feverish skin, her lips cold against him. But there was something else now, some stillness in the bond that drew his attention away from the gasping sense of relief filling him. It was coming from Catherine. He reached down with one hand and lifted her chin. The lantern lay several feet away but was amazingly still lit, and it dimly reflected Catherine’s face to him now. She was pale, her eyes tight with tension and something else... pain.

"Catherine?"

He whispered the question to her and that seemed to be enough. The stillness of the bond disappeared, replaced instantly with a flooding distress.

"Catherine!"

Vincent pulled back from her slightly and cried out in horror. Blood covered them both from breast to thigh, saturating their clothing completely. He pushed her to her back on the flat stone and knelt over her, frantically tearing at the gaping edges of her sweater. The blood was everywhere, but he could see its source clearly; a cut running along her abdomen on the right side. It was deep and long, the tough denim of her jeans slit open down the inside of her hipbone and over the curve of her belly, the sweater torn upwards to her breast. His hands closed over the gaping wound, putting pressure there in an attempt to stop the flow of blood, but he knew it would not be enough. The way-station, he had to get her there, and fast. He reached for her hands -- they lay limply at her sides now, her strength dangerously sapped -- and placed one against her ribcage, the other upon her belly. His eyes entreated her, his commanding voice something she could not ignore.

"You have to hold tight, Catherine. Do you understand? Hold tight!"

His hands released hers and Vincent swung her into his arms, a cry torn from her throat at the pain of that motion. By the time he spoke again they were already moving through the dim hall with unimaginable speed.

"I know it hurts, Catherine, but hold on, we’ll be there soon."

Vincent focused on the bond intently, giving her his strength with a force that stunned her. A moment before Catherine had felt consciousness slipping away, but that sudden surge of power filled her and she grasped at it furiously, needed it and him to hold her anchored. He didn’t speak again, all his energy directed to her through the bond, and on their motion through the tunnels, but she felt his frantic, terror-filled urgency, and once again tightened her hold upon her abdomen. The resultant pain filled her with a strange sense of satisfaction, with the knowledge that she was doing what he needed her to do.

A moment later Vincent turned down a side tunnel and ducked through a low entrance. The light from the lantern flashed crazily about the chamber as it dangled from the hand around her back. It wasn’t until he had laid her on the bed and placed it on a high shelf that the contents of the chamber came dimly into focus.

Vincent went to the foot of the bed and threw open the lid of a trunk that rested there. He pulled out a metal box and quickly came back to her side, setting it upon the nightstand. He lit a candle cluster sitting there and the black stains evident along her torso turned bright red, as if the very light itself drew the life force from her, the flickering flames somehow synonymous with her dwindling strength. Catherine still held her hands tightly against the wound, heeding his imperative commands even now. He gently drew them away and she gasped as she felt her flesh gape open and the blood flow freely once more. His hands trembled when they once again guided her own back to the wound, pressing them upon it.

"Just a few minutes more, Catherine. Can you do it?"

"Yes." Her voice was plaintive and weak, but her eyes never left him as he moved about the room.

Vincent returned to the trunk, pulled a deep, metal pan from it and filled it with water from a large container on the floor. He grabbed the torch from its wall niche, lit it and set it on a lower cradle beneath a tall tripod, then placed the pan of water over the flame and hurried back to her. He pressed his hands against hers for a moment, telling her without words to maintain the pressure, his fleeting touch immeasurably comforting to her. His hands rose then to tear open what remained of the ragged sweater and torn bra, pushing both aside to bare her chest.

Catherine moaned in pain and slid one hand up to cup the underside of her right breast, holding the cut closed against the soft curve of that sensitive flesh. The tear ended just beneath her nipple, and the blood oozed through her fingers to drip down her ribcage in seeping rivulets. She still felt the trembling in his hands, but his actions were swift and sure. He grasped the torn edges at the waistband of her jeans and ripped them apart until her whole torso and her right leg down to the knee were bared. The blood was everywhere, but she could plainly see the line of the wound as it wended its way down her ribcage, abdomen and belly. On her lower torso it curved inward to run parallel to her hipbone, just inside it, and ended at the edge of her pubic bone. The cut ran dangerously close to the femoral artery near her hipbone, but it was buried deep there, and she immediately realized that it must not have been cut, despite the large amount of blood upon them both.

Vincent had come to the same conclusion, but nonetheless probed the area of the artery where her thigh joined her hip to ensure there was no damage. He could see almost nothing through the blood, but his fingers located the pulse at the curve of her thigh; though it was dangerously weak, he felt no lost of blood from that particular spot. He hadn’t known he’d been holding his breath until that moment, the release explosive, his relief plain to them both. He moved back to the trunk and pulled a sheet from it, quickly tearing it into rags. He poured some of the heated water into a ceramic basin and dumped the rags into it, setting it upon the bedside table.

"This will hurt, Catherine. I have to clean the wound."

She didn’t reply, her strength fading fast. A moment later she gasped as she felt the heat of the cloth against the cut, the pain searing her anew.

"I’m sorry, Catherine."

She looked up at him and his eyes were full of tears, though the cloth moved inexorably across her torso.

"It’s all right, Vincent. You have to do it." Her voice was a weak and raspy whisper, barely penetrating the fog surrounding her.

Over and over again he rinsed out the rags, stopping at least three times to replace the bloody water in the basin. As he moved along the wound, he shifted her hands gently, keeping as much of the gaping flesh pressed closed as possible. Finally he moved away from her and she sighed in relief. He added more water to the metal pan on the tripod and ripped another sheet to rags, setting them aside for the moment. Then he came back to the bed and knelt at her side. Moving her hands away, he carefully inspected the wound. It was deep, close to half an inch along its full length, but thankfully no main arteries were cut nor was there any evidence of any severe internal injury. It still bled profusely and he knew he had to get it closed, and quickly. Infection would have to be considered later.

"You’ve lost a lot of blood, Catherine -- I’ve got to suture it closed. Do you understand?"

She blinked hazily up at him, his voice dim and far off. But she heard and understood. "Yes. Do it."

He nodded down at her, tears streaming along his cheeks. His pain was clear to her, even through her own, the bond open completely between them. She wanted to reassure him, but there was no time. He moved rapidly, his motions sure and calm, despite the pain and fear she felt from him. He poured hot water in the basin and washed his hands, pouring a liberal amount of liquid over them from a glass bottle when he was through. Even in her weakened state she caught the odor of the fluid and knew it was hydrogen peroxide. Next he picked up a curved needle and held it in the candleflame until it glowed a fiery orange. He pulled it from the flame and splashed some of the solvent upon it. Catherine heard the hissing of the metal as it was quenched by the cold liquid. He threaded the needle deftly and dripped the peroxide along its full length. Finally he turned back to her, ready to begin. His eyes met hers for the smallest second, then his right hand came to rest low upon her belly, the dark curls encrusted with blood beneath his palm. His fingers pushed the gaping wound closed for the needle.

Catherine gritted her teeth against this new pain, abruptly shocked back into full consciousness. Her muscles stiffened all along her length, but she wouldn’t cry out. Not for the world would she make this harder on him than it already was.

It took a long time. Later, Catherine would find that the wound had taken over a hundred stitches to close, though she herself lost count after twenty, the concentration required to control her response to the pain outweighing her ability to keep track of the stitches themselves. Instead she focused on the feeling of his right hand upon her as it slid upwards along her abdomen, holding the gaping flesh closed and covering the sutured wound comfortingly. When he reach the curve of her breast he paused for the barest second, then switched hands, his left cupping the roundness there, just above the end of the cut, her nipple pressed to the center of his palm. His fingers tightened upon the soft curve at the underside of her breast as he pulled gently upward to keep the line of the stitching straight and smooth.

It was awful. Vincent didn’t know how he had done it, inflicting that continuous pain upon her for so long. Beads of sweat dripped along the soft down of his face, but he stopped only when his sight was impaired, determined to end this torture as quickly as possible. When he finally reached her breast he knew he would have to switch to his right hand to suture that delicate flesh, the thought filling him with fear. From deep inside came two distinct images; one of him writing in his journal, his heavy, round fountain pen resting in his left hand, the other a hazy vision of one of the many times he had defended Catherine or his world Below, his right hand raised in a frenzied fury, nails smeared with blood He shuddered with terror, but went on -- he had no choice. The trembling terror he felt inside amazingly had no outward effect, his right hand sure and steady. The darkness within him had no doubts about what needed to be done, and finally it was.

Vincent sat back on his heels and leaned his head against the side of the mattress, relief throbbing through him at the completion of that horrendous task. He gave himself only a moment though, before continuing on; he wasn’t done yet, and she was still in danger, the wound severe, his supplies meager. He replenished the basin with hot water and washed the sewn cut out to five inches beyond the wound in all directions, replacing the bloodied rags with clean ones frequently. When no more blood was present on the cloth, he sprinkled hydrogen peroxide along its length.

Catherine’s strength was totally gone now, and upon the completion of the stitching she had fallen into a hazy state of semi-consciousness. The liquid was first cold, then burning hot, shocking her awake once more, and this time she was incapable of withholding her response, crying out as the pain caught her by surprise.

"I’m sorry, Catherine, but I’m almost through now."

She stared up at him and found the tears still there -- she wondered if they had ever stopped. She still felt his anguish and fear, but beneath it she sensed something else. What was it? She concentrated fiercely and then it came to her. Guilt. An agonizing guilt.

"No, Vincent, don’t." Her voice whispered out to him, full of entreaty.

He glanced up at her with a start, understanding plain in his eyes.

"It’s not your fault... it’s not."

"Shhh, Catherine. You have to save your strength." His voice, like hers, was a husky whisper, full of tears. "Sleep now, and I’ll watch over you."

And then she knew no more as darkness enfolded her.