For No Miser’s Sake

By Kuliundheft

Part VI

When they were alone, Father stood and took his black bag down from its shelf. He beckoned Vincent to sit and prop his arm up on the table. Father unwrapped the bandage with a few vague admonishments about the sloppiness of it. While he examined the cut, Vincent made no secret of how much the prodding and cleaning hurt.

“It’s deep,” Father finally said. “But with your metabolism, it should heal quickly. You’ll have to keep it clean; I don’t want to try you on antibiotics if I don’t have to.”

“I’ll keep it clean,” Vincent promised wearily.

Father looked into his face. “You’re still not sleeping,” he said. “And today won’t help matters. Won’t you tell me—”

“I’ll be fine, Father.”

“You’ve always been open with me.” He touched the side of his son’s face. “Whatever’s happened—”

Vincent pulled away, on the pretense of looking at his arm. “I’d like to get the stitches over with.”

Father dropped his hand, but after a moment’s silence, he nodded and set about delivering a local anesthetic, then shaving away the hair around the wound. Concentrating on his work kept him quiet, and for that Vincent was grateful. He should have obeyed his instinct weeks ago to disappear, to bathe his fevered thoughts in the cold waters of his black river, to bury himself so deeply in the earth that he could hurt no one, frighten no one. His bid to cling to humanity left them all vulnerable; from the moment he had felt Brian’s life pulse in his hands, his hold had been weak, fractured, a pane of glass against a raging flood.

Vincent resolved to leave when the pipes began to quiet for the night. He’d leave a note for Father, planning to be well below the pipes by morning. The resolution calmed the worst of his agitation; the emotional withdrawal left him space to breathe.

Michael arrived with two plates of food then, Zachary padding behind with a fresh pitcher of water. Father thanked them and sent them both on their way before their inquiring glances could turn into words. The plates sat and cooled in the damp tunnel air, but neither man showed any inclination to do anything about it.

“You’re brooding,” Father eventually remarked over the final twists of needle and thread.

Vincent closed his eyes and dropped his head back against his chair with a sigh. “It’s been a difficult day.”

Father snorted at the understatement. “But you defended him.”

“I defended what was true.”

“Mm,” Father answered as he made the final snip.

“You voted in his favor.”

Father set his implements down and sat back with a sigh. “I didn’t like either choice. I wanted him cast out of our world. My world. Sent back into the world of Above, where his fear and violence belong, where men feed on each other. But your argument was sound.”

Vincent flexed his wrist; the stitches and the wound shifted with his muscles, but he felt nothing. He took a fresh strip of gauze and began to wrap his arm. After a moment, Father’s hand stopped his and took over. Vincent watched Father work carefully, until he tied off the gauze and laid his hand over the bandage.

“I thought I could keep you safe here, of all places.”

Vincent laid his hand over his father’s. “I’m safe, Father. I’m fine.”

“How can you be so calm about this?”

Vincent pulled away and sat back. “I’m not calm. But I saw his fear. And I saw his penance. What is there left to say?”

Father considered Vincent anew; his son turned his face away from the scrutiny. “It’s not like you to hide your thoughts from me.”

“I’m not—” but he stopped himself before he could finish the lie.

“You’re upset about Mouse,” Father guessed. “Of all of us, you’ve always been very fond of him.”

“Yes.” He wanted to stand, to pace, but he kept his limbs still, everything in him still, just for these last few hours of the evening.  

“He will be fine.”

“I’m not questioning your prognosis, Father.”

“Nevertheless—”

With no other occupation for his hands, he pulled his dinner to him and investigated the contents with his fork.

Father sighed and pulled his own plate to him, but he paused before picking up the silverware. “Vincent, whatever it is that’s been troubling you these last few weeks, when you’re ready, you can come to me. You can always come to me.”

“I know, Father.”

They picked at their tepid suppers in silence.

Vincent heard the angry voices out in the corridor before Father did, but neither was kept in suspense over the source for very long. Half a dozen people filed in, Jonathan leading the pack.

“Why is that topsider still being given sanctuary? After what he’s done?” Jonathan demanded.

The chorus of outraged agreement grated against Vincent’s tenuously held façade of calm, and he clamped down on a warning growl while Father tried to establish some level of order.

“Hasn’t he caused enough damage?” Sarah cried.

“We don’t need his violence down here,” Olivia said.

Father held up a hand. “The Council has voted—”

“To just let him loose?” Jonathan demanded. “Unsupervised? Unpunished?”

“And what would you have us do to punish him?” Vincent asked, his frustration shrouded in layers of reasoned calm. “What is the just payment for his crimes?”

“We can keep him confined,” Vivian said. “Away from the rest of us.”

“Brian isn’t a danger to anyone,” Vincent answered.

“We could let you have a go at him,” Jonathan said. “Show him what scary really is, you know?”

Father stood then, leaning over the table with both hands flat on the surface. “Enough. I will not have any of that sort of talk here Below, either in my chamber or anywhere else. This is not who we strive to be. To even make such a suggestion, Jonathan! That is exactly the sort of topsider thinking that led to this near-tragedy to begin with.”

“I just don’t see why we’ve always gotta be the ones to turn the other cheek,” Jonathan retorted. “Last I heard, murder wasn’t okay, even down here. And neither was trying to gut kids. But no one’s willing to do anything about it. I see Vincent’s willing to pretend nothing’s happened to keep your precious peace. Think Mouse’ll be okay doing the same? Think Mouse’ll share a meal with the topsider that almost killed him, just because you ask him to?”

“There can be little doubt that Mouse’s reaction to the situation will be entirely his own,” Father said. “But the Council’s decision was made on the evidence before us. Calmly. Rationally. There is no reason to believe that Mister Kessler will pose any further threat to us.”

Jonathan’s angry retort got cut short when Jamie shouldered past him. “Mouse is awake,” she announced before anyone could question her manners.

“So soon?” Father asked. “I expected him to sleep through the night.”

Jamie shrugged, her expression making it clear that she saw little correlation between what Father expected and what Mouse did, even in medical matters.

Father sighed and nodded. “On the other hand, perhaps his timing is extraordinarily fortuitous. Thank you, Jamie, for coming to me straight away. I’ll be down in a moment to take a look.”

“Vincent, too,” she said. “Mouse made me promise.”

Vincent nodded once. “I’ll go with Father.”

Jamie nodded, but she hovered on the spot, looking at the knot of people that had gathered.

“Was there something else?” Father prompted.

“Everyone’s pretty upset that the topsider’s allowed to stay with us,” she said.

“Yes. Jonathan and I were just discussing that very point,” Father answered, his calm words laced with warning.

But she lingered still, with no evidence of noticing his tone. When she spoke, she looked between Father and Vincent with some trepidation, her words slow and earnest. “Is it because of what he said? You know, about…trying to help me?”

“It’s more complicated than that,” Father said. “But that is perhaps the most crucial factor.”

Jamie nodded. She bit her lower lip. “I don’t like it, either. Is the Council really sure?”

Father’s temper flared; Vincent could see it in his face, but Jamie’s question had been asked with an honest need for reassurance and none of Jonathan’s churlish ire.

“We are as sure as we can be,” Father said wearily.

Vincent felt the tension in the room break. The cold obsidian of righteous anger cracked, and compassion seeped back into the faces that had gathered to decry the heavy decision placed on the Council. That tender trust forged of love and shared experience started the job of dismantling the injustice they felt.

“Then it’ll be on your heads when one of us isn’t ask lucky as Mouse,” Jonathan growled, but Sarah took his arm.

“C’mon, John. It is what it is.” She tugged his arm to follow those who had already begun to drift toward the doorway.

He resisted her with an angry tug back, freeing his arm, but he had no more audience. He glared, but said nothing before stalking out.

When the chamber had cleared, Father sat back and sighed.

“He’s been more restless lately,” Vincent said.

“By ‘restless,’ you mean argumentative, obstinate, and foolish,” Father answered with a snort. “Bloody-minded, not to put too fine a point on it.”

“We knew when he came to us that he had his own demons to face.”

“And it seems he’s determined not to face them at all, but to set them all on the rest of us.” He sighed again, but this time some of the tension in his face and shoulders flowed out with his breath. “Well. We mustn’t keep Mouse waiting.”

They stood, and Vincent let Father set the pace. At the doorway to the hospital chamber, Vincent paused, letting Father get his examination underway. When he did cross to the bedside, Mouse lost all focus on Father’s instructions and questions.

“Vincent!” His face was pale, and his eyes drooped precariously, but he grinned. “Okay! Jamie said. Had to see.”

“Yes, I’m well,” Vincent said as he sat down next to the bed. “You’re the one we’re worried about.”

Mouse shrugged this off. “Good. Fine. Hardly hurts.”

Vincent tried not to relive the stunned, strangled breath he’d heard escape Mouse’s lungs as the knife sliced into him, or the way his whole body had folded in on itself as he dropped to the ground, or the way his head had lolled lifelessly when they finally reached the hospital chamber. Vincent tried, but the images were still too fresh and vibrant to go unseen.

“Well, your vitals look good, Mouse,” Father said. “Better than I expected. You scared us all.”

“Wasn’t so scared,” Mouse answered. “Had Vincent. Fastest. Strongest. Wouldn’t let anything happen to Mouse.”

The boy’s idolization had always been uncomfortable, but it had never struck so deeply; the lie of it had never been so blatant. Vincent heard Father call after him, but he sounded so distant, so insignificant against the need to move, to think, to get out, that he was half way down the corridor before he realized he’d even left Mouse’s bedside.

For No Miser's Sake - Part VII