Against All Odds

by Jackie Kapke

CHAPTER ONE

Vincent was in one of the lower tunnels, ever vigilant, checking for leaks and cracks. Since the last flood, only weeks ago, it seemed they were always finding a spot that was dangerous and in need of repair. He carried a fistful of red flags on spikes to mark the spots that would require closer inspection at a later date. It had been Mouse's idea and the small flags did work well.

It had been a long day. Earlier, he had given Mouse swimming lessons. Mouse, usually so adept at most things he tried, was inept at aquatics. He had nearly drowned Vincent at one point, getting in water over his head and panicking. He had put a strangle hold around his friend's neck.

Vincent had to forcibly pry the young man loose. His neck was still sore and he would have the bruises as proof of the ordeal for several more days. Vincent shook his head and chuckled to himself as he thought about it. More lessons were desperately needed, but he wondered if he had the patience and strength to continue them. Perhaps Mouse was destined never to learn to swim.

He stopped short: Had he heard a rumbling sound? There was only silence, except for the crackling from the torch he held aloft. As he scanned the walls and ceiling, his eyes carefully searched the darkness. Then, almost without warning, the right side of the tunnel collapsed!

Vincent had no time to react; within seconds it was over. He had not lost consciousness, but was choking and sputtering under the dust and rubble, and pinned down, lying on his back.

He moved many large stones and boulders, using only his left hand. His entire right side was covered in debris. The torch had gone out and it was totally dark. Even though his eyesight was keen, Vincent could make out nothing in the blackness.

He attempted to sit, but could only half rise. The dust fell from his mane, sifting in front of his eyes. He tried to assess the situation and keep his head clear.

His left side seemed fine as he removed more of the rubble, however he could not budge any of his right side. He attempted to gather all his strength, which was considerable, but it was no use. The entire lower-half of what appeared to be a granite wall or outcropping lay on top of him. When he pulled again, a sickening tear and cracking sound came from his lower right leg and excruciating pain overtook him, shooting up into his right pelvis and flank like a hot iron.

He groaned involuntarily, panting, and then tried to move his fingers and toes, but he had no sense of them. He let his head and upper torso fall back to the ground with a hard thud.

He looked around desperately in the total darkness, but it was useless. Panic began to overtake him. He did not relish the thought of lying there, bleeding to death in the dark.

He sat up again with great effort, and began tugging and digging madly at the rubble. His fingers were soon bleeding, but the more he tried to free himself, the more rubble and dust fell and loosened from the still unstable sides of the tunnel.

Several more inches of fine powder coated him as, without warning, another small avalanche descended upon him. Vincent froze and tried to shield his head with his free arm. Again, he coughed and choked, violently this time. His heart raced as he realized that the rest of the tunnel could collapse on him at any moment. He stopped any further efforts to free himself, deciding it was no use. He shook his head, the dust flying from his mane. He had never felt so helpless.

Vincent began to remember the photographs he had seen of trapped animals biting off their own limbs to get free of their traps. These images filled his mind as he felt almost that same desperation in himself.

His pinned thigh was burning like fire and the rushing pressure was almost unbearable; his teeth were actually chattering from the pain.

He hoped that some of the others would miss him at supper and begin looking for him. He usually told someone where he was going but as he thought back, he realized he had told no one tonight. He had almost told Father, but they had been interrupted, and he had never gotten back to the subject. He hoped now that someone would miss his presence, and fairly soon. It was his only hope.

He called out, "Help. Is someone there?" His words echoed down the tunnels and another eerie rumbling began. He decided it would be best to wait awhile, to try calling out again in an hour or so, after the dinner hour. He would need to save his strength for more desperate times.

He closed his eyes. His thoughts turned to Father and Catherine. What if he wasn't rescued in time? Poor Father, how would he take his death? And Catherine?

He began to tremble. Was it from the cold? He wished desperately that he could see her just one more time before he died.

Sleep came, or was it shock and unconsciousness? He couldn't tell. Nor did he know how much time had elapsed. He only knew when he woke that he did not have much time left.

He could not feel his lower leg at all. His right arm and thigh barely throbbed, and he knew this was not a good sign. He realized he must be losing a lot of blood. He could feel a disquieting weakness, a strange calmness overtaking him. He had known this feeling before, and he knew it was death.

He was not ready for that yet. He yelled out, "Mouse! Pascal! Help!" He repeated calling several times, his cries becoming tortured bellows. The echoes bounced wildly off the walls, their futility pounding into his own ears as more dust and gravel covered him.

He turned his head, his ears straining, keen for the slightest sound. He fell back unconscious from the effort and again he slept, he knew not how long.

Upon waking, he cried again, his voice strangely hoarse. He waited what seemed like an eternity and tried again. Then he knew he heard the tread of footsteps on dirt, followed by more coming closer, quicker! He saw a light moving towards him. His heart leapt; someone had heard!

Mouse was suddenly bending over him. In the glow of the lamp. Vincent thought his was the most angelic face he had ever seen. He wanted to reach out and kiss him, as tears streamed down his cheeks.

The boy's face paled as he saw Vincent's predicament. "Vincent? Vincent!" was all he could say in his disbelief and confusion.

Vincent grabbed the boy's upper arm, shaking uncontrollably with desperation, his voice hoarse, strained with urgency and pain.

"Mouse, listen to me carefully. You must get help and equipment; a stretcher and levers, braces. I'm trapped and these walls could give way at any moment. You must hurry! Do you understand?" He released his grip, panting, his last bit of strength gone.

Mouse touched his shoulder with a shaking hand. "Vincent, hurt pretty bad?"

Still out of breath, almost in a sob, his friend replied. "Yes, I'm hurt pretty bad, Mouse."

Mouse touched Vincent's head as he stood. "Go fast. Go quick! Vincent, please... don't die. Back soon with help. Hang on."

Mouse was gone as quickly as he had appeared. Vincent heaved a great sigh. If anyone knew the tunnels and the equipment needed — ropes, tools to rig — it was Mouse.

Just the effort of talking had almost totally worn him out. Vincent closed his eyes as the darkness engulfed him. The smell of dust and his own blood was strong now. His heart seemed to make his entire chest shake, as it quickened its pounding, desperately pumping his life-blood from his body. He could feel the last of his strength waning. He felt no more pain, as a strange dream-like calm overtook him and there was only darkness.

Sounds. Scratchings. Touching. Digging. They woke him. Father was bending over him with a stethoscope.

"Thank God you're alive, Vincent!"

The relief on the older man's face warmed his son. He wanted to embrace his father, but the strength was not there. All he could do was smile up into the beloved man's face, a sigh escaping his dusty cracked lips. He wanted to weep when he saw the tears begin to fill Father's eyes. Father gently smoothed back the filthy hair from his son's bruised and torn face.

There were lamps and torches, friends moving about everywhere. They had already braced the roof and several sections of the walls, as others cleared away boulders. Using their shovels, picks, levers and even their bare hands, they were soon near the level of his body.

"Please, go very carefully." said Father, his voice strained with concern. "Let's try not to injure him any more than he already is."

Pascal called out. "I think he's free. Pull carefully now. Hurry."

Father directed as Mouse, Jamie, William and several others firmly but gently took Vincent's good arm and chest and pulled him out across the stone floor. He halted their progress momentarily as he moaned and grunted from the release of the last pressure on his body.

“That's it, easy, easy now. Lay him over here, gently." Father directed.

They shifted him over to an army stretcher and Father immediately began to examine his injuries.

“Vincent, are you in pain? Vincent? Vincent!?" Father's voice rose in volume when Vincent did not respond.

Vincent groggily looked up into Father's worried eyes. It was so difficult to keep his own eyes open and it took a tremendous effort to barely whisper, "No, no... I was, but I'm not now."

He felt cold. A shiver ran through him. He trembled and his teeth chattered momentarily. He was so tired, and there was a distant ringing in his head, then the ringing became a rumbling as everything and everyone around him grew animated.

Without a word, the entire group moved in to an adjoining chamber, several carrying Vincent on the stretcher. They slowly put him down again, just as the sections they had braced came toppling down upon where Vincent had lain. That part of the tunnel was completely covered and blocked-off now.

Father resumed surveying the extent of Vincent's injuries, as he spoke softly and reassuringly. He tied a tourniquet above the obvious compound fracture on Vincent's still-bleeding thigh.

“Your arm is badly broken, but it can be set easily." His hands moved down Vincent's torso, gently pressing and poking. Vincent's eyes opened suddenly and he tensed, wincing as Father applied pressure to his ribs.

"I'm sorry, Vincent. You have at least two broken ribs. I think the rest are just bruised." He moved his exam down to his son's pelvis and hips. They seemed all right, in alignment and intact. He couldn't feel any obvious fractures, though he could tell the pressure he had to use was causing Vincent discomfort.

He came to what were the worst of the injuries. Vincent's right pant leg was saturated with blood. His thigh had a deep gash where the pant leg had been torn open and the fractured femur was protruding through his flesh.

Father indicated to Jamie and Mouse that he needed more light, then he tore open the pants leg even further. They shifted to give him more room and held their lamps and flashlights closer.

Vincent opened his eyes for just a moment and smiled weakly up at them.

Their lights followed the patriarch's hands, as they ran down Vincent's knee to his high boot. Father's eyes widened as he saw the ominously flattened and shredded leather. With extreme care, Father untied the leather straps and gently pulled the boot from his calf. Father involuntarily gasped as he saw the bloody pulp that had once been a powerful limb. All color faded from Mouse's face and Jamie put her hand to her mouth, stifling a scream and the sudden urge to vomit.

The leg was almost completely crushed from knee to toe. Father delicately tore back the rest of the material and flesh came with it. The torn foot was dangling only by a few tendons. The fine powder dust had covered everything. He thanked goodness that Vincent could no longer feel the pain and hurried to tighten the tourniquet around the massive thigh.

Vincent sensed Father's alarm and saw the terror in his and the two younger people's eyes, but strangely enough, he felt calm, almost uncaring. "What is it, Father?" he asked weakly.

”We've got to get you to surgery, Vincent. Peter will arrive soon to assist me." Turning to the others he said, "Hurry now. Take him to the surgery. Mary is waiting to get him prepped."

Father had removed his cloak and now he wrapped it around Vincent's body. Several others followed with the coats and blankets they had brought. Many in the crowd had also seen Vincent's leg, or what was left of it, and his foot. The same disbelief and worry was in their eyes.

Father absently held the torn pant leg, dark red with blood, then let it fall to the ground as he turned and hurried to catch up with the stretcher.

As the procession moved along, Vincent held his hand out to Father, who was hobbling swiftly beside him.

"Father, does Catherine know?" he whispered with urgency.

“'We sent word to her as soon as we heard. I'm sure she'll be here soon." He took Vincent's hand, kissed it, then lay it over his son's chest, patting it reassuringly.

Vincent smiled weakly, sighed, then closed his eyes, swallowing hard.

Vincent was in a twilight world as he lay upon the old fashioned surgery table in the hospital chamber. He quietly studied the concern on Mary's face and in her eyes as she tenderly prepared him for what was to come. He looked on as if he was disconnected, strangely distanced from it all. It was as if it was all happening to someone else.

He felt the tourniquet on his good leg and the prick of a needle as Mary expertly inserted it into his vein. She turned the intravenous fluids wide open, pouring the badly needed liquid into his system.

As she removed the rest of his ragged, soiled clothing, he knew he should feel embarrassment from his naked body, but strangely it didn't bother him. His eyelids grew heavy as he fought to keep them open. He was too weak to sit up, though he desperately wanted to see his leg.

Mary meticulously cleaned him and his wounds with soap and antiseptics. It seemed like she poured buckets of solution over him and his leg in an attempt to clear the dirt away. The smell stung and burnt his sensitive nose. Then she wrapped his shivering form in several luxuriously warmed blankets, the warmth bringing an involuntary sigh of pleasure from him. He drifted asleep again, as she hurried around the room, setting up equipment, dressings, and instruments.

Catherine and Peter arrived together, having met at the garage of her apartment.  Father ushered them into the small alcove next to the surgery chamber. Peter immediately began to scrub and gown, as Jacob told them both what had happened and what Vincent's present condition was.

"Can I donate blood or get some?" Catherine asked, breathlessly.

"He can't have transfusions. He has a totally unique blood type. It can't be matched. His body would reject anything we tried. The allergic reaction would just be more stress on his system, possibly kill him."

She started to move, as if she was going out to see Vincent, and Father took her arm, pulling her back. His look became even more gravely serious. He hesitated, then looked to Peter and back to Catherine. He lowered his eyes.

“That is not our main concern. He has miraculously survived shock before." Then Father's words faltered and he hesitated again.

“Then, what is it, Father?" Catherine came forward, grasping his arm tightly in her hand. “Tell me." She had never seen a more pained expression on his face.

"We... we will probably have to... amputate his leg."

Catherine's mouth and eyes opened wide in disbelief and shock. "NO! No."

Peter stepped forward, unable to speak as Father continued. "Catherine, there is little left of what used to be his leg. It's crushed and torn beyond recognition. I'm not sure Peter and I have the expertise to save it. I honestly don't think anyone would. None of our helpers are specialized in this. And we can't risk taking him Above. We... "

He stopped, as they heard a commotion in the surgery.

Vincent, though in a stupor, had been partially awakened by Catherine's presence and the sound of her voice. He had heard bits and pieces of their conversation, but upon hearing the word "amputation”, he now attempted to sit up. Mary tried in vain to get him to lie back down, steadying him and speaking soothing words to him.

"No. Father! Father?!" he cried out hoarsely.

Father rushed to his side. "Vincent, lie still now. What is it?"

Vincent, with near superhuman strength, pulled himself to a sitting position with the only hand he could mobilize. He grasped the neck of Father's gown, his hand shaking as he clutched the material.

With his face close to Jacob's he began to sob, "Father, don't take my leg. Please. I'm begging you. Try to save it. Please, try... if it doesn't work, a few days, then... then you can take it off. Please, Father."

He still clung to Father, his eyes pleading, his entire body trembling.

Father gently took his son's wrist, as Peter came up to stand behind his friend. The older men looked at each other and Peter silently nodded.

"All right. Vincent, I promise, we'll try, but... we can't guarantee anything. We'll do our best." Father gently placed his hand on his son's shoulder.

Vincent released his grip, sighing, and fell back onto the table, exhausted. He was shaking, panting from the effort, as he closed his eyes and swallowed hard. His head was spinning and he couldn't focus well. He knew that he was close to fainting.

When he opened his eyes, a heavenly apparition stood before him. Catherine had moved into his field of vision. She wore pale blue slacks and an ivory cashmere sweater. Her eyes were filled with tears. It had torn her heart out to hear him beg Father not to amputate.

He made a feeble attempt at smiling and she came running, throwing her arms around his head and neck. The tears from her eyes dropped like warm rain onto his up-turned face. He cherished the feel of them. He hated that she had to see him like this, but his last prayers had been answered. She was here and nothing else mattered now.

He took her hand weakly in his and whispered softly, "I'm glad you're here, Catherine."

She squeezed his hand firmly. Her other hand gently caressed his pale cheek. "So am I. I love you." Wiping a tear away, she bent over him and kissed him tenderly on the lips.

He closed his eyes. sighing. He was more than a little embarrassed, her kissing him in front of Father and everyone, but it was what he had needed. The warmth of her love spread to his every pore. It did not matter now, should death come.

She turned to Father, wiping her face. "I want to help."

"All right. Wash up, quickly, and Mary can show you what to do." He knew there was no stopping this determined woman and they could use an extra hand. His son had certainly found an extraordinary woman to love, in so many ways like Vincent himself. He would do better with her close by.

Mary had Catherine take Vincent's blood-pressure and pulse and showed her how to check the pupils in his eyes for anesthesia level. His love positioned herself at his left side, drawing up a chair.

He turned his head and looked at her, as she tightened the blood-pressure cuff around his bare upper arm. She smiled down at him, patting his arm reassuringly.

Mary gave Catherine a few more instructions as the doctors discussed and examined Vincent's injuries, deciding on the best course of action before they began.

"Honey, you take his blood pressure and pulse every five or ten minutes. If he should show the signs I mentioned of coming out of the anesthesia, you'll have to give him more of the gas. Any questions?"

Catherine shook her head, her stomach full of butterflies. She looked once more into Vincent's face and pressed her hand on his shoulder.

"I love you." she whispered once more.

“Yes," he simply said, and she knew that he had told her the same.

Mary adjusted the I.V. solution and brought the face mask up so Vincent could see it.

“Vincent, breathe slowly and deeply. We're going to put you under now."

Vincent nodded and did as he was told. He knew he should be frightened, but he had complete trust and faith in those around him. He felt an odd sense of calm, as if God were close by, and he was unafraid, even of death.

Mary fit the clear mask snugly over his mouth and nose as he looked at her, then turned his head ever so slightly to gaze up at Catherine one last time as his eyelids nearly closed.

Everyone he loved... was... right... here. It only took a few breaths, as weak as he was, and he was under. He knew nothing, felt nothing, not even Catherine's hand on him.

As Catherine watched over Vincent's anesthesia level and vital signs, Mary went between the two doctors, as they tried to sew together the torn and crushed tissues of the leg. Mary handed them needles, sponges and suctioned and dabbed. Catherine was impressed by them.

The femur and bones of Vincent's lower leg were broken in so many places that they decided he would require skeletal traction in bed for several weeks before they could even consider a cast. Father explained all that they were doing to Catherine and she told him how much she appreciated being included.

The bones would have to have pins put through them to hold them in alignment and support the counter weights of traction that would keep the femur from shortening. Once Vincent was partially mended, the cast could be applied to his entire leg.

Catherine stood at one point and got a really good look at Vincent's calf and foot. She realized now why Father had mentioned amputation. She had very strong doubts herself that they could actually save the battered lump of bone and flesh, but they were valiantly trying. He had such beautiful, strong legs. Momentarily, she felt a little queasy, but she fought back the waves of nausea. She would be no help to Vincent like that.

The doctors used a bone drill and set metal pins, like screws, into one side and out the other. The pins would eventually be hooked up to weights and a frame that would keep them in alignment for proper healing.

Catherine thought she would be able to watch, but she had to turn away. It was too painful watching this being done to the one she loved so dearly. She wondered how Father was managing. He was certainly a remarkable man. They all were. Peter and Mary were marvelous too. Vincent had wonderful friends and family.

Earlier, they had sent a messenger for Mouse, and he arrived still dust-covered. As Father worked, they planned how the traction would be set up over Vincent's bed from the ceiling. They would rig up pulleys and needed to support Vincent's injured leg in at least four places. Mouse was certain he could do it and went right to work.

It took over two hours more to finish the work necessary on Vincent's lower leg. Several times during the surgery, Vincent had begun to stir, his eyelids fluttering, trying to focus. At those times, Catherine would look at Mary, and she would nod, then Catherine would put the mask over Vincent's face again and turn on the valve. She felt a little cruel, sending Vincent back into unconscious sleep when he seemed to be struggling so hard to regain his senses.

Mary scurried here and there, hardly saying a word, and seemed to know exactly where to be and what to do at the right time.

They finished putting the last large pin through his fractured femur. The ends of the metal pins extended out several inches on both sides of his leg.

Again, Catherine had to turn away as they forced the bone back into place. She checked his pupils. Longingly, she held them open, gazing lovingly into them. Such lovely, jeweled eyes, they were. She wondered, could he see her looking into them now? Or, might he remember her doing this when he woke? What mysteries they held in their depths!

The arm break was clean and easy to align. Jacob and Peter pulled the bones back into place, wrapped it in thick cotton strips, and bent his elbow slightly, as they applied the wet plaster strips which formed the cast. When they were finished, the cast extended from his wrist to his shoulder.

They finished dressing his leg and held the dressings in place with gauze wrappings, then proceeded to wrap his entire leg and foot in an elastic ace wrap, from toes to groin.

Both men conferred and checked over their work and agreed that they had better put a catheter in Vincent, for at least a day or two to keep an accurate measurement on his fluid input and output, or I and 0 as they called it. After being in shock for so long, they wanted to make sure his kidneys had recovered, or he might not be able to tolerate the intravenous fluids and antibiotics they needed to give him.

Father put the catheter in, as Mary began to put things away. As Catherine realized what Father was doing, she dropped her eyes and turned away quickly. She knew that Vincent would not like this at all when he woke.

Father breathed a sigh of relief when golden urine returned through the tubing. He was glad to see there was no sign of blood, which would indicate some internal injury they had overlooked.

As Father removed his mask, Catherine realized how pale and tired he looked. He and Peter wiped their foreheads, as they came towards her. She still sat at Vincent's side.

"We'll start him on I.V. antibiotics, then the rest is in God's hands. Catherine, thank you for all your help." Father took her hand and bent to kiss her cheek. She hugged him back.

Peter stepped forward. "If anyone can pull through this, it's Vincent, Cathy. He has unbelievable recuperative powers. It won't be easy, but with your help, his chances are good."

Catherine stood and hugged him. "I hope so. Thank you, Peter, for everything."

Vincent would be spending many weeks in bed and it might as well be in the comfort and security of his own room. He had always done better there than in the infirmary, even as a small boy, and they wanted to do everything they could to facilitate his healing.

They transferred Vincent's unconscious form to a stretcher and carried him to his chamber. Mouse was in the lead. Many had been sitting outside surgery, talking quietly and praying. They all wanted to stay close-by to hear how the surgery went.

Mouse was obviously quite proud of his work, as they entered the room. They carefully moved Vincent's limp form onto his own bed and began hooking him up to the traction. His right leg was placed in a canvas sling, which supported the leg from the ankle to knee. The pins that extended from his lower femur were attached to wires and pulleys suspended from the ceiling and newly-built framework. The counter-weights were a variety of rocks and sand-filled tin cans. Father and Peter were truly impressed by the work Mouse had done on such short notice.

Father carefully checked and supervised the operation. When he was finally satisfied with the way his son and his leg were positioned, he turned to Mouse.

"Mouse, you've done a wonderful job, truly a work of art!"

Mouse could only beam.

They made sure the pulleys worked properly, keeping Vincent's leg bent at the knee above the level of his heart, and Mouse made the final adjustments.

Mary brought in more warmed blankets to wrap their patient snugly in. They would get him a suitable hospital gown in the morning. She looked down at Catherine, who had pulled up a chair beside Vincent and was holding his hand.

"You should rest now, dear."

"I have to be with him when he wakes up. I can't leave him."

Mary nodded. "We'll all say a special prayer tonight. I'll go tell the children."

“Thank you, Mary. You were wonderful in there. I don't know how you do it." They embraced tenderly and Mary wrapped one of Vincent's quilts around the young woman's shoulders.

Catherine remained at his side for hours. She held his hand and kept repeating, "I'm here." Sometimes, it actually seemed as if Vincent was trying to squeeze her hand in acknowledgment.

He was so quiet and pale; all the usual bronze tone was gone from his cheeks. She ran her fingers across his temple and cheek, down his neck and shoulder, and onto the damp cast to his hand and again held on tightly.

She took his blood pressure several more times. It remained stable. She fought to stay awake through the night, often getting up and walking around his chamber, browsing through his treasures. But as the early morning hours arrived, sleep won out. Still sitting in the chair, her upper body and arms rested on his mattress. Her head was nestled snugly into his side.

CHAPTER TWO

He awoke feeling her there and silently he stroked her hair as best as he could with the heavily casted arm.

Vincent gazed up, fascinated by the contraption they had rigged for his leg. He decided Mouse must have had a hand in its creation. He chuckled to himself when he noticed one of the weights was a cat food can, one of Arthur's favorite brands.

He pulled himself up slightly, straining to see what he could of his leg. Father had at least been able to save it and his foot, for the time being, but he could feel nothing below his knee.

He shifted his weight slightly, testing the weights and equipment, wondering just how many pounds were pulling on his bones. Just this brief effort made him light-headed. The room suddenly spun, as he lay back and closed his eyes, hoping the sensation would lessen.

It all seemed like a foggy dream, as if it had happened long ago to someone else. He turned back to Catherine. The dizziness had passed. He gazed down at her lovingly, longingly, always awed by her creamy smooth complexion, her long lashes and full lips. She was so exquisite! The faint scent of her perfume was mixed with that of her very pleasant perspiration and the salt of her tears. He bent and kissed her silky head.

She slowly awakened and raised her head, almost nose to nose with him.

"How are you feeling?"

"Fortunate, and... tired," he sighed and laid back. "...Very tired."

"Are you in pain?"

"No, not really pain, but an aching, a weariness."

He gazed around his room, as if greeting cherished friends he thought never to see again, and he sighed.

"What is it? What are you thinking?" she asked, as she gently twirled the hair on his forehead.

His voice was a whispered sigh, "How lucky I am to be out of that cold dark place and to be back here in my own chamber, my own bed... and to have you here, beside me. My last thoughts were of you, Catherine. I was so afraid I would never see you again or hear your voice."

Their eyes met and locked momentarily.

She bent and kissed him gently on the lips. He closed his eyes, sighing. He tilted his head back and then she kissed his forehead.

They heard voices from the hall as Mary. Peter and Father entered the chamber looking definitely more rested than several hours ago.

“Well, how is our favorite patient?" piped Jacob.

Vincent tried to put some force behind his reply, but was surprised at how weak his voice sounded, lacking the bravado he had intended.

"As good as can be expected. Thank you, Father, thank you for everything, all of you. Again. I owe you my life."

Father came forward and took his son's and Catherine's shoulders, squeezing them firmly in each hand.

"It seemed to go well. Vincent. We all are praying, but I'm not going to lie to you; your leg was severely injured. There is still no guarantee that it will heal properly, or not become infected, even with the antibiotics you're getting. I just don't want you to get your hopes up too high.

“Your wounds were very deep and extensive and dirty from the rubble, so there is a much greater chance of infection occurring and gangrene or tetanus. I gave you a booster, but with your physiology. I'm not even sure it ever did any good.

"If you should notice anything unusual about your body or how you feel, you must let me know immediately! It could mean your life, as well as your leg. Fever, unusual drainage, odor, a sudden increase in pain or bleeding, any of these could mean something serious, and not just pain in your leg, but anywhere.

"I don't want to frighten you, but I want you to be alert to the possibilities. With crushing bone injuries, fat cells can be released into the blood stream and can lodge in a place they don't belong, like your heart, brain, lungs, or any body part. They become what is called an embolus. This can be very serious and life-threatening. You'll be on medication to thin your blood while you're confined to bed, to prevent this from occurring. It's not going to be easy for you, Vincent. You've never been one to sit still for long, but it will not last forever. You've lost a lot of blood and that in itself is going to keep you quiet for a while. Just sitting up is going to tax you until your body begins to replace the cells you've lost."

Vincent nodded, as he realized the gravity of Father's words.

"I understand, Father, and I will do whatever you say to get better. I do want to get better."

He looked at Catherine and squeezed her hand as tightly as he could. She returned the squeeze, smiling down at him.

Mary took her turn touching the couples' shoulders and turned to Catherine saying, "You should rest now, dear. We'll take care of him now. You come back when you've had some sleep."

Catherine nodded and gently squeezed Vincent's fingers one more time. She got up and blew him a kiss as He nodded at her and smiled with lips pressed together.

Peter said his farewells and Mary and Jacob checked Vincent over. Mary helped Vincent wash up a bit and fed him some juice and broth. Father examined the dressings and traction, and made sure the cast was drying properly.

Vincent quietly accepted all that was being done for and to him, as Mary took his vital signs then hung more antibiotics.

"Does everything look all right, Mary?" he asked hesitantly.

“You're doing fine." She slipped a hospital gown on him that tied behind his neck and was open in the back. She didn't miss his look of resigned embarrassment.

“You're going to have to put some of that modesty aside, Vincent, at least until this is all over."

He smiled up at her, as she touched his cheek and patted his head, then kissed his forehead.

"You get some sleep now, dear one."

Father had finished his exam of the leg.

"Things look fine on this end, Mary is right. You get some rest now. Are you in any pain?" Vincent shook his head. "Good, son, good. You rest now."

The older man bent and hugged his son, then made sure the covers were pulled up close to his chin.

Vincent was tired and, almost as soon as he closed his eyes, he was asleep.

Late that afternoon, Catherine woke and went to him. She kept apologizing for her appearance, her sleep-disheveled hair and no make-up, but to Vincent she was a vision and was the closest thing to perfection he had ever seen. She blushed with his admission.

"Oh, Vincent, I've had compliments from all kinds of men, but not one has spoken deeply from the heart as you do, as you always do. Yours are the most beautiful compliments I have ever received. I love you so." She hugged him fiercely, nearly knocking the wind out of him.

She went on to tell him that tomorrow, being Friday, she would tie up loose ends at work and then plan to spend the entire weekend Below, starting Saturday morning.

"I'd come Friday night, but Jenny is having a party and I promised her I would help out. She's counting on me being there."

"Catherine, you must have other things you need to do. I don't want to occupy your entire weekend. Surely you have things of greater importance than sitting down here all day. I don't..."

"Hush! I want to spend the time with you. You know what you mean to me, Vincent. Don't you want me to visit?"

He tilted his head and sighed, "Oh, yes, but..."

"Then the subject is closed. I want to help nurse you back to health." She smiled a little mischievously. "It will be fun. You're going to need a lot of tender... loving... care to get better." She said the last very slowly and sensuously, as she leaned closer to him.

Unconsciously, he pressed back into his mattress and pillow, as she hovered close above him. He swallowed hard and opened his mouth, a little shocked at her boldness.

Lips almost touching his, she quickly kissed his forehead. He sighed with relief and she pulled back giggling. As she folded her coat over her arm, she touched his chest.

"Until Saturday then, Vincent."

He took her hand and pressed it to his cheek, then softly kissed it. "'til Saturday."

Gracefully she turned and was gone.

He thought again about how he had tried to discourage her from coming Below, but his heart sang with the joy that she wanted to be there with him. Nothing could make him more happy than to have her there at his side. He trembled slightly with excitement from the memory of her voice and her nearness of a few moments ago. He softly whispered her name, and his heart momentarily increased its pace with the thought, even though he would be confined to bed, of spending that much time with her. With these sweet thoughts, he drifted to sleep.

* * *

Friday passed more quickly than he might have suspected. His fluid balance was good, so with great relief on his part. Father removed the catheter. He and Mary helped Vincent with his bath and changed the dressings. Much of Vincent's day was spent in sleep. He was shocked by how weak he truly was. Just raising up on his elbows, eating — the once simple task of bringing a spoon to the mouth — now seemed like a herculean effort.

He had been trying to read the same chapter of his book all day. He would find himself dazed and out of breath, frequently. Often times he would just stare at the walls, not really seeing, almost in a stupor. It was all very strange to him, almost, as if he could not actually partake in activities, but only passively watch. It was not at all unpleasant, for everything took on a foggy, dreamlike quality. People and happenings existed in suspended-animation.

Father made sure he was settled for the night. He checked his son's leg and I.V. where the needle had been transferred to his arm, then kissed him good night, after reading him an unfamiliar poet's verses.

The next morning found Vincent propped up on pillows, taking in the headlines of a fairly recent New York Times that Kipper had brought to him earlier.

Catherine entered with a large tray of items in her hands. There was a big pan filled with water, towels, and some covered dishes.

“Well, good morning," she said, beaming.

"Catherine." he replied with both relief and wonder in his voice. He strained slightly higher, trying to get a look, as he twisted to face her on his elbows.

"What is all this?"

“Your bath," she said without hesitation, as she sat the tray down on the small table beside his bed.

"My... bath?" He looked at her, quite puzzled, then nervously towards the door and back to Catherine, "But Father, or Mary..."

"It's their day off." she said nonchalantly, a teasing little smile crossing her face. She knew she had him cornered with nowhere to run. If it hadn't been for his present anemic state, she knew he would have been bright red by now, but his pallid cheeks held only a faint pink glow as he fidgeted and hemmed and hawed.

"Catherine. I'm perfectly capable of... I can do...”

She moved right in beside him. "Come on, now, have you sat up yet?" There was sympathy in her tone.

"Sat up?"

“Yes, since surgery?"

"Well, no... I…"

She had him quite shaken and unable to think too clearly at this point.

"Father said it would be good for you to try. Well, come on. I can at least wash your back, maybe give you a back rub and straighten the sheets a little. Vincent, I have seen naked men before." She said this with a hint of irritation, as if she were dealing with an unruly child and he was demanding the most of her patience.

"Yes, but not this one, nor do I intend to allow you to." He had a quiet determination in his voice.

Well, we'll just see about that, she thought, then said. "Come on, let's at least see if you can sit."

She firmly grabbed his side and started to pull him forward. He gasped suddenly and winced with this new pressure on his fractured ribs. She immediately stopped, appalled that she had hurt him.

"Oh, Vincent, I'm so sorry." Now she was afraid to touch him again, for fear of initiating some new pain.

"It's just... those ribs are a little sore, bruised." He tried to make her feel better by making less of his injuries.

She pulled forward a corner of the gown and stared for a moment in disbelief at the dark purple splotches on his chest wall.

"Here," he said softly, "you can help me with this blasted cast."

She helped support the heavy right arm, as he pulled himself with some difficulty to a sitting position. He snorted once and shook his head, as if to clear it.

“Vincent, what's wrong? Are you dizzy?"

"Yes, just a little." He was swaying slightly back and forth and, if it was possible, he was even paler. He attempted to focus his eyes. "I'm a little light-headed, but it's not too bad."

He wouldn't admit that there were two of her and the room spun like a carousel. He hung his head forward and closed his eyes. It passed as he took a few deep breaths and things stabilized.

"There," he said, "that's better." He sighed a little in relief. He tried to untie the back of his gown at the neck, but it had become knotted and his hand began to shake with the effort.

Catherine gently placed his casted arm on the bed and leaned forward to assist him.

"Catherine," he said, not wanting to be a burden to her.

"Vincent, you are quite weak and I want to help you until you're stronger. You've always been there for me, now it's my turn. Please don't be so stubborn. I'm here to help, all right?"

He looked at her, lowering his eyelids shyly and nodded. She bent over him and undid the knot, and he breathed deeply of her, the faint scent of her hair, the perfume she wore, and her own aroma, and he couldn't help but sigh again.

She gingerly eased the shirt down over his I.V. needle and tubing, and the cast. She was trembling slightly at the sight of his manly chest and shoulders. As she pulled the gown away, reality came back to him and in modesty he tucked the sheets strategically high around his waist.

"Catherine, you have me at an unfair disadvantage." He looked over his bed at his leg held up in traction.

"I know, but I have seen grown men before." She touched his shoulder.

"So you keep reminding me. But this is different." He exhaled and hung his head.

"Why?"

"Because... because..."

"Because you're different?"

"Yes," he whispered.

“Vincent, I love you and all that you are. Don't you know that by now?" Her voice was full of sincere love.

"But, this still does not seem right." He shook his head, a pleading look in his eyes.

"Because," she touched his chin with one finger, "you know you're the man that I love?"

His mouth parted slightly with her declaration and he could only blink, too stunned to reply.

“Vincent, I'd do anything for you, as you would for me. I'll avert my eyes at the proper moment. Promise. Now, come on. Allow me to give back just a little care, as you gave to me when I was the patient." She dipped the rag into the water and began soaping it up.

He sighed in acceptance. She was determined in this. He placed his cast easily down on his thigh, then twisted his torso slightly away from her, so that she could reach his back. Momentarily, he took in the beauty of his fan-shaped stain-glass window, then closed his eyes, as she started to bathe him.

Oh, it did feel wonderful, even more so, he had to admit, with Catherine doing it.

She smiled as she saw that he was unable to stifle several deep 'oohs' and 'aahs' of pleasure.

Applying lotion, she began to massage his back and shoulders. His chin dropped forward onto his chest. It felt so good. Every tight muscle and nerve in his body begged her to continue. He was amazed by the strength in her small fingers and he raised his head and moaned.

"Oh, Catherine, I didn't realize how stiff and sore I really was."

As she continued slowly down to his lower back and the top of his buttocks, kneading and gently pulling, he had to ask. "Where did you learn to do that?"

"Old family secret," she laughed out loud. She freshly soaped the cloth. "Here, you get your face."

He did that quickly, then she said, "Now, let's get your front."

Vincent twisted towards her, one eyebrow ominously arched and seemed to say, "Go no further!" He pulled his good hand across his body, and she put the wash cloth in it, a smirk in her eyes. His stern look softened; as he noted the dimple appear on her cheek.

He scrubbed himself thoroughly and she looked discreetly away, turning only when he held out the wash cloth to be rinsed and, when it was done, the towel.

The bath done, his attention was drawn to the leg in traction. He tried to move his foot, but only his thigh muscles responded. He touched the ankle and calf, but it was like a dead piece of meat. He had no sensation to the pressure he was exerting. None.

She leaned softly into his shoulder. "Can you feel anything?"

He shook his head slowly. "It's as if it belongs to someone else."

She handed him some blue cotton material.

"What's this?"

"It's called a nightshirt. The sleeve has been cut to make room for your cast to fit through. I thought you'd be more comfortable in a nightshirt than these flimsy, open, hospital gowns."

With great effort, he began to thread the heavy casted arm through. He was beginning to realize that it took very little movement of his arm to cause stabbing pains throughout his ribs, and he gasped a little. Then she helped him get the other arm through. Carefully, so they would not dislodge his I.V. The remainder went over his head.

She silently chuckled, as he became lost trying to find the neck opening. Finally, his golden head popped through. He fell back heavily from the exertion, exhausted, out of breath, and panting.

He was painfully aware that Catherine was watching him in his weakened state, looking at his exposed chest, but at the moment, he just didn't care. He did not have the strength to lift a finger, let alone fasten the six or so buttons that started at his navel.

Smiling, she sat carefully on the edge of the bed and tenderly touched his breast, sighing as she closed her eyes and marveled at the feel of him. He, too, was awed by the warmth of her small hand and he closed his eyes. His sigh was, however, lost, as he still fought to catch his breath.

She buttoned his shirt, but left the top two open. The thick golden hair on his chest was not going to be hidden from view today.

When his breathing was normal, she told him to raise his hips. He did as he was told to the best of his ability and she pulled the ends of his shirt down under him and quickly smoothed out the wrinkles in his sheets.

“There," she smiled, as he lowered back down to the mattress. She quietly admired the soft beauty of him in the ample blue flannel nightshirt. It was very close to the color of his eyes and made them stand out all the more.

He had to admit that the nightshirt was extremely warm and comfortable, but he felt a little trapped by her adoring gaze. He took her hand in his and squeezed gently saying, “Thank you, Catherine. What next?"

"Breakfast."

She brought over the tray and sat before him with it on her lap. Under the lids were melon balls, strawberries, english muffins, bacon, sausage, milk, orange juice, and tea.

"Catherine!" Vincent said in disbelief. "When did you find the time to do all of this?"

She just smiled. "Are you hungry?"

"Yes, certainly I am, but will you join me?"

She nodded her head.

He started with the orange juice. "Fresh-squeezed," he said admiringly. "Catherine, you are going to spoil me."

She giggled and began feeding him the fruit, one by one, dropping them into his waiting mouth. She stopped briefly to nibble and crunch on a strip of bacon, as he sampled a muffin.

He ate well, and she was pleased.

"It was delicious, truly delicious, Catherine. You're amazing."

"Well, now for the after-breakfast entertainment." She got up from the bed and reached for a book, then pulled her chair closer beside him. "Would you like to hear a little Robert Frost?"

"Frost? Yes, I'd like that very much."

He turned to his side as best as he was able and bent his good leg up, propping it on some cushions, then pulled more pillows under his head, so he could watch her as she read.

She started with "Stopping by the Woods on a Snowy Evening." She couldn't help but glance up at him frequently. He looked so innocent and sensuous all at once, lying there with the beautiful golden fur peeking from his open shirt, his fiery hair cascading over the pillows.

She grew quite engrossed in her reading. Vincent did not have the heart to tell her he was getting tired. He did not want to be rude after all that she had done for him this morning. She had just begun the third poem, when she looked over at him. He was sound asleep, his forehead resting on the top of his arm cast.

She quietly put the book down and carefully cradled his heavy head in her hands, placing it back on the pillows. He now temporarily had the marks of the cast pressed into the flesh on his forehead. She laughed to herself, for it did make his face look a little funny.

Brushing his bangs aside, she lovingly stroked his cheek. Would he ever accept that love? Would they ever realize their dreams? If only he would let down his constant, unrelenting guard and allow them to work through his fears together. She had no doubts that their dream was possible, none whatsoever.

Her kiss was light on his forehead, then sweet upon his lips. His eyes opened for just a second, then closed again; the faintest of smiles appeared on his face and a sigh of pleasure escaped his parted lips.

She removed a few pillows from his head, then straightened his leg out into a more comfortable position. Pulling the covers up, she tucked them in around him.

Per Father's and Mary's instructions, she hung a new bag of I.V. fluids, and took his pulse and respiration. She remembered to record the amounts of his oral intake on the small notepad on the bedside table for Father to study later.

Quietly, she stepped from the room, knowing that Vincent would sleep better if she wasn't there to distract him. Vincent's deep, peaceful respirations were the last thing she heard, as she headed to Father's chamber.

The next few days went well for him. The two days of having Catherine Below and almost constantly at his side boosted his morale greatly. She helped him bathe again, and he actually looked forward to it. He seemed to be gaining strength with each day, but still required almost twice his usual sleep. Father strictly limited his well-wishing visitors to ensure that his son got the necessary rest. He knew it was the most vital element in Vincent's recovery.

Catherine went back to work, but faithfully returned to spend several hours with Vincent each evening. Sometimes the days would pass dreadfully slow for him, but he endured all, knowing that she would be with him later. Certainly, he did not lack for visitors or diversion, but none could compare to the joy of having her near.

Just a week after the accident. Catherine came Below to his chamber loaded down with several beautiful full-color books from the library. Some contained pictures of the national parks and one had pictures of New England in the fall, that reminded her of her family's vacation spot in Connecticut. She knew Vincent would enjoy looking at them.

He thanked her and took them, but then only half-heartedly rifled through the pages and set them down on the bed beside him. He turned to face her, a sorrowful look on his face.

"I'm sorry, Catherine, I'm just not very good company tonight. I... I don't feel very well." He sighed, as he laid back on his pillows.

Catherine studied his face, noticing for the first time that it was flushed. She placed her hand on his forehead as he swallowed and closed his eyes. He felt extremely warm.

She found the thermometer on his bedside table and held it up, so he could see it. He opened his mouth and she placed it under his tongue, worry on both their faces. She brushed back his hair as they waited.

When she took it out and read it, her eyes widened in alarm. "What is it?"

"It's almost one-hundred-and-three. Vincent. I'll go tell Father right away." She touched his shoulder before rushing from the room.

Vincent sat up, looking at the leg in traction, fear gripping his heart. He had been practicing the exercises Father had shown him. It had been difficult, but he even had some sensation and motion returning to his calf muscles. Now it might be for nothing.

His face contorted with pain, as his eyes silently filled with tears. He lay back to await Father's arrival; it was all he could do. He trembled at the thought of what was to come.

CHAPTER THREE

"I was afraid of this. Catherine, this is not a good sign." Father paced, then sat heavily at his study desk.

"But, we can do something," Catherine said with desperation in her voice.

"Yes. We'll change the antibiotics, check and redress his wounds, but if his fever doesn't subside in a few days... we'll have to take his leg. And it seemed he was just making such excellent progress." He shook his head and put it down on his arms.

"It all seems so unfair, Father. Why? Why does he have to suffer so?"

“There is no reason, my dear. This will not be an easy time for him, or for you to be with him. Knowing him, how he's been before when ill, I know he will get very sick. He loses himself in the fever. He often become delirious, out of his head and confused. Fever-reducing drugs seem to have little or no effect on him. He has to fight the fever himself. Catherine, he will probably have to be restrained, tied down like before."

"No." She looked at him in horror and disbelief. "You can't mean that. It would destroy him."

"Catherine, we must, or he is likely to injure himself or others. It will be a terrible battle for him. Perhaps you should stay home, until it is over."

"No. I can't. I won't leave him. He'll need me. I know he will."

“Then, I must warn you: He'll revert back to that savage side of himself. It will be like the rage and terror you saw in him when he was under the influence of Paracelsus' drugs. It's awful to see him that way. It shames him so. It may even be worse, for he may not be able to recognize you when things are at their peak."

Sadly, she nodded her head, but she was still determined to remain. "Let's go to him now, together."

Catherine didn't see Father get the restraints in his bottom drawer, and they hurried to Vincent's room.

"Vincent? Vincent?" Catherine took his arm and stroked his hair. He was breathing hard, his eyes half-open.

Father stepped closer. "Vincent, it's Father. You've started to run a fever. We're going to have to restrain you, like before. Remember?"

Vincent looked up into Father's concerned eyes; his own were so tired and listless. Catherine gazed deeply into his face and saw the terror and dread. He nodded with acceptance, then heaved a great sigh.

"I'm going to lose my leg, aren't I?"

Father took his shoulder. “We don't know that yet, but we're going to have a fight on our hands."

Vincent lay back in resignation, again sighing and shaking his head, as if the battle were already lost.

Father unfolded the restraints. “We'll have someone to stay with you around the clock, Vincent. You'll never be alone. I had hoped we'd never need these again." He held the bonds meant for wrists, ankles and torso loosely in his hands. "But we must. Maybe we should put them on before you are too wild with the fever. I don't want to, Vincent, you know that."

Biting his lip, Vincent looked up at Catherine. What must she think of this, of him? He didn't want her to see this, but he needed her there. He emitted a ragged sigh, then slowly, willingly, held out his wrists to Father. They both knew how dangerous he could be. As much as he dreaded the restraints, he feared even more the likelihood that he might injure or even kill someone. Hadn't he almost done that to Father when he was out of his head that time?

Catherine could no longer just stand by and watch. She stepped between the two men. "No, please, Father — don't. Let's wait and see. Maybe he won't get that way this time. Please."

Vincent shook his head, deeply touched by her concern. "Catherine, no. Father is right. I should..."

"All right, Catherine, we'll leave them off for now. I don't know if I could do it anyway." Father touched Vincent's cheek. "Not while you're so lucid and showing no sign of rage." He turned back to Catherine. "You always have had a calming effect on him. Perhaps it will be different this time, but please be careful."

Catherine kept her vigil beside him through the night. At times he seemed so quiet, then he would toss and rage, but she was always able to calm him and quiet him down with her voice and touch. She kept a cool cloth on his forehead, sponged his chest, held his hand. His breathing was labored and he was hot to the touch. Often he would whisper her name, his eyes pleading. At other times there was terror in the blue depths, no recognition, and she knew his personal demons were back. Then, once again, he quieted and she fell asleep with him, her head next to his side as she leaned forward in her chair.

His motion woke her. She couldn't believe her eyes. He had somehow managed to stand on the other side of his bed! His good leg was on the floor between his bed and the shelves below his stain-glass window. He was desperately trying to free the leg in traction as he stood shaking and snarling.

"Vincent, no!" She rushed around to his side and tried to help him lay back in bed. Between clenched teeth she heard him speak in a strange, hoarse voice, "I'm trapped... must get out... can't get loose!" He began to sob and tear at the restrained limb with trembling fingers.

His chest heaved and he pushed her roughly aside, when she touched his arm. She was determined to help him. She must get through to him.

“Vincent, you must get back in bed. That leg is injured. Come." She moved forward again and he curled his lips back, revealing his canines.

He roared, lion-like, then thrust his face forward, threatening to bite her, saliva dripping from his mouth. He growled the word. "No!"

She purposefully took another step closer, trying to send her love and concern for him through their bond. As if out of control, he threw his head back and waved his arms blindly as he roared out his fear and pain. His casted forearm caught her under the left eye. Catherine was knocked to the floor, stunned. She sat, her mouth wide open in disbelief. Touching her throbbing cheek, blood came back on her fingertips.

She looked up at Vincent. He was staring at her stupidly, as if he just now realized what he had done. There was a moment of regret on his face, then his wild eyes turned back to his leg and he began pulling frantically at it.

Catherine got to her feet and raced to Father's chamber. Out of breath, she rushed into his study.

"Father, come quickly. It's Vincent. He's wild and I can't help him. He's trying to get out of the traction."

Father quickly tapped out a message for reinforcements to meet them in Vincent's chamber, than dashed to the surgery and drew up a clear liquid into an ominous-looking syringe.

"What's that?" she asked.

“Valium. I've got to get close enough to inject it into his I.V." The look of despair on her face was not lost to him. "Catherine, we must sedate him. None of us are strong enough to hold him down. He'll hurt someone or himself." He took her shoulder. "It has started. He'll need our love and courage more than ever now, but we must keep him under control."

Catherine bowed her head and nodded.

They sped back to Vincent's chamber. He was sitting on the edge of his bed, his injured leg half-out of the supporting sling, bleeding at the pin sites. He was bent over, panting, his breath raspy and labored with the extreme effort. His overly-bright eyes were ringed with pain and terror, his cheeks flushed, and he was drenched in sweat. His mane and the hair on his chest were matted and clung to his skin. To Catherine, he had never looked more desperate and alone.

Jacob stealthily approached his son, repeating soothing words, as William, Mouse, Pascal and several other men came racing in and to a sudden halt.

Vincent was up on his good foot in an instant. He looked at them all with fear and hatred. In his tormented mind, they were evil men, there to drug him and tie him up. They were the ones who had trapped him. His leg was still caught in their trap. They were coming closer. They were going to touch him, hurt him.

“Vincent, it's me — Father. Please, Vincent, we won't hurt you. We want to help."

Vincent let out a low growl, crouching slightly in a threatening posture. The low snarl and deep rumbling came from his chest. His eyes were wild and held no recognition.

Father reached slowly to put a hand on one of Vincent's arms. Vincent lurched towards him, fangs flashing menacingly, snarling as un-swallowed saliva dripped from his lower lip. He was terrifyingly awesome. His upper lip was pulled back to display every tooth.

He grasped Father's wrist cruelly with his clawed fingers and tilted his head, as if to dare him to try anything.

Catherine called out his name. For an instant Vincent seemed to hesitate, as if he recognized that voice. He turned, looking momentarily at Catherine. This was the diversion Father needed. He quickly slipped the sedative into the I.V. tubing with his free hand, then slowly backed away from his son.

Vincent turned his attention back to Father. His tight grip was still on the man's wrist and it constricted painfully, as Vincent snarled. Seeing that the man was retreating, he released his hold.

Father spoke quietly, pleadingly. 'Vincent, this is your chamber, your home. Please, lie back, before you get hurt."

Vincent became enraged again. To him, the words were a threat and command to submit or be hurt. He roared and began tugging frantically at his immobilized leg. He nearly had the leg pulled from the supportive sling, and they all watched in silent horror.

Then he began to snort and shake his head violently. He started to sway and breathe even more heavily. He put the back of his hand to his forehead and reeled backward. He fell back, sitting heavily on the side of his bed. Anxiously, he looked around the chamber as his eyelids grew very heavy. There were so many faces. They were all unfamiliar. They were becoming blurry, as the chamber began to spin. He did not like this odd sensation, nor all these strangers coming closer. He produced a low, very threatening growl, then his eyes rolled back and he fell backwards onto his mattress. At first he trembled, then he lay still.

Immediately, the men in the chamber sprang into action. They swarmed over his limp form, tying him down. They met no resistance; Vincent was mercifully unconscious.

Catherine stood back in horror, covering her mouth with her hand. It was like a nightmare. They looked like vultures attacking a dying animal. With Father's instructions, they put the leg back into the sling and reattached the weights to his pins.

"Thank heavens he didn't pull out his I.V., it's his lifeline now." Father worked quickly, knowing the medication would not affect Vincent for long. As Father worked, the others filed silently out, their heads bowed, saddened by what they had been forced to do to their friend.

Catherine moved to sit beside her silent love. Her eyes were moist with tears, as she looked at the straps around his left ankle and wrist, his casted right arm, and the heavy belt around his middle. She stroked his fevered cheek and touched his lips.

"I can't bear to see him like this, Father."

Father finished with his task and came to sit beside Catherine. Taking her hand, he noticed her injury for the first time. It was still bleeding and a nasty purple bruise was forming below the left eye.

"Cathy, your face."

She reached up to touch it with shaking fingers. "He didn't mean to do it." she defended him. "He didn't know what he was doing."

"No, he didn't," Father agreed, as he began to dab at her wound with an alcohol sponge. He put on a bandage. "That is why we must keep him from doing any more damage to himself and others. You know, he'd never forgive himself if, in his delirium, he hurt someone. This alone," he studied Catherine's blackening eye, "is going to upset him terribly."

“Then he mustn't know. I'll keep it covered and, if he asks, I'll lie. I don't want to hurt him, Father. You'll keep my secret, won't you?"

He nodded. “This won't last long, I promise you. You go lie down now in my chamber. Get some rest. I'll stay with him. We'll move a cot in here later today for you, but for now, rest."

She embraced him and kissed him on the cheek before leaving.

Raging cries woke her from an already restless sleep. She really didn't know if she had the courage she would need, as she entered his chamber.

Vincent was flushed and his body wet with sweat. His blue eyes flashed wildly, filled with panic as he pulled at the ties on his extremities He writhed, tugged, panted, and roared. She felt incredible pity for him, but he also frightened her more than ever before, not for herself, but for him. He was so lost and alone in his torment, the bond did not reach him.

Father sat in the chair beside his son, obviously exhausted and near to collapse. He pulled at his beard and ruffled his hand through his hair in dismay.

"Father, you go rest now. I'll stay with him."

He nodded, knowing he was no good to his son like this. He gave Catherine a few instructions about the I.V. and meds, then left, his limp far more exaggerated by his weariness.

Vincent raged in fever the next two days. His cries and pleas echoed in the tunnels. Everyone in the community was made uneasy, wanting to help, but knowing there was nothing they could do. This was a battle Vincent must fight alone. It seemed like the scene from a grotesque torture chamber in some horror film, as the sounds of Vincent's struggle and his anguished cries of pain and terror filled their minds.

It was far worse when he became lucid enough to speak. His humiliation and outrage then were verbalized. He knew he was captive and no one would help him. In just those few days, his face grew gaunt and there were dark circles around his eyes as his body lost weight.

Sometimes he would be still and allow Catherine to come close, to bathe his forehead and chest and speak words of comfort to him. But, for the most part, he ranted and raved, and she knew it best not to get too close.

In his wild fits, he was constantly tugging and kicking, grasping and trying to pull out his I.V., and tear his clothes off. He refused the covers and often exposed his lower body. No one felt comfortable getting close enough to cover him when he was alert. It was no use trying to help him retain modesty, for it only served to frighten and agitate him more when people approached.

Catherine's heart ached, for she knew he would be mortified if he were aware of what he was doing and that everyone who came to check on him saw his naked body. Mercifully, he was not aware or didn't care.

All Below sympathized for the hell he must be experiencing. They thought they understood, but, as when he was trapped by Paracelsus' drug, no one could imagine the hideous demons released inside him, the terrors his thoughts and hallucinations held.

It was as if he was falling into a bottomless void. There was nothing to stop his descent, no hand to hold. Devils, demons, and monsters with faces resembling his own only more hideous, taunted him. Huge roaring lions struck out at him, ripping his bare flesh. The black void turned to a burning hell, and then, just as suddenly, it became a bitter cold emptiness.

One thin thread kept him from completing the fall into absolute insanity: It was the voice of an angel. Its softness would enfold him; keep his safe from the monsters. It would momentarily still their rantings.

Her touch cooled the fires in his blood and flesh, but she could not hold him safe long. The evil was too powerful and it wanted him. There was no escape, only moments of tenuous comfort, fleeting tenderness, when the angel was near. Then his tormentors would return. The worst one of all was the dark one with the face exactly like his own.

He quieted. She sat beside him on the bed. His head was turned away, towards his window. As she touched his head, he turned quickly back to look up at her. "Please." he begged, "set me free. I... I have to get loose, please."

“Vincent,I can't. You're ill and you'll hurt yourself, your leg."

He began to struggle. "I've done nothing wrong." The ominous rumbling in his chest turned to a roar, as he violently tried to pull himself free.

Catherine slipped off the bed, as fear gripped her.

Realizing the futility of his efforts, Vincent began to cry. It was a heart-rendering sob. The tears streamed down his cheeks until his sobs choked him. Turning away, Catherine also wept.

When she looked back, he was quiet. His eyes were silently watching her. Wiping her tears, she moved cautiously forward and touched his wet cheek. His eyes calmed. She could sense his resignation, as he blinked and sniffed at his tears. She sat beside him once more and, taking a Kleenex, wiped his tears and his running nose.

He rubbed his head against her hand and whimpered in a whisper. "I'll be good. I promise. Please, don't leave me. I'm afraid."

She held his great head in both hands and his cries of despair burst forth again. She hugged him tightly, rocking him, as she said, "I won't leave you, Vincent. I'm here for you. I'll never leave you." She continued to gently rock him, until blessed sleep embraced him.

Father quietly entered and examined his son. He changed the dressings on the tattered lower leg with Catherine's help. The infection had not improved. Many of the wounds were purulent and smelled foul. The nightmare just seemed to continue.

Vincent's peacefulness was short-lived. He woke and began to fight again.

Catherine knew his rage and struggle would be worse if he knew what Father had told her, out of ear-shot down the hall. If the fever and infection showed no improvement in another day, two at the most, he planned on removing the offending limb.

She understood that it was Vincent's only chance. It would be as difficult for Father, probably more so since he would be the one responsible for the decision, but Vincent's life was at risk now, not just his leg. Father feared septicemia. The infection could be carried throughout his entire body and, in his weakened state from blood loss, fever, struggling, and the other injuries, he was certain Vincent would die. He wouldn't be able to combat that infection. He would eventually pass into septic shock, vascular collapse, and finally cardio-respiratory arrest. It was a relentless and rapid downhill spiral and time was running short to prevent it.

It would be a terrible death. They still had time, if they amputated his leg. If it had to be done, Catherine knew it would kill Vincent, destroy a part of him. He already had so much self-doubt about his worthiness, with a major part of his body gone, his sense of deformity and aloneness would only heighten. It would set him apart more than ever. It would tear out his heart.

She knew he would feign bravery, but inside he would be dying. He would remain severely depressed and deeply wounded. He would never be the same, never.

He ranted the rest of the day and by the next morning, his fever rose appallingly. At one point, it was one-hundred-and-four. He convulsed several times. It was terrifying to see him tense, shake, then become deathly still. He bit his tongue and caused it to bleed considerably. Catherine silently cried as she witnessed this new torment.

Father could not use fever-reducing drugs on Vincent; his unique physiology rendered them useless. Father had also, long ago, made the decision not to repeatedly sedate Vincent to keep him from struggling, but rather to use the restraints. Though it may have seemed more cruel, and in truth it might be — but it was safer. The drugs severely taxed his body and slowed a heart whose rate was already a third that of a normal man's.

The single injection of I.V. valium he had initially given Vincent had dropped his heart rate to a frightening eight beats per minute. It was better to let Vincent fight this thing in his own way. Yes, it too taxed his system. but at least the blood would be flowing at a normal rate through his body.

Father felt that this fever was Vincent's body's final attempt to fight the rising infection. The variety and combination of medications were not working and fever was one of the body's most powerful healing mechanisms. He would let the fever run its course today. If by morning his son was no better, they would do the surgery, they must.

Catherine sat wearily beside Vincent, as the morning progressed to afternoon. He lay there once the rage had subsided, focusing everything on the urgent demands of his fevered body. All the energy he had left was being used to cool himself. Both his animal and human mechanisms were in motion. His body and head were saturated with perspiration, and Father increased his I.V. infusion rate to compensate for the fluid loss. His chamber was permeated with the odor of his damp fur and mane; the musky smell was not unpleasant, just more potent than usual.

Catherine was glad he was not aware of any of it. This embarrassment would only add to his torment. He lay panting furiously, his respirations ragged, rapid and shallow. His tongue often licked his dry lips.

It made Catherine weep to see him struggling so. He looked so helpless and pathetic, as he fought for his life with every panting breath. His eyes were glassy and fixed, not really seeing.

Both Father and Catherine were fearful that his heart might give out from the strain. The rate had more than tripled to eighty beats per minute. One could see the veins in his neck pulsing wildly. Vincent was young and strong, but his beautiful, loving heart was being taxed to the limit.

He allowed Catherine close now, sensing that she was there to help. She did not leave his side. She still did not think that he recognized her, but she didn't seem to frighten him either. She kept one hand on him at all times. It seemed somehow important that she make sure he knew she was there.

Father had Mouse hook up a generator for an electric fan. It blew on Vincent while Catherine tended and nursed him. She placed cool moist clothes to his flesh. They met no resistance when they removed his gown and covered his groin with a wet towel. Like a wounded animal, he could sense they meant him no harm and were only trying to help.

Catherine relentlessly continued with alcohol sponging’s. They even got ice to place at his groin and arm pits, as Father showed her. These were the areas where large blood vessels came to the surface, and they could be cooled by the ice and thus lower the entire body's temperature. Father told her they couldn't let Vincent's temperature get any higher, or he might suffer brain damage.

Poor Vincent was miserable. He had goose-flesh. His eyes were dull and apprehensive. They met Catherine's and she almost could sense he was trying to remember her, that she was indeed familiar. But she could still tell he did not know her. It was enough for now that he accepted her help. His face showed his exhaustion, as his body shook from the cold and his panting, and his eyes showed his desperation for relief.

She frequently wiped his face and neck, and held the wet cloth to his parched lips. His eyes filled with tears from his misery. She didn't know how much longer she could bear to see him like this. Perhaps they should just go ahead and take his leg off now. He couldn't take much more of this.

She began to cry openly, as she petted him and gazed down at the leg that would be gone soon.

CHAPTER FOUR

Both of Father's children had fallen asleep, as he kept an exhausted vigil. Vincent's fever had finally broken and his breathing and heart rate had returned to normal.

Vincent had once told him that he believed in the possibility of miracles. This was certainly one of them. If only his fever would remain down through the night, the doctor believed the danger would be past.

Jacob knew he must go lie down. He could do no more tonight, and it looked like Vincent was in good hands.

Catherine had pulled her cot right up next to his son's bed. She was stretched half-way on each bed. Her head was tucked into Vincent's side, one arm protectively laid across his bare abdomen.

Jacob turned off the fan and decided to leave the sheet off of Vincent for now. He was cool. Let him remain that way.

He kissed both of their foreheads, then departed.

This was the first undisturbed sleep Vincent had gotten since his fever had begun. He had no nightmares, just peaceful rest. His slumber was deep, almost like death. He hardly stirred the entire night.

In the morning, he awoke as if from a trance. As he gazed around the chamber, it all seemed like a dream, an unreality. Then he felt Catherine's head pressing harder into his side, and he suddenly began to remember the fever, some of his dreams, or were they dreams?

His body ached everywhere. His tongue felt swollen. His mouth was as dry as cotton. He tried to sit up, but then recalled that he was restrained. Hoarsely, he called to Catherine.

She woke with a start, face to face with the man she loved, their noses almost touching. He smiled at the innocent beauty of her sleep-swollen lips and eyes, her softly tousled hair.

'Vincent!" She knew in an instant that he was back. He had returned to her. She caressed his cheek and parted his hair back, touching his forehead. "How are you feeling?"

"I think the fever has broken." He closed his eyes and exhaled. Her soft warm hands felt so comforting. "How long was I...?"

"It's been four days." She reached for the thermometer and put it in his mouth. "We've all been so worried." She hugged him around the middle and he came to the sudden realization that he was practically naked.

He shuddered slightly then, talking around the thermometer, he shyly asked. "Catherine. I'm a little cold. Would you mind pulling the covers up for me?"

She looked down at him. Her cheeks flushed as she helped him to get settled more modestly. She took out the thermometer. "It's normal! I think it's over, Vincent."

He took her hand in his. His eyes were full of tenderness. "Again, you were my salvation, Catherine." Slowly, he shook his matted mane. "I don't think I could have endured this, had it not been for you."

She bent and sweetly kissed his lips. They were swollen, cracked, and dry. He swallowed hard. "I'm so thirsty," he said, running his tongue over his lower lip.

She got a glass of water and gave him just a sip to moisten his mouth. She didn't tell him that Father had forbidden anything by mouth, just in case they had to go ahead with surgery.

His fever was gone now, and she prayed that surgery would not be necessary, but she decided she had better not allow Vincent to drink his fill, until Father okayed it.

Vincent shifted his position slightly. He was embarrassed to have Catherine see him restrained. He moaned from the pain the effort brought every joint and muscle rebelling.

"What's wrong? What is it?"

His face grew suddenly worn, as he whispered. "It's just. I'm so sore, as if I've been through another tunnel-collapse. It hurts to move."

She leaned over him, gently rubbing his chest. "Poor Vincent." she purred.

He looked shyly up into her face, but his look soon turned to one of disbelief, as he noticed the cut and bruise by her left eye. It had been carefully covered with make-up, but after a night's sleep, much of the make¬up had rubbed off.

"Catherine, you're hurt. What... what...?" He stopped in mid-sentence, swallowing hard, and began to breathe quickly. "I did it, didn't I?"

He turned his head away, gulping as his chest began to heave in disbelief. He shook his head and closed the eyes that were beginning to fill with tears.

She took his chin and turned his face to hers. He hadn't given her time to try her made-up story. She knew now, she couldn't have lied to him, anyway. 'Vincent, you didn't know what you were doing."

"Oh, Catherine." Silently a tear fell. "I'm so sorry, so ashamed."

She took his head between her hands. "Vincent, don't do this to yourself. You were delirious and confused. I frightened you. It was as much my fault as yours. I walked into it. It will be gone in a few days. I would have done anything to help you through this, and this is so minor, such a little thing, insignificant to saving your life.

"We're getting rid of these restraints right now. You don't need them any longer. I can't bear seeing you in them. No more!" She furiously began to tug at the buckles.

He tried to pull away, but to no avail. Then, with a great effort, he shook his head, tossing his golden hair. "No, Catherine, please, you mustn't. If there's any chance I might get wild again, I don't want you to remove them. Please don't."

She grudgingly drew her hands back.

With a pleading look, he sighed. "Did I hurt anyone else? I don't remember."

"No, Vincent. Father gave you I.V. valium, so we could get the restraints on. You've been tied down ever since. You couldn't have hurt a flea, even if you wanted to."

Father entered, beaming at the clear, yet teary-eyed son before him. 'Vincent, how are you feeling this morning?"

"Much better. My fever is gone."

"Yes. It broke last night. From the looks of things, it appears to have run its course."

"Do you think we've won, Father?"

“Yes, I think we have."

Vincent sighed and nodded his head, almost in disbelief.

"Here now, let's get rid of these things." Father leaned forward to unfasten the bonds.

Vincent suddenly tensed. "Father, if there's any chance I could hurt someone again, I don't want them off.

Father noticed Vincent's quick look to Catherine's cheek and realized what had passed between them. He gazed into both faces and determinedly said, "It's over, Vincent. Let's get rid of them."

Vincent closed his mouth and smiled, the relief lighting his weary features. He mentioned his thirst again, then promptly downed the three large glasses of water they gave him.

Rubbing his wrist against his leg, he allowed them to help him sit up. It felt so good to have the freedom of movement again. Both Father and Catherine felt a twinge of uneasiness as they saw the dark bruises and excoriated flesh on his left wrist and ankle.

"Look, Father." Vincent said, as he demonstrated the movement he still had in the calf and toes of his right leg.

"Excellent, Vincent." Father beamed proudly.

As Vincent bent further to rub his left ankle, he moaned slightly and swayed a little.

"Vincent, you're still very weak. Better lie back. You're dizzy, aren't you?" Father prompted.

"Yes, I am, "Vincent admitted slowly. His body seemed to have turned to Jell-O.

Catherine called out, "No, wait a minute." She quickly took the pillows out and sat at the head of the bed herself, pulling Vincent's head and shoulders back into her lap.

Vincent widened his eyes a little, raising an expressive eyebrow as a sheepish look crossed his face. He gazed up at Father, who was about to say something, then thought better of it. Instead, he smiled knowingly at Catherine. Vincent had certainly found a remarkable little woman, and there was not a bit of doubt in his mind that she cherished his son.

"Catherine!" Vincent exclaimed in a slightly surprised tone. He tilted his head backwards in her lap and looked up into her down-turned face. Such an angel, he sighed.

She brushed his hair back, stroking his temples, then lightly kissed his forehead. "You just lie back, love. You're tired and you need to rest."

Vincent allowed his head to sink to the softness and warmth of her lap. He had to agree with her, but how did she expect him to relax if she held him like this?

She began humming softly and continued to gently caress his head and tense shoulders. Despite his reservations, it did feel wonderful. Her magical hands eased the soreness of his stressed muscles.

"Here, for your lips." Before he could decline, she applied moisturizer, then kissed the treated lips. He was too tired to protest. He was at her mercy, and he realized that he enjoyed it.

She gently rocked him and soon he drifted off on the softest pillow he had ever known.

As he had done before, Father wrapped the covers around them both, then left them in peace. Catherine, too, nodded off with her arms crossed protectively over her loved one's chest.

* * *

Vincent's temperature remained normal, and he gained strength and weight. One morning, Catherine entered with a pan of water. “We're going to tackle that hair of yours," she announced.

Vincent had been a little leery, but the washing felt wonderful and he began to feel like his old self.

* * *

Over two weeks later. Father and Vincent were in the midst of a discussion, as Catherine started to enter Vincent's chamber. She decided to pull back and stood at the entrance way, listening. She didn't mean to eavesdrop, but she did not want to interrupt their discussion, and she was interested in hearing what Vincent was saying. She had sensed and seen his restlessness the past few days, and she knew he would be more frank alone with Father, than if she was there.

"How long will I have to remain in this traction. Father? My nerves are beginning to wear thin. If I'm not allowed out of this bed soon. I fear I may go mad. I even became short with Catherine yesterday."

"Oh, good heavens," Father chuckled, "a lovers' quarrel."

Vincent became indignant. "It was not a lovers' quarrel." His face flushed, quite red. "I merely lost my temper for no reason, except that I am about to go insane from this confinement."

Father patted his son's wrist reassuringly. He laughed again, as he shook his head. He knew he would soon be worn down by Vincent's persistence. He was always amazed by Vincent's healing capacity and his powers of regeneration. It was amazing! If only they could bottle it. it would certainly astound the medical community.

“Vincent, if you keep healing and progressing as well as you have in these last three weeks, well, I think we can put your leg in a cast in another week or two, but you must be patient; remember, you promised me that, and you're going to have to use crutches. Cullen is making a special set for you."

"I'm sorry. This lying around is just so difficult. Thank you, again, for my life, for everything. Thank you for not amputating my leg. I know I'll walk again. I know it.

“The thought of losing my leg... I'm already such an oddity here and especially in her world. How could I ever hope to return Above, to reach her balcony, let alone come to her aid or that of those I love, one-legged? It would have crippled me far more than you know, Father. I need my legs. They're part of the little freedom I have. I truly don't think I could have lived as only part of a man."

Father bent forward from his seat on the side of Vincent's bed and kissed his son's forehead. Vincent returned the gesture. They both nodded as Father gently touched his son's cheek and Vincent lay his hand on Father's shoulder.

The I.V. had come out of his arm weeks ago, but each little freedom helped him realize he would soon be allowed out of bed. He had a constant influx of friends and well-wishers, with food, gifts, books, chess and other board games, and the children had been allowed to return. He had missed them most of all. They were fascinated by his traction and they had missed his story hour.

Now he read several times a day to the various age groups. The older children found he was more than willing to help them with some of their homework. It helped him pass the evening hours until Catherine arrived. However, it was an unspoken law that the hours between eight and eleven were reserved for Catherine alone, and no one was to interrupt the couple, unless it was a dire emergency, or prearranged and agreed upon by both parties beforehand.

Father had decreed the edict. He knew how important the few hours alone with Catherine were to his son, to both of them. It was the least he could to for them. It was time he helped their relationship flower, rather than discouraged it as he had in the past. He felt it was meant to be.

Vincent was head-over-heels in love with this woman, though he would never admit it in just those words. Father feared it might still end in tragedy, but for now, they were together and he would not deny them their love.

Catherine was in the middle of two large murder trials. She was exhausted, balancing her life between two worlds, but she wouldn't have given up a moment of it. She faithfully came to his bedside every evening. It helped her to unwind when she talked with him. He was the best listener she had ever known. He would have made a wonderful psychologist. She was always relaxed and ready for sleep after an evening with him. She chuckled to herself thinking that he had gotten quite good at giving back-rubs, as well.

This evening, as she read "The Hobbit" to him, he touched the healing area below her eye. Only a trace of the bruise was visible. He swallowed and ever so slightly shook his head.

“Vincent, please." She put the book down. "I'm fine. It was worth it. No regrets. Do you hear?"

Oh, how he loved this strong-willed woman. He suddenly had an irresistible urge. He reached beneath her hair to the back of her neck and gently pulled her towards him. Their faces were just inches apart as he bent his chin to kiss her forehead and she closed her eyes. Suddenly, he closed his eyes as well and caressed her lips with his.

He pulled her closer, deepening the kiss, then brought her head to lay upon his chest. He exhaled deeply, not believing he had really done what he just did.

Catherine was more than a little stunned and completely speechless from his display of passion. She hugged him tightly and giggled to herself. If bed rest was to blame for this, she wasn't sure she was ready to see him on his feet again.

A week later, there was a strange rendezvous near the drainage tunnel in Central Park. Vincent had been transferred to a stretcher, his pins and weights disconnected, but traction maintained by one of Mouse's ingenious inventions. It was midnight and Peter had borrowed a medical van with a portable X-ray machine.

Vincent felt more than a little foolish as he was carted around like an Egyptian pharaoh, but he knew it was the most certain way to determine if his leg had mended enough to be casted, and he really did enjoy the breath of fresh air, though it lasted less than half an hour.

The X-rays gave the go ahead. Vincent hardly slept at all that night he was so excited. In the morning the leg cast would be applied!

The dawn finally arrived and he was moved to the hospital chamber for the messy procedure. Most of the pins came out. Vincent had to admit that it was not the most pleasant experience he had known, having them unscrewed from the bone, but he was too fascinated not to watch Father and Peter work.

Mary dressed the bleeding pin sites and wrapped the leg in a cotton roll, as the men proceeded. Catherine, who was naturally at his side and holding his hand, had to avert her eyes.

"My leg looks so small and shriveled. I expected the scarring, but..."

“Your muscles have atrophied from lack of use, Vincent. The muscles will grow larger as their strength returns. You must give them time."

Vincent's lower leg was terribly scarred with dents and pockets. The hair pattern was disarrayed. It would never match the other, but as long as it was attached and functional, that was all that mattered to Vincent.

For the cast application, Vincent was placed in an awkwardly embarrassing position. They helped him into a hospital gown and draped a towel over his groin. Everyone put gowns on to protect their clothing. He was propped on his side on the surgery table. Mouse had joined the party to assist. His leg to be casted was propped up in the air, forming a “V" with his other leg.

They began dipping rolls of plaster in the buckets of warm water. Mary, Peter, and Father applied the plaster, wrapping them around his leg to produce the cast, as Catherine handed them the dampened rolls.

Her attention was continually drawn to Vincent, lying there so patiently with his legs propped apart like a toy solider. He took her breath away, and her heart began to beat rapidly. If only he knew how he made her feel!

She shook her head, trying to get her mind back on the matter at hand, and saw — speaking of hands — that Father had his hand out, waiting for a new roll of plaster. He looked over the top of his spectacles in his stern way, a bit impatient when he saw what was holding her attention. People in love could be so impossible at times, he thought.

Catherine blushed and quickly slapped a sodden roll into his palm as he cleared his throat. Her quick look to Vincent told her that he had read her thoughts and her admiration for him. His cheeks were flushed and he turned his head, then lowered it, but for the briefest of moments, she could swear she saw his desire for her, as well, in the flash of those blue eyes.

It was growing too difficult to hold his head up. so Mouse helped him prop it up on pillows. "It's getting very warm," Vincent exclaimed, a little concerned as well as amazed, as he indicated the cast with a glance.

"It's part of the hardening process. It's normal. Vincent," Father assured him.

They finished by smoothing the plaster and pinching it in slightly at his upper thigh, knee and ankle, then padded him with more cotton wadding around his foot at the toes, and above his thigh at the groin.

Stoically, Vincent endured it all. He heaved a deep sigh of relief, as they lowered him onto his back. He had to chuckle a little, as he looked at them all. They were covered in plaster as well. When they took the time to look at each other, they laughed along with him.

"It's going to be heavy, Vincent. You've got about twenty plus pounds of plaster there. You must stay off it at least a day now, 'til it dries and hardens completely," Father ordered, as he patted the cast.

Vincent spent half the day on his stomach and half on his back to assist the drying process. He insisted that the fan be brought back to keep the air circulating: anything to get the cast to dry sooner! He was eager to be on his feet in the morning. It turned into the longest day of his confinement.

* * *

Father, Mary, and Catherine were there, bright and early to help him take his first steps. Father carried the pair of crutches Cullen had made. Vincent had been ready for hours. He had eaten little of his breakfast; he was too excited. He had hurriedly bathed and brushed his teeth. His hair shone from repeated brushings.

He swung his legs down over the edge of his bed, both feet on the floor. As the entourage entered his chamber. Catherine, alone, halted momentarily, as her eyes feasted upon the sight of him.

She could honestly admit she had never seen a more beautiful sight. His golden hair shone with health and was fanned out across those broad shoulders. He had donned the freshly washed, pale blue nightshirt she had given him, the one with the arm cut off to accommodate his cast. His bare leg and thigh revealed below were elegantly muscled and covered in dense brown-blond hair. To her delight, he had left several of the shirt's buttons unfastened, boldly displaying his substantial pectorals and the gorgeous whorls of golden chest hair. She strongly believed this had not been intended on his part — she knew his keen modesty — but merely an oversight due to his obvious eagerness to be up and out of bed. The color of the shirt only intensified the color of his beautiful eyes.

Vincent was nearly beside himself as they waited for Mary to clear away his toilet things and bath water and make more room. Father handed him the crutches, saying, "Here, let's adjust the arm rest a little for the cast." It was somewhat awkward with the right arm bent at almost a forty-five degree angle.

Mary stood in front, and Catherine and Father on either side. Vincent pushed up and off from the bed and stood slowly. They were all a little awed, for having lain prone for so long, they had forgotten how imposingly tall he really was.

He gradually pulled his casted leg straight beneath his torso. He was a touch wobbly and experienced a brief wave of light-headedness.

Father cautioned quietly, "I wouldn't put much weight on the leg for the first few days, Vincent. Just barely touch down."

Vincent nodded silently, his lips pressed together in determination. He swayed a little, as he attempted his first step.

"Are you okay?" Catherine asked softly, looking up into his face with concern. He was indeed an imposing figure as he towered over them all.

"Yes," he replied, staring straight ahead. "Just a little dizzy."

Father braced his son's chest, as he said nervously and with obvious trepidation. "Well, for goodness sake, if you decide to faint, please fall backwards onto the bed, and not onto the lot of us!"

He looked urgently up into his son's face for further signs of fainting, but all he found was an even more determined set of the jaw and the hint of humor in those blue eyes.

They all laughed light-heartedly, even Vincent, and he did not fall. He hobbled around his chamber cautiously, then made it to the entrance. When he indicated he wanted to go solo, they stood back and watched him as he retraced his steps around the table, then to his bed.

He sat rather hard, winded, but the broad grin on his face revealed gleaming teeth and showed his pride in his accomplishment.

Catching his breath, he spoke, thanking them all: "It feels so good to be on my feet again."

* * *

He was up and about the next few days, going short distances and learning the ins and outs of crutch-walking. He got quite good at it. His friends were overjoyed to see him walking again.

The next evening, he sensed Catherine coming to him, and he decided to try and meet her. He hadn't realized all the little jumps and climbs the trip demanded, ones he had taken for granted when he had two good legs. But somehow he managed quite well even growing adept at hopping on one leg when it was required.

He was more than half-way to the threshold when they met. Catherine could not believe her eyes, and stared in disbelief, as he hobbled towards her.

“Vincent, are you crazy? What are you...?”

She saw him bow his head. She had hurt his feelings. It had been unintentional, it was just that he had shocked her. Now she could sense his loss of eagerness and joy. She walked to him and took his chin. "I'm sorry. Vincent. I just never expected to see you way up here."

Their eyes met and she saw the shy sparkle return. "I wanted to surprise you," he told her in his soft, deep voice. How could she resist that? Oh, that sweet little pouting lower lip. He only shared that look with her, knowing full well she couldn't resist his ploy.

“Well, you certainly did surprise me." She held his shoulders and began pivoting him around. Now, let's get you back, before they're all worried silly."

He held out one hand to stop her, as he leaned heavily on one of the crutches. In his most serious rumble he spoke; "I want to go Above and look out onto the park. Catherine, I've been interned so long down here. I've forgotten what it's like to be outdoors, to breathe fresh air. Won't you come with me?"

She didn't miss the pleading look in his eyes. It only took her a second to decide. She nodded and smiled. He could maneuver expertly on his crutches, she knew.

Soon they were outside the drainage ditch entrance. As Vincent drank deeply of the moist night air, he thought how good it was to smell the outdoor world again. He sighed, as he inhaled the fragrance of roses, leaves and freshly mown grass, evergreen needles, the rich moist earth, and fish in the pond. It was wonderful. He was elated.

Catherine stood silently to the side and behind him, leaning against the culvert wall, watching him. He was so amazing, really remarkable.

His entire right leg and the part of his casted arm she could see beneath his mantle glowed in the moonlight, almost as if fluorescent: otherwise, he blended into the shadows. She knew he would be all right now. He would recover completely and come to her on his own again, soon.

She came forward to hug him and wrap her arms around his waist. He let the crutches fall and took her in his arms.

“Thank you. Catherine." He bent his head towards hers. Catherine saw the determination in his eyes, and felt the touch of his passion through their bond, as he slightly tilted his face and took her lips in his. It was a very full, warm, moist kiss and, when over, he ran his lips up her cheek and temple and into her hair, whispering again, “Thank you."

She sighed and held him close, her legs suddenly weak. "Whew!" she sighed. "I may need to use those crutches to get home." He chortled softly, understanding her meaning.

She gazed into his face with smoky eyes. "I would have brought you up here long ago, had I known you'd react this way." Her voice was strangely deeper than usual and he knew she had enjoyed their kiss. It had been worth summoning his courage. Could she have possibly enjoyed it as much as he?

He squeezed her tightly against him for a moment, rejoicing in the feel of her, then he entreated her to follow his gaze as he tilted his head back to scan the star strewn sky.

The End